Chapter 11 CHAPTER 8 THE BREAKFAST TABLE

"Do me a favor, Potter! . . . " said Masters brightly.His thick-jawed face was unaffected, still composed. "Hand him into the armchair. Better call the housekeeper. . . . No! Wait a minute. Here, grab his feet." They spoke of the motionless lump of flesh, now, filthy and drooling, like a bag of raw dough with a head on it.He breathed heavily through his nose.When they put him on the couch, Carl Wragg's robe slipped up.They saw him in tuxedo trousers and a collarless stiff shirt, with women's feet tucked into red leather slippers.Masters took the cigarette from his fingers and threw it into the fire, picked up the unbroken wine bottle from the floor, looked first at the bottle, then at his companion.

"Pretty dangerous guy! . . . " he said. "Dangerous enough. What am I thinking now? . . . Hey, wait a minute, Mr. Bennett. Where are you going?" "Breakfast," said James Bennett, sincerely weary, "these things are driving me crazy..." "Now, now. Relax, boy. Wait a minute, I'll come with you," Masters urged. "I have something to discuss. For now..." James Bennett watched him curiously.After a while he was able to understand why the Chief of Criminal Investigations was so desperate for his company, almost eager to make friends with him.He soon understood why.

"The question arises," Masters continued, rubbing his chin with his hand. "Is this man right? Did things happen as he said? ... Now what do you think, Potter?" Sheriff Potter turned his head to chew something, looked at his notebook again for inspiration, and finally swore. "Sounds all right, sir," growled Potter, "in a way. But..." He pokes something with his pencil, "that's it. I don't know what it all counts, going backwards and whatnot trick. But this trick... well, how else could it be done? That's the worst of it." With pale blue eyes, Humphrey Masters looked at James Bennett affectionately: "Ah!... Both Officer Potter and I are like this, always willing to listen to other people's advice. What do you think ?”

James Bennett gruffly said, "Damn it, it's all bullshit." "Why nonsense?" "Uh?!……" "Because Mr. Bohun is your friend? . . . blah, blah, blah. Don't think about that, trust yourself, of course." Masters' eyes widened. "But, let's admit, it explains every thing. Eh? . . . ” "I know. But do you believe that he can do such interesting things with the footprints? If the first part of the story is not so plausible, if it is not taken into account, there are a few weird things, you absolutely don't even have to think about it. I don't believe he can do it. Besides, that man..." James Bennett heard himself speaking loudly and stupidly, "was too drunk to say anything. You didn't hear To his wild words?"

"Oh, ah. Yeah, which one are you referring to?" Masters asked with a smile. "Well, let's say Bohun's niece tried to murder Martha Tate by pushing her down the stairs..." Suddenly, James Bennett found himself, falling into a gentle and simple trap. Masters said graciously: "Yes, indeed. I want to hear the full facts about the matter. I have spoken to Mr. Willard and Mr. Bohun, and they have not mentioned that there was an attempt on Martha's life." Tate. Weird, someone tried to push her down the stairs, eh?  …” "Listen to me, let's go down and have some breakfast. I don't know anything about that matter, you'd better ask them." James Bennett waved his hands again and again, "Besides, you don't want second-hand information. Also, I'm not the bait."

"Bait..." Masters observed the limp body lying back on the couch, the man struggling to breathe, his jaw moving and making a sound like a bull's roar. Masters burst out laughing, "Bait? ... Yes. You mean the police informant? ... What, of course you're not. Just any kind of information, I need it, you know ?...Any kind. Er, Potter?...I'm sure Mr. Bohun's niece, must be young and good-looking!...Mr. Carl Wraig also made an interesting statement that Miss Tate was married, We've got to look into it. I said, I wonder how Mr. Carl Wraig got himself so dirty. I mean it literally this time. Look at him."

