Читать книгу Murder in the Bookshop - Carolyn Wells - Страница 9

DOCTOR JAMISON, the Medical Examiner, was what the novelists call a strong, silent man. Two not indispensable traits for one of his calling, for his strength was seldom needed and his silence was frequently exceedingly annoying.

On his arrival, he gave a brief nod that seemed intended as a general greeting, and went straight to the body of Philip Balfour.

The situation seemed to him quite apparent. Beyond doubt, Philip Balfour had been killed by the vigorous stab which had also felled him to the floor.

‘What’s this thing?’ the Examiner demanded, carefully drawing the long weapon out of the wound.

‘It’s an old silver skewer,’ Sewell told him. ‘Early English, Georgian, most likely. It is my property and was lying on that table beside you when last I saw it.’

‘Then it was handy for the murder,’ exclaimed the Inspector. ‘They often pick up a weapon on the spot. Eh, Jamison?’

The doctor made no verbal reply nor did he look toward the speaker. Manton held out his hand for the skewer and took it gingerly on a sheet of cardboard he held ready.

It was a beautiful piece. Twelve inches long, exactly, it tapered from the point to the ring at the top, which measured an inch across.

The ring and the blade were all in one piece, the ring being not unlike a plain wedding ring.

‘There’s a hallmark on it,’ Manton observed, ‘you know, four little bits of squares under one another with designs in them. A lion and a sort of crown and a letter H and something I can’t make out. And above it all, some letters—’

‘Give it to me,’ said Burnet, ‘you’ll spoil the fingerprints—if any.’ The Captain took the skewer and laid it carefully aside.

The finger-print man, who with the camera men had come at the time Jamison did, turned his attention to the weapon.

‘It served its purpose,’ he remarked; ‘in all the detective stories, the killer uses a dagger from foreign parts, masquerading as a paper-cutter. I’ll bet there’s no prints on it. The killer was too cute.’

‘He knew his way about,’ vouchsafed John Sewell. ‘He took his ready-made weapon from the table and he lifted it with a cloth that belongs here. See that piece of flannel on the floor beside Mr Balfour’s shoulder? That’s a duster I keep to flirt around now and then. And I keep it in this desk drawer, which, as you see, is now empty. So you’re looking for a chap who knows this place familiarly.’

Sewell stopped suddenly, for he realized this could be made to apply to Keith Ramsay, who sat staring at him but saying no word.

‘Oh, yeah,’ said Detective Burnet. ‘You been here before, Mr Ramsay?’

‘Many times,’ said Keith, speaking indifferently.

‘I have a couple of dozen friends who come here ten times as often as Mr Ramsay,’ Sewell declared, ‘and they all know where I keep that dust-cloth. That’s no clue. But I’ll give you a pointer. A new development in finger-printing allows prints to be secured from fabrics—a trick only lately used. Save that duster, Inspector, you may bring in your man with its help. And you needn’t look toward Mr Ramsay; I wouldn’t have mentioned it if it were possible to imagine him implicated.’

The Examiner rose from his stooping posture and said, succinctly: ‘Stabbed straight through the heart with that skewer. A strong, hard blow. Died practically instantly. Stabbed by a man who used his right hand. Took the blow without resistance, so probably unconscious at the moment.’

‘Was he chloroformed, too?’ asked Burnet.

‘I think not. More likely knocked out by a blow. Here’s a lump on his jaw made by a blow that would have smashed an ox.’

‘How long’s he been dead?’ Manton asked.

‘Dunno. Not long. Half an hour more or less.’

‘The blow on his jaw didn’t kill him?’

‘No. Guess I’ll be gettin’ on, now. You can send the body to the morgue. Any notion who killed him?’

‘No,’ said John Sewell, before anyone else could speak.

‘I have,’ said Keith Ramsay, slowly. ‘It comes back to me now that a man came in at the back door—it must have been the back door, because I heard a slight creak—and I heard a noise like someone falling, and when I looked round, I saw a man with a black satin mask on coming toward me, and as I looked past him, toward Mr Balfour, I saw he was crumpled up on the floor.’

Detective Burnet regarded the speaker with unconcealed derision.

‘Just made that up?’ he inquired, sarcastically. ‘An important fact like that, and you forgot it in your first account!’

‘Exactly,’ returned Keith; ‘and you’d forget things, too, if you were given a knock-out dose of chloroform.’

‘Tell me a little more about the man in the iron mask,’ said Manton as the Medical Examiner went away.

‘It wasn’t iron,’ said Keith, seriously. ‘But it was black satin. Not just a piece of stuff with eyeholes cut in it, but a regular, well-made mask, like you’d buy for a party.’

‘You looked at it very carefully, Mr Ramsay,’ and Manton shook his head a little.

