A Blunt Instrument Read Free Page B

hope it won't be long before we get the whole thing cleared up."
    "Yes, let's," agreed Neville. His gaze dwelt speculatively on a picture on the wall opposite the fireplace. "It wouldn't be robbery, would it?"
    "Hardly, sir, but of course we can't say definitely yet. It isn't likely a burglar would come when Mr. Fletcher was still up, not to mention the rest of the household."
    "No. Only the safe is behind that picture -just in case you didn't know."
    "Yes, sir, so the butler informed me. We've been over it for finger-prints, and as soon as we can get Mr. Fletcher's lawyer down we'll have it opened. Yes, Hepworth? Found anything?"
    The last words were addressed to a constable who had stepped into the room through the window.
    "Not much, Sergeant, but I'd like you to have a look at one thing."
    The Sergeant went at once; Neville uncoiled himself, got up, and wandered out of the room in his wake. "Don't mind me coming, do you?" he murmured, as the Sergeant turned his head.
    "I don't see as there's any objection, sir. The fact is, a man was seen sneaking out by the side gate just after 10 p.m., and unless I'm mistaken he's the chap we're after."
    "A - a fat man?" suggested Neville, blinking.
    "Ah, that would be too easy, wouldn't it, sir?" said the Sergeant indulgently. "No, just an ordinary looking chap in a soft hat. Well, Hepworth, what is it?"
    The constable had led the way to the back of a flowering currant bush, which was planted in a bed close to the house. He directed the beam of his torch on to the ground. In the soft earth were the deep imprints of a pair of high-heeled shoes.
    "They're freshly made, Sergeant," said Hepworth. "Someone's been hiding behind this bush."
    "The Women in the Case!" said Neville. "Aren't we having fun?"

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    Chapter Two

    By half-past eleven the police, with the exception of one constable, left behind to keep a watch over the house, had departed from Greystones. Miss Fletcher, gently interrogated by the Sergeant, had been unable to assist the course of justice. The news of the finding of the imprints of a woman's shoes did not seem either to shock or to surprise her. "He was such an attractive man," she confided to the Sergeant. "Of course, I don't mean - but one has to remember that Men are not like Us, doesn't one?"
    The Sergeant had found himself listening to a panegyric on the late Ernest Fletcher: how charming he was; how popular; what perfect manners he had; how kind he had always been to his sister; how gay; how dashing; how generous! Out of this turmoil of words certain facts had emerged. Neville was the son of Ernie's brother Ted, many years deceased, and certainly his heir. Neville was a dear boy, but you never knew what he would be up to next, and - yes, it did annoy poor Ernie when he got himself imprisoned in some horrid Balkan state - oh, nothing serious, but Neville was so hopelessly vague, and simply lost his passport. As for the Russian woman who had appeared at Neville's hotel with all her luggage before breakfast one morning in Budapest, saying he had invited her at some party the night before - well, one couldn't exactly approve, of course, but young men did get drunk sometimes, and anyway the woman was obviously no better than she should be, and really Neville was not like that at all. At the same time, one did rather feel for Ernie, having to buy the creature off. But it was quite, quite untrue to say that Ernie didn't like Neville: they hadn't much in common, but blood was thicker than water, and Ernie was always so understanding.
    Questioned more closely, no, she knew of no one who nourished the least grudge against her brother. She thought the murderer must have been one of these dreadful maniacs one read about in the papers.
    The Sergeant got away from her, not without difficulty, and very soon left the house. Aunt and nephew confronted one another in the drawing-room.
    "I feel as though this were all a horrible nightmare!" said Miss Fletcher, putting a hand to her