Читать книгу Saul and the Spinster - Aidan de Brune - Страница 8

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THE secret history of Sydney records that a stern and grasping employer of labour, who had absorbed wealth in spite of the relentless battle waged against him by self-sacrificing high-souled labour leaders, once purchased for his son and heir an elaborate electric model railway system—and kept the apparatus in his office, in full work, for six consecutive weeks. When, reluctantly, he determined to part with the toy to the expectant recipient, he had first to call in an expert to repair working parts and install new batteries.

This example has only been quoted to exemplify the childish nature of man, who in spite of accumulated years, delights to prick any bubble. In the above sense of mischief, it may be conceived that Saul Murmer witnessed the sudden and complete collapse of Captain Pontifex, with delight. For long moments he watched the deflation his two uttered words had wrought. "Now, Insp—Mr. Murmer!" Glassy eyes and a pendulous lower lip showed to what depths the club proprietor had been plunged. He spoke pleadingly; "Er—I don't mind you having your little joke—but—but can't you forget that? There's a limit. You know, Mr. Murmer; there's black sheep—and I'm confessing I'm one—in every good family."

"Even in the family of a Walworth Street greengrocer?" Inspector Murmer simulated surprise. "Now I must remember that, for future use." The lazy blue eyes, scanned the deflated military form curiously. "I—er—thought you were going to take me into your excellent club."

Still Captain Pontifex did not move. His lips were working spasmodically; the glassy gaze in his small, predatory eyes had faded into one of malignant hatred. He struggled for speech.

"What do you want?" he said at length. "I'm striving to run straight to put a discoloured past behind me."

"Did you consider the roulette board at the Winter's Night Club quite straight?" asked Saul Murmer innocently.

Again the captain squirmed. "A lapse of integrity on the part of an underling" he muttered, recovering in some measure his acquired poise. "You know, Insp—Mr. Murmer, I paid the fine—and the magistrate accepted my explanation like the gentleman he was."

"While Bert Jones, the underling in question, retired to a poultry farm of long ambition," added the detective. "And—Bert Jones had four and tuppence in his banking account on the morning of the raid." He paused, then added: "I understand Bert Jones is doing excellently—on the poultry farm."

"I am not interested." Captain Pontifex reached out a steady hand and pressed the bell-knob firmly. "However, I am delighted to hear that a former—er—employee, who dropped into—er—error, has reformed and is making good. Er—are you coming in, Insp—Mr. Murmer?"

"As you so kindly invite me, I think I will."

"Always delighted to welcome you to my poor house of amusement." Captain Pontifex waved the clouded Malacca cane in airy salute to the doorkeeper.

Now completely ignoring the detective, Captain Pontifex strode firmly towards the interior of his club. He was on familiar ground; where he was master of men. He passed through the large supper room and an adjoining office, opened a door and ascended a flight of narrow, steep stairs to the upper floor. Outside the door of his private office he became aware that he was not alone. It was hardly a shock to recognise behind him the portly form of the English detective.

"You wish to consult me, Mr. Murmer?" The assurance which had grown while passing through his domain, fell abruptly from Captain Pontifex's shoulders.

"My dear captain, your conversation is always so charming—" Casually Inspector Murmer pushed past the hesitant club proprietor and entered the handsomely furnished office. For a moment he stood blocking the captain's entry, surveying the room. Then, having apparently selected the most comfortable armchair in sight, he ambled across the room and carefully lowered his full bulk into it.

"Yes?" Captain Pontifex entered his own office as if afraid of hidden trails. For a moment he stood before his official chair and his desk.

"I merely called to inquire if you had seen an old and valued mutual friend—one 'Winny' Demmage."

"Winn—" The club proprietor sat down so suddenly that the room shook, "Is Winny—is he in Australia? I thought—" He finished in a stuttering blur of words.

"Where the carcase is—" Saul Murmer smiled sweetly. "Not that I'm calling you a 'carcase', or even one of the vultures."

A few efforts at contortion, and Saul Murmer succeeded in reaching into a side pocket of his jacket and extracting a rather crushed packet of a popular brand of cigarettes. "May I offer you a smoke, captain? Those black cigars to which you are addicted are really bad for your nerves—and your nerves this morning! Tut, tut!"

