Читать книгу The Little Grey Woman - Aidan de Brune - Страница 8

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"WELL?" The detective Snapped the question as Tenzer almost ran into the room.

"Et es well." The Alamanza manager, short, rotund and red-faced, gesticulated wildly. "I have to them explained. Et as a board that c-r-racked and made the sound of a gun. They t-r-ust me, Paul Tenzer—the dancers at the Alamanza Rooms. They take the wor-r-d of Paul Tenzer that et es so. They dance and enjoy themselves. Et es good. I, Paul Tenzer, make et so!"

"Good!" For a full minute Knox studied the man. "Now, Mr. Tenzer You've had a chance of reviewing the dancers. I want to get on the track of a couple of people I saw entering the hall. A man and a woman. Listen!"

In terse, graphic sentences the Inspector described the man and woman he, and Houston, had seen entering the doors of the Alamanza Rooms. From time to time he referred to the Sergeant for some detail or elaboration of his description. The resultant word picture was complete, but to the Inspector's disappointment the manager only shook his head.

"Ther-re ar-re people et would fet." With picturesque motions Tenzer indicated several people. "But they ar-re not en the dress of evening. They are en the costume of fun."

"Any of your attendants answer to the description of the man?" Knox asked, impatiently.

"But—no."

"Did you give orders to any attendant this evening to clear the balcony?"

"But—no, no!"

"Have-" The detective hesitated, then changed his tone. "Mr. Tenzer, I shall by obliged if you will take Sergeant Houston with you and give him an opportunity to examine your staff and any of your guests he may think fit. I think you recognise the position. Murder has been attempted in this hall and we must find the culprit or culprits."

"With pleasure." Tenzer bowed stiffly from his hips and ran hold to hold the door for Houston.

As the constable on duty closed the door, Knox turned to Denys. "Well, Mr. Fahney. That your gun?"

"No." The smile still lingered on the barrister's lips. "I don't think you have examined this weapon very carefully, Inspector."

"What's wrong with it?" With an impatient gesture the detective snatched the automatic and examined it. A slight whistle escaped his lips.

"Whew! This belongs to the Department!"

"What?" Loames turned swiftly from the window. "A police gun?"

"Just so." Knox's finger rested under the private mark of the department. He turned again to the barrister. "And where is your automatic, Mr. Fahney?"

"At home."

"You didn't bring it with you, tonight?"

"No. I might have if I had gone home to dress, before coming to the Ball—but I changed at my office."

"Might have?" Knox lifted his eyebrows in interrogation. "Is there any reason why you should bring a gun to the Artists' Ball?"

"That is a question I must decline to answer."

"You decline to give a reason for an intention to bring a gun to a dance?" The Inspector's eyes hardened. "That is rather a serious statement, Mr. Fahney."

"I must say I cannot see the seriousness," Loames interjected, abruptly. "Mr. Fahney did not bring a gun. Any reason he might have had for such an intention disappears when he did not."

The Inspector did not reply. He had lifted the automatic from the desk and was examining it carefully under a magnifying glass. Almost immediately he noticed that the barrel had been partially cleaned. He snapped open the magazine, to find the gun fully charged, except for one cartridge. The safety lock was on.

Who had started to clean the barrel of the automatic? Knox considered that the interval between the sound of the shot in the lounge and his arrival in the balcony was far too short for such an action to have taken place. Again, the demeanour of the barrister when he caught up to him in the balcony did not permit of the belief that he had fired the shot and then deliberately set to work to clean the gun. Dr. Normand, who had examined the barrister within a few minuses of the shot being fired had declared the man had been severely drugged. Had the barrister had the time to fire the shot, clean the barrel of the gun and drug himself? If he proposed to lay a change against Denys Fahney then Knox knew that he must be assured on that point.

He was dissatisfied with the direction of the inquiry he had started. Something made him think the young man was deliberately mocking him. The red blood flared angrily to his face. With a quick motion he rose to his feet and strode over to where the wounded man lay.

"How's your patient, doctor?"

"On the way to recovery, Inspector." Dr. Pate looked up, inquisitively, at the angry tones. "I should not like him to be questioned at present."

"There are a couple of questions I must ask—and at once." The detective spoke insistently. "Isn't it possible for you to arouse him for five minutes? I must have those questions answered."

Dr. Pate shrugged his shoulders. He bent over the man, keenly searching the still face. Knox watched him eagerly. If the man would only recover consciousness for a few minutes! Surely he must have seen the face of his assailant? If he could only answer a simple "yes" or "no!"

He turned from the couch and paced up and down the room. In the balcony the case had appeared quite simple. He had arrived to find Denys Fahney standing over the wounded man, a discharged automatic in his hand. There had been no doubt. Yet, with his first question the affair had assumed a complexity he could not fathom. First had come the Little Grey Woman, with her statement that he had not arrested the right man. But, there had been no other man, other than the wounded man, in the balcony. He had had no choice!

The stories told by Houston, Dr. Normand and Denys Fahney had further complicated the case. They had spoken of an attendant who requested them to leave the balcony: They had not been able to describe the man other than in general terms and the manager of the Alamanza had emphatically denied that he had given such orders. It was possible that Denys Fahney had overheard the attendant request Dr. Normand to leave and had included himself in that request.

But against that Knox had the direct statement of Sergeant Houston. He had been standing by the table where Fahney sat when the attendant spoke to the barrister. That precluded the possibility of any trickery. Lastly, there was the strange cleaning of the automatic. That appeared unexplainable. If Fahney had attempted to clean the weapon why had he done so while he was standing over the body of his victim?

