"The Devil_s Steps" - читать интересную книгу автора (Upfield Arthur W.)

Chapter Nine

Calm at Wideview Chalet

AS USUAL, Bisker’s alarm clock rang at half-past five on the morning of September 2, and, as usual, a callused fist crashed down upon its “stop” button. It was absolutely dark inside the hut. Bisker groaned and got through the first sentence of his morning hate before he remembered the excitement of the previous day.

He lit the lamp, and drew to his mouth the early-morning pipe so carefully loaded with “dottles” and now drawing at this trebly poisonous concoction, he surveyed past events and recalled those last orders given him by Napoleon Bonaparte.

Like allbushmen, he had a profound contempt for the city gunman and thug who made himself temporarily superior to ordinary folk through the possession of firearms, and who exercised his trade by armed force instead of the brain that is necessary in the robbing of a bank. Therefore, it was natural for Bisker, at this early-morning hour, to muse on the indignation he had taken to bed with him following his own ill-usage at the hands of such a man.

Dressing with his customary carelessness, and with his customary care filling his pockets with tobacco and spare pipe, clasp-knife and match tin and corkscrew, Bisker took up the lamp and stepped out into the cold, dank and uninviting morning.

On closing the door, he did not follow the path to the open space fronting the garages. Obeying instructions, he sidled along the wall of the hut to its corner and then proceeded direct to the top fence. This he followed past the rear of the garages to reach the scullery door of the Chalet, and so did not obliterate possible tracks made by the gunman, tracks which would be of undoubted interest to Bony when he returned from the city. He had made the morning tea for himself and the cook when Mrs. Parkes arrived in the kitchen.

“Mornin’!” he snarled.

“Morning!” she snapped back at him.“Tea ready?”

“Too right! Makeyerself at ’omeby the fire. I’ll do the serving act.”

Mrs. Parkes dragged a chair along and sat before one of the fires in the central range, and when she sat there was nothing to spare of the chair seat. Her brown hair was not yet “done,” and the absence of her teeth appeared to create an emphatic cleavage between the button of her nose and the line of her wide chin. Brown eyes gazed into the fire, eyes small and now unblinking. Without a word, she took the cup of tea brought to her by Bisker, and not until she had drunk it and handed the cup back to him to be refilled and had taken a cigarette from her apron pocket and lit it, did she begin to articulate.

“Any more murders this morning, I wonder?”

“Dunno. Itain’t light enough yet to discover any corpses,” Bisker said, faint hope in his voice. “The papersoughter beintrestin ’ today.”

“Yes, they ought,” agreed Mrs. Parkes. “You get me all the morning papers when you go down to the store. Thank goodness, I won’t be in ’em.”

Bisker ambled across to the wall bench and filled his cup. He returned to sit on a part of the stove not yet heated by the fires, and cut chips from his plug for another pipe.

“You never know,” he said. “One of them reporters asked me all about the staff ’ere, and I told ’imabout George, and youbein ’ the cook.”

“You would. And a mightylot more about yourself. Any’ow, I’m glad I’m not mixed up in it, for my old man to sling off at me when he comes ’ome. Iain’t sure this is a respectable place any longer. One thing about it, there’s only six guests to cook for this morning, and the name of the place ought to keep more from coming.”

“There’ll be only five guests this morning,” Bisker said. “Mr. Bonaparte went to town late last-night and won’t be back till sometime today.”

“Oh! Howd’you know?”

“ ’Coshe told me. Nice bloke that. Talks civilised, sort of. None of the ‘Haw! Haw! Bisker! Get me a paper!’ about ’im. As for that Grumman bloke, well, Iain’tpartic’ly sorry he’s turned in ’is cheques. ’E wouldn’t even say good day to a man.”

“I wonder who done him in,” Mrs. Parkes said slowly, getting the last “draw” out of her cigarette. “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t that Bagshott man. From them books of his he knows all about poisons and how to give them. I did hear that he practises on rabbits and things.”

“You don’t say!” Bisker exclaimed.“No, I wouldn’t put it past ’imneither. I never thought of ’im.”

“And you’d better not think of him now,” Mrs. Parkes said. “Look at the time. What about the boots?”

Bisker collected the boots-four pairs of men’s shoes and the pair he picked up outside Miss Jade’s room. During this work he took from a coat pocket a note addressed to Miss Jade by Bony and this he left on the small table set to one side of the office door. Whilst cleaning the shoes he whistled so loudly that Mrs. Parkes came to the scullery door to tell him to “shut up.”

He had more time this morning, because of the smaller number of shoes to clean, and he wandered round to the main entrance, the door of which was not yet opened. There he visited the shrub tub to smooth the earth he had so rudely disturbed the previous evening. It was as well, for Miss Jade would certainly have noted the disturbance and asked questions. In the light of day, it appeared as though a rabbit had been burrowing. There was the hole from which he had taken the whisky bottle, much larger than when he had made it, and there beside the hole were the impressions of four fingers and a thumb of a man’s outspread hand.

