Читать книгу The Murders at Madlands - Aidan de Brune - Страница 7

Table of Contents

"THE third man?" Inspector Williams stopped short, staring at the newspaperman. "That's a new one, Bobby!"

"There was a third man in the gardens." Again the journalist led on, making for the cliffs at the end of the gardens.

"Any proofs?"

"Get them presently. At present, the two men we have tracked were not dogging each other; they were avoiding a third man."

"In that case, half Bondi may have been around the house." The detective pulled at his moustache. "Anything published about Miss Haffervale's coming of age?"

"Nothing relating to this affair at Madlands." Bobby stopped suddenly and turned to the Inspector. "You've given me an idea. Come on back to the house."

"What, for? What about this third fellow? Going to drop him?"

"He's gone," the newspaperman answered, indifferently. "So have the other two. I wonder what scattered them?"

Again he changed direction making for the steps up to the terrace where he had found the first boot marks. From there he retraced the trail more carefully, stopping and marking boot marks that would serve to identity the owner. At the sundial he paused for some time; then cast about, keeping between the footprints of the two first men. A long search and, under a low bush, he came on what he sought—a scatter of footprints where a man had crouched in hiding. On a patch of earth close by he found the imprint of a left-boot. The detective gathered some branches and twigs, carefully covering the mark.

"Where now, Bobby?" Williams smiled as the newspaperman turned towards the house.

"A talk with Mark Parsons."

Bobby lingered to allow the detective to catch up to him. "Got any ideas, Jim?"

"Not one," the Inspector answered, candidly. "If you weren't here I'd be sitting in that dining-room chewing a stogie and wondering on which of Sydney's crooks I could pin a medal!"

"Crooks?" Bobby stopped and glanced back at his companion with scorn. "I handed you six when you arrived."

"Crooks?"

"Yah! Two lawyers, three monopolists and a dud secretary."

"Held under the empty gun of a sleuth journalist," Williams laughed.

"Should have said seven, then."

The newspaperman reached the steps, and ran up on to the terrace. In the dining-room he paused and looked around him.

"Say Williams, how was Sir Rupert shot?"

"I'm listening." The inspector dropped the end of his cigar in an ashtray and drew another from his pocket.

"Item, a dozen chairs, assorted. One dining table, with a heavy crystal chandelier hung with prisms above it. One sideboard and a small table, set close to one of the two doors. A cabinet gramophone and a fireplace with an imitation Adams mantelpiece. Walls papered. Now where did that shot come from?"

"You're forgetting the mirrors. One over the sideboard, and the other opposite, over the mantelpiece you defame by stating it is imitation."

Bobby strode to the table, looking down on a long chalk mark on the polished surface.

"I got the doctor to draw that," he said, at length. "It marks as nearly as possible the course the bullet took. Now—"

"Put the arrow at the opposite end; get a jury to swear they'll convict on that evidence and there'll be one less journalist in Sydney's newspaper world."

"Looks bad." Bobby grinned. "Points right to where I was seated. All you've got to do is to be able to swear that Sir Rupert didn't twist or turn after he was shot, and—" he shrugged his shoulders carelessly. "Give me one degree of turn and that bullet passed immediately under that chandelier." With a light vault he gained the table top. A motion of his hand and the detective lifted a chair to beside him. Bobby mounted the chair and examined the prisms of the chandelier, using a pencil to deflect the crystals, when necessary.

"Got a stool there?" He looked down at the detective. "I want to get higher."

"I'll have a ladder brought." The detective moved towards the door.

"Scats! I don't want anything touched, just for the moment." The journalist pulled a powerful magnifying glass from his pocket and standing tip-toe carefully scanned the lower lines of crystals.

"Say, Jim! There's a foot-stool under that armchair by the fireplace. Phew! I wonder when they cleaned this last?"

"What are you looking for?" Williams asked curiously as he lifted the footstool to the chair. "Keep your feet still, man. Now the left, that's it. Steady?"

"All right, thanks! What am I looking for? Oh—" The young man's body stiffened. For some seconds he was silent, then slipped the glass into his pocket and looked down at the detective.

"Say, Jim, think this scaffolding will bear your fairy weight?"

"I'll take the risk, if you think it's worth while."

"Then come up here. First, mark this prism I'm touching with my pencil. Got it? Good!"

The journalist leaped lightly to the table and slid to the floor. As the detective, moving heavily, reached the chair, Bobby called to him and handed him the magnifying glass. The Inspector climbed to the stool on the chair and raised his head, close against the crystals of the chandelier.

"Further to the right Two more. There! Next that one that's badly chipped. There! Don't touch it with your hands man! Good!"

Bobby waited, impatiently, while the detective carefully examined the indicated crystal. At length Williams flipped the glass into his pocket, and reached up. Holding the prism with him handkerchief on a folded newspaper, held flat.

"Fingerprint." Williams lumbered down from his perch to the floor. "What the devil's a fingerprint doing there? A newie, too; and the chandelier hasn't been cleaned for donkey's years!"

"Got your powders and paints." The newspaperman was leading to the head of the table. He bent to the polished surface, scanning the table. "Here, Jim. This is where Sir Rupert caught the edge of the table; just before the shot was fired."

