Читать книгу The League of Five - Aidan de Brune - Страница 8

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"WHO was the girl, Peter?"

Inspector Paull had steered his companion into Superintendent Manners' office and seated him before the big desk. A lounge chair in a far corner of the room held the detective. "There was a girl, y'know."

"Wos there?" Peter Duggan stared bleakly at the soldierly Superintendent. "I don't knows nuffink about no girl."

"Bad habit, biting the tips of your glove-fingers!" Paull drew a fat cigar from his vest pocket. "May I smoke, Superintendent? 'Fraid this is going to be a long job, owing to the shortness of memory of our long-dear friend. Thanks! Say, Mr. Manners, never bite the tips of your gloves while on a job. It makes jagged impressions that even a fat policeman can recognise. Pity, Peter! Why don't you use collodion, or, better still, break yourself of a bad habit."

"Wot d'yer want ov me?"

"Just the first principles inculcated by your old pals at the Long Bay seaside resort you favour. When you pay them one of your frequent visits they prescribe a bath. What for? That you may come clean. That's the physical effect. Here we suggest the moral bath. Get me, Peter? Come clean!"

"Who was the girl, Duggan?" The Superintendent spoke.

"Ther' wern't no girl."

"Have a nice nap, Peter?" Paull winked.

"Wot d'yer mean?"

"Golden hairs!" The detective was engaged blowing rings of smoke. "No good busking it, Peter. Your hair's mouse-coloured." The detective went to the desk. Before the fascinated eyes of the crook he unwrapped a piece of paper, revealing gold-coloured hairs.

"A nice fair girl, Peter, with golden hair. Gentleman prefer blondes, y'know. Did she have blue, eyes?"

Paul's hand went to his pocket. "This silk cord belong to you, Peter? No, didn't thing so. Pieces of cord from a dressing-gown rope. Gown in wardrobe; bits of rope on floor. Pity to spoil a perfectly good dressing-gown, Peter. Who was the girl?"

"I dunno."

"Didn't tell you her name? Yet you spent quite a time together. What about the safes, Peter?"

"Not me." Peter surrendered. "Someone looted 'em before I comes along."

"Got nothing for all your hard work! Poor devil!" The fat man retreated to his chair. "Really the working man is not adequately remunerated."

Duggan remained silent.

"Who's in the Long Room, Mr. Manners? White and Starker. They'll do. Just a bit curious, Peter. You're too good a unionist to work for nothing. May I trouble you to touch that bell, Superintendent."

The crook's hand, went to his hip-pocket. As by magic an automatic appeared in the detective's hand.

"Put 'em up, Peter." His voice was easy. "Put 'em up, laddie. For got to frisk you before I brought you in. Very lax of me! Tut, tut! Right up, old dear! Plenty of room near the ceiling."

"Don't carry a gun, Mr. Paull."

"No gun!" The detective's hand passed lightly over the crook. "Surprised at you. Gentle Peter. Last time we met—it was last time, Peter, wasn't it; my arithmetic's bad you know—you promised me the gun next time we met, professionally. I'm very disappointed!"

A quick movement and the detective took a bulky roll of notes from the crook's hip-pocket and threw them on the desk. The Superintendent caught and counted them.

"Two hundred, Duggan. Where's the rest?"

"Gaffed."

"How much?"

"Thirty-four. There's twenty-five wi' a bookie."

"Good odds, Peter?" Paull lounged against the desk. "Hope so. By the way, got a tip for Randwick? To-morrow, isn't it?"

"Dope Doctor, third race." The crook's eyes flashed hatred at the detective.

"No good." Paull shook his head, sadly. "If you'd come to me, Peter. 'Caught' wins, with 'Five Years' a certainty for a place. Know a good commission agent, Peter?"

"Cohen. Saul Cohen." Peter mumbled the name. "Damn you! Who put you wise?"

"Brains, just brains, Peter." Paull wagged his head. "Fancy giving a wad like that to a measly bookmaker. Anything else, laddie?"

"S'pose I've got to blow, th' lot." Duggan dropped into his chair. For a quarter of an hour he spoke, of his adventure in Sinclair's chambers the previous evening. Manners and Paull listened interestedly, the latter, taking notes.

"So you don't know the lady's name?" The detective spoke easily.

