Читать книгу The Shakespeare Murders - A. G. Macdonell - Страница 5

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“One librarian talks about a million pounds and vanishes,” murmured Fleming thoughtfully, “and his successor is murdered.”

“I had no idea it was such an exciting trade,” Kerrigan observed, but the detective paid no attention to him. He was staring at the carpet and frowning. Kerrigan waited. At last Fleming looked up with a grin.

“The last time you and I met professionally,” he remarked, “was in the matter of that murder in Earlscourt and the North of England forgers.”^[1]

“That’s right.”

“As a direct result of your being allowed to do what you liked, the boss of the forgers got clear away with his life and liberty, and you got clear away with a whole sack of forged pound-notes. By the way, how did you manage to get them changed?”

Kerrigan winked.

“I suppose that’s the reason for your having so much leisure,” went on Fleming. “How many notes were there in that sack?”

“You don’t suppose, do you,” said the young man, “that if you can’t collect any evidence against me, I’m going to manufacture it myself?” He glanced round, and lowered his voice. “As a matter of fact, there were four thousand five hundred and twenty-nine.”

“Quite so,” replied Fleming. “A tidy little sum. And now look here, Master Kerrigan, this time you’re not going to be allowed to operate outside, on your own, like you did before. You’re inside, and you stay inside, where I can keep an eye on you. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly. And what’s more, I’ll make a bargain with you. I’ll help you to find the murderer, if you promise to leave me the million if I get hold of it. Is it a deal?”

“Most certainly not,” replied Fleming firmly. “But I rely on you, as a law-abiding citizen, to bring me any information which you think may be of use.”

“That’s all jolly fine,” retorted Kerrigan, “but how do I know what may be of use until you tell me all about the murder? Come on, Colonel, shoot the story.”

After a moment’s thought, Fleming said:

“I don’t see why not. As a matter of fact there isn’t much to tell so far. The librarian was a man of about thirty, called Walter Newman, of Canadian origin; he was brought up in America and subsequently came to this country. He was taken on here to fill the vacancy caused by Hone’s departure about six weeks ago; he had very high recommendations from several people in Canada, and one or two in England. Lord Claydon took him on at once, because he is anxious to get the catalogue of the library finished as soon as possible. It’s an enormous library, and it’s never been properly catalogued, apparently.”

“Is it worth a million pounds?” inquired Kerrigan. “I don’t know much about these things.”

“It’s supposed to be worth about ten thousand pounds. But of course, when it’s all catalogued, it may turn out to be worth more.”

“Or less.”

“Exactly. But the library isn’t the valuable thing about this place, Kerrigan. The library’s a bagatelle compared to the Treasure.”

Kerrigan was thrilled by the word. It conjured up visions of everything that he had been pursuing for years—gold, silver, jewels, anything which could be converted into wealth, luxury, and ease.

“Treasure?” he repeated in a reverent whisper.

“Yes. There’s no secret about it. It used to be quite a well-known story.”

“Go on,” said Kerrigan. “It’s not well-known to me. I’ve never heard of it.”

“In about 1830,” said Fleming, “there was a mad Lord Claydon who brought it back from India. He was an art-collector; collected anything he could lay his hands on—pictures, books, furniture, jewels, carpets, tapestries, sculpture, anything. The house is full of stuff he brought home from his travels. And, incidentally, there is a tremendous lot of valuable stuff in the house. But the most valuable of the lot, according to himself, was the Treasure which he brought back from India on his last voyage. He got a great iron safe made for it in one of the cellars and a huge iron double door for the cellar itself, and then he went and died, and the Treasure has never been seen from that day to this.”

“What! It wasn’t in the safe?”

“It wasn’t anywhere. There’s been about a hundred years of searching for it, but in the last twenty or thirty years they’ve rather given it up as a bad job. They’re very doubtful, in fact, if it ever existed. You see, the old chap was as mad as a hatter from all accounts.”

“And what did the Treasure consist of?”

“Ah! That’s one of the points. Nobody ever saw it. The old boy came home in a great state of excitement and announced that he’d got the greatest treasure of his life, and chucked every soul out of the house except a pair of Hindu servants whom he’d brought back with him. After a couple of months he threw open the house again, and got the safe made, and he told his eldest son—the present man’s grandfather—that he would tell him about the Treasure when he was on his death-bed. And a week later he broke his neck hunting, and that was the end of him, and his bag of diamonds or whatever it was.”

Peter Kerrigan whistled.

“And now librarian John Hone has found them, eh?”

Fleming sat up.

“I wonder. But why kill his successor? That seems rather a difficulty.”

“Yes. It does. By the way, how was he killed?”

“Hit on the head with a poker—the devil of a hard hit.”