He pulled up the hem of Karl Wraig's robes.The front of the white shirt was streaked with black powder, as if dust had been sifted on it; the shoulders were dirtier, inky black; the sleeves of the shirt were in the same condition when Masters lifted him up a little.Then, when they turned him over like a dummy, they saw that there was a stain on the back of the shirt as well. "Hands are freshly washed and shiny. Look at them, hmm. Don't mind, but I'd also like to know what he meant when he said he had an alibi. Guess we should put him on Lou, though I just want to keep him here..." Masters said, turning to greet the accompanying police officer, "How is it, Potter? . . . Familiar?... Do you think Mr. Bohun's trick is feasible?"

Officer Potter mused uncomfortably: "Here!..." He digressed, but his tone was very firm, and then he looked up, "I tell you, I don't want to take this case. You said you were my boss , Exactly. Well, I'm going to call the police and tell the chief and everybody that we need help. I'm about to get screwed over by the case, that's all." "You mean: You don't think he can do it. Eh?" Masters asked gravely. "I don't know, I'm defeated. But..." Officer Potter stood up, closed his notebook and said, "I'm going to see those footprints, what should be there."

Masters said: Some advice to him, accompanied him to the door, and whispered something, and Potter let out a pleasant hum from his nostrils.When he left, the expression on his face was extremely sly. Then Sergeant Humphrey Masters beckoned to James Bennett and said encouragingly to go to breakfast. The great raftered dining room, at the end of the room, had windows overlooking a lawn, facing the evergreen avenue and the waterside.Sprigs of holly were fastened to decorative lamps, and above the fire, a dark portrait edged around the circle. It was a shock to see the merriment inside; the great flames, and the gleaming pewter covers of the sideboards, exuded merriment.

Sitting back at the table, staring at the ceiling with blank indifference, was Mr. John Bohun, with a cigarette drooping between his lips, and as pale as if just recovering from a serious illness.Sitting across from him, fighting the bacon and eggs, was a neatly dressed, fussy little man who stood up hastily when someone came in. "Excuse me," the little man said with a little reserve, "May I ask who you two are...?" There was a hazy look in his eyes, and he was still wiping his mouth with a napkin.He had a bony face that stood erect, a very large aquiline nose, and gray hair that fell limply over a semicircular skull.His whole expression—including the wrinkled face, the non-stop moving mouth, and the light gray eyes (the pinpoint-like pupils are as black as death)—is full of ambiguity, and this quick reaction, I don't know whether to say I am in a happy mood or angry.He was well-dressed, dressed in black, as dull as a university dormitory, and looked like a person wandering among the bookshelves in the library.

