Chapter 13 Chapter 10 Dead Man's Call

"I wish you had asked me earlier," Thompson continued.He sucked in air with his stiff and swollen jaw, "I swear it is. My wife and I have a room at the other end of the house, but..." He nodded and said, "Our room is higher, under the eaves .I heard the car come in at five minutes past three, or ten minutes. I went down to help him with his bag, and see if he needed anything, sir. But I—says my wife—well, just got cold He rubbed his jaw. "I think he'll ring the bell if he needs it. When Mr. Morris said I could go to bed, I had turned on the light in Mr. John's room and left Sandwiches and whiskey. Then at half past one, Mr. Morris woke me up again and told me to call the stables and tell the grooms to lock up the 'storm' . . . "

"He won't," Masters said curtly, "call himself?" "No, sir," Thompson's eyelids fluttered slightly, "that's not Mr. Morris' style. But I think I've done enough." "But if you swear the man doesn't come home at half past one...you swear, eh? . . . OK! . . . " Masters leaned forward. "Then why does the dog bark, eh?" Thompson's expression suddenly became a little ugly: "This has nothing to do with me, sir. But anyway, since it's an accusation against Mr. John, that's another matter. 'Storm' barks, It's because someone left the main house and walked towards the water pavilion, my wife will tell you, she saw it."

James Bennett noticed that whenever Masters's brain was in turmoil, he would turn his head and say "now, now" to everyone else in a reassuring tone, even if no one said anything. The sheriff rose from his chair, performed the ceremony, stared at Miss Catherine Bohun with a stern expression, and then turned his tall figure towards the butler.He said heavily: "You didn't tell us about this before." "Sorry, sir. I don't want, didn't want, and never want to cause trouble for anyone. Besides, I know now that it can't be—" Thompson's professionally calm expression leaked nervousness, and he looked at Masters with stubborn reddish eyes.He changes his words so quickly you hardly notice any pauses or hesitation: "I know it can't be... You want to hear my story, sir?"

"Who can't be?" "Mr. John." "Are you sure? . . . " said Masters quietly. "That's what you meant?" "Yes, sir. Do you care much to hear that name? ... When 'Tempest' started barking, my wife and I thought it was Mr. John coming back, especially if someone was in the library, rang the My bell. I quickly put on my clothes, and then... According to the regulations, the servant must be fully dressed and answer within two minutes, otherwise Mr. Morris..." For a moment, the tired old man looked back at them , and then he returned indifferently, "My wife—the cook, sir—she looked out the side window, but was blocked by the roof of the courtyard drive, so she couldn't see anything, but she noticed other things. What. Of course it was dark outside, and it was still snowing, but some of the windows at the back of the house—the tall ones—was still lighted, and she saw someone running down the slope, straight for the waterside. No more, sir."

"Oh, yes. Yes, I understand." Masters nodded again and again, and asked seriously, "Who is that person?" "How could she know, sir? She couldn't! She couldn't even tell..." Thompson shook his head. "Is that a man or a woman?" Masters added dryly. "That's it. Well, go get your wife over here." Thompson turned his head sharply. "I'd better say this, Miss Kate! . . . They'll find out for themselves! I can't make them think, Mr. John or . . . " He wrung his hands. "Yes, I understand!..." Masters nodded and said, "Very well, cut it off halfway."

After the door closed, Masters turned to Catherine Bohun with concern. "Now what do you want to bet, Miss Bohun, that he didn't mean 'Mr. Sly. He didn't say it until he was sure it wasn't you, because you were talking to Mr. Carl Raig outside the bedroom door, and the man was running to the waterside. He thought you wouldn't be stupid enough to make up such a story Stories. Eh?..." Catherine Bohun leaned against the back of the oak chair, her gray dress dimmed in the shadows, the gauze rising at her throat, her full breasts heaving and falling.The oak set off the pale face, bright brown eyes, with eyebrows raised slightly at the corners...

James Bennett was suddenly aware of that eerie antiquity, like one of the portraits in a gilt frame in the dining room, which made her look like Martha Tate , but that's all.He found himself not in love with the Phantom, but with Catherine Bohun. "How do you know the story isn't made up?" she said suddenly. "If Carl Wraig said I made an attempt to kill Martha Tate last night, he'd be less likely to support me, and everything you'd say, would be What?... We don't know when Mrs. Thompson saw, someone walking on the lawn, if she did see someone. The dog barked for a long time. Probably just a moment after I spoke to Reg, then People just left the main house... Oh, I know what you're thinking, it's ridiculous!... Don't you realize? The people you think of, don't get hurt..."