"Sir Rupert?" the detective starred.

"Go on, you chump!" Bobby's impatience burst bounds. "Get one of those fingerprints visible. I want to see what Sir Rupert's trade-mark looks like."

Williams shrugged his broad shoulders and produced his sufflator. A few moments and a row of fingerprints stood out along the edge of the table, in yellow powder. Bobby shifted the newspaper on which the prism rested, across the table to before the detective. Without a word Williams used the sufflator on the fingerprints, barely visible. For some full minute he compared the impressions. At length, he looked up, a queer expression on his face.

"Sir Rupert's?" The Inspector nodded. "I thought so. Print about twenty-four hours old, so far as I can guess. Now, tell me why Sir Rupert wanted to climb up to that chandelier within the past twenty-four hours?"

"The pistol?"

"Not on your life!" Bobby stared in mock commiseration at the detective. "And I thought you recognised that this murder had been committed by someone with brains!"

"You've been suggesting that Sir Rupert set a trap to murder his niece!" retorted the inspector.

"Far as I see, I'll suggest a hundred possibilities before we strike the track of the real murderer." Bobby moved to the door. "Got the key, Jim?"

"Where now?"

"Mark Parsons in the library?"

"So far as I know. He said he would not leave until be had seen me again. What's the big idea?"

"Just a small, one—the key of this door?"

"Damn you!" Williams laughed uncertainly. He turned the key and flung open the door. A constable stepped on one side. "Mr. Parsons in the library, Allan?"

"Yes sir. Haven't seen him since he went in."

"Guess he's there." Bobby strode cross the hall and turned the handle of the library door. With a sudden jerk he flung the door open and entered quickly, followed by the inspector. Mark Parsons looked up at the sudden interruption. A frown gathered on his face at sight of the journalist.

"You! What do you want? I'm very, busy!"

"So I see." Bobby gazed around the room with an air of wonderment. The room looked as if a quick search had been made by some agitated person. "Found the will?"

"Sir Rupert's will is in my office," Mark Parson answered shortly.

"So!" The newspaperman crossed to a low-armed chair. "Sir Rupert is a methodical man, Mr. Parsons?"

"Sir Rupert was a business man."

"Same thing I suppose. Tidy and methodical, eh?"

"A very tidy and methodical man."

Fred Frazer, Parson's managing clerk, looked round, some suspicion showing in his eyes.

"Get a fit if he came in here, then." Bobby lit a cigarette and blew a series of rings towards the ceiling. "Often cleans his chandelier?"

"Clean his chandelier?" Mark Parsons swung round from the desk, suddenly. "What do you mean?"

"Rather a fine crystal chandelier in the dining-room," Bobby continued to stare after the smoke-rings. "Suppose Sir Rupert thought it too valuable to entrust to a servant—so cleaned it himself."

"Are you mad?" The lawyer stuttered in anger. "Sir Rupert could afford to pay servants for that work."

"Wanted to see if the servants had done what they were paid for." The newspaperman shifted to a more comfortable position. "Very tall man, Sir Rupert."

"What's the matter, Trayne?" Frazer turned from his work, laughingly. Parsons had bent to examine the documents before him, ignoring the journalist. "What's up your sleeve?"

"Dust. Been examining that chandelier, but had to get a chair and footstool to reach to it. Not so tall as Sir Rupert, unfortunately."

"No?" Frazer laughed again. "Only about four inches taller If you want someone to tell you."

"Strange." Bobby sat upright. "Now tell me. How is it I had to use a table, a chair and a footstool to reach up to the chandelier, when Sir Rupert just reached up and left his fingerprints on one of the prisms."

"A lie!" Parson was on his feet, glowering down at the journalist. "Sir Rupert never did that."

The lawyer, swung round to face the detective. "Inspector Williams, will you please remove this person. I'm busy and want to get back to the city."

"Sir Rupert never made his desk in that litter." Bobby winked openly at the Inspector. "Nice tidy man, Sir Rupert. Say, Mr. Parsons, you'll not find that mortgage there."

"Mortgage? What mortgage." The solicitor had, suddenly become pale. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"The mortgage you have searched this room for." The newspaperman spoke courteously and plainly. "The mortgage held by Sir Rupert securing the very large sums he advanced to the Bralley Estate."

"You know where it is?"

"Yes."

"Where is it."

"Quite safe, Mr. Mark Parsons—but not in this room!" Bobby turned to the Inspector. "Say, Jim, I'll have you to help Mr. Mark Parsons in his arduous task. Of course, the police will not allow any papers to be taken from this house until they have completed their inquiry into the murder of Sir Rupert Haffervale. S' long, for a time."

"Where are you going?" Parsons asked the question, his face still white.

"To have a little chat with Myrtle—Miss Haffervale—if she's well enough to see me." He rose lazily from the chair and strolled to the door.

"I forbid you." Parsons almost choked with anger. "Inspector, throw that man out of this house. I forbid you to go near Miss Haffervale. And you needn't go back to the Mirror offices. You're sacked. Understand. Sacked!"

"Dear me." Bobby turned at the door. "And you've already forgotten the five years contract you prepared for my signature, a short three months ago. Bye, bye, Parsons. See you later. Jim. May have news for you then."