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:
Mr. Fortune lit a cigar and sank deep into his chair.
“Looks as if he was really killed up there, sir,” said Bell sadly.
Mr. Fortune turned on him a slow, benign smile. “Some error,” he murmured gently. “Some error.”
VI
Bell had trouble with his pipe. He had met that smile before. It was wont to lead to action. But it did not. Mr. Fortune seemed to have lost his grip.
The telephone called. Lomas was speaking. Lomas wanted to know what was doing about the inquest. “Don’t mind me,” Mr. Fortune said. Bell conferred with Warnham and suggested to Mr. Fortune that they should begin to-morrow, give evidence of identification, and adjourn. “Yes,” Mr. Fortune murmured. “Make ’em all happy.”
In the morning he declined, amiable but quite firm, to attend that inquest. But while it was being held in the parish room at Brase, he appeared in the silent village, he spent some time there and chatted with the young artist who was sketching that picturesque bit by the rectory.
Superintendent Bell came back to the White Bull to find him at tea and politely ready to hear all about everything. Bell had many grievances. He hated all inquests and all coroners, and these two he pronounced conspicuously evil in their evil kind.
“This old fellow, sir, he as good as told his jury at the start Mrs. Brase did the murder. Nice sort of justice. Nice for the police, too. Telling her we’ve got a case when we haven’t got her!”
“Very fair all round,” said Reggie. “Who identified the body? The rector’s wife?”
“She was there all right. Telling everybody how Mr. and Mrs. Brase were always quarreling. The brother, Roger Brase, was called to identify. Just swore to the body. The old coroner was going to ask him something, but I made Warnham get up and stop that.”
“Well, well. What’s Roger Brase like?”
“Smallish chap, dark, looks sporting. Gone the pace in his time, I should say.”
“As like his brother as no matter.”
“Yes, sir, so they say.”
Again the telephone interrupted them. “Mr. Lomas, sir,” Bell reported. “You’d better hear yourself.”
And Reggie heard this: “Is that you, Reginald? Congratulate me. I’ve found her. She’s at St. Ives. My idea entirely. I thought she might be in some artist colony, so I tried them all. She’s at St. Ives.”
“Splendid,” said Reggie. “In her own name? Fancy that. Found the man too?”
“He’s been there all the winter. Left a week ago, Reginald. We’re after him. But we’ll make sure of her. Warnham’s sending down a man with a warrant to-night. What did you say?”
“I said ‘God save the king!’ ” said Mr. Fortune, and rang off. But when he came back to Bell the superintendent saw again that slow, benign smile forming. What he said was of startling irrelevance. “Any views about Warnham, Bell? I mean to say, is he playing the game?”
“Sir? I’ve got nothing against him. He’s got twenty years’ service. Absolutely straight, I should say.”
“Well, well. There’s no hurry,” Mr. Fortune murmured.
The next morning he went up to town, declaring that he was in need of edible food. When he came back Bell found that they had been re-enforced by his car and his chauffeur and factotum, Sam. Late in the evening Mrs. Brase was brought to Hors-bury and charged with the murder. Bell, who attended that ceremony, reported that she didn’t turn a hair and didn’t say a word.
She was brought before the magistrates in the morning. Reggie went to see that end found Lomas going into the court. “Come down to see your triumph, Lomas? How nice and human of you.”
“So glad to find you here, Reginald,” Lomas smiled. “I was afraid you were losing interest in the case.
“Oh, we’re all here. Look, there’s the rector’s wife.”
What Lomas was going to answer was hushed by the coming of the magistrates. Mrs. Brase was put into the dock, a large stately woman, who stared straight before her. Her face had the pallor of ivory, but she showed no fear nor any other emotion. “More chin than brow,” Lomas whispered.
“Yes. She married Brase,” said Reggie.
She was charged with murder. She said she was not guilty. The clerk asked her if she had counsel. “You have not given me time,” she said quietly. There were murmurs of consultation. The counsel for the public prosecutor arose — they would not take it far that day — every facility would be given — and Inspector Warnham went into the box.
It had been reported to the police that Julian Brase was missing. He had called on Mrs. Brase, who told him that her husband had gone to the devil. He called the next day and she had left home. He searched the house and park and found Julian Brase shot. He later found on the spot a revolver marked “J. B.”
The prosecution proposed to adjourn.
“I wish to say—” Mrs. Brase began.
“Better not, better not,” said the old chairman.
“I wish to say that my husband was alive when I saw him last. It was in my room at the Hall. He asked me for money. There was nothing new about that. I refused him. He went out of the room and I never saw him again. I don’t know what became of him.”
With that, with another admonition to consult a solicitor, the bench adjourned and she was led away.
Reggie was outside the court, watching the spectators depart. There were many cars. It was difficult to attract his attention. Lomas came up with him as he was chatting with his own chauffeur. “Don’t shun me, Reginald.”
“Dear Lomas! Did I ever?” Reggie drew him away. “But I want you. I want you to get that pistol for me.”
“Good God!” said Lomas. “You never mentioned the pistol before.”
“No,” said Reggie. “Not before. Come on. Talk pretty to Warnham.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Fire it,” said Mr. Fortune.
They turned in to the police headquarters. The chief constable and Inspector Warnham were, in a decent official way, very pleased with themselves and had to say so and let Lomas knew that they thought he had done quite well. It was not good for a ruffled temper.
Lomas was curt. “I don’t see the end of the case yet. Where’s the revolver? Mr. Fortune wants to make some experiments.”
“The revolver? Mr. Roger Brase will swear to that,” said Warnham sulkily.
“Did he see it fired?” said Reggie.
“Of course he didn’t see it fired. What do you mean, doctor?”
“Well, I mean several things. I mean it wasn’t there when we found the body.”
“You couldn’t see it, so it wasn’t there.”
“Yes. I couldn’t see it, so it wasn’t there,” said Reggie, mildly.
“But it was there and I found it.”
“That’s what’s so interesting,” said Reggie. “Isn’t it, Lomas?”
“It’s going to be damned awkward for somebody,” Lomas frowned.
“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” the inspector cried.
“Well, how did it get there, for instance?” said Reggie, watching him. He was very red. “Are there any other service revolvers about in Brase? And who — well, never mind. The revolver, please.”
VII
They went off with it, hearing the inspector lift up his voice as the door closed. Reggie loitered. Reggie had to go into a tobacconist’s. While he was being critical of the local cigars, the inspector’s car drove past furiously. “God bless him!” Reggie smiled. “He has his uses. Come on, Lomas.”
“Why didn’t you raise this before?”
“Oh, I have my uses, too,” said Reggie.
In the yard of the White Bull — it is the only comfortable part of that inn — stand several lock-up garages. Reggie led the way into one and fastened the doors. “We have here,” he pointed to a corner, “a bundle of cotton wool with a sandbag behind it. If the gentleman will satisfy himself there is no deception—”