"Not like a good friend," Masters said cautiously. "Excuse me, miss, how did you get the bruise on your neck?" Catherine Bohun shook her hands and said after a moment of silence: "Louis is hysterical. She's frightened..." "That's it. That's... miss... that's what you said to Dr. Wynn, and Mr. Jarvis Wella hinted at me that way, and that's the whole story I've heard. All we know for sure is that she Unconscious, lying near the door of your room with a bloodstain on her wrist... What time did you find her?" "I . . . I don't know what to say to you! . . . " Catherine Bohun hesitated, studying him from under heavy eyelids, and then, suddenly, with her occasional nonsense, added , "If I knew what time Martha Tate was killed, I would have lied to you right away. But I don't know, so I will tell you the truth, it was between three-thirty and four o'clock, sometime... Honestly, now, you wouldn't believe...?"

Masters groaned and laughed. "Now, now! . . . You'll have to forgive me, you see, if I don't accuse a young lady of murder, just because I've never met her. I'll lie to you right away, but I have Some more evidence. Seems odd, but," he slammed his fist into the palm of his hand, "this is the neatest case I've ever heard from the Old Bailey, to be brought against your uncle, I mean Your uncle, Mr. John Bohun. Strange, but ingenious!... You will also think, that is the only way to explain the impossible scene. The other thing we know is that there are witnesses who come and put this inference Totally destroyed. That doesn't mean he's innocent, that's because he didn't get back until three o'clock, but it means: he's as innocent as anyone else, maybe more innocent. If those footprints, it turns out, were not fraudulent, More innocent of course, but again, leaving us with an impossible scenario, worse than me swallowing something indigestible... what?"

Masters turned his head suddenly.Officer Porter ran into the dining room, panting.He was about to speak excitedly, but when he saw the others he fell silent, but Masters gestured impatiently to him to continue. "It didn't take long," said Sergeant Porter emphatically, "the medical examiner came and drove away the body; oh, ah! . The Chief of Bureau called and asked him to call Scotland Yard and you could join us anytime. But the rest is not good news. It won't work! Those footprints..." Masters exhaled with difficulty. "Are they all right?" he asked.

