Читать книгу The Devil's Steps - Arthur W. Upfield - Страница 6

Bisker’s Unusual Morning

Miss Jade was taking breakfast in a corner of the dining room. The dining room at Wideview Chalet was Miss Jade’s pride, for she had designed it with the purpose of making as much as possible of the magnificent view. Across the entire front were wide panes of glass so that guests whilst eating might admire one of the finest views in all the State of Victoria.

The maid who brought Miss Jade’s bacon and eggs said to her:

“Bisker wants to see you, marm.”

“Bisker wants to see me?” Miss Jade exclaimed. “Did you say that Bisker wants to see me?”

“Yes, marm,” replied the maid, adding pertly: “That is what I said, marm.”

“Tell Bisker that I am breakfasting.”

The girl departed silently over the thick pile. Miss Jade’s finely pencilled brows drew a fraction closer together. There appeared between them two short vertical lines, lines which had caused Miss Jade a good deal of concern, and which she could vanquish only by keeping her brows raised. She heard the maid’s voice from beyond the dining room’s well-oiled swing doors, and almost choked at the sight of Bisker himself advancing towards her table.

“Bisker!” Miss Jade almost shouted.

Bisker continued to advance, to advance in defiance of Miss Jade’s terrible eyes which ordinarily would have petrified him into immobility. He was smiling faintly, a softly sardonic smile, and when he arrived at her table twiddling his old felt hat in his grubby hands, he said:

“You was asking after Mr. Grumman, marm.”

“How dare you come here, Bisker!” cried Miss Jade.

“I came to give you a bit of news about Mr. Grumman, marm,” Bisker persisted, the sardonic smile lingering in his eyes. “It isn’t the sorta news I thought you’d want the guests to know just yet.”

Bisker waited. He had news to impart and it was not going to lose anything in the telling. Miss Jade regarded him icily. To her this was a new Bisker.

“Well what have you to say to me about Mr. Grumman?” she asked.

“He’s fell asleep, marm, that’s what ’e’s done.”

“Fallen asleep! Why he’s not in his room. He’s still out.”

“Yes, marm—out for keeps—out in the ditch the other side of the front fence. He’s dead.”

“He’s d——” began Miss Jade in a high loud voice. Then she checked herself. Pushing back her chair, she stood up and stared down upon the rotund Bisker. Softly, she asked:

“Did you say Mr. Grumman is dead, Bisker?” Bisker nodded.

Now Miss Jade was a woman of character. She had begun in a small suburban boarding-house, and worked through a succession of larger boarding-houses to small guest houses until she became the proprietress of Wideview Chalet on Mount Chalmers. She was not one to give way to panic. The swinging doors were not so far removed that the maid on the other side could not hear what was being said.

“Come with me to the office, Bisker.”

Bisker ambled after her. When within the office, she ordered a young and efficient-looking girl to take her breakfast, and then she waited for ten seconds before closing the door and saying to Bisker:

“Now, Bisker.”

Bisker told how he had observed a working man coming up from the wicket gate, how he had “rushed” down to stop him and to turn him out, and how he had been led to observe the body of Mr. Grumman.

“You are quite sure that the man is dead?” questioned Miss Jade.

“In the last war I seen lots of dead men,” said Bisker. “Mr. Grumman is dead all right. His body is stiff and as cold as me nose.”

“Did he fall over the road bank, do you think?”

“It don’t look like it by the way he’s lying,” replied Bisker, adding cheerfully: “Course he might ’ave. I ain’t saying as how he didn’t just walk off the bank in his sleep, sort of. Any’ow, he’s dead, and we can’t just plant him somewheres in the garden.”

Miss Jade’s brows rose much higher than was necessary to erase those vertical lines between her brows. When she spoke again her voice was cold.

“Don’t be foolish, Bisker. Be quiet, I’ll ring the police.”

“That’s what Mr. Bonaparte said, marm,” Bisker answered.

“Mr. Bonaparte!”

“Yes, marm. Mr. Bonaparte came to the edge of the bank just as I had examined the body. He’s having a look round, sorta. Sent me along to tell you and to ask you to ring for the police and the doctor.”

