Murder of a Snob Read Online Free PDF

before he showed up. And then he didn’t go in by the front door, as she did. He went in by the window he had come out of, pushed it up from the outside. I think she must’ve been in that room—or else he had some trouble with Samuel. It hadn’t finished striking the quarter past before he came out again—wiping his face with his handkerchief he was, as if he’d been crying. Then he walked across that bit o’ lawn, but caught his foot, or something, and fell down. When he’d picked himself up he turned round and went to the stables—but it’s the garage, really—then he came out in one of those big cars that only seat two—silly, I call ’ em—and drove himself off. All painted up, the car was, like it belonged to a circus.”
    â€œBut he came back?”
    â€œI’m telling you. He came back a little after half past six. He’d left it late, I suppose, because he fairly ran from the stables to the front door.
    â€œI didn’t see either of those two again until just before you came. Then they came out together, him in his evening dress and her wearing a cloak. They hadn’t hardly sat down before that Mr. Querk—if it is Mr. Querk—joined them. You saw the three o’ them when you came, before all those others turned up.”
    â€œAnd you saw nothing else at all?”
    â€œWell unless you count the maid, bringing out tables and chairs and things, about seven. Oh, and the postman—about a quarter to four, that would be. With a registered parcel I expect, because he waited while the maid signed for it.”
    Crisp had made a rich haul of important little items, invaluable in checking the statements of others. And for this he was indebted to the vague, rambling old woman who had suddenly converted herself into an ideal witness.
    â€œYou’ve helped me a lot, Mrs. Cornboise, and I’m grateful.” He added in the same tone: “And you yourself have been sitting on this bench continuously for more than six hours?”
    â€œSeven hours, come another few minutes. Didn’t you hear it strike nine just now? There’ll be the dew presently and I think I’ll be getting home, if there’s nothing else you want to ask me.”
    â€œAs a matter of form, Mrs. Cornboise,” said Crisp, “I must ask you to let me look inside that canvas bag of yours.”
    â€œWell, I never!” Again she had the air of being shocked. “Like the police in the pictures.” She handed him the bag, adding gloomily: “In a picture I saw last week, a policeman put a revolver in somebody’s bag so that another policeman could find it there and make a lot of bother.”
    â€œYou watch me and see that I don’t cheat,” grinned Crisp as his hand groped in the bag.
    He removed the topmost articles—a novelette with a lingerie jacket, a sixpenny packet of stationery, and a pair of gloves.
    After a few seconds of rummaging, he pulled out a woollen stocking. Inside the stocking, at the toe, was a hard, heavy substance. He tumbled it into his palm. It had the appearance of a duck’s egg. It was solid and was made of earthenware.
    â€œThat’s a nest-egg,” she explained. “I tried keeping chickens at one time, but they weren’t really company. I use it now for stretching the stocking and holding it steady while I darn it—in case you’re wondering.”
    â€œI was wondering,” said Crisp, “why you carry this darning device in a stocking that has no hole, has never been darned and is, in fact, a new one.”
    â€œThere now!” exclaimed Mrs. Cornboise. “I must have brought the wrong pair. You have got sharp eyes, I must say!”
    He opened the bag to its full extent, found two more stockings, making a total of three.
    â€œI shall have to keep these for the present,” he told her. “I’ll give you a receipt.”
    When he had calmed her