Читать книгу The Flirting Fool - Aidan de Brune - Страница 3

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DETECTIVE-INSPECTOR Saul Murmer approved of Australia. He had come to the island-continent under an agreement between Scotland Yard, London, and the New South Wales Police Department for the exchange of officers, for mutual experience. He had had a certain reluctance in leaving London for a city that was merely a name—for a country of which he had read little and had only vague impressions.

During the war he had mixed with a number of Australians on "Blighty" leave to record the impression that Australians were unmitigated liars, when discussing their native land. He had listened to yarns that he knew were "tall"; stories well told but causing broad grins on the faces of the countrymen of the narrator. From his reading he had to believe that Australia was a convict settlement—even in the Year of Grace 1932.

He knew that the Australians had no literature for, after his appointment to the detective branch of the New South Wales police he had searched London bookshops for Australian books. He had found books that purported to be Australian, but they had been published in England, and the tone of the writing showed him that the authors had lived long enough in his country to assimilate an atmosphere decidedly English.

Against that he had learned from the records of New Scotland Yard that Australia had long ceased to be a convict settlement—that if any convicts remained on that country's soil they must be very old men. Someone had advised him to go to Fleet street and gather in Australian newspapers. He had done so; his reading of them had caused him to wonder still more. Either the newspapers from the capital cities of the Commonwealth were drier reading than the Times of 30 years before, or they rivalled the famous "Yellow Press" of the United States of America.

A friend had introduced him to certain books professing to describe the bushranging era of the pre-Commonwealth days. They had been interesting, but he desired to know the Australia of today, not the Australia of fifty years ago.

On the voyage out to Sydney he had placed his perplexities before a fellow-voyager—an Australian returning home after a world tour.

Frank Mardyke, a Sydney journalist-author, had laughed heartily. In the resultant conversation he had explained, with a note of bitterness in his voice, that London publishers were, for some reason, unwilling to even consider an Australian novel of the present day. To Murmer's amazement, Mardyke had seriously stated that in his country were quite a number of first-class authors who could not obtain a public hearing. Though their books were equal to the English average, the importations of fiction books kept them off the Australian market.

Saul Murmer landed in Sydney to be impressed with the size and importance of the city. On the voyage round the coast from Perth he had had opportunities to visit other cities, of smaller size but well equipped and entirely modern. He had reported to the detective branch at police head-quarters, in Central Lane, to find that the men he would associated and work with for the next twelve months were as alert, intelligent, and as well grounded in modern criminology as his former associates at New Scotland Yard. He was attracted to Inspector John Pater, with whom he would work.

After a couple of small investigations he came to the conclusion that crooks in Australia were as clever as any in those parts of the world he had visited. Superintendent Dixon, head of the detective branch, had welcomed him warmly, yet with a certain surprise he barely concealed. Murmer had grinned secretly. He knew his physical appearance was against him. He was short, barely passing the height standard of New Scotland Yard; his tendency to embonpoint accentuated his lack of stature. His face was round and almost hairless and his light-blue, wide eyes gave him an innocent baby-stare that had often caused him embarrassment. What little hair still adorned the top of his head was light and curly. Even a conscientious use of the remedies recommended by various hairdressers and newspaper advertisements had failed to compel it to grow thick, and to lie smooth and slick.

He did not look-like a detective. His Chief Constable had once referred to him as "the baby in long pants." Murmer had realised the phrase had been used good-humouredly, but it stung. His great secret ambition was to be able to wear hard-crowned bowler hats and the ability to roll rank-perfumed black cigars from side to side of his mouth with a flick of his lips, scowling meanwhile on evil-doers from hard, compelling eyes. In effect, he could only smoke the mildest of cigarettes, and his lips were a Cupid-bow of scarlet that he knew many girls secretly envied him.

Gradually Sydney absorbed him. He acquired the habit of strolling the streets of the city and suburbs, while off duty, scanning the people with whom he came in contact; watching the faces of the houses and the traffic in the streets—streets that seemed never to pursue a straight course. They twisted and turned at almost impossible hills, winding over hills and valleys that forced him to the conclusion that, in regard to fat men, Sydney was only fitted to those who possessed cars. It contained far too many hills.

Yet, as the days passed, he became more and more fascinated with the city that claimed to be the Queen City of the Southern Hemisphere. He liked it; he was beginning to love it. Almost he was coming to view with regret the end of his term of exchange—to the day when he would mount the ship's gangway for the journey back to England.

