The Horn: An Anthony Bathurst Mystery by Brian Flynn

Author:Brian Flynn [Flynn, Brian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B08K5HPFQ8
Publisher: Dean Street Press
Published: 2020-10-05T00:00:00+00:00

When Julian returned to The Rifleman Inn a matter of two hours later, he found that Anthony Bathurst was not alone.

“You’ve met this gentleman before,” said Mr. Bathurst, rising to greet him, “at my flat, last week. Chief-Inspector Andrew MacMorran. Mr. Julian Skene.”

CHAPTER XVII

MR. BATHURST DIGS UP THE PAST

There was one thing about MacMorran—always. He was absolutely reliable in every way. Give him a job to do that was within the compass of his no mean ability and that job would be done, smoothly, rapidly and efficiently. Before Anthony Bathurst left the precincts of The Rifleman Inn on the following morning, on a flying journey to town, he had committed the care of Julian Skene to the charge of MacMorran until his own return. MacMorran listened attentively to his orders and punctuated the words of Anthony’s harangue with a series of short, sharp nods.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Bathurst,” he said, “leave it to me. I’m reckoning that I know my way about all right. At any rate, it’s high time that I did. Besides, I’ve always wanted to stop for a day or so at a ‘pub.’ There’s a tranquillity about a country ‘pub’ that you find nowhere else. The beer tastes better, too, when you’re livin’ with it. It’s different from a woman. So everything’s O.K. with me.”

When Anthony reached London he went straight to a telephone. To ring an exceedingly old acquaintance—Uppingham and Oxford like himself. He wanted to establish touch with a man named Granville Lister—who was full of strange pieces of information, and also, be it observed, bearded like the pard. It was said of him, that his mind, operating under a singular process of mental photography, was forced to retain all the information to which it was receptive. Nothing that went into it was ever lost.

“That you, Lister?” queried Anthony. “This is Bathurst this end . . . Anthony Bathurst . . . eh . . . what’s that? . . . oh yes, yes, trailing another spot of bother, up North this time. Hence these telephonic tears. I want you to do something for me. What’s that? . . . oh, no. I think you’ll be able to—without much trouble—it’s down your own street. Rather. Now listen—I’m concerned with crests—what can you tell me about a star allied to an imperial eagle—with filled beak? I’m hanged if I’m able to . . . no, no, no, Lister, of course not an Insurance Company! What do you take me for? Right-o, old man, I’ll hang on with the greatest pleasure, if you think you can.” Anthony Bathurst waited while Granville Lister sought the necessary reference. The time of waiting seemed interminable to him. Eventually he heard Lister’s voice coming through again.

“It’s of French origin, Bathurst, I’m almost positive. Although I’ve nothing here at the moment that seems to give me the association that I want. I’ve tried two or three sources. Get along to the club, that’s my advice. In the reference library there you’ll find a copy of De Sanquier’s Noblesse Oblige—Peut-être.

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