Читать книгу The Little Grey Woman - Aidan de Brune - Страница 7

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FOR some minutes Inspector Knox sat at the desk in the manager's room, furtively searching the faces of the men he had gathered there. Sergeant Houston was seated beside the big desk, holding his aching head in his hands. Opposite the Sergeant sat Denys Fahney, his head bowed on his chest. At times he rocked in his seat as if about to fall; to be restrained by the heavy hand of the constable standing behind him.

In the corner of the room, on a wide couch, lay the wounded man, the two doctors working over his still unconscious form. A knock sounded at the door, answered immediately by the constable on guard. He opened the door and admitted Bill Loames, carrying a glass of spirits. The artist, with a short nod to the detective, crossed to the barrister and forced the glass into his hands.

"Drink this, Denys." He spoke in an undertone. "For God's sake, old man, pull yourself together. You're in a devil of a fix."

Knox watched the little scene sombrely. Suddenly he tapped sharply on the pressed leather surface of the desk with his fingers.

"I may be going a bit outside my duty to what I'm about to do," he commenced, abruptly. "But, I'm not satisfied. There's more behind the things that have happened in this place to-night than shows. For that reason, and if possible, to get at the truth of the matter, I have assembled here the principal actors in the affair—or at least, as many as I can find—I propose to hold a formal enquiry, here and now, instead of taking the usual line of duly and—"

"And?" Loames turned abruptly from the window where he stood, antagonism in his voice.

"That duty is to send Mr. Denys Fahney to the police station on a charge of unlawful wounding. I'm giving Mr. Fahney a chance to tell his story, first. He is a barrister and—"

"Denys is not in a condition where he should be subjected to an examination." The antagonism in the artist's voice became more pronounced. "I object to him answering any questions. Dr. Normand has informed you he is still suffering from the effects of some drug. Mr. Fahney is not going to be cross-examined."

Knox looked up, gleam of anger in his eyes. "Are you suggesting, Mr. Loames that I am proposing to do anything unfair, or unlawful?"

"I object to any form of examination until a doctor is prepared to certify that Denys is in normal health." Loames paused a moment then continued. "I don't suppose you'll take any notice of my objections but if you are going to take notes of any statement you may force from Mr Fahney, I shall ask you to record my objections on those notes. For the moment I am Denys' only friend in the room and I propose to act as his adviser."

Knox nodded, shortly. From the moment the artist had recognised Denys Fahney the detective had known he was determined to stifle any investigation that night. He knew that Loames and Fahney were firm friends, but did not suspect the artist of any secret knowledge regarding the strange incidents marking the opening hours of the Artists' Ball. Yet, at the back of his mind there was a conviction that if he was to get to the truth of the incidents he must act quickly. He must not give the parities time to think—to reconstruct their actions during the past hour to fit the story they would tell. He must have Houston's story of what happened in the balcony, at once. He must get from the barrister the reason for his presence in the balcony with the automatic in his hand before his trained brain resumed sway and showed, his true position. He must leave that room with the threads of the story firmly in his grasp; to resume his chase of the man who had dropped the cocaine-filled fountain-pen on the steps of the Alamanza.

"Well, Houston?" The Inspector turned briskly to the Sergeant. "S'pose your head's a bit sore, but it's not aching enough to prevent you telling me what happened in the balcony?"

"I don't really know." The officer raised his head from his hands and looked at Knox. "You told me to go the balcony and see if the man who dropped the fountain-pen on the steps was there. When I climbed the stairs I found only a dozen or so people, some of them in fancy dress. I wandered around, trying to appear careless and yet get a good look at everyone. Just before I completed the circle of the balcony an attendant came up to me and asked me to leave. I told him who I was and he said the balcony was to be cleared for half-an-hour, to prepare for some stunt business."

"Some stunt?" Knox glanced sharply to where the artist stood. "What do you know of that, Mr. Loames? You're on the Ball Committee. What stunt had the Committee in mind that required the clearing of the balcony?"

"None." The artist answered shortly.

The detective turned again to the police officer. "Recognise that attendant, Houston?"

