Why Shoot a Butler (9 page)

"What isn't?"

"The way you're treating this case. Not like you at all, it isn't. Because me knowing you as I do I've got a feeling you're keeping things up your sleeve. Now that's a thing I wouldn't have believed of you, sir. Then there's what you said to me the other day, after the inquest. Not that I set any store by that at the time, me knowing that you're apt to get humorous in your way of talking. But when the colonel happened to mention your saying to him how you didn't know that you wanted to work for the police that made me very surprised. Because putting two and two together, and calling to mind that very same remark which you passed to me, it does seem to look as though you meant it, which is a thing I wouldn't have believed."

"Sorry," said Mr. Amberley.

The sergeant said severely: "Of course I know you go against the law a lot in the way of business…'

"What?"

"Getting off them as ought to be at Dartmoor," said the sergeant. "Often and often you've done that, but as I say, that's in the way of business and fair enough. But it's putting ideas into your head, sir, that's what it is."

"Look here!" said Mr. Amberley. "Just what are you driving at?"

"You're not acting straight by us, begging your pardon, sir," said the sergeant doggedly. "Keeping things back. You haven't given us anything to go on, and it's as plain as a pikestaff you've got your suspicions."

"Is it? I'm sorry to hear it. Don't hustle me, Sergeant."

The sergeant eyed him speculatively and perceived suddenly that Mr. Amberley's attention had wandered. He was looking past the sergeant to the gate of Ivy Cottage, which was just visible up the lane. The sergeant was about to turn round to see what was interesting him so much when he was stopped.

"Don't turn round, Sergeant," Amberley said quietly.

The sergeant was immediately possessed by an almost uncontrollable desire just to glance over his shoulder, but he managed to check it. "What have you seen, sir?"

Amberley was no longer looking up the lane. A minute ago the wicket-gate had opened, a man had slipped out, and cast rather a furtive look to left and right. When he saw the car at the bottom of the lane, with its owner apparently deep in conversation with Sergeant Gubbins, he had turned abruptly and walked away, up the lane.

"Very interesting," said Mr. Amberley slowly. "And what, Sergeant, do we make of that?"

The sergeant swelled with indignation. "A fat lot of chance I have of making anything of it, haven't I, sir? "Don't turn round," you say, and then ask me what I make of it!"

Mr. Amberley was stroking his chin meditatively. "It looks as though I'm not so far out," he said.

"Does it, sir?" said the sergeant in considerable dudgeon. "Well, isn't that nice? P'raps if I'm patient you'll see fit to tell me what you've seen."

"A man, Sergeant. Just a man."

"You do sometimes," agreed the sergeant, heavily sarcastic. "I can see a couple now. Young Thomas and Mr. Fairleigh they are. You wait, sir, and you'll see them too."

"An ordinary, respectable personage," mused Mr. Amberley. "Yet he wasn't pleased to see us here. Where does that lane lead to, Gubbins?"

"Fawcett's farm," said the sergeant shortly. "Nothing else?"

"It stops there."

"Ah!" said Mr. Amberley. "Do you think our friend Collins can really have business at Fawcett's farm?"

The sergeant was interested. "Collins? Was it him, sir?"

"It was, Sergeant. He's been calling at Ivy Cottage."

"That's funny," said the sergeant. "What would he want there? Gone off to Fawcett's, has he? Then he'll cut across the fields. There's a right-of-way. Now I come to think of it, we don't know much about these Browns. The young fellow's in the Blue Dragon most nights. Drinks himself silly, that's what he does. But what does he want with a valet?"

"I wonder," said Mr. Amberley.

"Yes, sir, I've no doubt you do, and if I was sure you didn't do more than wonder… What might you have been meaning when you said what you did just now, about it looking as though you weren't so far out?"

"I see it's no use trying to conceal anything from you, Sergeant," said Mr. Amberley, shaking his head.

"Well, I hope I've got my share of brains, sir," replied the sergeant, slightly mollified. "I don't say I set out to be one of these people who think they know everything and, consequent, talk so clever there's no understanding what they're driving at half the time - if anything, which some people might doubt."

Mr. Amberley grinned. "Such as?"

"Just someone I happened to have in my mind," said the sergeant carelessly.

"Oh, I see. I thought you were talking about me for a moment."