Sir Gregory Eascham, Chief Commissioner of Metropolitan Police, had told him he was going to Australia to gain experience. In the Chief Commissioner's office he had met Detective-Inspector Arnold, the New South Welshman who was taking his place at New Scotland Yard. A fine, tall, soldierly man, much more detective than himself. He had sighed. Why had not Nature given him a presence like that? Arnold would have no trouble in subduing the crooks he arrested for himself, all he could do was to use some trick to throw them, and then sit on their chests until help arrived. One gentleman of fortune had bitterly complained, after arrest by Inspector Murmer, that the torture-press of the Middle Ages must have been but a child's plaything.

Inspector John Pater, a bachelor, had taken him from Central Lane to his flat at King's Cross. The apartment was comfortable and not too expensive. In answer to his questions, Murmer had found that a similar flat in the building was to let. He had immediately booked it, moving at once from the hotel where he had located on arriving in the city. The hotel-manager had found him a woman who did his cleaning after a fashion; he had developed unexpected gifts as a cook, when he did not choose to go to one of the nearby restaurants for his meals.

All in all, he was comfortable and happy. Walking eastwards from his new home he found pleasant and unexpectedly beautiful, if somewhat hilly, strolls along the harbour banks and amid houses and people that intrigued. He felt that all he now required to make matters Australian perfect was a big, intricate case that would prove to his new associates that he was worthy of his salt. So far they had, comradely, taken him on trust.

Inspector Saul Murmer was thinking lightly on inconsequent matters as he strolled through Edgecliff one summer's evening. He had been two months in Sydney and had acquired a good, working knowledge of New South Wales police procedure. He thought of his former mates at New Scotland Yard, then glanced down at his light calico suit and unbuttoned waistcoat and grinned. Sure it was hot; damned hot—and those fellows at the Yard would be gathering around any little bit of heat that offered, cursing their luck when they had to venture into the streets, huddling in great-coats and stamping their feet on the pavements as a they went along. It was hot!

He turned the corner of Wonthaggi Avenue—what queer names they gave their streets! Rather a decent road. Good class houses. People living here must have a bit of money. Not much in the matter of front-gardens, considering all the waste lands there were in Australia. Suppose they had a good bit of land behind the houses. Of course, so much nicer to have a big garden than—

"Oh—good evening!" He nodded to the constable who had just saluted. Didn't know the man; but quite a number of them knew him. He had met them about police headquarters and the courts. Of course, those he had a met had pointed him out to their mates. The Pommy detective! 'That's the fat Inspector from England!' Sure, that's how they'd describe him. Still, it was useful—one never knew when one might chance on anything—to know the pointsman. Queer, that door being open! Murmer glanced down at the illuminated face of his wrist-watch. Just on midnight! People, even in Australia, didn't leave their front doors open at midnight. Perhaps someone had gone down to the pillar box.

No, there it was on the other side of the road, and there wasn't a person on the road now. He searched the shadows for the patrolman, but he had a evidently turned some corner on his beat.

Detective Inspector Murmer glanced up at the face of the house. Not a light showed. The street-door was half open and there was no light in the hall. He dragged a cigarette from the packet in his jacket pocket and thoughtfully lit it. Again he glanced up at the face of the house.

He had the impression that someone was watching him. Waiting for him to move on. Something was wrong in that house. Again he looked back down the street, in the direction in which the constable had passed. There was no one in sight. Yet again he glanced up at the face of the house. He believed that within that house was something requiring investigation.

The path between the gate and the hall-door was a bare ten yards. Three steps led up into a porch over-shadowing the door. The house was of two storeys, with a high-peak roof that might contain a third storey—an attic. Murmer pushed back the door and glanced into the hall. It was dark and still. People didn't go to bed and leave their hall doors open, even in Sydney. They didn't go to bed without a preliminary survey of doors and windows, to see that they were properly secured.

Then he descended the steps and walked down to the gate. Still I there was not a soul in sight. He returned to the hall door and pushed it fully open.

Within the house was only dense darkness. Taking his torch from his pocket he flashed the light on the door-frame. A moment, and he had located the bell-push and thrust his thumb on it firmly. He could hear the bell ringing within the house. No one answered.

For a moment he hesitated, undecided what to do, then laughed shortly. Someone had gone out and left the door open. Possibly they had thought they had pulled it shut, but the latch had caught and the door blown open. Perhaps he was imagining things. Should he shut the door and go on home? It was getting late.

