Читать книгу Death's Mannikins - Max Afford - Страница 4

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Jeffery Blackburn became embroiled in the strange affair of the Rochester family by sheer chance. For some years, since he had relinquished the Chair of Higher Mathematics at Greymaster University in favour of the more fascinating pastime of criminology, Jeffery had used the gracious and well-appointed rooms at the Akimbo whenever he journeyed to London from his cottage on the gorse-covered slopes of Thursby village. On this particular occasion he had made the journey to visit his friend, William Jamison Read, Chief Inspector of the Criminal Investigation Department at Scotland Yard.

But he was destined not to see his friend. Read had, a week previously, taken charge of a murder case at Hartlepool, and there was little chance of his return for some days at least. Whereupon Jeffery turned his footsteps in the direction of the Akimbo, where he could plan his next move amid comfortable surroundings.

Blackburn was not in the least surprised to find Rollo Morgan in the lounge. They shook hands, and Jeffery, pulling up a chair, ordered drinks.

"Must be close on two years since I saw you," he remarked, lighting a cigarette. "What have you been doing all the time?"

Rollo made a grimace. "Stewing in a study all day," he complained. He patted his waist-line regretfully. "I'm getting fat as a pig on it, too. Round of golf twice a week and an occasional game of tennis is the only exercise I get. Except on a typewriter—I get hours of that!" He paused and glanced at his companion. "I'm a private secretary, you know."

"I didn't. Who are you working for?"

"Old Professor Rochester."

Blackburn's tone conveyed surprise. "Not old Cornelius Rochester, the demonology student?"

Rollo nodded. "That's the chappie."

"Do you like it?" Blackburn asked casually.

His companion shrugged. "It's a job," he returned. "I suppose I should be thankful, especially when there are ten thousand chappies with much better qualifications than mine hunting feverishly through the Want Ads. every morning. But don't get the idea that my work's anything of a sinecure. The patrician nose is kept pretty close to the grindstone, I assure you!"

Blackburn blew a smoke-ring. "The patrician nose appears to be very far from the grindstone at the moment," he observed mildly.

Rollo Morgan did not reply for a moment. He drained his glass and lit a cigarette. Over the match-flame, his eyes were sombre.

"Work's been postponed for a while," he said quietly. "There's been a death in the family—and the old man's rather upset about it. It was his sister, Beatrice. She was an invalid and pretty close to the Prof." He shrugged. "As a matter of fact, I've taken the chance to get a few days off. The place-well—it rather depresses me..." His voice tailed off.

"Something's on your mind, Rollo. What is it?"

For just a moment the other hesitated. Then he crushed his cigarette in the ash-tray and began fiddling with the ashes, brushing them into small heaps. He did not look up as he spoke.

"Blackburn, what would you say if I told you that not two hundred miles from London there'd been a recrudescence of medieval witchcraft?"

"I'll reserve comment until I hear more," the other said calmly. He beckoned an attendant and gave an order. When fresh drinks were brought, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

"Go on," he invited.