Black Maria, M.A.: A Classic Crime Novel. John Russell Fearn
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she had made up her mind to accept nothing as logical until she had proven it to the hilt. Not that she could prove anything at the moment, so instead she set about the task for which she had come and began to prowl. It was second nature to her. Her Headmistress’s eye did not miss a thing.
She made a meticulous study of the walls, examined the bookshelves, went again through the documents in the desk drawer, and looked once more at the No. .38 automatic. Nothing there to add to what she already knew.
She tried raising the armchair, but its weight defeated her. Then she studied the wooden blocks. Besides serving the purpose of preventing the castors cutting into the costly carpet they definitely made that chair a stationary piece of furniture for all practical purposes. From which Maria inferred that her brother could hardly have sat anywhere else had he wished to relax and enjoy the radio.
Then she glanced inside the radiogram and puzzled for a moment. The needle had stopped in the middle of a record. The record itself was some unpronounceable Italian aria sung by Janet herself.
Maria frowned. Needle in the middle of the record? The radiogram was obviously a self-player, one of those instruments that handle a dozen records at one operation. Maria turned from it at last, still puzzled, and directed her attention to the polished wood surrounding the edge of the carpet.
After a long search on hands and knees she came unexpectedly upon something. It had lodged in a crack between skirting board top and wall paneling. For a long time she fished carefully and finally pulled forth a short, powerful spring. It was about an eighth of an inch thick and two inches long. At each end a loop formed out of the spring itself, one loop larger than the other.
Maria stood up, turned her find over and over in her fingers, pulled it gently open and shut and noted that dust had gathered on its greasy coils. Obviously it had been there some little time. The more she looked at it the more she searched round in her mind for something to fit it—and finally accepted the suggestion that a typewriter was the most likely article. Springs are not common things in a house unless connected with some kind of machine—and the most likely machine in this case was certainly a typewriter.
It started her off on another search but she found no signs of a machine anywhere. Finally she sat down in the armchair and pondered the spring again. Perhaps it meant nothing: but equally it might mean something. So finally she put it away in her watch-chain locket; then she eased herself into the position in the armchair in which her brother had presumably met his death—according to Alice’s reenactment anyway.
Maria found herself looking at the radiogram in the corner alcove. That seemed natural enough. Then she altered her position a little and found she was gazing right into the barrel of one of the two crossed guns high up on the right-angled wall of the chimney breast. She frowned, a thought twisting quickly through her head.
She got to her feet, pulled up a small chair and stood on it. Even now she could not reach the crossed guns, but she stood surveying them from this closer viewpoint. They were very old and clumsy looking, but no doubt valuable as antiques. They graced the wall in an “X” fashion, with their barrels pointing downward at forty-five degrees. Their support seemed to be comprised of five nails, somewhat rusted now with long standing. The nails supported the guns in five-spot dice fashion, the center nail passing through the trigger-guard on both guns, and the remaining four supporting barrels and butts respectively. Nothing peculiar about this, and probably it was pure coincidence that one of the guns pointed right at the armchair.
Maria smiled regretfully. “Keep a grip on yourself, Maria. Always remember Calvin Brown’s treatise on Gradual Conclusions.”
She prepared to descend, then paused again as she looked at the nails supporting the butt and barrel of the gun pointing at the chair. It seemed as though— She got down hastily, added a cushion to the chair, and climbed again. Now she was quite close. What she saw might have meant anything, but to her inquisitive mind it was not at least a natural thing....
Briefly, the rust on the two end nails—but not on the center one through the trigger-guard—had been scored almost to brightness. The scoring took the form of a pin-thin scratch on the nail supporting the barrel; but on the nail supporting the butt it was wider—much wider.
Maria frowned, looked at the nails from all angles. They projected perhaps two inches beyond the gun itself. And the ends were scored? For a long time she thought, then she fished out her spring again and fixed it on the nail that had the wider scoring. A vague surprise filled her on discovering her guess was correct. The scoring exactly matched in width the smaller loop of the spring.
She shook her head perplexedly and climbed down, returned the spring to the locket and fingered her watch-chain pensively.... Perhaps— She looked up sharply, her meditations interrupted by the faintest of sounds reaching her from somewhere in the hall. Instantly she moved to the switch and put out the lights. Opening the door cautiously she peered outside, just in time to see a dim figure with a tiny glow from a fountain-pen torch heading towards the front door. Every move was cautious; there was no necessity to draw back the bolts since they were left back in order that Dick could get into the house in the early hours.
From the slenderness of the figure in its light summer dustcoat Maria judged it must be Patricia. She continued watching intently until at last Patricia had the door open. She slipped phantom-like outside, closing the door with her latchkey to avoid the click of the lock— It was enough for Maria. It was long after midnight, and for a girl to be slipping out at such an hour was not entirely indicative of a commonplace motive. Besides, Maria had remembered that Pat spent a lot of time sleeping. Why not indeed if this was the sort of thing she was up to?
Maria made up her mind quickly as she crossed the dark hall. It was unlikely that Pat would use a car for fear of the noise of the engine. If she walked there might be the chance of keeping her in sight since the main street outside took a beeline for the town center. In that case— Maria hurried up to her room, bundled on hat and coat, grabbed her umbrella, then returned to the front door. She had to risk the click of the lock. As she descended the steps into the street she saw the white-coated figure of Patricia hurrying along under the street lamps perhaps five hundred yards ahead of her. There was not a great deal of traffic about at this hour; people on the pavement too were pretty sparse, so Maria found herself faced with but little difficulty in keeping track of the girl’s movements. Possibly she was not conscious of how conspicuous her light-colored coat made her. Maria marched on, umbrella firmly in hand, her pace strong and vigorous despite her tiring day. More than once had the denizens of Roseway had reason to remark their Headmistress’s iron endurance.
Pat’s walk took her in a straight line into the heart of the city where the people became more frequent and the sky-signs and late night dance halls blazed their invitations to the dark. It was into one of these latter, to Maria’s astonishment, that Pat finally vanished from view.
Maria crossed the street and stood surveying the garish façade of the establishment from the opposite side. It was clearly not high class, was sandwiched between two edifices that were probably offices by day. Bright neon lights proclaimed—
MAXIES’ DANCE HALL
Patricia—the lordly, wealthy Patricia Black—gone in here? And in the early hours of the morning? Maria was nonplussed for a moment; then she straightened her hat, took a firm hold on her umbrella, thanked God there was an ocean between herself and Roseway, and crossed the street again. Spurred on by memories of a myriad treatises on criminology, all of which seemed to add up to the fact that a good investigator never loses the quarry, she would allow herself no pause—not even when she got to the box office and spent a few moments reconciling English and American currency values. The maiden behind the cash grille watched her in lambent interest, chewing meanwhile.
Maria found the coin she wanted at last, took a ticket, then marched between the dried palms into the foyer. So far all was well: she would have to rely on her personality for the rest. For a moment she paused, aware of a blanketing heat and the distant cacophony of an indifferent orchestra. She caught a glimpse of a mob of half-dressed women and shiny-faced men drifting round the dance floor.... Looking round her she saw the stairs, went up them to a low-built balcony scattered with