Джорджетт Хейер - Why Shoot a Butler

An occasional car could be heard passing down the main road at the bottom of the lane. As she put on her hat she distinctly heard the change of gear as one turned into the lane and came up the slight hill towards the cottage. Hoping that the car might be Mr. Amberley's she went to open the front door. When the car went on past the cottage and she realised that it must be going up to the farm, she was slightly annoyed at her feeling of disappointment and shut the door with a cross little bang.

The thought of Mark's tragic end came into her mind. She found herself listening rather intently and glancing over her shoulder. The uncurtained windows, framing darkness, made her nervous. She could not help expecting to see a face suddenly pressed up against the glass staring at her. The idea was absurd, of course, but once admitted would not be banished. To hearten herself she pulled the Colt automatic out of the pocket of her long coat before she put it on and laid it on the table beside her.

She buttoned the coat closer up to her neck and pulled on her gauntlets. Bill's leash was not to be found; it never was, she thought savagely. A short search brought it to light hanging on a peg on the back of the kitchen door. She unhooked it and went to the table to pick up her gun and to turn out the lamp.

Then she remembered that she had left the window open in the living room.

"Pull yourself together, you ass!" she said severely, and went to shut it.

In the small passageway between the two rooms a dark figure loomed up suddenly to meet her. Her breath caught on a startled gasp. She fell back a pace, peering. "Mr. Amberley?" she said, her voice trembling uncontrollably.

The figure was upon her before she could move. A vice-like arm encircled her; she tried to scream, and something soft, sickly with the fumes of chloroform, was pressed over her nose and mouth, stifling her.

She fought desperately and heard through the roaring in her ears Bill's snarl, coming as though from an immense distance away. Then the anaesthetic overpowered her; she felt her head growing lighter and lighter, and a numbness paralysing her limbs, and slid into unconsciousness. The man who held her had kicked the kitchen door to just in time to stop Bill's murderous rush. On the other side of it the dog was clawing frantically at the wooden panels, barking in a frenzy of rage.

The unknown man laid Shirley down roughly and forced a gag between her slack jaws and secured it with a scarf bound over her mouth. He drew a coil of thin rope from his pocket and quickly lashed her wrists and her ankles together. Then pulling her up, he flung her across his shoulder and went out with her, through the shadowed garden to the lane and up it, keeping close under the lee of the hedge until a closed car was reached.

He thrust his burden into the back of it, on the floor, and threw a rug over the girl, completely concealing her. A moment later he was, in the driving-seat and had switched on the lights. The car crept forward, gathering speed, reached the main road and swung round on to it.

In the cottage Bill turned from the unyielding door to the window and gathered his haunches under him for the spring. There was a smash, the tinkle of broken glass, and a big bull-terrier, his white coat flecked with blood, put his nose once to the ground, sniffing, and was off, following the scent of a man he meant to pull down.

The Bentley swept into Upper Nettlefold and drew up at the Boar's Head. Miss Brown, the porter informed Amberley, had not yet come in. He was about to leave the place when he paused and said briefly that he wished to telephone. The porter led him to the box and left him there. Mr. Amberley opened the tclephone book and swiftly found the number he sought. In three minutes he was speaking to the hall-porter of a certain London club.

Yes, Mr. Fountain had been in the club that afternoon, but he had left shortly before tea-time. No, the hallporter could not say where he was going, but he would no doubt be found later at the Gaiety Theatre. He had reserved a seat there for Mr. Fountain over the telephone.

Amberley thanked the man and rang off. He strode uut again to his car, beside which he found an indignant constable who proposed to take his name and address for dangerous driving in the town.

Amberley got into the car and started the engine. "Get gut of the way," he said. "No doubt I shall see you later. I can't stop to chat with you now."

The constable jumped back just in time as the car shot forward. He was left standing speechless on the curbstone and had only just enough presence of mind to jot down the Bentley's number.

Amberley drove straight to Ivy Cottage and drew up outside the gate with less than his usual care. He saw that a light was burning in the house and drew a sharp sigh of relief. He was just getting out of the car when the bullterrier came into sight in the lane, questing about to pick up the scent he had lost. Amberley stopped short and called to the dog. Bill came at once, recognising the voice. He was whining with suppressed eagerness and dashed off again immediately. But Amberley had had time to notice the gashes on his muzzle and flanks. He made no attempt ho catch Bill but strode into the garden, calling to Constable Tucker. There was no answer.

His foot scrunched on something brittle; he looked down and saw the gleam of broken glass. There was a hole in the kitchen window, and no need to speculate on what had caused it.

The front door was shut, but Amberley thrust in his arm through the broken window and unbolted it and flung up the lower sash. He climbed in and took in at a glance the lamp, still burning, Shirley's handbag lying on the table, and beside it the Colt automatic. Even at such a moment as this Mr. Amberley's thin lips twitched into a smile that was amused and rather scornful. He pocketed he gun, got out his torch and made a tour of the house.

A strong smell of chloroform assailed his nostrils as he opened the kitchen door; a scrap of cotton-wool, torn by Shirley from the pad in her struggle, lay at the foot of the stairs. Amberley picked it up and held it to his nose. The anaesthetic was still clinging to it; he judged that it could not have been lying there for more than a few minutes. The living-room window was open, and there was a cake of mud on the floor with the imprint of a rubber heel on it. Amberley gathered it up, taking care that it should not crumble, and laid it down on the table. There was no one in the house and no sign of Constable Tucker.

He went out into the garden again, and using his torch, made a tour of it. A groan led him to a lilac bush beside a rustic seat; Tucker was on the ground, as though he had fallen from the seat, trying to raise himself on his elbow.

Amberley's torch flashed full into his face; he blinked stupidly at the light, still groaning. Amberley dropped onto his knee beside him. "Come on, man, come on," he said impatiently. "What happened? Pull yourself together!"

Tucker's hand went up to his head. "My head!" he muttered. "Oh, Gawd, my head!"

"Yes, I've no doubt something hit you. Luckily your head's a hard one. Drink this!" He snapped back the lid of his brandy flask and put it to Tucker's mouth. The raw spirit revived the man; he managed to sit up, still clasping his head. "What happened?" he said dazedly. "Who hit me?"

"Don't ask me questions! Try to think!" snarled Amberley. "Did you see anyone?"

"No. I don't know what happened. I was sitting here waiting for the young lady. Somebody must have hit me."

"My God, you're a fine policeman!" Amberley said savagely. He got to his feet. "Do you mean to tell me you didn't hear anything? No footstep? No car?"

The unfortunate Tucker tried to concentrate his mind. "A car. Yes, I heard a car. But it went up to the farm. It didn't stop."