Читать книгу The League of Five - Aidan de Brune - Страница 6

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"THAT'S all you know?" Inspector Paull sat beside Anton Sinclair's desk, looking up at the man before him.

"You're Arthur Sanderson. You're Anton Sinclair's man. You've been with him nine months. You left last night soon after seven o'clock. Say, where did Mr. Sinclair dine?"

"I brought up dinner from the restaurant, sir." Sanderson, a round-shouldered, slender man with a weak chin, answered respectfully. It was impossible to conceive Sanderson other than respectful—the ideal manservant. To the Inspector his subservience was wearying.

"You brought up dinner from the restaurant! He had it in here, I suppose."

"There is a dining-room to the suite, sir."

"'Course. After you left the chambers where did you go?"

"Home, sir. I have a wife and child."

"Where do you live?"

"Alfred-street, Redfern, sir."

"English, ain't you? Thought so. Not so much of the 'sir,' 'tisn't Australian."

"Yes, si—I mean, yes."

"Say 'Yes, Inspector. That's right. When did you come back to the flat?"

"This morning, si—Inspector."

"So! Nothing disturbed? No corpse? No robbery? What the hell do you mean by ringing up the police? What's the good of a burglary when there's nothing burgled? What's the good of a murder if you can't produce the corpse?"

"'Tisn't like Mr. Sinclair. Inspector sir. He don't do such things. He goes out at night, like other gents. Sees a bit of life; has a few friends in here playing cards. But I've never found him missing before when I've come in the mornings."

The man turned from the police officer and wandered disconsolately around the room. Inspector Paull watched him. What was he to do?

He had been in the superintendent's office when the call came that Anton Sinclair had disappeared. Superintendent Manners had asked him to look into the matter. He had come to Tower Square in eager anticipation. Things had been slack at Police Headquarters of late. A murder; a sensational disappearance; a first-class burglary would be to the good. The newspapers would give it a big space, particularly in view of the standing of Tower Square. The name of Inspector Paull would face the citizens when they opened their newspapers. That led to promotion.

And, at Tower Square he had been faced with negatives. Anton Sinclair had not been murdered; he had not been abducted, not robbed. Paull mopped his face. There was not a single point to start from, yet something had happened. Why should this man-servant be so concerned over his masters absence?

He had read of old family retainers who grieved bitterly over their lost masters. But this man had only been in Sinclair's employ a few months. Fishy, he decided, with another sharp glance at the restless man. He moved uneasily.

Paull was a very stout man, and overwhelmed the small chair on which he sat. It was a hot day and the room was close. He rose to his feet, revealing a height of five feet six inches, though owing to his girth he appeared considerably less. He looked at himself in the glass on the opposite side of the room.

"Getting fat, Walter, me boy," he murmured. "Short and fat! Lor', to look at you one wonders how you manage to keep in the department; and you're shrinking down the fatter you grow! Must get yourself weighed. Let's see; eighteen stone-three, the last time! Guess you're up to nineteen now."

Again he mopped his face, glancing around the room with bright, beady eyes. Suddenly he turned on the restless servant.

"Here, you; Get out! You've brought me here on a wild-goose chase. Still, Anton Sinclair's worth looking into. I've had more than a suspicion on him for some time. Get out! Get on with your work! Anything to do? Well, go and do it, or something! Keep yourself moving. Get as fat as me if you don't work."

The inspector waited until the man closed the door, then rose to his feet. For a full minute he stood with his back to the windows, surveying the room. There was nothing strange about it. Everything looked to be in order. The blotting-pad on the big desk was mathematically square to the edge. The pens were evenly laid on their racks.

Paull went to the desk and rubbed his finger on the surface. There was no dust. Yet Sanderson had told him that he had not cleaned the room that day! There was something strange in that room! Paull had a hunch that the servant had not been needlessly alarmed. He sniffed the air audibly. Another glance around and he went to the bedroom. "Say, Sanderson!" The Inspector opened the door. "Don't touch this bedroom for a time. When did you clean it last?"

"Yesterday morning, sir—Inspector."

"And the study?"

"Before I called Mr. Sinclair in the morning, Inspector—sir."

"Mr. Sinclair worked at the desk during the day?"

"Yes, si—Inspector.

"Late?"

