The Mystery of a Hansom Cab by Fergus Hume Read Free Book Online Page A

well tho’ ’e was rather perticler about ’is food, which I’m only a plain cook, an’ can’t make them French things which spile the stomach.’
    The globes of the gas lamps were of a pale pink colour, and Mrs Hableton having lit the gas in expectation of Mr Gorby’s arrival, there was a soft roseate hue through all the room like the first faint flush of the early dawn. Mr Gorby put his hands in his capacious pockets and strolled leisurely through the room,examining everything with a curious eye. The walls were covered with pictures of celebrated horses and famous jockeys. Alternating with these were photographs of ladies of the stage, mostly London actresses, Nellie Farren, Kate Vaughan, and other burlesque stars evidently being the objects of the late Mr Whyte’s adoration. Over the mantelpiece hung a rack of pipes above which were two crossed foils, and under these a number of plush frames of all colours with pretty faces smiling out of them; a remarkable fact being that all the photographs were of ladies, and not a single male face was to be seen either on the walls, or in the plush frames.
    â€˜Fond of the ladies I see,’ said Mr Gorby nodding his head towards the mantelpiece.
    â€˜A set of hussies,’ said Mrs Hableton grimly, closing her lips tightly, ‘I feel that ashamed when I dusts ’em as never was—I don’t believe in gals gettin’ their picters taken with ’ardly any clothes on as if they just got out of bed, but Mr Whyte seemed to like ’em.’
    â€˜Most young men do,’ answered Mr Gorby dryly, going over to the bookcase.
    â€˜Brutes,’ said the lady of the house. ‘I’d drown ’em in the Yarrer, I would, a-settin’ ’emselves and a-callin’ ’emselves lords of creation, as if women were made for nothin’ but to earn money an’ see ’em drink it as my ’usband did which ’is inside never seemed to ’ave enough beer, an’ me a pore lone woman with no family, thank God, or they’d ’ave taken arter their father in ’isdrinkin’ ’abits.’
    Mr Gorby took no notice of this tirade against men, but stood looking at Mr Whyte’s library, which seemed to consist mostly of French novels and sporting newspapers.
    â€˜Zola,’ said Mr Gorby thoughtfully, taking down a flimsy yellow book rather tattered. ‘I’ve heard of him; if his novels are as bad as his reputation I shouldn’t care to read them.’
    Here a knock came at the front door, loud and decisive, on hearing which Mrs Hableton sprang hastily to her feet. ‘That may be Mr Moreland,’ she said, as the detective quickly replaced Zola in the bookcase. ‘I never ’ave visitors in the evenin’ bein’ a lone widder, and if it is ’im I’ll bring ’im in ’ere.’
    She went out, and presently Gorby who was listening intently; heard a man’s voice ask if Mr Whyte was at home. ‘No, sir, he ain’t,’ answered the landlady; ‘but there’s a gentleman in his room askin’ after ’im—won’t you come in, sir?’
    â€˜For a rest, yes,’ returned the visitor, and immediately afterwards Mrs Hableton appeared, ushering in the late Oliver Whyte’s most intimate friend. He was a tall, slender man with a pink and white complexion, curly fair hair, and a drooping straw-coloured moustache—altogether a strikingly aristocratic individual. He was well-dressed in a fashionable suit of check, and had a cool, nonchalant air about him.
    â€˜And where is Mr Whyte tonight?’ he asked, sinking into a chair, and taking no more notice of thedetective than if he had been an article of furniture.
    â€˜Haven’t you seen him lately?’ asked the detective quickly. Mr Moreland stared in an insolent manner at his questioner for a few moments, as if he were debating the advisability of answering or