Читать книгу The Shakespeare Murders - A. G. Macdonell - Страница 6

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The short and tubby Mr. Rubin proved to be the life and soul of the dinner-party. He chattered away gaily in his high-pitched American voice, and did not seem to mind in the least that the only people at the table who paid the slightest attention to him were Kerrigan and a guest whom the latter was only meeting for the first time. This was an elderly gentleman called Tollemache, a small, bent, scholarly-looking individual with gold-rimmed spectacles and grey hair, and a courteous, old-world manner in which he apologised frequently for allowing his attention to stray from the topics under discussion. It transpired in the course of some skilfully veiled questioning by Kerrigan, that Mr. Tollemache was an expert valuer of works of art, who was apparently doing for the art-treasures of Marsh Manor what the unfortunate librarian had been doing for the library.

The indefatigably gay Mr. Rubin, disregarding most courageously the damping atmosphere of the dinner-table, persisted in chaffing Mr. Tollemache on the chances that he might provide the next victim for the murderer.

“Art-valuers for art’s sake,” he kept on repeating waggishly, till poor little Mr. Tollemache positively squirmed in his chair, and the magnificent Miss Shackleford finally came to his rescue.

“I think we ought to change the subject,” she announced coldly, but decisively.

“I cordially agree,” exclaimed Kerrigan, and his quick eye noticed that the girl looked as if his support made her sorry that she had spoken.

“Very well,” said Mr. Rubin. “Let’s talk about Insurance. I understand that this gentleman represents an Insurance Company. Will you quote me a risk for a wet day for the Derby?”

“Three and a tenth,” replied Peter glibly; he had not the faintest idea of the technical jargon of the profession he was representing.

Sir George Ilford looked sharply down the table from under his heavy black eyebrows.

“Three and a tenth what?” he inquired in a waspish tone that did not sound at all friendly.

“Oh, just three and a tenth,” replied Kerrigan airily. “That’s the market figure.”

Captain Streatfield took a hand in the talk.

“How do you fellows work out a figure like that? It’s all Greek to me.”

“We employ a staff of highly-trained meteorologists who calculate the secondary arterial depressions,” answered the insurance agent, “and their results are passed on to the staff of chemico-mathematicians who reduce the whole thing to a common denominator and recommend a figure which goes before the next board-meeting. “And if that doesn’t choke ’em off,” thought Kerrigan, “I’ll eat my hat.”

Streatfield’s face had gone completely blank as he nodded vaguely several times, but little Mr. Tollemache became quite excited.

“But what—what is a secondary, arterial depression?” he cried. “I’ve been an amateur meteorologist for years, and I’ve never heard of such a thing. Will you explain it to me?”

“Damn it!” thought Kerrigan, “that’s hard luck!” Aloud he replied:

“Explain it, my dear sir? I’ll do better than that. I’ll send you a book about it, and, if I may, a little pamphlet of my own on the subject. Don’t let me forget to do that. Give me your card after dinner. And what is your fancy for the Derby, Mr. Rubin?” he went on hastily to avoid the possible importunities of the amateur meteorologist. In this he was successful, for the discussion of various likely winners of the Derby almost made the conversation general. Kerrigan, during the exchange of certainties and tips and likely winners, glanced swiftly round the table. There was no doubt that an atmosphere of tension existed in Marsh Manor; an atmosphere not entirely to be accounted for by the tragic occurrence of the night before. The librarian had only been among them for a few weeks, and Sir George Ilford and Lord Claydon and the tough but pleasant-looking captain did not seem to be the sort of men who would be unduly cast down by the death, even the violent death, of a comparative stranger. Lord Claydon himself was nervous and silent. Dark lines under his eyes, a tremulous wrist when he lifted his wine-glass, a hunted expression, combined to give him an air of worry and depression. Kerrigan caught him several times staring at Sir George Ilford with a curious, unfathomable look in his eyes, and each time he started perceptibly on realising that Kerrigan was watching him.

After dinner the two girls and Streatfield and Rubin returned to their bridge-table; Mr. Tollemache dived into an Art Quarterly, Lord Claydon disappeared, and the dark and immense baronet challenged Kerrigan to a game of picquet. On the delivery of the challenge, Streatfield looked up sharply from the card-table and started to say something, but was checked by Miss Shackleford’s quick interruption of “Your deal, David.”

Kerrigan soon discovered that Ilford was a fairly good picquet-player, and by dint of carefully masking his own expertness, succeeded in losing fourteen pounds in an hour without arousing any suspicion. The result was exactly as he had hoped. The baronet grew exceedingly cheerful; several whiskies and sodas were sent for and consumed; and at the end of another hour’s play, Sir George, twenty-three pounds up, was positively mellow. By this time they were alone in the drawing-room—Mr. Tollemache having retired to bed and the other four to play snooker—and Ilford became almost confidential.

“Who did the murder, Mr. What’s-your-name?” he asked. And without waiting for an answer he went straight on, “What do you make of Rubin, eh?”

“A very nice gentleman, I think,” said Kerrigan, assuming a simple expression, as of one who was anxious to please everybody.

“Oh, you do, do you?” replied Ilford truculently. “Well, you’re easy to please. And what’s he doing here, eh?”

“He’s a guest of his lordship’s, I suppose.”

“A queer sort of guest,” said the other with a frown. “Came here a week ago with a letter of introduction from Claydon’s son in New York, was asked to stay to dinner, and has been here ever since and shows no signs of going. What do you make of that, Mr. Insurance Tout?”

“It means that his lordship is a very hospitable man, surely.”

