Читать книгу Black Widow - S. Fowler Wright - Страница 8

CHAPTER VI.

It was a warm walk under the midday sun, and Inspector Pinkey entered the empty dining room of the Station Inn with a slight sense of fatigue, sufficient to double the comfort of the armchair into which he sank, and with an appetite which considered that lunch, due to be served in twenty minutes, could not arrive too soon.

But though his body relaxed in the cushioned ease of the chair, his mind was alert and active, and he was quickly and quietly aware of the entrance of another guest a few moments after himself, who sat down in such a position that he was out of sight unless the Inspector should turn deliberately round to survey him, which he was little likely to do, being satisfied that he could introduce himself better over the table of the coming lunch, if he should think it advisable to do so.

Nor was the newcomer so entirely beyond observation as he may have supposed, for there was a fire screen in the summer emptiness of the grate—a glass flower-painted screen, which reflected with sufficient clearness to inform the Inspector that he was himself being surveyed with more than the polite and casual interest that a fellow guest might be expected to show.

A few minutes later, when the waiter had entered with a steaming calf’s head, and other dishes worthy of a larger assembly, Inspector Pinkey seated himself opposite to a man of something less than middle age, neatly dressed, and with an appearance of competence and self-possession. He had sleek hair, short and black, and dark eyes in a sallow long-nosed face, and the Inspector, expert though he was in such questions of identification, had some doubt of whether he might be the man he sought.

But it was a doubt that he need not show. He resolved to reveal himself, and, if it were not Redwin, he could turn the conversation so that no harm would be done.

He asked casually for a mustard pot that he did not need, and then added, in his less official manner: “Pinkey’s my name, but I don’t suppose you’ve heard of me before. I’d better give you a card.”

He handed one over the table, which Mr. Redwin (for it was he) glanced at without surprise.

“So I supposed,” he said sourly. “Something about Denton, no doubt? What do you want to know?”

There was a directness of approach here which could only be met in the same way.

“I hoped you might be able to give us information which would throw some light on the tragedy.”

“Why me?”

“Because I understood that you were his confidential secretary until less than a fortnight ago.”

“Then I suppose you heard how I left?”

“I have heard that you left abruptly, but I know nothing of the circumstances, nor am I particularly concerned to enquire. I am merely asking you to give assistance, which is the duty of every citizen under such circumstances.”

Mr. Redwin made no answer to this. He went on with his meal as though he had not heard. The Inspector felt that it might be polite to add: “I need scarcely say that there is no suggestion that you had any complicity in the matter. If I ask your help, I am not therefore suggesting—”

Mr. Redwin interrupted him abruptly: “No, you couldn’t.” It seemed for a moment that he proposed to terminate the conversation with that curt interjection; but he went on: “Though it’s no thanks to you that I’m not in jail now. Do you think I don’t know how everyone’s been badgered to say they’re not sure I was here? If I’d happened to have been out walking that afternoon, you’d have moved all heaven and hell to find some pretext to run me in.”

There was a tone of mingled anger and contempt in this speech which made it evident that there would be no willing help from Mr. Redwin unless he could be brought to a different mood.

The Inspector was not in the habit of making outside reflections upon the local police whom he might be called in to assist, but he felt that the position justified him in remarking: “I’m sorry if anything’s been allowed to happen which you have good ground to resent. I only came down yesterday afternoon.”

“Well, it wasn’t any too soon.” The words were ungracious, but the tone was somewhat friendlier than before, and encouraged the Inspector to a further approach: “It must have been a shock to you when you heard of his death?”

“I couldn’t say I was over surprised.”

“Do you mean you had any reason to expect such an event?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that. But I might have made the right guess.”

“Do you mean you had reason to think that he’d shoot himself after you’d gone?”

“No, why should he?”

“You don’t think it was suicide?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Do you mean you had reason to suspect that he might be murdered?”

Mr. Redwin seemed about to reply, and then pulled himself up, as though wondering whether he might be saying too much.

“Inspector,” he said, after a time, “you’re asking me a good many questions. Do you mind if I ask you one for a change?”

“Not at all. Of course, I can’t promise to answer till I’ve heard what it is.”

“Well, that’s how I feel about yours. But what I’d like to know is whether there’s any law against slandering people to the police, because if so I’d rather not say any more. I’ve had trouble enough.”

“If you’ve any honest suspicion that you can’t prove, you can tell it to me in full confidence that I shall not let it go further until it’s been properly verified and confirmed. And if you’ve got such a suspicion, I need scarcely say that it’s your duty to speak.”

“Well, I suppose that’s what you’d be expected to say. But I’m not so sure. They might say it was malice, coming from me, and I don’t know where it might end. A man can have thoughts that he doesn’t speak. Not that I ever heard, anyway. I think I’ll just sit back and watch how the game goes.”

Inspector Pinkey controlled a natural irritation to say quietly: “I don’t think we can leave it there, Mr. Redwin. It seems to me that you’ve said too little, or else too much.

“I’ve told you that I’m sorry if you’ve been annoyed by any enquiries that the police felt it their duty to make, but you must see, if you look at it fairly, that you brought it more or less on yourself. Unless people are saying things about you now that are not true, you had made threats in public places against Sir Daniel that brought suspicion on you inevitably when he was found shot as he was.

“I’ve told you that we’re not accusing you, as we know you were here at the time, but if things stand as they do now when the inquest’s resumed, there may be evidence that these threats were made, and there’ll be a vague suspicion against yourself that you’ll find it hard to shake off. I suppose you know how people talk, without troubling to get the facts straight. And if that kind of talk once begins, it gets worse as the years go on.

“It seems to me that you’ve got more interest than most in getting it properly cleared up, and the truth proved, whatever it may turn out to be.”

Mr. Redwin listened to this argument with an expressionless face. Then a slight smile of derision came to his lips as he asked: “And you want to make me believe that you can’t see through it without my help? Well, you may be right about that. But I don’t know—”

The sentence stopped abruptly as a bucolic couple, delayed at the local cattle market, noisily and hastily entered the room.

The Inspector cursed inwardly, and then considered that there might be no loss on either side if there should be an interval for reflection on that which had been said already.

He rose and called for his bill.

“Well,” he said, with as much geniality as he felt able to show, “you might think it over, and we’ll have another chat later.”

He held out a hand, which was somewhat reluctantly taken, and went out to face the two-mile walk back to the police station. He felt that he would be glad of the quiet opportunity of reviewing a suggestive and yet rather baffling conversation. And after that he would have another talk with Trackfield. He saw that he was not likely to go back tomorrow. There was more in this than appeared. It was unfortunate that he could form no opinion as to what it might be.