"I'm not sayin', Mr. Paull."

"Then you do know!"

The crook glanced round the room, uneasily, but did not answer. Again the Inspector asked the question.

"I don't 'shelf'!" The man sprang to his feet, angrily. "Get it over, damn you! I go up fer th' notes, I s'pose."

"And the dead man?"

"You can't frame that on me. You haven't got 'im?"

"But I will. Mr. Sinclair, wasn't it?"

"He wos dead, when I went in!" Duggan spoke rapidly. "I wen' ter 'im and lifted 'is 'ead an' saw 'e wos dead. 'I put 'im back an' went t' th' girl. When we comes back ter th' study 'e wos gone."

"And the ruby ring? You said the girl accused you of stealing the ruby ring, didn't you?" Paull's voice had grown hard. "You're in quite a hole, Peter."

"I never touched th' ruby—I never saw it. I only squeezed th' slush."

"Two, hundred and thirty-four pounds." The Inspector spoke with his eyes on the crook. "We've got two, hundred. Still—"

"What's on your mind, Inspector?" the Superintendent asked, curiously.

"A big question mark, Mr. Manners." The detective spoke slowly. "There's more to come—not money, but information. Peter's not spilt all he knows. What time did you get up, laddie?"

"About seven."

"And I found you in Macquarie-street near noon. There's, a dark past In your life, Peter. Is your memory good?"

"I went ter see a man—on bizness."

"At seven o'clock?"

"Jes' arfter arf-past eight. I 'ad ter get me breakfast."

"A good business man. Up late and rises early. Early worm, and all that stuff. Why, Peter, you must be making a fortune. Stocks, shares, cigarettes, newspapers—or—coke!—eh?"

"Money-lender. You've got' nuffin' on 'im."

"Money-lender?" The detective's frame tensed. "Humph! What did you go to see Jabul Ardt about, Peter?"

"I—How d'yer know it was Jabul Ardt?"

"Police secrets, Peter," Paull laughed. "I don't mind your knowing. You were seen to enter Judd Chambers yesterday afternoon. Anyone else, there—this morning?"

"His clerks."

"Tut, tut, laddie. I'm talking about the elite of Sydney."

"Ther' was a foreigner ther' afore me."

"A foreigner!" Paull showed surprise. "Peter, you astonish me. Describe the gentleman."

"Didn't see 'im."

"He had left before you arrived at Jabul's offices?"

"He wos in wi' Jabul when I got ther'. I 'ad ter wait."

"And you didn't see him." Paull spoke slowly. "Peter, I'm afraid I shall have to call you a liar. Remembering the lay of Jabul's offices I'm convinced he could not have left without passing under your observation, Again I adjure you, come clean—morally, if not physically. The latter is now beyond your decision. Gentleman friends at Long Bay will attend to that."

"He went outer th' winder."

"'So!" A quick glance passed between the officers. "Jabul lost his temper. I've not heard of a regrettable accident in Pitt street tills morning. Jabul's offices are on the third floor, aren't they?"

"Jabul didn't do nuffin'!" Duggan spoke nervously. "'E wos tied an' gagged, an' stood be'ind 'is office door."

"Jumping tin hares!" The detective sprang to his feet. "And I slept through it all! Why—?"

The shrill ring of the telephone bell out the detective's words. The Superintendent lilted the receiver. He listened for some minutes, then turned to the detective.

"Looks to me you're hunting for a murderer without a corpse in hand. Well, Paull, I'll try and find the latter for you—but you've got to fit it into your picture. Just had word from Darlinghurst. They're found a motor car in Barling lane and a dead man in it. Wonder—" There was a long pause. The eyes of the two police officers rested speculatively on the crook. At length, the Superintendent spoke:

"Duggan. Except in one or two particulars you've come clean. For a change you shan't take a trip to the Awful Place unless, of course—But you've got to work for your liberty. I'm sending you with Inspector Paull to Darlinghurst to see this dead man. Tell Paull if he's the one you saw in Anton Sinclair's chambers. Then, for the time you can go to hell the way you like; except that you come to this office each morning and night and report. Nine o'clock's the time and don't be late or there'll be a nice, cosy, motor-van waiting to take you for a seaside trip. That's all. All serene, Paull? Report to me personally."