Read Online Fen Country by Edmund Crispin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Edmund Crispin
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doesn’t know where he’ll be. So maybe, with any luck, she’ll decide he’s neglecting her badly, and react accordingly. Even if she does subsequently meet him again, his explanations, when you come to think of it, are going to sound very, very fishy indeed…
“But of course, it isn’t Marion’s welfare that clever old Mr. Darling has chiefly in mind: what interests him about the set-up is the possibility of tripping me —because so long as I have any private long-distance calls to make, the Anderson house is the likeliest place for me to go.
“And I fall for it. So help me, the one thing no one ever questions is the number set into the dial of a phone. Naturally I gave it to the exchange when they had to call me back so that when the connection was made, the house they actually called was my uncle’s. He imitated my voice—he’d been expecting something—”
“No password?” Fen interposed rather brusquely.
“What? Password? Hell, no, The Washington number I called was password enough in itself: any unauthorized person capable of worming that number out of me would be quite capable of worming out a couple dozen passwords as well…
“Where was I? Yeah, well, the rest’s obvious, I guess. My uncle imitates me in talking to the boss in Washington; then he rings the real number of the Anderson house and imitates the boss in talking to me. Circle complete.”
“H’m,” said Fen. “Your uncle was taking a good fat risk, though.”
“Old buzzard!” And Bradbury scowled ferociously. “But no, there couldn’t be any serious risk. Not for him. He was dying, you see, and knew it. The only thing was, he’d run through all his money…
“And clever old Mr. Darling wasn’t going to any pauper’s grave so long as he had a nephew, and a man’s life, and a country to sell.”
A Case in Camera
Detective Inspector Humbleby, of New Scotland Yard, had been induced by his wife to spend the first week of his summer’s leave with his wife’s sister, and his wife’s sister’s husband, in Munsingham, and was correspondingly aggrieved.
Munsingham, large and sooty, seemed to him not at all the place for recreation and jollity; moreover, his wife’s sister’s husband, by name Pollitt, was, like himself, a policeman, being superintendent of the Munsingham City CID, so that inevitably shop would be talked.
On the second day of the visit, however, Humbleby’s grievances were erased from his mind by the revelation of a serious crisis in his brother-in-law’s affairs.
“I’m going to be retired,” said Pollitt abruptly that evening, over tankards in the pub. “I haven’t got round to telling Marion about it yet.”
Humbleby was staring at him in amazement. “Retired? But you’re not nearly at retirement age yet. Why on earth—”
“Because I’ve got across the chief constable,” said Pollitt. “He wanted a case to be considered closed—with perfectly good reason, I must say—and I wanted it kept open. I did keep it open, too, for a week or so—against his orders. Several of my men were tied up with it when they ought to have been doing other things.
“I didn’t have the least excuse. I was going on instinct, and the fact that a couple of witnesses were just a bit too consistent in their stories to be true… If I did possess definite evidence that the facts in this case aren’t what they seem, I could put it up to the Watch Committee, and I’m pretty sure they’d uphold me. In fact, it wouldn’t come to that; the CC’d withdraw. But definite evidence is just what’s lacking—so…” And Pollitt shrugged resignedly.
“M’m,” said Humbleby. “Just what is this case?”
“Well, if you don’t mind coming along to my office tomorrow morning, and having a look at the dossier…”
And the basic facts of the case, Humbleby found, were in themselves simple enough.
A month previously, on 27 June, between 10:30 and 11:00 in the morning (the evidence as to these times being
“But of course, it isn’t Marion’s welfare that clever old Mr. Darling has chiefly in mind: what interests him about the set-up is the possibility of tripping me —because so long as I have any private long-distance calls to make, the Anderson house is the likeliest place for me to go.
“And I fall for it. So help me, the one thing no one ever questions is the number set into the dial of a phone. Naturally I gave it to the exchange when they had to call me back so that when the connection was made, the house they actually called was my uncle’s. He imitated my voice—he’d been expecting something—”
“No password?” Fen interposed rather brusquely.
“What? Password? Hell, no, The Washington number I called was password enough in itself: any unauthorized person capable of worming that number out of me would be quite capable of worming out a couple dozen passwords as well…
“Where was I? Yeah, well, the rest’s obvious, I guess. My uncle imitates me in talking to the boss in Washington; then he rings the real number of the Anderson house and imitates the boss in talking to me. Circle complete.”
“H’m,” said Fen. “Your uncle was taking a good fat risk, though.”
“Old buzzard!” And Bradbury scowled ferociously. “But no, there couldn’t be any serious risk. Not for him. He was dying, you see, and knew it. The only thing was, he’d run through all his money…
“And clever old Mr. Darling wasn’t going to any pauper’s grave so long as he had a nephew, and a man’s life, and a country to sell.”
A Case in Camera
Detective Inspector Humbleby, of New Scotland Yard, had been induced by his wife to spend the first week of his summer’s leave with his wife’s sister, and his wife’s sister’s husband, in Munsingham, and was correspondingly aggrieved.
Munsingham, large and sooty, seemed to him not at all the place for recreation and jollity; moreover, his wife’s sister’s husband, by name Pollitt, was, like himself, a policeman, being superintendent of the Munsingham City CID, so that inevitably shop would be talked.
On the second day of the visit, however, Humbleby’s grievances were erased from his mind by the revelation of a serious crisis in his brother-in-law’s affairs.
“I’m going to be retired,” said Pollitt abruptly that evening, over tankards in the pub. “I haven’t got round to telling Marion about it yet.”
Humbleby was staring at him in amazement. “Retired? But you’re not nearly at retirement age yet. Why on earth—”
“Because I’ve got across the chief constable,” said Pollitt. “He wanted a case to be considered closed—with perfectly good reason, I must say—and I wanted it kept open. I did keep it open, too, for a week or so—against his orders. Several of my men were tied up with it when they ought to have been doing other things.
“I didn’t have the least excuse. I was going on instinct, and the fact that a couple of witnesses were just a bit too consistent in their stories to be true… If I did possess definite evidence that the facts in this case aren’t what they seem, I could put it up to the Watch Committee, and I’m pretty sure they’d uphold me. In fact, it wouldn’t come to that; the CC’d withdraw. But definite evidence is just what’s lacking—so…” And Pollitt shrugged resignedly.
“M’m,” said Humbleby. “Just what is this case?”
“Well, if you don’t mind coming along to my office tomorrow morning, and having a look at the dossier…”
And the basic facts of the case, Humbleby found, were in themselves simple enough.
A month previously, on 27 June, between 10:30 and 11:00 in the morning (the evidence as to these times being
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