The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack. R. Austin FreemanЧитать онлайн книгу.
have all the antecedents of the case, and we arrived within a few minutes of the death of the deceased.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Miller. “Did you? And I expect you have formed an opinion on the question as to whether the injuries were self-inflicted?”
“I think,” said Thorndyke,” that it would be best to act on the assumption that they were not—and to act promptly.”
“Precisely,” Miller agreed emphatically. “You mean that we had better find out at once where a certain person was at—What time did you arrive here?”
“It was two minutes to nine when the taxi stopped,” replied Thorndyke; “and, as it is now only twenty-five minutes to ten, we have good time if Mr. Meade can spare us the taxi. I have the address.”
“The taxi is waiting for you,” said Mr. Meade, “and the man has been paid for both journeys. I shall stay here in case the superintendent wants anything.” He shook our hands warmly, and as we bade him farewell and noted the dazed, despairing expression and lines of grief that had already eaten into the face that had been so blithe and hopeful, we both thought bitterly of the few fatal minutes that had made us too late to save the wreckage of his life.
We were just turning away when Thorndyke paused and again faced the clergyman. “Can you tell me,” he asked, “whether Miss Fawcett had any pets? Cats, dogs, or other animals?”
Meade looked at him in surprise, and Superintendent Miller seemed to prick up his ears. But the former answered simply: “No. She was not very fond of animals; she reserved her affections for men and women.”
Thorndyke nodded gravely, and picking up the research-case walked slowly out of the room, Miller and I following.
As soon as the address had been given to the driver and we had taken our seats in the taxi, the superintendent opened the examination-in-chief.
“I see you have got your box of magic with you, doctor,” he said, cocking his eye at the research-case. “Any luck?”
“We have secured a very distinctive footprint,” replied Thorndyke, “but it may have no connection with the case.”
“I hope it has,” said Miller. “A good cast of a footprint which you can let the jury compare with the boot is first-class evidence.” He took the cast, which I had produced from the research-case, and turning it over tenderly and gloatingly, exclaimed: “Beautiful! beautiful! Absolutely distinctive! There can’t be another exactly like it in the world. It is as good as a fingerprint. For the Lord’s sake take care of it. It means a conviction if we can find the boot.”
The superintendent’s efforts to engage Thorndyke in discussion were not very successful, and the conversational brunt was borne by me. For we both knew my colleague too well to interrupt him if he was disposed to be meditative. And such was now his disposition. Looking at him as he sat in his corner, silent but obviously wrapped in thought, I knew that he was mentally sorting out the data and testing the hypotheses that they yielded.
“Here we are,” said Miller, opening the door as the taxi stopped. “Now what are we going to say? Shall I tell him who I am?”
“I expect you will have to,” replied Thorndyke, “if you want him to let us in.”
“Very well,” said Miller. “But I shall let you do the talking, because I don’t know what you have got up your sleeve.”
Thorndyke’s prediction was verified literally. In response to the third knock, with an obbligato accompaniment on the bell, wrathful footsteps—I had no idea footsteps could be so expressive—advanced rapidly along the lobby, the door was wrenched open—but only for a few inches—and an angry, hairy face appeared in the opening.
“Now then,” the hairy person demanded, “what the deuce do you want?”
“Are you Mr. William Pouting?” the superintendent inquired.
“What the devil is that to do with you?” was the genial answer—in the Scottish mode.
“We have business,” Miller began persuasively.
“So have I,” the presumable Ponting replied, “and mine won’t wait.”
“But our business is very important,” Miller urged.
“So is mine,” snapped Ponting, and would have shut the door but for Miller’s obstructing foot, at which he kicked viciously, but with unsatisfactory results, as he was shod in light slippers, whereas the superintendent’s boots were of constabulary solidity.
“Now, look here,” said Miller, dropping his conciliatory manner very completely, “you’d better stop this nonsense. I am a police officer, and I am going to come in,” and with this he inserted a massive shoulder and pushed the door open.
“Police officer, are you?” said Ponting. “And what might your business be with me?”
“That is what I have been waiting to tell you,” said Miller. “But we don’t want to do our talking here.”
“Very well,” growled Panting. “Come in. But understand that I am busy. I’ve been interrupted enough this evening.”
He led the way into a rather barely furnished room with a wide bay-window in which was a table fitted with a writing-slope and lighted by an electric standard lamp. A litter of manuscript explained the nature of his business and his unwillingness to receive casual visitors. He sulkily placed three chairs, and then, seating himself, glowered at Thorndyke and me.
“Are they police officers, too?” he demanded.
“No,” replied Miller, “they are medical gentlemen. Perhaps you had better explain the matter, doctor,” he added, addressing Thorndyke, who thereupon opened the proceedings.
“We have called,” said he, “to inform you that Miss Millicent Fawcett died suddenly this evening.”
“The devil!” exclaimed Panting. “That’s sudden with a vengeance. What time did this happen?”
“About a quarter to nine.”
“Extraordinary!” muttered Ponting. “I saw her only the day before yesterday, and she seemed quite well then. What did she die of?”
“The appearances,” replied Thorndyke, “suggest suicide.”
“Suicide!” gasped Ponting. “Impossible! I can’t believe it. Do you mean to tell me she poisoned herself?”
“No,” said Thorndyke, “it was not poison. Death was caused by injuries to the throat inflicted with a razor.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Ponting. “What a horrible thing! But,” he added, after a pause, “I can’t believe she did it herself, and I don’t. Why should she commit suicide? She was quite happy, and she was just going to be married to that mealy-faced parson. And a razor, too! How do you suppose she came by a razor? Women don’t shave. They smoke and drink and swear, but they haven’t taken to shaving yet. I don’t believe it. Do you?”
He glared ferociously at the superintendent who replied: “I am not sure that I do. There’s a good deal in what you’ve just said, and the same objections had occurred to us. But you see, if she didn’t do it herself, someone else must have done it, and we should like to find out who that someone is. So we begin by ascertaining where any possible persons may have been at a quarter to nine this evening.”
Ponting smiled like an infuriated cat. “So you think me a possible person, do you?” said he.
“Everyone is a possible person,” Miller replied blandly, “especially when he is known to have uttered threats.”
The reply sobered Panting considerably. For a few moments he sat, looking reflectively at the superintendent; then, in comparatively quiet tones, he said: “I have been working here since six o’clock. You can see the stuff for yourself, and I can prove that it has been written since six.”