Amberley glanced towards the valet's impassive countenance. "Did he give you the impression that he had anything to hide?"
Collins answered in his smooth, expressionless voice: "No, sir. But I fear I did not consider the matter. We were not very friendly."
"When you say that you were not very friendly do you mean that you disliked one another?"
"Oh dear me, no, sir, nothing of that kind," replied Collins. "If there had ever been unpleasantness I could not have remained in service at the manor."
Amberley transferred his gaze to the fireplace. After; i moment Collins said politely: "Will there be anything further, sir?"
"No, that's all," said Fountain. He waited till the mai > had gone and then remarked that he had managed to find a butler to take Dawson's place.
"Really? I heard you had gone to town to intervue one. Satisfactory?"
"Seems all right," said Fountain. "He had a very good reference, though I'd have preferred to have had a word over the phone with his late employers. Unfortunately the man's gone to America. He gave Baker - that's the butler - a chit, but one never knows with these references that servants hand you themselves. However, he was willing to come at once, so I decided to give him a trial. Been out of work for a month or two on account of his health. Hope he won't turn out to be a crook." He held out an open box of cigars, but remembering that his guest did not smoke them, looked round for the cigarettes.
Amberley shook his head, and produced a pipe and began to fill it. "What was it you were going to tell me?" he asked.
The story was rather an odd one. The incident had occurred two years before, when Fountain succeeded his uncle. He had known when he took over the house and the existing staff that the servants had each one whole day off a month, in addition to their various half-days. The arrangement had seemed to him a fair one; in any case he did not wish to make any changes in the rules of the house. Dawson alone of them all was favoured with late leave, which meant that he was not bound to be in by ten o'clock at night on these occasions. This was because he was supposed always to visit his sister, who lived at Brixton, a difficult place to reach from Upper Nettlefold. Fountain had never questioned it until, happening to be dining in town on one of Dawson's off days, whom should he have seen three tables away but Dawson himself, in company with another man.
Mr. Amberley raised his brows, but made no comment.
The restaurant was the Magnificent - a tawdry, gilded place, certainly, but not exactly cheap. Probably Amberley knew it?
Amberley nodded and put his pipe between his teeth and felt in his pocket for matches.
Well, he had been surprised, but since it was really no business of his what Dawson did in his off time he had pretended not to notice the man. But on the following morning Dawson had broached the matter of his own accord. He said that he knew his master must have wondered to see him dining at the Magnificent, and he wished to explain how it had come about. The explanation had appeared to Fountain quite satisfactory; so much so that the incident had been banished from his mind only to be recalled when, worrying his brain over the man's murder, he had set himself to think over everything he had ever known of Dawson.
He had been dining with an American, a man whom he had known many years before in New York, when he himself was in service there. Fountain rather thought that he had been a footman in some millionaire'ss house, but he was not sure; it was a long time ago. All he did know was that Jasper Fountain had picked him up in America and had brought him back to England as his butler. In any case the American with whom he had been dining that night had, according to Dawson's tale, made his pile and come to England on a visit. He had found his old friend's address and invited him to meet him in town one evening. The impression Fountain had had when Dawson told him this was that the man had wanted to dazzle the butler by a display of opulence. Anyway he had not thought any more about it until, as he said, he had tried to run over in his mind all that he knew of Dawson. And in doing that naturally the first thing that attracted one's attention was Dawson's mysterious nest-egg. No one had yet succeeded in tracing this to its source. A suggestion made by himself that Dawson had bet a bit on the turf was quashed by the housekeeper, who asserted that the butler had disapproved of all forms of gambling.
Then it was that he had remembered that night at the Magnificent. He had not doubted Dawson's explanation at the time, but in the light of the facts that had been disclosed it had occurred to him to wonder whether the original story had been true. Could it be, in fact, that the American was not an old friend, but someone over whom Dawson possessed a hold?
"Blackmail? I suppose it might easily be so. Had you any idea that Dawson was that type of man?"
