Читать книгу The Bat Flies Low - Arthur Henry Ward - Страница 12

When an admirably brief but lucid account of the mysterious tragedy had been given by Lincoln Hayes:

“You speak, Hayes,” said Maguire, “of certain valuable manuscripts which have been stolen. Do you mean of value as curiosities?”

“Yes.”

“Any other kind of value?”

“Yes.”

“I mean to a person not interested in Egyptology?”

“Yes.”

“Commercial value?”

“Definitely.”

Maguire, standing up, stared at Hawley.

“Anything to say?” he challenged.

“Yes, sir. I should like to know what has become of the man Stefanson, who seems to have been present at the time of the occurrence.”

“He’s in the library,” Rorke explained, glancing in the direction of the staircase.

“Why isn’t he here? Doesn’t murder interest him?”

“Has a very remarkable memory,” Lincoln Hayes volunteered. “He’s in there, trying to reconstruct the notes which were stolen. Do you wish to interview him. Sergeant Hawley?”

“Later, maybe.” He turned to Captain Rorke. “You say you had noticed this curious smell, sir, before I came in?”

“I had.”

“Ever smelt it before?”

“Yes. At sea, under certain conditions, and where ozone was being used.”

“Ah! Ozone.” The detective’s beady eyes twinkled appreciatively. “That’s the word I was after. Ozone! It’s stronger over there, in that passage, than it is out here. Where does that passage lead?”

“Library,” said Hayes slowly.

“Where this thing happened?”

“Exactly.”

“Seems queer.”

Hawley glanced at Maguire.

At which moment a sound of footsteps came from the corridor indicated, and Ulric Stefanson entered, carrying a sheaf of notes.

“There’s been s-something like an electric dis-discharge to-tonight,” he declared. “S-something has b-burned the atmosphere.”

“This is Mr. Stefanson,” said Lincoln Hayes. “Maguire, you know one another. Detective Sergeant Hawley.”

Maguire stared across at the newcomer, and:

“What do you mean by ‘burned the atmosphere’?” he demanded.

“You can s-smell it.”

“I don’t know,” said Hawley in his hard, dry voice, “that your remark means anything to me, Mr. Stefanson. How do you burn the atmosphere?”

“L-lightning does it.”

“You, mean that this house has been struck by lightning?”

“N-not likely; but a s-similar effect.”

A sudden silence fell; there were footsteps on the staircase.

Dr. Adderley came down. He was tall and saturnine. His deep-set eyes registered introspection. He aimlessly twirled a tortoise-shell-rimmed monocle upon its dependent cord. At the foot of the stairs:

“Excuse me, Hayes—” he habitually spoke in a very low voice—“I want to use your telephone. Don’t bother the butler. I know where it is.”

He moved across, when:

“Any news?” Hayes asked.

The famous consultant shook his head but did not speak.

“Excuse me, D-doctor,” came suddenly, “but have you ever attended a p-patient who had been stru-struck by lightning?”

Eldon Adderley pulled up at that, adjusted the large monocle, and turned, staring at Stefanson.

“I’m not jo-joking,” the latter assured him. “Would the s-symptoms correspond?”

Adderley began sniffing, while continuing to stare at Stefanson.

“Does your remark mean anything in particular?” he inquired, “or was it inspired by this peculiar odor which I did not notice when I came in?”

“It m-means s-something. I have a the-theory.”

Adderley was aware that the speaker was a brilliant chemist and biologist. He paused. For some moments there was complete silence in the Venetian lobby.

“I think you have helped me,” he said, and crossed to the telephone room.

As he went out:

“You say it is certain, Hayes,” Maguire asked, “that none of your staff left this house tonight?”

“It’s certain. Slim was outside, right along. He’s there now.”

“But there’s a basement door to the kitchens?”

“He can see that, too, where he stands beside the car.”

“Shall I get him, sir?” Detective Sergeant Hawley asked.

Maguire nodded. Hawley crossed and went out.

“It seems to me,” said Maguire, in his deep, booming voice, “that your butler, Lurgan, ought to know more about this business than he seems to know. He’s fairly new here, isn’t he, Hayes?”

“Three months next Tuesday. First-class references. Excellent man.”

Maguire nodded and began to light a cigar which he had just placed between his small, even teeth. Captain Rorke helped himself to a whisky-and-soda, as Hayes turned to Stefanson, who still stood at the entrance to the corridor, peering about him blindly.

“How far do your notes go?”

“Pr-pretty far. But cer-certain things have ess-sc-caped me.” His vague glance sought the staircase. “You d-don’t think ...”

“I don’t know what to think. If she’s dead—I’ll spend every cent I possess to get the man who killed her.”

It was not a dramatic gesture. Lincoln Hayes meant it and would do it. Detective Sergeant Hawley reappeared on the other side of the huge lobby, in which, now, tobacco smoke floated like a mist. He was accompanied by a small, wiry man, wearing a very smart chauffeur’s uniform—a truculent-looking little man, who looked about him challengingly.

“Here’s Slim,” drawled Hawley. “Maybe you’d like to ask him a few questions, Mr. Maguire.”

Maguire nodded.

“I’ve met you before, Slim, and I reckon I can trust you to see straight and talk straight.”

“That’s right,” said Slim—he spoke broad Cockney.

“You have been outside all evening since you brought a party to the house from the theater?”

“That’s right.”

“When did the Egyptian gentleman leave?”

“He ain’t left,” was the astonishing reply. “So far as I know, ’e’s still ’ere.”

Those simple words spoken by Slim electrified his listeners.

“Hold on, Slim,” Maguire’s scowl was very threatening, his voice very deep. “He left here ... what was the time, Hayes?”

Stefanson answered.

“It was q-quarter of twelve when Lur-Lurgan ca-came to the library. I n-n-noted it.”

“Nobody didn’t leave at a quarter to twelve,” said Slim challengingly. “I’ve bin standin’ beside me car all night. Nobody didn’t leave.”

“What about the area door?”

“Nobody could ’ave come out o’ there without me seein’ ’em. And nobody did come out. But I did see one thing. I should ’ave rung an’ reported it, only nothing ’appened.”

“What was it you saw?”

“I see a blindin’ flash of light through a chink in the lobby curtains. It shone right across the other side of the street. In fact, I jumped for the steps; then, I sez to meself—it’s somebody takin’ a flashlight photograph of the curios, and as nothing ’appened, I didn’t do nothing.”

Lincoln Hayes exchanged glances with Captain Rorke.

“You say you jumped for the steps?” came the dry drawl of Detective Sergeant Hawley. “Did you actually go up the steps?”

“That’s right.”

“Right up to the door?”

“Yes. Right up to the door.”

“How long did you stay there?”

“Long enough to change me mind about ringin’ the bell.”

“That’ll do, Slim,” growled Maguire. “You’ve told me all I want to know.”

Slim, with a final truculent glance around, turned and went out.

Dr. Adderley came in almost at the same moment, twirling his monocle. He glanced about him vaguely.

“Some apparatus will be here from the Columbia laboratories,” he said in his low voice, “at almost any moment.”

He went upstairs. There was an uncomfortable, silent pause, broken by District Attorney Maguire.

“The witness we really want isn’t available,” he remarked. “But I should like a few words with Lurgan.”