"I don't think so, Inspector. It was dark up there and I hardly looked at him. Of course I thought the request was genuine. When he told me the reason for clearing out I simply nodded. I walked to the stair head and then I thought I might have a chance to spot my man on the dancing floor, from the edge of the balcony. I walked down to the corner of the lounge and leaned over."

"Where did you leave the attendant?"

"I thought he was waiting for my return at the head of the stairs."

"You didn't hear him follow you down the balcony?"

"No."

"Well? Go on."

"There's little more." The sergeant gently pressed the bruise under the bandage. "I was leaning over the rail when something hit me on the head. I toppled over and found myself falling."

"You fell over the rail—or were you thrown?"

"I don't know. I might have fallen, for the rail is low. Somehow, I've the impression I was caught round the legs and heaved over."

"We'll take it at that." Knox spoke briskly. "Or sandbagged only, doesn't matter for the moment. It might if the fall had resulted in breaking your neck—but you fell soft—and lucky. Now, Mr Fahney. Can you give me some account of your actions during this evening—so far as it has gone?"

"You have noted my objection, Inspector?" Loames spoke coldly.

"I have." A flush of anger stained the detective's face.

"Yet you have not warned Mr Fahney that his statement may be used against him. That is the usual procedure, Inspector."

"Mr Fahney is not under arrest."

"He is under technical arrest." The artist retorted, quickly. "I have not the slightest doubt he will go from this room to the police station."

"Maybe, But this is not a detective novel, or a play, Mr Loames. If you ask him, Mr Fahney will inform you that only in books and plays are persons suspected of crimes formally warned to silence. Judges of Supreme Courts have ruled that a police officer may obtain statements from any person—even persons under suspicion—and that it is not necessary to preface questions with a warning. Satisfied, Mr Loames?"

The artist shrugged his shoulders and, turning to the window, drummed angrily on the pane with his fingers.

"I have not the slightest objection to making a statement, Inspector." Denys spoke in a low, weak voice.

"Good—" Knox turned to the barrister with a friendly air. "I'm not going to press, you, Mr Fahney. I want your tale in your own words. Before you say anything, I'll show my hand. Sergeant Houston and I were standing outside this building when we noticed a man enter. Suspecting him of snow-running, we followed. Somewhere in the vestibules, or dressing-rooms we missed him. We hunted the hall without success.

"I sent Sergeant Houston to search the balcony. He gets assaulted and thrown from the balcony to the lounge below. While I am trying to revive Houston I hear a shot in the balcony. I climb up and find you standing there with a gun in your hand and a wounded man at your feet. You're a barrister. Now you know what you have to face. Will you tell your tale?"

"Yes. I came to the hall early, after dressing at my chambers." Denys spoke slowly and with some effort. "Some business detained me from going home. I telephoned friends that I would join them here. Then—some hitch occurred in the work and I was able to get free at once. I came to the hall and wandered around. As I expected, my friends had not arrived. I waited in the vestibule for some time and then an attendant came to me and asked my name. When I told him, he said my—my friends had telephoned that they would go straight to the balcony, where we had a table reserved. They asked me to meet them there to avoid searching the crowded dancing floor.

"You were in the balcony when the attendant went round, asking everyone to leave?"

"It is difficult to remember clearly." The barrister pressed his palms against his forehead. "Yes, I remember; just after I sat down at my table a man came to me and asked me to leave the balcony; stating the place was to be cleared for some stunt."

"Would you recognise him? Would you recognise the attendant who came to you in the hall? Were they the same man?"

"They were alike in build." Denys was speaking with some difficulty. "I don't think I would remember them again. I hardly noticed them."

"Did you see Sergeant Houston in the balcony?"

For the first time Denys raised his head and looked at the police officer on the opposite side of the desk. A slight smile came on his lips.

"The Sergeant was standing by my table when the attendant spoke to me. He included the Sergeant in the request to leave the balcony."

"Houston!"

For a brief second the eyes of barrister and sergeant met. Houston nodded, slowly.

