Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 28, No. 3, November 12, 1927
- Автор: Alexander R. W., Ames John
- Год: 1927
- Язык: английский
- Год: The Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 28, No. 3, November 12, 1927». Краткое содержание книги:
“They don’t use it much now,” Bell chuckled.
Mr. Fortune glanced at him. “No. No. Well placed, wasn’t it? Just over the harbor.”
“Harbor?” Bell stared round. Under the hill the narrow river twisted between mud banks. “That’s the harbor, isn’t it, where the masts are? Must be a mile away.”
“Yes. The sea’s gone back since the Landomeres built their castle.” He made a devious way down the hillside back to the car.
“It’s all very jolly, sir,” said Bell. “But I don’t know what we’re doing.”
“We’re trying everything. Now we’re going to try if there’s an inn at Lythe that has a conscience. And I don’t mind tellin’ you it’s a desperate adventure.”
But they found one, an inn of shocking Victorian structure which defiled the moldering beauty of that ancient port, yet understood comfort and by its teacakes, as Mr. Fortune pointed out, justified faith in human nature.
Thus comforted, he went forth to study the town of Lythe and in its great church discovered a tomb upon which lay Ranulf Landomere and Alys his wife in alabaster with a row of kneeling children beneath.
“Seem to have been plenty of ’em then,” Bell said. “When was that, 1470? Our man won’t be one these lads.” He talked to the verger and was told that the Landomeres were all killed in the wars of the Roses. “Seems to me we’re not getting anywhere in particular, Mr. Fortune.”
“Let’s get on to the telephone,” Reggie muttered, and then with emphasis: “Don’t forget things, Brown.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, French,” Bell grinned.
At the post office Mr. French made a trunk call and Mr. Brown stood with his back to the door of the telephone box. But no one took any interest in them.
Reggie came out and took Bell’s arm and turned away out of the town on the lonely road to the harbor. “I got Lomas,” he said softly. “He’s seen the solicitor. He thinks Mr. Fyle is the safety first, family business kind of lawyer, quite respectable.
“Mr. Fyle says he did some trifling job for Landomere, about a bill, years ago and hadn’t heard of him since till last week when Landomere rang him up. Landomere was very confused, but as far as he could make out wanted advice about an attempt at blackmail. He arranged an appointment and Landomere didn’t keep it. That’s all he knows.”
“Sounds straight enough.”
“Yes. Yes. They’re looking into Mr. Fyle, of course. They haven’t got the valet yet, but Logan’s close on him.”
“Then he’s doing more good than we are,” said Bell grimly. “We don’t get very close to anything, do we?”
“I wonder,” Reggie murmured. He stopped and gazed at a topsail schooner, the only ship by the grass grown quay of Lythe. She was unloading deals. “A Swede, is she?”
“I’m no good at flags,” Bell shrugged, but he saw Mr. Fortune considering the schooner with a curious attention. “One of these chaps with the timber will know of her.”
“Don’t worry,” Reggie drew him away and they strolled back to the town. After a few hundred yards Bell glanced at him. “Yes, I think so,” Reggie murmured. Bell stopped and began to light a pipe. He had trouble with matches.
A man passed them at a swinging pace, a big fellow in plus fours. He vanished among some boat building sheds.
“Looks like it,” Bell frowned. “But if we are being followed, somebody’s got on to us mighty quick.”
“Yes, Brown. That is so,” Reggie smiled. “In the home town of the Landomeres, Mr. Brown.”
“Do you mind leaving this to me?” said Bell with ferocity. “You go on quick. Back to the pub. And stay there.”
So Reggie strode out like a man who had business and left Superintendent Bell smoking his pipe on the harbor road.
VII
It was two hours later and Reggie was turning over an old gazeteer of Downshire in the smoking room of the White Hart when Bell’s heed looked in. “Hello, French, what about dinner?” it said loudly, and Bell came in and shut the door. “Well, he was on to us all right. He followed you.”
“Yes. I know. He had a drink in the bar and asked who we were, Brown,” Reggie smiled.
“That’s right. Got some cheek, hasn’t he? Then he hustled away to a garage and went off on a motor bike. I’ve got him ticketed, though. He’s been in and out of the town a good deal the last few days. He and another chap, small fellow with one arm.
“They took a bungalow out Ashurst way a week ago. Give out they’re artists. Name of Vereker they use. Oh, that ship, by the way. She is a Swede. Been in about a week. They often get timber boats here. Almost the only ones they do get. There it is.
“These chaps came here about the same time as a Swedish schooner. And as soon as we’re in the place, they’re trailing us. It beats me.”
“Yes. Yes. Several unknown factors. Quite a lot of factors. But I don’t think we’re wasting our time, Bell. As soon as we’re in the Landomore country people take an interest in us. That’s very stimulating. Come on. There’s red mullet for dinner and a little saddle of lamb. They brag about their Madeira.”
After dinner Mr. Fortune, who loves not walking at any hour, but then, least of all, was tempted by the curiosity of duty to stroll with his cigar.
But in the silent streets of Lythe no footfall followed theirs. They climbed to the little green by the watch tower that once guarded the harbor. In the faint light of the rising moon the marsh lay dim and misty, but they could make out the winding of the river.
“Look. She’s eliminated,” said Reggie. A light high in air was moving seaward slowly and they heard the faint heavy beat of a motor engine. The schooner was standing out to sea on the ebb.
“Well, I don’t know what she had to do with it anyway,” said Bell.
“No. No. I wonder if Mr. Vereker does,” Mr. Fortune murmured.
Over the marsh, mist gathered in strange shapes, like giant spirits walking on the wind, silvery in the moonlight, dark in the cloud shadows, and changing form as they moved. “Weird place, isn’t it?” Bell muttered.
The sound of another motor was borne up to them, but a sharper sound, a motorcycle driven fast. It drew nearer, it rushed along the harbor road, vanished, stopped. Then they heard the engine started again and at the same high speed it came back.
“I’m afraid somebody’s missed the boat,” said Mr. Fortune.
“And if you know what that means!” said Bell with emotion.
“I don’t. Very complex problem. I’m going to my bed.”
“Sleep on it, eh? Good Lord, I shall dream of it.”
In the morning Mr. Fortune — this is most unusual — was up early. He found Bell morosely shaving. “Oh, Bell, oh, my Bell,” he protested. “This gloom! Hence loathed melancholy! Let us then be up and doing, for the grave is not the goal.”
“I don’t know what we’re going to do,” Bell wiped his face with a certain violence. “The more I think of it, the more it beats me.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that!” Reggie sat on the bed and swung his legs. “But it’s highly complex. I was going to look for Landomeres in their ancestral haunts.”
“Still at that, eh?” Bell said through his shirt.
“And you could look after me. On a push bike. Nice healthy exercise. In case the firm of Vereker might be interested.”
So alone in the car Reggie drove to the manor house of Ashurst. A large board in its park informed him that it was for sale by order of executors. He conferred with an old lodge keeper.
The place had been owned by the Fenley family for a century. She didn’t know who had it before. Of course, it was the Landomeres’ once, like everything round about: lands, churches, everything.