A Blunt Instrument (12 page)

For the first time a sharp note came into Budd's rather unctuous voice: "I don't show my books to anyone!"

Hannasyde looked at him under frowning brows. "Is that so?" he said.

Mr. Budd lost some of his colour. A rather sickly smile was brought into action. "Now, don't get me wrong! Be fair, Mr. Hannasyde! That's all I ask of you. Be fair! If it was to get about I'd shown my books to a soul outside this office I should lose half my clients."

"It won't," said Hannasyde.

"Ah, if I could be sure of that!"

"You can be."

"Well, look here, Mr. Hannasyde, I'm a reasonable man, and if you show me a warrant, I've nothing to say. But if you haven't got one, I'm not showing my books to you. Why should I? There's no reason. But the instant you walk in here with a warrant you won't find me making trouble."

"If you're wise you won't make trouble under any circumstances," said Hannasyde. "I'll see your books now."

"You can't do it," said Budd, doggedly staring into his eyes. "You can't come that high-handed stuff in my office. I won't put up with it."

"Do you realise," said Hannasyde sternly, "the position you are in? I am giving you a chance to clear yourself of suspicion of -'

"I had nothing to do with the murder! Why, you know that, Mr. Hannasyde! Didn't I come right away to Scot -'

"The fact of your having come to Scotland Yard has no bearing on the case whatsoever. You have just told me a story a child wouldn't believe, and, for reasons best known to yourself, you refuse to substantiate it by the evidence of your books. You leave me no alternative -'

"No, no!" Budd said quickly. "Don't let's get hasty! No use getting hasty! I didn't see it like that, that's all. You'll be wasting your time if you arrest me. You don't want to do that, now do you? I'm not a violent man. You couldn't think I'd break anyone's head open! Why, I couldn't do it! Just couldn't do it! As for what I told you, well, perhaps it wasn't exactly the truth, but I swear to you -,

"Never mind about swearing to me. What was the truth?"

Mr. Budd licked his lips, shifting restlessly in his chair. "It was a miscalculation on my part. It might have happened to anyone. I never dreamed of IPS taking over Huxton Industries. It looked to me like a little flutter. A man's got to do the best he can for himself, hasn't he? You would yourself. There's nothing criminal in it."

"Get on!" said Hannasyde. "You thought the shares would sink back again, didn't you?"

"That's the way it was!" answered Budd eagerly. "If Mr. Fletcher had let me into the secret earlier, it needn't have happened. Wouldn't have happened."

"Instead of buying the ten thousand shares you were told to buy, you played a little game of your own, didn't you?"

"A man's got to take a chance sometimes," Budd pleaded. "You know how it is! I didn't mean to do anything wrong."

Hannasyde ignored this extremely unconvincing statement. "Buying and then selling, and again buying and selling, with the profits finding their way into your pocket. That's what you did? The ticker recorded the transactions, but Fletcher was not to know what you were up to. Then he let you in on the secret - I believe that part of your story - and you found yourself with one thousand shares only of the ten thousand you were instructed to buy, and the market steadily rising. Is that the true story?"

"You - you ought to have been in business yourself, Mr. Hannasyde," said Budd unhappily. "It's wonderful the way you spotted it!"

"And on the night he was murdered you had gone down to spin some kind of a yarn to Mr. Fletcher to account for your being unable to deliver the correct number of shares?"

Budd nodded. "That's the way it was. A bit of bad luck, Mr. Hannasyde. I don't deny I acted foolishly, but -'

"I take it Mr. Fletcher was very angry?"

"He was angry. I didn't blame him. I saw his point. But he couldn't do anything, not without coming out into the open. He wouldn't do that. See? He couldn't afford to have it known he had been buying Huxton Industries under cover. You haven't got anything on me, Mr. Hannasyde. You'll only regret it if you do anything impulsive. Take my word for it!"

He looked anxiously at Hannasyde as he spoke, beads of sweat standing on his brow. When he found that he was not, apparently, to be arrested, he heaved a gusty sigh of relief, and wiped his face with a large silk handkerchief.

Hannasyde went away to promote inquiries into the state of Neville Fletcher's finances.

