Thirteen
1
Alex Restarick was voluble. He also gestured with his hands.
“I know, I know! I’m the ideal suspect. I drive down here alone and on
the way to the house, I get a creative fit. I can’t expect you to understand.
How should you?”
“I might,”
Curry1 put in drily, but Alex Restarick swept on.
“It’s just one of those things! They come upon you there’s no knowing
when or how. An effect—an idea—and everything else goes to the winds.
I’m producing Limehouse Nights next month. Suddenly—last night—the
setup was wonderful …the perfect
lighting2. Fog—and the headlights cut-
ting through the fog and being thrown back—and reflecting dimly a tall
pile of buildings. Everything helped! The shots—the running footsteps—
and the chug-chugging of the electric power engine—could have been a
launch on the Thames. And I thought—that’s it—but what am I going to
use to get just these effects?—and—”
“You heard shots? Where?”
“Out of the fog, Inspector.” Alex waved his hands in the air—plump,
well-kept hands. “Out of the fog. That was the wonderful part about it.”
“It didn’t occur to you that anything was wrong?”
“Wrong? Why should it?”
“Are shots such a usual occurrence?”
“Ah, I knew you wouldn’t understand! The shots fitted into the scene I
was creating. I wanted shots. Danger—opium—crazy business. What did I
care what they were really? Backfires from a lorry on the road? A poacher
after rabbits?”
“They
snare4 rabbits mostly round here.”
Alex swept on:
“A child letting off fireworks? I didn’t even think about them as—shots. I
was in Limehouse—or rather at the back of the stalls—looking at Lime-
house.”
“How many shots?”
“I don’t know,” said Alex
petulantly5. “Two or three. Two close together, I
do remember that.”
Inspector Curry nodded.
“And the sound of running footsteps, I think you said? Where were
they?”
“They came to me out of the fog. Somewhere near the house.”
Inspector Curry said gently:
“That would suggest that the murderer of
Christian6 Gulbrandsen came
from outside.”
“Of course. Why not? You don’t really suggest, do you, that he came
from inside the house?”
Still very gently, Inspector Curry said:
“We have to think of everything.”
“I suppose so,” said Alex Restarick generously. “What a soul-destroying
job yours must be, Inspector! The details, the times and places, the petti-
fogging pettiness of it. And in the end—what good is it all? Does it bring the
wretched Christian Gulbrandsen back to life?”
“There’s quite a satisfaction in getting your man, Mr. Restarick.”
“The Wild Western touch!”
“Did you know Mr. Gulbrandsen well?”
“Not well enough to murder him, Inspector. I had met him, off and on,
since I lived here as a boy. He made brief appearances from time to time.
One of our captains of industry. The type does not interest me. He has
quite a collection, I believe, of Thorwaldsen’s statuary—” Alex
shuddered7.
“That speaks for itself, does it not? My God, these rich men!”
Inspector Curry eyed him
meditatively8. Then he said, “Do you take any
interest in poisons, Mr. Restarick?”
“In poisons? My dear man, he was surely not poisoned first and shot af-
terwards. That would be too madly detective story.”
“He was not poisoned. But you haven’t answered my question.”
“Poison has a certain appeal … It has not the crudeness of the revolver
bullet or the blunt weapon. I have no special knowledge of the subject, if
that is what you mean.”
“Have you ever had
arsenic9 in your possession?”
“In sandwiches—after the show? The idea has its
allurements10. You don’t
know Rose Glidon? These actresses who think they have a name! No, I
have never thought of arsenic. One extracts it from weed
killer11 or flypa-
pers, I believe.”
“How often are you down here, Mr. Restarick?”
“It varies, Inspector. Sometimes not for several weeks. But I try to get
down for weekends whenever I can. I always regard Stonygates as my
true home.”
“Mrs. Serrocold has encouraged you to do so?”
“What I owe Mrs. Serrocold can never be repaid. Sympathy, under-
“And quite a lot of solid cash as well, I believe?”
Alex looked faintly disgusted.
“She treats me as a son, and she has belief in my work.”
“Has she ever spoken to you about her will?”
“Certainly. But may I ask what is the point of all these questions, In-
spector? There is nothing wrong with Mrs. Serrocold.”
“There had better not be,” said Inspector Curry grimly.
“Now what can you possibly mean by that?”
“If you don’t know, so much the better,” said Inspector Curry. “And if
you do—I’m warning you.”
“Pretty bogus, would you say?”
Curry shook his head.
“Difficult to say. He may have genuine creative talent. He may just like
living soft and talking big. One doesn’t know. Heard running footsteps, did
he? I’d be prepared to bet he made that up.”
“For any particular reason?”
“Definitely for a particular reason. We haven’t come to it yet, but we
will.”
“After all, sir, one of those smart lads may have got out of the College
buildings unbeknownst. Probably a few cat burglars amongst them, and if
so—”
“That’s what we’re meant to think. Very convenient. But if that’s so,
Lake, I’ll eat my new soft hat.”
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