This Side Murder? by John Bonett

Author:John Bonett [Bonett, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Endeavour Press
Published: 2017-02-02T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TEN

The Inspector went into the manager’s office to make his telephone call. ‘No, please finish what you’re doing,’ he said as Calvache looked up. When he replaced the receiver on its rest, the manager was making a pencil note on the margin of a letter. Picking up a folder from a pile on the desk, the Inspector glanced at the admirably reproduced colour pictures of the hotel. Soon Calvache completed his note and, putting the letter under a paperweight, raised a politely questioning face.

‘I was wondering whether you knew Mr Egremont,’ the Inspector enquired.

‘Don Ralph? Yes, I know him well. I think I can say we are friends. He has helped me a great deal.’

‘In what way?’

‘I ventured to ask his advice about the hotel gardens. He took a great deal of trouble to select plants so that there would be flowers here throughout the season. He analysed the soil, suggested how it should be improved and gave me many plants from his own garden. He is a kind man and infinitely patient. But why do you ask?’

‘I have been talking to him.’

‘About Mr Tarsier’s death?’

‘About the night of his death.’

Calvache gave a faint shrug. ‘I do not think he would be able to tell you much. You will have heard that Mr Tarsier went to see him and,’ amusement twitched his mouth, ‘it is said that Miss Egremont destroyed a camera — she has temperament. But it is not possible that either of them had anything to do with his death — at least that is my opinion.’

‘You are going to tell me that an hôtelier learns to judge people’s characters?’ the Inspector suggested.

‘I was,’ Calvache smiled.

‘So does a policeman. But do people never act out of the characters they have shown us? It is often circumstances that create murder, and the deed is done before a man’s other self can intervene.’

‘You are right.’ The smooth olive face showed wry humour. ‘There are times when I have felt like shooting a troublesome guest. So far I have been able to resist the impulse — I have not got a gun. But,’ his hand moved in an erasing gesture, ‘I still say that you must look elsewhere for your murderer — if you are sure that Mr Tarsier was murdered.’

*

Bruce had seen the Inspector go through into the manager’s office. He waited, leaning against a pillar, smoking with nervous rapidity. Now, seeing him emerge, he came across the hall. ‘Can you spare me a moment?’ he asked.

‘I was hoping to see you, Mr Tarsier. But first tell me what you want.’

‘I’d like to know how soon I can leave. Now that the funeral’s over, there’s no point in my staying on here. There’s nothing I can do.’ He met the uninforming gaze and went on in a tone heightened by resentment. ‘The reception clerk has my passport and refuses to give it back to me.’

‘At my request,’ the Inspector said gently. ‘It was perhaps remiss of me not to tell you that you must remain here until I am satisfied how your brother died.

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