Читать книгу The Murders at Madlands - Aidan de Brune - Страница 5

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SIR RUPERT HAFFERVALE had asked the local police station to send a constable to Madlands at noon that day!

Bobby glanced down at his watch. It was fifteen minutes past the hour. So far as he could Judge, Sir Rupert had been shot exactly on the hour. Had the expected arrival of the constable been the cause of Sir Rupert's open watch on the table. But that watch was four minutes slow! Had the newspaper magnate known that? It was improbable. The shooting of a man in a closed room while he was surrounded by people of unimpeachable standing; the slow watch, ticking on the table; the constable awaiting admission at the door. They were all parts of a problem—a problem at the solution of which the newspaperman could not yet oven guess.

"Show in the constable." Bobby spoke decidedly. He turned to the peer pacing agitatedly up and down the room. "I must ask you to resume your seat, Lord Carriday."

"And if I refuse to take orders from you?" The cattle king turned suddenly. "Remember, there's a constable at the door and most likely armed. He'll—"

"Call the bluff of this upstart journalist," Adam Ibbotson interjected. "Once I'm out of this room I'll see to him."

"Thanks," Bobby drawled, "'fraid there's quite an eye-opener coming to the Englishman. He'll be sorry he spoke."

"What do you mean?" Carriday strode up the room, to halt before the newspaperman's levelled gun.

"I'll give you a hint, Carriday." There was an ominous calmness in Bobby's voice. "I only had a glance at the wound in Sir Rupert's breast. From the direction the bullet appears to have taken, it must have been fired from somewhere near where you were seated."

"You—"

"Quite finished?" Bobby laughed. He called permission for the servant to enter.

The door swung open and a uniformed constable strode into the room. A couple of paces and he halted, staring at the men in the room, in amazement.

"One moment." The newspaperman spoke as the servant made to return and shut the door.

"You, Thomas. Wait at the hall-door until Inspector Williams arrives and bring him straight here. Understand? The Inspector is to be brought to this room directly he steps from his car. When you have shown him in you are to remain in the room until you have permission to leave."

"Constable, arrest that man!" Lord Carriday turned and pointed dramatically at Bobby. "He shot Sir Rupert Haffervale and has held us up at the point of his gun. Heaven knows what would have happened if you hadn't arrived!"

"Murder?" The constable strode over to the couch and looked down on the still form of the newspaper proprietor. He looked up, sharply, at Bobby standing behind the head of the table, the automatic dangling in his fingers. "Put that gun down!"

"Try again, Sergeant." The journalist laughed slightly. "No, only constable, I believe. You heard what I said to the servant? Stop that. Pull your revolver and I'll plug you."

The man hesitated, his hand fumbling at his hip pocket.

"Get him, constable!" Lord Carriday took a couple of steps towards the newspaperman. "If he fires I'll—"

"Duck under the table." Bobby laughed. "Listen to sense and not the ravings of a lunatic, constable. Sir Rupert sent for me this morning to guard him from some unnamed danger. He, these gentlemen, and this excitable British peer, were in this room with Miss Haffervale, discussing business. The doors and windows were closed and barred, yet someone shot Sir Rupert, I believe as he was about to make an important statement. I've held everyone up, keeping the room in the exact state in which it was at the time of Sir Rupert's murder. I've sent for Inspector Williams. He should be here within the next five minutes. Until he comes I don't intend anything in the room to be touched—not even by you."

"Sounds, reasonable." The constable scratched his head. He turned to Lord Carriday. "What's this you say about this gentleman shooting Sir Rupert Haffervale."

"He's the only one armed in the room." Carriday turned furiously on the constable. "Are you going to do your duty and arrest him?"

"Did you see him fire the shot?"

"No. But he was sitting in a position where he could have done so without my knowledge. He—he has the dashed impertinence to accuse me of the murder."

"Let me introduce Lord Carriday," the newspaperman spoke easily. "Lord Carriday is quite an important person in his own country. I'm going to ask him to resume his seat so that he does not mess up any clues that might be about. Since the shooting he has developed quite a partiality for walking. In fact so energetic has he become that just before your arrived I had to—"

"He threatened do shoot me."

"That's serious, sir." The constable turned to Bobby, a worried look on his face. "We can't have that sort of thing. Y' know."

"Now constable, I suggest you take a chair over by that door—the one you entered by—and watch. Between the two of us we may persuade these gentlemen to be reasonably quiet until Inspector Williams arrives."

The constable moved as if to obey; then turned to face the newspaperman again.

"Who may you be," he asked suddenly. "This gentleman—you say he's Lord Carriday—accuses you of shooting Sir Rupert. Sir Rupert rang up—"

"Telephoned your police station and asked for you to be sent here," Bobby interrupted. "Quite so. He also instructed my Chief of Staff to send me here. My name is Robert Trayne—usually called 'Bobby,' even at Police Headquarters. You needn't worry about Lord Carriday's outburst. No one will support his accusation."

"I will." Adam Ibbotson sprang to his feet. "I believe he's right. You're the only one in the room who could have shot Sir Rupert."

"Believe!" Bobby laughed. "The accusation is ridiculous."

Myrtle spoke slowly. "Mr. Trayne has only acted in the interests of the police. He was not in a position to shoot Sir Rupert. If he had fired the shot I—I was on my feet between him and Sir Rupert. He would have shot me."