“The doctor! But you said that Mr. Grumman is dead.”

Bisker looked patiently at his employer.

“That’s so, marm. But the law says that only a doctor can prove that a man’s dead.”

It gave Bisker satisfaction to observe that Miss Jade was thrown off her balance, that for once she was a prey to her emotions. He stood calmly watching her as with fluttering hands she lifted the telephone and asked the operator to connect her with the Police Station. Whilst waiting she looked up at Bisker, and he was astounded to see in her eyes a look of appeal. The crisis found the man.

“You had better let me do the talkin’,” he suggested.

“Please, Bisker.”

Miss Jade gladly surrendered the instrument, and sat down in the secretary’s chair. Then Bisker spoke.

“This is Wideview Chalet, Mr. Rice,” he said. “Bisker talkin’. One of our guests, a gent named Grumman, is lying in the ditch at the bottom of the garden. He’s got only his dressing gown and slippers on, and he looks like being dead. Thought you’d like to come down and look him over.”

Miss Jade abruptly felt like having hysterics. Bisker proceeded:

“No, we haven’t rung for the quack yet, Mr. Rice ... Yes—all right! ... You’ll be along directly? ... All right! We’ll hang on till you gets here.”

Bisker set down the telephone, studied Miss Jade for a fraction of a second and seated himself in her office chair, slumped into it with the same visible relief that she had shown when she sat down. He said plaintively:

“Sorry, Miss Jade, but I’m sort of upset like. Findin’ poor Mr. Grumman like that and all. A little drop of brandy—now.”

Suspicion leapt into Miss Jade’s dark eyes, but the mention of brandy created the want in herself. She pushed a bell button. Bisker rose and lurched to the desk. He again picked up the telephone and asked to be connected with Dr. Markham. He saw George appear at the door, and with exultation he heard Miss Jade order two brandy-and-sodas. Then he heard another feminine voice.

“Is that Dr. Markham’s?” he asked, deliberately putting a tremor into his voice. “This is the Chalet. A gent has been taken seriously ill ... What’s that? ... The doctor’s away? ... That’s bad ... Back soon? Oh, all right! Tell him to come along up as soon as he can ... Yes, it’s serious.”

He had just replaced the telephone instrument when George appeared with the drinks. Miss Jade ordered George to place the glasses on the desk. Bisker waited for George to withdraw, and such was the steward’s training that not a muscle of his face betrayed his astonishment. The door having been closed after George, Miss Jade said:

“Take a glass, Bisker.”

Miss Jade took three sips at her drink. Bisker held his glass to the light of the window, he sniffed at the contents, then he drank without swallowing and wiped his bristling grey moustache with the full length of a coat-sleeve. He was regretfully putting down the empty glass when Miss Jade said:

“Should it turn out that Mr. Grumman did not meet with an accident, Bisker, that in fact he met his death through violence, everything will be most upset here at the Chalet. I hope, Bisker, that you will remain loyal to me. The guests will doubtless all depart, and the place will have a bad name to live down. Let us hope that Mr. Grumman met with a normal accident.”

Bisker’s small grey eyes became steady.

“What makes you think that Mr. Grumman might ’ave been murdered?” he asked.

“Don’t be stupid, Bisker,” snapped Miss Jade. “You tell me the man is dead and that he is lying in a ditch in his dressing gown and slippers. Surely you can recognize the possibility?”

“Oh, yes, marm. I can see that,” admitted Bisker.

“Of course you can. How long will it take Constable Rice to get here?”

“About five minutes in his car. Half an hour if he walks. This might be ’im coming now.” They listened. Then Bisker said: “No, it’s a car coming up the drive from the highway.”

The Police Station, staffed by one officer, was at a small hamlet approximately half a mile up along the highway above Wideview Chalet, and, therefore, Constable Rice would take a left-hand turn-off to reach the Chalet at its upper side by the main entrance and the garages. To come in from the city, cars entered through a wide gateway about a hundred yards below the wicket gate and the ramp to the highway. It was thus that Miss Jade and Bisker knew that Constable Rice would be bound to call at the house, and would not see Bonaparte and Fred, who probably were remaining near the body of Mr. Grumman.

