Читать книгу More Cases of a Private Eye: Classic Crime Stories - Ernest Dudley - Страница 7

THE HOUSEBOAT SHOOTING

Mist curled up from the river like silent ghosts, a distant tug’s siren echoed eerily. Overhead the sky was black and starless.

Simone hung on to Craig’s arm, which he didn’t mind a bit, as they made their way along the towpath below Kew Bridge. They were looking for the riverside bungalow of Inspector Lumley. The Inspector was an old friend and had asked Craig to look him up; he thought he had a little job he could put his way.

A dark mass loomed up out of the river on their right and Craig muttered:

“This is the houseboat, anyway. Lumley’s bungalow should be about fifty yards along.”

Simone suggested in her husky French accent:

“Perhaps there are more houseboats?”

“Shouldn’t be,” Craig said. “This is the only one along this stretch of the river. Anyway, we’ll soon check up. ‘Shangri-la’, the houseboat’s named.” He produced his cigarette lighter. “Bound to be the name-board about here—”

He broke off and Simone’s grip on his arm tightened suddenly.

“What was that?” she asked.

He paused before saying, casually:

“Could be just a car backfiring somewhere. Or—could be a shot.”

“It seemed to come from the houseboat.”

“In which case,” he said, “chances are it was someone cutting loose with a gun. They wouldn’t be driving a car round their sitting room.”

Craig found a small gate, which admitted them on to a railed gangplank.

“Watch your step,” he told Simone as he led the way, and Simone followed close behind him. The river ran black beneath them, lapping against the sides of the houseboat.

Craig pressed the bell of the front door. It opened almost at once, and a woman stood framed in the doorway. She was in evening dress, with gardenias in her blonde hair. Her eyes were round with apprehension.

“We were just passing,” Craig said pleasantly, “and thought we heard a shot.”

“It’s my husband,” she gasped. “He—he’s dead.”

“Who is it, Marion?” a voice called out behind her, and a man hurried forward. “Who is it?” he asked again, his tone hitting a high note.

Craig said the speech he’d made to the woman over again. The man eyed him sharply, then patted the woman’s arm.

“All right, Marion, I’ll take care of this. The doctor’s on his way.”

Edging himself into the narrow hall, Craig said:

“Maybe I can be of some help?”

“Who are you?”

Craig introduced himself, and the man said:

“In that case you couldn’t have called at a more opportune moment. I’m afraid this will have to be a police job, anyway. Come in.”

Craig raised an eyebrow at him and stepped inside, Simone following him.

“I shot him,” the other went on quietly, and Simone gave a little gasp. “It was an accident, of course,” the man continued. “Thornton was showing me one of his revolvers, I didn’t know it was loaded and it went off.”

“Where is he?” Craig said.

The woman answered him.

“In his room, Richard,” to the man, “will you show him?”

Craig went along with the other, whose name was Winslow, to a small room. A middle-aged man lay collapsed in a deep chair.

Craig took a look at him and shook his head grimly. He glanced round at the walls covered with sporting prints and photographs, hung with swords and foils, plus various other sporting trophies. On the table lay several revolvers and a pair of old-fashioned pistols.

Craig glanced at Winslow.

“You say he was showing you one of these when it went off?”

Winslow nodded.

“Which was the gun?”

Winslow handed him a squat-looking revolver, which Craig broke. It held four rounds of ammunition.

“Were you alone with him when it happened?”

“Yes. Mrs. Thornton was in the bedroom. The others were in the sitting room.”

“Others?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Greenway. It was just a little party. We were going to play cards afterwards. Then, after dinner, Thornton—he was mad about his collection of guns—asked me to have a look at those two French pistols he’d just bought.”

Craig glanced at the two heavily ornamented pistols on the table. The other was continuing:

“After I’d looked at them, he handed me this other one, asking if I’d seen it the last time I was here. I’m afraid I don’t know anything about guns—frankly, I’ve always been nervous of them—and I took it from him without thinking. He never warned me it was loaded. I must have pulled the trigger. There was a terrific report and he fell down.”

Craig looked at the inert figure slumped in the chair. He said to Winslow:

“The bullet hit him in the chest. You couldn’t have done better if you meant to kill him.”