The sergeant strove with himself. "Now look here, sir!" he said. "I can't stand in the road bandying words with you all day while you have your little bit of fun with me. I've got my work to do. I was going to mention to you that I don't like the look of that Collins, and never have, but what's the good? It wouldn't interest you."

"Not in the least," said Mr. Amberley frankly, "but it would interest me very much to know why he goes calling at Ivy Cottage."

"Well, that's something we can find out," said the sergeant, his spirits rising. "I don't say that I see what it's got to do with the crime, but if you want to know there'd be more sense in me investigating it than joining a lot of goggling fools in turning over dead leaves for a cartridge case. Which is what the inspector set some of the men on to do. And they haven't found it yet, nor they aren't likely to, though Constable Parkins found a kettle with a hole in it and the half of an old boot in the ditch."

"Did they find any trace of a bicycle having been pushed into the field behind the hedge?" Anthony inquired.

"No, sir, not so far as I know."

"Did they look in the field?"

"Oh yes, sir, they looked all right, but I wouldn't say but what they were a bit distracted like, on account of,I lot of young bullocks Mr. Fawcett's got in that field. They were a bit playful, I understand."

"Splendid! Did they play with Inspector Fraser?"

The sergeant put up a large hand to cover his mouth. "Well, sir, I did hear as how the inspector didn't stop long enough to give them the chance, so to speak."

Mr. Amberley laughed and switched on his engine again. "Not fond of animals, perhaps. Now, Sergeant, you mustn't keep me gossiping with you. I've got something better to do, you know."

"Me? Me keep you - ? Well, I'm…'

"And I'd rather you didn't investigate Collins' visit to Ivy Cottage, if it's all the same to you. I'll do that myself."

The car began to move forward; the sergeant walked beside it for a few steps. "That's all very well, sir, but when do we get something to go on?"

"All in good time," promised Mr. Amberley; "I haven't got much myself yet. I'll tell you this, though; unless Fin much mistaken you'll find that the murder of Dawson is the least interesting part of the whole problem. So long."

The sergeant fell back and stood watching the car go up the lane to Ivy Cottage. He shook his head darkly, turned his bicycle round, and resumed his interrupted progress into Upper Nettlefold.

Amberley left his car outside the little white gate and went up the path to the front door. The window of the living room was open, and through it he heard Mark Brown's voice say petulantly: "You made a bloody mess of the whole thing. You ought to have let me do it. I bet I wouldn't have let anyone steal a march on me. You let him get the thing and then you send for him to come up here. The hell of a lot of use that is! Supposing anyone had seen him?"

Amberley knocked loudly on the door, and the voice ceased abruptly. After a moment the door was opened by Mark Brown, and the bull-terrier bounded out apparently delighted to welcome the guest.

Amberley said easily: "Good afternoon. I came to return a piece of lost property to your sister."

Mark recognised him and flushed. "Oh, it's you, is it? Come in, won't you? I say - I'm afraid I was a bit screwed the other day. Awfully decent of you to have brought me home."

Amberley brushed that aside. When he liked he could be very pleasant, and apparently he liked now. He had Mark at his ease in two minutes, and Mark, losing some of his suspicion, invited him to come in to see his sister.

He came in, escorted by the bull-terrier, and preceded Mark into the little sitting room, where Shirley Brown was standing behind the table. She gave no sign of being pleased to see him, but watched him intently under her frowning brows.

Mr. Amberley was not in the least dismayed. "How do you do?" he said. "Did you get home all right the other evening?"

"If I hadn't I should hardly be here now," she replied.

"Oh, shut up, Shirley!" interposed her brother, pulling a chair forward. "Won't you sit down, Mr. - Amberley, isn't it? Didn't you say you had something belonging to my sister?"

A startled look leaped into her eyes. She said quickly: "Something of mine?"

"Something you left behind you at the manor," said Amberley.

There was a moment's tense silence; the brother's and sister's eyes met for an instant.

"Oh?" said Mark with forced carelessness. "What was that?"

"Just something Miss Brown dropped," said Amberley and brought out a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket. "Here it is."

The tenseness passed. Shirley took the handkerchief. "How very kind of you to go to so much trouble," she said ironically.

"Not at all," said Amberley courteously.

She stared at him in mingled surprise and hostility. Her brother, more hospitable than she, filled an awkward gap by asking Amberley if he would not stay to tea.