Whilst filling in the bottle hole, Bisker’s mind worked with, what was for it, abnormalspeed. He went over his own actions during the time he had sat on the edge of the tub, and during the last time when he had dragged from the soil the two fountain pens and the bottle and he could not recall that he had pressed either of his hands flat out like that on the soft earth.

Had the impression been made by the hand of the gunman? Bisker worried at this question. There were, of course, no fingerprints, but the shape of the hand was clear, a left hand, and the impression had certainly not been there when he had sat on the edge of the tub the previous evening as dusk was falling. The man whose left hand had made the impression had stood at the tub and used his right to delve into the earth, and the only man beside himself who had had an interest in the tub was the gunman.

“Whay!” murmured Bisker. There was yet another man-the bloke who had buried the pens. The impression might have been made by his left hand.

Now what to do? If he left the impression, the gunman, or the man who had buried the pens might come along and see it, and then press it out. And Mr. Bonaparte might like to see it. He might want to measure it, measure the span and so get to the size of the hand. Yes, what to do?

It was almost full daylight. The sun was due to rise. All was still quiet inside the house, and it was yet ten or fifteen minutes before one of the maids would open the front door and sweep the porch. The idea of placing a strip of tin over the impression occurred to Bisker, and then he saw that this would attract attention to it. So better leave it alone.

He crossed back to the wood-stack and from there passed along the rear of the garages. In this way he came to his hut at its rear, sidled along the wall to reach the door, and at the same time regarded with interest the narrow cinder path he had avoided on going to the house.

Bisker was thoroughly enjoying himself this morning. He shaved with cold water, taking unusual care. He washed in cold water, and instead of leaving his hair to dry in conformity with the cast made by his hat, he combed it, and then, on impulse, hunted for and found among his effects a pair of scissors, with which he trimmed his unruly moustache, taking years off his age and eighty per cent off his appearance of dissipation.

Now ready for breakfast, he buttoned up his old coat, stooped and laced his heavy boots, stood up and regarded his bed upon which the blankets lay in disarray. He lifted the top end of the mattress and tooktherefrom the bottle which had brought him such adventure. It was still a quarter full, and for several seconds he regarded it with desire writ plainly on his weather-beaten face. Then he put the bottle back beneath the mattress, and left the hut to go to the house the same way he had previously gone to it. In the kitchen he sat down to breakfast with George.

“Goin’ to be a nice day,” began the drinks steward.

“Yes,” Bisker agreed.“Won’t last, though. ’Ow’s the old bitch thismornin ’?”

“Haven’t seen her yet.”George poised bacon on his fork and stared at Bisker. He had heard a new Bisker the previous morning when summoned by Miss Jade’s bell, and now he was seeing a new Bisker. He added: “What have you been doing to yourself?”

“Doin’ tomeself?”Bisker echoed. “Wotd’youmean?”

George regarded Bisker with his dark eyes narrowed.

“You’ve been combing your hair and training your mo’,” he said, accusingly, to which Bisker belligerently demanded:

“Wot the ’ell’s wrong with that? I don’t comb me ’air into a quiff like you.”

“All right, don’t get shirty. Get me a paper when you go down to the store, will you?”

“I might! If you pass me a snifter about ten o’clock.”

“That reminds me,” said George, and Bisker cursed himself for reminding George. “That reminds me. You said that Miss Jade ordered a full bottle of whisky yesterday morning, and I haven’t checked up on what became of the bottle.”

Bisker snorted and regarded George with open contempt.

“Now what would any ordinary bloke think would become of a bottle of whisky left in an office full of detectives? Iasks you, George, to tell me that one.”

George offered no further comment, which pleased Bisker, who said, presently:

“You kept up late last night?”

“Fairish. Theywas all talking about the murders and it kind of made ’emthirsty. They were arguing about who was likely to have killed Grumman, and when.”

“You reckon the ’tecs will be out again today?”

“Almost sure,” replied George. “When that feller shot Rice, did you think he was going to plug you, too?”

“No not whiles I stayed still, George, and you can bet I stayed as still as a statue. So did the old cat. He ’ad a nasty, mean, pasty-looking dial, George, and I didn’t like the look in ’is eye. Iknows when a bloke means business.”

“How tall was he-how big?” pressed George, who looked up over Bisker’s shoulder. Bisker was about to reply when a maid spoke:

“Bisker! Miss Jade wants you in the office directly after you’ve had breakfast.”

“Righto, Alice.” Then to George, Bisker said:“ ’Ow tall was that murdering bloke, did you ask? Lemme see. About like you. Might be an inch higher. Say five feet eleven, andweighin ’ around nine stone six. He ’ad wavy black ’air, and a dark smudge on his top lip like as ’owhe ’ad only just shavedorf a moustache.”

