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

‘I can assure you, Miss Mack, that the police have been through Mr Rennick’s apartment with a microscope.’

‘Then there can be no objection to my going through it with mine! By the way, Mr Rennick’s glasses – the pair that was found under his body – were packed with his clothes, were they not?’

‘Certainly,’ the Senator responded.

I did not accompany Madelyn into the darkened room where the corpse of the murdered man was reposing. To my surprise, she rejoined me in less than five minutes.

‘What did you find?’ I queried as we ascended the stairs.

‘A five-inch cut just above the sixth rib.’

‘That is what the newspapers said.’

‘You are mistaken. They said a three-inch cut. Have you ever tried to plunge a dagger through five inches of human flesh?’

‘Certainly not.’

Accustomed as I was to Madelyn Mack’s eccentricities, I stood stock still and stared into her face.

‘Oh, I’m not a murderess! I refer to my dissecting room experiences.’

We had reached the upper hall when there was a quick movement at my shoulder, and I saw my companion’s hand dart behind my waist. Before I could quite grasp the situation, she had caught my right arm in a grip of steel. For an instant I thought she was trying to force me back down the stairs. Then the force of her hold wrung a low cry of pain from my lips. She released me with a rueful apology.

‘Forgive me, Nora! For a woman, I pride myself that I have a strong wrist!’

‘Yes, I think you have!’

‘Perhaps now you can appreciate what I mean when I say that even I haven’t strength enough to inflict the wound that killed Raymond Rennick!’

‘Then we must be dealing with an Amazon.’

‘Would Cinderella’s missing slipper fit an Amazon?’ she answered drily.

As she finished her sentence, we paused before a closed door which I rightly surmised led into the room of the murdered secretary. Madelyn’s hand was on the knob when there was a step behind us, and Senator Duffield joined us with a rough bundle in his hands.

‘Mr Rennick’s clothes,’ he explained. Madelyn nodded.

‘Inspector Taylor left them in my care to hold until the inquest.’

Madelyn flung the door open without any comment and led the way inside. Slipping the string from the bundle, she emptied the contents out on to the counterpane of the bed. They comprised the usual warm weather outfit of a well-dressed man, who evidently avoided the extremes of fashion, and she deftly sorted the articles into small neat piles. She glanced up with an expression of impatience.

‘I thought you said they were here, Mr Duffield!’

‘What?’

‘Mr Rennick’s glasses! Where are they?’

Senator Duffield fumbled in his pocket. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Mack. I had overlooked them,’ he apologized, as he produced a thin paper parcel.

Madelyn carried it to the window and carefully unwrapped it.

‘You will find the spectacles rather badly damaged, I fear. One lens is completely ruined.’

Madelyn placed the broken glasses on the sill, and raised the blind to its full height. Then she dropped to her knees and whipped out her microscope. When she arose, her small, black-clad figure was tense with suppressed excitement.

A fat oak chiffonier stood in the corner nearest her. Crossing to its side, she rummaged among the articles that littered its surface, opened and closed the top drawer, and stepped back with an expression of annoyance. A writing table was the next point of her search, with results which I judged to be equally fruitless. She glanced uncertainly from the bed to the three chairs, the only other articles of furniture that the room contained. Then her eyes lighted again as they rested on the broad, carved mantel that spanned the empty fire-place.

It held the usual collection of bric-a-brac of a bachelor’s room. At the end farthest from us, however, there was a narrow red case, of which I caught only an indistinct view, when Madelyn’s hand closed over it.

She whirled toward us. ‘I must ask you to leave me alone now, please!’

The Senator flushed at the peremptory command. I stepped into the hall and he followed me, with a shrug. He was closing the door when Madelyn raised her voice. ‘If Inspector Taylor is below, kindly send him up at once!’

‘And what about the inquest, Miss Mack?’

‘There will be no inquest – today!’

Senator Duffield led the way downstairs without a word. In the hall below, a ruddy-faced man, with grey hair, a thin grey beard and moustache, and a grey suit – suggesting an army officer in civilian clothes – was awaiting us. I could readily imagine that Inspector Taylor was something of a disciplinarian in the Boston police department. Also, relying on Madelyn Mack’s estimate, he was one of the three shrewdest detectives on the American continent.

Senator Duffield hurried toward him with a suggestion of relief. ‘Miss Mack is upstairs, Inspector, and requested me to send you to her the moment you arrived.’

‘Is she in Mr Rennick’s room?’

The Senator nodded. The Inspector hesitated as though about to ask another question and then, as though thinking better of it, bowed and turned to the stairs.

Inspector Taylor was one of those few policemen who had the honour of being numbered among Madelyn Mack’s personal friends, and I fancied that he welcomed the news of her arrival.

Fletcher Duffield was chatting somewhat aimlessly with Senator Burroughs as we sauntered out into the yard again. None of the ladies of the family was visible. The plain-clothes man was still lounging disconsolately in the vicinity of the gate. There was a sense of unrest in the scene, a vague expectancy. Although no one voiced the suggestion, we might all have been waiting to catch the first clap of distant thunder.

As Senator Duffield joined the men, I wandered across to the dining room window. I fancied the room was deserted, but I was mistaken. As I faced about toward the driveway, a