"Impossible to do as the gentleman said, that's it!...Excuse me, miss." Officer Porter took off his hat and wiped his bald head with a large floral handkerchief, " No way. A guy who came to take fingerprints, studied this kind of stuff, said if he tried to cover up old tracks with new ones, he would push the snow in and cause the inside of the prints to wrinkle, and you could see it from a distance. He Said something else, I forget, but I see what they mean. Those footprints are big, made with a size ten boot, clean, with sharp edges. Clean as if someone whistled inside, except Some snow clings to the instep, causing some fuzziness - the fingerprinter says that's normal. Anyway," Constable Porter concluded explosively, "there's nothing wrong with the footprints. Mr. Bohun has been removed from the blacklist. Now, he's relieved. He's... my God, what's that?" James Bennett felt Officer Potter's stiff shoulders and pushed himself out of his chair, his skin hot and frightened, his heart beating wildly.A certain noise echoed in the large dining room, and Masters looked at the lamp with his black eyes before turning the whites of his eyes. The noise rattled the glasses on the table, which was extremely terrifying.It seemed to travel along the row of portraits, and the Christmas holly trembled, and they knew instinctively that this event meant death.The sound of the explosion was a bit muffled, not just because the sound was filtered by the bushes of the White Monastery, but it was like a pistol fired directly at something... Under the great vault of the corridor, Masters inadvertently broke the silence. "'He's so relieved! . . . '" Masters repeated, as if the words had come out of their own accord, "Oh, my God! . . . " Catherine Bohun suddenly screamed.She ran quickly for the door after Masters; James Bennett tried to grab her arm, but Officer Porter's heavily breathing body blocked his way.As they were passing through the shadowy passage, there was a loud cry from upstairs, and she rushed in front of Masters, who was shouting something. Upstairs the wide hallway, covered with a red carpet, stretched in the dark passage to the lighted window at the far end.Seeing a little old man over there, they hesitated, then stretched out a gold-tipped cane, and thrust open the door of Charles' room with the end—as hastily as if they were stabbing a dead snake.When the door was opened, they smelled smoke.The man looks in. "That idiot! . . . " was Maurice Bohun's voice, hollow and sharp as a locust.He stepped back, turning his head away. Catherine Bohun was about to run forward again when James Bennett pulled her toward him.Jarvis Willa and Dr. Wynn also appeared in the corridor, and Masters ran after them to the room.They just paused at the door and disappeared immediately. She couldn't speak, but kept trembling with fear, and James Bennett thought: Is there anything he can do to calm her down.She turned her head away, trying to free herself from his arms. "Listen! . . . " James Bennett said hoarsely, "Listen! Look at me! . . . Tell you the truth, will you promise to stay here forever? Will you?" "He did it..." said Catherine Bohun, as if choking for breath, "sometimes he said he would, and now he really did." "Will you stay here? Answer me!" "Yes! . . . yes, well. If you hurry..." Catherine Bohun nodded hesitantly, "and come back and tell me the truth. No, it won't be on the head. Go!  … ..." As James Bennett sprinted toward the room at the end of the corridor, Officer Porter was very close to him.As he passed, his eyes glimpsed: Maurice Bohun sitting motionless in a chair by the window on the sloping wall of the corridor; face, and brown eyes with small black pupils; he raised his shoulders a little, and rested one hand on a cane. When Jarvis Willard drew the curtains, the sun streamed into King Charles' room, and fell on a figure curled up on the floor.He was a tall man in brown boots, straightened by Masters and Dr. Wynn like a dummy.The room smelled of gunpowder and a piece of charred cloth.John Bohun's mouth was open, and there was a thump, thump, as if something metallic were beating the carpet on his soft fingers. There were more curtains on the second window, which rolled open like a wave, and Dr. Wynn's deep voice passed through the banging of the curtain rings: "There is no death, there is hope. Fortunately, it was not a hit on the head , or it’s hopeless. They always think the heart is lower. Ha. Stop groping, now, leave it to me... Go back, damn it!..." "You think," said Jarvis Willard, puzzled, "that you could-" "How the hell would I know? . . . Shut up. Is there anything to lift him up? Not shaken. Eh? . . . Abandoned carriage? Why not? . . . If there's one here, it'd be the best." .” "Help, Potter," Masters said, "get our body truck and a stretcher, and tell 'em it's my order. Leave the body alone. Don't stand there staring at me, Go!..." There are four windows in the room: two on the left wall, next to the bulkhead door leading to the staircase; and two on the innermost side, overlooking the lawn.Their crooked panes cast latticed shadows on a large table and chairs, beside which lay Johan Bohun;One of the pieces of paper made a rustling sound, as if freed from its own ugly life, it twisted and flew along the floor towards the door. James Bennett was staring at a discarded cardboard shirt hanging on a chair, stomping mechanically on the paper. He remembered now John Bohun's expression, and his last words before leaving the dining-room group.They should have known, they were so undefended.But, why does he say "No matter what I try to prove, I'll get caught for something or something. I'm bound to hang for something." Why is his behavior so suspicious that anyone who makes This kind of behavior is equivalent to putting a rein around your neck; why think of Martha Tate.There's such an obvious fear that he could be proven innocent... The man who was shot in the chest suddenly groaned and his body twisted into a ball.James Bennett looked down, his eyes touched the piece of paper under his feet, he turned his head, and looked back quickly.The handwriting was ugly, a drunkard's long italic scribbles that hobbled to fill the first line. "Sorry for messing up the house. Please forgive me, but I had to. As you probably know, I killed Carneyfest..." At first, James Bennett, with his shocked mind, refused to accept it.He couldn't think of anything except that it might have been an accident.Then the latter hint came to him like a lamp too bright, and for a while he could not put together the puzzle pieces of the puzzle it explained.He bent down and picked up the note with trembling hands: "I didn't mean to do it. All my life I've spent my life explaining to others and to myself that I didn't mean to do something, but I did it, and I'm sick of it; I don't hit him if I really think in my heart. I just go home with him and argue with him." The image of John Bohun coming on, flashed through James Bennett's mind--behavior, attitude, joy: his careful insistence on visiting Carneyfest