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Murder Gone Mad. Philip MacDonald
Читать онлайн.Название Murder Gone Mad
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780008216368
Автор произведения Philip MacDonald
Жанр Зарубежные детективы
Издательство HarperCollins
Farrow grunted assent. ‘Ah, that’s right! That’s right, sir! And I’d like to add, what steps ’re we going to take to ensure that we watch this blasted lunatic.’ He turned to his colleague. ‘There’s only one way, Davis, to make sure of stopping these murders and that’s to catch the man that’s doing ’em.’
‘What,’ put in Pike mildly, ‘are the arrangements so far?’
The faces of Davis and Farrow, which had been turned each towards the other, turned now, outwards, towards the interloper. The interloper remained unmoved. He was not smiling any longer, but his lantern face was placid like a child’s. The Chief Constable—a man, perhaps, of more sensibility than sense—felt strain in the air. He hurried in with his stubby oar. He said quickly:
‘What are we doing? I’ll tell you, Superintendent.’ He fumbled among the papers stacked to one side of the blotting-pad before him and produced at last some pinned together foolscap sheets. ‘Here’s a copy of the present arrangements. I’ll just go through them in brief for you and then let you have the papers.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Pike’s tone was diplomatically grateful.
The Chief Constable cleared his throat. ‘First,’ he said, ‘as from four o’clock this afternoon, every main thoroughfare and every secondary thoroughfare in this place will be patrolled by regular police drafted in from other areas of the county. The patrols will be in pairs and will be on throughout the night, coming off duty an hour after dawn. These patrols will be supplemented in regard to the secondary thoroughfares by volunteer patrols, composed of special constables, under the control of Colonel Grayling, who acts under my directions, and other volunteers under the control of the Holmdale Company, who also hold themselves at my directions. Further volunteers will be posted to cover the various cul-de-sacs, squares, keeps and other non-thoroughfare ways. Further, as from five o’clock this afternoon, specially authorised guards (they will all be enrolled tomorrow as special constables to give them further powers) will be posted at all the entrances and exits of Holmdale. These men are being supplied, Superintendent, by the courtesy of Lord Bayford. An elaborate code of signals, in the case of any discoveries being made or any assistance being required, has been evolved. You will find full details of the whole scheme in the papers. Further, a reward of five hundred pounds has been offered by the Holmdale Company for information leading to the arrest of the murderer … What’s that, Superintendent?’
Pike shook his head. ‘Nothing, sir, nothing. I was only thinking what trouble you’re going to have. I’m not sure that I believe in these advertised rewards.’
‘We couldn’t,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘stop the Holmdale Company from offering the reward or the Holmdale Clarion from publishing the offer. And also, Superintendent, I’m not sure that the course isn’t justified.
Pike shrugged. ‘Very likely you’re right, sir!’
‘It seems to me,’ said the Chief Constable, folding up the foolscap sheets and handing them across the table to Pike, ‘that this lunatic who calls himself The Butcher will be hard put to it to try another of his games without getting caught. Eh? What? Don’t you agree?’
Once more Pike’s wide mouth twisted into a little smile; a smile doubting, but by no means offensive. ‘Couldn’t say, sir,’ said Pike. ‘I’m afraid I must stick to my own way. And that, as I’ve told you, is not to let myself form opinions in the early stages. I’m sure I hope you’re right though. The arrangements seem fairly complete. The danger is, of course, that they’ll frighten this Butcher into stopping his games. And then what’ll happen?’
The Chief Constable stared. ‘Well? … I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you.’
‘What’ll happen,’ said Pike, ‘is that nothing will happen and then, when after a month or six months, or a year or six years, when all supervision is removed—when all your arrangements that is, are, so to speak, cancelled—well, then, this butcher gentleman will just start his games all over again.’
The Chief Constable frowned. ‘Something in that, I suppose.’ He looked hard at Pike. ‘Meaning, Superintendent, that that’s what you think is going to happen.’
Pike shook his head. ‘I’m not thinking as I told you, sir … There’s no doubt that it’s what may happen. All we can hope is that it won’t.’
Inspector Davis muttered beneath his breath.
The Chief Constable turned upon him irritably. ‘What is it, Davis? What is it? Speak up, man!’
Davis flushed. ‘I was going to say, sir, that in my opinion, we didn’t ought to be talking about hoping. We ought to be talking about doing.’
The Chief Constable glared. He opened his mouth to speak, but Pike was before him.
Superintendent Pike smiled at Inspector Davis. ‘I’m not at all sure,’ said Pike, ‘that Inspector Davis isn’t right.’ He turned his head to look once more at the Chief Constable. ‘These arrangements of yours, sir,’ he said, ‘they seem to me to be very good and there’s nothing more that I’d like to suggest—at the moment … After all, you gentlemen know this place and what can be done with it. I’ve only just got here and want to look round before I say anything … About the question of quarters for me, sir? …’
The meeting broke up in a spirit almost of amity.
I
PARALLEL with the long platforms of Holmdale station, upon The Other Side of the railway line, runs, for two hundred yards, the thousand-windowed, green-and-white-painted back of the Breakfast Barlies Factory. At the southern end of the building there shoot into the sky, sudden and massive, the four great grain-elevators. These terrific towers are considered, by many of Holmdale’s citizens, to be the one blot upon Holmdale’s beauty. Actually they are the strongest claim to beauty which Holmdale has—their grouping; their smooth, sleek, immutable strength; their unbroken and unvarying shape; their almost brutal utilitarianism: all these—and something else; some indefinable and inner meaning not to be understood even by their makers—make them worthy to succeed the great trees which once stood where now the towers stand, but which, if still they grew, would seem shrubs clustered untidily about the towers’ feet.
They stood now, these towers, a black mass against the bloodshot sky of a winter sunset. The thousand-and-one windows of the factory sprang from blackness into golden life. Behind them the work went on. Good honest grain, ton upon ton of it, was being beaten and thrashed, roasted and split, drenched and besugared until, behind the gleaming windows at the northern end of the building, its final and tasteless distortions were packed, by white-clad females, into blue-and-white cardboard boxes, bearing all, in letters of red and gold, the words Breakfast Barlies. Under the splendid insignia was a picture of the factory, the grain-towers omitted. Under the picture were the words: ‘Breakfast Barlies beat the band, with cream and sugar they are grand; Dad likes them, so does little Pete, no meal without them is complete.’
There were seven hundred and seventeen day-workers in the factory. They were all well paid, well tended and worked under conditions almost painfully hygienic. They started work—girl-packers, men-machinists, roasters, clerks, porters, managers; everyone—at eight a.m., and they finished work—again all of them—at five p.m. Save upon most unusual occasions, and then only when armed with an official permit, signed and countersigned and franked again, was a worker seen to leave the factory before the proper time. But it was only ten minutes past four when Albert Calvin Rogers, second electrician in the belt-room, came up the stairs from the belt-room whistling, with hands in his overall-pockets and cap over one ear.