"No, none. But how did he come by that money? Rotten to throw mud at a dead man, but the more I think of it the more it seems to fit in. Two years ago, you see; just about the time when Dawson opened his account at Carchester. What do you think?"
"Undoubtedly interesting," said Amberley. "Can you give me the date?"
"I'm awfully sorry, but I can't," Fountain said ruefully. "I know it was when I first came here, so it must have been sometime in the autumn, I suppose. Anyway I thought I'd better mention it."
"Quite right. It will have to be gone into. Inspector Fraser endeavouring to trace an unknown American - or possibly not an American at all - who dined at a public restaurant two years ago on a date you have forgotten, ought to be an engaging spectacle."
Fountain laughed. "Put like that it does sound fairly hopeless. Hullo - who on earth can that be?"
Somewhere in the distance a bell was clanging. Whoever had pulled it evidently meant to be sure of making himself heard. Through the stillness of the house the bell went on ringing for several moments, with that hollow sound of iron striking iron.
"Front door," said Fountain. "All the others are electric bells. I only hope to God it's not that damned inspector. He keeps on coming here with fatuous questions to ask the staff. They don't like it, I can assure you."
Amberley glanced at the clock. "I don't think the inspector would come at this hour unless it were for something particularly vital," he said.
A silence followed the last desultory clang of the bell. Then they heard the front door being opened and a confused murmur of voices, which grew louder.
Fountain raised his brows in a bewildered, slightly amused way. "What in the world . ." he began, and stopped short, listening.
One voice was raised insistently, but they could not distinguish the words. Then came the sound of a scuffle and a desperate cry of "Help!"
Fountain leaped to his feet. "Good God, that's Collins' he exclaimed and hurried to the door.
The cry rang out again. "Help! Help!"
Fountain wrenched the door open and strode out into the hall. The front door was open, and on the doorstep two men were swaying together in a desperate struggle. One was the valet; the other was Mark Brown.
The light in the porch shone on the barrel of a automatic in Mark's hand. Collins was trying to get possession of it; as he went to his assistance Amberley caught a glimpse of his face, livid, the lips drawn back in a kind of snarl, the eyes alive all at once with rage and hatred.
Before either Fountain or Amberley could reach the front door Mark had wrenched free from the valet's desperate grasp. "Damn your soul to hell; you won't, eh?" he shouted. "Then take that!"
There was a deafening report, but Mark lurched as he fired and the bullet went wide. There was a crash and the tinkling of broken glass as it went through a cabinet at the end of the hall and buried itself in the wall behind.
Before he could fire again Amberley was on to him and had caught his pistol arm and wrenched it round. Mark cried out with the sudden pain and the gun dropped to the ground.
Fountain caught his other arm and held it. Amberley released his grip and bent and picked up the gun, slipping it into his own pocket.
At that moment the billiard-room door was burst open and Anthony came out, with Joan
at his heels.
"Hullo-ullo-ullo!" he said cheerfully. "Someone starting a rough house?"
"It's all right; there's no harm done," Amberley replied.
Fountain was staring at his captive. "Who the devil are you?" he demanded wrathfully. "What do you think you're doing?"
The shock of his wrenched arm seemed to have sobered Mark a little. He shot a vengeful look up at Fountain. "Let me go!" he muttered. "I'm not going to tell you anything. Let me go!"
Fountain continued to hold him by one arm. "Get on to the police, Collins," he ordered.
The bloodshot eyes gleamed. "You'd better not," Mark said in a threatening voice. "You'll be sorry if you do. Damned sorry, I can tell you. Nobody's going to interfere with me!"
"Squiffy," said Corkran. "Drunk as a lord. Who is he?"
It was Collins who answered. "I rather fancy it is the young gentleman from Ivy Cottage," he said. He had recovered all his habitual composure; there was not a trace of emotion in his face or in his level voice.
"What?" Fountain stared down at Mark.
"Pal of yours, Collins?" inquired Corkran.
"Hardly, sir. I fear the young gentleman is, as you say, not entirely sober."
"You ought to cure yourself of this habit you've got of exaggerating," said Corkran. "Whom did he take a potshot at?"