so early in the evening, and arriving so late White Abbey... But, I swear I didn't kill Martha, and I didn't take part in it, and if you're going to think I was the murderer, it was a horrible accident.I don't know who killed her.And now what's the difference? She's dead, and I have no reason to stay.God bless you, Kate.Have fun, old girl. Signed: John Ashley Bohun Write clearly and firmly. Now, the room is filled with a spicy medicinal smell.Masters looked down at a flashlight, and James Bennett heard the quick click of scissors coming from Dr. Wynn's black backpack.The draft blew the smoke away. James Bennett held the note and waved to Masters excitedly.The sheriff nodded.He gestured to Willa, who stepped over quickly, took only a curious glance at Bennett, and picked up the flashlight. "Water!..." Dr. Wynn said, "cold boiled water. Somebody get it, there's none here. Where the hell is the stretcher?... I can't get the bullet out here. Lift his head a little, one hand That's enough. Steady..." Masters came over, looking rather grumpy.James Bennett thrust the paper into his hand, and hurried for water.The door to his own room, just across the corridor, was open.He went in and picked up the washbasin and knocked over a bundle of colored matches.Catherine Bohun waited, looking much calmer now, though her hands were still twisted. "He's not...very," said James Bennett, wishing he was telling the truth. "They said it would save him. Warm water. Where's the bathroom?" Catherine Bohun just nodded and opened the door behind her.In the dark room covered with oilcloth blankets, there is an ancient, top-heavy water boiler.She lit a match steadily, and the steam rose and whined, and the small yellow-blue flame under the boiler was reflected in Catherine Bohun's face as she took the wash-basin. "Towels," she said, "you'll need them. I'm sorry, I was a little silly. I'll go back with you. But..." "Stay here. Soon, they'll move him. You'll feel better if you don't." They exchanged a look, and Catherine Bohun suddenly said an unrelated and strange thing.She said, "I might be a murderer, you know." When James Bennett returned, Masters stood motionless, the paper crumpled in his hands.Holding the washbasin, he walked past and walked steadily towards Dr. Wynn's place. "They said they could save him." Does he hope so? ...he'd better be dead. The jittery, restless, tormented man was now writhing and panting under Dr. Wynn's fingers.It looked better to die now than to live and walk into the dock for the murder of Carney Fest.Before the law can grope around his neck with a greased rope and sprinkle the dirt on his name, he can die innocent, blessed or cursed . James Bennett tried to imagine what happened last night... "I went home with him and argued with him..." - after John Bohun in the press office, seeing Carneyfest.However, he only saw that the water in the washbasin was gradually turning red. At last he was instructed to put the basin down, and then heard Masters' voice. "That's it, then..." Sergeant Masters said heavily, "that's why. But how can we expect to know in advance? He came here, took that revolver out of that drawer... . . . " Masters pointed, "sit down. It took him a long time to write that note. Look at the gaps between the sentences, I guess that's how he wrote it?" Ma Staces wiped his forehead, "Okay, then what does he mean by doing that?...He held the note in one hand, and put the gun to his chest with both hands—then, the paper flew away and fell to the ground, Then we found him." Masters broke open the wounded man's palm and took out a small triangular piece of silver, which was jagged on one side, as if it had fallen from something broken.Masters put it away for a moment, then clenched his fists. "Can I ask," a small, cold voice came from behind Masters, "Is there any hope?" "I don't know, sir." Masters' voice was equally icy. "Wouldn't it be a pity," said Maurice Bohun, in a voice full of reason and irrefutable judgment, which, at the wrong time and in the wrong place, could be exasperating—"I suppose it depends He wrote something on the note I just observed you reading. May I inquire about its contents?" "Sir! . . . " said Masters gravely and calmly, "I ask you to look at this note and tell me if it is your brother's handwriting. Does it all make sense?" "I hate stupidity," Maurice Bohun pointed out.He emphasized every syllable, but there were veins standing out on his forehead, "I'm afraid he's always been a fool. Yeah, that's his handwriting. Hey... "Did he kill Carneyfest? . . . let's hope he dies. If he does, he'll be . . . hanged." Maurice Bohun cut off the last word abruptly and slipped the note back to Masters. As if to continue the sound, chattering voices and footsteps came from downstairs. Dr. Wynn stood up in exclamation, and James Bennett hurried into the corridor.He was looking for Catherine Bohun, but she was gone, he observed: it caused him a moment of shock and uneasiness which he could not describe.As if echoing in his mind, the encouraging voice asking him to find her, the shrill phone rang downstairs. The hallway was full of strangers and the phone continued to ring harshly as the stretcher was brought in. Maurice Bohun's voice came suddenly: "I don't know what it is that's holding Thompson up. He's got orders, the most definite orders, and the telephone is in the house, to be answered right away—you want to speak, Sergeant?" " "I was wondering, if you don't mind, where were you and all the others when the gunshots were heard?" Maurice Bohun turned into the corridor, let the two men in uniform pass by, and turned. "Of course . things; then, I curiously talked with my brother, and understood the stagnation in his mind." There was chaos in the room. "Relax, children!..." Dr. Wynn cried, "Lift him carefully..." James Bennett's mind was full of scrawling on the paper: "God bless you, Kate. Be happy, old girl." Behind a figure in blue uniform, a brown leather boot sticks out. "It's another murder, I think," said Maurice Bohun, staring at the wounded man. "You need to be concerned. Your Highness Carneyfest... What's the matter, Thompson? What's the matter? What's the matter?  … " Thompson bolted down the corridor, unable to take his eyes off the man on the stretcher for a second.His face was wrinkled, and his hands opened and closed intermittently.Then he pulled himself together when Maurice Bohun's mildly sarcastic voice floated steadily over, asking the same question. "Yes, sir. It's just... yes, sir." Thompson nodded repeatedly. "What I want to tell you is that there is a gentleman downstairs who is looking for Mr. James Bennett. It is Henry Merry. Sir Weir, Mr Morris, and . . . ” Both James Bennett and Sheriff Masters turned sharply.The former burst into ecstasy, as if cheering for victory. "—and one more thing, sir..." "What? . . . " asked Maurice Bohun gravely. Thompson calmed his breath.His voice was very clear, and he said, "His Highness Carneyfest wants to talk to you on the phone."

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