Amberley accepted, and meeting Shirley's indignant gaze smiled blandly at her. She swallowed something in her throat and stalked out of the room into the kitchen.

Mark began to apologise for the sparse surroundings. They had taken the cottage for a month, he said. They both worked in town - here his eyes shifted from Amberley's for a moment - and were on holiday. Shirley was Anne March's secretary. He expected that Amberley knew the name. She was a novelist and wrote pretty good tripe. Asked where he himself worked he answered uncommunicatively that it was in a bank. From his somewhat shamefaced manner and from the knowledge that bank clerks were not in the habit of enjoying a whole month's holiday, Amberley guessed that this job had come to an abrupt end. He was not surprised, but with rare tact led the talk away from such uncomfortable topics.

When Shirley reappeared with the tea-tray he was admiring a kaross of King Jackal skins which had been flung over the horsehair sofa. He said that a friend of his had brought one home from Durban. Mark replied that the shops there had lots of them; they were bought mostly by tourists.

Shirley interrupted this amiable interchange by demanding curtly whether her guest took milk and sugar. He transferred his attention to her, and to her annoyance insisted on discussing the ball at the manor. Her monosyllabic replies did not seem to abash him in the least. She knew by the twinkle in his eye that he was amused by her evident annoyance, and she tried to conceal it.

When tea was over she suggested to Mark that he might clear it away, and no sooner had he left the room than she attacked Amberley openly. "Well? What is it?" she asked.

"What is what?" he inquired.

"Why did you come? You don't suppose I believe that it was to bring me my handkerchief, do you? If you do you must think I'm a fool!"

"I do," he said. A rather disarming smile went with the words and provoked an answering gleam from her.

She suppressed it rigorously. "Nor can I suppose that you came for the pleasure of my callow company."

He laughed. "At least you have a good memory," he said.

"I think," she said forcefully, "that you are the rudest man I have ever had the misfortune to meet."

"Really? And I should think you're a competent judge too."

She gave a sudden laugh and got up. "You're impossible," she said, and held out her hand.

It was an act of dismissal, but though Amberley rose he did not shake hands. Her hand fell; the laugh faded from her eyes she said abruptly: "Mr. Amberley."

"Well?"

"I seem to you a suspicious character. I must seem so; I quite realise that. But if I am, why don't you leave the police to deal with me?"

He shook his head. "I'm afraid you overrate our inspector's intelligence. He'd probably have had you hanged."

"You're acting for the police, aren't you? You needn't trouble to deny it; I know you are. And you still think I had something to do with that murder. Well…'

He interrupted. "And had you nothing to do with it, Miss Brown?"

She stared at him, the colour ebbing from her cheeks. "What do you mean?"

"What I say. You went to meet Dawson that night."

"No!"

"Don't lie. He had something that you wanted. And because of that he was murdered. You were too late on the scene, Miss Brown."

"It's not true!" she said huskily. "You've no proofl'

"I shall have," he promised, and picked up his hat. "No, you needn't put on that remarkably wooden expression. I'm not going to ask you to tell me anything. The one piece of information I came for I've got. The rest I'll have soon enough - without the assistance you're so loath to give me."

"What information? What do you imagine you've discovered?"

"You can think that out for yourself," said Mr. Amberley. "Thank you so much for giving me tea. Goodbye!"

Chapter Seven

Mr. Amberley's hopes of a quiet evening were dashed by a telephone call that came for him in the middle of dinner. Sir Humphrey passed a severe stricture upon people who invariably rang up during a meal because they were "sure of finding one in, and inquired testily of his butler who it was and why he could not give a message.

Upon hearing that his call came from Basil Fountain, Mr. Amberley, who had heartily endorsed his uncle's views, said that he would answer it. He returned to the dining room a few moments later and replied in answer to Felicity's inquiry that Fountain wanted him to motor over to the manor after dinner.

"Whatever for?" said Felicity.

"Apparently," said Amberley, helping himself to salad, "he has remembered a valuable piece of evidence."

"Did he ask me to come too?"

"He did not."

"Swab!" said Felicity, without heat.

When Amberley arrived at Norton Manor it was about half-past nine and a beautifully clear night. The manor was bathed in moonlight, with sharp black shadows thrown out along the ground. The house looked unfriendly, for the curtains were closely drawn and no welcoming light shone from any window.

