Читать книгу Death's Mannikins - Max Afford - Страница 10

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Morgan's eyes and mouth gaped wide. Blackburn, watching, could see a dozen questions trembling on his lips. But when the young man spoke it was merely a surprised, toneless echo:

"Disappeared?"

Jan Rochester nodded.

"So it would appear. No one seems to have set eyes on him since ten o'clock last night. He was in the drawing-room then. This morning, when he didn't come down to breakfast, I asked Michael to go to his room, thinking he'd probably overslept." She turned to Jeffery. "My brother had a touch of indigestion last night and sometimes takes sleeping tablets. Anyhow, Michael came back and reported that the bed hadn't been disturbed." Anxiety flamed afresh in her eyes. "Pimlott's raving about like a lunatic!"

"Why wasn't he watching Roger?" demanded Rollo. "That's why he's down here!"

"He wasn't keeping his eye on Roger because he was with me last night," Jan retorted. "We drove into the village. I wanted to make some purchases and Pimlott had to post some documents into his office. We took Dad's car and left here about eight o'clock."

"Was Roger here when you got back?"

"We didn't get back. Not until early this morning."

"What happened?" Morgan asked.

"Cloudburst," said Miss Rochester succinctly. "It came down just after we reached the village. We hung around until about eleven o'clock, when the storm began to slacken off. Just as we were starting out we ran into an A.A. man, who told us that the Moor road was two feet under water in the low-lying places. He said we'd never get through and warned us against trying. So we drove back to the hotel and stayed the night. We left early this morning and got back here about an hour ago."

Morgan frowned.

"I don't like the sound of this," he muttered. "Looks as if someone was just waiting until Pimlott turned his back. It's peculiar that the moment he takes his eyes off Roger this thing happens." He paused, to add rather unconvincingly, "I don't suppose your brother could have gone out for a walk?"

"Gone for a walk—in this?" The girl swept an arm at the grey sky and sodden moors. Her voice was sharp, almost irritable. "Don't be ridiculous, Rollo. Even Roger isn't quite as impossible as that!"

Jeffery interposed gently.

"I believe you mentioned, Miss Rochester, that your brother's bed had not been slept in? Doesn't that appear as though he went out last night and, like yourself, was prevented from returning by the storm?"

Jan shook her head.

"You don't know conditions here," she said. "My brother isn't likely to go out without letting us know, and even if that was to happen—where could he go? There's nothing between here and the village, and I can't imagine Roger walking eight miles on a stormy night. He rarely visits Rockwall, even by car. And if he didn't go to the village, where else would he be walking? Don't forget, my brother was a sick man last night. His indigestion was troubling him badly."

Morgan turned and stared out across the fog-veiled moors.

"He can't be out there! Consequently, he must be somewhere in the house. And if he's there, he's safe enough. Nothing could possibly happen to him inside 'Rochester!'"

Something coloured the girl's tone darkly as she replied:

"You told us that once before, Rollo. Only, it was Beatrice instead of Roger."

A silence damp as the trailing clouds fell upon the trio. It was broken by the sound of footsteps and a deep voice that called, "Who's that, Jan?" Then the speaker came out of the shadows of the hall—a curly-headed, fresh-complexioned young man with the solid build of a wrestler. He wore a bright sweater over a pair of grey-flannel trousers, and from his open-necked shirt rose a throat like the trunk of a young tree. He paused on seeing the stranger, and glanced quickly from Jan to Rollo Morgan, who stepped forward. He glanced at the girl. "Would you...?"

Miss Rochester said quietly, "This is my brother Owen, Mr. Blackburn."

The young man extended his hand. "Friend of Rollo's, eh?" he said cheerfully. "You'll find this a dull hole, I'm afraid. This weather's put the lid on any sport, although we might scrounge some grouse-shooting."

Blackburn's quick eye noticed a wrinkle form between the girl's brows.

"I wish you'd put some of your athletic energy into searching for Roger," she said, and turned to their guest. "You see, Mr. Blackburn, I'm the only person in the house who takes my brother's disappearance at all seriously."

"Rot!" said Owen shortly. "Just because we don't go rushing about letting our hair down all over the place, Sis thinks we're callous! It isn't that. Roger's such a wandering old sheep—he may turn up any moment and ask if his breakfast's been kept hot for him."

Jan shrugged her shoulders.

"Perhaps I am getting fussed over nothing," she admitted. "Anyhow, you'd better let Dad know your guest has arrived, Rollo. You'll find him in the study, I think."

"Good! Where are the others?"

"Still lingering over breakfast, I believe."

She nodded to Jeffery and turned away. Owen hesitated for a moment, then followed her. Sister and brother moved into the house, deep in a muttered conversation.

"This way," said Rollo.

The two men passed into the wide hall. Inside the light was dim and green—a misty, undersea radiance that filtered from an overcast sky. Jeffery had the impression of panelled walls and a generous hearth set at one end. A flight of stairs, set in the far corner of the hall, twisted to an upper landing, Rollo indicated this with a nod.

"That was where Beatrice fell," he said quietly.

Jeffery inclined his head without speaking. He stood looking about him. Up on the gallery the strange green twilight had deepened to gloom. He could perceive but dimly the far end of the landing, terminating in a high, narrow window with stained glass vivid even against the dull sky. The voice of Morgan recalled his attention. He turned to find his companion Beckoning towards a door set under the gallery.

"Cornelius' study," Rollo explained. He pushed open the door and glanced inside. "The Prof. doesn't seem to be here. Wait inside while I find him."

As Blackburn passed into the study the other turned away, and the sound of his departing footsteps echoed across the hall.

Professor Rochester's sanctum was little more than a cubbyhole containing the bare essentials. There was a littered writing-desk, an old-fashioned bureau, and three small straight-backed chairs. Books were everywhere. The walls were lined with the volumes. They overflowed into the room itself, piled in tottering heaps in the corners, spreading from desk to chairs to window-seat. Bindings of red and gold and calf and cloth, they drew Blackburn like a magnet, and walking across he examined the volumes, at first idly, then with growing interest.

"Who are you?"

He swung round. Standing in the study entrance was a stocky, sharp-featured little man. His eyes, magnified by a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, peered suspiciously into the room. At the same time his lower jaw moved rhythmically and tirelessly. This mechanical cud-chewing made no difficulty of speech, for the newcomer barked through moving jaws:

"What's your business here?"

Jeffery said mildly: "My name is Blackburn. I arrived this morning as a guest of Professor Rochester."

An expression of surprise crossed the other's face. He moved into the room with a jerky, sparrow-like strut. "Well, well!" he exclaimed. "Well, well!"

"Since I take it that you know my name." Jeffery said, "may I have a similar pleasure. Mr...?" He paused expectantly.

With the air of a conjurer producing a rabbit from a top-hat, the little man brought a card from his pocket. Jeffery took the slip of pasteboard, and slanting it towards the light, read:

TREVOR PIMLOTT

Argus Detective Agency

"Oh!" Blackburn nodded slowly. "So you're Trevor Pimlott?"

"In the flesh," admitted Mr. Pimlott, chewing. "In the flesh!"