A Blunt Instrument ih-4

by Джорджетт Хейер

  "Not necessarily."

  "Oh yes! You always draw your characters rather more than life-size. We should have more brains, too. You, for instance, would know how to make your soup -"

  "Any where to buy the - the ingredients, which actually one just doesn't know," she interpolated.

  "Exactly. Helen would go and scream blue murder outside the house, to draw the policeman off while you blew up the safe, and I should put up a great act to regale him with on his return, telling him I thought I heard someone in the study, and leading him there when you'd beaten it with the incriminating documents. And can you see any one of us doing any of it?"

  "No, I can't. It's lousy, anyway. It would be brought home to us because of Helen's being an obvious decoy."

  "Helen would never be seen. She'd have merged into the night by the time the policeman got there."

  "Let's discuss possibilities!" begged Helen.

  "I'll go further, and discuss inevitabilities. We shall all of us sit tight, and let the police do the worrying. Ernie's dead, and there isn't a thing we can do, except preserve our poise. In fact, we are quite definitely in the hands of Fate. Fascinating situation!"

  "A dangerous situation!" Sally said.

  "Of course. Have you never felt the fascination of fear? Helen has, in that gambling-hell of hers."

  "Not now!" Helen said. "This is too awful. I only feel sick, and - and desperate!"

  "Take some bicarbonate," he advised. "Meanwhile, I'm going home to bed. Oh, did I say thank you for the cigarettes? By the way, where is John supposed to be?"

  "In Berlin," replied Helen listlessly.

  "Well, he isn't," said Neville. "I saw him in London today."

  She came to her feet in one swift movement, paperwhite, staring at him. "You couldn't have! I know he's in Berlin!"

  "Yes, I saw him," murmured Neville.

  He was by the window, a hand on the curtain. Helen moved quickly to detain him. "You thought you saw him! Do you imagine I don't know where my own husband is?"

  "Oh, no!" Neville said gently. "I didn't say that, precious."

  Chapter Three

  Well, it doesn't look such a whale of a case to me," said Sergeant Hemingway, handing the sheaf of typescript back to his superior. "No one in it but the one man, on the face of it."

  "True," agreed Hannasyde. "Still, there are points."

  "That's right, Superintendent," nodded Inspector True. "That's what I said myself. What about them footprints? They weren't made by the old lady: she doesn't wear that kind of shoe."

  "Housemaid, saying good-night to her young man," said the experienced Hemingway.

  "Hardly," said Hannasyde. "She wouldn't choose a bush just outside her master's study."

  "No, nor there wasn't anything like that going on," said the Inspector. "The cook is a very respectable woman, married to Simmons, the butler, and the housemaid is her own niece, and this Mrs. Simmons swears to it both she and the kitchen-maid never stirred outside the house the whole evening."

  "It's my belief those footprints'll be found to be highly irrelevant," said Hemingway obstinately. "All we want is this chap your man - what's-his-name? - Glass saw making off. Nothing to it."

  Hannasyde cocked an eyebrow at him. "Liverish, Skipper?"

  "I don't like the set-up. Ordinary, that's what it is. And I don't like the smashed skull. Just doesn't appeal to me. Give me something a bit recherche, and I'm right on to it. "

  Hannasyde smiled a little. "I repeat, there are points. The murdered man seems to have been universally liked. No motive for killing him even hinted at."

  "You wait till we've done half-an-hour's work on the case," said Hemingway. "I wouldn't mind betting we'll find scores of people all stiff with motives."

  "I thought you said all we had to do was to find the man PC Glass saw?"

  "I daresay I did, Chief, and what's more I was probably right, but you mark my words, we shall find a whole lot of stuff just confusing the main issue. I've been on this kind of case before."

  "The way I look at it," said the Inspector slowly, "we want to find the instrument it was done with."

  "Yes, that's another of the points," replied Hannasyde. "Your man Glass seems quite certain that the fellow he saw wasn't carrying anything. What sort of a chap is he? Reliable?"

