Джорджетт Хейер - A Blunt Instrument

"No. I'm going back to the police station. It's no use my tackling Neville. I haven't anything against him, except the state of his bank overdraft, and he knows it. I'm hoping Glass may have managed to make contact with that postman. As far as I can see, the two people we've got to get hold of are North and Carpenter. I'll put a call through to North's office, and find out if he's there, or has been there. With any luck Jevons has been able to ferret out some more information about Angela Angel. I put him on to that first thing this morning. Which reminds me that there's one thing I want to pick up, and that's a photograph of Fletcher. We'll call in at Greystones on our way, and borrow one from his sister. I take it no photograph was found amongst Angela Angel's possessions?"

"Only a few of stage pals, and one of Charlie Carpenter. I asked Jimmy Gale particularly, but he was positive there wasn't one of the man who'd been keeping her. Few flies on the late Ernest. Think Angela's an important factor, Chief?"

Hannasyde did not answer for a moment. As they turned in at the front gate of Greystones, he said: "I hardly know. If North's our man, I should say not. But in some way or other she seems to be linked up with the case. It won't do any harm to see what we can find out about her."

He rang the front-door bell, and in a few minutes the door was opened by Simmons, who, however, told them that his mistress had gone out. Hannasyde was about to ask him if he could produce a photograph of his master when Neville strayed into the hall from a room overlooking the drive, and said with his shy, slow smile: "How lovely for me! I was getting so tired of my own company, and I daren't go out in case you're having me watched. My aunt wouldn't like it if I became conspicuous. But where's the Comic Strip? You don't mean to tell me you haven't brought him?"

The Sergeant put up a hand to his mouth. Neville's large eyes reproached him. "You can't like me as much as I thought you did," he said, softly slurring his words. "I've learnt two new bits to say to him, and I'm sure I shan't be able to carry them in my head much longer."

The Sergeant had to fight against a desire to ask what the new bits might be. He said: 'Ah, I daresay, sir!" in a non-committal tone.

Young Mr. Fletcher, who seemed to have an uncanny knack of reading people's thoughts, said confidentially: "I know you want me to tell you what they are. I would - though you oughtn't to try and pick my brains, you know - if it weren't for the Superintendent's being with you. You understand what I mean: they're awfully broad - not to say vulgar."

The Sergeant cast an imploring glance at his superior, who said with an unmoved countenance: "You can tell the Sergeant some other time, Mr. Fletcher. I called in the hope of seeing your aunt, but perhaps you can help me in her stead. Have you a photograph of your uncle which you could let me borrow for a few days?"

"Oh no!" said Neville. "I mean, I haven't. But if I had I wouldn't lend it to you: I'd give it to you."

"Extremely kind of you, but -'

"Well, it isn't really," Neville explained, "because I hate photographs. I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll give you the one that stands on a table all to itself in the drawing-room. As a matter of fact, I was wondering what next I could do to annoy my aunt."

"I have no wish to annoy Miss Fletcher. Isn't there some other -'

"No, but I have," said Neville in his gentle way. "I shan't tell her I gave it to you, and then she'll organise a search for it. That will be uncomfortable, of course, but since I started to do good turns I've found that they invariably entail a certain amount of self-immolation, which has a very degrading effect on the character." Talking all the time, he had led the way into the drawingroom, where, as he had described, a large studio portrait of his uncle stood in solitary state upon an incidental table. He stopped in front of it, and murmured: "Isn't it a treat?"

"I don't want to borrow a photograph which Miss Fletcher obviously values," said Hannasyde somewhat testily. "Surely there must be another somewhere."

"Oh, there is, beside my aunt's bed! But I shan't let you have that, because it wouldn't suit my book. There's an almost indistinguishable but certainly existent line drawn between the counter and the added irritant."

"I'm bothered if I know what you're talking about, sir!" said the Sergeant, unable to contain himself. "Nice way to treat your poor aunt!"

The flickering gaze rested on his face for an instant. "Yes, isn't it? Will you have it with or without frame, Superintendent?"

"Without, please," Hannasyde replied, looking at him a little curiously. "I think I understand. Your methods are slightly original, aren't they?"

"I'm so glad you didn't say eccentric," said Neville, extracting the portrait from its frame. "I hate being called eccentric. Term employed by mediocre minds to describe pure rationalism. Now I will hide the frame, and bribe Simmons to keep his mouth shut. Practically the only advantage I have yet discovered in inheriting a fortune is the ability it confers on one to exercise the unholy power of bribery."

"And then I suppose you'll join in the search for it?" said the Sergeant, torn between disapproval and amusement.

"No, that would savour strongly of hypocrisy," answered Neville serenely. "There you are, Superintendent. I shan't invite you to stay and have tea, because my aunt might come back."

Once outside the house, the Sergeant said: "Came over me in a flash! Do you know what that silly smile of his makes me think of, Super?"

"No, what?"

"That picture people make such a fuss about, though why I've never been able to make out. Pie-faced creature, with a nasty, sly smile."

"The Mona Lisa!" Hannasyde laughed suddenly. "Yes, I see what you mean. Odd young man. I can't make up my mind about him at all."

"There are times," said the Sergeant, "when I'd ask nothing better than to be able to pin this murder on to him. However, I'm bound to say it isn't, to my way of thinking, arty enough for him. My lord would go all out for something pretty subtle, if you ask me."

"I shouldn't be at all surprised if you're right," said Hannasyde.

In another few minutes they boarded an omnibus which set them down within a stone's throw of the police station. PC Glass had not returned from his quest, and Hannasyde, having ascertained over the telephone that North was not at his office, put through a call to Scotland Yard, and asked whether Inspector Jevons had come in. He was soon connected with the Inspector, who had, however, little to report. He had discovered the block of flats in which her unknown protector had installed Angela Angel, but her apartment had been rented by a man calling himself Smith. The hall porter was sure he would recognise the gentleman if he saw him again, and described him as being slim, dark, and very well dressed.

Hannasyde glanced at his watch, and decided to return to London, leaving the Sergeant to pick up any information that Glass might bring in. He appointed a meeting-time at Headquarters, and went off, bearing the portrait of Fletcher with him.

It was some little while before Glass presented himself, and when he did arrive he appeared to be suffering from strong indignation. He no sooner set eyes on the Sergeant than he said sternly: 'Whoso causeth the righteous to go astray in an evil way, he shall fall himself into his own pit!"

"What on earth's the matter with you?" said the Sergeant. "You can't have been on the jag, because the pubs aren't open yet."

"Let them be ashamed and confounded together that seek after my soul to destroy it! I will turn away mine eyes from beholding vanity; I am like a green olive tree in the house of the Lord."

"Look here, what the devil have you been up to?" demanded the Sergeant.