Джорджетт Хейер - A Blunt Instrument

The butler coughed. "Mr. Neville will have his joke, Sergeant."

"Oh, so you heard about that joke, did you?"

"Yes, Sergeant. Very remiss of Mr. Neville. He is a light-hearted gentleman, I am afraid."

The Sergeant grunted, and began to coax the paperweight into his pocket. He was interrupted in his somewhat difficult task by a soft, slurred voice from the window, which said: "But you mustn't play with that, you know. Now they'll find nothing but your fingerprints on it, and that might turn out to be very awkward for you."

The Sergeant jumped, and turned to find Neville Fletcher lounging outside one of the open windows, and regarding him with the smile he so much disliked.

"Oh!" said the Sergeant. "So it's you, is it, sir?"

Neville stepped over the low window-sill into the room. "Oh, didn't you want it to be? Are you looking for incriminating evidence?"

"The Sergeant, sir," said Simmons woodenly, "wishes to know whether the master's hats are kept under lock and key."

"What funny things policemen are interested in," remarked Neville. "Are they, Simmons?"

"No, sir - as I informed the Sergeant."

"I don't immediately see why, but I daresay you have put a rope round my neck," said Neville. "Do go away, Simmons! I'll take care of the Sergeant. I like him."

The Sergeant felt quite uncomfortable. He did not demur at being left with his persecutor, but said defensively: "Soft soap's no good to me, sir."

"Oh, I wouldn't dare! Malachi told me what happens to flatterers. I do wish you had been here yesterday. I found such a good bit in Isaiah, all about Malachi."

"What was that?" asked the Sergeant, diverted in spite of himself.

"Overflowing scourge. I do think the Superintendent ought to have told you."

The Sergeant thought so too, but remarked repressively that the Superintendent had something better to think about.

"Not something better. His mind was preoccupied with my possible but improbable guilt. I think yours is too, which upsets me rather, because I thought we were practically blood-brothers. On account of Malachi. Why hats?" His sleepy eyes scanned the Sergeant's face. "Tell me when I'm getting warm. My ill-fated journey to London. Black felt. And Ernie's collection. Oh, did I borrow one of Ernie's hats?"

The Sergeant thought it best to meet frankness with frankness. "Well, did you, sir?"

Neville gave a joyous gurgle, and took the Sergeant by the hand. "Come with me. Do policemen lead drab lives? I will lighten yours, at least."

"Here, sir, what's all this about?" protested the Sergeant, dragged irresistibly to the door.

"Establishing my innocence. You may not want me to, but you oughtn't to let that appear."

"It's a great mistake to get any silly idea into your head that the police want to arrest an innocent man," said the Sergeant severely. He found himself being conducted up the shallow stairs, and protested: "I don't know what you're playing at, but you might remember I've got work to do, sir."

Neville opened the door into an apartment furnished in heavy mahogany. "My uncle's dressing-room. Not, so far, haunted, so don't be frightened."

"To my way of thinking," said the Sergeant, "the things you say aren't decent."

Neville opened a large wardrobe, disclosing a view of a shelf of hats, ranged neatly in a line. "Very often not," he agreed. "These are my uncle's hats. Theoretically, do you feel that private possession is all wrong? What sort of a hat was I wearing?"

"According to you, sir, you were wearing a black felt."

"Oh, don't let's be realistic! Realism has been the curse of art. That's what upset the Superintendent. He is very orthodox, and he felt my hat was an anachronism. Of course, I must have been wearing one of those that go pop. Irresistible to children, and other creatures of simple intellect, but too reminiscent of patent cigaretteboxes, and other vulgarities. Now tell me, Sergeant, do you think I borrowed my uncle's hat?"

The Sergeant, gazing at the spectacle of Mr. Neville Fletcher in an opera hat quite three sizes too small for him, fought with himself for a moment, and replied in choked accents: "No sir, I'm bound to say I do not. You'd - you'd have to have a nerve to go about in that!"

"Yes, that's what I thought," said Neville. "I like comedy, but not farce - I can see by your disgruntled expression that the hat lets me out. I hope it never again falls to my lot to be suspected of murder. Nerve-racking, and rather distasteful."

"I hope so too, sir," replied the Sergeant. "But if I were you I wouldn't jump to conclusions too hastily."

"You're bound to say that, of course," said Neville, returning his uncle's hat to its place on the shelf. "You can't imagine who the murderer can be if not me."

"Well, since you put it like that, who can it be?" demanded the Sergeant.

"I don't know, but as I don't care either, it doesn't worry me nearly as much as it worries you."

"Mr. Fletcher was your uncle, sir."

"He was, and if I'd been asked I should have voted against his death. But I wasn't, and if there's one occupation that seems more maudlin to me than any other it's crying over spilt milk. Besides, you can have too much of a good thing. I'd had enough of this mystery after the second day. Interest - but painful - revived when I stepped into the role of chief suspect. I must celebrate my reprieve from the gallows. How do you ask a girl if she'd like to marry you?"

"How do you do what?" repeated the Sergeant, faint but pursuing.

"Don't you know? I made sure you would."

"Are you - are you thinking of getting married, sir?" asked the Sergeant, amazed.

"Yes, but don't tell me I'm making a mistake, because I know that already. I expect it will ruin my entire life."

"Then what are you going to do it for?" said the Sergeant reasonably.

Neville made one of his vague gestures. "My changed circumstances. I shall be hunted for my money. Besides, I can't think of any other way to get rid of it."

"Well," said the Sergeant dryly, "you won't find any difficulty about that if you do get married, that's one thing."

"Oh, do you really think so? Then I'll go and propose at once, before I have time to think better of it. Goodbye!"

The Sergeant called after him: "Here, sir, don't you run away with the idea I said you were cleared of suspicion, because I didn't say any such thing!"

Neville waved an airy farewell, and disappeared down the stairs. Ten minutes later he entered the drawing-room of the Norths' house through the long window. Helen was writing a letter at her desk, and her sister was sitting on the floor, correcting four typescripts at once.

"Hullo!" she said, glancing up. "You still at large?"

"Oh, I'm practically cleared! I say, will you come to Bulgaria with me?"

Sally groped for her monocle, screwed it into her eye, and looked at him. Then she put down the typescript she was holding, and replied matter-of-factly: "Yes, rather. When?"

"Oh, as soon as possible, don't you think?"

Helen twisted round in her chair. "Sally, what on earth do you mean? You can't possibly go away with Neville like that!"

"Why not?" asked Neville interestedly.

"Don't be absurd! You know perfectly well it wouldn't be proper."

"Oh no, it probably won't. That's the charm of travel in the Balkans. But she's very broadminded, really."

"But -'

"Wake up, darling!" advised Sally. "You don't seem to realise that I've just received a proposal of marriage."

"A… ?" Helen sprang up. "You mean to tell me that was a proposal?"

"Oh, I do hate pure women: they have the filthiest minds!" said Neville.

"Sally, you're not going to marry a - a hopeless creature like Neville?"

"Yes, I am. Look at the wealth he's rolling in! I'd be a fool if I turned him down."