  "Yes, sir, he is, very reliable. That's his conscience. He's a very religious man, Glass. I never can remember what sect he belongs to, but it's one of those where they all wrestle with the devil, and get moved by the Lord to stand up and testify. Well, I'm Church of England myself, but what I say is, it takes all sorts to make a world. As a matter of fact, I was thinking of detailing Glass to you, to give you any assistance you may need, Superintendent. I reckon he's one of my best men - not quick, you know, but not one to lose his head, or go flying off at a tangent. Seems only right to put him on to this case, seeing as it was him discovered the body."

  "All right," said Hannasyde absently, his eyes running down the typescript in his hand.

  The Inspector coughed. "Only perhaps I'd better just warn you, sir, that he's got a tiresome habit of coming out with bits of the Bible. One of these blood-and-thunder merchants, if you know what I mean. You can't break him of it. He gets moved by the spirit."

  "I daresay Hemingway will be able to deal with him," said Hannasyde, rather amused.

  "I knew I wasn't going to like this case," said Hemingway gloomily.

  Half-an-hour later, having made a tour of the grounds of Greystones, inspected the footprints behind the flowering currant bush, and cast a jaundiced eye over the stalwart, rigid form of PC Glass, he reiterated this statement.

  "If thou faint in the day of adversity, thy strength is small," said Glass reprovingly.

  The Sergeant surveyed him with acute dislike. "If you get fresh with me, my lad, we're going to fall out," he said.

  "The words are none of mine, but set down in Holy Writ, Sergeant," explained Glass.

  "There's a time and a place for everything," replied the Sergeant, "and this isn't the place nor the time for the Holy Writ. You attend to me, now! When you saw that chap sneaking out of this gate last night, it was just after ten o'clock, wasn't it?"

  "It was, Sergeant."

  "And getting dark?"

  "As you say, Sergeant."

  "Too dark for you to see him very clearly?"

  "Too dark for me to distinguish his features, but not too dark for me to take note of his build and raiment."

  "It's my belief it was too dark for you to see whether he was carrying anything or not," said the Sergeant.

  "His hands were empty," replied Glass positively. "I will not bear false witness against my neighbour."

  "All right, skip it!" said the Sergeant. "Now, you've been in this district some time, haven't you?"

  "For three years, Sergeant."

  "Well, what do you know about these Fletchers?"

  "Their eyes stand out with fatness; they have more than heart could wish."

  "Yes, that's a lot of use, isn't it? What about the nephew?"

  "I know nothing of him, either good or ill."

  "And the late Ernest?"

  A sombre look came into Glass's face. "He that pursueth evil pursueth it to his own death."

  The Sergeant pricked up his ears. "What evil?"

  Glass looked sternly down at him. "I believe him to have been wholly given up to vain show, double of heart, a fornicator, a -"

  "Here, that'll do!" said the Sergeant, startled. "We're none of us saints. I understand the late Ernest was pretty well liked?"

  "It is true. It is said that he was a man of pleasing manners, filled with loving kindness. But the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?"

  "Yes, that's all very well, but where do you get that fornication idea? From those footprints, eh?"

  "No. Joseph Simmons, who is in the way of light, though a foolish man, knew some of the secrets of his master's life."

  "He did, did he?
We'll see!" said the Sergeant briskly, and turned towards the house.

  He entered it through the study window, and found his superior there, with Ernest Fletcher's solicitor, and Neville Fletcher, who was lounging bonelessly in an armchair, the inevitable cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth.

  "Then, if that is all, Superintendent," the solicitor was saying, "I will take my leave. Should you require my further services, there is my card."

  "Thank you," said Hannasyde.

  The solicitor picked up Ernest Fletcher's Will, and replaced it in his brief-case. He glanced rather severely over the top of his pince-nez at Neville, and said: "You are a very fortunate young man, Neville. I hope you will prove yourself worthy of the benefits your poor uncle has conferred on you."

  Neville looked up with his fleeting smile. "Oh, so do I! I shall try hard not to let all this vulgar wealth corrupt my soul."

  "It's a great responsibility," said the lawyer gravely.

  "I know, that's what depresses me. People will expect me to wear a hat, and look at tape-machines."

  "I hope you will do more than that," replied the lawyer.

  "Now, if you please, I should like to have a word with your aunt. Perhaps you could take me to her."