With a visibly shaking hand the club proprietor reached across his desk and flicked back the lid of a large humidor, extracted one of the cigars disapproved of by the detective. Mechanically, he bit off the end and searched for a match.

"A light, captain?"

Captain Pontifex ignored the lighter extended towards him. He struck a match which flickered out. Throwing it down with unnecessary violence, he struck another. His elbow resting firmly on the desk top, he succeeded in applying the tiny flame to the end of the cigar.

"So it's a split!" The gambler spoke bitterly. "Another split; what I have to pay for the privilege of conducting a decent business decently." He turned on the lounging detective.

"I suppose if I don't split, you'll tell 'Winny' that Captain Pontifex is—"

"I should be very sorry to encourage major crime to that extent." Saul Murmer did not look pained, in spite of his words. "Shall, we say that you—"

"An infernal split!" Captain Pontifex spoke to infinity.

"Do you think Bill Stevens entirely trustworthy, captain?" Saul Murmer spoke in the tones of a director of a company consulting with the managing director the sins of an employee. "I have watched him at the tables."

A queer, swift motion of the detective's hands illustrated the remark. "I noticed that—an—er—important client of this establishment did not appear—er—too satisfied the other night. He appeared to think that Stevens was—er—too efficient. Of course, I understand I am discussing a very delicate matter."

"I'll sack him!", declared the virtuous captain explosively.

"Would that be wise?" The Inspector blew two successive smoke rings towards the ceiling. "He might—you know—"

"He—can't." The Captain's heavy hand descended on the desk top with a force that set its equipment dancing.

"You keep a members' book, captain?" Many people found Saul Murmer's habit of changing subjects in top gear disconcerting. Then noticing Captain Pontifex's hand dropping to a certain drawer of the desk, he added: "Please, Captain! It would pain me exceedingly to read your record of my erring Sydney brethren. If you would be so good as to inform me if a certain gentleman, named Manning—"

Captain Pontifex looked blankly at his interlocutor.

"A captain of modern finance—an influence in the church—a powerful politician—umph! Ah, yes, a certain Carrington Manning—" Saul Murmur murmured in easy, indifferent tones. Still Captain Pontifex stared bleakly before him. A short pause, and the detective officer announced:

"He is the proud possessor of a son. A Mr. Theodore Manning, in appearance a tall, distinguished blonde—and silent. Yes, silent—one of those strong silent characters women are reputed to love to distraction. A student, possibly, at our University—he may be only a daily visitor there. Certainly a student at Prince's and similar unhallowed haunts of Sydney vice, where they charge you six and eightpence for addressing a haughty waiter, and thirteen and fourpence for speaking familiarly to the band conductor."

"I don't know Mr. Manning," stated Captain Pontifex flatly. He turned suddenly in his chair. "What's the joke, Insp—"

"Hush!" Saul Murmer's soothing tones cut short the captain's fevered and almost impassioned speech. "Not here, in the sacred precincts of the Salom Club, hallowed by a history running back into the dim aeons of a convict ancestry. Not here, where—But, tut, tut, man! What would my superintendent say if he knew I was—"

"I hope he'd say a lot!" answered the club proprietor unkindly. "I hope he'd, say 'Get out!'"

"Surely not before you've enlightened my ignorance," Saul Murmer meditated. "So Mr. Carrington Manning does not indulge in a little secret flutter? A pillar of the church and—What a pity—My dear Captain, you must know him; I am only quoting a lady of my acquaintance—and they always know what they mean, even when mere man considers they are slightly ambiguous. Now, my dear captain, a captain of finance, a pillar of the church, is surely useful, especially when the baccarat table is under suspicion—"

"The whole cursed place is under suspicion, according to you," snapped the captain. "Now, listen here, Murmer—"

"Mister Murmer." The lids fell over the baby-blue eyes tiredly; the cupid bow lips pursed sweetly. "Please, Mister Murmer—I am entitled to it, I think, captain."

For a brief moment the eyelids lilted, then dropped again. "I always call you 'captain'—and I do like the truth."

Captain Pontifex suddenly wilted. He passed his hand wearily over his high brow. "What do you really want to know, Mr. Murmer." The bold voice was now very conciliatory.

"Just what do you know of Winny Demmage."

"Dem—" A groan strangled in the club proprietor's throat. He struggled for words; at last they came: "Say, Inspector, you're joking, aren't you. Winny ain't in Australia—Now, straight?"

