Read Online Thou Shell of Death by Nicholas Blake - Free Book Online Page B

put his fingers on the soles. They were quite dry. They went outside. The shoes fitted accurately into the footprints. It was true that the snow falling after the prints had been made had obliterated any peculiar features of the tread, except that the indentation of the toes seemed deeper than that of the heels; but to the superintendent the identification seemed decisive.
    ‘That clinches it,’ he said.
    ‘Just a minute, before you make up your mind,’ said Nigel, drawing out of his pocketbook the threatening letters and O’Brien’s covering note. ‘Read those.’
    Bleakley took out, rather surprisingly, a pair of pince-nez, rustled the papers formidably and began to read. When he had finished, officialdom and human interest struggled for a moment in his expression. ‘Why weren’t we informed about this? Well, that’ll keep. This is a mighty queer set-out, sir. Did Mr O’Brien take these threats seriously?’
    ‘I think he did.’
    ‘He did? Well I never. You know, sir, this’d be a thundering big case, Mr O’Brien bein’ who he was, if—But no, it’s impossible; you can’t get round the evidence of them footprints. Still, just to make sure. Doctor Stephens, will you look out particularly carefully for any evidence at the post-mortem that might point to—something else than suicide.’ The doctor smiled sardonically and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Oh, there’s the ambulance. You can take his prints now, George, and then they can take him away. See you later, Doctor. Thanks. Now, George’—he turned to the sergeant again—‘go over the hut for fingerprints—the gun, the shoes and that safe especially: not that it’s going to be much help if all those people have been in here since,’ he added, the martinet coming uppermost.
    ‘I told them to touch nothing,’ said Nigel. ‘I was watching them hard, and I’m pretty sure they didn’t.’
    ‘Well, that’s something. Now you, what’s your name?’ He spun round abruptly to Arthur, who had been standing in the background.
    ‘Arthur Bellamy, late aircraftman, discharged 1930, heavyweight champion of the R.A.F.,’ the big man reeled off. Bleakley’s parade-ground rasp had made him involuntarily stand to attention.
    ‘What is your position here?’
    ‘I was the Colonel’s personal servant, sir.’
    ‘What do you know about all this?’
    ‘Wot do I know about all this? I know the Colonel was expecting trouble. I was going to watch this ’ut all last night, though he
did
tell me ’e’d ’ave my blood if I came anywhere near it, only I got so blasted sleepy I couldn’t keep my eyes open. So sleepy I forgot to bolt the front door. Next thing I knew it was nearly nine o’clock this morning. That’s all I know, except that when I lays my hands on the—who did it, I’ll twist his guts round his—earhole.’
    ‘So you don’t think the Col—Mr O’Brien committed suicide?’
    ‘Suicide my—,’ replied Arthur coarsely. ‘’E’d no more do it than—than ’e’d ’ave killed one of them little birds ’e used to feed with bread crumbs every morning.’ Arthur’s voice shook at the remembrance.
    ‘Very well. Is this Mr O’Brien’s revolver?’
    ‘Yus. No doubt about that.’
    ‘Now who would be likely to come into this hut?’
    ‘The Colonel was very particular not to let anyone in. He always locked it when there was company about. I came in to clean it most days, but no one else but ’im and Mr Strangeways will have been in here.’
    ‘Then any other fingerprints we found would be a bit suspicious. We’ve got Mr O’Brien’s, and I’ll take yours now, Bellamy, and yours, Mr Strangeways, if you’ve no objection. Not that I think there’s anything in it. Still, we might as well do the thing properly.’
    They submitted to the process. Then Bleakley said, ‘You get on with it now, George, and see if you can find a broken cufflink anywhere; the one on O’Brien’s right wrist was snapped in half—did it when he fell, I