Читать книгу Blood on His Hands - Max Afford - Страница 6

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Jeffery Blackburn sat up and stared at the newcomer with sudden interest. So this was Val Sheldon, the twenty-five-year-old daughter of Sir Merton. He knew her age, as every person who read the newspapers knew it. Valerie Sheldon, despite her tender years, had already begun to make a name for herself with her brilliant detective novels, and critics promised a golden future for this young writer.

She was no bespectacled blue-stocking. Youth and freshness marked her clever, rather disdainful face. As she stood there, the young man found himself wondering just what it was that marred the attractiveness of her features. Perhaps it was the mouth, with its sullen droop. Perhaps her face was too austere, too sharply etched for beauty. There were no traces of grief on the chiselled features, only an expression of repressed excitement. The eyes, too darted quickly about the room. It was scarcely the face of an only child, who had lest her father. Read wondered at this also. He spoke gravely:

"This is a sad occasion for you, Miss Sheldon. The sudden death of your father must have come as a severe shock."

The girl, sitting with crossed knees, was occupied in the business of lighting a cigarette. She struck a match and, while it burned, raised her eyes and stared at the speaker steadily. Then she lit the cigarette, dropped the match on the carpet, and blew out a thin plume of smoke. "Let's get this business straight," she said. Her dark eyes never left the Inspector's face. Her voice was level. "This murder doesn't mean a thing in my life. I'm not going about shedding crocodile-tears over an occurrence that doesn't even stir me. Call it callous if you please—but Sir Merton probably got just what he deserved." She paused, shrugged her shoulders, and drew on her cigarette. "And he wasn't my father," she added slowly. "Sir Merton was my step-father."

"Your stepfather? Then Lady Sheldon—?"

The girl nodded. "Mother was, obviously, married twice. I was the child of her first husband. He enlisted with the first batch of men to go to France, and he was reported killed—although I feel sure that there was some mistake in that report. However, that doesn't concern us at this time." Her voice was grave, matter-of-fact, flowed on without variation. "After his death, Mother, who is one of the sweetest souls on this green earth, threw herself into Red Cross work. In that way, she met my stepfather, and they were married. I called myself Val Sheldon and let it be thought that I was Sir Merton's daughter because—well, frankly, it was a social advantage to be known as the daughter of a knight. And nobody, with the exception of Mother's personal friends and relatives, knew the truth." She paused to flick the ash from her cigarette.

"The marriage was a mistake from the start. My stepfather just didn't believe in monogamy—three, four, or even five weren't a crowd for him, so long as they were pretty and attractive. Mother discovered all manner of shady intrigues that almost broke her heart. She wouldn't divorce Sir Merton—had some quaint idea about the honour of the family, I believe. So it just went on, getting worse and worse. Then my stepfather took to secret vices, and that was the finish! I had disliked him intensely up to that point. From then onward I loathed the sight of him. After Mother had found about his unfaithfulness, he made no effort to hide it; indeed, he rather flaunted it in Mother's face. About two years ago, he took this apartment, and we at home saw less and less of him, thank heaven! He came down for an occasional week-end for the sake of appearances—but that was all. I visited him here when I wanted money matters arranged. And, except for these occasions, we tried to forget that he ever existed." She broke off with a crooked smile. "So you can scarcely expect me to shed copious tears at his passing, can you?"

"You know, gentlemen, I often believe there is too much fuss made about murder, especially the murder of a man like my stepfather. After all, human life is just about the cheapest thing in the world, and it has always puzzled me why the violent death of one insignificant individual should make such a difference." She had been studying the tip of her cigarette. Now she looked up. Her face was grave, "Wasn't it Oscar Wilde who pointed out that the meanest scullery-maid and the most loutish of ploughboys could manufacture human life between them? Even congenital idiots are capable of it."

"Where is all this leading us?" Read asked brusquely.

"Only to the fact that the means do not seem sufficient to the end," Miss Sheldon said calmly. "If a person steals a rare painting or a valuable piece of pottery, even the plans of an invention—by which I mean anything created, anything that could only be achieved by one brain out of tens of thousands—then that person should assuredly be punished. For that person has taken away something that may never be replaced. But to punish a person for taking the cheapest and most easily replaced of all things—human life—seems to me as ridiculous as punishing a person who crushes a spider on the floor."

The Chief Inspector eyed her grimly. "Fortunately, Miss Sheldon, the vast majority reject such an advanced point of view. An eye for an eye, the Scripture says. Here a man has been murdered and, regardless of the character of that man, the law says that the murderer shall pay forfeit with his life."

The girl shrugged her shoulders.

"According to what I've heard," she said coolly, "it's a most original murder. One of those locked-room enigmas, isn't it? All the doors and windows bolted on the inside and not a single clue left. Just like the plot from the latest novel..." She paused abruptly.

Read leapt on her words. "Rather the kind of plot you would plan, eh, young lady?"

Jeffery watched the dark eyes open and the brows rise arrogantly. "I don't understand you," she said coldly. "Are you accusing me of the murder of my stepfather?"