The car that came up from the highway could be heard circling on the open space fronting the garages and the entrance to the reception hall. Both thought it was Dr. Markham, and Miss Jade passed from the office to the reception hall, followed by Bisker, who now could hear a car coming down the road from its junction with the highway above the Chalet.

There entered into the reception hall a man dressed in a grey lounge suit of excellent cut and quality. On observing Miss Jade, he removed his hat and advanced. His face was clean-shaven, and his complexion exceptionally pale. In that white face two dark eyes were emphasised. He uttered the formal “Good morning” with a slight foreign accent. Then he said:

“I’ve called to see my friend, Mr. Grumman.”

Miss Jade now had more command of herself.

“Oh, yes! Mr. Grumman is slightly indisposed this morning. In fact, we think he has met with an accident. We are just——Ah!”

Into the reception hall stepped Constable Rice. He was not a large man, but he looked efficient. He was wearing ordinary clothes. The visitor for Mr. Grumman, observed Miss Jade looking beyond him, turned about to face the constable, and Rice looked his astonishment.

“Why!” he said. “I do believe it’s our old friend, Marcus! Marcus without his little black moustache, too! No, you don’t, Marcus!”

Rice flashed into a crouch and then leapt forward. He was actually off the floor when they heard a distinct “florp” sound. Miss Jade could see the weapon in the visitor’s right hand, a weapon having a long and ugly nozzle—a silencer. The velocity of the policeman’s body carried it to the place where the visitor had been standing, but he leapt aside, and Rice fell to the floor, an inert and sprawling figure.

He lay quite still. The visitor turned round to face Bisker and Miss Jade. His eyes were twin coals of flame, a dull scarlet behind black. Miss Jade opened her mouth to scream but the sound that issued from it was merely a long-caught sob.

Bisker stood with his hands doubled into his hips, his eyes little points of livid grey. The visitor backed slowly to the main entrance, stood there for what seemed a long time, then vanished beyond the door he slammed shut. Neither Bisker nor Miss Jade made the smallest movement. They heard the sound of a car being driven swiftly down the drive to the highway. Then Miss Jade slumped to the carpeted floor.

To Bisker it seemed that his own voice came to him from at least a hundred feet distant. He was on his knees when he heard it saying:

“Now, now, Mr. Rice! You hurt bad?”

He turned over the body of the constable, and then ceased further movement whilst he gazed down at the small round hole in the centre of the policeman’s forehead, and at the thin trickle of blood oozing from it.

“The dirty rat!” he said slowly.

Then he was on his feet and running to the closed front door. He swung it open and dashed outside, ran for a short distance over the bitumened space, then pulled up and said again:

“The dirty rat!”

On returning to the reception hall, he discovered Miss Jade on her hands and knees, and because her hair was all awry he had the impulse to laugh at her. Instead, he bent over and hauled her to her feet, and half dragged her into the office, where he put her in her own most comfortable chair.

“Leave it all to me,” he ordered, and was astounded by the timbre of his own voice.

He walked to the office door with the intention of closing and locking the door between the reception hall and the short passage leading to the lounge. Then he had his second brilliant “brain-wave” of that morning. He went back to Miss Jade’s desk and pressed the electric button summoning George.

Bisker was standing at the door between hall and passage when George appeared.

“Bring a bottle of whisky and glasses for two and a siphon of soda-water,” he ordered.

George was on the point of questioning this order when Bisker partly stood aside to give George a view of the dead policeman.

“Get that whisky quick,” Bisker snarled, and George almost ran to obey. When he returned, Bisker let him into the hall and locked the door. He took the tray from George.

“Bolt the front door—go on—quick.”

In the office he found Miss Jade still slumped into her chair. She looked up at him, her black eyes wide and unwinking. She opened her mouth to scream, and Bisker said:

“Keep your trap shut, marm.”

He poured whisky into a glass, added a splash of soda-water and offered it to Miss Jade, who continued to regard him with a fixed stare.

“Take a holt of yerself, marm. Come on—drink ’er up.”

“Bisker!” she cried. “Is Mr. Rice dead?”

“As mutton, marm,” replied Bisker.