Meanwhile, Sergeant Hemingway, arriving betimes in Marley, found PC Glass awaiting him with his customary air of gloomy disapproval. The Sergeant was in a cheerful frame of mind, and took instant exception to his subordinate's joyless mood. "What's the matter with you?" he demanded. "Colic, or something?"

"Nothing is the matter with me, Sergeant," replied Glass. "I enjoy perfect health."

"Well, if that's the way you look when you're enjoying yourself I hope I never see you when you're feeling a bit blue," said the Sergeant. "Do you ever smile? I won't say laugh, mind you! Just smile!"

"Sorrow is better than laughter," said Glass stiffly. "For by the sadness of the countenance the heart is made better."

"If it's my heart you're talking about, you're wrong!" responded the Sergeant instantly.

"I see no reason for mirth," Glass said. "I am troubled; I am bowed down greatly; I go mourning all day long."

"Look here, let's get this straight!" begged the Sergeant. "Have you really got anything to mourn about, or is this just your idea of having a good time?"

"I see sin upon sin discovered by reason of one man's death. I see how abominable and filthy is man, which drinketh iniquity like water."

"You know, when I came down here this morning," said the Sergeant, restraining himself with a strong effort, "I was feeling all right. Nice sunny day, birds singing, the case beginning to get interesting. But if I have to listen to much more of that kind of talk I shall have the horrors, which isn't going to help either of us. You forget about iniquity and think about this case you're supposed to be working on."

"It is that which is in my mind," said Glass. "An evil man is slain, but by his death hidden sins are laid bare. There is not one implicated in the case who can say: "I am blameless; there is no spot on me."'

"Today's great thought!" said the Sergeant. "Of course no one can say there's no spot on them! What did you expect! You know, your trouble is you take things too hard. What have other people's spots got to do with you, anyway? I may not know as much as you do about the Bible, but what about the mote in your neighbour's eye, eh?"

"It is true," said Glass. "You do right to reprove me. I am full of sin."

"Well, don't take on about it," recommended the Sergeant. "Let's get down to business. Nothing fresh come to light, I suppose?"

"I know of nothing."

"You'd better come along up to Greystones with me. I'm going to have a look for that blunt weapon myself." "It's not there."

"That's what you think: What's all this I was hearing from the Superintendent about young Neville producing a hopeful-looking paper-weight?"

Glass's brow darkened. "They that are of froward heart are an abomination to the Lord," he said coldly. "Neville Fletcher walks in vanity. He is of no account."

"What do you know about him?" inquired the Sergeant. "Anything, or nothing?"

"I think him an irreligious man, who despises the Word. But I know no other ill of him."

"What about the Norths?"

"He is said to be an upright man, and such I believe him to be. She speaks with a lying tongue, but she did not strike the blow that killed Ernest Fletcher."

"No, not unless she did it with a sledge-hammer," agreed the Sergeant. "It's my belief that when we find him Charlie Carpenter is going to tell us who killed Fletcher. You heard about him, didn't you?"

"I heard, but I did not understand. What is known of this Carpenter?"

"He's a small-time criminal. Done time and came out of gaol about a year ago. We found his finger-prints on the late Ernest's desk."

Glass frowned. "How is such an one concerned in the case? Truly, the way is dark."

"Not as dark as you think," replied the Sergeant. "Carpenter was mixed up with one of the late Ernest's little bits of fluff. That crack of yours about the girl in the photograph having an end as bitter as wormwood was one of your luckier shots. That was Angela Angel, the same that committed suicide sixteen months ago. It looks as though she didn't want to go on living when the late Ernest shook her off - supposing he was the boy-friend, which it's pretty certain he was. Silly little fool, of course, but you can't help feeling sorry for the kid."

"The soul that sinneth, it shall die," Glass said harshly. "Is it thought that Carpenter slew Ernest Fletcher?"

"That's what we can't make out. We shan't till we lay our hands on him. It looks a cinch, on the face of it, but somehow it doesn't fit with what we know of him. My own idea is that Charlie thought he saw his way to putting the black on the late Ernest, over Angela's death."

"It is possible. But he would not then kill Fletcher."

"You wouldn't think so, but when you've seen as much crime as I have, my lad, you'll know that the more improbable a thing seems to be the more likely it is it'll turn out to be a fact. But I won't deny you've made a point. What the Chief thinks is that Carpenter may have seen the real murderer."

