John Carr - The Plague Court Murders Страница 22

He gestured. It was graphic enough.

"It could be," said H.M. "Yes. Humph. If he deliberately wanted us to get suspicious of him, now, and frame a charge - why, that's how he'd do it. I wonder. That all you know?" he asked sharply. His little eyes wheeled round.

"I've got a complete record, if there's anything else you want to know."

"Yes. There's something missing, son. It ain't what I want, somehow. Burn me, I've a feeling that. . . . Look here. Darworth's house, now. You sure there wasn't anything else you noticed? Let your imagination float. That's it! Quick, what were you thinkin' about?"

"Only Darworth's workshop, sir," answered the Inspector. He seemed taken back by H.M.'s uncomfortable habits of reading the most wooden poker-face. "But you. didn't want to hear about the fake spiritist devices, so I thought

"Never mind, son. You keep talkin'. If I seem to shut you off; that may be because I've got ideas all of a sudden."

"It was only a room in the basement where he manufactured his boxes of tricks. No magic supply-house for him, sir; too dangerous. He made 'em himself, and he was skillful with his hands. 'Quite. I - you see, I mess about with that sort of thing myself, just as a hobby, and there was the finest little electric lathe you ever saw; delicate as a razor-blade. I wondered what trick he'd been up to last, for there were little whitish powdery traces on it .."

H.M. stopped with his whisky-glass halfway to his lips.

"... and some calculations on a slip of paper, measurements in millimeters, and a few scribblings I didn't pay much attention to it. Also, he'd been tinkering with life-masks, and made a good job of it. It's quite easy; tried it myself. You vaseline the person's face, and then spread the soft plaster on it. It doesn't hurt when it hardens, unless it catches in the eyebrows. Then you remove the cast,

and fit over its inner side sheets of moist newspaper.... I was watching H.M. Now if, at this point, H.M. had dramatically slapped his forehead or uttered a startled exclamation, I should have known that he was off on one of his intolerable digressions. But he didn't. He remained very quiet, except that he was wheezing a little. Taking a deep drink, he removed his feet from the desk, motioned the Inspector to go on talking, and picked up the sheets of Masters' report.

"-and not only that," H.M. suddenly observed, as though he were continuing a discussion with himself, "but a heavy incense, spices of some kind, burned in the fireplace of that little stone room."

"I beg your pardon, sir?" said Masters.

"Oh, I was just sittin' and thinkin'," the other replied, twiddling his thumbs and blinking about him with a heavy lift of his shoulders. "And I've been askin' myself all day why there was heavy incense. And now - white powder. ... Well, I'm a ring-tailed bastard," he murmured softly and admiringly. "I wonder if it could be? Ha ha ha."

"Just so, sir. You were thinking?" demanded Masters.

"Ho-ho-ho," said H.M. "I know what you're thinkin', Masters. And you too, Ken. I read another locked-room story once. I read plenty of 'em. Mysterious fiend invents a deadly gas unknown to science, and stands outside the room and blows it through the keyhole. Feller inside smells it and instantly goes off his onion. Then he strangles himself to death, or something. Ha-ha-ha. Boys, I actually read one of them things where the feller smells it in bed, and is so enlivened that he leaps up and perforates himself by accident on the spike of the chandelier. If that don't take all records for the sittin' high jump, I hope I never read another....

"No, no, son. Get your mind off that. This was something that let our murderer, our X, get in and skewer his man as neat as you please." He scowled, remembering old injuries. "Besides, there ought to be a law against stories about gases unknown to science, or poisons that leave no trace. They give me a pain. If you're allowed to be as staggerin'ly fantastic as all that, you might just as well have the murderer drink something that would allow him to slide in and out through the keyhole instead of the gas.

"Now that's interesting!" said. H.M., struck with an idea. "Burn me, if I wanted to be poetic and figurative about this business, crawling' in and out through the keyhole, I should say that in a matter of speakin' it's exactly what the murderer did."

"But there wasn't any keyhole!" protested Masters.

H.M. looked pleased.

"I know it," he agreed. "That's the interesting thing."

"I've had about enough of this!" said Masters, after a long pause. With controlled wrath, he began stuffing papers back into the long envelope. "This is no joking matter for me, you know. I feel like Major Featherton. I came to you for help--"

"Now, now, don't get your back up," H.M. put in soothingly. "Man, I'm serious too. Word of honor, I am. Here's our problem, the problem we've got to solve before we can do anything else: how was the trick worked? Without that, we can he morally certain who the murderer is and yet be absolutely unable to do anything about it. You want me to sit here and mull over, `Was he guilty, or was she guilty, and what was the motive?'-and all the rest of it.... Now, don't you?"

