Читать книгу Blood on His Hands - Max Afford - Страница 5

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Jeffery Blackburn stood in the entrance of the late Judge Sheldon's apartment. "From higher mathematics to the mathematics of murder," he murmured.

Chief Inspector William Jamieson Read had been Blackburn senior's closest friend, and young Jeffery had inherited that affection to almost the same degree. The only other thing that threatened to rival his friendship was the young man's love of his work. As a professor of higher mathematics, Jeffery Blackburn was destined for a brilliant career. His parents dead, he had few responsibilities, and every minute that could be spared from his equals and infinitives was spent in the company of the elder man.

They were taking coffee together when the news of the Sheldon death was telephoned from headquarters. Read's suggestion that Jeffery should coma along had been welcomed by the young man. An hour later, they were entering the block of flats side by side.

Read walked across to the desk and ran his eye over its furnishings. In addition to Sheldon's personal belongings, the glass top supported the usual office fittings—a clean sheet of blotter, an automatic calendar in a nickelled frame, a pen-tray and inkwell, some books between bronze stands, and a deep ashtray containing fragments of cigarettes. A desk telephone stood near the edge, but the receiver was hanging at the end of the wire, dangling almost to the floor. A pipe with a highly polished bowl lay near the ash-tray.

Read turned away and spoke sharply.

"Donlin! Armstrong!"

The two plain-clothes men stepped forward alertly.

"Search the room. Every inch of it." The Inspector swung around on the waiting detective. "You've been on the spot all the time, O'Connor. What's the news up to date?"

Speaking in terse phrases, the plain-clothes man put his superior in full possession of the facts, beginning with the story of the manservant, Hoskins, and concluding with the discovery of the key.

Read pulled him up shortly.

"What pocket?"

"Lower right-hand pocket, sir, in the waistcoat."

"H'm." The Inspector tugged at his moustache. "Where is this man Hoskins?"

"In his room. He occupies a small apartment about two doors farther along the corridor."

The Inspector rubbed his hands. His tone was business-like.

"Good! We'll see him as soon as I've had a word with the doctor. In the meanwhile, stand by in case you're wanted." He dismissed the detective and turned to where Conroy was staring out of the long window. "What can you tell me, Doctor?"

Conroy, a fussy little man with a short, pointed beard, walked across to the desk. "Here's my report, Chief. Death almost instantaneous. Caused by a thin, strong, steel weapon entering the back below the shoulder-blades. Weapon pierced the anterior tip of the heart where the large blood vessels lie. As far as can be ascertained, without an autopsy, I should say that the point of the weapon rested somewhere near the sternum bone. Wound neat and clean-edged, resulting in a certain amount of bleeding, but not nearly so much as if the wound had been jagged. A bullet-wound, for instance, would have made an ugly mess." He paused and looked at his superior. "There's one outstanding point. The direction taken by the weapon, the strength of the thrust, and the neatness of the entire business points to some person with a good elementary knowledge of anatomy." Conroy eyed the Inspector quizzically. "Anything more?"

"Very comprehensive," Read admitted. "What about the time of the murder?"

Dr. Conroy frowned, and one hand stroked his beard. "I can't say definitely without an autopsy," he said brusquely. "But rigor is well advanced and the wound has closed..." He considered frowningly. "I should say about twelve hours ago—say round about ten o'clock last night. Can't say nearer, at this stage."

Read nodded. "That's near enough. Anything else?"

The doctor took a turn up and down before the desk. Then he took the Inspector by the arm and walked him around to the rear of the body. "See that stain on the back? Well, it puzzles me. That weapon penetrated the large blood-vessels, and although the orifice was small it should have bled much more freely. That stain's merely a seepage after the blood clotted and closed the wound." Again he eyed the body disapprovingly, as though resentful of this illogical point.

The Chief Inspector considered for a moment. "And what about the ear?"

"Oh, that!" Conroy dismissed it with a gesture. "Another neat job. Sliced off with a sharp instrument—probably a surgeon's scalpel. No mystery there."

"Not from your point of view perhaps," Read muttered. He was silent for a moment. "The weapon used to incise the ear wasn't the same as did the stabbing, I suppose?"