"Winny is interested in a lady of my acquaintance; he is also interested in art." Saul Murmer was choosing his words carefully. "I am afraid he is a bad artist. I do not approve of his drawings—they are far, far too crude and in subject are open to suspicion."

A certain satisfaction peeped from the dimples surrounding the full red lips. The half-opened eyes were bland, yet in their depths held the content of the hunter who sees his prey at his mercy—and has none for it. For many seconds the Inspector waited, lolling back at ease in the comfortable chair. Captain Pontifex did not speak.

"Am I to understand that you have no knowledge of Winny Demmage; that you are unaware he is in Australia—and above all, that you and he are not bosom friends?"

"Him?" The club proprietor blazed to sudden passion. "If I could—"

"Forgive your friends; do to them who hate you." The gentle smile had returned to the detective's lips. "I always do. Stern fate has cast me for the part of the gentlest shepherd—"

"And I'm the blooming sheep!" Captain Pontifex spoke bitterly.'

"Aren't you mixing your metaphors?" asked Saul Murmer gently.

"Metaphors shouldn't interest you dicks," snarled the club proprietor. "S'pose you're inferrin' I'm the bloomin' goat! Well, I am, and I know it—sitting here talking to the likes of you—"

"Walworth Road on a Sunday morning!" Saul Murmer viewed the ornate ceiling of the office through a haze of his own tobacco smoke. "You're afraid of Winny, Captain, Now, I wonder—just why?"

"It you've got a search warrant—"

"What is that?" The full, round face showed surprise. "Really, Captain Pontifex! I'm only Mr. Murmer—Saul Murmer—a man with a rather thick streak of inquisitiveness regarding—"

"Goodness! I'd say thick—" Captain Pontifex cast up his eyes devotedly. "Not a streak—No, a whole bloomin' bucketful. Bah!"

There are times when the whole English language—admittedly the widest and most voluminous in the world—becomes entirely inadequate; and Captain Pontifex believed he had stumbled on one of these rare occasions. For a moment he fervently wished he knew German—a language in which every word, carefully uttered, can be made to sound the very depths of defamation; where word combinations can be infused with a strength of objurgation that would hasten the Recording Angel to turn to a new and unsullied page in his library of ledgers.

Captain Pontifex merely stuttered, stuttered again, felt calmer, paused, then spoke: "So you haven't a search-warrant, Inspector. Sorry! You'd need that, you know, for I don't like 'inquisitive streaks'—or whatever other fancy names you like to call them. I've got other—"

"Please don't say 'other fish to fry,'" urged the detective, not making any attempt to vacate his chair. "May I suggest? Say—"

A low knock came on the door panel. It was so soft that it merely caused Saul Murmer to stop speaking, yet be doubtful whether there had been a knock or not. It was repeated. Captain Pontifex heard this time, and growled an order for the interrupter to enter. The door opened; slowly, and a man stood in the room. At sight of the Inspector in the room, he muttered something and made to retreat.

"Don't mind me, Freddie," said Saul Murmer kindly. He smiled benevolently on the man. "I wouldn't like to disturb the usual routine of this establishment through a friendly morning chat with my dear friend, Captain Pontifex."

"Yes, sir. If you please, sir!"

"Well, what is it?" The club proprietor did not look at the man in the doorway, his whole attention being centred on the detective, lolling comfortably back in the deep chair, apparently set for a long and painful interview.

"It's the gentleman in No. 4, sir." The waiter backed quickly into the passage as Captain Pontifex turned suddenly and glared at him. "I think they have been quarrelling, and—and—"

"Well!" barked the club proprietor.

"I thought I heard a sound, sir!"

"A sound? How strange!" Saul Murmer opened inquisitive eyes. They scanned the man idly, then wandered to where Captain Pontifex sat, gaping surprise.

"He heard a sound! I thought you had the walls of this palatial edifice specially deadened, captain?"

The club proprietor jumped up from his chair, his face suffused with anger.

