Adolf Schoenberg, 213, Greek Street,
Soho.
"He was going to leave it by hand, I expect," observed the inspector,
with a wistful glance at the sealed envelope. "I think I'll take it
round myself, and you had better come with me, sergeant."
He slipped the letter into his pocket, and, leaving the sergeant to take
possession of the other effects, made his way out of the building.
"I suppose, Doctor," said he, as we crossed into Berners Street, "you
are not coming our way! Don't want to see Mr. Schoenberg, h'm?"
Thorndyke reflected for a moment. "Well, it isn't very far, and we may
as well see the end of the incident. Yes; let us go together."
No. 213, Greek Street, was one of those houses that irresistibly suggest
to the observer the idea of a church organ, either jamb of the doorway
being adorned with a row of brass bell-handles corresponding to the
stop-knobs.
These the sergeant examined with the air of an expert musician, and
having, as it were, gauged the capacity of the instrument, selected the
middle knob on the right-hand side and pulled it briskly; whereupon a
first-floor window was thrown up and a head protruded.
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