Читать книгу The Murders at Madlands - Aidan de Brune - Страница 6

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"AND that's the story." Bobby finished the recital of the happenings at Madlands that morning, with a vague gesture.

Inspector Williams had listened to the newspaperman with rapt attention. He had asked many questions but had not elicited any further material fact.

They were alone in the long dining-room, the scene of the tragedy. Myrtle Haffervale had retired to her rooms. Lord Carriday had accompanied Adam Ibbotson and Godfrey Mackenzie back to the city. Only Mark Parsons and his managing clerk remained in the big house. They were in the library, examining Sir Rupert's papers.

"I'll hand it to you, Bobby." The burly Inspector pulled a cigar from his breast pocket and bit off the end. "I couldn't have handled the situation better myself."

"High praise!" the newspaperman turned to his companion with a smile. Then seeing him strike a match he jumped to his feet. "Here, don't do that, Williams!"

"Do what?" The inspector stared at Bobby, amazingly. "What—oh." He dropped the match burning his fingers.

"Try one of these," Bobby went to the table where he had sat and brought back a box.

"What's the matter with this?" Williams took the cigar from his mouth and eyed it suspiciously.

"Nothing—but I want to stay in this room for quite a while and your Fumeralds-Funeralosa is likely to asphyxiate an unaccustomed journalist. Good man! I can recommend that cigar. Put a couple in your pocket; they may break off a bad habit. Now, let's get to work. What about fingerprints?"

"On what?" The Inspector glanced around the room. "From what you tell me there's fingerprints everywhere—and we don't know who's who among them."

"No." Bobby spoke regretfully. "One day your Department will wake up and insist that every man and woman who has more than five thousand a year shall register fingerprints. With that income the owner is either a potential victim or criminal."

"Sweeping, what?" Williams levered himself from his chair and sauntered to the big table. He stopped before the seat Sir Rupert had occupied and looked down at the open-faced watch for a moment, pulled an old fashioned silver watch from his breast pocket, and compared the times.

"Thought you said this watch was only four minutes slow?"

"Isn't it?"

A couple of strides brought the journalist to the detective's side. A slight whistle escaped his lips. He glanced at his wristwatch.

"Seven minutes slow! Why, that watch loses."

He hesitated, plucking at his lower lip. A few seconds and he lifted Sir Rupert's watch from the table and twisted the stem a moment and handed the watch to the Inspector with a significant gesture. A couple of turns of the stem-winder and Williams replaced the watch on the table.

"So that's it. Another of your pet clues exploded. Sir Rupert forgot to wind his watch last night."

"Last night?" Bobby bit at his nails. "Last night to mid-day today is something over twelve hours. Yesterday morning today would be about twenty eight hours. The night before last to date would be thirty six hours or perhaps a couple more. Depends on what time Sir Rupert goes to bed. Yes, you're about right. He winds his watch at night-time."

"Important?"

"Maybe." The newspaperman lifted the match to his ear. "It's run down, certainly. So that's how he came to be four minutes slow at midday."

"You're theorising that Sir Rupert was planning to murder his niece?"

"Not the first uncle that's had such an idea," Bobby grinned. "For the time we can only take the points as they come to us. You can't get away from Myrtle—Miss Haffervale's evidence. Sir Rupert rose to his feet and commenced a speech at a couple or so minutes to noon—his time. She says he was suggesting she exchanged chairs with him; that as the new head of the house she should sit at the head of the table."

"Umph!"

"Beastly, but what else is there?" The journalist paused. "We've got to accept facts, and the first is that if Miss Haffervale had followed Sir Rupert's suggestion—and I saw her push back her chair to do so—she would have been seated in Sir Rupert's chair at noon—his time—"

"What made you stop her?" The inspector gazed, curiously at his companion.

"Damned if I know!" Bobby scratched his head. "Something told me she shouldn't move. I acted on impulse."

"Sure?"

"What do you mean?"

"Have a good think." The detective dropped into the chair Sir import had occupied. "There's such a thing as a subconscious memory, Bobby."

Bobby shook his head. He had tried to puzzle out what had influenced his actions. He had tried to visualise the faces of the men at the table when Myrtle had pushed back her chair. Had a look of dark triumph passed over the baronet's features as his niece moved to respond to his invitation? Had there been a tension In the broad back of Adam Ibbotson as the hour of noon approached? What had the fixed smile meant on the lips of the old solicitor? He put the thoughts from him with an impatient gesture. They were all men of note in Sydney's business world. Who would care to charge with conspiracy to murder, on such evidence?

"We want facts—not theories, Bobby," The Inspector broke in on the newspaperman's reverie. "Even the evidence of that watch is not a fact. You're connecting that Sir Rupert planned to murder his niece; that he planned she should change chairs with him just before midday, the time when the pistol was to be fired. You suggest that Sir Rupert was killed, instead of Miss Haffervale, because his watch was four minutes slow. No good, old son."

