Free Elk 02 The Joker by Edgar Wallace

between lining and outer cover a folded paper of some sort.
    It had not got there by accident, he saw, when he carried the bag to the light, for it was carefully sewn into the lining. He took out his pocket knife and, picking the stitches, extracted what he thought was one sheet of paper, lightly folded. When he opened the paper out he found there were two sheets.
    The landlady ducked her head sideways in an effort to catch a glimpse of the writing, but Jim was aware of this manoeuvre.
    ‘Do you mind going downstairs,’ he asked politely, ‘and seeing if you can find in your ash-can - ’
    ‘Dustbin,’ corrected the lady.
    ‘Whatever it is, the envelope of any letter addressed to Mrs Gibbins?’
    By the time she returned from her profitless task the papers had disappeared, and Jim Carlton was sitting on the narrow window ledge, a cigar between his teeth and he was examining the threadbare carpet with such intentness that the landlady was certain that he had discovered some blood-stains.
    ‘Eh?’ He woke from his dream with a start. ‘You can’t find it? I’m sorry. What was it I asked you to get? Oh, yes, an envelope. Thank you. I found it in the bag.’
    He relocked the drawer, and with another glance round the apartment came down the treacherous stairs.
    ‘You don’t think she’s drownded herself, sir?’ asked the landlady tremulously.
    ‘No. Why? Did she ever threaten to commit suicide?’
    ‘She’s been pretty miserable for some time, poor dear!’ The woman wiped a tear from her cheek, and the fascinated Jim observed that the spot where the apron had been rubbed was perceptibly cleaner.
    ‘No, I don’t think she has - committed suicide,’ he said. ‘She may turn up. If she does, will you send me a telegram?’
    He scribbled his name and address on a blank that he found in his pocket and gave her the money for its dispatch.
    ‘I know there’s something wrong,’ insisted the tearful lady. ‘Foul play or something. She bought some stuff to make up into a dress; I’ve got it in my kitchen - it only came the night before last.’
    She showed him the package, which was unopened.
    ‘My niece was coming in yesterday morning to show her how to cut it out,’ continued the woman, ‘but, of course, Mrs Gibbins didn’t come home, and my niece lives over in Peckham, and it’s a long drag here - ’
    ‘Yes. I suppose so,’ said Jim absently.
    He walked down the noisome street, got into the car that was waiting at the end, and went slowly back across Westminster Bridge to his room.
    Elk was not in and, even if he had been, Jim was not in the mood for consultation. He spread out on the table the papers he had taken from Mrs Gibbins’s bag and read them carefully, jotted down a few particulars and, refolding them, put them in his pocket-book. He passed the next hour dictating letters to the last people in the world one would have imagined would be interested in the disappearance of a charwoman.
    Aileen did not expect to see him again that day and was surprised, almost pleasurably, when he walked into the outer office and sent in his name. She was on the point of leaving and the office boy, impatient to be gone, misinterpreted the colour that came to her cheeks.
    ‘You’ll be getting me a very bad name, Mr Carlton,’ she said as they went into the street together.
    ‘Did I tell you that my front name was Jim, or James, as the case may be?’ he asked. ‘Shall we try something more snappy in the restaurant line? I know a place in Soho - ’
    ‘No, I think I’ll go home now.’
    ‘I wanted to talk to you about our Mrs Gibbins,’ he said flippantly, though he was not feeling at all flippant. ‘And I told our people that I can be found there if I am wanted.’
    ‘Have you had any news?’ she asked; and he guessed by her penitent tone that she had altogether forgotten the existence of the charwoman. At any rate she did not demur when he handed her into the car and she accepted his restaurant, dingy