The Golden Dagger: A Bobby Owen Mystery by E.R. Punshon

Author:E.R. Punshon [Punshon, E.R.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Dean Street Press
Published: 2017-01-01T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XX

CERTAIN EXPLANATIONS

LONGTON LED THE WAY back into the room he had just left. On the floor lay an overturned chair which had apparently in falling knocked over the large Chinese vase, now in fragments on the floor. The cause and origin, Bobby supposed, of that thunderous crash which a few moments before had startled both him and the hotel manager. Longton kicked the pieces together, shaking his head disapprovingly as he did so.

“All that,” he said, “merely because I told him he would have to cut three or four pages of what he called the best dialogue he had ever written and turn his old Oxford don into a retired pig-dealer—and I know a man who is top hole as a retired pig-dealer. Impossible,” lamented Longton, still busy collecting the more scattered bits of the disintegrated vase, “impossible to make these author chaps understand that the theatre has to be anchored to the facts. Facts, that’s the essential. Seem to live in a world of their own, authors, I mean.” He completed his task and again shook a grieved head over the heap of fragments that once had been a vase. “Bury’s will have to pay up,” he announced firmly. “No reason why I should, and I don’t suppose the other bloke can. Not a bean probably; authors never have.”

“Bury’s?” repeated Bobby. “That’s a big theatrical firm, isn’t it? Seven productions—three American, three revivals, and one translation?”

“Interested in the theatre?” Longton asked, very pleased as he began to hope Bobby might be a kindred spirit.

“Oh, very,” Bobby replied, and indeed he went sometimes when he felt he could afford it, which was seldom. “But, of course, only from the outside, which is really why I’m here. What counts in our work is getting the background right. If the perspective is wrong, then the whole picture we try to build up gets out of focus. As you are both connected with Bury’s, I take it you know Mr Oxendale?”

“Well, in a way I do,” Longton answered. “I know he reads for Bury’s. He has a desk there, but I don’t suppose I’ve spoken to him half a dozen times. You’re not thinking he has anything to do with this Baldwin Jones business, are you?”

“He was on the spot,” Bobby replied, and added: “Like you.”

“Me?” exclaimed Longton, and looked both startled and uneasy. “Good Lord,” he exclaimed. “What the devil—in heaven’s name—what the hell does that mean?”

“What it says,” Bobby retorted, filled inwardly with admiration for so nice an assortment of phrases. “Everyone who had knowledge of and possible access to the weapon used—the Golden Dagger, as they call it—or who had anything to do with the dead man, has naturally to be interviewed. Which,” Bobby added wearily, “does not mean they are going to be arrested next minute. It simply means that every possible scrap of information is required. For instance, is there any special reason why both you and Mr Oxendale should be here in this neighbourhood at this particular moment?”

“Well, what about it?” demanded Longton.

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