"Almost all day, sir. I mean Inspec—"

"Oh, go to blazes!" The detective slammed the door and strode back to the study. He seated himself in the padded chair and examined the articles on the desk. The bronze Buddha stared solemnly at him from across the blotting-pad. Almost he imagined tile idol was trying to convey a message to him.

He turned to the drawers under the desk-top, commencing on the left-hand side. Some of the drawers came out easily; others were locked. He left them for the time and turned to those on the right-hand side.

As his fingers caught the knob of the top draw he drew back and bent to examine it. He switched on the desk lamp and held the light to the drawer. A whistle of satisfaction came from his lips. The drawer had been forced with a jemmy. He could see the marks clearly. Part of the woodwork had been smashed and patched together.

Unless it was examined under a strong light the damage would pass unnoticed. Sanderson had, not been mistaken. Something had happened. Holding the knob with his handkerchief he drew out the drawer. It was steel-lined and empty. The drawer had been forced open and robbed.

What had Sinclair kept in it? Money? How much had the drawer held before the robber came? Where did Sinclair keep the hulk of his cash? Paull scanned the room, asking himself the questions.

Anton Sinclair had aroused the suspicions of Police Headquarters for some considerable time, although nothing definite was known to his discredit. But rumour had been insistent and high officials had asked questions; questions based on suspicions of blackmail—and worse.

The eyes of the Inspector rested on the polished boards, close to the bookcases. He went to a certain spot, examining the floor by the aid of a powerful magnifying glass. A full minute and he struggled to his feet with a grunt of satisfaction. In two minutes more he solved the secret of the spring arid rolled the book-cases back.

The doors of the three small safes came forward at a slight pull. He flashed a light into the interiors. All three safes were empty. With a grunt of perplexity he restored the book-cases to their normal position and went back to the desk.

In one of the locked drawers he found a memorandum book. A glance at the contents and he laid it on the blotting-pad, continuing the search of the drawers. There was nothing more of interest. He turned to the memorandum book. It contained a series of names, one oh each page. Against the names were addresses. Under the names were written varying amounts of money. The remainder of the pages were filled with cipher-writing.

Paull wondered greatly. Anton Sinclair's chambers had been visited by some "hook" the previous night. Where had Anton Sinclair been during that time? The detective knew that here was his real problem. Had the financier been the burglar? That was possible. The absence of money in the steel-lined drawer—the clearing of the safes—might have been the work of the man. If so, why had Sinclair broken open the drawer? Had he mislaid the key? The Inspector turned to the manuscript book. It had fallen open as if the owner had frequently referred to one particular page. The detective glanced at the headlines. One caught his attention and he pursed his lips in a silent whistle. The headline read:

"Murray Lynnex, Tower Square, Sydney. £50,000."

For minutes Paull stared at the name and the amount. With a sigh of satisfaction he levered himself up and wept to the door. He called to Sanderson and went back to his chair.

"Want you, Sanderson. Who's Murray Lynnex?"

"Mr. Lynnex, Inspector—sir!" The man spoke briskly. "Yes, sir! Lives the other side of the court. Floor lower than this, sir. Beg pardon, Inspector, sir."

He crossed to the windows and pointed out. "There are the windows of his chambers, sir."

"Umph! Well, get out!" He watched the man go to the door. "No, wait. When did you dust this desk last? Yesterday morning! All right, scoot!"

Very carefully the detective examined the surface of the desk. He came to the back, and stopped. From a pocket he pulled a black leather case and took from it a small insufflator.

He blew a cloud of yellow powder on a certain spot. Allowing it to settle he blew away the surplus.

"Thought so!" He examined a place where some of the powder adhered to the desk-top.

"We fat men do find things, sometimes. Quite a beauty, too. Girl's fingerprint." He straightened himself. "Then someone who wore gloves came down heavily on part of it. What does that mean? Seems like I know that sort of mark."

For some minutes he stood surveying the fingerprints, shaking his head. At length, he turned and picked up his hat. At the study door he shouted for Sanderson.

"Don't go near that desk," he commanded. "Don't go in the study at all. Don't let anyone enter it unless they bring a note from me. Understand?"

"Should Mr. Sinclair come home, Inspector?"

"Then telephone for me at once, you blockhead. Think I want to go hunting round for a corpse while he's sitting in there writing letters. Use your bean, you shrank-shivering blooming, blithering idiot. There's few things I want this side of eternity, but at the moment a talk with Anton Sinclair is the chief. Get me?"