  Neville obligingly rose, and opened the door for him. They passed out of the room together, and Sergeant Hemingway, who had been standing silent in the window, said: "Who's the bit of chewed string, Chief?"

  "The heir," answered Hannasyde. "Neville Fletcher."

  "Oh! well, I don't grudge it him. He looks as though he hasn't got tuppence to rub together, let alone hardly having the strength to stand up without holding on to something."

  "You shouldn't go by appearances, Sergeant," said Hannasyde, a twinkle in his eye. "That weary young man holds the record for the high jump. Got a half-blue at Oxford, so the solicitor informed me."

  "You don't say! Well, I wouldn't have thought it, that's all. And he's the heir? What did I tell you? Motive Number One."

  "I'll remember it if I draw a blank on that unknown visitor," promised Hannasyde. "Meanwhile, we've found this little lot."

  The Sergeant came to the desk, and looked over Hannasyde's shoulder at three slips of paper, all signed by Helen North. "IOUs," he said. "Well, well, well, she did splash money about, didn't she? Know what I think, Super? There's a nasty smell of blackmail hanging round these bits of paper. I believe friend Ichabod wasn't so far off the mark after all, with his pursuit-of-evil stuff."

  "My name is not Ichabod, Sergeant, but Malachi," said Glass stiffly, from the window.

  "It had to be," said the Sergeant. "What price those footprints, Chief?"

  "The medical evidence goes to show that it is in the highest degree improbable that a woman could have struck the blow which killed Ernest Fletcher. Still, I agree that these notes will bear looking into."

  "Young Neville know anything about this Helen North?"

  "I haven't asked him. In the event of those IOUs having no bearing on the case, I'm not anxious to stir up any mud." He glanced up to see Glass staring at him with knit brows. "Well? Does the name convey anything to you?"

  "There's a man of that name living with his wife not five minutes' walk from this house," replied Glass slowly.

  The Sergeant pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. Hannasyde said: "Know anything about them?"

  "No, sir."

  "Address?"

  "You will find the house in the road which runs parallel to Maple Grove. It is called the Chestnuts."

  Hannasyde jotted it down. The Sergeant, meanwhile, was turning over a collection of photographs and snapshots laid on the desk. "Looks like you weren't so far out, Glass," he remarked. "I have to hand it to the late Ernest. He certainly knew how to pick 'em. Regular harem!" He picked up a large portrait of a dazzling blonde, dressed, apparently, in an ostrich-feather fan, and regarded it admiringly. That's Lily Logan, the dancer. What a figure!"

  Glass averted his eyes with a shudder. "Can a man take fire in his bosom, and his clothes not be burned? As a jewel of gold in a swine's snout, so is a fair woman which is without discretion!"

  "That's what you think," said Hemingway, laying Lily Logan down, and looking critically at another smiling beauty. "Went the pace a bit, didn't he? Hullo!" His eyes had alighted on the portrait of a curly-headed brunette. He picked it up. "Seems to me I've seen this dame before."

  "As his female acquaintance seems to have consisted largely of chorus girls, that's not surprising," said Hannasyde dryly.

  "Yours lovingly, Angela," read out the Sergeant. "Angela…' He scratched his chin meditatively. "Got something at the back of my mind. Do you seem to know that face, Chief?"

  Hannasyde studied the photograph for a moment. "It does look a little familiar," he admitted. "Some actress, I daresay. We'll check up on them presently."

  Hemingway held the photograph at arm's length. "No, I'm pretty sure I don't connect her with the stage. No use asking you, Glass, I suppose?"

  "I do not wish to look upon the face of a lewd woman," Glass said harshly. "Her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword."

  "Look here, what's the matter with you?" demanded the Sergeant. "Some actress given you the air, or what?"

  "I have no dealings with actresses."

  "Well, then, stopp panning them. How do you know anything about this poor girl's end, anyway?" He laid the portrait down.

  "Anything else, Chief?"

  "Nothing so far."

  At this moment the door opened and Miss Fletcher came in. She was dressed in deep mourning, and her plump cheeks were rather pale, but she smiled sweetly at Hannasyde. "Oh, Superintendent - you are a Superintendent, aren't you?"

