Читать книгу The Flirting Fool - Aidan de Brune - Страница 5

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"WELL, I'm—" Inspector John Pater chuckled thickly. "Seems that girl, whoever she is, is more than a match for one of Scotland Yard's star men! Glory; Locks him in a bedroom and then waits to clean up her finger-prints before making her get-away. Some I nerve that!"

Murmer nodded, absently. He was staring about the room; a long, narrow room, with French a windows opening out on to the gardens at the rear of the house. Moving lightly, as so many men of weight seem to be able to do, he quartered the room. He came to the windows and, using his elbows, pressed heavily on the frames. One of the windows swung open.

"Suppose she went out that way," observed Pater.

"Don't think so—No!" Murmer was staring out into the darkness. "There's gardens of houses on either side and the gardens of another house backs on to these. No, she'd be a fool to go out this way; she'd leave footprints. Besides, she'd have to go round the house to get to the street. What's the matter with her walking out of the front door and down the street? Preston was well out of the way, and at that time of night Edgecliff's not crowded."

Pater nodded. His tall, lean, rather lanky frame propped one of the door posts. With his hands thrust deep into his pocket, his keen, dark-brown eyes watched his companion carefully.

Murmer turned from contemplating the gardens to the room again. For a moment his innocent blue eyes scanned the room, then he went forward quickly to a dark corner beside a massive sideboard. For nearly a minute he stooped, examining something on the ground, then turned and beckoned to the Australian detective.

"Lord!" Pater took a torch from his pocket and flashed the light into the corner.

"A revolver!" The stout man had dropped to his knees beside the weapon, bending closer and sniffing audibly. When he looked up at Pater, standing watching him, there was a humorous twinkle lightening the perplexity that had previously been on his face.

"Interesting!" The Englishman sat back on his haunches, absently ruffling his carefully flattened curls. "Tell me, John. If the lady stabbed the gent upstairs in the neck, why is there a recently fired revolver in this dining room?"

"What's the answer?" Pater drawled. "A lemon? You're sure it's been recently fired?"

"Sure, yes. There's a distinct odour about a recently fired gun; you should know that. I'm willing to bet this revolver was fired within the last hour."

He dropped his handkerchief over the revolver, then lifted it carefully and deposited it on the table. "Time those fellows were here," he said. "No, don't touch it, John! I'll swear there's fingerprints on it."

Again his fingers ruffled his light curls. "Tell me, why didn't the girl clean that gun off-like she did the plate? Suppose—wonder if she knew it was there?"

Pater shook his head. He was about to speak when sounds in the hall drew his attention. A moment, and three men strode into the room.

"'Lo, sir!" The leading man of the newcomers saluted the Inspectors. "What's the trouble, Mr. Pater?"

"Murder, Ben—Upstairs—the room almost facing the head of the stairs. Goodnight, Dr. Angus! Will you go up with Sergeant Russell. Scotty—"The third man, who had turned to follow the doctor and sergeant hesitated. "Got your box of tricks here? Good! Well, tell us what's on that gun?"

"Brought it down here?" The fingerprints man raised his eyebrows.

"No; found it down there. Get a move on! I'm guessing this is going to be a strange case!"

Ted Scott lifted his attaché case to the table and opened it. For some minutes he bent over the gun, first treating it with powder from a sufflator then examining it through a powerful magnifying glass. Presently he looked up, beckoning the Inspectors to him.

"Fingerprints?" asked Murmer softly.

"'Lots of 'em. Funny thing, they're all the wrong way round."

"What do you, mean by that?" asked Inspector Pater. "Well, he held the gun so—" Scott picked up the magnifying glass, pointing the handle to his breast, yet with the hand holding it, pointing away from him.

"What the devil did he do that for? He'd have had to trigger it with his thumb, and even that 'ud be awkward."

"Whose finger prints?" asked Murmer. "You said 'he.' Aren't they a girl's prints?"

"No; a man's. Have a look." Scott handed his glass to the Inspector.

"A man's?" Pater showed astonishment. "You're certain, Scotty?"

"Couldn't mistake 'em. No girl could make a fingerprint like that."

