Detection Unlimited ih-4

by Джорджетт Хейер

  “Yes, I got the whole story of the crime,” said Hemingway cheerfully. “What you boys wanted me and Harbottle for when you had Mr. Drybeck beats me! He's got a trained mind, and he's bringing it to bear on this crime.”

  “A trained mind!” snorted the incensed Inspector. “You haven't that, of course, Chief!”

  “You're dead right I haven't!”

  “He fairly turned my gorge!” said the Inspector, ignoring this piece of facetiousness. “Him and his trained mind! A real, wicked mind, that's what he has! Trying to cast suspicion on a nice young lady!”

  “Taken your fancy, has she?” said Hemingway. “I'm bound to say she didn't take mine.”

  “You aren't going to tell me that you think a gentle little thing like that could have anything to do with this?” said the Inspector, shocked.

  “No, I'm not. I've got what wouldn't hurt you: an open mind! There's a great deal in what Drybeck says, and the fact that he said it because he's in the devil of a funk is neither here nor there.”

  “He was that all right.”

  “Of course he was. So would you be in his shoes. He's worked it all out, and whether he shot Warrenby or not I don't know, because I haven't got second sight, but what I do know is that he's proved to himself that he could have done it, in the time. Which saves me having to prove it for myself.”

  “He made one slip,” said the Inspector, with satisfaction. “How did he know Warrenby was shot with a .22 rifle?”

  “Yes, I can see you think he knew that because it was him did the shooting. You may be right, but it wouldn't surprise me if the whole village knows it.”

  “If they do, it's Dr. Warcop who's told them!” said the Sergeant, who had been listening intently. “Him or that fool, Hobkirk! The pair of them are so pleased with themselves for having been in on this that I wouldn't be surprised if they started giving talks about it on the air! A fat chance we shall have of rounding up all the .22s now that everyone's been tipped off! I ought to have done it the instant we got that bullet.”

  “Well, don't take on about it!” recommended Hemingway. “Unless this bird we're after has broken loose from Broadmoor, you never had a chance of rounding up anything but a lot of innocent rifles. The best you could ever hope for was to find someone who did have a .22, and has unaccountably mislaid it. What are we sitting here for?”

  “Red Lion, sir,” ventured the driver.

  “You should have said so before. Come on, Horace! We'll see what the lads of the village have got to say about this horrible crime. Properly speaking, we ought to leave you outside, Carsethorn, because you'll very likely cramp my style. However, I daresay they've all had a good look at the car by now, so you may as well go in with us.”

  “Well, there's one person as has seen us, sir,” said the Sergeant, after a glance at the Red Lion. “That's Mr. Plenmeller, sitting in the window. I don't know but what I wouldn't as soon wait in the car.”

  “What you want to do is get the better of these prejudices of yours,” said Hemingway severely. “What with your having it in for this author, and the Inspector getting a down on poor old Mr. Drybeck—as helpful a gentleman as I ever met—you'll very likely infect me, between the pair of you. You come and introduce me to the local crime-expert!”

  This, in the event, proved to be unnecessary. No sooner had the three officials entered the bar-parlour than Gavin Plenmeller, who was standing drinks to Miss Dearham, Major Midgeholme, and young Mr. Haswell, hailed them with every evidence of delight. “If it isn't my friend, Sergeant Carsethorn, with—unless my instinct betrays me, which it rarely does—dignitaries from Scotland Yard! Come over here, Sergeant! You'll never guess what we've been talking about! George, serve these gentlemen, and chalk it up to my account! That,” he added, addressing himself to Hemingway, after one piercing scrutiny of his face, “is to put you under a sense of obligation, in case you decide to arrest me. You're Chief Inspector Hemingway: you had charge of the Guisborough case. At some future date, I shall do my best to get you into a malleable condition: I would give much to know the details of the evidence which was suppressed. I was in court every day. Let me make you known, by the way, to Miss Dearham! She, like Mr. Haswell here, doesn't come into this case, much to her regret, and quite unlike Major Midgeholme, whose motive for shooting Sampson Warrenby, though obscure, you will no doubt discover.”

  “Really, Plenmeller, your tongue runs away with you!” said the Major stiffly. “Good-evening, Chief Inspector. Sad business, this.”

