Джорджетт Хейер - Detection Unlimited

“Would you describe yourself as dull, sir?” enquired Hemingway. “It isn't the word I'd have chosen.”

“No, or respectable either, but when I tried to cast myself for the role of chief suspect I met with nothing but discouragement. The Sergeant even snubbed me. I wonder that beer isn't choking you, Sergeant.”

“What you did, sir, if you'll pardon me saying so, was to try to pull my leg,” retorted the Sergeant.

“Not at all. As an amateur of crime, I felt I ought to be the culprit. Now, don't, anybody, talk to me of that Pole, said to be walking out with Mother's-good-girl! Any student of crime knows that the guilty man is never the mysterious foreigner. Besides, he's so obvious! If I can't have myself or Mrs. Midgeholme, I'll have the Squire, I think.”

“Here, I say! Draw it mild!” protested Charles.

“It's silly,” said Abby flatly. “He's just about the most unlikely person you could possibly think of.”

“He is quite the most unlikely person I can think of,” Gavin corrected her. “Therein lies his charm. I am not interested in the obvious. Have another pint, Chief Inspector!”

“No, I won't do that, thank you, sir. But I find all you're saying very interesting—speaking as a professional. Speaking as an amateur, why do you feel you ought to be the culprit?”

Gavin regarded him with approval. “You're restoring my shaken faith in the police-force, Chief Inspector. Or are you merely humouring me?”

“Oh, no, sir! It isn't every day I meet one of you gentlemen who write about crime, and I'd like to know how a real crime strikes you.”

“Disappointingly. There is nothing to solve except the comparatively uninteresting matter of the identity of the murderer. No hermetically sealed room, no unusual weapon, too few seemingly unshakeable alibis.”

“Well, I think the identity of the murderer is far more interesting than those other things.” objected Abby. “Fascinating, when one actually knows all the people!” she added naively.

“Ah, yes, but you, my sweet, are a female! Persons are more interesting to you than problems, will you mind very much if the guilty man proves to be some quite low, insignificant creature you've never even heard of?”

“No, of course I shan't. I should be glad, but I've got a feeling that won't happen.”

“I have the greatest respect for womanly intuition; I have a great deal of it myself. But doesn't yours inform you that I am a person easily capable of performing a murder?”

“No, of course not!” Abby said, flushing.

“Then it is underdeveloped. I assure you that I am.”

“Yes, probably,” Charles intervened. “But not this murder! You'd go in for something a bit more subtle.”

“Why, Charles, I did not look for this tribute from you!” Gavin said mockingly.

“You can take it that way if you like. I'd be willing enough to consider you for the star part in this drama if I could think of any conceivable reason why you should want to murder Sampson Warrenby. As I can't, you'll have to go on being a super, as far as I'm concerned.”

“But doesn't your dislike of me make it possible for you to picture me in the star role?” Gavin asked softly.

“No.”

“Oh, you are a very poor hater, Charles! Or are you maliciously attempting to make the Chief Inspector lose interest in me? I believe you are. I shall have to tell him that I have already committed one murder, and I meant to let him find that out for himself.”

“On paper. That's different.”

“Many, on paper. Only one in actual fact.”

“Look here, don't you think this has gone far enough?” said the Major uncomfortably. “It isn't quite a fit matter for joking, you know!”

“But I wasn't joking. It is well known that I murdered my half-brother.”

The Major was stricken to silence; Charles said, under his breath: “Must you always dramatise yourself?” and Hemingway, with an air of cosy interest, said conversationally: “Did you, though, sir? And how did you manage that, or is it a secret?”

“It's a lot of nonsense!” muttered Sergeant Carsethorn, glowering at Gavin.

“I induced him to kill himself, Chief Inspector, thus succeeding to his property. I won't say to his debts, for they were really almost negligible—unlike the liabilities which attach to any estate in these delightful times. Of course, had I known that Walter's money was almost wholly tied up in land—did I say that reverently enough, Charles? I've been practising ever since I succeeded Walter, but I fear I still haven't got it right—well, had I known this, I'm not at all sure that I should have driven him to suicide.”

“If you don't like living at Thornden House, why don't you clear out?” demanded Charles.

“Find me a buyer!”

The Major rose to his feet. “I must be getting along,” he said. “If I may say so, Plenmeller, you're talking plain balderdash!”

“What a lovely word! May I use it, or is it copyright?”

The Major ignored him, saying to Hemingway: “The late Mr. Plenmeller, as I have no doubt the Sergeant will tell you, was a bit of a war-casualty, and took his own life while temporarily of unsound mind.”

“Leaving a letter accusing me of having driven him to it. Don't forget that!”

“It's a pity you can't,” said the Major, with unaccustomed sternness. “Mistake to keep on brooding over things. Goodnight, Abby!”

He nodded to the rest of the company, said: “Night!” in a general way, and departed.

“Ought we to be going too, Charles? Your mother invited me for eight, and I don't want to keep her waiting,” said Abby, who, like most of her generation, had very good manners.

He glanced at his watch, and rose, “Yes, it's about time we pushed off,” he agreed. “I say, Chief Inspector, is it true that Warrenby was shot with a .22 rifle? Or oughtn't I to ask?”

“Oh, I don't mind your asking, sir! But you want to go and ask Sergeant Knarsdale, not me: he's the expert on ballistics.”

Charles laughed. “All right! But, if it's true, you've got the hell of a job on your hands, haven't you? Crowds of people have them here. I've got one myself. First gun my father ever gave me. I used to put rabbits with it.”

“Do you still use it, sir?”

“No, I haven't lately: too short in the stock for me now. My father had it altered for me when I was a kid, but it's knocking around somewhere.”

“Do you mean you don't know where it is?” demanded Abby.

He looked smilingly down at her. “Don't sound so accusing! It's either amongst my junk, or in the gunroom. If Mother didn't shove it up in the attics, with my old tramlines.”

“But don't you see?” exclaimed Abby, her eyes brightening. “Someone could have pinched it!”

“Don't be a goop!” he besought her. “They'd have to have a nerve, snooping round the house looking for a stray rifle! Come on, we must push off!”

“But I like that theory,” said Gavin. “It brings Mavis Warrenby back into the picture, and she was one of my first fancies. Try as I will—not that I would have you think I've tried very hard—I can't believe in so much saintliness. You ought to have seen her after church this morning! Such a brave little woman, nobly doing her best to bear up under heavy sorrow! A schoolboy's gun would have been just the thing for her. Oh, I must go home, and work on this new theory!”

“I would,” said Hemingway cordially. “You might tell me before you go whether you've got a .22 rifle as well as Mr. Haswell?”

“I haven't the least idea, but I should think very probably. I don't shoot myself, but my half-brother had several sporting guns. Would you like to come and see for yourself?”

“Thank you, I would, sir,” said Hemingway, getting up. “No harm in making sure, and no time like the present. You two can wait here for me,” he added, to his subordinates. “I shan't be long. I understand you live quite close, don't you, sir?”