Presently Murmer stood back, fingering his lower lip thoughtfully. He watched Pater take the glass and examine the prints, which now stood out in lines of powder. A little twinkle of amusement came in his eyes at the puzzled expression of his comrade's face.

"Got you puzzled, John? Thought so. Oh, you're not the only one. So, there's been a man here, too. Fired a gun, but did it as awkwardly as an old maid committing suicide trying to frighten the family ghost. Now, if he shot at the girl he missed, for there wasn't a mark on her—I should have seen it if there had been. Who'd he fire at? Give me that and—"

He turned suddenly to Scott. "Got a photographer here?"

"Sure," Scott answered. Sitting with his kit in the hall, awaiting orders. "Want this photographed now?"

"I might as well." Murmer turned to the door. "Leave it to you, Scott. When you've got your pictures of the exterior, here or at headquarters, have a look at the interior. I'd like to recognise that bullet when I see it—and I'm guessing it's not far away. Coming upstairs, John?"

The two detectives left the room. Very thoughtfully they climbed the stairs to the murder room. Just within the door they glanced interrogatively at the doctor, who had just risen from his examination.

"Dead," Dr. Angus said, turning to his bag and replacing instruments, "about an hour to an hour and a half."

"Stabbed in the neck, doctor?" Murmer strolled to the table and bent to examine the little dagger ornament. "Strange how a little bit of metal like this can let out a man's life."

"Bit of metal?" Dr. Angus looked surprised. "Yes, it's strange how that came to be driven into his flesh without buckling. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred it would have touched some muscle or bone and twisted up. Just a fluke it missed—" He checked, staring into Murmer's astonished face. "What are you thinking of, Inspector?" He turned and went to the body, examining the neck wound. "But that didn't kill him—exactly."

"What exactly do you mean by 'exactly?'" asked Pater quickly.

"You don't know?" For a moment Dr. Angus stared. "Oh, I suppose you didn't disturb him—left him for medical examination, eh? Well, if you'd turned him over—"

He beckoned to Sergeant Russell, standing by. Together they lifted the dead man. The two Inspectors followed the line of the doctor's pointing finger. "Shot in the back." Dr. Angus' voice was abruptly professional. "Bullet went right through the heart—killing him instantly."

Pater turned to the floor where the man had lain. He noted that there was little blood there. Only a couple of patches in a rough outline of a human figure which Sergeant Russell had traced on the carpet before he and Dr. Angus had lifted the corpse on to the couch. One patch of blood was where the man's neck would have been, the other under where the bullet had pierced the back.

"Not a great amount of blood, doctor!" observed Pater curiously.

"Dead men don't bleed." A quaint smile came on the doctor's lips. "If you men at Central Lane gave up reading those tripe detective novels and studied a few medical works I'd recommend, you'd learn something of your profession. It's only in mystery novels you find dead men streaming gore."

"There's something in that," Murmer said reflectively. "So our friend was shot in the back?"

"As I've told you." Dr. Angus turned at the door. "Bathroom somewhere along this corridor, I suppose." He went out of the room, leaving the door open. Saul Murmer caught Pater's eyes, and shrugged. For a moment he stood looking, at the dead man then turned to the wall behind the couch.

"Bullet?" Pater moved forward, switching on the light from his torch and focussing it on the wall. "Should be about here."

The Englishman searched in silence for some minutes. Then:

"Give me a hand to move this couch, John."

For a long time the two men, assisted by Sergeant Russell, examined the wall closely. At length Inspector Murmer made a gesture of despair and moved into the room. The two men watched him. For a time the Englishman was thoughtful, then went to the corpse, lifting it until the bullet wound was exposed. Sergeant Russell went to his aid and held the body while Murmer examined the man's breast.

"Bullet went right through him." Inspector Murmer looked up at his companions. "More than probably his coat spread open at the time he was killed and then fell into place when he struck the ground. Anyway, the bullet didn't touch it and it was concealing the wound-exit when I first saw him. Then, that dagger-thing caught my eyes—and the bullet-wound is right to the side, too—"

He stared round the room, perplexedly; then suddenly laughed.

"Help me shift this furniture, John." He waited until the couch was again against the wall.