  He had risen to his feet, and unobtrusively slid the big blotter over the heap of photographs. "Yes, that's right, madam."

  She looked at the mass of papers on the desk. "Oh dear, what a lot you must have to do! Now, tell me, would you like a little refreshment?"

  He declined it, which seemed to disappoint her, and asked her civilly if she wished to speak to him.

  "Well, yes," she admitted. "Only any time will do. You're busy now, and I mustn't disturb you."

  "I'm quite at your disposal, Miss Fletcher. Won't you sit down? All right, Glass: you can wait outside."

  "You have such a kind face," Miss Fletcher told him. "Quite unlike what one expected. I feel I can talk to you. Are you sure you won't have something? A little coffee and a sandwich?"

  "No, really, thank you. What was it you wanted to say to me, Miss Fletcher?"

  "I'm afraid you'll say I'm wasting your time. So silly of me not to have asked dear Mr. Lawrence while he was here! We have known him for so many years that I always say he is more like a friend than a solicitor, though of course there is no reason why he shouldn't be both, as indeed I hope he feels he is. It was particularly foolish of me, because it is just the sort of thing he would know."

  "What is it, Miss Fletcher?" asked Hannasyde, breaking into the gentle flow of words.

  "Well, it's the reporters," she confided. "Poor things, one knows they have their living to earn, and it must be very disagreeable work, when one comes to think of it, and one doesn't want to be unkind -'

  "Are they worrying you?" interrupted Hannasyde. "All you have to do is to tell your butler to say that you have no statement to make."

  "It seems so very disobliging," she said doubtfully. "And one of them looks dreadfully under-nourished. At the same time, I should very much dislike to see my photograph in the papers."

  "Of course. The less you say to them the better, Miss Fletcher."

  "Well, that's what I thought," she said. "Only my nephew is so naughty about it. It's only his fun, but you never know how much people will believe, do you? I suppose you wouldn't just hint to him that he oughtn't to do it? I feel that what you said would carry more weight than what I say."

  "What's he been up to?" asked Hannasyde.

  "Well, he's told one of the reporters that he's
employed here as the Boots, and when the man asked him his name he said it was Crippen, only he didn't want it to be known."

  Hannasyde chuckled. "I don't think I should worry very much about that, Miss Fletcher."

  "Yes, but he told another of them that he came from Yugoslavia, and was here on very secret business. In fact, he's in the front garden now, telling three of them a ridiculous story about international intrigue, and my brother at the back of it. And they're taking it down in their notebooks. Neville's such a marvellous actor, and of course he speaks Serbian, from having travelled in the Balkans. But I don't think he ought to deceive those poor men, do you?"

  "No, I don't," said Hannasyde. "It's most unwise to play jokes on the gentlemen of the Press. Hemingway, go and ask Mr. Fletcher if I can have a word with him, will you?"

  "Thank you so much!" said Miss Fletcher gratefully. "Poor Neville, one always has to remember that he hasn't known a mother's love. I feel that accounts for so much, don't you? Not that he isn't a dear boy, of course, and I'm very fond of him, but he is like so many of the young people nowadays, so strangely heartless! Nothing seems to matter to him, not even a thing like this." Her lips trembled; she groped for her handkerchief, and dabbed her eyes with it. "You must forgive me: I was very much attached to my dear brother. It doesn't seem to me as though any of this can really have happened."

  "It must have been a terrible shock to you," said Hannasyde sympathetically.

  "Yes. You see, my brother was such a charming man. Everyone liked him!"

  "So I understand, Miss Fletcher. Yet it seems that he had one enemy at least. Have you no idea who that might be?"

  "Oh, no, no! I can't think of anyone. But - I didn't know all his - friends, Superintendent." She looked up anxiously, but Hannasyde said nothing. "That was one of the things I came to talk to you about," she ventured. "I'm afraid you will think it rather odd of me to mention such things, but I have made up my mind that I ought to."

  "You may be perfectly frank with me, Miss Fletcher," he said encouragingly.

  She fixed her eyes upon a point beyond his shoulder. My brother," she said in a faint voice, "had affairs with - with women."