Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 62, No. 2, October 3, 1931
- Автор: Энгланд Джордж Аллан, Philips Judson P.
- Год: 1931
- Язык: английский
- Год: The Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 62, No. 2, October 3, 1931». Краткое содержание книги:
And Enid Cleet’s body had been turned under on the wheel where she would not hear the drums, but Nicolay had not been tied tightly to the wheel at all. He had died with those drums beating in his ears.
Chapter XXXIV
Banes Offers an Alibi
As Tom Grant and Farrell reached the entrance hall of the Nicolay mansion on their way out, the sedate Hallston approached them.
“Mr. Banes is in the reception room, gentlemen,” he said with a patient look in his harassed eyes. “He came here to see you. At headquarters they told him you were both here.”
“Banes!” Tom frowned for a moment and then remembered the handsome man in knickers who had been seated on the porch of the Cleet house after the murders.
In the center of the little reception room, where in the early hours of that day Tom Grant had had his interview with Maida, Roger Banes was standing, his hands thrust in the pockets of his well-fitting coat, his face pale and drawn.
At sight of the two detectives he started forward eagerly.
“Gentlemen, I want a few words with you without delay,” he said. “I went to headquarters, but the superintendent was out and neither of you were there. I had to talk to somebody. I just found out a short time ago that you are holding Walter Cleet for questioning in these crimes. That is ruin to a young man with a career like his! The chap is an artist, a man with a future! He can’t afford this sort of thing! And to be dragged into it by this little blonde, Louise Lee!”
“But Cleet is in love with Miss Lee,” reminded Tom.
Banes made an impatient gesture.
“Love means nothing to him beside his career,” he said. “If it had he could not have countenanced Enid’s behavior. And now she shan’t ruin him!”
Tom and Farrell exchanged glances.
“But at first you spoke mighty well of Mrs. Cleet,” reminded Tom.
“Certainly I did,” flared Banes, swinging about. “What man wouldn’t? But I didn’t foresee this. Walter had nothing to do with her death. She is well out of the way. Now, this is what I want to say to you men. I know where Walter was last night. It had nothing to do with this Lee girl. I was with Walter Cleet myself in his study at his home. He bribed that Wiltham chauffeur to say nothing about his absence, and he drove into town and went home. And the reason he did it was because this old crank of a millionaire, Wiltham, had sprung on him at dinner some new idea about his place in Maine which he thought he had told Walter about, but which he hadn’t, see? And Walter knew him so well that he kept mum, and skipped home and altered his plans. If the old fellow had known Walter didn’t have them drawn up in that certain fashion — don’t ask me what it was, I’m no artist or architect — he would have thrown down the entire contract, swearing that Walt was undependable. That is the kind of gink he is.”
Banes mopped his damp brow as he talked and walked about the dainty room.
“But why couldn’t Cleet change those plans at the Wiltham house?” asked Tom, amazed.
“I don’t know. He said he couldn’t. All his stuff was here in his study. He certainly was worked up about it.”
“And how did you butt in on his work?”
“I saw him come home. I was smoking on the porch. I just ambled over, that was all. The servants were in bed and we had the study to ourselves. I often used to sit up there with him and watch him work. It didn’t bother him and it fascinated me. I watched him make that cursed mill wheel.”
“And what time did Cleet get home?” asked Farrell with obvious disbelief.
“About eleven thirty. Old Wiltham goes to bed early and he came away as soon as he could.”
“And he left here, when?”
“Oh, it must have been four o’clock,” replied Banes. “I waited until he had altered the plans and we went out of the house together.”
“You sat up with him all that while?” Farrell voiced his surprise.
“Yes. It was frightfully hot. I couldn’t sleep anyhow.”
“Well, Mr. Banes, I fail to understand where Louise Lee comes into this,” said Farrell, gravely. “Hallston bears out her story, too.”
“Can’t help that,” shrugged Banes. “Hallston is crazy about that girl. I mean, he will do anything for her because the women in the house are so mean to her.”
“But he wouldn’t lie to involve her in a murder!” said Tom. “Something funny here, Farrell.”
“Funny! It’s cock-eyed!” grunted the detective, glaring at Banes. “And I don’t believe a damned word of it, what’s more! I’ll drop down now and talk to Cleet.”
“He probably won’t say a word,” groaned Banes. “He won’t involve the girl and he wouldn’t admit this about his work for Wiltham. That contract in Maine means a lot to him.”
Tom shuddered.
“How he can go on with his work on that old mill after his wife died on the wheel, passes me!” he said.
“You don’t understand an artist,” said Banes. “His work first, his career before everything else. Walter is all genius.”
“Well, Mr. Banes, it is mighty fine of you to wish to get your friend out of a nasty spot,” said Farrell as he turned to the door. “And he is in one, all right. He visited the mill and copied the wheel and he made a key to fit the door. He lied about an alibi and bribed a chauffeur to lie for him. His wife died with another man on the wheel. Yes, it looks bad for Cleet. And worse if he’s in love with another woman himself.”
“That’s why I thought I’d better speak up,” said Banes gloomily as he followed the men through the front door, which was gravely held open by the much-tried Hallston.
At the curb Tom Grant touched Farrell’s arm.
“Quiet about this daughter business,” he said. “Don’t let the papers get it, yet. I’m going to get supper and go back to Darbyville. I got a few things I want to do to-night before the inquest in the morning.”
Farrell nodded, extending his hand with a touch of warmth.
“All right. We’ll be bringing those fellows out to you in time,” he promised. “This seems to be your case, after all, Grant, and you’re doing good work with it!”
Chapter XXXV
The Snake
Jake’s was not yet filled when Tom Grant entered it, looking about for the little figure which had already become so very attractive to him.
Tom found a corner table and sat down, hoping for the best. Telling a perspiring waiter that he was waiting for some one, he buried himself in the evening paper, relieved to note that the latest and most vital developments in the mill wheel murders had not yet got into print.
He was beginning to fear that Maida would not be in for dinner, when she came, looking sweet in a gray suit.
“You’re late,” he said, as she joined him.
“I’m glad to be waited for,” said Maida, smiling. “I’ve been to Darbyville.”
“Darbyville! What for?”
“For information.” And Maida would say no more until he had ordered supper.
“Tell me.” He bent across the table.
“Well, of course I was dying to look at the mill,” she said. “Like a few thousand other people. And after telling your chief who I was and that I was an old friend of yours, and so on, I got in. I’ve been chilled ever since. What a dreadful place to die! And those drums! They’re at headquarters, you know. Exhibit B or something like that. They fascinated me.”