Glass turned his arctic gaze upon the Sergeant. "How should that be? Why should he remain silent if it were so?"

"That's easy. He's not the sort to go running to the police. He'd have to explain why he was at Greystones, for one thing."

"True. Is his habitation known to you?"

"If you'd talk plain English, we'd get on better," remarked the Sergeant. "No, it isn't known to me, but I'm hoping it soon will be. Meanwhile, we've got to see what we can find out about friend North." He saw the question in Glass's eyes, and added: "Oh, you don't know about that little problem play, do you? According to the Chief, Mrs. North thinks North was the man she saw in the garden. So what must she do but alter her evidence to suit this new development? Lying lips about hits her off."

"Why should she think it?"

"Because it turns out that he was sculling around without an alibi at the time. The Chief's working on him now. Then there's Budd. He's been up to no good, or I'm a Dutchman."

They had by this time reached Greystones. As they turned in at the front gate, Glass suddenly said: "The day cometh that shall burn them as an oven; and all the proud, yea, and all that do wickedly shall be stubble!"

"You may be right, but it won't be in your time, my lad, so don't you think it!" replied the Sergeant tartly. "Now you can go and make yourself useful. The butler's a friend of yours, isn't he?"

"I know him. I do not call him a friend, for I have few friends."

"You surprise me!" said the Sergeant. "Still, if you're acquainted with him, that ought to be good enough. You go and have a chat with him -just a nice, casual chat."

"An idle soul shall suffer hunger," said Glass austerely.

"Not when it's idling with a butler. Or thirst either, if it comes to that," retorted the Sergeant.

"Thy tongue deviseth mischiefs, like a sharp razor working deceitfully," Glass told him. "Simmons is an honest man, in the way of Light."

"Yes, that's why I'm handing him over to you," said the Sergeant. "And I don't want any more backchat! You'll get that butler talking, and see what you can pick up."

Half-an-hour later the Sergeant, standing before the wall at the end of the garden, and gazing thoughtfully at one of the espaliers growing against it, was interrupted in his cogitations by the arrival on the scene of Neville Fletcher and Miss Drew.

"Oh, here's the Sergeant!" said Neville. "He's a nice man, Sally: you'll like him."

The Sergeant turned, foreboding in his breast. The monocle in Miss Drew's eye confirmed his fears. He regarded her with misgiving, but, being a polite man, bade her good-morning.

"You're looking for the weapon," said Miss Drew. "I've given a good deal of thought to that myself."

"So have I. I was even constructive," said Neville. "But Malachi told me to stand in awe, and sin not."

The Sergeant's lips twitched, but he said dryly: "Well, from all I hear, sir, that was about what you were asking for."

"Yes, but he also advised me to commune with my own heart upon my bed, and be still, which I maintain was unreasonable at three in the afternoon."

"I rather think of making a study of Malachi," announced Miss Drew. "He's probably a very interesting case - psychologically speaking. He ought to be psychoanalysed, I think."

"You're right, miss; he ought," agreed the Sergeant, regarding her with a kindlier light in his eye. "Ten to one, it would come out that he had something happen to him when he was an infant that would account for the kink he's got now."

"Dropped on his head?" inquired Neville.

"Oh no, it was probably some seemingly trivial episode which affected his subconscious," said Sally.

"My precious!" said Neville, with spurious fondness.

"He hasn't got one."

The Sergeant could not allow this assertion to pass. "That's where you're wrong, sir. Everyone's got a subconscious."

Neville's interest was at once aroused: "Let us sit down, and talk this over. I can see you're going to support Miss Drew, but though I know little, if anything, about the subject I have a very agile brain, and I'm practically certain to refute all your statements. We will have a lovely argument, shall we?"

"Very nice, I'm sure, sir," said the Sergeant, "but I'm not here to argue with you. It would be a waste of my time."

"It wouldn't be half such a waste of time as staring at that broken branch," said Neville. "Argument with me is very stimulating to the brain, and as a matter of fact that branch, which looks like a clue, is a snare for the unwary."

The Sergeant looked at him rather narrowly. "Is it, sir? Perhaps you can tell me how it comes to be broken?"

"I can, of course, but it isn't awfully interesting. Are you sure you wouldn't rather -'