Bats in the Belfry , livre ebook

Bats in the Belfry
by E. C. R. Lorac

First published in 1937
This edition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
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Bats in the Belfry




by E.C.R. Lorac
Chapter I
“As funerals go, it was quite a snappy effort. No dawdling,well up to time and all that, but, my godfathers! What afarce to have to go to it at all. Didn’t make a ha’porth ofdifference to the party concerned.”
Bruce Attleton mixed himself a whisky and soda calculatedto reduce funereal impressions to a minimum, andswallowed it rather more quickly than was customary in sucha gathering. Neil Rockingham holding in his own hand aglass containing a milder version of the same drink, raisedan angular eyebrow as he replied:
“Well, funerals never worry me. One good point aboutthem—and weddings too, for that matter—is that they doget on with the doings—preamble, main theme, and blessingfor curtain, and there you are. Snappy, as you say. Notlike some of these infernal parties where you stand on oneleg and wonder when you can decently depart. I do like afocus-point to an entertainment.”
Bruce grinned, and his dark, sardonic face lighted up as hethrew himself into a comfortable chair by the log fire. It wasMarch, and the evenings were cold, so that the warm, slightlyscented air of Sybilla Attleton’s drawing-room struck a manas cosy after the raw air outside. A nice room, this of Sybilla’s,meditated Rockingham. Peaceful, well-designed, chairs largeenough to sit in, and plenty of them, not too many fallalsfor a man to trip over, and yet definitely a woman’s room,with its colour scheme of faint grey and silver, lilac and deepblue. A sociable room, but not the right spot to swill downwhisky like that nervy blighter, Bruce, was doing.
Sybilla, an exquisite figure in silver lamé with a shortermine cloak round her shoulders, lighted a Balkan Sobranje,and made a little face at her husband.
“I gather the funeral did make you shed a tear after all,Bruce—not for sorrow about our dear departed brother,but a tear of self-indulgent sympathy, that you should havebeen called upon to make the frightful effort of standingby a graveside.”
“Caustic, what?” Robert Grenville, a little embarrassedby the tone of Sybilla’s voice, decided that jocularity was thevein to follow. “If it’s not being unreasonably inquisitive,who was the party concerned, so to speak? The bury-ee, orinteree, or what you call him.”
“The ‘dear departed’ or the ‘late lamented’ is the acceptedterm,” replied Bruce amiably enough. “On this occasion, itwas a young chap named Anthony Fell—a cousin of sorts,though I can’t tell you the exact degree. Family ramificationsalways beat me. However, this one turned up from Australiaa few months ago—architect, hearty sort of chap. Doingquite nicely in the interim, building large-scale blocks onthe modern housing principle, complete with the best inplumbing. Unfortunately he didn’t manage the plumbing ofhis own car as well as he did that of his working-class flats.Came blinding down Porlock Hill in a fog, in a last year’sracing model—a yellow sports car that made me sick to lookat it. His brakes failed just when he needed ’em at a pinchand he somersaulted—what ho, she bumps!” He picked hisglass up again and looked towards the tantalus. “So that wasthat, and we buried what was left of him to-day. Old Neilhere, came in as best man—very sporting of him. Not myidea of a good day, though.”
“Miserable business,” said Rockingham soberly enough.“Fell only showed me the car a few days ago, gassing abouthow he always vetted it himself. Whale of a chap with enginesaccording to his own estimate.”
“Poor young man—and you grudged him a few hoursat his one and only funeral,” put in Elizabeth Leigh. Shewas sitting on the lilac tuffet, warming her beautiful slimlegs at the good heat of the cedarwood fire. Red-headed,white-skinned, with the round face of very young girlhood,Elizabeth appeared fit for a Da Forti halo and lute when shelooked pensive, as now. “Dead in a strange land, and noone to shed a tear. If you’d told me about it, I’d have comemyself, and cast rose leaves on the coffin.”
“And what good would that have done, Eliza?” inquiredBruce. “Nix, and you know it. Our family doesn’t seem tohave any staying power. They all pop off early, except the OldSoldier. He’s about a hundred, and still going strong. Someone told me he bought an annuity when he was fifty-five,and got it cheap because he’d a dicky heart. The company hebought it from have written him off as a bad debt. They’vegiven up hoping he’ll die, and call him the Old Soldier. Theydon’t, you know.”
