Джорджетт Хейер - Detection Unlimited

“When was that?” asked Hemingway.

“Unfortunately,” said Mr. Drybeck, “it seems to be impossible to discover exactly when that was, but my enquiries lead me to say that it cannot have been less than a quarter of an hour later. I am much inclined to think that Miss Warrenby made a fatal slip when she correctly stated the time when she—as she puts it—heard the shot. Before she went to Miss Patterdale, the rifle had to be disposed of.”

“The young lady came over faint, and small wonder!” interjected Harbottle.

“Nonsense, Horace! she was burying the rifle in the asparagus bed! Well, sir, I'm sure I'm much obliged to you. Wonderful the way you've worked it all out! I shall know where to come if I should find myself at a loss. But I won't keep you from your dinner any longer now.”

He then swept the fulminating Harbottle out of the rose garden, bade Mr. Drybeck a kind but firm farewell, and joined Sergeant Carsethorn in the waiting car.

“Where to now, sir?” asked the Sergeant.

“What's the beer like at the local?” demanded Hemingway.

The Sergeant grinned. “Good. It's a free house.”

“Then that's where we'll go. The Inspector's a bit upset, and needs something to pull him round.”

“Well you know that I never drink alcohol!” said Harbottle, under his breath, as he got into the car beside him.

“Who said anything about alcohol? A nice glass of orangeade is what you'll have, my lad, and like it!”

“Give over, sir, do!” Harbottle besought him.

The Sergeant spoke over his shoulder. “Did you get anything more than I did out of Mr. Drybeck, sir?”

“Yes, I got the whole story of the crime,” said Hemingway cheerfully. “What you boys wanted me and Harbottle for when you had Mr. Drybeck beats me! He's got a trained mind, and he's bringing it to bear on this crime.”

“A trained mind!” snorted the incensed Inspector. “You haven't that, of course, Chief!”

“You're dead right I haven't!”

“He fairly turned my gorge!” said the Inspector, ignoring this piece of facetiousness. “Him and his trained mind! A real, wicked mind, that's what he has! Trying to cast suspicion on a nice young lady!”

“Taken your fancy, has she?” said Hemingway. “I'm bound to say she didn't take mine.”

“You aren't going to tell me that you think a gentle little thing like that could have anything to do with this?” said the Inspector, shocked.

“No, I'm not. I've got what wouldn't hurt you: an open mind! There's a great deal in what Drybeck says, and the fact that he said it because he's in the devil of a funk is neither here nor there.”

“He was that all right.”

“Of course he was. So would you be in his shoes. He's worked it all out, and whether he shot Warrenby or not I don't know, because I haven't got second sight, but what I do know is that he's proved to himself that he could have done it, in the time. Which saves me having to prove it for myself.”

“He made one slip,” said the Inspector, with satisfaction. “How did he know Warrenby was shot with a .22 rifle?”

“Yes, I can see you think he knew that because it was him did the shooting. You may be right, but it wouldn't surprise me if the whole village knows it.”

“If they do, it's Dr. Warcop who's told them!” said the Sergeant, who had been listening intently. “Him or that fool, Hobkirk! The pair of them are so pleased with themselves for having been in on this that I wouldn't be surprised if they started giving talks about it on the air! A fat chance we shall have of rounding up all the .22s now that everyone's been tipped off! I ought to have done it the instant we got that bullet.”

“Well, don't take on about it!” recommended Hemingway. “Unless this bird we're after has broken loose from Broadmoor, you never had a chance of rounding up anything but a lot of innocent rifles. The best you could ever hope for was to find someone who did have a .22, and has unaccountably mislaid it. What are we sitting here for?”

“Red Lion, sir,” ventured the driver.

“You should have said so before. Come on, Horace! We'll see what the lads of the village have got to say about this horrible crime. Properly speaking, we ought to leave you outside, Carsethorn, because you'll very likely cramp my style. However, I daresay they've all had a good look at the car by now, so you may as well go in with us.”

“Well, there's one person as has seen us, sir,” said the Sergeant, after a glance at the Red Lion. “That's Mr. Plenmeller, sitting in the window. I don't know but what I wouldn't as soon wait in the car.”

“What you want to do is get the better of these prejudices of yours,” said Hemingway severely. “What with your having it in for this author, and the Inspector getting a down on poor old Mr. Drybeck—as helpful a gentleman as I ever met—you'll very likely infect me, between the pair of you. You come and introduce me to the local crime-expert!”

This, in the event, proved to be unnecessary. No sooner had the three officials entered the bar-parlour than Gavin Plenmeller, who was standing drinks to Miss Dearham, Major Midgeholme, and young Mr. Haswell, hailed them with every evidence of delight. “If it isn't my friend, Sergeant Carsethorn, with—unless my instinct betrays me, which it rarely does—dignitaries from Scotland Yard! Come over here, Sergeant! You'll never guess what we've been talking about! George, serve these gentlemen, and chalk it up to my account! That,” he added, addressing himself to Hemingway, after one piercing scrutiny of his face, “is to put you under a sense of obligation, in case you decide to arrest me. You're Chief Inspector Hemingway: you had charge of the Guisborough case. At some future date, I shall do my best to get you into a malleable condition: I would give much to know the details of the evidence which was suppressed. I was in court every day. Let me make you known, by the way, to Miss Dearham! She, like Mr. Haswell here, doesn't come into this case, much to her regret, and quite unlike Major Midgeholme, whose motive for shooting Sampson Warrenby, though obscure, you will no doubt discover.”

“Really, Plenmeller, your tongue runs away with you!” said the Major stiffly. “Good-evening, Chief Inspector. Sad business, this.”

“What a mendacious thing to say!” remarked Gavin. “When we are all perfectly delighted! Or did you mean sad for Warrenby?”

“Yes, I rather got the impression that Mr. Warrenby wasn't what you might call popular,” said Hemingway. “Good-evening, Major: I've had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Midgeholme already.”

The Major looked startled. “You've been to see my wife?”

“Not properly speaking, sir: no. I met her up at Fox House. With Ulysses and Untidy,” he added calmly. “Very handsome little dogs. Prize-winners, I understand.”

“The way the police ferret out information!” murmured Gavin, causing the Major to flush slightly. “But I don't think Mrs. Midgeholme ought to have forced Ulysses to visit the scene of his humiliation. Rather sadistic, don't you agree?”

“No, I do not!” snapped the Major.

Abby turned her candid gaze upon Gavin, and spoke with paralysing frankness. “Definitely unfunny,” she said. “Why don't you try to find out who really did it, instead of making up fantastic stories about people who couldn't possibly have done it? You ought to be able to: you write awfully clever thrillers. I haven't read any of them myself, actually, but that's what everyone says.”

“Attagirl!” said Charles admiringly.

“What a low, nasty backhander!” remarked Gavin. “I shall ignore it. When I write my clever thrillers, ducky, I have the advantage of knowing from the start who did the murder. In fact, I know who is going to do it. It makes quite a difference, and serves to show how depressingly unlike life is fiction. My suspects all have lovely motives, too. You never met such a set of crooks as I can (and do) assemble in one restricted scene. Why, I once wrote a good stabbing-mystery set in a village just like this, and even the verger turned out to have the murkiest kind of past! The people of Thornden are too respectable for me. I won't say dull, leaving that to be inferred.”