"Now we'll do a bit of reconstruction. The girl was sitting here when I saw her. More than likely she took the same side of the couch as when he—Yes, that's it. Russell, you're the girl. Sit here. Now John, you're about Griffiths' height. Stand in front of Russell. Like that. Good." Murmer went to the door and turned. "Stoop a little more, John—the girl was shorter than Russell—That's it. Now think—Russell's a girl—one with a gaudy moustache—and you're trying to kiss him—her—against hi—Oh, damn, her—will. That's good. Bend a little more. Just so—" The Inspector walked another step into the room. "Now—Hold it, John—"

Slowly the Englishman's forefinger came up, pointing at John's back, as a muzzle of a pistol. He moved slightly to one side; then moved a step forward. For a moment he waited squinting along the line of his finger, then moved again. He nodded, and let his hand drop to his side. As if walking a chalk, line, he went forward until he stood just beyond Pater.

"That's got it, John. Get out of the road."

When Pater moved to one side the Englishman advanced to the couch. A short search and a little whistle of satisfaction escaped him. He pointed to an almost invisible hole in the covering.

"There's the bullet!"

"Good!" A moment and Pater in had his penknife to work, digging at the couch.

"So the girl didn't kill him!" Murmer stood back from the couch, watching his comrade. "Poor devil of a kid. Enticed here by that damned rake and—Got her up here and tried to put the acid on her—She resisted—A damned flirting fool, of course—but not a fool of that kind. Put up a fight against him—of course! Perhaps her hat came off and that dagger thing got between her fingers—Things happen like that—they do. Struck at him with it—and it went home. Someone comes up here after them—Opens the door and sees that Griffiths is overpowering her and shoots—" For a moment Murmer's voice, drifted into indistinctness; then strengthened again. "Damned nervy thing—shooting at a man with a girl in his arms. Bullet must have a passed within inches of her—Yes—That's so, but—"

He swung round on his heels as Dr. Angus entered the room.

"Say, doctor! You state he was killed by the bullet?"

"Of course!" The medical man looked surprised. "Why the doubt, Inspector?"

"And—the dagger-wound?"

Dr. Angus looked at the detective, inquisitively.

"I heard you found a girl up here, Inspector." The doctor spoke slowly. "Sergeant Russell has told me something of this man's—er—reputation. I tell you he was killed by a bullet piercing his heart. Death was practically instantaneous. I know my work—Are you doubting me?"

A little smile curved the cupid's bow of the detective's mouth. He shook his head.

"Not doubting you doctor; just a matter of curiosity. I'll agree, if you like, that Griffiths got just what he deserved and that it's a pity that someone hadn't done it before. I'm willing to admit that the girl I saw wasn't the first to meet trouble here through that man. But John and I ain't allowed sentiment—we have to leave that to the medical profession—You tell me that man was killed by a bullet through his heart. That's so, then. But, will you tell me this. If he hadn't had a bullet through his heart, would that stab with that dagger-ornament have killed him?"

For a moment a puzzled frown darkened the medical man's face. Almost reluctantly he crossed the room and stood again by the dead man, looking down On the grey face. For a moment he did not speak. "You've asked me a question I'm not going to reply to, Inspector." The words came reluctantly from Dr. Angus' lips. "I'm not going to state theories. There'll be a post-mortem. I'll see that there is one, if you want questions of that sort answered. At present I'll say that dagger might have buckled."

"It's straight, doctor." Murmer's voice was low, yet with a note of insistence. Dr. Angus did not answer. Inspector Pater and Sergeant Russell were watching the two men curiously. To the Australian detective his comrade's face appeared longer and strained.

"I'm asking you now, doctor." Saul Murmer's voice had dropped to little more than a whisper. "Could that dagger thrust in the neck, just where that wound is, have caused death?"

"It might." The words came reluctantly from the medical map's lips. "It might. I can't—I won't say any more now." He turned to face the Scotland Yard man. "All I will say now is that from the exterior appearance of the wounds—both dagger wound and bullet wound—either of them appear fatal. Wait—" he raised his hand as Murmer opened his lips. "I may alter that opinion after the autopsy."

"But, you will not alter that opinion, doctor—" the Englishman's voice was very grave—"that Stanley Griffiths would have died from that stab in the neck if he had not been shot a second or so later."