"Impossible. The two wounds are entirely different. A scalpel has only one cutting edge. The weapon used for stabbing was circular, without any cutting edge."

Read frowned. "Queer...queer...he could have quite easily stabbed with the scalpel, I suppose? Then why the devil didn't he?"

Conroy allowed himself a prim smile. "That's your job." He turned away. "That's all the help I can give you at the moment. I'll tell O'Connor to 'phone the morgue and get this body out of your way. Then perhaps I'll be able to tell you more." He moved out of the room, stopping to talk to the detective near the door. The Inspector, watching, raised his voice.

"When you've done that, O'Connor, we'll see that manservant. Then the desk-clerk and the rest of the witnesses. Make it snappy, now." He turned back to Jeffery, who was watching interestedly. "Take a seat, son. And keep your ears wide open. Don't be afraid to ask questions. This isn't a murder case—it's a chapter out of a detective serial."

If, as Chief Inspector Read had said, this was a chapter from a detective serial, then Hoskins, who entered the room with O'Connor, was well cast in the role of sinister servant. Thin, stoop-shouldered, and dressed in sombre black, there was a certain funereal atmosphere about him that clashed with the Inspector's vital personality. He came forward apprehensively and took his stand opposite Read. In deference to the feelings of the witnesses, the Inspector had ordered the body behind the desk to be sheeted, and had Hoskins been face to face with the ghost of his late master, he could not have looked more ill-at-ease. He stood with downcast eyes, hands linked together, every now and then passing his tongue across his pale lips.

"Afraid, eh?" Read barked abruptly.

Hoskins raised his eyes, encountered the sheeted figure, and lowered them quickly. "No, sir. But a thing like that has never happened to me before, and—"

"There's nothing to be afraid of," Read assured him. "If you've nothing to hide, that is. What's your full name?"

"Albert Turner Hoskins, sir."

"How long had you been with the Judge?"

"About five years, sir. I came from Sir Trevor Anthony, the millionaire stockbroker. About five years ago Sir Trevor sailed for London and broke up his home here. I was unemployed when a friend of Sir Merton's, who knew of my service, suggested he should take me on. I have been with the Judge ever since."

"Did you serve him at his home as well?"

Hoskins shook his head. "Not for the past two years, sir. That's since Sir Merton had this apartment. During that time, he visited his home very rarely." He raised his pale eyes. "I understand that Sir Merton and his wife were not—not—"

"Not compatible, eh?" the Chief Inspector rapped. "Well, well! And what time do you retire at night?"

"Usually about eleven o'clock, sir. Unless, of course, I was given the evening off. Sometimes I received a summons in the night. The Judge has a bell-push by his bed connected to my room. If he wanted anything in the night, he rang for me."

Read eyed him narrowly. "That was rather an imposition, wasn't it?"

The man passed his tongue over his lips before he replied. "I—I think Sir Merton was nervous about sleeping alone."

"Ah! Attacks on his life, you mean?"

Hoskins nodded. "Yes, sir. There was that business of the key to this apartment, sir. Sir Merton insisted on having a special lock made for the door and retaining the only key. I was never allowed to enter this room. Sir Merton used to bring his correspondence into the bedroom and collect it from me when he returned in the afternoon. He locked this door after him on every occasion, and, as far as I know, the key was never out of his possession. Once when Sir Merton was in a confidential mood he showed me the key, balancing it in his hand. 'There's many a person who'd like to get hold of this for a few minutes, Hoskins,' he said. 'But they'll never catch me napping.'"

The Inspector nodded and gestured toward the long windows. "Do you know if these were always kept latched?"

Hoskins nodded. "Whenever I caught a glimpse of them through the doorway they were shut, sir. I could not see whether they were latched."

The Inspector, his face darkened with a frown, paused before his next question. Then: "What about that bedroom outside? Was the same guard placed on the key of that room?"

The servant shook an emphatic head. "No, sir. The door was always left unlocked all night. On occasions when I have answered Sir Merton's bell I have just walked into the room. And I know the door was unlocked during the day, since the maid cleans the room."