"I've just about had enough of—"

"Of noises," interjected Saul Murmer, nodding entire, agreement. "Sydney is a city of noises. There are tramcars, railway trains, aeroplanes, and radios, not to mention bridge clubs, tea-shops and motor bikes, politicians and Domain orators. And if we try to avoid these painful accessories of modern civilisation, and wander into the sylvan retreats so generously provided by paternal Governments, you find out-of-work musicians practising banjo accompaniments to soul-harrowing songs, labour leaders of personal zeal, politicians of brands unknown to Whitaker's Almanack, and teachers of religions so weird and fantastic that one wonders if the hereafter is not a continued Christmas pantomime complete with Columbine and Harlequin; not to mention a first-class clown in cassock and surplice. Various and different, you say, yet they have one thing in common; a speech that would have made the Tower of Babel builders appear to be talking an ancient Esperanto, and with a volume that makes one hope that there are limits beyond which loud speaker inventors will not be permitted to go."

The detective shifted lazily in his chair, until he had a better view of the man in the doorway. "What sort of noise, my man? A noise like someone imbibing an unexpectedly offered drink, like a Salvation Army hymn in a quiet street, or merely our friend the milkman at an unusually unearthly hour of the morning—"

"It sounded like a motor-car backfiring, sir," replied the man, stolidly. "But I don't think it was, for—"

"For the Salom Club doesn't run to motor-cars on the premises," completed the detective. But the man was not now listening. Captain Pontifex had reached the the door in a couple of quick, lengthy strides, and had shoved him into the passage. Saul Murmer was not far behind him. In spite of his girth he had slipped out of his chair very easily. A bland, childlike smile on his full lips, he ambled up the stairs on the club proprietor's heels. On the second floor of the building Captain Pontifex led down a narrow passage to a certain door, pushing the waiter before him. At the door, Saul Murmer slipped in front of the two men.

"Knock at the door," he commanded the waiter. The man knocked quietly. Saul Murmer, his ear pressed against the panel, could not hear any sounds within the room. At the detective's signal the man knocked again, then let his hand fall to the door-handle. The Inspector brushed him aside hastily.

"You say there are some gentlemen in this room?" he asked, still addressing the waiter.

"Three, sir."

"What are their names?"

The man hesitated, looking at his employer. Pontifex answered: "I understand they are Mr. Buller, Mr. Myson, and a friend."

"How do you know?" Saul Murmer spoke quickly. "You came into the club this morning with me. You have been with me since you entered, and I know you have not spoken to anyone without my hearing."

Captain. Pontifex scowled. "They spoke to me about the room last night," he said. "Myson told me he and Buller wanted a room this morning to discuss business with a third party."

"Business? A business conference!" The detective lifted well-arched brows. He turned to face the waiter. "And you heard a—er—backfire?" For a moment he pondered, then turned to the club proprietor.

"Do you know, my dear friend, I have the opinion we shall only find one of your friends here—and he won't—er—answer questions."

Captain Pontifex backed so hastily from the door that he stepped on the waiter's toes. The man emitted a groan, which made the gallant captain jump in alarm.

"Tut, tut!" reproved Saul Murmer. His eyes were sparkling maliciously. "Very careless! It would have been far more to the point if you had jumped forward—to open the door, as I do."

Draping his handkerchief carefully over the door-handle, the detective grasped it delicately, and released the lock. He pushed the door back slowly. Unconsciously the two men behind him crowded forward, pushing him into the room.

Saul Murmer saw before him a medium-sized room, well furnished. In the centre of the room stood a large baize-covered table. Above the table hung an inverted frosted globe, in which a powerful electric bulb still glowed. Opposite the door was an old-fashioned open grate, in which stood an ornate radiator. Against one wall stood a fair-sized buffet, showing that, in spite of fair attention by the club servants, it bore a large and expensive part in the room's use. Half-a-dozen high-backed chairs were scattered about the room and the table, while before the fireplace were two deep lounge chairs, with the necessary accessories for masculine comfort close at hand. Thee eyes of the three men did not linger on the appurtenances of the room. A quick glance around the room, and their eyes focussed on the table, and the man sprawling across it. His head rested on the green baize, and about it the cloth was stained a deep, dark crimson.

The man was dead; it did not need an expert to tell the detective that; every muscle limp and awkward, supported the evidence of the dark liquid stain spreading across the green of the table.

Instinctively, Saul Murmer's left arm went out to the far doorpost, barring entrance.

"Undoubtedly." The perfectly shaped lips were rounded. "As I thought—only one person."

