Джорджетт Хейер - No Wind of Blame

The Inspector nodded. "Anyone but Jones and Carter know of this scheme of yours?"

"Well, of course not!" said White impatiently. "A nice stink there'd have been if they had! I can't see what you want to know about it for. It can't have any bearing on the case." A thought struck him; he said sharply: "Who put you on to it, anyway?"

"I needn't worry you with that," replied Hemingway. He thrust a hand into his pocket, and drew out certain objects, which he laid on the desk before White. "Now, if you could identify any of these, you might help me a lot," he said. "One lady's hair-slide; one broken nail-file; one small magnet; and one gent's pocket-knife in good condition. Seen any of them before?"

White took a moment to answer. "What's this? Starting an ironmongery business? Where did you find them?"

"In your shrubbery."

"I've never seen any of them before in my life." "Funny. I thought for a moment you had," said the Inspector blandly.

"Well, I haven't." White flicked the hair-slide with a contemptuous finger. "Probably the maid's. I don't wear them myself. I don't amuse myself picking up needles with magnets either; and I've never used a nail-file in my life."

"What about the knife?" inquired the Inspector.

"It might belong to anyone. I've seen dozens like it. I used to have one myself, if it comes to that. Anyone could have dropped it."

"No idea who, sir?"

"No, none at all," said White, looking him in the eye.

"Well, that's very disappointing. Mind if I ask your son if he happens to know anything about it?"

"Good Lord, you don't suppose my son had anything to do with Carter's death, do you? You're wasting your time! He'd got no interest in Carter whatsoever."

"Still, I don't know why you should object to my asking him if he's seen the knife before," said the Inspector.

White got up. "Object! I don't care a damn how you choose to waste your time. I'll call my son."

Alan, stridently summoned, lounged into the study a moment or two later. From the defensive expression on his face, the Inspector judged that he expected to be violently taxed with having betrayed his parent. He made haste to dispel this fear by holding out the pocketknife. "Good afternoon, sir. Ever seen that before?"

Alan looked rather relieved, and took the knife. "Where did you find it?"

"Do you recognise it, sir?"

"Yes, it's mine. At least, I think it is. I lost one just like it only the other day, anyway."

"That doesn't prove it's yours," said White. "It's a common enough pattern."

"I didn't say it did prove it. All I said was that it looks as though it might be mine. What's the mystery about? Where was the thing found?"

"In the shrubbery," replied the Inspector.

Alan put the knife down rather hastily. "Oh, I see! Well, what of it? I often go there, and I dare say it dropped out of my pocket."

"Exactly what I was thinking myself," said the Inspector. "I wonder if you know anything about the rest of my little collection?"

Alan glanced at the desk. "Good Lord, did you find them all in the shrubbery? No, I don't know whose they are. They certainly don't belong to me. What's that thing? A nail-file? Oh well, it probably belonged to the last maid we had. She used to file her nails into points, and paint them red into the bargain. That's why she got the push."

"Yes, that's very interesting to the Inspector," said White sarcastically. "If that's all you can tell him, you may as well make yourself scarce."

"Not on my account," said Hemingway. "I'm just off myself."

"Sorry I couldn't be of more assistance to you," said White, accompanying him out into the hall. "As for that other little affair - you'll keep it under your hat, won't you?"

The Inspector said briefly that there was no need for him to worry about that, and left the house, a thoughtful man. When he told his Sergeant the result of his visit, Wake knit his brows, and said after profound consideration: "Well, I suppose one might get something out of it, sir, though it doesn't seem very likely to me. If young White got wind of that scheme of his father's, others might have done likewise."

"So they might," said Hemingway, somewhat acidly. "And then have shot Garter just to upset the scheme. I've come across people like that, of course. In books."

Sergeant Wake flushed, and said in a mortified voice that he was only trying to use his imagination, as his chief had frequently advised him to do.

"Forget it!" said Hemingway.

Silence fell. Hemingway, sitting at his desk, drew an intricate mosaic of cubes and squares on the blottingpaper, apparently absorbed in this childish occupation. Sergeant Wake watched him hopefully. Suddenly the Inspector threw down his pencil. "What's the most common motive for murder, Wake?" he demanded.

"Passion," replied the Sergeant promptly.

"Not by a long chalk it isn't. Money, my lad; that's why five out of seven murders are committed."

"Yes, but Carter hadn't got any money," objected Wake.

"He'd got something just as important, if only I'd had the sense to see it sooner," said Hemingway. "He'd got an aunt."

The Sergeant frowned disapproval. "That brings us back to the young lady: Miss Cliffe. I must say, I don't like it, sir."

"Oh no, it doesn't!" replied Hemingway. "Miss Cliffe doesn't get Aunt Clara's fortune, by what Mr. Dering tells me, and as he's a Chancery barrister I wouldn't be surprised if he knew what he was talking about."

"Well, I know that, sir, but she didn't, did she?"

"No, she didn't, but that isn't to say that others were as ignorant. What I want to know is who the old lady's heir is, now that Carter's been disposed of. Get me Miss Cliffe on the 'phone, will you?"

The Sergeant found the number in the directory, and picked up the receiver. "But, good Lord, sir, that's very likely bringing in someone we've never even heard of!" he said.

"Well, why not?" demanded Hemingway. "I don't know about you, but I'm sick and tired of this lot, for there isn't a penny to choose between any of them!"

The Sergeant told the Telephone Exchange the number he wanted, and tried to put his jostling thoughts into words. "Yes, sir, I know; but if we go and dig out some stranger I don't see how he could have known what Carter's movements were, or Hallo, is that Mrs. Carter's residence? Inspector Hemingway would like to speak to Miss Cliffe, please."

Mary, rather bewildered at the other end of the wire, was unable to tell the Inspector very much, but although she had no idea of the exact locality of the Home which housed Clara Carter, she did remember that it was situated in an opulent suburb of London. The Inspector noted down this somewhat vague address, and asked her if she happened to know who managed Miss Carter's affairs. No, she had never heard, but she thought the old lady must have some trustees - if she actually existed.

"What, is there any doubt about that?" demanded Hemingway.

"I don't know. I mean, I've never set eyes on her, and I never heard of my cousin's going to see her, or anything. He only talked about inheriting her money, and being rich one day, whenever he got into debt, or wanted to get money out of Mrs. Carter, so he may have made her up."

The Inspector said in a shaken voice: "May have made her up. Yes, I see, miss. Thank you very much indeed… No, I don't think there's anything more I want to ask you." He laid down the receiver, and said to his Sergeant: ""I'll have to be taken off this case soon, I can see that. Did you get that? Carter's rich aunt probably never existed outside of his imagination. I'll bet he floated a whole lot of phoney companies in his time! Now you get the Department for me, and find out if the Chief's there."

In a few minutes' time the Sergeant handed him the receiver, and the deep, calm, voice of Superintendent Hannasyde hailed him. "Hallo, Hemingway! How's it going?"