Джорджетт Хейер - Detection Unlimited

“Yes,” said Abby. “If—if you think we could make a do of it, I'd like to—awfully!”

“Well, if that's a proposal I'm glad I never received one!” said Miss Patterdale. “However, it'll give you both something to think of beside meddling in a murder-enquiry, so I daresay it's a good thing. I'll go and put the kettle on for tea.”

“That,” said Charles, releasing his betrothed, and opening the gate, “I take to be an invitation and a general blessing. That's better! Now I can kiss you properly! To hell with the murder! Who cares?”

Miss Dearham returned his embrace with fervour, but said, as soon as she was able to say anything: “As a matter of fact, I've rather lost interest in it, too. Though I should like to know what those detectives were doing up the lane, and what they're up to now.”

They were, in fact, being driven back to Bellingham; and as neither placed any great reliance on Constable Melkinthorpe's discretion, their conversation would scarcely have interested Miss Dearham. It was not until they had been set down at the police-station, and Inspector Harbottle had given the deformed bullet he had dug out of the elm-tree into the safe-keeping of Sergeant Knarsdale, that the murder of Sampson Warrenby was even mentioned. The Sergeant said: “That looks like a .22 bullet all right. Well, if the rifle wasn't the last you brought in, sir, I'm blessed if I know what to make of it!”

“What we found out this afternoon puts an entirely different complexion on things,” said Hemingway. “You get going, Knarsdale! I want the report on that little fellow as soon as I can get it! Horace, ask the chaps here for the Firearms Register, and bring it along to me!”

When the Inspector presently entered the small office, he found his superior sorting the papers that had been taken from Sampson Warrenby's desk. He said, as he put them aside: “We must have Coupland on to these. There's one letter which seems to be written in answer to something I can't yet find, but it's a job for him, not for me. Got the Register? Good!”

“I don't know if you think I may have missed a .22 rifle, sir,” said Harbottle, somewhat starchily, “but I can tell you now I made a list of every one within a radius of twenty miles of Thornden.”

“Thirty-seven of them, which I never had any interest in, and never shall,” said Hemingway. “I wish you'd pull yourself together, Horace! Up till today we've never considered any weapon but a rifle, because the range seemed to make it certain it could only have been a rifle shot. Which is another of the things we were meant to think. We've now got every reason to believe Warrenby was shot at much closer range, and I want to know just what lethal weapons there are in the neighbourhood.”

“Carsethorn said something about the Major's army revolver, but that won't do, because—”

“Of course it won't! It's the wrong calibre! Stop trying to annoy me!” said Hemingway, opening the register.

Silence reigned for a few minutes. Suddenly Hemingway looked up. “We're getting warmer, Horace. I find here that when his firearms permit was last renewed, a couple of years back, the late Walter Plenmeller had a .22 Colt Woodsman Automatic Pistol in his collection. Which, let me tell you, was not in the gun-cabinet at Thornden House. Now then!”

The Inspector came quickly round the corner of the desk to stare down at the entry.

“Could you carry a gun like that without anyone's knowing it?” demanded Hemingway.

“I suppose it could be done,” admitted Harbottle. “But—Good Lord, sir, what for?”

“Seems to me it's time we did a little research into Plenmeller's affairs,” said Hemingway, rather grimly.

“Yes, I see we shall have to, but what I'm thinking is that no one here knows anything against him. And I can't help feeling that if there was anything we should have been told fast enough. People don't like him, and the way they've all been searching for clues and motives you'd have expected several of them to have sicked us on to him, wouldn't you?”

“No, I wouldn't. Whatever it was that Warrenby found out—if that was the motive for his murder—you can bet your life it was something no one else knew anything about. That's obvious.”

“You're thinking Warrenby may have tried to blackmail him? That wasn't what was in my head, sir. To my mind, it was more likely he did Plenmeller some sort of an injury—because Plenmeller's the type of man who might easily kill out of sheer, wicked revenge. Only I haven't discovered a trace of anything like that. What's more, I put it to you, Chief, would he have gone round telling people he must take steps to get rid of Warrenby if he'd meant to shoot him? That's the last thing a murderer does!”

“Yes, my lad,” said Hemingway, in a dry voice. “And that's something he knows quite as well as you do. If he's the man I'm looking for, then I freely hand it to him! He's been remarkably clever. The killing wasn't done in some highly ingenious way that might have made us pay particular attention to a man who spends his life writing detective problems; he didn't try to fake an alibi for himself; he's told me and everyone else that he hated Warrenby's guts; and he's even told us all that he's quite capable of murdering someone—which I never doubted. He's even managed to stay as cool as a cucumber throughout, which isn't usual. That's probably because he's got a very good opinion of himself, and thinks he's far too clever for me to catch up with.”

“You don't think he could have done it just because he did hate Warrenby, do you?” asked the Inspector.

“No, I don't. Hating Warrenby was a lot more likely to make him think up ways of getting under his skin. Which I've a strong notion he did do. Warrenby wouldn't like that. We know what happened when he got a snub from Lindale. I'll bet he had worse to put up with from Plenmeller!”

“Now, wait a bit, Chief!” protested the Inspector. “If Warrenby was blackmailing him, he wouldn't have dared get under his skin!”

Hemingway shook his head. “I don't think it was ordinary blackmail. He hadn't anything Warrenby could want any more than Lindale had. But we know from what his clerk told us that Warrenby liked to find things out about people. He said you never knew when it might come in handy—and in the meantime it gave him a nice feeling of power. I should say he didn't really mean to let on to Lindale he knew what his secret was: he lost his temper, and out it came. Well, now, supposing he did know something to Plenmeller's discredit? Do you imagine he'd put up with Plenmeller being rude to him, shoving spokes in his wheel, and running him down to all and sundry if he could bring him to heel just by telling him that he knew what his secret was? If you ask me, Horace, he'd have thoroughly enjoyed lowering Plenmeller's crest! Anyone would, for that matter! Only that's where he slipped up: Plenmeller isn't the type it's safe to blackmail.”

“That may be,” agreed Harbottle, “but I'd also say he isn't the type you could blackmail easily! I mean, from the way he talks you'd think the chances are he'd be more likely to boast of having done something wrong than to try to keep it dark! Well, I ask you, sir. Look at the brazen way he told us he'd driven his brother to his death!”

“As a matter of fact,” said Hemingway slowly, “I was thinking of that. All things considered, I believe I'll take a look at that case. Did you read the whole of it?”

“The inquest on Walter Plenmeller? I haven't read any of it—barring the letter he left.”

Hemingway looked at him with a gathering frown. “What, didn't you even glance over the report? What made you pick the letter out?”

The Inspector blinked. “That's all there was. I found it in one of the tin boxes. I haven't been through any of the Coroner's records.”