He turned sharply on the club proprietor. "Artemus, my friend, I shall have to trouble you to ring up Police Headquarters." He thought a moment. "Yes, distasteful as the task will be to one of your susceptibilities, you must handle the telephone, and no other."

As Captain Pontifex reluctantly turned to the door, Saul Murmer added; "Ask for John Pater, Artemus—and there is no need to mention that I am here—or have been here. Simply inform Inspector Pater, with your sincere compliments, that a friend of yours has—er—met with an accident—and that you will appreciate his official presence here."

Artemus Pontifex still lingered in the passage, grumbling under the wide-flowing moustache he nervously pulled. Slowly his restless eyes scanned the contours of the room. Saul Murmer backed into the passage, pulling the door closed, and turning the key in the lock. A moment, and he turned, resting his broad shoulders against one of the door-posts.

"Artemus, my friend!" Inspector Murmer's slow voice had again assumed the customary lazy drawl. "You will forget that I am here. I don't want to be here—unless you force me to be here—and then I may be very, very, unpleasantly—for you—here. I may even be so short-sighted to facts within my cognisance that I may accuse you of being accessory before and after the—er—murder. Now, most righteous one, man of unblemished impeccability, the telephone—and linger not, or worse befall thee, friend."

Captain Pontifex turned towards the head of the stairs, his limbs moving uncertainly. Half-way to his immediate objective; he paused and looked back:

"But—er—"

"I am not here," said Saul Murmer, very kindly, yet the baby-blue eyes had acquired a hard, puzzling stare. "Please understand, friend of my boyhood days—I am not here. But I shall be here, outside this door, until I hear your loud and very impressive cough while you escort Detective-Inspector John Pater and the myrmidons of the law to this room. It may be that the cough you will—er—utter, will break the spell, dissolving my wraith-like form into the atmosphere—to your immediate satisfaction. Yes, dear friend, look at me! You may not think it possible for me to disappear—but I shall do so. But not until I know John Pater is with you. Thank you for your kind attention, Artemus."

Captain Pontifex had retreated to the head of the stairs before the flow of Saul Murmer's eloquence. Dazedly, he took a few steps down in the direction of his office, and halted; turning and showing to the waiting detective the upper part of a magnificent torso, discreetly clad, a round, red face, ornamented by flowing moustaches, tangled with overmuch exercise.

"But Insp—Mr. Murmer. There is only one way out of the place—er—the front door."

Saul Murmer shook his head gravely. "Heaven will provide," he said devoutly. "He, and you, Artemus, and this gentleman in the baize apron, who will stay with me, know that I am not now interested in front doors—not a fraction as much interested in them as you are in the contents of this room. Inspector Pater will be interested—and I shall not be here to be interested, Now, Artemus—"

A shrug finished the sentence, very eloquently for the gallant captain. He went downstairs to his office, leaving the portly form of the detective pacing the passage outside the murder-room, fearfully watched by a fascinated club-waiter. Twenty minutes later, heavy steps sounded on the stairs. From down in the depths of the building came the rolling, sonorous voice that had once ordered privates in His Britannic Majesty's military forces. A lighter voice spoke, indistinctly—and Saul Murmer, listening, smiled.

Then came a cough—a cough so severe that it appeared to shake the old building to its foundations. The ascending steps sounded more plainly. Again Captain Pontifex coughed. It was, as if he had acquired a serious and malignant form of influenza since be had parted with Saul Murmer. The detective smiled secretly, turning to the waiting waiter:

"Now, Tommy-John, or whatever your name is, we do our famous fade-away act. On this floor there is a room—and a door. I know of them—you know them. Please don't shake your head; you wouldn't, if you knew Inspector Pater. He is of the hard, cold callous world, which delights in third degrees, loaded lengths of rubber hose, and similar inflictions that make my gentle soul shudder. And, if he saw me, I might have to tell him that you know everything. Get me, everything—about—this—murder. Now—"

"But, sir—" stammered the man.

"The room—and the door, Tommy-John. And quickly!"

"Then—" The man showed astonishment. "You know—"

"I know nothing," repeated Saul Murmer soothingly. "You know nothing. Two nothings make nothing, if not—"

Thirty seconds later Inspector Pater turned the angle of the stairs, and his head and shoulders rose to a level with the passage-way. The long space before, him was empty—yet the detective had an uneasy feeling, that he had heard a sound somewhere at the far end of the passage.