"An Author Bites the Dust" - читать интересную книгу автора (Upfield Arthur W.)

Chapter Seven

Human Reactions

“THAT’S very interesting,” Bony said. “But there’s nothing about rain on the floor in your report or in the summary provided for me.”

“I spoke of it,” Simes said levelly, “because you asked me in a decent manner to collaborate, and because I’m sure you won’t regard me as a liar or a damn fool. It was like this.

“I went through the dead man’s pockets and found his keys, one of which fitted the door. I got the other from the lock where the doctor had left it. I told Dr Fleetwood that I’d have to report to headquarters, which I did, and the result was that the homicide crowd didn’t arrive until a quarter to twelve. They were in no hurry, because I wasn’t in a position to report that Blake had been murdered.

“Inspector Snook was in charge and they were accompanied by a surgeon. Everything then proceeded according to routine. The photographer did his stuff as I was making my verbal report, backed by the doctor. The doctor then went into conference with the surgeon and they moved the dead man from the floor to the desk. I had told the inspector about the rain falling on the dead man and the felt, and told of what seemed to me the obvious theory about it, but Inspector Snook was sarcastic because by then the wetness had dried out of the floor covering. When Dr Fleetwood corroborated, he was told that the obvious explanation was that Blake in his last gasp had managed to open the door and push it wide, that the door had remained open for a little while until a gust of wind had slammed it shut.

“Such was Inspector Snook’s attitude that Dr Fleetwood would say no more about it, and I went dumb. The doctor wouldn’t undertake the autopsy. The finger-printer dusted the entire place. There were plenty of finger-prints on the glass milk-jug and the glass that had contained milk, but the brandy bottle and the glass used to drink the brandy bore only the prints of Mervyn Blake.

“Subsequently the doctor and I talked about the wet floor and the rain on the dead man, and we discussed the inspector’s theory that Blake himself had flung open the door and then collapsed, and the wind had slammed the door shut.

“It so happened that the doctor was called out to an accident that night shortly before twelve. He did not get home again until two. At half past two he was called to a confinement. He says that the rain began about midnight. It fell in showers until shortly after four o’clock, and at no time during the night was the wind gusty or even moderately strong.

“Just before we left the building-I to make my report-we both swung the door out and in several times, to test the theory about the wind, because the inspector’s theory had then occurred to us. We found that the door was not properly-swung. In fact, when the catch of the lock was free, its tendency was to swing open.”

“Very, very interesting,” Bony murmured. “The accident that took the doctor out that night-was it in the open air or inside a house?”

“It was a bad car accident. He was out in the rain from first to last. The police at Warburton had charge of it, which is why I wasn’t called out, too.”

Simes loaded his pipe, regarding Bony with moody eyes.

“A day before the inquest, Inspector Snook called here. He told me that the post mortem had proved nothing, no poison, no other cause for Blake’s sudden collapse. He said also that Dr Fleetwood had stated that when he overhauled Blake several weeks before his death he found him to be physically sound, including his heart. Then he said that the post mortem had revealed that Blake’s heart was not in a healthy condition, and added, ‘That shows how these country doctors can make errors. Dr Fleetwood made one error about Blake’s heart, and can therefore make another error about that door being opened by a murderer. An efficient policeman, Simes, doesn’t permit himself to indulge in imagination-only facts.’ ”

Simes shrugged his broad shoulders, saying with finality, “That was that. Now I am wondering just how you came into it.”

Without hesitation, Bony said, “Because, my dear Simes, Superintendent Bolt does indulge his imagination. Have you considered likely reasons why anyone should enter Blake’s room when he was dead?”

Simes shook his head and confessed that, in view of the medical evidence, he had racked his brain without result.

“Don’t continue to rack it,” Bony urged. “Let’s try in our respective spheres to find evidence that will lead us to the reason, or reasons, why that person entered the writing-room after Blake was dead. Now for other matters. We have had Snook’s reactions and the doctor’s. Let’s examine the others, beginning with Mrs Blake. On entering the house that morning you found Mrs Blake and Mrs Montrose crying. Did you note the exact degree of Mrs Blake’s distress?”

Simes did not at once speak. He was thrusting his mind away from a wet section of felt and an open door, and the rain pelting in through the door-frame, to this other scene, and at the same time noting the altered demeanour of the suave and affable man who had asked him to forget rank and title. Bony’s dark face was stern.

Simes said, “Mrs Blake was seated on a chair in the hall, and Mrs Montrose was standing close beside her. Mrs Blake was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, and she was softly sobbing.”

“Was it a clean handkerchief?”

“Yes. It appeared hardly used. The ironing creases were still evident.”

Bony’s brows rose a fraction and he smiled faintly.

“When you saw her again was she still crying? You did see her again?”

“Yes, I saw her again when I told her I would have to report the death of her husband to headquarters,” Simes replied. “She was still in the hall with Mrs Montrose.”

“The handkerchief?”

“It was a little wet ball. Oh, Mrs Blake was genuinelyupset, there is no doubt about that.”

“Naturally, Simes, she would be upset. Now for Mrs Montrose. How was she behaving? Tell me-exactly.”

“When I first saw her, she was just standing beside Mrs Blake and allowing the tears to run down her face unchecked. She was not standing when I saw her the next time, and she wasn’t crying.”

“You’ve got a good memory, Simes,” Bony said. “And the artist’s gift of observation. It should take you a long way. After you contacted your headquarters, you sought out every guest and the domestic staff and warned them not to leave the house. You took a statement from everyone. All that you put in your report, but into your report you did not put your private thoughts concerning the impressions they made on you. We’ve been studying the reactions ofothers, now let’s have your personal opinions.”

“If you think it’s important-all right,” Simes assented.

“Everything is important, even the most trivial occurrence or the most casual remark. Now for all the persons you met inside and outside the Blake’s residence. Wilcannia-Smythe discovered Blake dead. Begin with him.”

“All right, I’ll see what I can do,” agreed Simes, and for a little while regarded the wall behind Bony’s back. Then, “Wilcannia-Smythe betrayed no emotion. He spoke precisely. He might have found a hundred dead men before he found Mervyn Blake. The man with him, Martin Lubers, was agitated. He seemed to me more natural than the other man, for after all most of us would be upset under the circumstances. The third man was Twyford Arundal, who lives in Adelaide-small, scented, a thorough twerp. Three years in the army would do him a great deal of good. He was anxious to tell me that after he had gone to bed he did not leave his room until Lubers called him with the news that Blake was dead. Then Marshall Ellis, from England, and Miss Chesterfield.

“These two were on the back veranda. He was smoking a cigar, she was writing on a letter pad. You will recall that Miss Chesterfield is a journalist. She was nervously taut, understandable in a journalist on a probably good story. Goodlooker, but direct in speech and manner. Ellis was impatient when I asked him to tell me about himself, as though he were a personage to be questioned by no one lower than the Chief Commissioner. A surly brute.”

“Excellent, Simes, excellent,” Bony cried delightedly.

“Mrs Montrose would make a good tragedienne. She’s the type who is happiest when able to give vent to emotionalism-Mrs Blake is different. She would fight the wind instead of bending to it. That’s all, except for the two domestics.

“The cook’s name is Salter. I don’t know her personally. She came from the city. Her husband is with the Forces in Japan. Struck me as being a good type. The maid is a local girl. Name of Ethel Lacy. Parents soundly respectable. She’s a bit of a gadabout, but otherwise O.K. She was engaged by Mrs Blake for the duration of the house party, and it was not for the first time.”

“Good looking, I understand.”

“Very. Knows it, and can take care ofherself. I’ve often thought that, rightly handled, she could tell us quite a lot about theBlakes and their guests.”

“We’ll keep her in mind,” Bony said, and added slowly, “It’s a lovely case, one of the most attractive ever to come to me. Nogore, no blood-stained knives, no pistols and sawn-off shotguns, and, apparently, no poisons. Man dies and no one can find out what killed him. Was apparently on excellent terms with wife and guests, and also with the domestic staff. By the way, was there any other domestic-chauffeur, gardener, or such?”

“No. A local jobbing man has been employed there for a day now and then. Man by the name of Sid Walsh. Whisky soak, but harmless. You’ll probably meet him soon. Miss Pinkney asked me to tell him she wanted him for the day.”

“Sid Walsh,” repeated Bony. “I haven’t come across his name before.”

“Likely not,” Simes said. “He wasn’t working for theBlakes anywhere near 9th November.”

“H’m! Did you know that Wilcannia-Smythe is staying at the Rialto Hotel?”

“I did not.”

“I have reason to believe that he is. Could you ascertain when he booked in?”

“Yes, of course. I know the manager. Shall I ring now?”

“Please do so.”

Simes was talking to the manager when Bony, having lit another cigarette, leaned back more comfortably in his chair to study the picture of Donna Buang. Only when the telephone rattled down on its stand did he bring his gaze back to the policeman.

“Wilcannia-Smythe booked in at the Rialto Hotel on 2nd January,” Simes reported. “That was the day before yesterday. He told the manager he’d be staying for a week or ten days, and had come to Warburton to gather material for a book.”

“Probably not important to us,” Bony said. “Miss Pinkney mentioned that she happened to see him enter the place yesterday. You know, I wish I could write a novel, or paint a picture. Is your sister at home?”

Astonished, Simes said she was, and Bony then said, “I’d like to talk with her. D’youthink she would mind?”

“Not a bit.”

“D’youthinkshe would accept me as her brother-in-law?”

The astonishment in the constable’s eyes waned and there waxed gleams of humour.

“Might,” he conceded. “Will you come inside to the sitting-room?”

“Thank you, Simes, I will. I’m in the mood to gossip, and I see that it’s time for morning tea. Don’t you suggest it, though. Leave that to me.”