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

For fully ten minutes Pons stayed with the child. When be came back, it was only when he stepped into the room that the tension broke.

"Well, Mr. Pons, whatever this room lacks in peculiarity you--you certainly make up for," said Brighton uneasily.

"Indeed, Mr. Brighton," said Pons, smiling. "My peculiarity, however, has just enabled me to discover the source of the curious sloshing sound you heard this morning."

"You don't mean the child?" put in Jamison.

"Precisely. The sloshing sound rose from the child's patting the sand onto the castle, which you will see is already quite far advanced, showing that it has been in the process of erection for some hours. The sound of running water came from a hose, which he can turn on or off at the nozzle whenever he wishes. It follows, then, that the child was building his castle at the time of Mr. Lane's death."

Jamison and Brighton turned quickly to Pons.

"You questioned the child?" asked Jamison.

Pons nodded. "He heard the struggle of which we already have evidence; hence it follows that the struggle was muffled, since the child, directly across from the open French doors heard it, and Mr. Brighton, in the rear did not."

Pons turned to Brighton. "There has been some mention of a note--a threatening note received by Mr. Lane shortly before his death."

Brighton nodded. "Yes, but it has been destroyed. It was directed to Gerald by some journalist. Mr. John Estenham, I think, for Gerald had lately written a sharp burlesque of Estenham. "

"Mr. Estenham was killed three days ago at the Sussex races," said Pons. "Were you aware of this?"

Brighton nodded easily. "Yes, I knew that."

Jamison bristled. "Why didn't you tell us that this noon? When we questioned you?"

Brighton looked surprised, "Why, I thought you knew, of course. If you read the papers---of course, everyone reads the papers."

Jamison subsided. Pons repressed a smile.

"Had Mr. Lane no other enemies?" asked Pons.

"I wouldn't say Estenham was an enemy, Mr. Pons. It's a case of journalism. If he did send that threat, I don't think he sent it seriously. No, I don't think Gerald had any enemies."

"Very good. I should like to have a look at the burlesque that Mr. Lane wrote; I daresay there's a copy of it about."

"Yes, there's a copy in my room," said Brighton. "I'll get it for you."

Hardly had the author disappeared into the dining-room before Pons was up and out through the terrace like a shot. He vanished around a comer before either Jamison or I could move.

A few minutes elapsed.

Brighton returned and looked absently around the room. "Where is Mr. Pons?" he asked.

Even as he spoke Pons stepped into the room from the terrace. He was wiping his hands on a large handkerchief, which he proceeded to stuff into his top-coat pocket. I saw that both his pockets were heavily weighted down; from one a corner of newspaper projected.

"Ah, Mr. Brighton," he said, "you have the burlesque.'

Brighton extended the folded clipping to Pons without a word. He fixed his large, unblinking eyes on Pons, and continued to regard him as he read here and there from the article.