  “What a mendacious thing to say!” remarked Gavin. “When we are all perfectly delighted! Or did you mean sad for Warrenby?”

  “Yes, I rather got the impression that Mr. Warrenby wasn't what you might call popular,” said Hemingway. “Good-evening, Major: I've had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Midgeholme already.”

  The Major looked startled. “You've been to see my wife?”

  “Not properly speaking, sir: no. I met her up at Fox House. With Ulysses and Untidy,” he added calmly. “Very handsome little dogs. Prize-winners, I understand.”

  “The way the police ferret out information!” murmured Gavin, causing the Major to flush slightly. “But I don't think Mrs. Midgeholme ought to have forced Ulysses to visit the scene of his humiliation. Rather sadistic, don't you agree?”

  “No, I do not!” snapped the Major.

  Abby turned her candid gaze upon Gavin, and spoke with paralysing frankness. “Definitely unfunny,” she said. “Why don't you try to find out who really did it, instead of making up fantastic stories about people who couldn't possibly have done it? You ought to be able to: you write awfully clever thrillers. I haven't read any of them myself, actually, but that's what everyone says.”

  “Attagirl!” said Charles admiringly.

  “What a low, nasty backhander!” remarked Gavin. “I shall ignore it. When I write my clever thrillers, ducky, I have the advantage of knowing from the start who did the murder. In fact, I know who is going to do it. It makes quite a difference, and serves to show how depressingly unlike life is fiction. My suspects all have lovely motives, too. You never met such a set of crooks as I can (and do) assemble in one restricted scene. Why, I once wrote a good stabbing-mystery set in a village just like this, and even the verger turned out to have the murkiest kind of past! The people of Thornden are too respectable for me. I won't say dull, leaving that to be inferred.”

  “Would you describe yourself as dull, sir?” enquired Hemingway. “It isn't the word I'd have chosen.”

  “No, or respectable either, but when I tried to cast myself for the role of chief suspect I met with nothing but discouragement. The Sergeant even snubbed me. I wonder that beer isn't choking you, Sergeant.”

  “What you did, sir, if you'll pardon me saying so, was to try to pull my leg,” retorted the Sergeant.

  “Not at all. As an amateur of crime, I felt I ought to be the culprit. Now, don't, anybody, talk to me of that Pole, said to be walking out with Mother's-good-girl! Any student of crime knows that the guilty man is never the mysterious foreigner. Besides, he's so obvious! If I can't have myself or Mrs. Midgeholme, I'll have the Squire, I think.”

  “Here, I say! Draw it mild!” protested Charles.

  “It's silly,” said Abby flatly. “He's just about the most unlikely person you could possibly think of.”

  “He is quite the most unlikely person I can think of,” Gavin corrected her. “Therein lies his charm. I am not interested in the obvious. Have another pint, Chief Inspector!”

  “No, I won't do that, thank you, sir. But I find all you're saying very interesting—speaking as a professional. Speaking as an amateur, why do you feel you ought to be the culprit?”

  Gavin regarded him with approval. “You're restoring my shaken faith in the police-force, Chief Inspector. Or are you merely humouring me?”

  “Oh, no, sir! It isn't every day I meet one of you gentlemen who write about crime, and I'd like to know how a real crime strikes you.”

  “Dis
appointingly. There is nothing to solve except the comparatively uninteresting matter of the identity of the murderer. No hermetically sealed room, no unusual weapon, too few seemingly unshakeable alibis.”

  “Well, I think the identity of the murderer is far more interesting than those other things.” objected Abby. “Fascinating, when one actually knows all the people!” she added naively.

  “Ah, yes, but you, my sweet, are a female! Persons are more interesting to you than problems, will you mind very much if the guilty man proves to be some quite low, insignificant creature you've never even heard of?”

  “No, of course I shan't. I should be glad, but I've got a feeling that won't happen.”

  “I have the greatest respect for womanly intuition; I have a great deal of it myself. But doesn't yours inform you that I am a person easily capable of performing a murder?”

  “No, of course not!” Abby said, flushing.

  “Then it is underdeveloped. I assure you that I am.”

