Джорджетт Хейер - Death in the Stocks

“Giles says he doesn't think Kenneth did it,” said Antonia.

“Thank you for nothing!” retorted Murgatroyd. “He'd better not let me hear him say anything else, that's all. Him or anyone. There's a case for those brushes, Mr Giles. You leave them to me.”

Antonia picked up a folding leather photograph frame from the bed and grimaced at Violet's classic features. “What on earth do you want to put this in for, Giles?” she inquired. “Just when he seems to be going off her, too. He won't want it.”

“You never know,” Giles answered. “Put it in.”

The rest of the packing was soon done, and in a few minutes Giles had locked the suit-case, and set it on the ground. “I shall have to go, Tony,” he said. “Promise me you won't worry!”

“I'll try not to,” said Antonia dubiously. “What are you going to do?”

“Save some constable or other the trouble of having to fetch Kenneth's things,” he replied.

She raised her eyes to his face. “Shall I see you tomorrow?”

He hesitated. “I'm not sure. I think probably not until late, if at all,” he answered. “I'm going to be pretty busy.”

“Busy for Kenneth?” she asked quickly.

“Yes, busy for Kenneth.” He took her hands, and held them clasped together against his chest. “Keep smiling, chicken. Things aren't desperate.”

“You've found out something!” she said. “Oh, what is it, Giles?”

“No, I haven't,” he said. “That's what I hope to do! At present I've only got a suspicion. I'm not going to tell you any more in case I'm wrong. But I do tell you not to worry.”

“All right,” she said. “If you say I needn't I won't.”

It was past six o'clock when Giles Carrington left the studio. He delivered the suitcase first, and then, after a glance at his wrist-watch, drove to the Temple, and changed into evening dress. His subsequent proceedings might not have seemed to Antonia to be the actions of a man trying to aid her brother. He visited three cocktail bars, four hotels, one night-club, and two dance-halls. He partook of refreshment in all of these resorts, and engaged various head-waiters, assistant-waiters, hallporters, and page-boys in conversations which they at least found profitable. He reached his flat again in the small hours, swallowed a couple of aspirin tablets in the hope of defeating the inevitable headache, and got thankfully into bed.

In the morning, when his man brought in the early tea-tray, he awoke with a good deal of reluctance, and said: “Oh, God! Not tea. One of your pick-me-ups. And turn on my bath.”

“Yes, sir,” said his man, thinking it was funny of Mr Carrington to go out on the binge when his family was in such a packet of trouble.

A bath, followed by an excellent pick-me-up, more or less restored Giles. He was able to face the task of shaving, and even, when that was over, to partake of a very modest breakfast. While he sipped a cup of strong coffee, he told his man to put through a call to Scotland Yard, and to ask for Superintendent Hannasyde.

Superintendent Hannasyde, however, was not in the building, and an inquiry for Sergeant Hemingway was equally fruitless. The voice at the other end of the telephone was polite but unhelpful, and after a moment's reflection Giles thanked the unknown, said that it didn't matter, and rang off. His next call was to his own office, and his man, hovering discreetly in the background, had his curiosity whetted by hearing that Mr Carrington was to be told that Mr Giles Carrington had important business out of town, and would not be at the office that day. It was certainly a queer set-out, and what Mr Giles Carrington thought he was playing at heaven alone knew.

At half-past five in the afternoon Giles walked into Scotland Yard and once more asked for Superintendent Hannasyde. This time he was more fortunate; the Superintendent had come in not half an hour earlier. He was with the Assistant Commissioner at the moment, but if Mr Carrington would care to wait? Mr Carrington nodded, and sat down to wait for twenty minutes. At the end of that time he was escorted to Hannasyde's office, and found Hannasyde standing by his desk, a sheaf of papers in his hand.

Hannasyde looked up: “Good-afternoon, Mr Carrington. I'm sorry I was out when you rang up this morning. I've had rather a busy day.” He looked more narrowly at Giles, and said: “Sit down. You look as though you'd been having a busy day too.”

“I have,” said Giles, sinking into a chair. “And a still busier night. What I want to know is, did your men find anything that had any possible bearing on the case when they searched Roger Vereker's flat yesterday?”

Hannasyde shook his head. “No, nothing. Was that what you wanted me for this morning?”

“Partly that, and partly to let you know what I'd been doing.” He moved rather restlessly in his chair, frowning. “I want to see that night-porter, by the way. I wish I'd been present when the flat was searched.”

Hannasyde regarded him with some slight show of amusement. “My dear Mr Carrington, there was nothing there other than what we saw.”

“Kenneth's pipe? Oh, that's not it! Kenneth had nothing to do with either murder. I wanted you to come and piece out the first murder with me today, but when I couldn't get hold of you I thought I'd better do it myself rather than hang about perhaps for hours.”

Hannasyde stared at him in astonishment for a moment, and then drew out his chair from behind the desk, and sat down in it. “Forgive me, Mr Carrington, but have you been drinking, or are you just having a little joke with me?” he inquired.

A rather weary smile touched Giles's lips. “To be frank with you, I've been drinking,” he answered. “Not quite lately, but last night, from seven o'clock onwards. I had to be so tactful, you see - pursuing what might have turned out to be a wild and scandalous goose-chase.”

“Mr Carrington, what have you got hold off...” demanded Hannasyde.

“Arnold Vereker's murderer, I hope.”

“Arnold Vereker's murderer?” exclaimed Hannasyde. “Roper's too. But if there was no clue of any kind in the flat—”

Hannasyde drew in his breath. “What there was you saw, Mr Carrington,” he said patiently. “You saw the pipe, the pistol, the half-finished letter in the blotter, the glass of whisky-and-soda, and the note from - no, you didn't see that, now I come to think of it. Hemingway found it after you'd left. But it hasn't any bearing on the case that I can see. It was only a note from Miss Vereker, thanking her half-brother for -” He broke off, for Giles Carrington's sleepy eyes had opened suddenly.

“A note from Miss Vereker…” Giles repeated. “A note - where was that found?”

“Screwed up in a ball behind the coal-scuttle. I should say that Roger Vereker meant to throw it into the fire, but missed his aim. Do you mean to tell me — ?”

“Where was the envelope?” Giles interrupted.

“We didn't find it. I suppose Vereker had a luckier shot with that. I wish you'd stop being mysterious and tell me just what you're driving at.”

“I will,” said Giles. “But when I think that if I'd only been present when that flat was searched you and not I would have spent an entirely hellish twenty-four hours trying to induce half-wits to identify a face - However, I'm glad I've found the link between the two cases. It annoyed me not to be able to present you with all the facts.” He saw the smouldering light in Hannasyde's eyes, and smiled. “All right, all right,” he said pacifically. “Violet Williams.”

Hannasyde blinked at him. “Violet Williams?” he said. “Are you seriously telling me that she murdered Roger Vereker?”

“Also Arnold Vereker,” said Giles.

“She had never met Arnold Vereker!”