"At me, sir, but I do not think that he is responsible for his actions."
"Whatever makes you think that?" inquired Corkran innocently. "
Fountain was still looking at Mark. "A gentleman, is he? You're quite right, Tony; he's drunk." He jerked Mark farther into the hall and pushed the door to with his free hand. He released the boy and stood frowning down at him. "Now look here, young man," he said, "what the hell do you mean by coming to my house and firing at my servant? Do you know I can have you put into prison for it?"
Mark was rubbing his bruised arm. "All right, put me in prison!" he said recklessly. "I'm not afraid! I'll make you sorry you dared to interfere with me. That's what I'll do!"
Fountain made a gesture of disgust; "I ought to give him in charge, of course, but he's far too drunk to knot- what he's doing."
"That's all jolly fine," objected Anthony, "but what brought him up here trying to murder Collins? Just natural high spirits?"
"I didn't want to murder him!" Mark said, looking_ frightened. "I didn't mean to fire."
Mr. Amberley, who had stood silently watching, spoke at last. "You had better apologise to Mr. Fountain," he said. "You've made a fool of yourself."
Fountain glanced quickly towards him. "Do you know him, Amberley?"
"Slightly. This condition is more or less habitual to him."
"Good Lord! Well, I don't want to be hard on the boy. What do you think I ought to do? Give him in charge or let him go?"
"Personally, I should let him go," said Amberley. "But it's a matter for you to decide."
"Well, I don't know. After all, he might have killed Collins."
The valet gave a little cough. "I'm sure I do not wish to get the young gentleman into trouble, sir. When he comes to himself he will realise that he has been behaving foolishly."
Mark, looking uncertainly from him to Fountain, said: "I didn't mean to do it. I made a - a mistake. I'm sorry."
"Let it be a lesson to you in the future to keep off spirits," said Fountain severely. He stepped back and opened the door. "Now get out!"
Without a word Mark turned and shambled out.
"Well!" exploded Corkran as Fountain shut the door again. "Of all the dam' silly things to do! How do you know it wasn't he who shot old Dawson?"
"Shot Dawson?" repeated Fountain blankly. "Why the devil should he?"
"If it comes to that, why the devil should he shoot Collins?" demanded Corkran. He watched the valet disappear through the swing door at the end of the hall. "I don't say I altogether blame him, but…'
"Tony, don't be so awful!" begged Joan. She was still trembling from the shock of the sudden gun-shot. "Mr. Amberley, you don't think he's the murderer, do you?"
"No, I think it extremely unlikely," he replied.
"All right, say he didn't." Anthony was standing obstinately by his guns. "Why did he come snooping up here? Don't say because he was tight, because I shall be sick if I hear that again. If I went bursting into a strange house and tried to shoot up the place and then said I was tight by way of excuse, would you be satisfied with that? Like hell you would! That chap wanted to shoot up someone to start with. Then he had four or five drinks and thought: By Jove, I'll go straight off and do it. Don't tell me that just because a fellow's three sheets in the wind it's the natural reaction for him to get hold of a gun, stagger off several miles to a house he's never been near before, and turn it into a shooting gallery. It's childish."
"Perfectly true," said Amberley. "If I found you forcing your way into a strange house I should think the worst. But you are not an unbalanced person. This youth is."
"What-ho!" said Anthony, gratified. "The old brainbox full of grey matter, eh?"
"I didn't say that," Amberley answered. "There's a difference between the unbalanced and the merely feeble-minded."
Anthony cast a speculative look round him, in search of a likely missile. Joan interposed hastily. "Oh, don't scrap!" she begged. "Is that really what you think, Mr. Amberley?"
There was a twinkle at the back of Amberley's eyes. "You see, I was at school with him," he said gravely.
"A little more of this, dear old boyhood's friend, and I don't help you to solve the great Nettlefold mystery."