Miss Jade noted the remarkable metamorphosis in Bisker, Bisker the retiring, apologetic, shuffling Bisker, and she thought it even more strange that she liked him and experienced a feeling of comfort—of all feelings she might be expected not to be expecting. Her arms slid outward over the desk and her head fell forward to rest upon them as she burst into a fit of weeping.

Even as she wept she heard the gurgle of liquid pouring into a glass. She did not observe Bisker fill a glass to the brim and drink it without more than one swallow. She heard the siphon sizzle when Bisker half filled his glass with soda-water for a “chaser.” Then she heard him at the telephone calling for Police Headquarters, Melbourne.

Her weeping ceased as abruptly as it had begun. She moved her body upwards. Bisker was sprawling over the desk speaking into the receiver, describing what had happened. She felt inexpressibly tired. Almost mechanically, she picked up the drink Bisker had poured for her and began to take quick sips from the glass. Behind Bisker stood George and she thought how extraordinary it was that George appeared calm and self-possessed.

Presently Bisker replaced the telephone.

“A patrol car in an outer suburb nearest to us will be here in twenty minutes,” he told her. “I’m to keep everyone out until they arrive. You had better go and see that the guests don’t wake up to what’s happened.”

“I—I——” began Miss Jade, when Bisker cut her short. It was necessary, in order to execute a little plan he had thought of, to get rid of Miss Jade and George.

“George!” he snapped. “Help me to take Miss Jade outer here.”

They had almost to carry Miss Jade from the office and across the reception hall, past the sprawling figure on the floor. At the passage door Bisker glared into George’s eyes and snarled:

“Take Miss Jade away to her room, anywhere. And keep your own trap shut, too. Get me?”

George nodded. Bisker unlocked the door, and George assisted his employer out into the short passage. After that Bisker shut and re-locked that door. He ambled back into the office, where he put the siphon behind a lounge chair, the glasses into a desk drawer and the three-parts-full bottle of whisky into his hip pocket. Then he passed out of the office, crossed to the main door, unbolted that, passed outside and re-closed the door, and stood hesitant on the iron foot-grid before the front step of the porch.

Would he have time to take the bottle of whisky to his hut and there conceal it under his mattress? Hardly. There was, too, the chance that someone might see him, and the police might hear of it and want to know why.

Either side of the front door there grew an ornamental shrub in a large tub. Bisker selected the tub on the left side of the door. The earth was friable. He scooped a small and deep hole straight down so that the bottle would not lie longwise with the danger of its precious contents seeping out from the glass-stoppered cork. Down went the bottle into the hole. Bisker covered it in, having to place only three inches of earth above the stopper. That done, he sat on the edge of the tub and produced his tobacco plug, knife, pipe and matches and began to slice wafers from the plug.

The second wafer was cut when round the corner of the building appeared Mr. Napoleon Bonaparte.

“Ah! Bisker! Did you call the local policeman?” Bony enquired.

“I did, Mr. Bonaparte. He’s here—inside.”

“Indeed! What is keeping him?”

Bonaparte’s blue eyes regarded Bisker with a penetrating stare.

“You just didn’t happen to see the car what come up the drive and then went down the drive a few minutes ago, did you?” Bisker asked.

“I did. What of it?”

“Didn’t note the number, I suppose, Mr. Bonaparte?”

“No, I wasn’t near the drive. Why?”

“Well, the bloke in that car came into the reception ’all when me and Miss Jade was waiting for Constable Rice to arrive. The bloke in the car came in and asked for Mr. Grumman, and Miss Jade was putting ’im off, sort of, when Rice came in. Then the bloke saw Rice and Rice recognised ’im, and Rice made a jump for ’im and he shot Rice with a pistol fitted with a silencer.”

“Indeed! Is the constable badly hurt?”

“He’s quite dead,” replied Bisker, and felt disappointment at not observing any alteration in the expression of mild interest on Bonaparte’s dark face. Then all that had happened burst from him as the taut nerves began to relax, and when it was told, he sat trembling on the edge of the tub, the brief period of self-appointed authority vanished.

“There is nothing we can do, Bisker,” Bony said, “but wait for the police.”