  “Yes, probably,” Charles intervened. “But not this murder! You'd go in for something a bit more subtle.”

  “Why, Charles, I did not look for this tribute from you!” Gavin said mockingly.

  “You can take it that way if you like. I'd be willing enough to consider you for the star part in this drama if I could think of any conceivable reason why you should want to murder Sampson Warrenby. As I can't, you'll have to go on being a super, as far as I'm concerned.”

  “But doesn't your dislike of me make it possible for you to picture me in the star role?” Gavin asked softly.

  “No.”

  “Oh, you are a very poor hater, Charles! Or are you maliciously attempting to make the Chief Inspector lose interest in me? I believe you are. I shall have to tell him that I have already committed one murder, and I meant to let him find that out for himself.”

  “On paper. That's different.”

  “Many, on paper. Only one in actual fact.”

  “Look here, don't you think this has gone far enough?” said the Major uncomfortably. “It isn't quite a fit matter for joking, you know!”

  “But I wasn't joking. It is well known that I murdered my half-brother.”

  The Major was stricken to silence; Charles said, under his breath: “Must you always dramatise yourself?” and Hemingway, with an air of cosy interest, said conversationally: “Did you, though, sir? And how did you manage that, or is it a secret?”

  “It's a lot of nonsense!” muttered Sergeant Carsethorn, glowering at Gavin.

  “I induced him to kill himself, Chief Inspector, thus succeeding to his property. I won't say to his debts, for they were really almost negligible—unlike the liabilities which attach to any estate in these delightful times. Of course, had I known that Walter's money was almost wholly tied up in land—did I say that reverently enough, Charles? I've been practising ever since I succeeded Walter, but I fear I still haven't got it right—well, had I known this, I'm not at all sure that I should have driven him to suicide.”

  “If you don't like living at Thornden House, why don't you clear out?” demanded Charles.

  “Find me a buyer!”

  The Major rose to his feet. “I must be getting along,” he said. “If I may say so, Plenmeller, you're talking plain balderdash!”

  “What a lovely word! May I use it, or is it copyright?”

  The Major ignored him, saying to Hemingway: “The late Mr. Plenmeller, as I have no doubt the Sergeant will tell you, was a bit of a war-casualty, and took his own life while temporarily of unsound mind.”

  “Leaving a letter accusing me of having driven him to it. Don't forget that!”

  “It's a pity you can't,” said the Major, with unaccustomed sternness. “Mistake to keep on brooding over things. Goodnight, Abby!”

  He nodded to the rest of the company, said: “Night!” in a general way, and departed.

  “Ought we to be going too, Charles? Your mother invited me for eight, and I don't want to keep her waiting,” said Abby, who, like most of her generation, had very good manners.

  He glanced at his watch, and rose, “Yes, it's about time we pushed off,” he agreed. “I say, Chief Inspector, is it true that Warrenby was shot with a .22 rifle? Or oughtn't I to ask?”

  “Oh, I don't mind your asking, sir! But you want to go and ask Sergeant Knarsdale, not me: he's the expert on ballistics.”

  Charles laughed. “All right! But, if it's true, you've got the hell of a job on your hands, haven't you? Crowds of people have them here. I've got one myself. First gun my father ever gave me. I used to put rabbits with it.”

  “Do you still use it, sir?”

  “No, I haven't lately: too short in the stock for me now. My father had it altered for me when I was a kid, but it's knocking around somewhere.”

  “Do you mean you don't know where it is?” demanded Abby.

  He looked smilingly down at her. “Don't sound so accusing! It's either amongst my junk, or in the gunroom. If Mother didn't shove it up in the attics, with my old tramlines.”

  “But don't you see?” exclaimed Abby, her eyes brightening. “Someone could have pinched it!”

  “Don't be a goop!” he besought her. “They'd have to have a nerve, snooping round the house looking for a stray rifle! Come on, we must push off!”

  “But I like that theory,” said Gavin. “It brings Mavis Warrenby back into the picture, and she was one of my first fancies. Try as I will—not that I would have you think I've tried very hard—I can't believe in so much saintliness. You ought to have seen her after church this morning! Such a brave little woman, nobly doing her best to bear up under heavy sorrow! A schoolboy's gun would have been just the thing for her. Oh, I must go home, and work on this new theory!”

  “I would,” said Hemingway cordially. “You might tell me before you go whether you've got a .22 rifle as well as Mr. Haswell?”

  “I haven't the least idea, but I should think very probably. I don't shoot myself, but my half-brother had several sporting guns. Would you like to come and see for yourself?”

  “Thank you, I would, sir,” said Hemingway, getting up. “No harm in making sure, and no time like the present. You two can wait here for me,” he added, to his subordinates. “I shan't be long. I understand you live quite close, don't you, sir?”

  “A hundred yards up the street,” Gavin answered, pulling himself out of his chair with one of his awkward movements, and limping across the floor.

  Outside the inn, having parted from Charles and Abby, the Chief Inspector set a moderate pace, and was rewarded for his consideration with a snap. “Let me assure you that ungainly though my gait may be it does not necessitate my walking at a snail's pace!” said Gavin, an edge to his voice.

  “That's good, sir,” said Hemingway. “A war-injury?”

  “I took no part in the War. I was born with a short leg.”

  “Very hard luck, sir.”

  “Not in the least. I'm sure I should have disliked soldiering heartily. It does not discommode me in the saddle, and since hunting is the only sport I have the least desire to engage in, any sympathy you may be silently bestowing on me is entirely wasted.”

  “Do you get much hunting, sir?”

  “No, I cannot afford it. It doesn't run to more than one decent hunter. Not a bad-looking horse, and not a bad performer on his going-days. Other times, it's a hit 'em and leave 'em, but he hasn't gone back on me yet.”

  “Your brother didn't hunt?”

  “No, he was such a dreary type, always either treacling trees, or observing the habits of some birds, and shooting others.”

  “What made him commit suicide—if I may ask?”

  “I've told you: I did. With his dying breath he told me so, and you have to believe dying words, don't you?”

  “Well, I wouldn't so to say bank on them—not under those circumstances. In my experience, the sort of messages suicides leave behind them would be better put straight on the fire, because they only bring a lot of misery o
n people that in nine cases out of ten don't deserve it.”

  “Oh, would you put it as strongly as that? I thought it was so annoying of him: like uttering a dirty crack, and then walking out of the room before it can be answered. We have now reached my ancestral home: go in!”

  The Chief Inspector stepped through the gate in the wall, and paused for a moment, looking at the gracious house before him.

  “Like it?” Gavin asked.

  “Yes, sir. Don't you?”

  “Aesthetically, very much; sentimentally, a little; practically, not at all. The plumbing is archaic; the repairs—if I could undertake them—would be ruinous; and to run it properly a staff of at least three indoor servants is necessary. I have one crone, and a gardener-groom, who also does odd jobs.” He led the way up the flagged path to the front-door, and opened it. “The room my brother used, amongst other things, as his gunroom, is at the back,” he said, limping past the elegant staircase to a swing-door covered in moth-eaten brown baize. “Kitchen premises,” he said over his shoulder. “Here we are!” He opened a door, and signed to the Chief Inspector to enter. “A disgusting room!” he remarked. “It reeks of dogs, and always will. My brother's spaniels used to sleep in it. A revolting pair, gushingly affectionate, and wholly lacking in tact or discrimination! Guns over here.” He went to a glass-fronted case, and opened it. “Quite an armoury, as you perceive. Including a couple of hammer-guns, which must have belonged to my father. Yes, I thought Walter would probably have a .22. Take it, and do what you will with it!” He lifted it out of the case as he spoke, but paused before handing it to Hemingway, and said, with a twisted smile: “Oh, that was unworthy of the veriest tyro, wasn't it? Now I've left my fingerprints on it. That might be quite clever of me, mightn't it?”

  “Not so very clever,” said Hemingway. “Something tells me that the gun I'm after won't have any prints on it at all. Mind if I borrow this, sir?”

  “No, and much good would it do me if I did mind! Would you like to fire it into my marrow-bed? I expect we can find some ammunition for it.”

  “Not. my department, sir,” Hemingway said, tucking the rifle under his arm. “I'm much obliged to you, though.”