The Case of the Dead Diplomat Read Free

see, sir, the French public has been brought up for seven or eight months to believe that every sudden death of a functionary is a political murder. It makes good copy for the sensational newspapers.”
    â€œLook here, my dear fellow; somehow this must be stopped. Telephone to Dr. Hoskyn and go with him to the police, and if necessary be present when the post-mortem examination is made. Young Everett may have committed suicide; that would be bad enough; but whatever we do we must keep the gutter Press at arm’s length. You might ring me up and let me know how you get on.”
    Eric Carruthers went down to his own room in the Chancery to use the telephone. He rang up Dr. Hoskyn, whose voice began to flutter when he learned that the call came from the Embassy.
    â€œI hope that you have no bad news about Sir Wilfred,” he said.
    â€œNo, doctor, but I want you to take a taxi at once and come here and ask for me, Eric Carruthers. I’ll tell you why when I see you.”
    While waiting for his visitor Carruthers sent for the second secretary, Percival Maynard.
    â€œMaynard, the ambassador tells me that you were the first person to receive news of Everett’s death. Who brought the news?”
    Maynard was a young man with a languid manner, who talked French more fluently than his own language. He was a welcome guest at French luncheon-tables and was a mine of information upon the intrigues in the lobbies of the Chamber and the Senate, and the latest political scandals.
    â€œA police commissaire , who said that he came from the ninth arrondissement , came in about an hour ago. He had Everett’s Embassy card in his hand and he said that the body had been found in Everett’s flat, with some sanguinary details. I gathered that he was the man who was first called in by the concierge.”
    â€œWhat did you think of Frank Everett? You saw more of him than I did.”
    â€œEverett? Well, he seemed like any other newspaper man that one meets in Fleet Street and avoids if one can—quite a decent young man within his natural limits and, I imagine, fairly good at his job.”
    Carruthers was drumming on the table with his fingers. His complaint was that one could never get a straight answer out of Maynard.
    â€œDo you know who his friends were?”
    â€œDo you mean here in the Embassy or outside?”
    â€œBoth. First, in the Embassy.”
    â€œWell, I should think that Ned Gregory saw most of him. I used to hear his voice and his laugh—what a laugh he had, poor devil!—coming from Gregory’s room. Gregory’s a bit of a wag, as you know.”
    â€œSo I’ve heard,” observed Carruthers dryly. “Did Everett ever tell you about his people in England?”
    â€œNever. I never asked him. Our intercourse was always on official matters. He was quite well informed about Paris Press matters.”
    The messenger opened the door to announce Dr. Hoskyn.
    Carruthers rose. “Thank you, Maynard. I’m going out with Dr. Hoskyn for an hour or two. Will you mind the baby?”
    Dr. Hoskyn was a fussy little man with white hair, purpling cheeks and a soothing, bedside manner. When there was a considerable British colony in Paris, he had had a good private practice and it was natural that he should be called in by the people at the Embassy when a doctor was required.
    â€œSit down, doctor,” said Carruthers, pointing to the chair beside his table. “You’ve heard, no doubt, of the death of poor Everett, our Press attaché.”
    The doctor’s cheeks deepened in hue. “Dead! That healthy-looking young fellow? What did he die of? An accident?”
    â€œThe police give us the choice between suicide and murder. There was a knife wound in the throat. I don’t know whether you have had any experience in police medical work, but the ambassador has great confidence in you, and he wants you to make a post-mortem examination of the body