The Inspector grunted. Blackburn interposed gently: "Don't you realize that you've done everything in your power to make us believe that?"

Val Sheldon looked at him. Anger and amusement struggled for expression on her face. "Listen to me," she said at length. "The constable who rang my home this morning told Mother that Sir Merton had met with an accident last night. The detective in the other room told me that my stepfather had met his death at ten o'clock." She paused to give impressiveness to her words.

"At a quarter to ten last night I was speaking to my stepfather on the telephone from our house at Toorak."

The Inspector took a step forward. "You actually talked to him at that time?"

Miss Sheldon inclined her head. "That was what I said."

Jeffery moved from his chair and crossed to where Read was standing by the desk. He asked gently: "If you were barely on speaking terms with your stepfather, as you would have us believe—why did you ring him at that late hour?"

"I can't explain that without telling you the whole incident," the girl replied. She sat back in her chair and fingered her driving-gloves. "Last night Mother was giving a bridge-party. About half-way through the evening, as I happened to be dummy, I got up to look for some cigarettes. Just as I stepped into the hall, the telephone rang. Elsie, our maid, answered it, and told me that the call was for my stepfather. Mother was deep in her game—I didn't want to disturb her, so I told Elsie I would speak."

"What time was this?"

"A minute or so before half past nine. I took up the receiver, and a deep voiced asked, 'Is that Sir Merton?' in answer to my greeting. I told him (for it sounded like a man) no, and asked who was speaking. There was a slight hesitation, almost as though the voice were conferring with somebody. Eventually it replied, 'I'm a friend of Sir Merton's, and I must get in touch with him at once.' I suggested that the speaker ring my stepfather's town apartment, but he replied he had already rung there without raising an answer. Then suddenly the speaker seemed to lose all control. I could hear his voice trembling over the wire. 'For God's sake get in touch with Sir Merton and tell him to keep away from his town apartment to-night. Or you'll never see him alive again!' Naturally, I was astounded at such a message. I just stood there open-mouthed. Before I could think of a suitable reply, there came a click as the receiver was hung up abruptly. Just as that happened, the clock in the hall chimed nine-thirty."

Read nodded slowly. "What happened then?"

Val Sheldon gave a shrug. "It rather upset me, that call," she admitted. "I did not know what to do. If I told Mother, it would ruin her evening; and, besides, she had enough worry on stepfather's account already. I considered the matter for some minutes and then decided to ring up Sir Merton's town apartment. He must be there. When I did so, the call was answered almost immediately by my stepfather himself. He was surprised at my ringing him, naturally."

"You were sure it was Sir Merton's voice answered you?" Jeffery asked.

"Positive!" Miss Sheldon's lips twisted. "I've heard it raised against me often enough. Shortly, I told him of the message. He took it with a sneering chuckle. 'I don't see why you should take the trouble to do this, my dear, when you'd be perfectly happy to see me dead.' I told him that it was for Mother's sake. He chuckled again. 'Such touching thoughtfulness. But I've managed to struggle along these past two years without your felicitations, and I'll continue to do so.' With that, he hung up. Pleasant kind of parent, you see. I replaced the receiver and then the clock struck nine-forty-five. Mother was calling me from the drawing-room to come and continue my game."

Blackburn put a question when she paused. "When your stepfather spoke to you, Miss Sheldon, could you say if he was alone in his apartment?"

The girl shook her head. "I was only speaking to him for a few seconds. It never occurred to me to listen for any other voices."

There was a silence in the room. A sharp exclamation broke the hush, It came from the direction of the blackwood cabinet—a massive piece of furniture with drawers fitted on either side of a centre door. One of these drawers was standing open, and the two plain-clothes men were bending over it, their eyes focused on something that lay inside.

"What is it?" Read barked sharply.

Donlin turned toward him. "Let's have those tweezers, Chief. There's something in here that's going to interest you."

Without a word, the Inspector crossed to the cabinet, passing the tweezers to the detective. Blackburn did not move, nor did Val Sheldon, but their eyes followed every gesture. They watched Donlin manipulating the tweezers, attempting to grasp something that lay inside the drawer. After three attempts he lifted out the object, and, carrying it carefully, laid it on the desk. They craned forward and, as the detective stepped back, had their first glimpse.

It was a long, slender steel spike, one end sharpened to a needle-point and the other sunk in a small leaden base a trifle larger than a matchbox. The upper portion of this thin spike was stained a faded, reddish brown...

Chief Inspector Read, his arms folded, surveyed the object with narrowed eyes. He wheeled on Jeffery. "So that's the weapon. It's a paper-file, isn't it?"

No one answered. Then Val Sheldon rose to her feet and moved across to the desk, her eyes on the grim exhibit. She nodded quietly.

"It's certainly a paper-file," she told them. "But I can place it nearer home than that. For some months I was doing casual reporting work for the 'Courier,' and I saw dozens of files identical with this one." She raised her dark eyes to meet the Inspector's keen scrutiny. "Every reporter on that paper keeps one on his desk to file his notes upon."