“And is that all the story so far?”

“That’s all,” said Fleming, getting up. “Turn your active and shockingly experienced mind on to the problem, my lad, and keep your eyes open. Let me know if anything occurs to you and don’t try any monkey-tricks or you’ll find yourself in Queer Street. By the way, you might have a look at the house-party and let me know what you think of them. They’re an odd crew, so far as I’ve been able to make out. But I haven’t had long enough to give them a real look over.”

“You can’t give me any assurance about my share in any swag that emerges?” began Kerrigan, but Fleming cut him short.

“No, I can’t,” he replied, “and I wouldn’t if I could. Now come and be introduced to Lord Claydon. By the way, I wonder what you’d better be? I don’t want him to think you’re helping me.”

“I’m going to help myself,” murmured Kerrigan, but not loud enough for the detective to hear. In a louder voice he said:

“I’ll be agent of the Insurance Company that the librarian fellow was insured with. How about that?”

“It’ll do. But you don’t look like an insurance agent. You’re too well dressed. However, nobody will pay much attention to you,” and Fleming led the way into a billiard-room at the end of a long corridor.

“Oh, won’t they?” said Kerrigan to himself, as he saw a couple of girls talking in a far corner of the room. “Just you wait, my lad!”

The next moment he was being introduced to Lord Claydon as the representative of the Moon Life Insurance Company of Canada. Lord Claydon, a middle-aged man of about fifty-five, bowed coldly and said nothing. He obviously did not like insurance agents. He obviously liked them even less when Fleming explained that it was essential that this one should stay in the house until the inquiry was over. Lord Claydon turned abruptly and called to one of the girls in the corner:

“Pamela, here’s a—a—gentleman from the insurance people who has to be put up. Will you fix a room for him, and—er—look after him.” And without waiting for an answer, his lordship turned away, and walked across to the fireplace where another middle-aged man was standing, and plunged into conversation with him. Fleming slipped out and went back to work. The girl addressed as Pamela walked slowly round the billiard-table and nodded unsmilingly to the representative of the insurance company.

“How d’you do? I’ll tell Perkins to arrange something for you. It’ll face north, though. But it can’t be helped.” She nodded again and went back to her corner.

Kerrigan was left isolated in the middle of the room. He looked at the fireplace, at the two middle-aged men, and then he looked at the corner where the two girls were engaged in earnest talk with a tall, thin young man, and decided to plunge into the latter group. He approached them with easy confidence, undaunted by the frigid silence which greeted his advance.

“Tiresome things, these murders,” he observed genially. “Upset the domestic staff always, what?”

“Yes,” replied the girl Pamela. She was a tall, good-looking girl of about twenty-three or four, beautifully dressed and manicured, with marcel-waved black hair and crimson lips, thin eyebrows, and unfathomable depths of self-confidence.

“I suppose the next thing is to spot the murderer,” proceeded Kerrigan. “Do you think it’s an outside job or an inside job?”

“I don’t know,” said Pamela.

“And what do you think, sir?” he addressed the thin young man.

“I don’t know,” replied the thin young man. Peter Kerrigan glanced swiftly over him and was interested in his appearance. His face was very brown and he had a scar across one of his cheeks as if he had once been the hero of a German student-duel, and he looked very competent. His hair was dark brown, his eyes were light brown, and an upturned moustache gave him a distinguished appearance. His manner, to put it mildly, was stand-offish. Kerrigan turned to the other girl and was even more interested. She was very tall—only an inch or so short of six feet—and she carried herself magnificently. An exquisite pink-and-white natural complexion was emphasised by contrast with a superb mass of dark red hair that glowed with dull splendour in the sunlight, and there was something about her face that made Kerrigan think that she might have a sense of humour, in spite of the statuesque coldness with which she was regarding him.

“I must introduce myself,” he said, with a comprehensive bow to the trio. “My name is Kerrigan. Peter Kerrigan.”

The girl called Pamela obviously felt that some sort of show of civility was called for, and she said in a perfunctory way:

“Miss Shackleford. Captain Streatfield—let me introduce—”

They both bowed distantly.

“What about you, Miss Shackleford?” Kerrigan persevered. “Have you any theories about the murder?”

“None, I’m afraid.”

Kerrigan felt like taking out his handkerchief and mopping his brow. He had never known such uphill work. Instead, he tried a new tack.

“What about the famous Treasure, eh? This business brings it into the sphere of practical politics again, all right. I bet that librarian knew a thing or two about it.”

There was no answer from the trio, and Peter became aware that Lord Claydon and the other man by the fireplace were listening. The next moment the door opened and a short, tubby, cheerful-looking man came in. With almost audible sighs of relief the silent party in the corner broke up and went eagerly to meet him.

