Shattering Glass. John Russell Fearn

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СКАЧАТЬ Kempton was found murdered. I’ve got McDane busy trying to trace him, but so far without result. I do consider it significant, though, that he told his landlady about seven o’clock that he was going to spend the evening with Miss Kempton.”

      “What sort of a statement has Miss Kempton’s landlady got to make?” Calthorp asked musingly.

      “She simply says she didn’t see anybody strange about. It’s one of those strictly ruled boarding-houses where young men are not permitted to visit girl boarders. On the other hand, it has an ever-open front door so the boarders can come and go without hindrance. Anybody could have entered, of course, but since the landlady occupied the front room and has her eyes on most of the things that go on, it doesn’t seem likely. Only thing I can think of is the fire escape, which passes the window of Joyce Kempton’s room.”

      “I see. The girl had been lying dead all night, then?”

      The divisional inspector nodded. “According to the doctor she’d been dead twelve or thirteen hours, which would be between seven and eight o’clock the previous evening. That casts suspicion on Richard Lane since he had planned to meet her at seven o’clock. There’d been a struggle, too. That girl fought hard to save her life, I’d say—But you’ve seen the photographs of it?”

      “I’ve seen them and studied them,” said the chief inspector, “together with the reports from the forensic laboratory and fingerprint department. All forensic can tell us is that the girl was slain by the jagged top of a bottle. It severed the jugular vein and inflicted other severe injuries as well. The blood on the bottle-top checks with that of the girl. The bottle had contained eau-de-cologne.”

      “That’s right, sir,” the divisional inspector agreed. “I discovered the bottle had come originally from the perfume counter in the emporium where the girl worked. She might have purchased it herself, but my guess is that Richard Lane bought it for her. Maybe he told her to select what she wanted from her own counter and then paid for it. Though why he should want to kill her afterwards is something which goes right beyond me.”

      “I believe this bottle was empty?” Calthorp inquired.

      “After breakage it was, but there was eau-de-cologne beside the dress­ing table. In fact it was the aroma and the girl’s silence that led her landlady to call the police. The door was locked on the inside, by the way, which again suggests the fire escape.”

      Calthorp picked up the photograph of the bottle and studied it.

      “And there are no fingerprints? No anything?”

      “Nothing. Even poroscopy doesn’t tell us anything. As it looks right now, Joyce Kempton was murdered for no apparent reason—in the most homicidal manner possible.”

      Chief Inspector Calthorp got up from his chair and sauntered over to the window. Without turning his head he said. “What about this girl Sylvia Cotswood? Since she is Richard Lane’s other girl friend, she’s important. Have you interviewed her?”

      “Not yet. I haven’t found out where she lives. I learned from Joyce Kempton’s associates at the emporium that Joyce had talked a lot about Lane, and mentioned several times that she considered herself far better than that “frozen piece” Sylvia Cotswood to whom, it seems, Lane had been attracted before he took a sudden interest in Joyce.”

      Calthorp glanced round. “You mean to tell me Joyce was prepared to stand for that sort of thing—? To share Lane with this other girl?”

      “I hardly think it was that,” Jones replied. “I believe that Joyce was determined to prove that she was a better bet than Sylvia, more in the spirit of good-natured rivalry than anything else. That isn’t an uncommon thing in love affairs, sir. Two men often love the same girl and are willing to let her make the choice. I think that is what happened in this case, except the positions were reversed. Two girls and one man.”

      “Mmm—maybe,” Calthorp agreed. “She must have been a girl of uncom­mon broad-mindedness. It is not the usual thing to find a woman willing to permit another woman in what she considers is her exclusive territory. However, it could happen, I grant you. And you couldn’t find out any more concerning Sylvia Cotswood?”

      “No. Of course, Joyce had never mentioned Sylvia’s address, or even if she lived in the same city. I’d hoped to get that from Richard Lane, but now I’m at a dead end.”

      CHAPTER FOUR

      PERRY’S FRIENDS

      FROM the moment she had the diamond engagement ring placed on her finger, Moira had been constantly on the go. Ignoring her pleas that she pre­ferred solitude, Perry took her first to his London flat, where she met Pearson, the only existing member of the Lonsdale domestic staff, and then on to Brinhampton and the “Larches.” Pearson, who also acted as chauffeur, drove while Perry and the girl sat back and enjoyed the scenery.

      “I seem to be living in a dream,” Moira said, closing her eyes. “Every­thing happens so efficiently—and you pour out money as though it’s water. I’ve bought everything I ever thought of or even dreamed about.”

      “Including your trousseau,” Perry reminded her. “My part in the wedding business is a special license. We’re going to be married on Friday, exactly a week after our engagement. That’s a bit more of the efficiency you were talking about.”

      “On Friday!” Moira opened her eyes in surprise. “But I thought you said it was going to be marriage on the grand Lonsdale style? I’ve had visions of church bells, cheering spectators throwing confetti, dozens of your friends, the organ booming mightily—”

      “None of which you really care about,” he pointed out.

      “Well no, but if it pleases you....”

      “I thought better of it. After all, these are austere days. With this special license we can be married anywhere in the country, so why not at the Larches? Just the minister, a few friends. No more then four with two of them as witnesses. I’ve already written them. You’ll make their acquaintance when we get home—home being the Larches from now on. They’re turning up for a house-warming and, of course, will be with us until after the ceremony.”

      Moira nodded slowly, a somewhat wondering, bothered look crossing her face.

      “And after we’re married?” she inquired. “Where do we honeymoon?”

      “The south of France. Be a bit warmer. I’ve made reservations so there’s nothing to worry about.”

      “It will be wonderful, Perry—and you’ve planned everything so marve­lously—but didn’t you say that you have no staff at the Larches? That Pearson is the only man you’ve been able to get hold of so far?”

      “Pearson was down here yesterday engaging a new staff. Matter of fact he’s only been with me six weeks or so. Nothing has been overlooked. You’ll see.”

      Moira made no more observations on the subject, content with his assurance all would be well. Towards late afternoon they drew near a massive eighteenth-century type manor house. Moira watched as they approached it and her breathing quickened.

      “You mean you own that? That I’ll be the mistress of it?” she asked Perry eagerly.

      “If it appeals to you. If it doesn’t I can very soon buy another one.”

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