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:
“Get on,” said Lomas.
“The revolver is that handed us by Inspector Warnham, certified to belong to the dead man, still containing five cartridges. Are you ready?”
The garage reverberated as he fired five shots into the bundle. “We now collect the cartridge cases and the bullets.” It took some time. “Five in all. Come on.” He marched Lomas up to their room.
Bell stood there poring over some small sheets of paper. “I say, Mr. Fortune—” he began.
“One moment. One moment. We now examine our bullets under a magnifying glass of low power and we find that — in between the regular grooves — they exhibit two scratches—”
“You don’t want a glass to see ’em,” Lomas grumbled.
“Caused by some small faults in the barrel of the J. B. revolver. We now compare the bullet which killed J. B. And find-only one scratch — quite different.”
“Good Gad!” said Lomas.
“The provisional conclusion is that Julian Brase was not shot with the revolver placed where his body was found.”
“Provisional!” Lomas cried.
“God bless my soul!” said Bell. “Here, Mr. Fortune — you ought to hear this.”
“What’s your trouble, Bell?”
“It’s a report from Harland, sir. He’s found a chap who goes round the villages with a cart selling china. Always calls at Brase on Mondays. He says that on the Monday Julian Brase was first missed he saw him go into his brother’s house in the afternoon. Quite definite. Harland says he makes a good witness.”
“Yes. I thought Mrs. Brase was telling the truth,” said Reggie. “That fits. Julian asked her for money after lunch. He went down to tell brother Roger she wouldn’t give it him — and brother Roger identifies a pistol that was found where he was found dead.”
“But it was brother Roger reported him dead, sir.”
“Well, brother Roger and the rector’s wife. Strong, determined woman. Brother Roger’s been a little coy all through, don’t you think? He hasn’t exactly thrust himself on us. He only talks to Warnham. Stay at home fellow. Yet he has a car — though he didn’t come in it this morning.”
“What do you mean?” said Lomas quickly.
But Reggie held up his hand. Some one was coming heavily upstairs. The door opened to reveal a policeman. “Mr. Lomas, sir? The chief constable says would you step around immediate?”
Lomas beckoned to Reggie. In the outer office they passed a large man fidgeting impatiently under the gaze of curious policemen. The chief constable, purple of face, was conferring with a uniformed inspector.
“Ha, Lomas! Good. Here’s a new development. That artist fellow, Mrs. Brase’s flame, has turned up. We’ve got him sitting out there now. He came in as bold as brass, and asked if it was true Mrs. Brase was charged with her husband’s murder. Seen all this stuff in the papers, he said. The inspector here asked him what business it was of his. He says he has a statement to make that will clear her.”
“Well, he’ll have to make it, colonel,” said Lomas.
“Quite so. Just my view. Bring him in. You’ll take down what he says, Jordan.” The large man was brought. “Now, sir, who are you and where do you come from?”
“Timothy Arnold. Paris last. I live at St. Ives. Who are you?”
“The chief constable of Wessex, sir.”
“You’ve put Mrs. Brase in the dock for murder?”
“Ha. Has Mrs. Brase been communicating with you, sir?”
“Mrs. Brase didn’t know where I was.”
“I dare say,” the chief constable laughed, and turned to Lomas. “I dare say, eh?”
Lomas shrugged. “Mrs. Brace was charged with murder this morning,” he said. “Do you want to say anything about it?”
“I’m here to say she didn’t kill the man.”
“You want to give evidence for the defence?”
“No, sir. I’ve come to give myself up. I shot her husband.”
The chief constable breathed hard. Lomas put up his eyeglass. “Be careful,” he said. “That is a confession of murder. What you say can be used against you.”
“That’s what I’m here for. I’m an old friend of Mrs. Brase. I hadn’t seen her since she married till this spring. I was down here sketching. I found her husband was a drunken, gambling brute, giving her a hell of a life. I couldn’t stand for it.
“I came back and found him alone up there in the park, and shot him and cleared out to Paris. I never thought any man would be fool enough to put it on Mrs. Brase. She — why, she never hurt anything. She couldn’t. Then I saw in the papers what you were up to, and here I am.”
“Did you bring your pistol with you?” said Reggie.
“No, sir. That’s in the Channel. You can go and dive for it.”
“What sort of pistol was it?”
“My army pistol,” Arnold laughed. “What do you think?”
Reggie lay back in his chair.
A silence was broken by the inspector laboriously reading out the record of the confession. “Will you sign that, Arnold?”
“Sure.”
“Very well. You’ll be detained while we make inquiries.” They watched him march out. “That’s a sportsman,” Lomas said.
“Damme, sir,” cried the chief constable, “I always thought Mrs. Brase had a man with her in the business.”
“She hadn’t, according to Arnold,” Reggie objected. “She wasn’t in it at all. He clears her.”
The chief constable laughed. “Don’t you believe it, doctor. They’re both in it. The eternal triangle, eh, what? They wanted the husband out of the way.”
“Oh, my head!” Reggie murmured. “Either you believe him or you don’t. Better make up your mind which. A jury won’t do both. Even juries have their limits.” He turned; Inspector Warnham had come in. “Hello, Warnham. Roger Brase still swearing to the pistol?”
VIII
Warnham glared at him. “Yes, doctor, I have been to see Mr. Roger Brase,” he said sulkily. “And he says that was Mr. Julian’s pistol, and there never was any other at the Hall.”
“Wash out, Warnham; wash out,” the chief constable waved his hand. “Never mind that pistol. We’ve got a confession,” and he told of it with glee.
Inspector Warnham struggled to reorganize his ideas. “Yes, sir, there was a lot of talk about Mrs. Brase and this artist fellow. I did always have a notion he was in it. But what about the pistol I found?”
“Yes. You’ll want some new evidence,” Reggie smiled.
Lomas stood up as one having authority.
“Arnold’s story must be tested,” he announced. “I’ll arrange for inquiries about his movements at St. Ives and in Paris. You must see if you can find any trace of his being here. Let’s have a scheme ready for the morning.”
They went back to the inn, and Reggie stretched himself upon two chairs. “Well meaning man,” he murmured. “Did it all for the best.”
“Who do you mean?” said Lomas testily.
“Oh, all of them. The old colonel the hasty Warnham, T. Arnold, artist. All meaning so well.”
“You’re helpful, aren’t you?” said Lomas. “It’s a cursed mess of a case. Here, Bell, let’s get to business.” Superintendent Bell, listening in sad surprise to this bad temper, was told of the confession, and required to concert measures for the discovery of Arnold’s movements. And Mr. Fortune watched and listened. But he seemed to be listening for something else.
It did not come till after dinner; it came with the purr of a car and the quick step of Sam the chauffeur. Reggie sprang up to meet him. “Anything happened?”