“Oh, but he must, sometime,” put in Sybilla. “Some onesaid to me the other day that when you’re born there’s onlyone thing which can be said about you with any certainty,and that is that you’ll die—sometime. Nothing else is certain,but that is.”
“Cheery thought.” Thomas Burroughs had been sittingsilent, just behind Sybilla, until that moment, and thesound of his voice made Bruce Attleton scowl. It was a deepvoice, and resonant, but Bruce said it sounded fat, “reekedof money”—and the rather stout, heavy-jowled Burroughscertainly was not hard-up.
“Nice way of greeting the son and heir,” went on thelatter. “Here you are, little ’un, and you’re for it one of thesefine days. Just a matter of time, what?”
“And the beautiful part is that no one knows whentheir time will be up,” said Elizabeth, in her sweetest voice.She disliked Burroughs—one of the few things she had incommon with her guardian, Bruce Attleton. “A slip, a skid, afit, an aneurism, a syncope, and the lustiest becomes a merebury-ee. I like that word,” she added, her ingenuous blueeyes gazing hard at the wealthy stockbroker.
“Food for worms,” put in Robert Grenville blithely. “Isay, jolly topics we seem to be on. All flesh is grass, I know;still, it doesn’t do to ponder over it.”
“By way of cheering you all up a bit, I’ll tell you of acompetition that’s been set for the monthly evening at myclub,” went on Elizabeth, averting her eyes from Burroughs’heavy face with a nicely calculated little moue of distaste.“We always have an intellectual exercise of sorts, and noticeis given of it beforehand. The problem this month is asfollows: If you were landed with a corpse on your hands,by what method could you dispose of it so as to avoid anyfuture liabilities? Highest marks will be given for a methodwhich is not only ingenious, but possesses the elements ofpractical common sense.”
There was an outbreak of exclamations. Robert Grenvillechuckled, and said, “By Gad, that’s a corker!”
Attleton laughed and refilled his glass, saying, “Give usa moment to think it out, Liza.”
Burroughs expostulated. “Rotten morbid ideas youmodern girls go in for. Club, indeed! You want spankingand sending to bed.”
Sybilla said languidly, “Don’t be Victorian, Tommy.Everyone plays these murder games. Just use your wits asthough there were money in it.”
Rockingham, standing by the fire, smiled down at Elizabeth.He was a tall fellow, very fair, looking older than hisforty-two years by reason of premature baldness. He hada very fine head, and the smooth lofty brow sloped backslightly to meet the magnificent domed skull. His hair, fairand smooth, was thick enough at the back, but his baldnessgave him a professorial look, at odds with his fresh-skinnedface. Rockingham took Elizabeth’s problem quite seriouslyin the manner of one who loves a problem for its own sake.
“We need some more data,” he said to her. “Are we toassume that we’ve corpsed the subject ourselves, or are wejust obliging a friend?”
“I asked that too,” said Elizabeth, replying to his friendlytwinkle with a smile of angelic virtue. “It is assumed that onehas created the corpse oneself, either by accident or maliceaforethought, as may be most convenient.”
“It’s a nice point,” said Bruce. “Imagine that I’d donesome one in, here on this hearth-rug, and I wanted to get ’emclear out of the way, so as not to leave a trace—not too easy.”
“I think you’re being too casual.” This time it was Grenvillewho spoke. It was Elizabeth’s problem, and he particularlywanted to stand well with Elizabeth. “Never go andmurder any one in a hurry—that’s the first axiom. Think itall out carefully.”
“Go on,” said Elizabeth. “Elaborate. I want ideas.”
“Assume that I’m going to murder a chap named TomBrown. I’ve got to work it so that no one will know I wasthe last person whom he was seen with. I can’t make anappointment with him in case any one else hears about it.”Grenville was leaning forward now, his chin on his fists, hisbrow corrugated in thought. “I’d go to one of those dudcar-marts—one of the places where you can get somethingthat’ll go for a couple of hundred miles for about ten pounds.I’d pay a deposit and drive out with some old car one wetevening, and I’d meet old Tom Brown on his way home fromthe station or something and say, ‘Rotten evening, old boy.What about a lift?’ Once he’d got in. I’d bat him one on theboko, and drive on to a little place I’d have taken on the edgeof the outer suburbs—simple life and all that, every tenantbuilds his own house. I’d have got the garage up, and a nicehole ready in the floor, and I’d bring old Tom in and shifta bit of concrete on top of him, and then return the car tothe mart and pick up my deposit. No connection betweenme and Tom, and the car.”
“Not too good,” said Elizabeth; “and rotten as a story.