The Greatest Murder Mysteries - Dorothy Fielding Collection. Dorothy Fielding

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СКАЧАТЬ from the hall-porter, while Pointer took a bus to a smart little bungalow in Sheen, where he hoped to find a lady, whose postcard, signed Mint, had been duly copied by the police and replaced in Miss Leslie's little bureau. It had run:

      "Jack will call for you tomorrow in the car at two o'clock as you can't make it earlier, and we will be all ready for you in the launch. Hope the weather will be fine. Mint."

      The "tomorrow" referred to had been the Saturday of Eames' death. A few inquiries told him that the bungalow belonged to a Major Thompson, whose record he promptly looked up in the local free library. The Major was now working at the War Office, after distinguished war services.

      Mrs. Thompson was in, and very grave the Chief Inspector looked as he bowed to that young matron.

      "Mr. Deane?" She glanced up inquiringly from the professional card sent in to her, which explained its owner as Mr. Deane, a solicitor of Grey's Inn Road.

      "Excuse my call, Madame, but a client of ours had a motor accident on Saturday last,—August fourth. A car ran into his, and passed on without stopping near Richmond Park. You may have heard of it?" He looked at her with a legal air of being sure to find her out should she attempt any prevarication.

      "I? No!"

      "My client believes that he can identify the car that ran into his by the fact that he recognized a Miss Leslie in it, who is playing at the Columbine Theatre. From inquiries made at the theatre it appears that the gentleman who was driving the car in question must have been Major Thompson."

      "But our car didn't run into anything," protested the lady. "I drove it myself all morning. And, besides, my husband and Miss Leslie weren't anywhere near Richmond Park. What time is this accident supposed to've happened?"

      Mr. Deane looked pained.

      "My client, Madame, was run into at between half-past four and a quarter to five."

      "There you are!" exclaimed Mrs. Thompson in triumph. "Major Thompson—he's out on the links this afternoon—fetched Miss Leslie about two o'clock from the Columbine, and drove her here, where my son and I were waiting in the launch. We had intended to go for a picnic up the river, but the weather was so shocking that we gave it up, and played bridge instead. Miss Leslie refused to let my husband or son take the car out again, and took a taxi back to her hotel just before dinner."

      "So Miss Leslie was here in the house at the time my client's car was run into—about half-past four?"

      Mrs. Thompson turned a deep red.

      "Miss Leslie was here from two-thirty till she left about half-past seven," she said very distinctly. "If you care to go up to the golf links you'll find my husband there and the car! You can examine both at your leisure."

      "Madame, I regret to say that I do not understand the affair at all." Mr. Deane stroked his grey moustache and spoke testily. "My client told me that he recognized Miss Leslie distinctly, and at her hotel, where of course I went first before venturing to disturb you, I was told that she had arrived on Saturday in a condition—I refer to her habiliments—which distinctly corroborated the idea of an accident."

      Mrs. Thompson's foot was beating a light tattoo on the floor, and there was a distinct sparkle in her pretty eyes as she looked at her visitor.

      "I suppose she had a break-down in the taxi; I only know that she left here at half-past six, looking just as usual. She refused to borrow an umbrella. And now I must really refer you to my husband. You can't miss the links."

      Mr. Deane excused himself stiffly for the intrusion, and let himself follow the road to the nearest telephone booth, at a pace that began with Mr. Deane's leisurely stride, and finished up in Pointer's best seven-leagued style. The number of the Sheens' golf club was in use. He requested to be rung up when it was free, and passed the time in entering notes in his little book. When he was put through he asked for Major Thompson.

      "He's out on the links," replied a voice.

      "Mrs. Thompson isn't quite sure if he got her message clearly." He heard an impatient tongue click.

      "As I just explained to the lady, sir, the Major has absolutely forbidden any messages to be sent on to the links. I'm very sorry, sir."

      Pointer was not.

      "I see. Mrs. Thompson couldn't quite make out your explanation. I'll make it clear to her." And Mr. Deane, smiling cheerfully, took a bus to the club, which presented the usual picture of an August desert. He announced that he was waiting for the Major, and ordered tea on the balcony. Towards the close of his leisurely meal two figures clattered up the steps. A steward approached the shorter and indicated the visitor. The man came forward.

      "I'm Major Thompson. You wish to see me? Shall I have tea at your table, or will it wait till afterwards? Tea I must have."

      Mr. Deane strongly supported the idea of tea at his table. He produced his card and spoke of his client's accident.

      "I've just come from Mrs. Thompson; she requested me to see you." There was no doubt as to Major Thompson's embarrassed bewilderment.

      "Oh—ah—I see. But didn't my wife explain—" he gazed wildly around for his tea.

      "No, Major Thompson, she did not. The onus of proof rests on you." And Mr. Deane fixed his pince-nez more firmly on his nose, and eyed the man across the table.

      "Well, but—by jove—my wife told me—I mean Miss Leslie"—the major saw salvation and snatched at it—"you should see Miss Leslie. Miss Leslie is the person—"

      "Not at all." Mr. Deane stiffened. "My client was only able to identify the young lady, it is true, but she only comes into the case as identifying or not your car."

      "I see. Well, then, it's all quite simple. I never was anywhere near Richmond Park at the hour you mention."

      "Nor your car?"

      "Go and have a look at the old bus. There isn't any paint on her to scratch, but the mud of centuries ought to do as well. If you can find any dent on her—ah, here's my tea. I see you had shrimp sandwiches, too. Shows this isn't your first visit here, eh?"

      But Mr. Deane was not to be diverted.

      "My client," he began with his dry, preparatory little cough, "fixes the hour at about four-thirty, or a little later. If you will kindly state—with, of course, some—ah—proofs—that neither you, Miss Leslie, nor the car were near Richmond Park at the hour of the collision, the matter would drop, as far as you are concerned. It must be, of course, a simple matter for you to establish your whereabouts at the time in question."

      The major drank long and deep. Then he placed his empty cup in its saucer with something of a bang.

      "I was playing bridge with my wife and friends at home, Miss Leslie had gone on to some friends, and the bus was in my garage. I fetched Miss Leslie, who is an old school-friend of my wife's, at two o'clock from the Columbine, as you say they told you at the theatre, and drove her home to Richmond. We had intended to go on the river, but my wife refused to go out in the launch on account of the look of the sky, and suggested bridge instead. Miss Leslie didn't seem to care for cards, and decided to taxi on to some friends. So we put her into a cab—she refused to let us take her in the car—and off she went about a quarter to three. And as I haven't seen her since, she couldn't have been with me at four-thirty СКАЧАТЬ