"I certainly thought that if you had any ideas----"

"Right. Well, we'll do some chinning, then, if you want to. Before we do, I wish you'd order round that car you were speakin' about; I want a look at Darworth's house."

The Inspector muttered, with obvious relief, that this was more like it. He put through the call; and, as he turned back again, we all felt the new tension that had settled down. It had grown altogether dark now, and there was a bustle and clatter of people leaving the building.

"Now, then, sir!" Masters plunged straightway.

"Here's what I've figured out. We could work up a case against any one of those people-"

"Steady," said H.M., frowning. "Is there something new, or didn't I read it correctly? Accordin' to that testimony, you'd have to narrow it down to three people. Two have definite alibis. Young Halliday and the Latimer girl were sitting in the dark holding hands."

The other regarded him curiously. Masters' dogged alertness seemed to have struck a bump where Masters had least expected it.

"Good Lord, sir! You don't mean to say you necessarily believe that?"

"Son, I'm afraid you got a nasty suspicious mind. Don't you believe it?"

"Maybe, and maybe not. Maybe part of it. I've been trying to look at every side. Um. Just so."

"You mean they were together in a plot to puncture old Darworth's liver and then back each other up with a story like that? Eyewash, my lad; first-class, guaranteed - British eyewash. Besides, it's bad psychology. There are a dozen objections to it."

"I wish you'd try to understand me, sir. I didn't- say anything like that, What I mean is this: Miss Latimer, now, is completely gone on Halliday. More so than ever now. She was sitting next to Halliday. Well, if she knew for a fact that he'd actually got up - if it was he carrying the dagger that brushed her neck - and he urged her for God's sake to support him with that story; eh? They had a whole lot of time when they could have talked to each other just after the murder was discovered."

He was leaning forward rather fiercely. H.M. blinked.

"So that," he remarked, "is why you're not so eager to pitch on young Latimer? I see. So that's your solution?"

"Ah! Be careful there, sir. I don't swear it's the right one; understand that. As I say, I'm looking at possibilities. ... But I didn't like that gentleman's manner, and that's a fact! Too flippant; much too flippant; and I distrust that. I've had experience, and the man who walks up to you and says, `Come on, arrest me! It won't do you any good, but have a good time; come on and arrest me,' - well, in most cases he's bluffing."

H.M. growled: "Look here, have you realized one thing? Out of the whole crowd of suspects, you've unerringly fastened on the one against whom it'll be hardest to make out a case?"

"I don't follow that. How?"

"Why, if you accept my analysis of things (and apparently you have) then can you think of anybody on this broad green footstool who'd be less likely to be a confederate of Darworth than Halliday? ... Burn me, can you imagine Darworth saying to him, 'Look here, let's us put over a jolly good joke on all of them, what? Then I can prove I'm a genuine medium, and your girl will tumble into my arms.' Masters, the crystal busts with that vision. My murderer crawling through the keyhole is elementary beside it. I grant you Halliday might have pretended to help him put over the joke, in order to give it a whackin' exposure, if Darworth had ever asked his help. But Darworth would no more have asked Halliday's help than he'd have asked yours."

"Very well, sir, if you like. All I say is, there are deeps in this case we don't understand. . . . His bringing Mr. Blake and me to that house, just at that time and under those circumstances, looks very fishy. It looks like a put-up job. Besides, his motive. . . ."

H.M. stared disconsolately at his feet.

"Yes. Now we come to motive. I'm not tryin' to be superior at your expense; the motive beats me beyond all. Granted Halliday had a motive, then what becomes of poor old Elsie Fenwick? Dammit, that's the part that sticks me."

"I should say, sir, that the words `I know where Elsie Fenwick is buried,' and the way Darworth took them, made a threat of some kind."

"Not a doubt, not a doubt. But I'm afraid you don't see all the difficulties. It's like this—“

At this moment the inevitable happened. This time H.M. did not protest at the ringing of the telephone. He said grumpily, "That's the car," and with a series of painful efforts began to hoist himself out of his chair. He is actually only five feet ten inches tall, and stoop-shouldered at that! but his sluggish bulk, without any animation of face, makes him seem to fill a room.

Unfortunately, he insists on wearing a top-hat. In the fact itself there is nothing out of the way: it is the particular hat. He would, of course, scorn the customary glossy silk article, associating it with Toryism and grinding-thefaces-of-the-poor, as well as the comical aspect it provides. But this hat-high and top-heavy, worn by many years to a rusty indeterminate hue - is a mascot. So also is his long coat with the moth-eaten fur collar. He guards them jealously, with bitter resentment against slurs, and invents fantastic tales in defense of them. At various times I have heard him describe them as (1) a present from Queen Victoria, (2) the trophy of his winning the first Grand Prix automobile race in 1903, and (3) the property of the late Sir Henry Irving. Other things he takes without undue seriousness, despite his pretenses; but not, I assure you, this hat or coat.

