Death in 5 Boxes

Author:John Dickson Carr [Carr, John Dickson]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: John Dickson Carr
Published: 2010-03-14T18:30:00+00:00

'Not too bad," said H.M. Sanders stared at the windows, whose curtains were being ruffled by a warm breeze. So, in a sense, was he. The flypaper had been of some service after all, even if he had not. used it in burgling the house. He remembered Ferguson writhing on the stone-flagged floor at the foot of the chair, his face caught in that sticky surface like a larger fly, and the pistol knocked across the room when Ferguson became blind.

No, it had not been any part of a dream. The chair was there, its seat disarranged when Ferguson fell. Marcia was sitting huddled in it, while H.M. went out in search of a telephone.

"Sir Henry," the chief inspector went on, "insists on calling the fellow a megalomaniac, whatever that may be. I've got a shorter word. There were eight bullets in that Kreuger air-pistol of his, and he'd only fired four of 'em when you snaffled him. Sir Henry also wishes to say—"

"I can do my own talkin', can't I?" demanded H.M.

"Well, sir, I only—"

"I can do my own talkin'," said H.M. "What I want to say, son, is this. Last night, in the excitement of the aftermath, I seem to remember havin' at some point introduced the subject of, with regard to you and the wench, a kick in the pants. Now in all fairness I got to admit that maybe I spoke a bit hastily. But, oh, my eye! Of all the revoltin' slush I ever did hear, the expressions of affection and esteem poured out by Dennis Blystone's daughter towards you were unquestionably the slushiest and most revoltin'. I further wish to say—"

It was H.M.'s "parliamentary" style. Sanders made noises.

"I—er—don't remember it," he said. "Did Miss Blystone get home all right?"

"Uh-hur. So far as I know."

"And Ferguson? Have you got your witness?"

H.M.'s expression grew somber.

"No, son," he said. "Ferguson's' dead."

He took out a cigar. "If the silly dummy had let us attend to him, he'd have pulled through. But it was too late. And he talked about people wantin' to be the big I-Am! He committed suicide just as sure as someone else intended to commit murder when another whack of atropine was shoved into his glass. Your landlady's bringin' up your breakfast, son. Yes, you can get up if you insist, provided you stay in your room and keep quiet for today. In the meantime, we all ought to do a little serious sittin' and thinkin'."

During breakfast, while H.M. smoked furiously and Masters paced about the room, the chief inspector informed them of developments at Scotland Yard on the previous night

"But that's as may be," he concluded. "What I want to know is what in blazes went on at Mrs. Sinclair's bouse last night." He turned to H.M. "Apparently, sir, you arranged a burglary without saying anything to me about it Very well: we'll say no more about that—"

"Thanke'e," growled H.M.

"—but what were you up to? What did you see or find when you got there? Ferguson was our chief witness.

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