The Tiger's Head by Halter Paul

Author:Halter, Paul [Halter, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Locked Room International
Published: 2013-06-09T16:00:00+00:00

15

August 11th

The following afternoon, installed in his Scotland Yard office, Inspector Hurst was catching up on reports which had arrived in his absence. Dr. Twist, seated opposite him, was reading and re-reading the first few pages of a school notebook. They had ended the previous day exhausted, having followed their interrogation of the vicar and his wife with similar sessions with Mrs. Carol Fortesque, Jim McGregor and his fiancée, Miss Esther Dove and, for a second time, Mr. Clive Farjeon in the hospital. But at least they’d had a full night’s sleep.

A fan perched on a stack of files stirred the air, but apparently without much effect, for the inspector’s ruddy face was perspiring as if he were under the midday sun.

‘Did you see the medical examiner’s report?’ he asked without looking up. ‘Or, rather, I should say reports because I also asked him to take a look at our wounded hero. He’s completely in agreement with Dr. Brett’s findings: he, too, believes Farjeon couldn’t have inflicted his wounds himself. As for a knife-fight between him and the major, we can rule that out as well because there wasn’t a single scratch on either of them—except for the mortal blow, of course. As far as the rest, nothing we didn’t know already. We’re back where we were: at a dead end. The searches didn’t turn up anything at the Duncans’ or anywhere else. I knew I shouldn’t have left the job to Stoker. My men would have found something, I’ll wager.’

‘Didn’t turn up anything?’ echoed Dr. Twist, brandishing the notebook. What about this? It’s true the young copper had a bit of luck finding it under a pile of sheets in the Duncans’ bedroom, opened at precisely the page of most interest to us—.’

‘So? What have we learned from it? That Mrs. D. fancies herself as a detective? That’s her right, isn’t it?’

‘I tend to agree with you. It’s the writing of a middle-aged woman, very probably Mrs. Duncan. In any case, we can check that easily enough. The fact that she’s playing at detectives doesn’t bother me, but there’s something very curious about it all. For a start, the list isn’t complete:

‘“1. Theft of the lamppost. Date: July 2. Time: 8.30 to 9.30 p.m. (almost certainly) People ruled out because here with me: Mrs. Chesney, Mrs. Howard, Mrs. East, Mrs. Grey, Miss Griffith. No particular suspect. 2. Theft of candle….” The same kind of information…Then the theft of the hats. There’s something about all this which—.’

He didn’t get any further. For several seconds the only sound to be heard was the pulsating murmur of the fan. Hurst opened his mouth and shut it again. His friend’s raised hand bade him be silent.

When the criminologist lowered his hand, there was an expression of surprise and satisfaction on his face.

‘Archibald,’ he said eventually, in a voice trembling with emotion, his eyes glued to the notebook, ‘I think I’ve just understood. These notes speak for themselves. You would have to be blind—.’

‘What

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