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Updated: May 1, 2025
Her fair hair hung down her back in a long, thick braid. Neighbours across the street and further up Manniston Road were out on their porches now or starting toward No. 5. All of them were women. The girl she was barely past twenty, he thought stopped screaming, and, her hands pressed to her throat and cheeks, stared wildly from him toward the front door, which was standing open.
They watched him silently. Low moans were coming constantly from the woman in the chair on the porch. Bristow took the telephone in his turn and called up police headquarters. The chief of police, whom he knew, answered the call. "Hello! Captain Greenleaf?" asked the lame man. "Yes." "There's been a murder at Number Five, Manniston Road. This is Lawrence Bristow, of Number Nine."
There was the bare possibility that Morley had gone to No. 5 to murder Enid if he did not get more money from her, and that he had been frustrated by the fact that the negro Perry had forestalled him and done the murder first. Having advanced it, Bristow did not care to abandon the theory that Perry was the guilty man. An automobile whirled up Manniston Road and stopped in front of No. 9.
When a woman's voice, pitched to the high note of utter terror, rang out on the late morning quiet of Manniston Road, Lawrence Bristow looked up from his newspaper quickly but vaguely, as if he doubted his own ears.
Before daylight, he came back and flung the key on the floor, and he cursed me and hit me. I had two keys on the ribbon, one to Number Five, Manniston Road, and one to the house where I worked before I went to Mrs. Withers. He had taken the wrong one.
"I picked out an interesting time to visit you," observed the fat man, still puffing from the exertion of climbing the Manniston Road hill; "what with murder and " "And I'm going to be frank with you," Bristow put in. "I'm helping the police a little, and I haven't the time to gossip now. I know you'll understand " "Surely, surely!" said Overton. "I'll come some other time.
If you say I'm entitled to the credit for reading the riddle, I'm going to see that I get the credit." "All right. I'll let Morley know he can go tonight, and he needn't worry about our troubling him." "Thanks. The sooner we gather up every little strand of evidence, the better it will be." Greenleaf prepared to leave. As he stood up, he caught sight of a young man coming up Manniston Road.
"Murder murder horrible and mysterious was committed early yesterday morning," announced the paper in large black-face type, "when the beautiful and charming Mrs. Enid Fulton Withers, wife of George S. Withers, the well-known attorney of Atlanta, was choked to death in the parlour of her home at No. 5 Manniston Road. The most heinous crime that has ever stained the annals of Furmville," etc.
That's more than a mile from Manniston Road, and it's fully two miles from the railroad station. Somehow, I didn't allow myself enough time, and I missed the train by a bare two minutes." "What did you do then?" "What did I do then?" "Yes what then?" "I didn't go back to Maplewood Inn. I took a room for the night at the Brevord Hotel.
You can see them there on the left side." "How long has she been dead?" "I can't say definitely. I should guess about eight or ten hours anyway." That staggered Greenleaf, the idea of this woman dead here in the front room of a bungalow on Manniston Road for eight or ten hours and nobody knew anything about it! His agitation grew. He felt the need of doing something, starting something.
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