Читать книгу Seven Sins - Arthur Henry Ward - Страница 13
ОглавлениеConcerning Taxi Drivers
On regaining his own office, Firth found Sergeant Bluett there. Bluett was leaning on the mantelpiece staring down at the empty grate. He turned as the Chief Inspector entered.
"Have ye got in touch with Gaston Max, Bluett, about that sma' matter?"
Sergeant Bluett took out a newspaper and rolled it very tightly: Gaston Max was a sore point with Sergeant Bluett. "Not in his office. Probably making inquiries at the Mansion House, disguised as the Lord Mayor," he said with heavy sarcasm.
Firth stared hard. "Your conception of humor is not mine," he replied dourly. "Any news fro' the taxi depôts?"
"A taximan has come along," Bluett reported. "He is downstairs now. So I told them to ask him to wait till you came back. I think we had better have him up."
"Anything to help us?"
"So they say downstairs." Bluett crossed to the desk and indicated a slip of paper. "He says that he picked up a woman passenger near the scene of the crime, not long before it occurred. She was seen off by a man whose description seems to tally with that of Sir Giles."
Inspector Firth sat down and studied the slip, then slowly nodded his head. He picked up the telephone ...
Less than two minutes later came a rap on the door.
"Come in," called Firth.
The door was opened by a constable in uniform. "The taxi driver you asked to see, sir."
As the taxi driver entered, the constable went out, closing the door. Bluett, who had resumed his favorite pose by the mantelpiece, turned, resting on his elbow, and contemplated the new arrival, whom Firth, also, was studying critically.
The man wore a rusty blue suit and a muffler in lieu of a collar. His hands were exceptionally dirty. In one of them he held a peaked cap. He had an unshaven face, pouchy eyes, and a bulbous looking nose. His untidy hair might have reminded a gardener of a dying dahlia: it was of reddish brown color and quite uncombed.
"Good mornin', guv'nor," he said cheerily to the Chief Inspector, and nodded, grinning to Bluett. One saw that he had brilliantly white teeth, apparently natural.
"I understand," Firth began, "that your name is Peter Finch, and that you have a statement to make." He took up the slip from his desk. "The matter is of no special importance, mark you, but it may have a bearing upon other matters that are. You say that about ten minutes past one last night, you picked up a lady at the Berkeley Square end of Bruton Street?"
"That's right, guv'nor."
"She was accompanied by a man who saw her off. Now—" he laid down the slip:—"Describe to me verra carefully, first, the lady, then the man."
"Well, the bird was a peach, guv'nor. A bit of dark stuff, with lily white skin. She was in evenin' dress, so I had a good dekko—see what I mean? 'Er 'air was black and all beautiful waves, and she 'ad big dark eyes and a great big smile, and the kind of legs what only grows in 'ollywood. At least, I used to think so. Speakin' for meself, I should say A.1. with knobs on."
"Well, go ahead."
"The man wore evenin' clothes, too; one o' these 'ere button-over dinner coats—Tuxedo. Smart 'e was, and likewise very posh, more posh than the bird. 'E didn't seem to want to let 'er go. But she wouldn't listen to no argument; and after kissin' 'er with great gusto, 'e shoved 'er in me taxi and then kissed 'er again. 'Er name was Darling Rita."
"I see. Where did you take her?"
"I took 'er to a block o' flats in King's Road, Chelsea, guv'nor. But 'aving 'ad me little lark, so to speak, I think we might as well discuss this 'ere matter more on the level."
Whereupon, brushing back the untidy tangle from his forehead, and apparently by means of relaxing certain muscles and removing some substance from his jaws, another face, a totally different face, peered out through the bulbous mask of Peter Finch. This was a notably mobile face, and its present expression was impishly mischievous. Sergeant Bluett ran his fingers through upstanding hair, and his boyish eyes expressed an astonishment so profound that it was comical. Chief Inspector Firth gave no sign. He sat there, square chin resting in upraised hands, and merely watched the transformed man.
"Gaston Max!" muttered Bluett. "Well, I'll be—"
"But, Friar Tuck, my old friend! Surely you know me, eh?"
Sergeant Bluett put his newspaper in another pocket, drew out a large white handkerchief, and blew his nose. It was true that he was known at Scotland Yard as Friar Tuck, although the origin of this soubriquet had become lost in obscurity, but its use by Gaston Max represented the last straw.
"There have been occasions, Mr. Max," said Chief Inspector Firth, and the strength of his Scottish accent indicated the depth of his resentment, "when I ha' felt called upon to point out to ye that if the Paris Service is run on the lines of a Hollywood musical, Scotland Yard is more consairvative."
