Фредерик Браун - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 37, No. 6. Whole No. 211, June 1961

The big constable chuckled.

“Pension in three years, son. I’ve seen everything and done everything, just by slaying on the beat.” He sighed faintly. “Not that I haven’t an ambition. Like putting one over on Mr. Dane, for instance — not that I’ll ever have the luck.”

“Dane of the C.I.D.? Cocky, he is, don’t you think?”

“Now, son. A clever rookie doesn’t have opinions like that, not if he wants to get on.” Gill winked amiably. “Everything quiet?”

Cowley grinned and retailed some events which seemed important to him. These Gill put in their proper place with the ready kindness he always gave to new recruits. Cowley was briefed regarding empty houses on the second half of his beat, then Gill headed toward Park Lane, the border of his own beat.

Halfway along Hertford Street the door of a large house suddenly opened and a man appeared on the porch. He stepped forward at the sight of Gill, and began to chatter hurriedly.

“You gave me a start, Officer. I was just coming out to find you.”

“Ah, sir?” Gill’s large, bovine face wore a mask of professional blankness that was intended to convey his helpful impartiality. “Anything wrong, sir?”

“Yes, I’m afraid there is.” The man glanced at the constable’s steady blue eyes, shifting in that embarrassed fashion typical of Londoners when they seek official help. “My friend inside... it’s dreadful...”

“I see, sir. Want me to come in?”

“Yes, please.” The man stepped back into the bright hallway. “I can’t very well stop you, can I?” His little chuckle was a combination of discomfort and a fear of appearing foolish.

“Well, I can’t come in unless the householder invites me.”

“Oh, I see what you mean. Silly of me — I forgot that an Englishman’s home... But come in, come in. This way, please.”

Gill was led into a bright room where the lights blazed from a central chandelier. The furniture was expensive and in keeping with aristocratic Hertford Street. A small table stood in the middle of the floor, the covers being laid for one. A man sprawled across the white cloth.

With gentle hands Gill turned the head of the sprawled man sideways, taking care not to disturb anything on the table. He wet one large forefinger and placed it under the man’s nose, nodding as he straightened his back.

“’Fraid he’s dead, sir.”

“Good God!” The other man stepped back with a gesture of horror. “But he was all right only a few minutes ago!”

“Yes, sir. Got a telephone I can use?”

“Yes, this way, please.”

Gill followed the man into the hall where the telephone stood behind the door to the basement. He dialed phlegmatically, half smiling at the small, nondescript dog that appeared when the door was opened.

The man patted the dog hurriedly, muttering a friendly, “Down, old boy, down!”

Savile Row Police Station came on the line, and Gill reported briefly. С-Divisional Headquarters thanked him and promised immediate attention.

The dog was pushed away and the door closed behind it, and then Gill returned to the lighted room, taking out his notebook.

“Now, just a few questions, if it’s all the same to you, sir.”

The man’s name was Farrar; he was the owner of the house and had returned after going to a theater with a friend who had missed his dinner — which explained the supper for one.

“Marshall” — Farrar nodded toward the dead man — “wanted some beer. I went downstairs to get him some, but it took a bit of finding. It’s a large house and I’m not particularly familiar with the domestic quarters.”

“No servants, sir?”

“Yes, but they don’t sleep in — you can’t get them to do that these days. I’m a bachelor, which explains why I’ve got any at all.”

“I see. Now, about the time of death: I felt the skull when I- lifted his head — must’ve been coshed while you were getting the beer, sir.” Gill’s eyes strayed to the bottle standing on the table. “If I know this street, there are no exits or entrances except the front doors?”

“Exactly. But you don’t think the murderer might still be...?” Farrar broke off.

“Probably, sir.” Gill’s voice was reassuring. “But I’ve had my eyes on the hall — not that I can be in two places at once, just the same. It’ll be taken care of in a minute.”

Almost immediately after, Inspector Dane was very much in charge. He was a big man, as big as Gill, with a bleak face and rumpled clothes. He spoke with the abruptness sometimes to be found in the Criminal Investigation Department, hearing out Gill’s report and expressing his pungent views on the constable’s failure to search the house.

Then he waved the wooden-faced Gill to the unimportant task of guarding the door of the murder room.

The divisional surgeon arrived next, grumbling at being dragged from his bed. His examination was swift and expert.

“Usual blunt instrument. The occiput’s crushed like an eggshell — must’ve been a heavy blow.”

“Dead, eh?”

“Yes, he’s dead.” The doctor sighed but made no remark, knowing perfectly well the police cannot regard a corpse, even if it were cut into sections, as officially dead until the physician says so.

“Thank you, Doctor. How long’s he been dead?”

“Always confusing me with a magician, aren’t you? I can’t say, but the body’s still warm. Taking a long guess, you might say thirty minutes or so, but don’t try and hold me to that. And don’t call me again tonight, if you can help it, there’s a good chap.”

A brisk handshake and the doctor was gone.

When the experts had finished taking their photographs and fingerprint dustings, Inspector Dane was in a bad temper. He resented Gill’s humble but deft twist of the tables when Gill said the burglar could have hidden himself all the time the police were there, and possibly got out by way of the roof at his leisure — a probability strengthened by the finding of a desk with a broken lock on the top floor.

Farrar was brought in to explain the desk.

“There might have been somebody in the house all the time,” Dane admitted ungraciously; he was inclined to overlook details himself, expecting his underlings to see to things without orders. “Was anything of value kept in the desk?”

“There was!” Farrar swallowed. “There’s a secret drawer where I put a diamond I bought for — well, a lady friend.” He hesitated uncomfortably. “Paid nine thousand pounds for it.”

Dane gasped and, without even pausing to wonder at the extravagance of rich bachelors, took Farrar upstairs to make sure the diamond was really gone, suggesting, in his opinion, that the burglar might have found a hiding place when he was surprised by the arrival of Farrar and Marshall, realized he was caught when Marshall proposed to eat, used his cosh, and then had gone upstairs while Farrar was in the basement. The roof, Dane added, might have been an exit route.

Gill came to life immediately the door closed. He made a small noise to express his opinion of Dane. Though the uniform branch and the C.I.D. work well together, there are exceptions, and in Gill’s opinion Dane was one of them.

Moving quietly, Gill went to the little table and studied the cutlery. With deft movements unexpected in one of his size, he next examined the dead man’s hands. Then he opened Marshall’s jacket and carefully scrutinized the edges of his trouser pockets.

By the time Dane returned. Gill was standing impassively by the door, his face blankly empty.

Dane was now in a really bad temper. He was due to go on his annual leave the next day, but this murder looked as if it would keep him in town: the Force was under strength and Dane knew perfectly well that Central Headquarters would have a lot to say if he did not defer his holiday.