“Come and make up a four, Mr. Rubin,” cried Lady Pamela. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

“I could not get away a moment sooner,” replied the newcomer in a strong American accent. “I have been making a deposition to the cops, and it took them thirty minutes to write down in quadruplicate that I was asleep last night from eleven-fifteen till seven-forty this morning, and heard no sounds or signs of the dastardly crime.”

A card-table was put out and the four sat down to bridge. Kerrigan strolled across to the fireplace, and the other man was introduced as Sir George Ilford. Sir George was the only one of the party who seemed disposed to talk. He was about six feet five, and his breadth of shoulder, his bushy black eyebrows, and his heavy black moustache added to the formidable aggressiveness of his whole appearance.

“Insurance, are you?” he said, staring down at Kerrigan. “Come to dispute the claim, I suppose. That’s all you fellows ever do. You don’t look like an insurance tout, either. But all you insurance chaps get prosperous on the mugs who pay the premiums.”

Peter Kerrigan looked up at him coolly.

“You don’t look like a mug,” he observed. The big man was surprised at this answer, and could not think of any better reply than, “You’re right there.”

The conversation got no farther; Lord Claydon looked at his watch and said nervously to Ilford something about a stroll in the rose-garden before tea, and the two men went out of one of the French windows, the host pausing to say, “I hope you’ll make yourself at home, Mr.—er—” before he went out.

“I’m not being what you might call a social success,” thought Kerrigan, as he strolled out of the billiard-room to make a survey of the house. “They don’t seem to cotton on to me as a guest very much.”

Seeing a telephone in the hall, he rang up his hotel in London to ask for a bag to be packed and dispatched to Marsh Manor by passenger train, and then he wandered round the house.

“There are two possible hypotheses,” he said to himself, as he strolled slowly along one of the corridors which seemed to abound in the vast mansion. “Either the Treasure is still here, or it was taken away last night. John Hone may have got wind of its hiding-place or he may not. But if he did, I’ll swear he didn’t take it away with him. Because there would be no point in killing the lad last night if the stuff had already gone.”

“I wish Fleming trusted me,” was his next reflection, and he heaved a deep sigh as he admitted that there was no particular reason for the Inspector to trust him. It was pretty annoying, though, to think that there was a very good chance that an immensely valuable treasure was lying somewhere in the house, and that if any one found it, it would probably be the police officials themselves.

A distant gong seemed to indicate that tea was ready, but Kerrigan decided to continue his stroll; and after an hour of methodical pacing, of counting yards and door-handles, of ascending and descending staircases, and of comparing his results with a plan of the house which he found on the wall of the gun-room, he was able to reach a fairly accurate mental picture of the lie of the land. The ground-floor was enormous, the first floor much smaller, and the jumble of attics on the second floor was about the same size as the first. But almost all the activity of the house was on the ground-floor, which included sixteen out of the thirty bedrooms. The library was separate from the rest of the house and was connected with it by a glass-roofed passage. From the date on the gun-room plan, it was fairly certain that the mad Lord Claydon had built the library, and from the scale of the plan it was obvious that it was an extremely large room. But close study of it was impossible at the moment, owing to the presence in the glass-roofed passage of an exceptionally bulky and taciturn policeman with instructions to let no one pass. Another bulky and taciturn policeman was on duty at the top of the cellar stairs, so there was no opportunity of examining the famous safe which had not contained the Treasure; and Peter, having discovered his allotted bedroom on the first floor, retired to consider the recent form of the horses who were due to race against each other in the Derby on the following Wednesday week. At half-past six a footman of stately demeanour appeared and announced coldly that he had come to lay out his evening clothes, and was palpably shaken on hearing that the gentleman had brought no evening clothes, or indeed any luggage at all. He had a poor opinion at any time of gentlemen visitors who were relegated to the first floor, facing north; and a visitor who addressed him as “old fish” was little better than a social pariah. Alfred indicated his opinion by a superior lift of his eyebrows which Kerrigan did not miss. He immediately counter-attacked.

“Is there a telephone on this floor?” he demanded.

“There are six telephones on this floor,” replied Alfred loftily.

“Then get me the Duke of Westminster at once.”

“The Duke of—” faltered Alfred, his nerve beginning to give way.

“Of Westminster. And please be kind enough to bring me a whisky and soda.”

“Yes, sir. Very good, sir. At once, sir,” replied the footman, almost backing out of the room in mingled deference and alarm. He returned in two minutes with a large whisky and soda, and in five minutes with the information that His Grace was in the south of France. This did not surprise Kerrigan, who had read the news of His Grace’s departure in the Daily Mail that morning, but he remarked petulantly, “Dash the man! He might have told me.” Alfred bowed deeply and retired. At seven o’clock he returned to say that the Inspector of Police wished him to attend in the library, and Kerrigan went down eagerly to the scene of the crime.

