Death of a Beauty Queen by E.R. Punshon Read Free Book Online

taken up at once; it became a general cry; from the whole auditorium one universal name was uttered:
    â€˜Mears! Mears! Mears!’
    Mr Sargent beamed on them.
    â€˜I’m inclined to believe you’re right,’ he announced. ‘Most gratifying if it turns out, as I think it will, that the verdict of the committee and the verdict of the audience coincide. I will ask the genial and popular chairman of the committee, so well known to all of you, whether he can confirm that.’
    The ‘genial and popular’ gentleman in question stood up. He, too, beamed upon the audience. He adored hearing himself described as ‘genial and popular.’ He adored, equally, making speeches. He began:
    â€˜Ladies and gentlemen, it is with the utmost pleasure that I am able to announce, on behalf of myself and my esteemed colleagues, that Caroline Mears–’
    He paused, for Martin had just come hurrying on to the stage. He was ghastly pale, and the hand he held out towards Sargent was shaking violently. He said, in a shrill high whisper:
    â€˜Carrie Mears has been murdered... she’s lying there stabbed... ask if there’s a doctor in the house.’
    But Sargent only gasped and stared. He heard, but he did not believe. He could not. He remained standing there, mute and staring. Everyone waited. Even the chairman waited, silent. Martin himself called out, addressing the audience:
    â€˜I’m sorry... it’s one of the competitors taken ill... is there a doctor here?’

CHAPTER FIVE
First Inquiries
    By good fortune there were, as it happened, two or three doctors in the house, and there was also one, a Dr Bryan, who was a member of the judging committee, though this fact both Sargent and Martin had, in their agitation, forgotten for the moment, Now it was Dr Bryan, who, hurrying from the box, and guided behind by an excited attendant, reached first Sargent’s office where the victim lay.
    The policeman who had been kept on the spot by the lucky foresight of the commissionaire was already on guard at the door. He had, too, sent a phone message to the Brush Hill police station, and inside the room he had allowed no one but two women attendants, of whom one, fortunately, had some knowledge of first aid. Near by, the ‘art’ photographer, Roy Beattie, was standing, leaning against the wall for support, and looking very pale and excited, and a little as if he might be sick at any minute. His clothing was stained with blood; his face and hands were dabbled with it. He was explaining, confusedly and incoherently, to everyone near that he had entered the room to speak to Miss Mears, and had found her lying on the floor behind Mr Sargent s big roll-top desk with a knife sticking in her throat.
    â€˜I pulled it out... it bled awfully... a great spurt... then it stopped,’ he said again and again, and the policeman notebook in hand, busily writing, would look up, and remark from time to time:
    â€˜Don’t you say nothing... don’t you say nothing just yet awhile.’
    Then he would resume his writing, and Beattie would always answer:
    â€™No, that’s right... I won’t,’ and then, almost in the same breath, would begin telling his story all over again to the next new-comer he saw staring at his blood-stained clothing.
    The policeman, who knew Dr Bryan by sight, drew back to allow him to enter. The unfortunate girl was lying supine, the fatal knife on the floor near by where Beattie had thrown it down, the two attendants, bewildered, scared and useless, kneeling by her side. The wound at the base of the throat had bled with a dreadful profusion, and the horror of the scene was heightened by the triple contrast between it, the dying girl’s festive attire in the latest and most extreme style, and the drab office surroundings, the letter files, card index, deed boxes, and all the other appurtenances of modern business.
    One was aware of a ghastly incongruity