Джорджетт Хейер - Why Shoot a Butler

Then it was that he had remembered that night at the Magnificent. He had not doubted Dawson's explanation at the time, but in the light of the facts that had been disclosed it had occurred to him to wonder whether the original story had been true. Could it be, in fact, that the American was not an old friend, but someone over whom Dawson possessed a hold?

"Blackmail? I suppose it might easily be so. Had you any idea that Dawson was that type of man?"

"No, none. But how did he come by that money? Rotten to throw mud at a dead man, but the more I think of it the more it seems to fit in. Two years ago, you see; just about the time when Dawson opened his account at Carchester. What do you think?"

"Undoubtedly interesting," said Amberley. "Can you give me the date?"

"I'm awfully sorry, but I can't," Fountain said ruefully. "I know it was when I first came here, so it must have been sometime in the autumn, I suppose. Anyway I thought I'd better mention it."

"Quite right. It will have to be gone into. Inspector Fraser endeavouring to trace an unknown American - or possibly not an American at all - who dined at a public restaurant two years ago on a date you have forgotten, ought to be an engaging spectacle."

Fountain laughed. "Put like that it does sound fairly hopeless. Hullo - who on earth can that be?"

Somewhere in the distance a bell was clanging. Whoever had pulled it evidently meant to be sure of making himself heard. Through the stillness of the house the bell went on ringing for several moments, with that hollow sound of iron striking iron.

"Front door," said Fountain. "All the others are electric bells. I only hope to God it's not that damned inspector. He keeps on coming here with fatuous questions to ask the staff. They don't like it, I can assure you."

Amberley glanced at the clock. "I don't think the inspector would come at this hour unless it were for something particularly vital," he said.

A silence followed the last desultory clang of the bell. Then they heard the front door being opened and a confused murmur of voices, which grew louder.

Fountain raised his brows in a bewildered, slightly amused way. "What in the world . ." he began, and stopped short, listening.

One voice was raised insistently, but they could not distinguish the words. Then came the sound of a scuffle and a desperate cry of "Help!"

Fountain leaped to his feet. "Good God, that's Collins' he exclaimed and hurried to the door.

The cry rang out again. "Help! Help!"

Fountain wrenched the door open and strode out into the hall. The front door was open, and on the doorstep two men were swaying together in a desperate struggle. One was the valet; the other was Mark Brown.

The light in the porch shone on the barrel of a automatic in Mark's hand. Collins was trying to get possession of it; as he went to his assistance Amberley caught a glimpse of his face, livid, the lips drawn back in a kind of snarl, the eyes alive all at once with rage and hatred.

Before either Fountain or Amberley could reach the front door Mark had wrenched free from the valet's desperate grasp. "Damn your soul to hell; you won't, eh?" he shouted. "Then take that!"

There was a deafening report, but Mark lurched as he fired and the bullet went wide. There was a crash and the tinkling of broken glass as it went through a cabinet at the end of the hall and buried itself in the wall behind.

Before he could fire again Amberley was on to him and had caught his pistol arm and wrenched it round. Mark cried out with the sudden pain and the gun dropped to the ground.

Fountain caught his other arm and held it. Amberley released his grip and bent and picked up the gun, slipping it into his own pocket.

At that moment the billiard-room door was burst open and Anthony came out, with Joan at his heels.

"Hullo-ullo-ullo!" he said cheerfully. "Someone starting a rough house?"

"It's all right; there's no harm done," Amberley replied.

Fountain was staring at his captive. "Who the devil are you?" he demanded wrathfully. "What do you think you're doing?"

The shock of his wrenched arm seemed to have sobered Mark a little. He shot a vengeful look up at Fountain. "Let me go!" he muttered. "I'm not going to tell you anything. Let me go!"

Fountain continued to hold him by one arm. "Get on to the police, Collins," he ordered.

The bloodshot eyes gleamed. "You'd better not," Mark said in a threatening voice. "You'll be sorry if you do. Damned sorry, I can tell you. Nobody's going to interfere with me!"

"Squiffy," said Corkran. "Drunk as a lord. Who is he?"

It was Collins who answered. "I rather fancy it is the young gentleman from Ivy Cottage," he said. He had recovered all his habitual composure; there was not a trace of emotion in his face or in his level voice.

"What?" Fountain stared down at Mark.

"Pal of yours, Collins?" inquired Corkran.

"Hardly, sir. I fear the young gentleman is, as you say, not entirely sober."

"You ought to cure yourself of this habit you've got of exaggerating," said Corkran. "Whom did he take a potshot at?"

"At me, sir, but I do not think that he is responsible for his actions."

"Whatever makes you think that?" inquired Corkran innocently. "

Fountain was still looking at Mark. "A gentleman, is he? You're quite right, Tony; he's drunk." He jerked Mark farther into the hall and pushed the door to with his free hand. He released the boy and stood frowning down at him. "Now look here, young man," he said, "what the hell do you mean by coming to my house and firing at my servant? Do you know I can have you put into prison for it?"

Mark was rubbing his bruised arm. "All right, put me in prison!" he said recklessly. "I'm not afraid! I'll make you sorry you dared to interfere with me. That's what I'll do!"

Fountain made a gesture of disgust; "I ought to give him in charge, of course, but he's far too drunk to knot- what he's doing."

"That's all jolly fine," objected Anthony, "but what brought him up here trying to murder Collins? Just natural high spirits?"

"I didn't want to murder him!" Mark said, looking_ frightened. "I didn't mean to fire."

Mr. Amberley, who had stood silently watching, spoke at last. "You had better apologise to Mr. Fountain," he said. "You've made a fool of yourself."

Fountain glanced quickly towards him. "Do you know him, Amberley?"

"Slightly. This condition is more or less habitual to him."

"Good Lord! Well, I don't want to be hard on the boy. What do you think I ought to do? Give him in charge or let him go?"

"Personally, I should let him go," said Amberley. "But it's a matter for you to decide."

"Well, I don't know. After all, he might have killed Collins."

The valet gave a little cough. "I'm sure I do not wish to get the young gentleman into trouble, sir. When he comes to himself he will realise that he has been behaving foolishly."

Mark, looking uncertainly from him to Fountain, said: "I didn't mean to do it. I made a - a mistake. I'm sorry."

"Let it be a lesson to you in the future to keep off spirits," said Fountain severely. He stepped back and opened the door. "Now get out!"

Without a word Mark turned and shambled out.

"Well!" exploded Corkran as Fountain shut the door again. "Of all the dam' silly things to do! How do you know it wasn't he who shot old Dawson?"

"Shot Dawson?" repeated Fountain blankly. "Why the devil should he?"

"If it comes to that, why the devil should he shoot Collins?" demanded Corkran. He watched the valet disappear through the swing door at the end of the hall. "I don't say I altogether blame him, but…'

"Tony, don't be so awful!" begged Joan. She was still trembling from the shock of the sudden gun-shot. "Mr. Amberley, you don't think he's the murderer, do you?"