"I remember, now," he said. "I was taking in your costume—rather an unusual one. Yes, you were sitting close to the rail, at one of the tables. There was a ticket on the table bearing your name. I remember now." He turned to the detective. "Sorry, Inspector, that blow has got me fogged."

"Well, Mr. Fahney?"

"I sat a few minutes longer, finishing the drink I had ordered," Denys continued. "Then—"

"One moment!" The Inspector raised his hand. "Did you see Houston go to the end of the balcony?"

"I was seated with my back to that part of the place. So far as I remember, he passed me going in that direction. But the head of the stairs was partially behind me and I could not have known, without looking round, if he went to the stairs or to the corner of the balcony."

"Which way did the attendant go?"

"He went in the same direction. I cannot say whether he followed the Sergeant or went to the head of the stairs. I should have thought the latter, considering he had to guard the stairs against people coming up."

"So you saw nothing of either man, after they passed your table?" Knox nodded. "What happened then?"

"I finished my drink and rose to go to the stairs. Oh, I remember!" Denys interrupted himself, suddenly. "There was another man in the balcony. He wore a mask and domino and I believe he was seated a few tables from me. I did not notice him until he stood up, as I turned from my table. He caught up to me just before I reached the head of the stairs and asked if I had a match offering his cigarette case at the same time. I refused the cigarette and searched my pockets for my match-box. As I handed, it to him he accidentally knocked it from my hand. We both bent to pick it up, he apologising profusely. As I straightened myself I saw his hand come up immediately under my face. He flicked his fingers, as if breaking something between them. Immediately there was a queer smell—an overpowering odour—that made me feel ill and faint. I believe I partially lost consciousness, but I felt the man grasp me and thrust me towards the stairs. I remember nothing more till I saw you and Dr. Normand standing before me."

Knox sat pondering the statement for some seconds. At length, he pulled a cigarette case from his pocket and took out a cigarette.

"Got a match, Mr. Fahney?" The barrister's hand went, instinctively to his pocket. He held out a small, gold match-box towards the Inspector.

"That belong to you?"

"Yes." Denys examined it, curiously.

"If you handed that box to the man who requested a light, how does it come to be in your pocket now?

"That's cross-examination, Inspector!" Loames turned sharply from the window.

"Hold your tongue!" The red blood flooded Knox's face. "Sorry Mr. Loames, I lost my temper. Perhaps I was going too far."

"I don't mind answering." Denys still spoke with difficulty. "This is my matchbox. I can't imagine how it got in my pocket again. The man picked it up. He must have replaced it in my pocket while I was dazed with the drug."

Knox laughed; a short, incredulous laugh.

"Go on. The man asked for a light. He knocked the match-box out of your hand and picked it up. While you were bending down he drugged you. What next?"

"I heard the sound of a shot. I tried to look back, but the man's hand was heavy on my shoulder and I had not the strength to resist. Then I was suddenly released, and I nearly fell. Someone caught me from behind. I felt something hard thrust into my hand and my fingers closed over it. The next I remember was you and Dr. Normand standing before me."

"Who was the man who was shot? The man who asked you for a light?"

"I believe so. The shot came from behind me—but I am not certain. The drug had thoroughly dazed me."

"You realise what you are telling me, Mr. Fahney? You say there were two men in the balcony. One of them assaulted Sergeant Houston and threw him over the railing. The other came and asked you for a light. While you were obliging him the first man came up behind you and shot him, thrust the automatic in your hand and disappeared. A queer tale; don't you think so?"

"Strange, certainly." Denys rubbed his eyes, dazedly. "But I have told you only the truth."

"Own a gun, Mr. Fahney?"

"I—Yes."

"Automatic?"

"Yes."

"Got a licence?"

"Yes."

"This gun yours?"

The barrister turned to the automatic on the desk. He drew it towards him and closely examined it. He looked up with a slight smile in his eyes.

A sharp knock came at the door. Knox turned impatiently and motioned to the constable on guard to open the door. Paul Tenzer, the manager of the Alamanza Rooms, bustled in, his face shining with anxiety and importance.