Название: Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 11: Photo-Finish, Light Thickens, Black Beech and Honeydew
Автор: Ngaio Marsh
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Классическая проза
isbn: 9780007531455
isbn:
‘It’s a lot of good,’ Alleyn said warmly. ‘You have turned up trumps, you two. Damn Marco. Why can’t he make up his dirty little mind that his best move is to cut his losses and come clean. I’ll have to try my luck with Hanley. Tricky.’
He went out on the landing. Bert had resumed his guard duty and lounged back in the armchair reading a week-old sports tabloid. A homemade cigarette hung from his lower lip. He gave Alleyn the predictable sideways tip of his head.
Alleyn said: ‘I really oughtn’t to impose on you any longer, Bert. After all, we’ve got the full complement of keys now and nobody’s going to force the lock with the amount of traffic flowing through this house.’
‘I’m not fussy,’ said Bert which Alleyn took to mean that he had no objections to continuing his vigil.
‘Well, if you’re sure,’ he said.
‘She’ll be right.’
‘Thank you.’
The sound of voices indicated the emergence of the elevenses party. Miss Dancy, Sylvia Parry and Rupert Bartholomew came upstairs. Rupert, with an incredulous look at Bert and a scary one at Alleyn, made off in the direction of his room. The ladies crossed the landing quickly and ascended the next flight. Mr Reece, Ben Ruby and Signor Lattienzo made for the study. Alleyn ran quickly downstairs in time to catch Hanley emerging from the morning room.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ he said, ‘but I wonder if I might have a word. It won’t take a minute.’
‘But of course,’ said Hanley. ‘Where shall we go? Back into the library?’
‘Right.’
When they were there Hanley winningly urged further refreshment. Upon Alleyn’s declining, he said: ‘Well, I will; just a teeny tiddler,’ and helped himself to a gin-and-tonic. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Alleyn?’ he said. ‘Is there any further development?’
Alleyn said: ‘Did you type a letter to The Watchman some time before Madame Sommita’s death?’
Hanley’s jaw dropped and the hand holding his drink stopped half-way to his mouth. For perhaps three seconds he maintained this position and then spoke.
‘Oh Christmas!’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten. You wouldn’t credit it, would you? I’d entirely forgotten.’
He made no bones about explaining himself and did so very fluently and quite without hesitation. He had indeed typed a letter from the Sommita to The Watchman
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