Read Online Blue Murder by Harriet Rutland - Free Book Online Page B

puts the dogs outside, then goes to see that the kitchen quarters are safe—no fires burning or lights forgotten. She lets the dogs in again, locks and bolts the front door, takes the dogs to the bedrooms—yes, they all sleep upstairs—then goes to bed herself.”
    Arnold paused for a moment, and was pleased to see that Constable Files was apparently taking down his statement.
    â€œI approach the house at about 11.15,” he went on. “I enter through the open bay window of the drawing-room, knowing in advance that Mr. Hardstaffe is sure to have it opened, whatever the weather. (He’s a fresh-air fiend). I stand for a few minutes behind the heavy plush curtain which blacks out the whole alcove. On the wall at my left hand hangs a meerschaum pipe: on the right, a knobkerri. I’ve often heard Mr. Hardstaffe’s boast that he’d use the latter to split the skull of any parachutist who tried to force his way into the house. I take it, into my hand, and move silently through the curtains, blinking at first at the subdued light which comes from a standard lamp with a rose-coloured shade, which stands near the table at Mr. Hardstaffe’s right. (Mr. Hardstaffe is partial to rose-coloured light: he thinks it makes him look young and handsome).
    â€œI am not afraid that he will hear me, because he has now been alone for over an hour, and the tantalus is half-empty already. Besides, he is an old man, and his hearing is not as good as he likes to pretend.
    â€œI am not afraid that he will see me, because the back of his chair is directly in front of the window through which I have just entered. And again, he is old, and is not likely to move out of his comfortable chair until he is ready to go to bed.
    â€œI move across quietly to the chair. I steady myself. I lift the knobkerri. I am too close to miss him. I bash his head in. I think of the cane beating a schoolboy to insensibility, and of the horsewhip cracking over his poor wife’s head. And I make quite sure that he can’t live!”
    He shuddered.
    â€œThen, sir,” remarked the Superintendent, “he fell to the floor, and you dropped the weapon beside him, after wiping your fingerprints away?”
    A cunning smile spread itself over Arnold’s mild, round face.
    â€œOh, no. You’ll find that you can’t trip me up, Superintendent,” he replied. “Hardstaffe didn’t fall: he was held up by his own vanity! You see, although he was such a short, little man, he liked to pretend that he was really a Carnera. He took a large size in everything. Even collars, hats, and gloves were all a size too big for him—that’s why he always looked so badly-dressed. His chair, too, was too large for him. It’s one of those enormous, padded, enveloping ones with a low, inclined back. No one else is ever allowed to sit in it, and he never sits in any other, in that room. No. He just slumped in it, and his head rolled sideways towards the right arm. As for the knobkerri, I threw it into the shrubbery on my way out of the grounds, and I had no need to wipe it because I was wearing gloves. Now do you believe me?”
    He leaned back in his chair, and passed his hand over his eyes. The excitement which the telling of his story had aroused in him had suddenly passed away, leaving him very tired and dejected.
    Constable Files completed his notes, then looked at Cheam.
    â€œThank you, sir, for coming along,” said the Superintendent. “I expect you’re feeling tired after your journey. We know where to find you if we should happen to need you for anything.”
    â€œBut—but—” stammered Arnold. “Aren’t you going to arrest me?”
    â€œNot this time, sir,” was the smiling reply.
    â€œBut—Mr. Hardstaffe? I—”
    The Superintendent shook a weary head.
    â€œHe’s not dead yet.”
    â€œNot dead?” Arnold stared unbelievingly. “Why,