Murder in the Museum, A British Library Crime Classic Read Free

the man came to die, what attracted your attention, and why you walked over to him just at the moment of his death.”
    Henry shuddered. “To tell you the truth, Inspector,” he said, “I hardly know.”
    â€œBut you must have some sort of idea, surely.”
    â€œA vague idea, anyhow,” contributed Sergeant Cunningham, who had accompanied his chief on this errand of investigation, but who had hitherto remained silent.
    Henry giggled. It is regrettable to admit the fact, but he was the type of man who would giggle on occasion.
    â€œWell, gentlemen,” he said. “I am one of those strange people—the students of humanity. The dead man attracted my attention because he was, if I may say so, of such a striking and unusual appearance. I found myself watching him almost unconsciously, in the way that one sometimes does watch a stranger who strikes one, if you understand me.”
    â€œI understand you, Mr. Fairhurst,” said Shelley in sympathetic tones, “but I still want answers to a few other questions, you know.”
    â€œFire away, Inspector,” Henry answered, and then, conscious that this piece of slang was somewhat undignified for a man of his position in the social world of Streatham, he added: “Or, if I might borrow a word from the gangster films, I would say, ‘Shoot!’”
    â€œFirst of all,” remarked Shelley briskly, “did you see anyone else approach the man in the last few minutes before he died?”
    Henry reflected. “I have a sort of vague notion that someone was walking away from the man as I approached,” he admitted. “It’s only the vaguest of impressions, though, and I couldn’t possibly swear to it for a moment.”
    â€œWas it a man or a woman?” asked Cunningham, with a glance of apology at his chief. “Will your memory give you any information on that point, Mr. Fairhurst?”
    Again Henry reflected deeply for a moment before replying.
    â€œIt’s difficult,” he murmured. “You see, I may be getting some quite innocent person into trouble if I…”
    â€œDon’t worry about that,” Shelley interrupted. “If any innocent person is involved in this case we shall clear him without the slightest difficulty. Don’t worry about that for a moment, Mr. Fairhurst.”
    â€œWell,” Henry admitted somewhat unwillingly, “I must say that I have an idea that a woman had been talking to the man before he died. But I couldn’t swear to it. You see, there are so many people in that Reading Room that it might easily be a mistake on my part. Some perfect stranger might trip over the man’s chair, and pause to apologise. That might easily account for the fact that I thought a woman was talking to the man. Or,” he concluded somewhat lamely, “there may not have been any one there at all.”
    â€œGot that, Cunningham?” asked Shelley. His assistant nodded.
    â€œOnly one thing, sir,” he added.
    â€œYes?” Shelley was always prepared to take a hint of a useful line of investigation.
    â€œDo you think Mr. Fairhurst could be induced to remember the sort of clothes the lady was dressed in?”
    Henry looked from one detective to the other with some surprise. What on earth would these men ask next? How did they expect him to remember the attire of a lady of whose very existence he was not certain?
    Yet he found himself answering. “I have a definite impression of a youngish lady, rather pretty, and dressed in some sort of dark jumper and skirt,” he said. “Further than that I’m afraid I cannot go.”
    â€œVery useful, Mr. Fairhurst,” was Shelley’s comment. “Very useful indeed. I expect we’ll lay our hands on that young lady before many hours are past; then maybe we shall be wiser than we are now on the subject of Arnell’s death.”
    â€œArnell?” Henry’s tone was