Read Online Murder in Montparnasse by Kerry Greenwood - Free Book Online
Authors: Kerry Greenwood
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pub, and not a clue.’
‘How about enemies?’ asked Phryne. ‘Other racehorse owners?’
‘I thought of that,’ groaned Mr Chambers. ‘Most of ’em are straight—straight as a die. Nothing iffy about most of ’em. And I ain’t done nothing to the ones who ain’t straight. Can’t see any of ’em pulling a stunt like this anyway. I mean, we compete all right, but we buy each other a drink in the Members’ after the races. We’re all in the same business.’
‘No owner with whom you might have had a quarrel? Someone to whom you sold a horse with re-done teeth, or a vicious brute warranteed free from vice? Such things happen,’ she said soothingly, as Mr Chambers’ fingers twitched towards his gun again. ‘Horses occasionally develop bad habits after they have been sold.’
‘I’ve known that to happen, yeah,’ admitted Mr Chambers. ‘No, I haven’t sold anything in the last six months. Not so much as a donkey. And I ain’t done no one in the game no bad turns that I can remember.’
‘Think about it,’ urged Phryne. ‘I don’t imagine Elizabeth has had time to make any really strong-minded enemies. You hold the key. Now, when did Elizabeth disappear?’
Mr Chambers had given up his resistance. ‘She was only back four days. Then she went out to a dance with a friend of mine—a girl. At a private house. She didn’t go out to dances much but I reckon she wanted to show off her Paris clothes. She and Miss Chivers went off in the car about eight. Dance went on and on and the driver got bored and slipped out for a drink. I’ve already skinned him for that, the lazy idle hound. When he came back the car was gone and this was pinned to a lamppost.’
He rummaged in a drawer and produced a letter. Pinholes in each corner, Phryne noticed. It was written in a bold backhand in very black ink: ‘If you want Liz back in one piece collect five hundred in 14 days and watch the personal columns in the Argus under Jaunty Lad. No cops, no snoopers, or no daughter.’
‘No signature either,’ murmured Phryne. ‘Good bank paper, expensive. The backhand probably disguises the person’s real handwriting. Have you checked all the handwriting? Especially of—as it were—employees who feel that you haven’t treated them as well as they deserve?’
‘I treat my men as they deserve,’ grunted Mr Chambers.
‘Yes, I expect that you do. Which of them might have resented your judgment of their deserts?’
‘What?’ Mr Chambers blinked.
‘Let me put it more clearly. Who have you flung out of your stable or household lately, neck and crop, without wages, and told them that you’d set the dogs on them if they ever returned?’
Mr Chambers blinked. His hand was reaching yet again for the gun. Phryne had wearied of this autonomic reaction. She reached over and grabbed the revolver, rotated the chambers to unload it, clicked the mechanism together and offered it, butt first, to the startled man.
‘How many times do you have to be told? I’m not a kidnapper and I’m not reading your mind. You, my dear sir, are a Type, and one can usually predict Types. Now, who did you sack?’
Mr Chambers huffed, turned pink, then replied, ‘Three or four. One stable boy, a rider, and my butler.’
‘And did you throw them out in the manner described?’
‘Yes, well, yes, I did my block. The boy left a horse without water—a valuable horse—should have known that he always kicks over his bucket. The rider disobeyed me and gave me backchat about it, and the butler, well, I sacked the butler.’
‘Did you? Because?’
‘He told me that he would have to give his notice if I got married again. He don’t like married households or children, and I told him to boil his head and he tried to quit before I could sack him. But I sacked him first. Without a character. The cheek of these servants!’
‘Indeed,’ agreed Phryne, warming to Mr Chambers for the first time. ‘I do understand. Do you have his
‘How about enemies?’ asked Phryne. ‘Other racehorse owners?’
‘I thought of that,’ groaned Mr Chambers. ‘Most of ’em are straight—straight as a die. Nothing iffy about most of ’em. And I ain’t done nothing to the ones who ain’t straight. Can’t see any of ’em pulling a stunt like this anyway. I mean, we compete all right, but we buy each other a drink in the Members’ after the races. We’re all in the same business.’
‘No owner with whom you might have had a quarrel? Someone to whom you sold a horse with re-done teeth, or a vicious brute warranteed free from vice? Such things happen,’ she said soothingly, as Mr Chambers’ fingers twitched towards his gun again. ‘Horses occasionally develop bad habits after they have been sold.’
‘I’ve known that to happen, yeah,’ admitted Mr Chambers. ‘No, I haven’t sold anything in the last six months. Not so much as a donkey. And I ain’t done no one in the game no bad turns that I can remember.’
‘Think about it,’ urged Phryne. ‘I don’t imagine Elizabeth has had time to make any really strong-minded enemies. You hold the key. Now, when did Elizabeth disappear?’
Mr Chambers had given up his resistance. ‘She was only back four days. Then she went out to a dance with a friend of mine—a girl. At a private house. She didn’t go out to dances much but I reckon she wanted to show off her Paris clothes. She and Miss Chivers went off in the car about eight. Dance went on and on and the driver got bored and slipped out for a drink. I’ve already skinned him for that, the lazy idle hound. When he came back the car was gone and this was pinned to a lamppost.’
He rummaged in a drawer and produced a letter. Pinholes in each corner, Phryne noticed. It was written in a bold backhand in very black ink: ‘If you want Liz back in one piece collect five hundred in 14 days and watch the personal columns in the Argus under Jaunty Lad. No cops, no snoopers, or no daughter.’
‘No signature either,’ murmured Phryne. ‘Good bank paper, expensive. The backhand probably disguises the person’s real handwriting. Have you checked all the handwriting? Especially of—as it were—employees who feel that you haven’t treated them as well as they deserve?’
‘I treat my men as they deserve,’ grunted Mr Chambers.
‘Yes, I expect that you do. Which of them might have resented your judgment of their deserts?’
‘What?’ Mr Chambers blinked.
‘Let me put it more clearly. Who have you flung out of your stable or household lately, neck and crop, without wages, and told them that you’d set the dogs on them if they ever returned?’
Mr Chambers blinked. His hand was reaching yet again for the gun. Phryne had wearied of this autonomic reaction. She reached over and grabbed the revolver, rotated the chambers to unload it, clicked the mechanism together and offered it, butt first, to the startled man.
‘How many times do you have to be told? I’m not a kidnapper and I’m not reading your mind. You, my dear sir, are a Type, and one can usually predict Types. Now, who did you sack?’
Mr Chambers huffed, turned pink, then replied, ‘Three or four. One stable boy, a rider, and my butler.’
‘And did you throw them out in the manner described?’
‘Yes, well, yes, I did my block. The boy left a horse without water—a valuable horse—should have known that he always kicks over his bucket. The rider disobeyed me and gave me backchat about it, and the butler, well, I sacked the butler.’
‘Did you? Because?’
‘He told me that he would have to give his notice if I got married again. He don’t like married households or children, and I told him to boil his head and he tried to quit before I could sack him. But I sacked him first. Without a character. The cheek of these servants!’
‘Indeed,’ agreed Phryne, warming to Mr Chambers for the first time. ‘I do understand. Do you have his
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