"Ah! but Inspector Firth, my old, you do both Paris and myself a grave injustice."
The speaker's manner, accent (that of a Frenchman speaking English perfectly, except for unusual idioms, and with an uncommon intonation) ill-befitted the character which the distinguished investigator had assumed. It was difficult to understand, now that he had abandoned his impersonation, how one could have accepted as authentic pouches under the eyes which were obviously artificial, as well as those other physical eccentricities which characterised Mr. Peter Finch. Sergeant Bluett put his newspaper on the mantelpiece without removing a disgusted stare from the face of the French detective.
"What I don't understand," he remarked, "is why, if you can speak Cockney (although, mark you, I thought there was something phony about it) you can't speak proper English."
This deliberate casus belli Chief Inspector Firth scotched immediately.
"I might point out, Bluett," he said, "that we all have our own ideas regarding proper English. Aye, man, Max—" a smile softened the severity of the hazel eyes—"ye're nothing but a monkey. But I confess that your impersonations astound me. I would only add that I consider them unnecessary."
"But no, my old, how wrong you are! When the biography of Gaston Max comes to be written, then you will see that if I had followed the traditional path which you follow obediently, and I think with such excellent results, I should not at this moment know so much about the affairs of the lamented Sir Giles. Ah! no, no, it is an old trick of mine, that taxicab. It is my shrimping net. Always I have the flag down when it suits me. Always I am ready for a fare I am looking for. And so it was last night."
"It is clear to me," Firth admitted, "that you ha' got hold of a clue which may lead us somewheres. We know that this Rita—"
"Darling Rita," Max corrected.
"We know that this girl was with Sir Giles just before he was killed. But he may have merely picked her up."
"Not at all—not at all." Max's gestures were eloquent. "She had gone to meet him at the B.B.C."
"How do you know that?" Bluett asked, his ingenuous eyes very widely opened.
"I took her to meet him."
"What!"
"This, I admit, was an accident, but it is a fact nevertheless. I picked her up near Oxford Circus and drove her to the B.B.C. I did not know she had gone to meet Sir Giles, but I saw them come out together."
"You mean you were waiting outside?" Firth asked curiously.
"But certainly. And they came out together. I was unlucky, however. Someone, perhaps an artiste, I cannot say, the night was dark, gave them a lift; and although I tried to follow, a traffic block played geese and ganders with me. But, you understand, I had an idea roughly, where they had gone, and upon this idea I acted. I waited at a point d'appui, always with my flag down, hoping that this loving two would presently come out again. And they did. That was when I drove Darling Rita to King's Road, Chelsea. It is strange, is it not, my old? I am working upon another case altogether—one so important—and I cross yours! Eh? strange!"
Firth continued to rest his elbows on the desk and his chin in his hands. "It may be fortunate. We must find out who this girl is."
"I have found out."
"What!"
"I discovered it this morning. She is called Rita Martin. She has a small flat at the address to which I drove her, and she is employed at Simone's, the Court hairdressers. One thing I would advise: Be subtle, be sly. No clumsy interrogations and writing in notebooks. You have clever women here. Send one to Simone's. For my own sake, also, I ask it. To frighten Darling Rita might destroy my own case as well as yours. Eh bien! I leave her to you. I am useful, is it not so? But there is something else."
"Something else?" muttered Bluett suspiciously.
"But yes, something else, Friar Tuck, my old. When poor Sir Giles saw off Darling Rita in my taxi, he was constrained, in order that he might suitably embrace her, to place a small brown leather portfolio upon the running board."
"A portfolio?" Firth suddenly stood up, a tall, dominating figure. "You are sure of that, Max?"
"Always I observe with some accuracy, my respected. Yes, he picked it up and with it he waved, as I drove my taxi away. And now—I must depart." He made certain rapid adjustments and moved towards the door. "I drive back to the mews where I keep my cab. I return to my base. I cease to be Peter Finch. I become again Gaston Max."
"Wait a minute, Max." Gaston Max paused, smiling back at Firth. "There's one feature of your make-up that quite defeats me. Ye are all of an inch shorter! How is it done?"
Max stooped and pulled off one very dirty shoe. This he offered to the Chief Inspector. "The heels of Peter Finch rest almost on the ground. See! This shoe is made for that purpose. Finch is a short fellow. How complete is the artistry of this Gaston Max, is it not so?"
The scene possessed elements of the grotesque; indeed, to Firth's orderly mind, of the indecent. He was about to say as much, when Max, replacing his shoe, spoke again.
"Be, oh so careful, my old. Something much more important than the death of Sir Giles Loeder—something, my faith! that may cause the death of us all!—is concerned; something so difficult and dangerous that I, myself, am confused ..."
