Arthur Upfield - The Devil_s Steps

Bisker snorted and regarded George with open contempt.

“Now what would any ordinary bloke think would become of a bottle of whisky left in an office full of detectives? Iasks you, George, to tell me that one.”

George offered no further comment, which pleased Bisker, who said, presently:

“You kept up late last night?”

“Fairish. Theywas all talking about the murders and it kind of made ’emthirsty. They were arguing about who was likely to have killed Grumman, and when.”

“You reckon the ’tecs will be out again today?”

“Almost sure,” replied George. “When that feller shot Rice, did you think he was going to plug you, too?”

“No not whiles I stayed still, George, and you can bet I stayed as still as a statue. So did the old cat. He ’ad a nasty, mean, pasty-looking dial, George, and I didn’t like the look in ’is eye. Iknows when a bloke means business.”

“How tall was he-how big?” pressed George, who looked up over Bisker’s shoulder. Bisker was about to reply when a maid spoke:

“Bisker! Miss Jade wants you in the office directly after you’ve had breakfast.”

“Righto, Alice.” Then to George, Bisker said:“ ’Ow tall was that murdering bloke, did you ask? Lemme see. About like you. Might be an inch higher. Say five feet eleven, andweighin ’ around nine stone six. He ’ad wavy black ’air, and a dark smudge on his top lip like as ’owhe ’ad only just shavedorf a moustache.”

“Hum! That’s interesting. You tell the police that?”

“Expect so. Can’t remember all I told ’em.”

“Did you notice anything else about him-about his hands, his shoes? What kind of a suit was he wearing?”

“He was wearing a grey suit, a double-breaster, with a bluish sort of tie. His shoes I didn’t take stock of, but I did notice the ’ands. Theywasnarrer with long fingers-like yours. A foreigner of some kind-a cold snake of a man I’d like to jump on with me boots. Well, here’s me for the old dragon. See you later, George.”

On entering the office, Bisker found Miss Jade at the telephone, and while standing waiting for her, he was able to hear that she was answering an enquiry for accommodation. She spoke quietly but well, and this morning she looked to Bisker as she always had done, a woman who knew how to dress, a being who lived in a different world. The black skirt revealed admirable lines, and the dark brown cardigan moulded her bust to suggest that she might be a woman of about twenty-five. Her hair might have been done by a maid born for just that artistic work, whilst her make-up was perfectly suited to her colouring and the morning.

“Ah! There you are, Bisker!” she exclaimed on putting down the telephone. “On the table outside I found a note from Mr. Bonaparte. Do you know anything about it?”

“Yes, marm.”Bisker could see that Miss Jade noticed his clipped moustache. “I met Mr. Bonaparte when I was going for a walk last night down at the store. He wastalkin ’ with some people in a car, and he asked me to deliver a note he wrote on a mudguard.”

“What time was that?”

“About half-past nine, marm.”

“Then why didn’t you deliver it last night?”

“I forgot it, marm.”

“Forgot it!” echoed Miss Jade, her brows carefully raised.

“Yes, marm,” Bisker confessed. “I’m sorry if it’s important.”

“Not precisely important, Bisker. But don’t dare to forget the next time. Er -there are some people coming by the middaybus. A gentleman and his wife, and two single gentlemen. Don’t forget to be down at the road when the bus arrives.”

“All right, marm.” Bisker looked doubtful, adding, dubiously: “But what ’appensif I’m being baled up by the detectives when the bus is due?”

“Detectives, Bisker? What do you mean?”

“Well, marm, it’s likely that there’ll be more detectives out today. They’ll want to ask all the same questions they asked yestiddy. It’s a nice day, and it’ll be a nice motor drive for ’em. Then there’ll be more reporters and more photographers. Still I’ll do me best, marm.”

Miss Jade regarded Bisker as though she were seeing visions. Her brows were no longer raised. They were depressed and the two dreadful vertical lines showed plainly between them. Then she said:

“Yes, I suppose they will, Bisker. It is all going to be a great nuisance. Well, do your best to meet the bus. That’ll be all. But wait! Don’tdawdle coming back with the papers.”

“Very well, marm.”

It is possible that had Bisker not been rotund he might have bowed to Miss Jade. He withdrew as he invariably withdrew from the presence of Mrs. Parkes, back first to the door and beyond, due to habit, for Mrs. Parkes had been known to throw things.

The first bus from the railway town of Manton arrived at the Mount Chalmers store at ten o’clock, and Bisker was there to receive the Chalet papers, with the extras ordered by George and Mrs. Parkes. The place was crowded with residents and visitors, all as anxious as Bisker. His next call was at the Post Office, and when it came his turn to collect the letters he saw the back of a stranger seated at the telephone switch-board, and without smiling, he slowly closed one eye at the postmaster.

Bisker did not “dawdle” on the walk back, uphill and about half a mile, but when he reached the Chalet driveway, he had read most of the front-page reports on the double murders at Mount Chalmers.

As Fred, the casual man, had predicted, Bisker was famous.

Several cars had passed him, and three were parked outside the main entrance. A group of men were standing in the porch. Two others were taking photographs from positions on the lawn. A little self-conscious, Bisker walked through the group on the porch and so entered the office with the mail and newspapers. There he found Miss Jade talking to Inspector Snook.

Silently, he placed letters and all but two of the papers on the secretary’s desk, and withdrew as he had previously done and this time regarded suspiciously by the detective, who was not to know of Mrs. Parkes’s addiction to throwing things.

When the midday bus arrived, Bisker was down to meet it. A large modern vehicle, it disgorged half a dozen people and the driver, who removed several suitcases and a hat box from the luggage grid at the rear.

“Mr. and Mrs. Watkins!” called Bisker.“Mr. Downes and Mr. Lee. Make sure, please that all your luggage is put down.”

The people named sorted themselves from the rest, and Bisker noted them for their tipping value, he having already become adept in this summing-up. Watkins was heavy and well dressed in sports clothes. His wife was overloaded with furs and jewellery. Mr. Downes was a man about forty, grizzled and short-moustached, and Mr. Lee wore clothes in the manner of a countryman on holiday. The party followed the loaded Bisker, who staggered up the driveway, chatting about the scenery. Bisker decided that Mr. Lee was the best tipping prospect.

Bony Resumes His Holiday

TOWARDS THREE O’CLOCK, a car deposited Bony at the driveway to the Chalet, and then proceeded on up the mountain road. The sun was no longer shining, for the sky was almost filled with cloud moving slowly from the west. The continued clarity of the atmosphere, together with the wind-direction, indicated rain before the following morning.

As he had left the Chalet, so he returned. He wore no hat, and the wind ruffled his fine black hair. His clothes had been brushed and pressed by Colonel Blythe’s valet, so that he might have been returning from a stroll, after lunch in Miss Jade’s beautiful dining room. The cut on his cheek-bone although noticeable, was no longer angry in appearance.

Instead of passing up the driveway, Bony followed the road to the ramp leading to the wicket gate. On the bank above the place where the body of Grumman had been found were standing four men, and these Bony assessed as pressmen. At the wicket gate he met Inspector Snook.