"That'd be a blow for the unknown assassin," remarked Amberley. "Seriously, Miss Fountain, my own impression is that young Brown has - or thinks he has — a grudge against someone. Once he's a bit drunk he hasn't a particularly clear idea what it is or whom it's against. For all I know he may have a general hate against capitalism, which is why he raided this place. In any case, I don't honestly think you need be frightened of him." He glanced at his wrist watch. "I must be going. I hope you don't have any more unhinged visitors tonight."
Mr. Corkran saw his chance and pounced on it. "No, two in one evening is a bit steep," he said with immense relish.
Mr. Amberley did not choose the Greythorne Road when he left the manor, but instead turned right, towards Upper Nettlefold. He had not gone very far when his headlights threw into bold relief the figure of a pedestrian wandering somewhat dejectedly along the side of the road. Amberley drew abreast of the figure and pulled up. He leaned across and opened the door of the car and issued a brief command to Mark Brown to get in.
Mark refused petulantly and began to walk on, but when the command was repeated in a distinctly savage tone he gave in weakly and obeyed.
Mr. Amberley seemed disinclined for conversation. Beyond remarking that Mark had made a complete ass of himself he said nothing during the journey to Ivy Cottage. Mark kept up a kind of explanatory mumble, but what little of it reached Amberley's ears above the noise of the engine was neither interesting nor sensible. After a while Mark seemed to realise that no attention was being paid to his involved explanation and relapsed into a sulky silence.
When the car drew up outside Ivy Cottage Mark got out and stalked ahead of Amberley up the garden path. His air of defiant nonchalance was rather spoiled by the uncertainty of his gait.
As he reached it the door of the cottage was flung open and a beam of warm lamplight shone forth. Shirley's voice sounded, sharp with anxiety: "Is that you, Mark?" Then she saw the second, larger figure. "Who's that?" she said quickly.
Amberley strolled into the light. "Don't be alarmed," he said.
She stared at him, but he thought he saw a certain amount of relief on her face. "I suppose I might have guessed," she said. "What has happened?"
Mark, who had been fidgeting restlessly, answered belligerently: "He'll tell you fast enough. And you needn't think I want to hear your remarks about it, because I don't. I'm going to bed."
He tried to thrust his way past her into the house
, but she caught his arm. "Where have you been? I went down to the Blue Dragon. They said you'd gone."
He shook off her hand. "Well, perhaps that'll teach you not to follow me about," he said, and flung into the house.
Shirley turned to Amberley. "Will you come in?" she said listlessly.
He followed her into the living room. Seen in the pale lamplight her face looked tired and wan. She made a little gesture towards a chair. "I suppose you brought him home," she said. "It seems to be your mission in life. What has he been doing?"
"Merely trying to get himself arrested." He drew the automatic out of his pocket and laid it down on the table. "May I suggest that you keep this where he won't in future find it?"
Her pallor grew. "I know. I missed it. I didn't know he'd discovered where I keep it. Where did he go?"
"You know, don't you?" said Amberley softly. Her eyes lifted to his face; she did not answer. "He went to Norton Manor."
She said steadily: "When he's drunk he behaves like a madman. What did he do?"
"Nothing much beyond attempting to shoot Fountain's valet."
"Oh, my God," she said bitterly.
"It is sickening, isn't it?" agreed Amberley. "After all the trouble you've taken, too."
"What did they do? What was said?"
"They decided that he was too drunk to know what he was doing and kicked him out."
"Did the valet get hurt?"
"Oh no; no one was hurt."
She was silent, frowning. After a pause she spoke again. "They let him go. Then…" She broke off and began to drum on the table with her fingers.
"Exactly," said Amberley. "It looks as though he's given the show away, doesn't it?"
She looked searchingly at him. "I don't know what you mean."
His voice took on a kinder inflection. "Why don't you: make up your mind to trust me?" he said.
She shrugged. "I know of no reason why I should, Mr. Amberley. I know nothing about you except that you are mixed up with the police. And since the police can't help me…'
"I know. But I can."
Her eyes were full of distrust. She pushed the heavy hair back from her forehead. "Please don't bother me any more about it," she said wearily. "I don't wish to argue and I haven't any idea what you're talking about."
Why Shoot a Butler Page 9