Джорджетт Хейер - Detection Unlimited

The Inspector nodded, but said: “You're going to see the Vicar?”

“Yes, and his rifle gives me a nice excuse.”

“Carsethorn did check up on his alibi. It seems all right, Chief.”

“That's why I need an excuse. By what the Colonel tells me this Reverend Anthony Cliburn is just the man I want to give me the low-down on this high-class set-up. So far, I've had to listen to Mrs. Midgeholme, who thinks Lindale murdered Warrenby, because Mrs. Lindale gave her a raspberry; and to Drybeck, who's in a blue funk; and to Plenmeller, who wants to be funny; and I'm getting muddled. When you want to know the ins and outs of village-life, Horace, go and talk to the Vicar! Not that it's any use telling you that, because you haven't got the art of making people talk, which is what becomes of drinking sarsaparilla instead of an honest glass of beer.”

“Anything in Warrenby's papers, sir?” said the Inspector coldly.

“Nothing that looks like doing us any good. We may find something at his office tomorrow, but I shall be surprised if we do.”

The Inspector grunted, and sat down. He watched Hemingway collect the papers into a pile, and then said: “There is something that strikes me, Chief.”

“Second time today. You're coming on,” said Hemingway encouragingly. “Go on! Don't keep me on tenterhooks!”

“From the moment I was told the shot was probably fired from a .22 rifle,” said the Inspector, “I've been turning it over in my mind, wondering what was done with that rifle. Because it seems to me it would be taking a big risk to walk away with it over your shoulder, or under your arm. Who's to say you'd meet no one? But I watched you go off up the street with Plenmeller, Chief, and it came to me then that if anyone could walk about with a rifle concealed he could push it down his left trouser-leg, and, with that queer limp of his, no one would notice a thing.”

“Not bad at all, Horace!” approved Hemingway. “Now tell me why he takes it home, and puts it back in the gun-cabinet, instead of dropping it in the river, or somebody's backyard—which is just the sort of little joke that would appeal to him, I should think. He inherited his guns from that brother of his; he doesn't shoot himself—which I believe, because, for one thing, he's not the kind of fool who'd tell lies to the police which they could easily disprove, and, for another, I noticed that the guns in that cabinet were showing signs of rust—and if he'd chosen to say that he didn't know where the rifle was, and hadn't even known it wasn't in the cabinet, it would have been a difficult job to prove it hadn't been pinched. Because it could have been, easy! His door's kept on the latch, and he's got a deaf housekeeper.” He got up, glancing at the marble clock over the fireplace. “I'm going to turn in, and you'd better do the same, or you'll start brooding, or get struck by another idea, which would be bad for my heart.”

The Inspector rose, and after eyeing his chief for a pregnant moment, addressed himself to the vase of pampas-grass in a musing tone. “If I had to explain why I like my present job, I'm blessed if I could do it!”

“If you're thinking the B.B.C. is going to ask you to take part in a programme, you needn't worry!” retorted Hemingway. “They won't!”

“How Sandy Grant put up with it as long as he did I don't know!” said Harbottle.

“That's all right, Horace: he knew if he stuck to me he'd precious soon get promoted.”

“It's a fact your assistants do,” admitted Harbottle grudgingly.

“Of course they do! Recommending them for promotion is the only way I can get rid of them. Come on up to bed!”

On the following morning, Inspector Harbottle betook himself to Sampson Warrenby's office, and Hemingway went round to the police-station, where, after putting through a call to Headquarters, he had an interview with the Chief Constable, and received a brief report from Sergeant Knarsdale.

The Sergeant had already despatched the bullet, with its cartridge-case, which he had fired from Gavin Plenmeller's rifle, to London, but said frankly that he was not hopeful. “I wouldn't like to say, not for sure, without seeing them under the comparison-microscope,” he told Hemingway, “but I think they'll find there's some marks on this cartridge-case I couldn't spot on the other. Got any more for me, sir?”

“Sergeant Carsethorn will be bringing in three more this morning, unless they've got unaccountably mislaid.”

Knarsdale grinned. “Regular arsenal we'll have here!”

“You don't know the half of it! The Inspector's got thirty-seven on his list.”

“Ah, well! we'll be able to get up a competition,” said the Sergeant, who knew his Chief Inspector.

“That's right: I'm just off to Woolworth's to buy some nice prizes for you!” said Hemingway, and left him chuckling gently.

Ten minutes' walk brought the Chief Inspector to Sampson Warrenby's office. A guide was offered, but as he was informed that he had only to cross the market-place to South Street, which was the main shopping-street in Bellingham, and to walk down it until he reached East Street, which intersected it, he declined the offer, and set off alone. A large number of country omnibuses were ranked in the market-place, and South Street was already congested with all those who had come into the town to do the week's shopping. Hemingway caught a glimpse of Miss Patterdale, stalking into a grocer's, with a large basket on her arm; and a minute later he met Gavin Plenmeller, emerging from the portals of a bank.

“Good heavens! Scotland Yard in person!” exclaimed Gavin, causing everyone within earshot to turn and stare avidly at Hemingway. “But what are you doing, frittering away your time in idle sightseeing, Chief Inspector?”

“Yes, it's easy to see why you aren't, so to say, popular with Sergeant Carsethorn, sir,” said Hemingway, eyeing him grimly. “Pity you forgot your megaphone!”

Gavin laughed. “I am so sorry!” he mocked, and passed on up the street.

Hemingway proceeded on his way, and soon arrived at Sampson Warrenby's office in East Street. Here he was received by a junior clerk, and afforded two stenographers and the office boy their second thrill of the day. All three contrived to catch a glimpse of him, as he was led to Sampson Warrenby's room, and although the glimpse was a brief one it was sufficient to enable the elder of the two damsels to state that he had eyes that looked right through you, and to convince the younger that if she were summoned before him to answer any questions she wouldn't be able to speak a word, on account of her being very high-strung, as anyone who knew her could testify. The office boy said in a very boastful way that it would take more than a C.I.D. man to scare him, after which he went off to the Post Office with two unimportant letters, his mind being troubled with a horrid fear that from so high-ranking an official not one of his youthful peccadilloes could remain hidden.

Meanwhile, the Chief Inspector had joined his subordinate in Sampson Warrenby's room, and had made the acquaintance of Mr. Coupland, the head clerk.

Mr. Coupland was a thin little man, with sparse, grizzled hair, and anxious face. He greeted the Chief Inspector nervously, and said: “This is a shocking business! I can't get over it. As I've been saying to the Inspector, I don't know what's going to happen, I'm sure, Mr. Warrenby not having a partner. It's very worrying, very! I really don't know what I ought to do. Not when we've cleared up what we have on hand.”

“Well, I'm afraid I can't help you there,” said Hemingway. “Busy practice, this?”

“Oh, very! Very busy indeed!” Mr. Coupland said earnestly. “The biggest practice in Bellingham, and growing so—well, Mr. Warrenby was talking of having to take a partner. And now this! Well, I don't seem able to believe it's happened, and that's a fact!”