While Masters answered the phone, he was carefully getting them out of a closet. He saw me looking, and his broad mouth turned down sourly; he put on the hat carefully, and assumed great dignity with the coat. "Come on, come on," he said to Masters; "stop jawing with the chauffeur, and---“

" . yes, I admit it's queer," Masters was saying to the telephone rather impatiently, "but ... What else did you find out? . . . Are you sure? . . . Then look here; we're going over to Darworth's house now. Meet us there, and let's hear all about it. If you can find Miss Latimer, ask her if she'll come along...."

After a long hesitation, Masters hung up the receiver. He looked worried.

"I don't like this, sir," he snapped. "I've got a feeling that-that something's going to happen."

The words sounded more eerie spoken by the practical and unimaginative Inspector. His eyes fixed on the spot of light from the desk-lamp. The rain flicked in little whips against the window-panes, and there were echoes in the old stone building.

"Ever since that damned dagger was stolen again!-" He clenched his hand. "First Banks a while ago, and now McDonnell. That was McDonnell. Somebody's been making queer phone-calls to the Latimers' place, and there was something about a - a 'horrible voice', or the like, talking to Ted early this morning. Look here, you don't think-? "

H.M. stood with his shoulders hunched, a huge silhouette in the top-hat and fur-collared coat. With his little eyes gleaming, his broad mouth and blunt nose, he looked like a caricature of an old actor.

"I don't like it either," he rumbled, with a sudden gesture. "I'm funny like that. Psychic. I can smell trouble. ... Come on, you two. We're goin'. Now."

XVI

SECOND STROKE OF THE MURDERER

LONDON was going home. You could hear the buzz of the liberated, that swelled in a calling from the dazzle of Piccadilly Circus: shadows moving on misty yellow-and-red sketches, cars jerking like the electric-signs, and their horns honking through it with a weary plaintiveness. This we could perceive up the long hill as the police-car nosed past the foot of the Haymarket. Waves of lighted buses rose at us and plunged past down Cockspur Street with a flying hoot; and H.M. leaned out and gave a very tolerable raspberry in reply. He did not like buses. He said they were required to put on extra speed just as they shaved round corners. That was why he gave the raspberry. By accident, at a break in the traffic, he delivered a very malevolent one into the face of a policeman on duty at Waterloo Place; and Masters was not amused. It was a police-car, and he said he did not want it thought that the C.I.D. sent people around doing that sort of thing.

But once up St. James's Street, through the crush in Piccadilly and into the quiet of the shuttered houses northwards, we were all silent. As we passed the Berkeley, I thought of Major Featherton sitting on a tall bar-stool and smirking in a fatherly way at a young lady who enjoyed his dancing: very much a contrast to the queer, bitter face of Lady Benning that would always hover at the back of any picture in which these characters were concerned. "Something's going to happen...." It was difficult to fit those uneasy words even into the rather sinister quiet of Charles Street. And yet it did....

Somebody was plying the knocker of Number 25, filling in the intervals by pressing the bell. As our car drew up, the caller came down the steps under a street-lamp; and we saw that once more McDonnell was waiting in the rain.

McDonnell said: "I can't make him answer the door, sir. He thinks it's another reporter. They've been after him all day."

"Where's Miss Latimer?" barked Masters. "What's the matter? - wouldn't she come, or were you too polite to use pressure?" (It was remarkable how the Inspector's manner underwent a change when he met a subordinate). "Sir Henry especially wanted to see her. What's happened now?"

"She wasn't at home. She'd gone out calling on people to see whether she could find Ted, and she hasn't got back yet. I'm sorry, sir ... but I waited half an hour to see her myself, after I'd got back from chasing all over Euston Station. I'll tell you about it. She and I were both mad good and proper over that telephone call---“

H.M. had been sticking his neck out of the car like a turtle, and somewhat damaging his hat in so doing; he was making remarks, not in an amiable manner. When the situation was explained, he said, "So' Painfully he climbed out and waddled up the steps. He roared, "Open the goddammed door, you!" in a voice that must have carried as far as Berkeley Square, and then hurled his full weight against it. This was effective. A rather pale, middle-aged man opened it, after turning on some lights. The middle-aged man explained nervously that reporters had been impersonating officers of the law