“That’s an uncalled-for remark—!” the other exclaimed hotly.

Craig said, through a cloud of cigarette-smoke:

“Take it easy. I’m not accusing anybody. You say,” he went on calmly, “Mrs. Thornton was in her bedroom? Where is it? And maybe she would like to tell me what she did—”

“She rushed in—” began the other, but Craig interrupted him.

“I’d like to hear it in her own words,” he said.

The other nodded and went out.

Craig took another look round the room and stared for a moment at the inert figure in the chair. Suddenly he noticed the watch was hanging awry from his waistcoat pocket. The watch-chain had snapped. Craig drew at his cigarette and then went into the bedroom.

Mrs. Thornton joined him almost immediately.

“You want to ask me some questions?” Her voice was low and unemotional,

He shot her a look. She’d got herself pretty well under control, he thought. He said:

“You were here when your husband was shot?”

“Yes,” she said. “I—I rushed into the other room and saw him collapsing on the floor. Richard said something about it was an accident. The gun had gone off. He was horror-stricken. Then he pulled himself together and I helped him get my husband into the chair. Then I ran out to the others who were in the sitting room. They calmed me and, just as I was going back to the study, you arrived.”

Craig stared at her thoughtfully. She was trembling. At that moment, Simone came in with a drink.

“Drink this, Mrs. Thornton. It will do you good.”

The woman threw Simone a grateful smile and took the glass. As she did so, something glinting beside a table leg caught Craig’s eye and he bent swiftly and picked it up He said, casually:

“Maybe I could have a word with your friends in the other room?”

Greenway was a tall, heavy-featured individual, his wife blue-eyed and fluffy. Both appeared overcome by the tragedy and corroborated Winslow’s and the woman’s story so far as they could.

“I was always scared of those revolvers,” Mrs. Greenway said. “I felt there’d be an accident one of these days.”

“Nonsense,” protested her husband. “Thornton always took the greatest care. It was young Winslow’s fault, obviously—”

He stopped short with embarrassment as Winslow came m, followed by Mrs. Thornton.

“I’ve already admitted I was to blame for the ghastly business,” he said with bitterness. He glanced at Craig. “Haven’t I?”

For answer, Craig stepped forward and picked something from Winslow’s lapel. It was an iron-grey hair.

There was a little silence. Nobody moved. Only the moan of a distant tug-siren cut into the stillness.

Craig nodded at Winslow and said nonchalantly:

“Supposing you cut the heroics and give me the facts? And—” as the other started to speak “don’t ask me what I mean. I just know you’re trying to shield Mrs. Thornton—”

There was a sharp exclamation from the woman.

“What the devil are you getting at?” demanded Winslow.

Craig sighed. He said, patiently:

“You and she were in the bedroom. Thornton came in with his gun—maybe he was the jealous husband type. There was a struggle, during which his watch-chain snapped.” To Mrs. Thornton, who was staring at the watch-chain link, which glinted in his hand, he said: “You got the gun from him and it went off. While you rushed in here, you,” he turned again to Winslow, “dragged the body into the duty. That’s how you got Thornton’s hair caught in your lapel—”

Winslow made a sudden movement, and the squat-looking revolver appeared in his hand.

“All right, Mr. Clever,” he snapped. “That’ll do for now. Don’t move, or this time I will shoot.” To the woman: “Get out of here, quick as you can. I’ll take care of him—or anybody else who tries to stop you.”

“Aren’t you making a second mistake?” Craig queried.

“Second—?”

Craig’s smile was chilly. He said levelly:

“You said that gun killed Thornton, but not a round in it has been fired—that’s how I knew you were lying when you said you’d shot him. Another gun did that job. And anyway,” he added, “even if you fired it now, the cartridges happen to be blanks.”

Winslow’s jaw sagged and he glanced at the revolver. Which was all Craig needed. Moving in like a flash he draped a punch on the other’s jaw that stuck and dropped him like a log.

Afterwards, Simone said:

“Did you have to knock the poor young man out like that? After all, he couldn’t have hurt you with those blank cartridges.”

Craig grinned at her.

“Blanks, nothing. You were just hearing me talk myself out of a nasty corner. The gun held four rounds that would have riddled me like a sieve.”