The library was shaped like the nave of a Gothic church. It was enormously long and enormously high, with a vaulted roof. The books were crammed into bookcases about twelve feet high—the upper shelves being accessible only from step ladders which were scattered about the room, and there seemed to be thousands of them. High above these shelves there was a narrow gallery, running round all four sides of the library, and reached by a spiral staircase at each end. The floor was crowded with tables on which lay glass cases, and there was one large table covered with papers. At the far end there was a small room which was used as the librarian’s office; it had no door communicating with the outside, and so formed a kind of cul-de-sac.

Kerrigan found Fleming giving instructions to his sergeant, who was scribbling in a notebook. The Inspector beckoned him in.

“This is the place, Kerrigan. And under that sheet is the—er—chief exhibit. I want you to have a look at it, in a moment. In the meantime, what do you think of the house-party?”

“A genial crowd, a genial crowd,” replied Kerrigan. “One of them very nearly spoke a civil word to me, and another one almost recognised my existence when I addressed her.”

“Streatfield and Lady Pamela are engaged to be married.”

“Then I’m sorry for both of them,” said Kerrigan wholeheartedly.

Fleming took him by the lapel of his coat and led him into a corner.

“Look here, my lad,” he said in an undertone, “I can’t make you help me if you don’t want to. But if you’re after this Treasure, your way lies along my way for a considerable extent, and we might do worse than pool our information.”

“All right,” said Kerrigan. “Pool away; you begin.”

“Well, the first thing,” said Fleming, “is that this murder was unpremeditated.”

“And the man was bashed with a poker?”

“Yes. The library poker.”

“That means that who ever did it was pretty quick, and pretty desperate.”

“Yes,” agreed Fleming, “and I’ll show you one of the things that made him quick.”

He opened a cardboard box and displayed an automatic pistol.

“This was in the librarian’s hand,” he said. “A queer thing for a librarian to have, eh?”

“May I look at it?” asked Kerrigan, stretching out his hand. “You’ve got all the finger-prints, and what not, off it?”

Fleming nodded.

“American—1930 make—not fired lately—common as flies in Chicago—no sort of help there,” murmured Kerrigan as he made a rapid and expert survey of the weapon.

“He had two spare clips of cartridges in his coat-pocket and two more in his kit upstairs. And he carried it under his arm.”

“Whew! He must have been one of the lads! That’s Al Capone stuff.”

“Yes, I thought that too,” agreed Fleming. “But apart from the gun there wasn’t anything else at all suspicious in his outfit. Come along and have a look at him.”

The dead librarian had been killed outright with a single smashing blow of the poker on the side of the head. Kerrigan looked at the body, which was clad in dressing-gown, pyjamas, and bedroom slippers, for several minutes before he said:

“The hands might be the hands of a man who never did any manual labour, but spent all his time pottering about with books; they might also be the hands of a man who played the piano, or mended watches, or opened safes.”

“Opened safes?” said Fleming sharply.

Kerrigan spread out his own thin, beautifully-shaped fingers.

“Like mine,” he remarked blandly.

There was a silence for a moment, and then Kerrigan glanced at the inside of the dead man’s bedroom slippers.

“American make,” he murmured.

“Yes. Cincinnati. The man was a Canadian who had lived in the States.”

“If I were you, Fleming, I would go into those references of his. I can’t believe that librarians in this dead-and-alive corner of a law-abiding country carry guns under their arms.”

“I have already wired about them.”

Kerrigan patted the Inspector on the back.

“You are coming on, my boy. I shall recommend you to the Commissioners for promotion.”

“Any more cheek,” replied Fleming with a laugh, “and I shall recommend you to the magistrates for deportation.”

“In the meantime, what’s the next move?”

Fleming lowered his voice again.

“Watch the house-party. It was an inside job.”

Kerrigan whistled. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“One of the house-party?”

“Or one of the servants. Maitland—my sergeant—is going to watch the servants’ hall. You and I will take the rest.”

The gong sounded again from the house, and the policeman on duty at the door of the library put his head in and said, “Dinner is announced, sir.”

“One more word,” said Kerrigan. “Is there any trace of anything having been taken away from here during the night?”

Fleming laughed.

“If there were a million golden sovereigns hidden here, then I can assure you they have not been removed. But if there was a handful of jewels, then nobody can possibly say whether they have been removed or not. In any case, I don’t think they are likely to have left the house.”

[1]	See Murder in Earlscourt, by Neil Gordon.