"...you two, I'm really stupid!... I'm always forgetful. You two are my guests, are you a police officer?" He took them in his soft hand and pushed them towards the table. "Have I introduced myself already? I'm Maurice Bohun, and this is John Bohun, brother. You've seen him, haven't you? . . . Of course. God, it's dreadful! . . . " He was astonished. Rubbing his hands together, he said, "I only found out about half an hour ago, you understand. But I told John that the best way to maintain strength to support justice is simply to eat. Would you like to dine with us? Great. Thompson! More... er... food." Maurice Bohun sat down as Thompson, the almost invisible monster, moved away from the sideboard.James Bennett noticed: he had a slight limp, and leaned against the chair beside a cane with a huge golden ball on top. This edgy little man turned out to be the author of an erotic drama? Masters studied the brothers, especially John Bohun, who sat lifelessly in his chair, motionless, with his hands in his pockets. "I must warn you, sir," Masters announced, in a tone that seemed so often to dissipate the tension, "that you will receive me for dinner at your own risk. I am not involved in this case in an official capacity, although Porter The police officer is a relative of mine. So, I'm just a guest of yours. If you don't mind, eat at the police's table, eh? That's it... ah! Yes, some kippers, please." John Bohun bowed his head. "I said, Sergeant, you don't have to be polite..." He smiled. "By the way, what did you find out after talking to Willa and me?" "I'm afraid not, sir. Actually, I've been talking to a gentleman named Reg," replied Masters with his mouth full. "Your dear friend, Maurice," John Bohun said, turning his head, "a man who, in the movie, used you as a technical advisor..." Maurice Bohun gently put down his knife and fork, looked over the table, and said, "Why do you feel unwell?..." His tone was so ordinary that James Bennett couldn't help turning his head to look at him. Then Maurice Bohun smiled vaguely and went on eating. "I'm afraid . . . " said Masters, hesitating again.He forked a pile of food and grinned. "Mr. Reg is a very interesting gentleman. I admire his ideas, but I'm afraid he was drunk this morning." Masters smiled and shook Shaking his head, "Huh? . . . That's it. He made crazy accusations, but there's no way to prove it. There's no way to prove it." "Allegation? . . . " asked John Bohun sharply. "Well, charges of murder." Humphrey Masters looked disapproving: "Actually, he accuses you. Nonsense like that - ah! Real cream!  …" Johann Bohenjo jumped up from his chair and exclaimed in amazement: "He accuses me, really? . . . What did the pig say?" "Now, now, sir, don't bother with that. Everything is easy to prove, isn't it? . . . But I want to talk to you, sir," he added, turning to Morris as if to Jumping away from this topic, "About Mr. Reg. He said that you two were together almost all the time last night, and he drank too much. I am curious to know what other fantasies he has." Maurice Bohun pushed away the plate, carefully folded the napkin, and folded his hands.The dim light shone on the forehead, which seemed heavy to the frail body, and the strange light gray eyes with small black pupils fell into the shadows.He looked confused and slightly disapproving. "Ah, well..." he said, "uh... where was I then?... You gotta let me think about it. You... huh?... hope I can satisfy you that I didn't do anything wrong This murder." "gentlemen?" "Of course I...uh, I want to answer the essence of your question, rather than rephrasing it in precise words..." He seemed to think that this was not surprising, and he defended it as a matter of course. "So, Mr. Carl Wraig drank? . . . God, I'm definitely not in favor of drinking, because there's a tendency all over the world to think of alcohol as a drug out of dullness. I'm not against there being a drug out of Dull state, however, I'm more inclined to think: This drug should be rational. Do you know what I mean, sir?...I...uh...feel you don't get it. I'm just citing past research .” Masters nodded his big head, as if interested. "Ah! . . . " he agreed shrewdly. "Histories are good, sir, and I like them myself." "Of course! . . . " said Maurice Bohun, "that . . . uh . Meaning: read a chapter of Thomas Macaulay ... or James Froude, and find it less dull than expected, so you're satisfied. You're not inclined to read too deeply, but at least you feel like you're familiar with history interest, was aroused, and was able to maintain it for a long time... And I mean more than that-I mean: the process that is now called 'living in the past'. Frankly, I Living in the past is the only way I've found to survive the dreary days." His voice was smooth and pleasant, with little change in pitch.He leaned his