"DERLETH, August - The Adventure of the Three Red Dwarves (A Solar Pons story)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Derleth August)

"Most singular," murmured Pons. "You asked him about it, I hope?"

"Oh, yes. He explained that he'd been painting, and indeed, we could see his work in the kitchenette."

"Hm!" said Pons. He pondered a moment in silence. Then he asked. "What was the coroner's decision?"

"He tends toward murder--as I said, I don't agree. Lane had been dead an hour when we arrived."

"An hour!" exclaimed Pons. "And where was Brighton all this time?"

"Oh, everything's satisfactory. Brighton was puttering around in the garden all the time, and only discovered his colleague when he entered the house. The body was on the floor of a typical lounging room looking out on St. John's Wood terrace. He called us directly after finding Lane."

"Of course, you asked him whether he had heard a disturbance in the house?"

"Yes, certainly. He had heard nothing. As a matter of fact, he did not even know that Lane was in the house, for he had gone out early in the morning, and Brighton had not heard him come in."

Pons considered this. "The body, you say," he went on presently, "bears bruises, which look as if they might have been inflicted in a struggle. Yet there are neither signs of a struggle in the room, nor is there any evidence of noise suggesting that there was a struggle. Decidedly perplexing. Have you examined into the motive of the murder?"

Jamison nodded. "Yes, we've unearthed a motive, Pons. It was Brighton who set us on that. It seems that over a month ago Lane wrote an article on a fellow journalist, dished him up pretty well done, I'm afraid. Of course, no names were mentioned, but for those in the know, the journalist is pretty obvious--so I am given to understand. At any rate, two weeks ago Lane got a short note from this fellow, telling him that scores would soon be even."

"You have the note?" Pons cut in.

"No. Brighton says that Lane destroyed it; Lane looked on the matter as a joke."

"Of course, you have the man's name?"

"We're not sure of that. Brighton says the fellow Lane had done up was a journalist on the Mirror staff--of John Estenham. But Brighton says he did not see the note, and therefore he doesn't know whether the signature was that of Estenham."

"Estenham?" repeated Pons musingly. "The name is familiar. Did Brighton say--does the man chronicle the races?"

"Why, yes," said Jamison, "it seems to me that Brighton said something about it. Yes, I believe he did."

"Then you may dismiss Estenham from your list of suspects; he was killed three days ago in a motor crash at the Sussex Chase. Have you no other suspects?"

Jamison shook his head. "None. But we haven't gone far with the enquiry. Brighton says he cannot think of anyone who'd want to harm Lane, and he can't believe that Estenham had a hand in this business."

"We can rule Estenham out," said Pons shortly. "Of course, you formed some opinion of how the crime was committed?"

"From the look of things it's pretty obvious," said Jamison. "Lane entered the house, removed his outer clothing and made himself comfortable in the lounging room. Shortly after, someone entered from the street--there might have been an argument, a struggle, and Lane was killed. It is either that, or Lane killed himself. If the unknown had seen Lane enter the house, and knew also that Brighton was working in the garden, it would have been a comparatively easy matter to follow and kill Lane."

Pons closed his eyes for a moment in reflection. Abruptly he rose and went over to a wastebasket, in which he began to rummage, and from which he at last extracted a thick book catalogue, which had come in yesterday's post. With this he returned to his chair. He began to page through the catalogue.

"Ah," he murmured at last, "here we have it. 'Chess...Chess and the Human Mind--A Monograph, by H. C. Brighton, with a commentary by Gerald Lane.'" Pons read for a moment in silence; then he looked up and said, "I think we'll run up to the scene for a bit, eh? What do you say, Parker?"

I nodded. It was a foregone conclusion that the possibility of an adventure with Pons took precedence over anything else I might have in mind.

Our taxicab drew up before a modern, one-storey house of white stucco, set modestly away from the street. There was a roofed-over terrace at one side of the building, and beyond this, the latticed-in garden could be seen. It was on the terrace that Brighton met us. He made a curious figure as he came rushing from the house clad in a flowing lounging robe of black silk and scarlet crepe. He was handsome, but his features were somewhat disfigured by the large horn-rimmed glasses he wore.

"Mr. Solar Pons at last," he said in a hurried voice as he came on. "Perhaps now we'll have some light on this horrible affair." He glanced significantly at Jamison.