The New Shoe. Arthur W. UpfieldЧитать онлайн книгу.
item in the story told by the footprints was that the maker of them had come and gone on tiptoe. Peculiar because the ground was soft and even a horse could have walked about the yard without anyone inside the Lighthouse hearing it.
Chapter Five
Not in the Summary
As Mrs Washfold had warned, the climb to the Light had not been without cost to his legs. Complaining muscles had some influence on his decision to give up tracking the person in small shoes or boots who, on emerging from the fence gate, had walked away across the tough headland grass. He would remember those tracks and recognize them again did he see them a year hence.
Part-way down the headland to the Inlet was a seat, and here Bony rolled a cigarette, and gently pushed Stug from sitting on his foot to scratch for fleas. The old dog took the hint, and lay down to rest his muzzle on his paws and watch him in canine infatuation.
“Strange goings on, Stug, I must say,” Bony commented. “Friend of yours, without doubt, a friend who walks about on tiptoe when doing so is entirely unnecessary, a friend who stands firm on the ground just outside the Lighthouse door. Slightly pigeon-toed, that friend of yours. Could be a jockey, you know. Jockeys are small men, and all horsemen are slightly pigeon-toed. Well, well. We’ll pick him up some time.”
The hump of the headland partially protected man and dog from the south wind, cold and tangy. The sun was low above distant mountains back of Lorne, and Bony decided that the slight elevation above the Inlet was preferable to that balcony where Fisher was now cleaning windows.
The fact that Fisher had come down from Melbourne to complete work left undone at the previous routine inspection was a distinct and vital omission in the Official Summary of this case.
Although Bolt had said there was no proof of the victim having been shot inside or outside the Lighthouse, there was firm support for the theory that the murder had been committed inside, because the victim’s fingerprints were on the handrail of the staircase.
It was, of course, obvious that the killer had easy access to the Lighthouse. The gate padlock and the Lighthouse door lock were both old-fashioned, simple and strong. They had been examined by experts, who stated that neither had been “picked” and that if the actual keys had not been illegally used then either duplicates or skeleton keys had been.
The official opinion was that the murderer or the victim or both were familiar with the Split Point Lighthouse and thus were permanent or local residents, and that the murderer knew the approximate date of the next Lighthouse inspection. He had pushed the body into the locker hoping to gain more time than he could expect had he left it on the steps. Thus the killer anticipated that the body would remain undiscovered at shortest two months. Unusual circumstances brought discovery within twenty-four hours.
As Bony himself observed, no one without knowledge of the locker could possibly see the door when passing up or down the steps, and such was the colouring of the door against the surrounding wall it was doubtful that, even with a flashlight, a stranger would see it.
The locker had been contrived but a few weeks prior to the previous Christmas by the Repair Gang, three specialists who are sent far and wide to renovate both automatic and manual lighthouses. Like Fisher, these specialists had been in the department’s employ for many years, and as Fisher had mentioned, they had with himself been thoroughly vetted by Bolt’s team.
“Looks to me, Stug, as though the gentleman who interests us is one of the Lighthouse men,” Bony observed to the dog. “But according to the Summary, every one of them is not only of excellent repute but has no connexion with anyone locally.
And further to confuse the old mind, Fisher said that every local resident would know the approximate date of the periodic inspections. Question: ‘Would any local resident know about that locker?’
“Making that locker would not be of such importance in the minds of the Repair Gang even to mention it outside themselves. Maybe, whilst they were working there, someone called and asked to go up to the Light, saw them working on the locker, noted its situation, and eventually decided to use it. The gate and door locks would not hinder a burglar serving his apprenticeship. Yet the Repair Gang told the police that, whilst at work here, no one went up to see the Light. No one asked for permission, which would have been given.”
The identity of the victim stopped short at the description of the body and broadcast by the Press, together with pictures. He was judged to be between forty and forty-five. He was five feet eleven inches, and weighed within a pound of eleven stone. His foot size was seven, his collar size 15, and his hat size was 6½. His eyes were hazel, his hair light-brown and wavy. The only distinguishing mark was a mole between the shoulder blades. A number of persons were permitted to view the body in the formalin tank, but no one had identified it.
“There must be someone,” argued Bolt, “someone other than the murderer, who could identify our body. No one can be so isolated as not to impress his image on the mind of at least one person. This unfortunate could not fail to be remembered by one.”
The man had been shot with an ordinary .32 bullet fired from a revolver. The bullet had shattered the heart and lodged in the spine, and the angle proved that the killer had stood higher than the victim. The assumption that the crime had been committed inside the Lighthouse was thus strengthened by the theory that the murderer was standing higher on the spiral steps when he fired.
From these meagre facts, how to make a start? Not from the body, which no one could identify. Not from the clothes, which could not be found. Not from the scene of the murder, for that could not be accurately established. There was blood on the body about the wound and about the sagging mouth, but none on the steps or the wall of the Lighthouse. The absence of blood within the locker indicated only that the bleeding had stopped prior to the entombment.
“Now they expect me to direct light on all this confusion and within an hour or so tell them who did it and why, and where to find the guilty person,” Bony told Stug. “Fisher reports his find, and the uniformed police arrive and proceed to tramp in and out like blowflies through a hole in a meat safe. Team work they call it, Stug. They then rush out down to the pub for drinks, and to the first person they come across they say: ‘Hey, you!’ And that first person shrinks into his shell and goes dumb. I don’t blame him.
“Tomorrow or the next day, I’ll probably receive a note saying my seconding to Victoria is to be for a week or ten days, and I shall be subjected to other annoyances reminding me that I am a servant of a damned Government Department, and pointing out that if I do not pull my forelock I shall be sacked and my wife and children will starve.
“Solve this small problem! Of course, Stug, we’ll solve it. In our own good time, not the bosses’ time. It’s been pleasant sitting here, and now the sun is about to set and in the bar of the Inlet Hotel men will be drinking. And where men drink one learns. When men drink one learns quickly.”
What a case! What a place for what a case! The sea air caused his eyes to be heavy as though with lack of sleep, and he swung down sharply to the picnic ground and thence to the highway with no thought of his leg muscles until he began to mount the slope to the hotel.
As far removed as Mars was Melbourne and Bolt and crime and criminals, and even farther away was Brisbane, where dwelt the ogre calling himself Colonel Spender. It was good to be alive, to recall that he had never yet failed either his superiors or himself, especially himself. Despite his aching legs, he walked with the litheness of youth.
Outside the bar stood a large truck loaded with firewood. Inside were two men drinking beer served by Mrs Washfold. It was yet a trifle early for the house builders. When Bony entered, Stug squatted on the door mat.
“Hullo, Mr Rawlings!” greeted the licensee’s wife. “What did you think of our Lighthouse? Tired your legs, I bet.”
“Just a trifle, Mrs Washfold.”
Dressed in black, her cubic proportions made the small section behind the bar barely large enough to contain her. She had made no attempt to put on her face which shone from the application of soap. The smile