elbows on the table, stretched out his fingers from soft hands, shaded his eyes, still protesting mildly. However, James Bennett, who was wolfing down his meal, suddenly looked up and began to feel that the personality power of this vague-faced guy, the power to control the entire villa, was all around and subtle.Bennett doesn't like this person, because he looks like a nervous male student, eyes with pinpoint pupils, full of panic and anxiety, as if he went to class without preview, but in the last five minutes before the bell rang , was gently and sarcastically named by the teacher. "Well, sir! . . . " said Inspector Masters, still calmly, "seems like a very good ... um, way of surviving. The death of that young lady does not seem to have affected you very much, I should think so." "No! . . . " said Maurice Bohun, laughing. "There are others like her, death everywhere. Uh . . . are we discussing . . . ?" "We're talking about Mr. Reg," growled Sergeant Humphrey Masters gravely. "Ah, yes, that's it." Maurice Bohun nodded embarrassingly. "I always forget things. It's such a disgusting habit. Speaking of which, Mr. Reg has been drinking?" He said hey Sneered, laughing unnaturally, "I... I should think of this unfortunate incident, which happened to have that kind of influence on him. I think he is very interesting and has strange ideas about learning. Because of my own various For a different reason, I—ah, what's the word—I 'coaxed him to come with me'." With a slight wave of his hand, he called to his brother, "Don't tap your fingers on the table, John. Okay? Thanks." "Mr. Masters," said John Bohun roughly, "I demand to know what the pig said. I have a right to know! . . . " He came round the table. Maurice Bohun offered sadly, "Oh, come on, John. Come on right now. Of course I'm not mistaken... eh?" He frowned. "Mr. Right? In that case..." Maurice Bohun explained with a mildly perplexed expression, "you can't expect him to tell you. Be sensible, boy, he has his duty." The more bombastic he was, the less James Bennett liked him.This is probably attributable to the intolerable, bumbling impartiality with which he expressed himself in a staid way about everything.Especially when he happens to be right.Bennett began to agree with Catherine Bohun more and more, and he found that Masters was also uncomfortable.Masters's large face suppressed anger, he folded the napkin, and said something startling. "Mr. Bohun," said Masters with numb truth, "do you never tire of playing God?" A moment of confusion froze on Maurice Bohun's face, as if he was about to protest.Then, James Bennett saw, he took on a look of calm Epicurean pleasure. "Never! . . . " replied Maurice Bohun, "you are smarter than I thought, Mr. Masters . Why don't you just grill me in your best Scotland Yard accent? I'll do my best to answer." He looked rather anxious. "Perhaps I can convince you to tell the whole problem? I'd appreciate it. I have a keen interest in criminology and I may be able to help you." Masters looked rather amiable. "Not bad, sir. Maybe not a bad idea." He paused, then asked seriously, "Do you know the situation we're in?" "Uh... yes. My brother explained it to me." "There's half an inch of unmarked snow around that cabin," said Masters. "No footprints, no marks, nowhere, except your brother's, who's clean, of course..." "Of course, I sincerely hope that you don't wander about in the snow, brother John!..." Maurice Bohun smiled calmly, "I think I can take care of you." "I'd rather you could! . . . " replied Masters grimly, "but can you explain how the murderer committed the murder?" Maurice Bohun touched the bridge of his nose, as if pushing glasses that weren't there, and smiled apologetically. "Why? . . . why? . . . Yes, officer! . . . " he ventured, "maybe I can." "It's so bad! . . . " Masters yelled angrily, spitting from his mouth. He stood up from the table, obviously not expecting it when Morris clucked and said, This is the strangest fish that has ever slipped into his net. Masters hesitated for a while, swallowed a few words, and sat down again.Now, he's really going crazy. "Very well, sir. Everyone, except the police, seems to be able to come up with an explanation. It's so neat and exciting. Frankly, if old Charlie Potter falls alone and falls into your group , I'll be very sympathetic to him..." Masters said sarcastically, "what about flying off the air, walking on stilts, climbing on vaults, hanging from trees, I don't want to hear nonsense like that. A hundred feet Not a single bush in it, no traces in the snow, we've checked, no one's hiding there. But it's a weird place, Mr. Bohun...why are you there, so well laid out furniture?" "It was a whim of mine. I told you I lived in the past. I used to spend the nights there." Maurice Bohun's face, for the first time, showed a vague