"And the search of the party revealed nothing?"

"Not a thing—but to confirm your accusation that Adam Ibbotson was armed. But the doctor states the bullet could not have been fired from where Ibbotson sat. Again, his gun was fully loaded and had not recently been fired."

"Who fired the shot?" Bobby turned exasperatedly on the detective.

"Ibbotson accuses you."

"Rot." With a swift motion Bobby pulled his gun from his pocket and threw in on the table. "There's the gun. Myrtle Haffervale will tell you she saw Sir Rupert hand it to me in the library."

Williams picked up the automatic and snapped open the magazine. It was empty. He looked up at Bobby, questioningly.

"The cartridges." The newspaperman grinned, emptying the cartridges from his pocket on to the table. "Gee! I'm not falling for that sort of Wild-West stuff. Couldn't tell Sir Rupert where to take his gun, so emptied the cartridges out and—"

"Held up half a dozen men with an empty gun." The Inspector grinned, "Lord, boy, you took a risk with that man Ibbotson heeled and in a beast of a temper."

"Damn Ibbotson." Bobby strode over to the window and looked out over the Barrabarra Bay. "Say, Jim. Do you mind these windows being open? It's stuffy in here."

"Go as far as you like." The detective was staring up at the large crystal chandelier hanging the middle of the ceiling. "There's no clues about, so you can't haze them."

The newspaperman pushed open the window and stepped out on the stone terrace. Below him were the gardens of the house, running down to the edge of the cliffs, some quarter of a mile away. A few yards to his left were stone steps leading to the gardens. He walked towards them—to stop hurriedly just before the top step.

"Jim?"

"Well?"

"Come here."

He waited, until the detective stood at his side.

"What's that?"

On the smooth stone was outlined the sole of a boot. The toe was pointing towards the windows of the dining-room. It was not a good impression, merely the outline of the boot—the wearer having recently trampled over wet mould.

"Big man, that." The detective was on his knees. "Size of boot about 10's."

"'Bout that. He came up the steps."

Bobby pointed to a row of wet marks on the seven stone steps. "Trod lightly—the toe of the mark is better-defined than the heel. Where did he go?"

He traced back along the terrace. Nearly opposite the first of the dining-room windows he stopped and pointed to the balustrade. "Got over here."

"Can't see it."

Bobby picked from the stones a cigarette butt. Walking wide from where the unknown man had paced, he went down the steps into the gardens and along a path to a spot opposite the dining room windows. There on the gravel were, the plain marks of the boots.

"Good work!" Williams approved. "Where did he go then?"

"Across the grass, I guess." Bobby pointed down the gardens. "The way he came. See, the gardeners have been watering the lawns this morning. That's where the mould on his boots came from."

"Can you track him, Bobby?" The detective grinned at the dubious look on the reporter's face. "But he doesn't matter. He couldn't have fired the shot. If he had, Sir Rupert would have been shot in the back, not the breast."

"But what was he doing here?"

A sudden light had come into the newspaperman's eyes.

"Sir Rupert told me this morning that he had given orders that no one was to be in the grounds until after mid-day."

"What was his game?" Williams scratched his chin. "He seems to have taken a lot of precautions—with no object. Say, Bobby, where are you going?"

"For a walk," the newspaperman grinned. "Comin'?"

The detective did not reply. He kept pace with Bobby as he strode across the grass. Twice Williams spoke, to be answered with grunts. They came to a path, leading between flower-beds. Bobby led on without hesitation, his eyes continually searching the path, the beds and the surrounding air. Suddenly he jumped to one side and from under a standard rose-tree picked up a scrap of paper.

"More clues, Bobby?"

"Huh!" The journalist carefully smoothed out the screw of paper, his eyes widening! On the centre of the paper were words: "Madlands, Barrabarra Bay, nine to one."

"Good odds!" Williams grinned. "Say these cigars Sir Rupert smoked are 'it.' Have one, Bobby?"

But the journalist had not waited. Placing the paper in his pocket he was walking swiftly down the path to where a sundial stood, the centre of a small circle of gravel. Again he stopped. Close to the pillar of the sundial was the mark of a boot.

"Chappie came up here." Williams grunted. "Jove, no! This was made, with a size seven boot."

"And not an hour old." Bobby was on his knees by the mark. "See, there's the dust on the edges still. And with this wind blowing that should have disappeared under an hour."

"Two men in the gardens—where Sir Rupert had prohibited his gardeners this morning." The Inspector looked worried! "One goes to the house, up the steps to the terrace. The other—"

"Either followed, or preceded him." The newspaperman spoke from some distance ahead. "Look here, Jim. See. He took a round-about track to the house. That means he knew the other man was about and wished to avoid him."

"Which of 'em dropped that piece of paper you are treasuring so greatly, Bobby?" the detective asked.

"Neither of them!" Bobby spoke confidently. "It was dropped by a third man, who was watching the other two—and the house."