Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 18, No. 3, September 18, 1926
- Автор: Bailey H. C., Bechdolt Jack
- Год: 1926
- Язык: английский
- Год: The Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 18, No. 3, September 18, 1926». Краткое содержание книги:
“You’re all so hasty.”
Lomas shrugged. “The woman ran away. We’ve got to run after her.”
“What’s the case against Mrs. Brase?”
“That’s what I want her to tell me.”
“Charge her first, find the evidence afterward.”
Bell shook his head. “She shouldn’t have run, Mr. Fortune.”
“One murdered husband is a prima facie case,” Lomas said mildly. “I want to hear her explanation. She’s given four, you know. He was ill. He’d gone to London. He’d gone on a holiday. He’d gone to the devil. And all the while he was dead.”
“The case against her is that the rector’s wife don’t like her, the county don’t like her, the county police don’t like her and the county inspector is God’s own ass.”
“My dear fellow, somebody killed the husband. We must ask her for her views about that. It’s only decent. He was shot at her door.”
“You think so?” said Reggie. “I’m going to swear he wasn’t killed in the park.”
Bell whistled. Lomas sat up. “This isn’t quite nice of you, Regginald,” he said. “Not even in the park? Evidence grown a little, hasn’t it?”
“Yes. I had found sand in the blood clot. I didn’t know the park was all chalk.”
“A little subtle, a little thin, isn’t it?” Lomas frowned. “Anything more?”
“No. That’s the lot. But it don’t fit Mrs. Brase.”
“I don’t know. It might do very well. I’ve got a sleeve, too, Reginald. There was a man down in the village a month ago, painting or pretending to paint. Mrs. Brase said he was an old friend. She played at art in Paris before she was married. They were together a good deal. It was talked about. Warnham says it made bad blood between her and her husband.”
“The rector’s wife again,” said Reggie.
“I dare say. Brase has a brother, too, you know.”
“Yes. Yes. Lots of nice friends for Mrs. Brase. Was the artist down here when Brase was missed?”
“No evidence.”
“Rector’s wife draws the line somewhere. Who is the mysterious artist?”
“Used the name of Alford. Big fellow. Spoke with some sort of a twang. Foreign in his ways, they say.”
“Big fellow. And she’s big, too,” Reggie murmured. His round face was lined with melancholy. “I wonder.”
“You mean they could have carried him up there between them, sir?” said Bell.
Reggie gazed at him. “It could be. Sorry, Lomas. My error. You’ll have to find them. Nasty case.” He rose like a very tired man and lounged out.
“Not himself, Mr. Lomas,” Bell shook his head. “Not up to it yet, he isn’t.”
But the morning brought Reggie down in his usual amiable placidity, only a little silent and dreamy. He woke up when Lomas spoke of going back to town. “Yes. You go and find them. Leave me Bell.”
“My dear fellow! Are you staying? There is nothing more for you, is there?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know the place. I don’t know anything. Leave me Bell. I want him to protect me. I’m afraid of this fierce inspector.”
Lomas went off with a laugh. “All right. Don’t let him hang the rector’s wife, Bell.”
The methods of Mr. Fortune seemed to Superintendent Bell uncommonly frivolous. They took a car, they put it up at an inn two miles from Brase Hall, they walked out not to the place where the body was found, but by a rambling route to the village of Brase.
On the way, they talked with every human creature they met, in the village they had to wander about like trippers, admiring a cottage here and there, going over the church with the sexton, drinking beer with the landlord of the inn.
Superintendent Bell admired, not for the first time, Mr. Fortune’s ability to make anybody talk to him, but found the innumerable conversations remote from the crime.
V
When they came out of the inn Mr. Fortune smiled. “Well, what do you make of it all, Bell?”
“Sir?” Bell stared.
“They all like Mrs. Brase. And nobody cares a damn about him.”
“Now, you put it like that,” Bell said slowly.
But Reggie slid back from his wondering eyes into the porch of the inn. “Look at that. Go and talk to him. Don’t say I’m here.” Bell was left staring at the police car which stood by the rectory gate. He obeyed orders.
When the inspector and his car were out of sight, Reggie joined him again. “Warnham’s been up searching the hall with Brase’s brother,” Bell reported. “Found nothing much. No pistol. Some old letters to her, signed Tim. He says that’s this artist chap. But he can’t get any proof the man was here last week. That’s what he went to the rectory about. He’s made up his mind Mrs. Brase hasn’t gone abroad. He’s found her passport.”
“Passport!” said Reggie with contempt. “Well, well. There’s some brains somewhere, but not in Warnham. One of the bulldog breed. Muddled case, isn’t it?”
“He’s not what I’d call bright, sir. But he’s working the only clews he’s got.”
Reggie stopped. “Oh, Bell! Oh, my Bell!” he said sadly. “He hasn’t even begun.”
“No, sir. Where would you begin?”
“When was the dead man last seen alive? Who saw him? Where was he?”
“I reckon Mrs. Brase is the one to tell us that.”
“Oh, my aunt! Of course, the murderer saw him last. But there must be somebody here who saw him last but one. Who was it and where was he?”
“Well, sir, Warnham’s got it pretty close. Brase was alive at the Hall at lunchtime on that day of the rector’s dinner. He didn’t sleep at the Hall that night. He must have been killed between lunch and dinner time. That’s near enough.”
“My only aunt!” Reggie gasped. “Nothing strike you about that, Bell? No? But it’s all sand down here and it’s all chalk in the park. He was killed on sand, you know.”
Bell thought it out. “That’s neat, sir,” he said with respect. “You mean I ought to look about in the village for some one who saw him that afternoon?”
“Not you. No. You’re too conspicuous. But I think we’ll have one of your bright boys down.”
“Harland, sir. He can sketch. Like this artist chap. I’ll phone for him when we get back to Horsbury.”
They had indented for Sergeant Harland, they were sitting over tea when Inspector Warnham’s car drew up at the inn. He entered with a grin. “Hello, doctor. Taking it easy? I’ve got something for you. I’ve got the pistol. Would that do the trick?”
Reggie looked at it curiously. “It’s a service revolver.”
“I know that, thank you,” the inspector laughed.
“Where did you find it?”
“Up there where we found tire body.”
Reggie looked curiously a him. “Splendid,” said Reggie. “Did you find the cartridge case, too?”
“Nothing else about. But there’s been one shot fired.”
“Yes. I noticed that.”
“When I couldn’t find Mr. Brase’s revolver in the house I thought I’d go and have another look on the hill. There it was, lying among the leaves, you know. I don’t wonder I didn’t notice it before. We were in the devil of a hurry.”
“Yes. You were in a hurry. Is this Brase’s revolver?”
“Got his initials on it anyway,” the inspector laughed. “J. B., see?”
“Yes. Better get his brother to identify it.”
“He has,” said the inspector triumphantly. “I took it straight down to him at his place. He knew it at once. He saw Mr. Brase put those marks on it himself. That’s good enough, eh?” he laughed. “There we are, superintendent. You find Mrs. Brase for us and we’ll do the rest.” He bustled out.