The Mad Hatter Mystery by John Dickson Carr

Author:John Dickson Carr
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Epub3
Publisher: Penzler Publishers

XI

The Little Plaster Dolls

NEVER BEFORE that time, Rampole afterwards thought, had he ever seen a man’s naked face. Never had he seen it as for a brief instant he saw Lester Bitton’s face in the mirror. At all times in life there are masks and guards, and in the brain a tiny bell gives warning. But here was a man caught blind in his anguish, as nerveless as the hand which held poised that little painted figurine.

And, oddly enough, Rampole’s first thought was how he might have looked at this man had he seen him in his everyday existence: going in a bus to the City, say, or reading his newspaper at a club. Where you saw your staunch and practical British business man, you saw Lester Bitton. Well tailored, inclined to corpulence. Clean-shaven face, beginning to draw and go dry at the eyes and mouth, hard but pleasant; thick black hair frizzed with gray, and fresh from the clean hair-tonicy smell of the barber’s.

He looked a little like his brother, though his face was inclined to be reddish and have heavy folds. But you could not tell now—

The lost, damned eyes stared back at them from the mirror. His wrist wobbled, and the figure almost slid through his fingers. He took it with his other hand and put it back up on the mantelpiece. They could hear him breathing as he turned about. Instinctively his hand went to his tie, to straighten it; instinctively he felt down the sides of his dark overcoat.

“Who the hell,” said Lester Bitton, “are you?”

His deep voice was hoarse, and it cracked. That almost finished him, but he fought his nerves. “What Goddamned right have you got to walk in—”

Rampole couldn’t stand this. It wasn’t right to look at him, in the way that man felt; it wasn’t decent. The American felt mean and petty. He moved his eyes away, and wished he hadn’t come inside the door.

“Steady,” said Hadley, quietly. “I’m afraid it’s you who have to make an explanation. This flat has been taken over by the police, you know. And I’m afraid we can’t respect private feelings in a murder case. You are Lester Bitton, aren’t you?”

The man’s heavy breathing quieted somewhat, and the wrath died out of his eyes. But he looked heavy and hollow, and unutterably tired.

“I am,” he said in a lower voice. “Who are you?”

“My name is Hadley.”

“Ah,” said the other, “I see.” He was groping backwards, and he found the edge of a heavy leather chair. Slowly he lowered himself until he was sitting on the arm. Then he made a gesture. “Well, here I am,” he added, as though that explained everything.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Bitton?”

“I suppose you don’t know?” Bitton asked, bitterly. He glanced back over his shoulder, at the smashed figure on the hearthstone, and looked up again at Hadley.

The chief inspector played his advantage. He studied Bitton without threat and almost without interest. Slowly he opened his briefcase, drew out

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