"But, sir—"

"I'll punch your head in if you use that word again." Paull turned savagely on the man. "Who the blazing bush do you think you are with your 'sirs' and 'ma'am's'? Put a collar around you neck and give you a cannon ball to carry in the old country, do they? Well, they don't here. Jack's as good as his master, in good old Aussie. Go down to the big house at the end of Goulburn-street and them fellows there'll persuade you he's a damned sight better—which he ain't, of course. Look a man in the face, you say, 'damn you' and 'curse you' for a start—you'll learn more as you grow older. You're a blithering working man, ain't you? Well then, you're one of the blooming kings of this-blasted over-grown island—get that? Jump! Scoot! And remember what I say. Sh-h-h-h!"

In the court enclosed by the high buildings, Paull looked around him. It was a pleasant place. A high, curbed square of grass, closely mown, occupied the middle. In the centre of the grass-patch stood an ornamental fountain, surrounded by a wide basin of crystal clear water. Around the curbed grass the walks were wide and tile-paved. Against the walls of the buildings were stands filled with flowers, plants and palms. There was an old-world air of one of the great London Inns about the place.

Paull strolled around the court, keenly surveying the buildings. Ho sighed heavily. A large, comfortable lounge chair, and something tinkling with ice in a long glass would complete the picture for him. That grass—A speck of white on the immaculate green caught his eyes.

Mounting the curb he waddled over to it. It was a piece of cardboard. He picked it up and turned it over. It was a playing-card blank. Where had it come from? It had not been on the grass long, for it was unstained. He looked up at the surrounding windows, studying the light wind that stirred in the court. His eyes rested on the building from where he had calculated it had blown.

With a start he recognised that he was staring at the windows of Murray Lynnex's chambers. Murray Lynnex! What part had he in this mystery? Why was his name in the memorandum hook? Why had the blackmailer written against his name the sum of £50,000? Lynnex was a rich man, a very rich man; and Anton Sinclair valued him at £50,000! Why that sum? Paull shook his head. There was only one answer to that question.

"Hi, there! What are you doing on that grass?"

The detective looked up. A porter was standing beside the curbing, shouting at him. He wandered over to the man. "Don't you know that persons ain't allowed on the grass?" demanded the porter.

'"Keep off the grass'!" Paull shook his head. "And I though I was in good old Aussie! Say, laddie, when I went to bring Tommy Gladd in from the old country—the time that ended when he was the principal guest at a necktie party one morning at Long Bay Gaol—I saw those notices all over the place. Why, there was one man as had a cigar box of grass growing on his window-sill—and he'd got a notice stuck over it: 'Keep off the grass.' Said it didn't look natural without. What's it all coming to? There's a bloke in that building that insists on 'sir-ing' me. Down here there's a 'Keep off the grass' atmosphere. The Lord save and deliver us."

"Well, you ain't allowed to go on there!" The man turned away shrugging his shoulders.

"Say, laddie!" The Inspector made after him. "Much litter fall into this court from the chambers around?"

"A bit." The man looked curious. "Who're you?"

"Call me Peter—not Paull. Only, don't, for the love of little mike, say 'sir.' Only uniformed constables on duty are allowed that liberty."

"What else do they call you—sir?" The man grinned, broadly. "Didn't recognise you—sir! Inspector Paull, isn't it—sir?"

"There's surely a hereafter where your sins will not be forgiven you!" Paull spoke pathetically. "You were once Constable Green—and a man. I know you now. Well, Green, don't forget what I've said about the hot place. The missus'll tell you I'm a mighty fine hand with a toasting-fork. Get me? Now, you beastly imitation watch-dog! When do you and your mates clean up the litter that falls into this court?"

"Morning, Inspector. Not done this morning, though. Other work delayed us."

"Spoke like a man—and an Aussie man, at that." Paull pulled the playing card from his pocket. "Didn't see that lying on the grass while you've been about the court this morning?"

"No." The man hesitated. "Looks like one of the blanks they put in packets of cards, Inspector. By the way, there was a card party at Mr. Lynnex's chambers last night. That card might have blown out of his window."

"'Out of the mouths of babes'!" The Inspector stared up at the windows of the chambers the man pointed at. "I have an idea I shall appreciate a few words with Mr. Lynnex—yes, Dr. Murray Lynnex!"

A moment of hesitation and he strode over to the door of the building ex-constable Green has indicated.