animation.He opened and closed his eyes under the shadow of his hand, "I'm afraid you can't understand, talking to you is as much fun as talking to a deaf person. Mr. Masters, I have done a remarkable thing, I created own ghost." He smiled slightly, then stopped, "Hey, how about some more smoked fish, sir? . . . Thompson, more smoked fish for this officer." "Are you interested in Martha Tate?" Masters snapped. Maurice Bohun seemed a little anxious: "To the question... ah - 'Are you in love with Miss Martha Tate' I must answer, sir - no. At least I don't think so. I admire her , just treating her as an accidental incarnation." "Yet you wrote a play for her, I suppose?" said Masters excitedly. "As you've heard," murmured the other, a wrinkle forming on his forehead, "with my humble effort. No, I'm just entertaining myself. Dr. Dust is tired..." He folded his palms together in front of him, as if he was about to go diving, and hesitated for a moment, "When I was young, I was often troubled by fantasy, and the root cause was my belief: the historical research The inherent value lies in its importance to economics and politics. But now that I am old, I realize that almost all historians do not have one ability, that is, to have knowledge about human nature. I am afraid that I am just an old Sartre .would someone tell you—I think you've been told?—that I'm old enough to be fascinated by Miss Martha Tate? Your look suggests it. That's only partly true. I adore it. Martha Tate is as attractive as I am to the dead mistresses of high officials, with whom I would expect to have an affair." Masters wiped his forehead with his hand and asked, "Please don't confuse me! ... You encouraged Miss Tate to go to sleep in that waterside pavilion?" "Yes," said Maurice Bohun, nodding without hesitation. Masters said thoughtfully: "It's the place you repaired and restored, where the king used to sneak around and have a tryst with his mistress..." "Of course! ... Of course! ... Of course! ..." said Maurice Bohun hurriedly, as if impatient with himself for ignoring something, "I should have known earlier that perhaps you wanted to use the secret underground passage , to explain the absence of marks in the snow? ... But I promise again, there is no such thing there." Masters looked at him and started to fight back: "We can take it to pieces, sir. Rip off the paneling, you know, maybe you won't like it..." "You wouldn't dare to do that," Morris said, his voice growing louder. "Or lift up the floor. It would be a little mean to you if it was found to be of raw marble, but in order to please us . . . " Maurice Bohun stood up abruptly from his chair, knocked down the cane leaning against his arm with his frail wrist, and the heavy gold top hit the floor with a "bang!", and the echo of the collision penetrated into Maas Tess' voice. "Now, sir, let's stop wasting time, escaping reality, and being so polished and worldly," Masters yelled furiously. "We talk like men, answer questions, hear me?" ?” He punched the edge of the table. “It would be no trouble for me to get permission to tear your sweet little house to shreds. So please help me, or I’ll be crazy enough to do that in no time. Yes. Hey, are you willing to help?" "Of course... Ah... Of course, I have already promised?" Maurice Bohun nodded with a sneer. Then, in a long silence, James Bennett discovered: Inspector Masters told John Bohun to move away from the window he had been staring at.John Bohun's face (both he and his brother were terrified) had a curious resemblance to Maurice Bohun's which, under normal circumstances, you would not have noticed. Masters seemed to have pinned down the two, like a swordsman hiding his skill behind clumsy movements. "You ... your subordinate," said John Bohun, pointing behind him, "he's over there on the lawn ... checking ... what is he doing?" "Just to measure your footprints in the snow, sir. This bothers you, doesn't it?..." Masters gently waved his palm, soothing everyone, "Please sit down, gentlemen, you The two of you? ... It's much better to sit over there." Not at all well, Johan Bohun turned pale. "Last night, someone tried to kill Martha Tate, before she was hit on the head. I think..." Humphrey Masters continued, turning his head to Maurice Bohun, "someone tried Push her down the stairs. Who is it?" "I don't know," said Maurice Bohun, holding up his hand. "Is that your niece, Miss Catherine Bohun?" Maurice Bohun sat down quietly, and laughed again: "I don't think so, my friend. If—er—the prisoner could be anyone, I think: the honorable Louise Carla Miss Wei, the daughter of my old friend His Royal Highness Carneyfest..." He smiled and looked around the big guy, "Then, if you look around now, you will see my niece standing behind you, I You are fully permitted to question her."

---

Notes: