Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 17, No. 90, May 1951
- Автор: Кристи Агата, Куин (Квин) Эллери
- Год: 1951
- Язык: английский
- Год: Mercury Publications
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 17, No. 90, May 1951». Краткое содержание книги:
“Did they know he was rich?”
“I think so. Even living as he did, he must have had something to leave. In fact, the girl gets an annuity of £500 and the boy the residue, about £20,000. The fourth person was Mark Royle. You may have come across him: thirty plus, French and German scholar, translates books. Very reliable, I’ve known his people for ages; very intelligent, Field Security in the war, and did a good job. I say all this because he is our chief witness.”
“You wouldn’t let me make him the murderer?”
“That’s up to you: you’ll see. Personally I have no doubts about him. Well, now, there’s a confectioner’s in the town where people go for coffee in the mornings. A few weeks ago Royle and Phyllida had run into each other, literally, just outside it, and when he had picked her parcels up, and apologized — well, there they were having coffee together, and telling each other their names. And it wasn’t surprising, seeing what a good-looking couple they are, that they were doing it again next morning. And so on.”
“Both fancy-free at the time?”
“More or less. The girl wears an engagement ring, rather a good one, but the fellow was missing-believed-killed in the war, as Royle was not sorry to hear. I suppose she saw him looking at it and wondering — he seems to have fallen for her rather. One Sunday he came to lunch.”
“To ask Uncle?”
“Oh, no. She wanted him to meet her brother. Just friendly on her part; probably still thinking of the other man. The three of them lunched together in the dining-room; Uncle was being an invalid in his bed-sitting-room, looking out on to the front garden; and after lunch they went into the living-room. Phyllida told her brother to light the fire while she got the coffee — it was a log-fire already laid — and Douglas, when he had got it going, wandered about rather impatiently, looking at his watch. Royle sat down in the armchair on the right of the fireplace, as you face it. Phyllida came back with the coffee. She put the tray on the table behind Royle’s chair and said, ‘Pour it out, Douglas, I must just make sure that Uncle’s all right. The cream’s for Mr. Royle, special.’ Apparently they had had some joke about that at the coffee shop. Of course, it wasn’t real cream, just the top of the milk, and only enough for one. You’ll see the point directly.”
“I’m seeing it now. Who put the sleeping tablets in what?”
“Exactly. Douglas poured out the three cups, put sugar in his own and Fhyllida’s, pulled up a stool next to Royle, and put on it the third cup, the cream jug, and the sugar bowl. Royle put in the sugar, poured in the cream very gently so that it rested on the top, and left it for the sugar to melt. Apparently this was a little way of his. Douglas drank his straight off, put his cup back on the tray, and as Phyllida came back, said, ‘Sorry, old girl, but I must dash.’ She suggested that he should say goodbye to his uncle, and he went out and was back again, Royle says, in a couple of minutes; the door was open and they watched him into his uncle’s room and back. Phyllida looked at him a little anxiously when he came back, or so Royle thought, and said, ‘All right?’ and Douglas said, ‘Most genial, but then I wasn’t making a touch, and that’s all he’s afraid of.’ They went out to his car, and saw him drive off like-a-bat-out-of — towards the town.”
“Exit First Murderer,” said Colby. “Or not?”
“You’ll see. The other two went back to the living-room. Now, then, I’ll read Royle’s actual statement, starting from there.” He drew out the pages and read. Colby lay back, listening to the words of Royle.
“I sat down in the chair, and she sat on the sofa, which was on the other side of the fireplace and at right angles to it. She drank her coffee and put the cup down on a little table behind the sofa, and then we talked about her brother. After a bit she said, ‘Oh, dear, I do feel so tired, it’s very rude of me,’ and I said, ‘Nonsense! Put your feet up and be comfortable.’ So she did. I finished my coffee, and was trying to listen to some story she was telling me, but for some reason I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I put my hand up, as if to shield my eyes from the fire, so that she wouldn’t notice. Then I suddenly realized that she wasn’t talking any more, and I opened my eyes with an effort, and saw her lying there, utterly still. Her hand drooped to the ground, and the firelight flickered in her engagement ring. She might have been dead. I knew that I ought to do something — I think I knew then that we had both been drugged — but I couldn’t take my eyes off the enormous ruby in that ring; it got bigger and bigger until it filled the whole room and swallowed me up... and by that time I suppose I had passed out. I woke up to a smell of burning, and thought vaguely of breakfast, and it took me a little time to realize that I wasn’t in bed at home. One of her shoes had fallen off, and I suppose a bit of burning wood had shot onto it from the fireplace, and the leather was smoldering gently. Then I knew where I was. I tried to revive her, but she was still completely out, I went into Mr. Gaye’s room to find out his doctor’s telephone number. He was dead. So I rang up the police. It was just five o’clock.”
Saxe returned the statement to the file, and Colby opened his eyes.
“Very good picture. Or is there too much detail? Oh, well, you can take that either way. Now the body.”
“Gaye had been stabbed through the heart by a double-edged knife of some sort, but there was no trace of the weapon. It was an hour before the girl was brought round and able to make a statement. Wherever it overlapped Royle’s, it confirmed him exactly. Of course we analyzed all the coffee things. Result: traces of an opiate in the two cups, nothing in the third or in the coffee pot, cream jug or sugar bowl.”
“And the only person who could possibly have dropped anything in the cups was the brother — at least, according to Royle.”
“Yes, and the cups were the only possible medium.”
“So you sent out an all-station call for Douglas.”
“No.”
“You surprise me. I should have thought your Inspector would have jumped at it.”
“He didn’t, for the simple reason that Douglas was already arrested. He was stopped in the town for dangerous driving, lost his temper, laid out a couple of constables, and was now safely locked up. Blasted fool!”
“But very convenient for you.”
“So we thought. But, you see, we searched him, we searched the car, and there was no weapon!”
“It could have been thrown away.”
“Where? When? The others saw him off, remember, streaking towards the town. Within a minute he was in trouble with the police. We’ve searched the room and the garden outside the window of the room; we’ve searched the front gardens on each side of the road, and the dagger is simply not there. But in any case, Colby, if it was hidden under his coat when he drove off, why should he throw it away at once? By doping the coffee he had given himself at least a couple of hours’ start, and could have dropped it in a pond or river a hundred miles away, where it would never be found. Also, with a murder behind him, wouldn’t he take especially good care not to get into the hands of the police?”
“You’d think so. Yes.”