Read caressed his moustache. Jeffery, straddled across a chair, saw that his friend was mulling over the servant's reply, and he anticipated the Inspector's next question. Read fixed the servile Hoskins with a keen eye.

"Doesn't it strike you as peculiar, my man, that Judge Sheldon should have been so particular about the locks on this room—a room in which he was constantly on the alert—yet his bedroom, where he could have been easily attacked during sleep, was not even locked during the night?"

A shadow crossed the man's face. But his voice was steady. "I can't offer any explanation at all, sir. Naturally, the same thing occurred to me. But it was not my place to ask questions."

"Naturally." Read's tone was suave. "And did the Judge occupy this room frequently?"

"About three afternoons in every week," was the reply.

"What was the nature of his business?"

"I have no idea, sir." There was cold reproof in the tone. "I was always busy in my own room."

The Chief Inspector accepted the snub calmly. "Of course, the perfect servant. Did Sir Merton remain in here long?"

"On those afternoons, he would go in about two o'clock and come out for dinner at seven-thirty."

Again Read paused. He ran his fingers through his greying hair as if uncertain how to continue. Jeffery was pencilling some lines on a slip of paper. This he passed to the elder man, who read it and crumpled the paper in his hand.

"Did the Judge occupy this room yesterday afternoon?" he asked abruptly.

Hoskins, who had noticed Jeffery's action, darted a sudden suspicious glance in his direction. He looked back at Read and nodded.

"Yes, sir. He came in about the usual time. But I noticed a difference...worried, he seemed, and irritable, as if he had something on his mind. I heard him tramping backwards and forwards about this room all the afternoon. There might be a lull of about five minutes and he would be off again. When he came out at dinner-time he looked pale and ill. I noticed his hands when he lit his pipe—unsteady and trembling, they were. He told me to take the evening off. I was rather surprised, for I had already taken my regulation night off."

"Where did you go last night?"

"To a talking-picture, with a friend. I left him outside this building and came up to my room about eleven thirty."

Read's tone was quiet. "You didn't think to look in the bedroom and see if your master was all right?"

The servant's face reddened. "It did occur to me. But I was rather nervous about going into that room in the dark. Sir Merton was a queer man—he would not have thought twice about attacking anyone who came blundering in there unexpected like that."

The Inspector nodded curtly. "That's all right, my man. Now, as regards visitors—did Sir Merton have many women calling on him?"

Again the shadow crept across the servant's face, and this time there was definite fear in the expression. He shifted nervously and his eyes roved from face to face. Jeffery, watching the danger-signals hoist suddenly in the Inspector's cheeks, sighed for the man. There were storm-rumblings in Read's voice as he barked:

"Come on, my man! What's up with you?" Then, as the other swallowed awkwardly but did not speak, he leapt forward. Taking the servant's narrow shoulders between his powerful hands, he glared into the working face.

"You've been paid, is that it? You've been paid to keep your mouth shut!" The narrowed, steel-blue eyes almost shot sparks at the hapless Hoskins. "By God, if you don't speak, I'll turn you over to the boys at Headquarters and they'll get it out of you with a piece of hose-pipe!" He released the trembling man and stepped back.

Hoskins washed his hands in agitation. "I'll tell you," he whimpered dryly. Then, with sudden defiance, he burst out: "Yes. It's true that I was paid—that Sir Merton gave me certain sums of money to keep quiet about these women. They were always coming to him—sometimes half a dozen in a week..." His voice slurred, broke.

"And did they occupy this room with the Judge on his—er—afternoons at home?"

"No, sir." The reply came so quickly that the words almost tumbled on each other. "Sir Merton never kept them in this room longer than a few minutes. Some came at night, sir, but they never stayed long in his company."

Read smiled fiercely, his moustache bristling. "Ha! Guessed we'd find a love-nest if we probed deeply enough!"

The Inspector considered for a moment. "You knew Lady Sheldon and her daughter, of course. Did either visit the Judge while he lived here?"

The man raised his eyes. "Miss Sheldon came very infrequently, sir. Lady Sheldon never."

"And in your handling of Sir Merton's correspondence, did you ever run across anything that suggested an attack on his life...threatening or anonymous letters or anything of that nature?"

"Nothing whatever, sir."

"And you have nothing to add to the story you told O'Connor about your finding of the body?"

Again the man shook his head. He seemed anxious for the termination of the interview. Read measured him with a calculating stare for some moments. At length, he nodded.

"That's all, Hoskins. You may go now. You'll be wanted for the inquest, of course, as you found the body. You'd better wait in your room in case we want you again."

Thankfully, the servant turned to go. He had reached the door when Jeffery spoke quietly from his chair.

"Oh, Hoskins!" As the man wheeled about: "Did Judge Sheldon know that you were dismissed from the service of Sir Trevor Anthony for attempted blackmail?"

For a moment it seemed as though the servant would drop where he stood. The colour drained from his narrow face, leaving it deathly in its pallor. One hand sought the shattered door to steady himself. He glanced quickly about him like a trapped animal, and when his eyes came to rest on the young man, hatred burned beneath their heavy lids. He spoke with an effort.

"Yes—yes, sir. He knew about it. I..." He turned and almost ran from the room. There was a silence while they watched him go. Read glanced at Jeffery and traces of a smile hovered about the corners of his mouth.

"A reminiscence of your Court days, son?" he asked. As Jeffery nodded: "That's close on four fears ago, isn't it?"

"I never forget a face," the younger man returned. He eyed the servant's trail speculatively. "I shouldn't have brought that business up again perhaps, but it was a particularly nasty piece of work. Just about finished Sir Trevor's daughter's life, you know. That was the reason for the millionaire's sudden flight from Australia. And friend Hoskins was responsible for it all." He broke off as O'Connor signalled from the door.

"The boys are here to collect the body, sir," he called, and in response to Read's nod, two young men entered with a stretcher and proceeded to load it with their gruesome burden. The Inspector did not speak until they were out of the room. Then he gave an order to the plain-clothes man.

"Send in that desk-clerk from the other room. Hennessy brought her up ten minutes ago." He crossed to the desk and took up a sheet of paper, glancing at it. "Miss Mary Meynell."

Miss Meynell, when she appeared, was a tall, dark-haired girl with a firm, business-like mouth. She answered the questions put to her intelligently and with the crisp readiness of one long experienced in the business of inquiries. She stood opposite the Chief Inspector, returning his truculent, stare with level eyes. The grim lines about Read's mouth relaxed and his tone softened as he asked:

"What time did you come on duty last night, Miss Meynell?"

"Six o'clock," the girl replied promptly. "I finished my eight-hour shift at two o'clock this morning."

The Chief Inspector glanced at Jeffery with a look that said plainly: "There's something for your higher mathematics," then faced the girl. "I understand you have something to tell us about a visitor—who called to see Judge Sheldon last night." He pushed forward a chair. "Please sit down, Miss Meynell. And tell us everything, no matter how insignificant or trifling it may appear to you."

The desk-clerk thanked him. Seating herself, with her hands folded loosely in her lap, she began:

"It was a few minutes after nine o'clock last night. I remember the exact time, because at the nine hour I put my wrist-watch right by the clock in the foyer. Sir Merton entered from the street with another man. He came over to the desk to inquire for mail, leaving his companion standing some distance away. But it was this man's appearance that attracted my attention. He looked—well—rather queer."

"Queer?"

Miss Meynell wrinkled her forehead, and her words came slower. "Yes. It's hard actually to describe how—unless it was the full beard and moustache that the man wore. It's unusual to see a man wearing such an extravagant beard and moustache these days."

Read considered for a moment. "You weren't, of course, close enough to see if the beard was natural?"

The girl hesitated. "Well—it looked as natural as any full beard ever looks," she said with a slow smile. Then she sobered and continued crisply. "However, there were no letters for Sir Merton. As he moved away I heard him say to the bearded man, 'What is it you want?' and the man replied, 'If I could see you alone, I won't keep you more than a few seconds. But it's a matter of utmost importance.' Then they passed on out of earshot, walking toward the elevator. That was the last I saw of either man."

"You heard this bearded man say that he would keep the Judge only a few seconds?"

"Yes, sir."

"Yet, although you were on duty until two o'clock in the morning, you did not see this man come downstairs again?"

Miss Meynell shifted in her seat. "I didn't see him," she admitted.. "But that's not to say that he didn't come downstairs. Round about ten o'clock, we get busy at the desk—we serve after-theatre suppers, and people start booking by telephone about that time. I may have been busy on the wire when he came down." She paused and added: "However, if he came down by the elevator, the boy would know."

"Good!" Read rubbed his hands briskly. "Could we speak to that boy now?"

The clerk nodded and rose to her feet. "It was young Tommy Mallory—he's off shift and we'll probably find him in the basement. I'll send him up straight away."

Jeffery gave an apologetic shrug of his shoulders. He seemed rather uncertain how to continue. He was engaged in framing an opening sentence, when there came the sound of footsteps outside. Then O'Connor announced that a Tommy Mallory was waiting to see the Inspector.

Tommy Mallory, when he entered, was a young man about sixteen years of age. A pill-box hat was perched askew on his close-cropped, fiery hair and he had a snub nose set amid scattered freckles. The Chief Inspector surveyed him.

"You're Thomas Mallory?"

"Yes, sir."

"You were on duty last night about nine o'clock, I believe? Do you remember the man who came in with Sir Merton Sheldon—a man with a curling black beard?"

The boy nodded, and his eyes gleamed intelligently. "Yes, sir. Funny-looking chap."

Read said slowly: "Now—think carefully, Thomas. Do you remember taking this same person down in your lift last night?"

Without hesitation the lad replied: "I didn't take him down. He walked downstairs."

"Ah! What time was this?"

"Must have been close on twenty past nine, sir."

The Chief Inspector and Jeffery exchanged the briefest of nods. Then Read asked: "You actually saw him on the stairs?"

"Yes, sir. It was like this. I was standing outside my car last night when a party of young chaps came in. I think they'd been celebrating, sir, 'cause one was a bit funny. The others were trying to get him across the floor to my car. The clock inside was just sixteen minutes past nine. At that moment, the bell in my car buzzed and I saw it was a party on the eighth floor ringing. I thought it would probably be the chap with the beard, sir—but I didn't know what to do—whether to wait for the young chaps or go up to answer the buzz. At last the chaps got their friend inside. All the time the chap on the eighth floor was buzzing away and I thought how mad he'd be."

Young Mallory paused for breath. When he continued, the veneer of the Carnavon management began to slip away in his excitement.

"Well, sir, they put the tight chap off at th' fif' floor, and that took quite a time. It must have been about four minutes before I got up t' the eighth. When I got there an' pulled up, there was no party. I opened the door on the car an' there he was, sir, just starting to walk downstairs. 'Lift waiting,' I called to him. He looked round but didn't stop. 'Go to hell,' he says. 'I've been waiting for your lift for five minutes an' now I'll walk downstairs!' Mad, he was, sir. An' he went round the bend in the stairs an' that's the last I saw of him. A party on the tenth gave me a buzz an' I shot up t' answer that."

"Thank you, Thomas," said the Chief Inspector. "That's all for the time."

The boy nodded, grinned, and scuttled from the room.

Read looked across at Jeffery.

But the younger man's face reflected no satisfaction. "We're merely back where we started," he mused. "Sheldon's movements from nine o'clock until nine-thirty are accounted for—but what happened between that time and ten o'clock?"

Read was about to speak, when a sudden commotion in the outer room interrupted him. The next moment a young woman burst in—a tall, dark-haired girl, severely but expensively dressed. She stood in the broken doorway and glanced about with complete self-possession.

The Chief Inspector spoke sharply. "What are you doing in here, young woman? You have no right to come pushing your way into this room."

With calm confidence the girl walked forward and halted opposite him. "I believe I have quite as much right in here as you have," she said coolly. "After all, this is still Sir Merton's apartment." A cold smile hovered about her lips. "Allow me to introduce myself, gentlemen. I am Valerie Sheldon."