‘Not consciously. For a few seconds I saw the man coming toward me and, as I stared, the mental picture of that mask fixed itself in my brain permanently. I think I should know it if I saw it again. It was stitched round the edges and had a sort of ruffle that covered his mouth and chin.’

Burnet looked at him with mock admiration.

‘You certainly succeeded in getting a mental photograph of the thing, didn’t you?’

‘Couldn’t help it,’ Keith said, carelessly. ‘You see, when the lights went out it was dark, but always, in a few seconds, one’s eyes adjust themselves to the change and you sort of see things dimly. I did, anyway. I heard Mr Balfour fall and then I discerned this figure coming toward me. I could see a large white handkerchief, or cloth, in his hand, but my attention was caught by that mask and I stared at it. I could see his eyes glittering through the eyeholes and then, in a moment, the sickening whiff of chloroform came to me and though I struggled for a few seconds, I lost consciousness. When I came to the lights were on and Mr Balfour lay on the floor with that skewer sticking in his heart. The man was not here.’

‘How long were you under the influence of the anaesthetic?’ asked Manton, looking at him curiously.

‘I’ve no idea,’ returned Ramsay; ‘how could I have? One doesn’t time one’s actions in such circumstances.’

‘Yet you seem to have a pretty clear idea of what went on.’

‘Not at all. When I regained consciousness, which came slowly, I saw Mr Balfour dead—’

‘How did you know he was dead?’ interrupted Burnet.

Keith Ramsay looked at him, calmly. He did not seem to resent the Captain’s questions, but he seemed to think him ignorant or impertinent.

‘It doesn’t require a very vivid imagination to assume a man is dead when he lies motionless, in a distorted position, with a dagger in his heart.’

‘What did you do?’ asked Manton.

‘I started to cross the room, to go to him, but I found myself wobbly and had to wait a few moments to get steady enough to walk.’

‘And then you walked?’

‘I did. My brain cleared more rapidly than my muscles coordinated, and when I found myself at Mr Balfour’s side I sat down in that chair and thought out what to do.’

‘And you decided to call Headquarters?’

‘I did. That is the duty of any citizen who discovers a crime. I was, of course, aware that you would at once conclude that I was the criminal. That is for you to prove, if you can. I did not kill Mr Balfour, I would have no reason for doing so. He was a splendid man. I admired and respected him. I used my best efforts to be a satisfactory librarian to him and he said I was one. I have learned much about rare books, both from him and from Mr Sewell, and I am deeply interested in collecting them.’

‘Yes, yes, Mr Ramsay,’ the Inspector said, ‘but let us get to the facts of what happened here this evening. At what time did you and Mr Balfour come here?’

‘I think soon after ten o’clock. Mr Balfour said we would start at ten, but we were delayed a little.’

‘I’m not quite clear about the details of your visit. If Mr Sewell was not here when you arrived, how did you get in?’

John Sewell looked at Ramsay. He had every confidence in the young man, but he very much wanted to hear the answer to that question.

The witness hesitated. Implicit as Sewell’s confidence was, he had to admit to himself that Keith Ramsay looked like a man with something to conceal.

Detective Burnet spoke.

‘I’ll tell how you got in, Mr Ramsay; you forced an entrance through that back window.’

He pointed to a window in the rear wall next the door.

It was closed now, but the detective had examined it. He went on: ‘You shoved back the catch with a jack-knife or something like that, pushed up the window, climbed in—’

‘And then opened the door to Mr Balfour,’ said Keith, calmly. ‘Yes, Inspector, that was the way of it. I think, Mr Sewell, if I tell you it was all right, you will believe me.’

‘Well, yes,’ Sewell returned, ‘but it seemed a little odd at first.’

‘Seems odd to me yet,’ declared Burnet. ‘Why the breaking and entering act, Mr Ramsay?’

‘I can give you no answer to that except the truth. Mr Balfour was exceedingly anxious to come here tonight. He wanted to find two certain books that are missing from his library, and he thought they might be down here—by—by accident.’

John Sewell showed amazement in every line of his countenance.

‘What’s that, Ramsay? What books are you talking about?’

‘Please leave the witness to me, Mr Sewell. The titles of the books are of no interest, we want to get at the facts of the murder. Go on, Mr Ramsay. Did Mr Balfour, then, come here on a secret errand? Did he know Mr Sewell would not be here and he would have opportunity to hunt for his books by himself?’

‘That I can’t say. It was Mr Balfour’s habit to keep his plans or motives to himself. Many a time I would start off with him having no idea of our errand or our destination.’

‘Did you go to the front door first?’

Sewell began to look more and more amazed; Keith Ramsay became more and more hesitant and embarrassed.

‘We did not,’ he said, after a pause. ‘Mr Balfour stopped at a narrow alley that runs part way through the block, and we came along that until we reached the rear of this house, and Mr Balfour asked me if I had a pocket-knife and if I could force the window catch with it. I could and did, but I do not look upon it as a felonious entrance for we had no wrong intent. If Mr Sewell had been here, Mr Balfour would have knocked at the door and been admitted.’

‘Are you often here of an evening, Mr Sewell?’

‘Oh, yes, frequently.’

‘And does Mr Balfour, when he visits you, always come to the back door?’

‘Why, I don’t remember. No, not always.’

‘Sometimes?’

‘Y-Yes.’

‘I think, Mr Sewell, that you must admit that this is the first time the gentleman ever came here and arrived at the rear entrance. Isn’t that right?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I don’t remember. What has that to do with it, anyway?’

‘Only that, unless it was his habit, it seems very strange for Mr Balfour to make the entrance he made this evening.’

‘Oh, very well, we’ll agree it was strange. But of no consequence as I can see.’

A heavy tread was heard, as of someone coming through the big front room. In a moment a shock-headed youth appeared in the doorway.

‘Hello,’ he said, cordially. ‘What’s going on?’

‘How did you get in?’ asked Burnet, gruffly.

‘Through the front door with my latch-key. My God! What’s that?’

He stared at the still form, now covered with a spread from the police equipment.

‘Who—who is it?’ he stammered.

Sewell spoke gently. ‘Sit down, Gill. Inspector, this is Mr Gill, my assistant. He has a key and comes and goes at will.’

‘Is it somebody dead?’ Gill persisted, looking now at Manton.

‘Yes, Gill,’ said the Inspector, ‘it is Mr Philip Balfour. As you are here, will you give an account of your own doings this evening? Where have you been since, say, nine o’clock?’

‘Well, no, Inspector; I don’t care to give an account of myself, unless you have reason to demand it. Was Mr Balfour murdered? Or why the Criminal authorities?’

‘Yes, Mr Balfour was stabbed by an unknown assailant.’

‘Gee! Can you find out who did it?’

‘We hope to, and we fully expect to. You are not helping us by your refusal to answer my question.’

‘It wouldn’t help you any if I did answer it. And I haven’t been in this vicinity until just now. I was passing, I saw a light, so I came in. Your henchmen in the front room didn’t want me to pass, but I rather insisted and they gave in. What about it all, Mr Sewell?’

‘Do you know anything about two small mathematical books that are missing from Mr Balfour’s Lewis Carroll collection?’ Sewell said.

‘Sure I do. Want ’em? Here they are.’ He took from his overcoat pocket two small books and handed them to Ramsay.

‘Yes, these are the right ones,’ and Ramsay laid them on the table beside him. ‘Thank you.’

‘What are you doing with them, Gill?’ and John Sewell looked a bit accusing.

‘It’s all right, Guv’nor. Tell you all about it some other time. Of no interest to these uninterested onlookers. Get down to cases. Who killed poor old Balfour?’

‘We’ll find out,’ Burnet told him. ‘Let’s hope it wasn’t you.’

‘Don’t try to get me fussed,’ Gill said; ‘I’d hate to kill anybody. I never have, as yet, and I doubt I ever shall. Did some person or persons unknown kill Mr Balfour? I’ve a right to know about things, haven’t I, Mr Sewell?’

‘Yes, so far as I am concerned. In my opinion, a marauder came here, masked, and stabbed Mr Balfour with our old English skewer. The long silver one. There it is on the table.’

‘I see it,’ and Gill rose and went to the table. ‘Don’t be alarmed, Inspector, I shan’t touch it. What’s going to happen next?’

‘This, for one thing.’ Sewell looked anxious. ‘I want you to look, Gill, and see if that little book that came today is all right.’

Gill went round the room, taking books from the shelves, here and there diving into well-filled chests, opening certain drawers, and camouflaging his real place of search, turned back to his employer, and said:

‘No, Mr Sewell, it is not in the place I left it.’

‘No? That’s bad. Inspector, I am fairly positive that a very valuable book has been stolen from this room. A volume worth, to a collector, perhaps a hundred thousand dollars.’

‘Now, now, Mr Sewell, I’ve heard collectors tell big yarns, but that’s a whale this Jonah finds hard to swallow.’

‘Value it at less, if you choose, but call it one of the most eagerly desired books in America. And now can you bring this session to an end? Or can you excuse me? I am deeply saddened at the tragic death of my friend, but this loss is not unconnected with the case. The book in question was destined for Mr Balfour and it is not impossible that the intruder who stabbed him also stole the book. There you have a motive. But in any case, I want to get busy about finding the volume. If you want to stay here—’

‘On the contrary, I do not want to stay,’ but the Inspector looked perplexed. ‘I think I will let them take Mr Balfour’s body to the morgue, and I myself will go to the Balfour home, and acquaint the family with the facts of the case, in so far as we know them. Mr Ramsay will go with me and, of course, Captain Burnet. What is the family?’