“Hum! That’s interesting. You tell the police that?”

“Expect so. Can’t remember all I told ’em.”

“Did you notice anything else about him-about his hands, his shoes? What kind of a suit was he wearing?”

“He was wearing a grey suit, a double-breaster, with a bluish sort of tie. His shoes I didn’t take stock of, but I did notice the ’ands. Theywasnarrer with long fingers-like yours. A foreigner of some kind-a cold snake of a man I’d like to jump on with me boots. Well, here’s me for the old dragon. See you later, George.”

On entering the office, Bisker found Miss Jade at the telephone, and while standing waiting for her, he was able to hear that she was answering an enquiry for accommodation. She spoke quietly but well, and this morning she looked to Bisker as she always had done, a woman who knew how to dress, a being who lived in a different world. The black skirt revealed admirable lines, and the dark brown cardigan moulded her bust to suggest that she might be a woman of about twenty-five. Her hair might have been done by a maid born for just that artistic work, whilst her make-up was perfectly suited to her colouring and the morning.

“Ah! There you are, Bisker!” she exclaimed on putting down the telephone. “On the table outside I found a note from Mr. Bonaparte. Do you know anything about it?”

“Yes, marm.”Bisker could see that Miss Jade noticed his clipped moustache. “I met Mr. Bonaparte when I was going for a walk last night down at the store. He wastalkin ’ with some people in a car, and he asked me to deliver a note he wrote on a mudguard.”

“What time was that?”

“About half-past nine, marm.”

“Then why didn’t you deliver it last night?”

“I forgot it, marm.”

“Forgot it!” echoed Miss Jade, her brows carefully raised.

“Yes, marm,” Bisker confessed. “I’m sorry if it’s important.”

“Not precisely important, Bisker. But don’t dare to forget the next time. Er -there are some people coming by the middaybus. A gentleman and his wife, and two single gentlemen. Don’t forget to be down at the road when the bus arrives.”

“All right, marm.” Bisker looked doubtful, adding, dubiously: “But what ’appensif I’m being baled up by the detectives when the bus is due?”

“Detectives, Bisker? What do you mean?”

“Well, marm, it’s likely that there’ll be more detectives out today. They’ll want to ask all the same questions they asked yestiddy. It’s a nice day, and it’ll be a nice motor drive for ’em. Then there’ll be more reporters and more photographers. Still I’ll do me best, marm.”

Miss Jade regarded Bisker as though she were seeing visions. Her brows were no longer raised. They were depressed and the two dreadful vertical lines showed plainly between them. Then she said:

“Yes, I suppose they will, Bisker. It is all going to be a great nuisance. Well, do your best to meet the bus. That’ll be all. But wait! Don’tdawdle coming back with the papers.”

“Very well, marm.”

It is possible that had Bisker not been rotund he might have bowed to Miss Jade. He withdrew as he invariably withdrew from the presence of Mrs. Parkes, back first to the door and beyond, due to habit, for Mrs. Parkes had been known to throw things.

The first bus from the railway town of Manton arrived at the Mount Chalmers store at ten o’clock, and Bisker was there to receive the Chalet papers, with the extras ordered by George and Mrs. Parkes. The place was crowded with residents and visitors, all as anxious as Bisker. His next call was at the Post Office, and when it came his turn to collect the letters he saw the back of a stranger seated at the telephone switch-board, and without smiling, he slowly closed one eye at the postmaster.

Bisker did not “dawdle” on the walk back, uphill and about half a mile, but when he reached the Chalet driveway, he had read most of the front-page reports on the double murders at Mount Chalmers.

As Fred, the casual man, had predicted, Bisker was famous.

Several cars had passed him, and three were parked outside the main entrance. A group of men were standing in the porch. Two others were taking photographs from positions on the lawn. A little self-conscious, Bisker walked through the group on the porch and so entered the office with the mail and newspapers. There he found Miss Jade talking to Inspector Snook.

Silently, he placed letters and all but two of the papers on the secretary’s desk, and withdrew as he had previously done and this time regarded suspiciously by the detective, who was not to know of Mrs. Parkes’s addiction to throwing things.

When the midday bus arrived, Bisker was down to meet it. A large modern vehicle, it disgorged half a dozen people and the driver, who removed several suitcases and a hat box from the luggage grid at the rear.

“Mr. and Mrs. Watkins!” called Bisker.“Mr. Downes and Mr. Lee. Make sure, please that all your luggage is put down.”

The people named sorted themselves from the rest, and Bisker noted them for their tipping value, he having already become adept in this summing-up. Watkins was heavy and well dressed in sports clothes. His wife was overloaded with furs and jewellery. Mr. Downes was a man about forty, grizzled and short-moustached, and Mr. Lee wore clothes in the manner of a countryman on holiday. The party followed the loaded Bisker, who staggered up the driveway, chatting about the scenery. Bisker decided that Mr. Lee was the best tipping prospect.