"Shot you?" A sudden light came in Bobby's eyes. He turned to the police officer. "Enough of this. Take a chair to the door and sit down, constable. Inspector Williams will he here in a few moments and then he can decide who is to be arrested."

He waited until the police officer had obeyed his orders, then he turned to the girl.

"Miss Haffervale, you have given me an idea. I don't want to worry you, but can you tell me what was happening during the few seconds proceeding the firing of the shot. Sir Rupert was on his feet speaking, I believe, to you."

"Yes," Myrtle spoke slowly. "Today—today is my birthday. I am twenty-one. Sir Rupert chose to make a little ceremony of my becoming my own mistress. From what he said, there are quite a number of interests involved."

"Such as your connection with Mackenzie stores?" Bobby nodded. "I know that your father was a financial genius behind that venture."

"Mr. Matthew Haffervale was wise to invest in my companies." Godfrey Mackenzie's long face was turned up for the moment. "I am happy to-day he was financially successful, through following my advice."

"He was also the moving spirit behind the Tobacco Trust—commonly attributed to Mr. Ibbotson. In fact, I believe that only since Mr. Haffervale's death, and Sir Rupert's accession to power as trustee for Miss Haffervale, has Mr. Ibbotson had any real power in that trust."

"Grossly libellous!" the big man sprang upon his feet, his face red with anger, "Mr. Haffervale—"

"I was asking Miss Haffervale what Sir Rupert was saying at the moment he was shot," interjected Bobby.

"He said—" Ibbotson continued.

"I was asking Miss Haffervale." The newspaperman was courteous but firm.

"Mr. Parson had finished explaining the various ways in which my fortune was invested," Myrtle continued. "When he finished Sir Rupert stood up and congratulated me on becoming head of the family. He said he regretted that he was not able to hand over to me the sole control of my fortune—but that from that hour—"

"That hour?" inquired Bobby.

"I was born at midday almost to the second." Myrtle smiled faintly. "Sir Rupert was timing this meeting so that I assured control of the income of my fortune exactly to the hour of my birth. It was a little idea he had had for some time—that I was to be installed at the very minute of coming of age. He was saying that when—"

"One moment, Miss Haffervale." Again Bobby stopped the girl. "Sir Rupert Haffervale was your trustee, under your late father's will. Was he the sole trustee?"

"Mr. Mark Parsons acted with him, I believe."

The newspaperman glanced at the lawyer who nodded affirmatively.

"And in the event of one of the trustees dying who was to act? Was an alternative trustee appointed under Mr. Matthew Haffervale's will, or did the remaining trustee continue alone, or—"

"My trusteeship should revert to my successor in the legal firm in which I am partner," Mark Parsons explained. "In the event of Sir Rupert's demise Mr. Adam Ibbotson would assume the post."

"Ah!"

"What are you ah-ing about?" Adam Ibbotson sprang to his feet again, glowering angrily at the newspaperman standing behind the chair Sir Rupert Haffervale had lately occupied. "Are you accusing me of Sir Rupert's murder? I was Matthew Haffervale's greatest friend."

"So!" Bobby laughed gently. "There's not the slightest reason why you should not assume the trusteeship, Mr. Ibbotson—so long as Mr. Parsons is the other trustee to curb your tendency to speculative investments."

"I'm not going to stay here to be insulted by any upstart journalist."

Adam Ibbotson levered his big bulk from the chair and moved towards the door. "You've said it, young man. I'm trustee of Miss Haffervale's estate and that means I control the Morning Mirror. I'll have a word to say to you, in those offices."

"Please sit down Mr. Ibbotson," Bobby's voice was almost humble. "We have to wait for Inspector Williams."

"The police can see me at my office."

Ibbotson continued to move towards the door.

The constable on guard rose to his feet.

"Sir Rupert was shot, Mr. Ibbotson." The journalist spoke slowly.

"And you're flourishing a pistol," Ibbotson laughed gratingly. "If this fool constable wasn't a coward, you'd be on your way to the lock-up by this time."

"And you have a gun in your hip pocket, Mr. Ibbotson," Bobby's voice was very suave.

"You—" the big man swung round furiously, "I'll—"

"Inspector Williams."

The door opened silently to admit the police officer, closely followed by a servant. The constable closed the door and set his back up against it, relief showing in every line of his face.

"What's the matter here?" Inspector Williams, quietly and with a red good-humoured face, strode into the room and looked around him.

"Hullo, Bobby. Doin' theatricals with a big gun in your hand. Jove, what's this." He turned to where Sir Rupert's body lay on the couch, a handkerchief covering the still face. "Dead!"

"Listen Jim." The newspaperman smiled his relief. "Sir Rupert was seated in this chair, some half-hour ago. He rose to his feet to make a speech. Almost immediately he was shot by someone in possession of a gun fitted with a silencer.

"On the table before him was his watch—four minutes slow. The big fact you have to consider is this. If Sir Rupert's watch had been correct he would have finished his speech and Miss Haffervale would have been standing in his place—here—preparatory of taking her seat at the head of the table. If Sir Rupert's watch had not been four minutes slow the bullet that pierced his heart would have lodged in her breast."