American Sherlocks by Nick Rennison (reading like a writer .TXT) 📕

‘This is very strange,’ said Conners, still regarding him closely, and nowise abashed. ‘I have myself travelled in Persia, and while in the study I saw a book there on Eastern travel, with the contents of which I am familiar. Hence, my inquiry was a natural one.’

The lids above the shifty eyes again fluttered.

‘I beg your pardon,’ half stammered the young man. ‘I did not understand.’

‘I am the more surprised,’ continued Conners, coolly, ‘because of the fact that the book in question was the volume for which you sent Mrs Sands.’

The young man uttered a shriek of dismay. He trembled violently and then lifted a menacing finger.

‘All this is idle and foolish!’ he cried. ‘But now I know that you are here to annoy and insult me. You show little consideration,’ he continued, turning on me fiercely, ‘in bringing this person here in the time of my affliction to pick at me with insane guesses about an incident which we should both treat with delicacy. You will not be welcomed again!’

‘Very singular, truly, this sudden rage against us on the part of Dr Sadler,’ said Conners, speaking to me, but evidently seeking to disturb the young man further. ‘Let us go.’

‘This way,’ cried Sadler, violently, as Conners turned towards the exit to the side street. ‘I do not accompany my guests through the rear entrance. This way!’

He walked behind us to the front hall, and laid his hand on the door as we passed to the front stoop.

‘One moment, Doctor!’ cried Conners, lifting his hand as though he had forgotten something, and speaking suddenly. ‘You are a married man, are you not?’

The denial came through set teeth and with a muttered oath.

‘Alas!’ said Conners, pausing upon the top step. ‘I have guessed the sad truth: you are a widower.’

The door slammed upon another shriek, to me an expression of uncontrollable rage, and my companion chuckled softly as we descended to the sidewalk.

‘Come,’ he said, taking me by the arm and turning about the house from Banning Street.

‘Let us linger for a moment where you may inspect this gate-post, set reverently up to complete the work which the untimely happenings relating to Dr Haslam unfortunately delayed. You will observe that it is a made stone, of cement, and of a colour not in serious contrast with its older fellow. This is not wholly an excuse to let you understand that I am watching the house, but if you will lift your eyes to the rear upper window you will see that our late host is still interested in our movements.’

I followed his suggestion, and instantly an abrupt movement at the upper window brought the curtain violently down. My companion laughed softly, and, turning away, bent his steps in the direction of the car-line.

‘What does this mean?’ I asked, as we waited at a street corner. ‘I knew already that Sadler was a knave, and I am surprised to find that he was deceitful to the police. Of course he would be insolent to us; we were fortunate to get into the house at all. But what have we discovered?’

Conners’s response to my question was entirely irrelevant.

‘The Indians have a humane method of disposing of their dead,’ he observed – ‘humane in that it does not shock the sensibilities of the living. They do not chill them in a tomb, nor hide them in the earth as food for worms. They wrap them in skins and furs and elevate them upon a platform above the grass to wither and dry in the sunshine.’

‘What are you talking about?’ I asked, in astonishment.

‘Nothing of the slightest importance,’ he answered with a laugh. ‘But I think I am tired, no matter what disposition I may have to be philosophical; and I suspect that you are also. Here comes a car.’

He lapsed into one of his customary fits of silence, and I did not speak to him again until we had reached his quarters. Once more in his studio, his demeanour changed. He threw aside his street coat and, donning the loose and comfortable garment which he always wore in his rooms, he surveyed his pictures with his wonted fondness.

‘Some day,’ he said, ‘I shall read you a homily on feminine beauty, but at present I must ask you to admire the countenance of my brave Dupin. Had he been with us we should scarcely have needed a visit to the house on Banning Street. We have three propositions, however, which are certain:

‘1. The murderer of Mrs Sands did not leave the house after the committal of the deed;

‘2. Yet the search of the police revealed apparently every person therein;

‘3. And Dr Sadler was undoubtedly below-stairs at the time Mrs Sands was killed above.

‘A confusing array of absolute circumstances, without others to explain them. You are already in comfortable property, I believe, my friend, but Dr Haslam was reputed rich. Your wife’s mother will inherit something.’

I stared at him blankly.

‘There is a will,’ I replied, finally. ‘Of course Sadler is the heir.’

‘Never, as a matter of fact; but we must not get into questions of law. Even his relatives would scarcely contest with Mrs Barrister under the circumstances – granting the will to run in his favour.’

‘Even his rela – Why, my dear Conners, the man is living, and years younger than Mrs Barrister!’

‘Living – perhaps. But let us consider our case. Dr Sadler spoke falsely when he stated that he saw your wife’s uncle immediately following the murder. If that were true, the police would have seen him also, for it is clear that they made an immediate and thorough search. He spoke falsely when he stated that Dr Haslam escaped from the house by means of the trap-door in the roof. Our surprise was that he should flee at all. I left the attic quickly when I discovered at a glance that the trap in question was fastened with a rusty padlock, both lock and hasp covered by the cobwebs