The Billiard Room Mystery by Brian Flynn

Author:Brian Flynn [Flynn, Brian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: amazon
Published: 2020-04-17T23:58:11.010000+00:00

CHAPTER XII

Major Hornby and the Venetian Dagger

The Monday afternoon following the murder found Roper busy in the small and unpretentious building in Considine that served as the Police Station. As he worked he muttered to himself. “Take a Kodak with you on your holidays. I don’t think. When I get my holidays I’ll take darned good care to leave my photography apparatus at home.” He looked at the clock. “Just on three o’clock—the Inspector will be here in a jiffy.” He held half a dozen plates to the light—then put them down again on the window-sill. “They’ll be just about ready for him.”

“Good-afternoon, Mr. Roper.”

He turned quickly. “Hallo, Griffiths,” he said as a constable entered. “Got back all right then?”

Constable Griffiths grinned. “You’ve said it. Ran ’em into Lewes Jail about half-past eleven this morning—wasn’t half a mob as the van drew up. News spreads, don’t it, Mr. Roper? Nice job for a Bank Holiday!”

Roper nodded. “Guess they won’t call it a honeymoon, that pair,” he reflected. “Still, things aren’t at all clear....”

“Which one did the job, do you think?” interrogated Griffiths.

“Which job?”

“Why, the murder, of course. What’s the Inspector think?” He went on. “I know he ain’t holding ’em yet for that job—I was here when they were charged, but he’s a dark horse, he is,” he chuckled as at some particularly satisfying reminiscence ... “I’ve known him years.”

“Well, Griffiths, he hasn’t confided in me ... yet,” rejoined Roper, “but if you want my opinion, for what it’s worth, we aren’t by any means at the end of the case ... not by a long way.”

Griffiths showed signs of agreement, sagely. “I gave Dr. Elliott a hand when they brought the body down to the mortuary,” he announced with an obvious sense of importance, “unusual thing you know, Mr. Roper, a bloke strangled and stabbed like this one was—like the pictures,” he concluded with evident relish.

“Yes,” said Roper. “I can tell you it’s given the Inspector plenty to think about.”

“More in it than meets the eye, eh?” Griffiths delivered this profound opinion with a prodigious amount of head shaking and brow knitting.

“Shouldn’t be surprised—but clear out now—here comes the Governor.”

Griffiths adjusted his chin-strap. “Right-O—I’ll come and see you later.”

“Did I hear you talking, Roper?” said Baddeley, as he entered. “Who was it?” As I am entirely indebted to Baddeley himself for the substance of this chapter, I can say with assurance that he mistook the constable’s voice for that of Fitch, Sir Charles Considine’s butler, hence this rather peremptory opening question—but he was a man who took very few chances—and his mind at this particular time was casting, as it were, backwards and forwards, to grasp any point that seemed of the slightest significance.

“Constable Griffiths, sir,” replied Roper. “He’s been to Lewes, as you know, sir, with the two prisoners and just got back. They’re pretty quiet, he says,” volunteered Roper in addition. “Dazed-like.”

“Humph!” grunted Baddeley. “Those photographs ready yet?”

“Just about, sir, I think.” Roper went to the window and brought them back.

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