Читать книгу The Bat Flies Low - Arthur Henry Ward - Страница 13

Lurgan crossed the lower end of the lobby, went out, and opened the front door. A man came in carrying several bulky packages. Lurgan led the way upstairs. These were the supplies from Columbia University. A hush fell on the party, and all eyes followed that procession of two, bound for the room where Ann Wayland lay strangely poised between life and death. Captain Rorke selected and lighted another cigarette.

Detective Sergeant Hawley came back from the telephone. His unlighted cigar remained jammed in one corner of his lean mouth; his ferrety eyes were angry. He stared at District Attorney Maguire.

“Well,” growled the latter, “have you made a mess of the inquiry already? Speak up.”

“The man known as Mohammed Ahmes Bey,” the dry voice replied, “with a woman companion, left the hotel a half hour ago.”

“For where?”

“Destination unknown to hotel manager.”

“You instructed headquarters to move?”

“Naturally, Mr. Maguire. If they left by air, road, rail, or sea, we shall know in quarter of an hour.”

“Much good that’s going to do us.”

There was a pause.

“Not at all sure,” came Lincoln Hayes’ monotonous voice, “that Mohammed Bey has anything to do with the matter. No evidence to that effect.”

“On the con-contrary—” Stefanson became suddenly lighted up—“if you’ve l-lost Mohammed Bey, you’ve l-lost your m-man!”

“Why do you say that?” Maguire challenged. “Have you got information that we haven’t got?”

“I th-think so.”

“So do I,” said Captain Rorke. “But I don’t want to say too much, now.”

“Why not?”

Detective Sergeant Hawley was the speaker, and his bright eyes were fixed intently upon Rorke.

“Because, in the first place, I may be wrong, and, in the second place, I don’t want certain facts known to myself and to Mr. Hayes to go any further than these four walls.”

Lurgan was crossing the lobby from the stairs, when:

“Hi! you!” Maguire shouted.

Lurgan pulled up and turned.

“Yes, sir.”

“Come back here; I want to talk to you.”

“Very good, sir.”

“If I might make a suggestion,” Rorke went on, “while you, Mr. Maguire, are obtaining any available evidence from Lurgan, here, I would suggest that Detective Sergeant Hawley and myself take a look around the museum.”

Hawley had never ceased to watch Rorke. Now his expression changed and:

“All ready here,” he replied; “just where I want to go.”

“Come this way, Sergeant Hawley.”

The two went out....

“You’re an Englishman, aren’t you?” said Maguire, staring at Lurgan.

“By parentage, sir,” the butler replied, seeming more than normally pale as he stood facing his interrogator, “but an American citizen. I was born in Buffalo.”

“Always been in the buttling line?”

“More or less, sir. My father was a butler in England, in the household of the late Duke of Orrey.”

“Who was your employer before Mr. Lincoln Hayes?”

“General Petherington, sir.”

“Oh, yes. I remember meeting you there. How long with the General?”

“Two years, sir. I went to Europe with him, as you may remember, and supervised his London flat for nine months.”

“Why did you leave?”

“This vacancy offered, sir. I naturally wanted to better myself.”

“You gave in your notice, then, to the General?”

“Yes, sir.”

Except for his pallor, Lurgan’s behavior was that of the perfectly trained servant which he was. Stefanson was staring at him in a curious way; Lincoln Hayes watched with his usual air of indifference.

“Give me,” Maguire directed, “in your own words, a brief account of what happened here, tonight.”

“Very good, sir. From what time in the evening?”

“From the time Mr. Hayes left you to join Captain Rorke in the library. You and Miss Wayland and the Egyptian were in the oak room.”

“I brought refreshments to Mohammed Bey and Miss Wayland, and then Miss Wayland asked me to go and turn up the lights in the museum, which, as you know, sir, is more or less detached from the main building. I proceeded there and turned the lights up. I waited until Miss Wayland and Mohammed Bey came in, inquired if I could be of any service, and then went to my own room.”

“Where is your room?”

“Downstairs; immediately below the oak room.”

“Go on.”

“The phone bell rang, and I went upstairs to the lobby.”

“Stop a minute. Were there any other servants on duty?”

“No, sir.”

“Are there any other menservants?”

“Slim, but he was outside. The woman, Mrs. Dimes—the housekeeper—and two resident maids, were upstairs in their rooms.”

“Good. Go ahead.”

“I went up to the telephone room. The call was from Mohammed Bey’s hotel.”

“Who was the caller?”

“A lady.”

“I wonder how she knew Mohammed Bey was here?”

“I don’t know, sir, but I proceeded to the museum to inform Mohammed Bey that he was wanted on the telephone. I showed him to the instrument, and then stood by, in the lobby. After a short time, he came out. I showed him into the museum again. I had returned to the lobby when I heard a bell. I went back. Miss Wayland was standing at the door of the museum. She instructed me to notify Mr. Hayes that Mohammed Bey was leaving....”

Lurgan paused, as if thinking—or listening.

“Right, go on.”

“I went to the library, knocked, and ...”

There came a sudden interruption. Detective Sergeant Hawley appeared at one of the several doors.

“Excuse me, Mr. Maguire,” he said, “but we’ve found something funny in there.”

“Funny? You don’t seem to be laughing,” Maguire growled.

Lincoln Hayes stood up.

“What is it?”

“Well, one of those painted lids has been moved—and a wall case is open!”

Hayes strode out, taking long, rapid strides; Maguire followed. As he turned to bring up the rear, Detective Sergeant Hawley stared at Lurgan, and:

“Stay here with Mr. Stefanson,” he directed; “I’ve got a few questions to ask you, presently.”

He went out. Stefanson peered blindly at Lurgan. ...