Why had he not left that until he had secured his escape? Why had the barrister stated he had intended to bring a gun to the dance? Why had he refused to give an explanation of that strange statement? With a jerky motion of his shoulders Knox turned in his stride and went back to the couch. As he approached, the man opened his eyes and looked up, vacantly.

"Better?" Knox impatiently pushed away the doctor's warning hand.

The man nodded. He looked from the detective to the doctor, then back to the detective. "You know you were shot?" Again the man nodded.

"Do you know who shot you?"

The man's head rolled negatively.

"Can you describe him?"

For minutes there was silence. Twice the man attempted to speak, without success. At last:

"Strange—costume!"

"Strange costume!" Knox quickly straightened. "Mr. Fahney, will you come over here, please."

A slight smile on his lips, Denys rose to his feet and walked to the side of the couch. For a moment his eyes met those of the wounded man.

"Do you know this man?" asked Knox. A slight motion of the man's hand answered in the affirmative.

"Did he shoot you?" Again the man's hand made the gesture.

"I object." Loames spoke sharply.

"That man should not be questioned until he can answer fully."

"He—sho-shot—me."

The man lay back, as if exhausted, closing his eyes.

"Look at me." Loames bent over the wounded man imperatively. Dr. Pate pushed him back. "That is sufficient," he said firmly, "I am not going to have my patient questioned further. The wound is serious—any excitement may bring on complications. Will you have the ambulance summoned at once, Inspector, please."

The detective turned and strode to the desk. A little smile of triumph played around his mouth as he drew the telephone towards him. He looked up at the constable who had stood behind Denys' chair and let his eyes wander to Denys.

The man responded immediately. He went to the couch and brought the barrister back to the chair beside the desk. A knock sounded at the door. The detective continued speaking into the instrument. When he replaced the receiver he turned and nodded to the constable on duty at the door. The man turned the key. Immediately a tall man of military bearing walked into the room.

The Inspector sprang to his feet. "At last!"

The words were cut short by his tight-closed lips. A slight motion of the detective's hand and the door was closed and locked. For some time the Inspector stared at the newcomer, in silence. Here was the man who had dropped the cocaine-filled fountain-pen on the steps of the Alamanza—the man he had sought through the first part of the evening. The man with whose advent in the building the strange series of mysteries had commenced.

"Well?" Knox sank back in his chair, assuming an air of indifference. "Who are you and what do you want?"

"I hear a man has been wounded this evening."

"What of it?"

"From the description of the man I believe him to be a friend." The man spoke in the strange, slow tones that had intrigued the Inspector earlier in the evening.

"Who told you a man had been wounded?"

"One of the attendants."

"You can recognise that attendant again? You can point him out to me?"

"Yes." The man glanced around the room and saw the little group by the couch. He strode over to it. A glance and he turned to the detective. "I thought I was not mistaken. This is my friend."

"Let's get this straight." Knox swung around in his chair. "You say you can identify the attendant. Where is he?"

"Outside the door. I brought him with me. The constable would not let him in."

The Inspector nodded towards the constable, who opened the door and beckoned a man standing without, to enter. Knox glanced sharply at the man.

"Engaged here?"

"Yes, sir."

"Mr. Tenzer can identify you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, we'll see. Sit down over there." Again the detective turned to the tall man. "You say this is your friend. What is his name?"

"Carl Gerlach."

"Known him long?"

"Many years."

"A man of good repute?"

"He is in business with me—one of my employees. A most trustworthy man."

"And your name?"

"My name is James Burle. I am an importer of fancy goods with offices in York Street."

"Fancy goods!" Knox mused a moment. "Import fountain pens?"

"Yes." The man smiled quietly. He opened his coat and took from his breast-pocket a common-looking, fountain-pen. "Here is a sample, Inspector. Not much to look at, but a real good one to write with. May I offer it to you?"

Knox took the pen and examined it. So far as he could I tell it was brother to the one Houston had picked up off the steps of the Alamanza. He glanced up quickly at the man.

"Carry them around loose on you, Mr. Burle? Didn't have two when I you came here this evening?"

For a moment Burle looked at the Inspector, puzzled; then he laughed.

"Didn't recognise you for a minute, Inspector. You were with the man who picked up the pen on the outer steps and said it was mine. No, I had only one pen on me this evening. Why do you ask?"

"Only because Sergeant Houston was so certain you dropped the pen."

The Inspector laughed, carelessly.

"Do you know your friend—Mr. Carl Gerlach, isn't it—accuses Mr. Denys Fahney of shooting him? Know; Mr. Fahney?"

"No." Burle looked at the seated barrister, a faint smile in his eyes. "But this is serious. Are you certain, Inspector?"

"As certain as Dr. Pate will allow me to be. He will not allow me to question Mr. Gerlach fully, yet."

Burle strode over to the couch and looked down at the wounded man. Suddenly he spoke, a strange imperiousness in his tones.

"Carl! Are you certain, quite certain? You have accused Mr. Fahney of attempting to murder you. That's serious—tell me, are you certain you have named the right man?"

Gerlach opened his eyes and looked up steadily at his friend. For a moment there was tense silence; then the Wounded man spoke, slowly.

"I am—certain. He—fired the—shot."

Dr. Pate, seated by the side of the couch, looked from one man to the other. A slight frown gathered between his brows. Something in the tones of question and answer puzzled him. Knox straightened his shoulders with an effort. He rose to his feet, beckoning to the constable standing behind Denys's chair.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Fahney." The detective spoke officially. "Mr. Gerlach's statement is too assured for doubt. I charge you with the attempted murder of Carl Gerlach, in this building, to night. Constable Vincent, you will take Mr. Fahney to the Central Police Station. I will follow, later."