Sewell answered. ‘Only his wife, I think. No one staying there, is there, Ramsay?’

‘No, not just now; they have lots of guests, coming and going, but nobody at present.’

‘There was a chap calling when I was there just now,’ Sewell said, ‘but he’ll most likely be gone.’

‘If not, we’ll chuck him out. Come on, Inspector, let’s go. I want to get some dope on this case. Sergeant Glass, here, will see to the morgue arrangements and he’ll make the report, res gestae evidence and all.’

Captain Burnet’s energy overcame Inspector Manton’s natural inclination toward delay and they were in the elevator, going up to the Balfour apartment, before any word had been said as to who should tell Mrs Balfour of the tragedy.

‘I’d better do it,’ Sewell said, as they walked along the hall. ‘You’re too nervous, Ramsay.’

Keith nodded his head without speaking.

He had his key with him but he preferred to let Burnet ring the bell, which Potter answered.

Sewell stepped forward.

‘We must see Mrs Balfour, Potter,’ he said; ‘give us a room where we can have a conference. The matter is important.’

The butler showed them into a formal reception room and went away.

In a moment Alli was with them.

In a black velvet hostess gown, her only ornament a rope of pearls, she came into the room with a calm composure that only those who knew her best could see was achieved by a desperate effort.

‘What is it?’ she said; ‘I know it is tragedy of some sort. Where is Mr Balfour? Why are the police here? Tell me—’

She moved a step toward Ramsay, but John Sewell stayed her.

‘Sit down, Mrs Balfour,’ he said. ‘It is a tragedy of which we must tell you. And I think it kinder to tell you the frank truth at once. Your husband was at my shop this evening, while I was here, and some mysterious intruder attacked him with a—a sort of dagger—’

‘And killed him—’

She spoke in a low tone, her great dark eyes gazing at him as if she were hypnotized. She sat motionless save for a quiver that shook her slender figure now and then.

‘Yes,’ said the Inspector, who felt this was his scene. ‘We have to bring you this sad news, and I trust you will be willing to answer a few questions that will help us in our search for the criminal.’

‘Of course,’ and her voice suddenly became tense. ‘I know you have to investigate the case at once. I am quite willing to tell you anything I can. Do not be afraid, I shall not break down.’

Sewell looked at her pityingly. He saw she was straining her nerves to retain her composure and he marvelled at her success.

‘You knew where Mr Balfour was this evening?’ asked Manton.

‘Yes, certainly. He and Mr Ramsay went down to Mr Sewell’s shop to see about some rare books.’

‘What books, Mrs Balfour, and what did they want to see about them?’

‘I haven’t the least idea. I am interested in my husband’s collection as a whole, but I know nothing of details or transactions.’

‘You knew that Mr Ramsay went with him?’

‘Oh, yes; I saw them go.’

‘Will you tell me the happenings here the rest of the evening?’

‘Why, yes. I sat in the library and read a magazine. A telephone call came from a friend and I talked quite a long time with her. A friend who lives in this building dropped in for a little call and Mr Sewell also called. Mr Sewell seemed anxious to see Mr Balfour and I asked him to wait as I expected my husband home soon.’

‘And Mr Sewell waited?’

‘Yes, until called away by telephone. Then he left the house, seeming a little preoccupied, I thought.’

‘And this was about what time?’

‘Why, I don’t know. Somewhere around eleven, I should say. But I’m not at all certain, I never know the time.’

‘Your other caller was still here?’

‘When Mr Sewell left? Yes. He went away shortly after.’

‘He lives in this house, you say? What is his name?’

‘Yes, he has an apartment on the second floor, I think. His name is Mr Swinton and he is a long time friend of Mr Balfour and myself.’

‘Well, now, Mrs Balfour, this may sound a hard question, but I must ask it. Do you know of anyone, anyone at all, who would have any wish to kill Mr Balfour?’

‘Certainly not!’ The brown eyes blazed. ‘He was a man friendly to all. He had few intimate friends, but he had a very wide circle of acquaintances and I am perfectly sure no one of them would wish him the slightest harm.’

‘He was on friendly terms with Mr Ramsay, his librarian?’

She smiled faintly. ‘Indeed, yes. I often told him he spent more time with Mr Ramsay than he did with me.’

‘You helped him with his books?’

‘I couldn’t really help him, but I often sat in the library while they discussed the books and I learned more or less about them.’

‘Did you know that Mr Balfour had bought or was about to buy a book from Mr Sewell that would cost something like a hundred thousand dollars?’

‘Oh, yes, I know all about that. Did you get it, Mr Sewell?’

‘The deal is still hanging fire. I can’t yet give a final report.’

‘It is probable, Mrs Balfour,’ Burnet put in, ‘that your husband’s death is due to his possession of that book, and—he was possibly killed by a member of this household.’