The Terror. Martin Edwards
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Название: The Terror
Автор: Martin Edwards
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Полицейские детективы
isbn: 9780008137588
isbn:
‘Thanks for invitation,’ he said, ‘which is accepted.’
She looked at him in wonder. The rain had soaked his coat, and, as he stood, the drops were dripping from it, forming pools on the floor. He must have been out in the storm for hours—where had he been? And he was strangely untalkative; allowed himself to be led away by Cotton to room No. 7, which was in the farther wing. Mary’s own pretty little bedroom was above the lounge. After taking leave of her father, she locked and bolted the door of her room, slowly undressed and went to bed. Her mind was too much alive to make sleep possible, and she turned from side to side restlessly.
She was dozing off when she heard a sound and sat up in bed. The wind was shrieking round the corners of the house, the patter of the rain came fitfully against her window, but that had not wakened her up. It was the sound of low voices in the room below. She thought she heard Cotton—or was it her father? They both had the same deep tone.
Then she heard a sound which made her blood freeze—a maniacal burst of laughter from the room below. For a second she sat paralysed, and then, springing out of bed, she seized her dressing-gown and went pattering down the stairs, and she saw over the banisters a figure moving in the hall below.
‘Who is that?’
‘It’s all right, my dear.’
It was her father. His room adjoined his study on the ground floor.
‘Did you hear anything, Daddy?’
‘Nothing—nothing,’ he said harshly, ‘Go to bed.’
But Mary Redmayne was not deficient in courage.
‘I will not go to bed,’ she said, and came down the stairs. ‘There was somebody in the lounge—I heard them,’ Her hand was on the lounge door when he gripped her arm.
‘For God’s sake, Mary, don’t go in!’ She shook him off impatiently, and threw open the door.
No light burned; she reached out for the switch and turned it. For a second she saw nothing, and then—
Sprawling in the middle of the room lay the body of a man, a terrifying grin on his dead face.
It was the tinker, the man who had quarrelled with Ferdie Fane that morning—the man whom Fane had threatened!
SUPERINTENDENT HALLICK came down by car with his photographer and assistants, saw the body with the local chief of police, and instantly recognised the dead man.
Connor! Connor, the convict, who said he would follow O’Shea to the end of the world—dead, with his neck broken, in that neat way which was O’Shea’s speciality.
One by one Hallick interviewed the guests and the servants. Cotton was voluble; he remembered the man, but had no idea how he came into the room. The doors were locked and barred, none of the windows had been forced. Goodman apparently was a heavy sleeper and lived in the distant wing. Mrs Elvery was full of theories and clues, but singularly deficient in information.
‘Fane—who is Fane?’ asked Hallick.
Cotton explained Mr Fane’s peculiar position and the hour of his arrival.
‘I’ll see him later. You have another guest on the books?’ He turned the pages of the visitors’ ledger.
‘He doesn’t come till today. He’s a parson, sir,’ said Cotton.
Hallick scrutinised the ill-favoured face.
‘Have I seen you before?’
‘Not me, sir.’ Cotton was pardonably agitated.
‘Humph!’ said Hallick. ‘That will do. I’ll see Miss Redmayne.’
Goodman was in the room and now came forward.
‘I hope you are not going to bother Miss Redmayne, superintendent. She is an extremely nice girl. I may say I am—fond of her. If I were a younger man—’ He smiled. ‘You see, even tea merchants have their romances.’
‘And detectives,’ said Hallick dryly. He looked at Mr Goodman with a new interest. He had betrayed from this middle-aged man a romance which none suspected. Goodman was in love with the girl and had probably concealed the fact from everybody in the house.
‘I suppose you think I am a sentimental jackass—’
Hallick shook his head.
‘Being in love isn’t a crime, Mr Goodman,’ he said quietly.
Goodman pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘I suppose it isn’t—imbecility isn’t a crime, anyway,’ he said.
He was going in the direction whence Mary would come, when Hallick stopped him, and obediently the favoured guest shuffled out of another door.
Mary had been waiting for the summons, and her heart was cold within her as she followed the detective to Hallick’s presence. She had not seen him before and was agreeably surprised. She had expected a hectoring, bullying police officer and found a very stout and genial man with a kindly face. He was talking to Cotton when she came in, and for a moment he took no notice of her.
‘You’re sure you’ve no idea how this man got in last night?’
‘No, sir,’ said Cotton.
‘No window was forced, the door was locked and bolted, wasn’t it?’
Cotton nodded.
‘I never let him in,’ he said.
Hallick’s eyelids narrowed.
‘Twice you’ve said that. When I arrived this morning you volunteered the same statement. You also said you passed Mr Fane’s room on your way in, that the door was open and the room was empty.’
Cotton nodded.
‘You also said that the man who rung up the police and gave the name of Cotton was not you.’
‘That’s true, sir.’
It was then that the detective became aware of the girl’s presence and signalled Cotton to leave the room.
‘Now, Miss Redmayne; you didn’t see this man, I suppose?’
‘Only for a moment.’
‘Did you recognise him?’
She nodded.
Hallick looked down at the floor, considering.
‘Where do you sleep?’ he asked.
‘In the room above this hall.’
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