Almost with the door-latch connecting the socket he hesitated, thrusting the door open again. That would not do. Again that queer sense, that things were not right in that house, possessed him. Well, after all, he was a police officer and carried full credentials. He would look through the house before he left it.

Still he hesitated. He had met the patrolman about twenty yards before the gate of this house. Why had not the man noticed the open door? It was his duty to see that everything was secure on his beat. If the door had been open then. But, if anyone had come out of that house, on to the road after the constable had passed it, he could not have failed to see them.

Murmer strode into the hall, his torch blazing a path before him. A moment and he had located the light-switch. The light flashed on, almost blinding him. The hall was well-furnished. Four doors around him opened into rooms. Beyond the staircase was another door, possibly opening into the offices of the house.

Methodically he opened door after door, switching on the lights and surveying the rooms. They were handsomely furnished, and unoccupied. In the dining room he found a table set for two persons. On it were the remains of a supper. One of the wine-glasses had been upset and a dark stain straggled across the white linen. A thin trickle of liquid had run over the edge of the table and dripped to the ground. He returned to the hall and called aloud; then listened. There was no answer. Again he called, with no result.

He went to the stairs and mounted them. As he came to the landing a light flashed on in one of the rooms. He strode to the door of that room and thrust it back—to exclaim in astonishment.

On a couch, pulled well forward into the room, sat a young girl, about twenty years of age. For a moment Murmer stood and stared at her. Beside her, on the couch, lay her outdoor garments, and in her hand she held a close-fitting hat. Murmer thought there was alarm in the eyes raised to his.

"Excuse me, miss. Are you the owner of this house?"

"Who are you?"

"Don't be frightened." The Inspector came a step into the room. "I'm a police-officer, and I found your front door open. I called out in the hall but I couldn't make anyone hear."

"Did you—call?"

"Sure thing. Called more than once. Didn't you hear me? Say, are you the occupier of this house?"

"N-o!"

"Who is?"

"Mr. Stanley Griffiths, Mr.—er—"

"Inspector Saul Murmer, miss." The police officer stared about the room inquisitively.

"What are you doing here?"

"I came here to see Mr. Griffiths."

"At this hour of the night?"

The girl flushed. "We'd been to the theatre—Mr. Griffiths and I. I—I am his personal secretary, and he asked me to come here to get some papers wanted at the office tomorr—this morning. Mr. Griffiths said he wouldn't be at the office until very late." The girl spoke glibly.

"Where's Mr. Griffiths?" asked Murmer.

"I don't—know!"

"Did he leave you here?" The Inspector paused. "How long ago?"

"About ten minutes ago—it may be a quarter of an hour."

"What for?"

"He went to get the—the papers."

"Then he's gone out of the house?"

"I don't think so!"

Murmer looked at the girl in perplexity. She was nervous—very nervous. He disliked the little trick she had of halting before the last word of her sentence. Somehow it gave him the impression that she was not telling the truth.

"Well, where do you think the papers are? I've searched the ground floor, and there's no one there."

"Have you looked in his bedroom?"

"Where's that?" Instinctively the detective turned to the corridor.

"The room opposite."

"That's in darkness."

"He went in there." The girl paused for a long minute. "I heard him."

In the doorway, Murmer looked back at the girl. Why had she sat there, her hat in her hand, throughout his inquisition? Her voice had been flat, expressionless, throughout his questioning. He believed she had lied. For what reason? Had she a right to be in the house? Had she found the street door open, and had come in to thieve? He shrugged. The place was not normal. As he, went to the door opposite the room where the girl sat he glanced back over his shoulder.

"You'd better come with me."

"All right." Slowly the girl rose to her feet and turned to pick up her wraps. Murmer noticed that she wore a long, white, floating evening gown that came to her ankles. Impatient at her slow movements he went to the opposite door and flung it open. He felt for the light-switch and pressed it. A globe over the bed came to light. He glanced round the room, then back at the girl now standing in the doorway.

"Mr. Griffiths is not here?"

"He must be." A hint of alarm came in the girl's voice. "He came in here; I'll swear to that. I heard the door close. Perhaps—perhaps he's fainted—on the opposite side of the bed. He has a safe somewhere there. Please—please—look!"

With a shrug of disbelief Murmer strode round the bed. There was no one on the floor there. He looked back to the girl—to see the door closing; to hear the sound of the key turned in the lock. With speed remarkable for a man of his build, he ran to the door, to find it locked. Through the wood he could hear light feet speeding down the stairs.