Amberley was admitted by Collins and conducted to the library at the side of the house. He found his host alone, awaiting him.

Fountain apologised for dragging him out at this hour, but said in excuse that he had only heard from the chief constable that afternoon that he had taken the case on. It appeared that there was something he thought Amberley ought to know about the deceased butler.

He broke off as Collins came back into the room with the coffee-tray and waited while the valet offered this to Amberley. But he did not, for once, seem to mind Collins' hearing what he had to say, for he added, as he lifted the big globe-like liqueur glass, from the tray: "I've been speaking to Collins about what I'm going to tell you, but unfortunately he can't help us much. I rather hoped he might have known more than I do. But he tells me Dawson seldom mentioned his affairs in the servants' hall."

Amberley glanced towards the valet's impassive countenance. "Did he give you the impression that he had anything to hide?"

Collins answered in his smooth, expressionless voice: "No, sir. But I fear I did not consider the matter. We were not very friendly."

"When you say that you were not very friendly do you mean that you disliked one another?"

"Oh dear me, no, sir, nothing of that kind," replied Collins. "If there had ever been unpleasantness I could not have remained in service at the manor."

Amberley transferred his gaze to the fireplace. After; i moment Collins said politely: "Will there be anything further, sir?"

"No, that's all," said Fountain. He waited till the mai > had gone and then remarked that he had managed to find a butler to take Dawson's place.

"Really? I heard you had gone to town to intervue one. Satisfactory?"

"Seems all right," said Fountain. "He had a very good reference, though I'd have preferred to have had a word over the phone with his late employers. Unfortunately the man's gone to America. He gave Baker - that's the butler - a chit, but one never knows with these references that servants hand you themselves. However, he was willing to come at once, so I decided to give him a trial. Been out of work for a month or two on account of his health. Hope he won't turn out to be a crook." He held out an open box of cigars, but remembering that his guest did not smoke them, looked round for the cigarettes.

Amberley shook his head, and produced a pipe and began to fill it. "What was it you were going to tell me?" he asked.

The story was rather an odd one. The incident had occurred two years before, when Fountain succeeded his uncle. He had known when he took over the house and the existing staff that the servants had each one whole day off a month, in addition to their various half-days. The arrangement had seemed to him a fair one; in any case he did not wish to make any changes in the rules of the house. Dawson alone of them all was favoured with late leave, which meant that he was not bound to be in by ten o'clock at night on these occasions. This was because he was supposed always to visit his sister, who lived at Brixton, a difficult place to reach from Upper Nettlefold. Fountain had never questioned it until, happening to be dining in town on one of Dawson's off days, whom should he have seen three tables away but Dawson himself, in company with another man.

Mr. Amberley raised his brows, but made no comment.

The restaurant was the Magnificent - a tawdry, gilded place, certainly, but not exactly cheap. Probably Amberley knew it?

Amberley nodded and put his pipe between his teeth and felt in his pocket for matches.

Well, he had been surprised, but since it was really no business of his what Dawson did in his off time he had pretended not to notice the man. But on the following morning Dawson had broached the matter of his own accord. He said that he knew his master must have wondered to see him dining at the Magnificent, and he wished to explain how it had come about. The explanation had appeared to Fountain quite satisfactory; so much so that the incident had been banished from his mind only to be recalled when, worrying his brain over the man's murder, he had set himself to think over everything he had ever known of Dawson.

He had been dining with an American, a man whom he had known many years before in New York, when he himself was in service there. Fountain rather thought that he had been a footman in some millionaire'ss house, but he was not sure; it was a long time ago. All he did know was that Jasper Fountain had picked him up in America and had brought him back to England as his butler. In any case the American with whom he had been dining that night had, according to Dawson's tale, made his pile and come to England on a visit. He had found his old friend's address and invited him to meet him in town one evening. The impression Fountain had had when Dawson told him this was that the man had wanted to dazzle the butler by a display of opulence. Anyway he had not thought any more about it until, as he said, he had tried to run over in his mind all that he knew of Dawson. And in doing that naturally the first thing that attracted one's attention was Dawson's mysterious nest-egg. No one had yet succeeded in tracing this to its source. A suggestion made by himself that Dawson had bet a bit on the turf was quashed by the housekeeper, who asserted that the butler had disapproved of all forms of gambling.