“It means also that Mr. Rubin wants investigating, as I told that inspector this morning. I’ll tell you what happened, of course. Young Marsh, Claydon’s son, is out in New York running after some damned chorus girl or other, as he always is, and he must have met Rubin and told him all about the Treasure. Sort of thing Marsh would do when he’d got a couple of drinks inside him. And Rubin has come over to try and get it for himself. The question is whether he got it or not—last night.”

Kerrigan did his best to give a start of horror, but felt that it was unconvincing. Ilford, however, did not seem to notice anything, for he went on:

“That shakes you a bit, doesn’t it? What do you think, eh? Does Mr. Rubin look the sort of man that murders an unfortunate young librarian in cold blood?”

“Oh, I—I—don’t know anything about that sort of thing,” replied Kerrigan, achieving a very passable stutter of alarm.

The baronet sneered.

“The place is full of queer guests,” he said. “But then, it’s a queer world nowadays. I never thought I’d see the day when I’d be glad to sit down to picquet with an insurance tout. Never mind. Your money is as good as any one else’s. At least I hope your cheque is. Have another drink. I’m going to bed. We must have another game to-morrow night,” and he stalked out without another glance at his defeated opponent.

Kerrigan waited a minute or two and then drifted into the billiard-room, where Streatfield and the two girls were standing, cues in hand, in a group. Rubin was not in the room. There was an awkward drop in the conversation as he came in and then Streatfield said abruptly, “No, damn it, I’m going to,” and came forward.

“Look here, Mr.—”

“Kerrigan.”

“Mr. Kerrigan. Did you lose a lot to Ilford?”

“More than I could afford,” replied the young man, wondering if he dared to venture on a sickly smile, and discarding it at the last moment in favour of a downcast expression. “About twenty-three pounds.”

“It’s a damned shame!” cried Rosemary Shackleford.

“He’s a very good player,” murmured Kerrigan deprecatingly.

“He’s more than a good player,” replied Streatfield meaningly. “He’s a very lucky player. His luck is so famous that there are certain clubs in London where he finds it difficult to get opponents.”

“I certainly thought he was a little fortunate once or twice this evening.”

“Take my advice,” replied Streatfield, “and don’t play with him again.”

“But I want to try and win my money back!” Kerrigan protested eagerly.

“When you’ve seen a twentieth part of the world that I have,” said Streatfield, “you’ll realise that you very seldom get your money back from men like him. Anyway”—he shrugged his shoulders—“don’t say you haven’t been warned.”

“Thank you very much. Thank you very much indeed. But I assure you that I can look after myself. I’m not such a greenhorn as all that, you know. And now what about a game of bridge?”

But the other three declined, on account of the lateness of the hour, and retired. Kerrigan picked up a cue and began to practice some intricate fancy strokes at the top of the table, when the door opened and Mr. Rubin came in. He stopped in the doorway for a moment, during which Kerrigan had the presence of mind to miscue atrociously, and then came forward.

“I’m glad to find you alone,” said the American. “I’ve been wanting a word with you. Have a cigar?”

“No, thanks. I never smoke cigars,” replied Kerrigan untruthfully. The other man lit up and then said:

“Do you want to earn a little money, lad?”

“Absolutely.” The reply was emphatic and sincere.

“Well, now’s your chance. I don’t know if you’re a wealthy man or whether fifty pounds would be of any use to you. But if you want to pick up fifty, you can do it.”

“Fifty pounds! I’m your man. It’s nothing illegal, is it?” he added virtuously.

Mr. Rubin laughed.

“Illegal! Good heavens, no. I want to send a letter to my wife about a business deal I’m engaged on, and the cops have established what you might call a censorship bureau here, and they’re reading all the letters that come in or go out. Now, I don’t want my affairs known to every Tom, Dick, and Harry in the Force. So will you slip out to-night and post a letter for me in Bicester?”

“Why not do it yourself?”

Mr. Rubin looked at him pityingly.

“I was in the house when the librarian was bumped off,” he said, “and so I’m a suspect. You weren’t, so you aren’t, if you follow me. We’re under parole not to leave the house. I can’t break my parole. Besides,” he added naïvely, “it would look so damned suspicious if I was caught. But it wouldn’t matter to you. You’ve given no parole and you’re a free citizen. How about it?”

“I’ll do it,” said Kerrigan; “I’m a married man with seven children, and I couldn’t look them in the face again if I refused a chance of picking up fifty pounds.”

“Good lad, good lad!” exclaimed Mr. Rubin. “I thought you’d probably help me. Here’s the letter, and here’s ten pounds to go on with. I wouldn’t have bothered you, only it is very important. Vast sums of money are involved.” He thrust an envelope and a crinkly note into Kerrigan’s hand, and got up and hurried from the room.

“Well, now,” murmured Kerrigan, lying back in his chair and gazing at the ceiling, “what on earth is the meaning of that? Am I behaving like such a complete mutt that people think I won’t see anything fishy in being given fifty quid to post a letter at midnight? Or is Mr. Rubin such a complete mutt as not to see anything fishy? Or is Mr. Rubin a sufficiently clever man to see that I’m not such a fool as I look, and that I’ll spot at once the fishiness of the transaction? Yes, that might be it. That might very well be it.”

The letter was addressed to Mrs. H. Rubin, 38 Edward Road, Battersea, and marked, “To be called for.”

Kerrigan rang the bell and asked for a kettle of boiling water. With the aid of the electric heater he managed to maintain a sufficient head of steam to soften the gum of the envelope. Very gingerly he opened and read the letter. It ran:

“Dear Mary,—You will find the stuff at 150 Ladbroke Crescent. But it is quite unimportant. Business is going fine, and I hope to complete soon. Please send me any news you get from New York.—Yours ever,