Then it was that he had remembered that night at the Magnificent. He had not doubted Dawson's explanation at the time, but in the light of the facts that had been disclosed it had occurred to him to wonder whether the original story had been true. Could it be, in fact, that the American was not an old friend, but someone over whom Dawson possessed a hold?

"Blackmail? I suppose it might easily be so. Had you any idea that Dawson was that type of man?"

"No, none. But how did he come by that money? Rotten to throw mud at a dead man, but the more I think of it the more it seems to fit in. Two years ago, you see; just about the time when Dawson opened his account at Carchester. What do you think?"

"Undoubtedly interesting," said Amberley. "Can you give me the date?"

"I'm awfully sorry, but I can't," Fountain said ruefully. "I know it was when I first came here, so it must have been sometime in the autumn, I suppose. Anyway I thought I'd better mention it."

"Quite right. It will have to be gone into. Inspector Fraser endeavouring to trace an unknown American - or possibly not an American at all - who dined at a public restaurant two years ago on a date you have forgotten, ought to be an engaging spectacle."

Fountain laughed. "Put like that it does sound fairly hopeless. Hullo - who on earth can that be?"

Somewhere in the distance a bell was clanging. Whoever had pulled it evidently meant to be sure of making himself heard. Through the stillness of the house the bell went on ringing for several moments, with that hollow sound of iron striking iron.

"Front door," said Fountain. "All the others are electric bells. I only hope to God it's not that damned inspector. He keeps on coming here with fatuous questions to ask the staff. They don't like it, I can assure you."

Amberley glanced at the clock. "I don't think the inspector would come at this hour unless it were for something particularly vital," he said.

A silence followed the last desultory clang of the bell. Then they heard the front door being opened and a confused murmur of voices, which grew louder.

Fountain raised his brows in a bewildered, slightly amused way. "What in the world . ." he began, and stopped short, listening.

One voice was raised insistently, but they could not distinguish the words. Then came the sound of a scuffle and a desperate cry of "Help!"

Fountain leaped to his feet. "Good God, that's Collins' he exclaimed and hurried to the door.

The cry rang out again. "Help! Help!"

Fountain wrenched the door open and strode out into the hall. The front door was open, and on the doorstep two men were swaying together in a desperate struggle. One was the valet; the other was Mark Brown.

The light in the porch shone on the barrel of a automatic in Mark's hand. Collins was trying to get possession of it; as he went to his assistance Amberley caught a glimpse of his face, livid, the lips drawn back in a kind of snarl, the eyes alive all at once with rage and hatred.

Before either Fountain or Amberley could reach the front door Mark had wrenched free from the valet's desperate grasp. "Damn your soul to hell; you won't, eh?" he shouted. "Then take that!"

There was a deafening report, but Mark lurched as he fired and the bullet went wide. There was a crash and the tinkling of broken glass as it went through a cabinet at the end of the hall and buried itself in the wall behind.

Before he could fire again Amberley was on to him and had caught his pistol arm and wrenched it round. Mark cried out with the sudden pain and the gun dropped to the ground.

Fountain caught his other arm and held it. Amberley released his grip and bent and picked up the gun, slipping it into his own pocket.

At that moment the billiard-room door was burst open and Anthony came out, with Joan at his heels.

"Hullo-ullo-ullo!" he said cheerfully. "Someone starting a rough house?"

"It's all right; there's no harm done," Amberley replied.

Fountain was staring at his captive. "Who the devil are you?" he demanded wrathfully. "What do you think you're doing?"

The shock of his wrenched arm seemed to have sobered Mark a little. He shot a vengeful look up at Fountain. "Let me go!" he muttered. "I'm not going to tell you anything. Let me go!"

Fountain continued to hold him by one arm. "Get on to the police, Collins," he ordered.

The bloodshot eyes gleamed. "You'd better not," Mark said in a threatening voice. "You'll be sorry if you do. Damned sorry, I can tell you. Nobody's going to interfere with me!"

"Squiffy," said Corkran. "Drunk as a lord. Who is he?"

It was Collins who answered. "I rather fancy it is the young gentleman from Ivy Cottage," he said. He had recovered all his habitual composure; there was not a trace of emotion in his face or in his level voice.