[The Girl From UNCLE 04] - The Cornish Pixie Affair - Leslie Peter (читать книги полностью без сокращений бесплатно .TXT) 📗

"Naturally we have. But we didn't actually take out each individual negative and project it; we just saw the kind of thing they were and, as it were, filed them away for future reference. Our unknown helper seems to think there may actually be a clue in the subjects of these pictures. So we have to look just in case."

"I see. Any other developments?"

"Not in the case of Miss Duncan, no. But the pathologist in Penzance passed on a message from the lab that may have a bearing on Harry Bosustow's murder. It seems there were traces of paint behind the knees of his trousers — and it's a paint sold by ship's chandlers. Carries a built-in rust-inhibitor and an anti-saltwater-corrosion agent."

"So it looks as though...?"

"It looks as though it's a clue to the craft he was taken out and drowned in. Marked his trousers when he struggled as they pushed him over the gunwale, I guess. Poor devil."

"It's fresh paint, is it?"

"Oh, yes. Been painted pretty recently, the lab said, otherwise it'd never have come off in sufficient quantities to register like that— specially after a few hours of immersion."

"Can you trace it to any specific boat here?"

"Not here, no. I had thought perhaps he might have been taken off in one of the crabbers — he was pretty friendly with some of the crews. But there's not but five fishing boats left in Porthallow today, and every one of them's blue and black with a white line around her waist."

"The paint was none of those colours, I assume?"

"Bless you, no. Didn't I say...? No, it was a very unusual colour — and that may be a help or it may be a hindrance; it all depends. All we know for certain is that there's no craft in Porthallow painted that way."

"What was the colour?"

"It's a kind of orangey-red. Oriental Dawn, they call it!" Curnow chuckled. "The names they think of! But it's an odd colour for the outside of a boat, and that's the truth."

"It couldn't have been from the inside? From a cabin, for instance?"

The policeman shook his head. "No. That's one thing they were sure about. It came from a gunwale. They can tell by the way it's come off on the material, for one thing. For another, there were traces of salt in it. And fish scales."

"So all you have to do is look for a boat…

"With a hull in Oriental Dawn. Exactly. As I say, it may be a help or it may be a hindrance... Here, I say, look at the time! I must be getting along for those photos."

"Good luck, then," Mark said.

"We shall probably need it, Mr. Slate. We shall probably need it... I say, I do like that coat! Those short overcoats are very practical, aren't they… I could do with one like that when I'm out on the moors sometime with the Customs and Excise boys!"

The agent smiled at his unabashed enthusiasm and began to walk back towards April's caravan. He must leave Curnow time to start ferretting about in the locker below the bed before he re-entered the adjacent trailer…

Sara Bosustow called him over as he passed the Serpentine booth. "Saw you talking to the Law," she said. "Haven't they arrested Handsome Gerry yet?... I can't for the life of me think why they don't pull him in. Everyone but them knows he's the one as killed Sheila... and it wouldn't surprise me if he done in poor Harry too." Her smouldering eyes filled with tears at the memory.

"Don't worry, Sara," he said. "I'm sure they'll pull in the murderer as soon as they have all the evidence they need — whoever it is." He waved and went on.

Round a corner behind the sideshows, he almost ran full tilt into Curnow again. The Superintendent was talking to Ernie Bosustow — and the boy's face was dark with rage. "... call off your rotten tails and leave me alone," he was saying defiantly, "or, so help me, I'll turn round and land one of the bleeders such a swipe as he'll never forget! Give a dog a bad name, that's your motto, isn't it? Just because I got a bit of a temper, then I'm the one must of done it."

"That's enough of that, Bosustow. Drop it now," Curnow grated — sounding very different from the slow-spoken saloon-bar friend Mark had just left.

"Drop it, is it?" the boy raved. "Just because you're determined to railroad me into gaol for a murder someone else committed, I'm supposed to sit tight and say 'Yes, sir,' and 'No, sir' and 'Thank you, Mr. Curnow' — is that it?"

"You know that isn't true —"

"I know a social climber when I see one, and I know the real murderer has a handle to his name — so I know, too, how much chance I have of getting a fair trial! And talking of trials, why don't you arrest me? Go on, take me in... I'll come. Arrest me! Maybe a jury would give me a better deal than I get here."

"I'm a patient man, lad, but if you don't button that lip..."

Slate rolled his eyes heavenwards and turned back. Neither man had seen him. If he hurried round the other way, he could make the caravan before the policeman reached Bosustow's next door.

He had only just closed the door and sunk, panting, to the bed when the bleep of his Communicator told him that April was ready to talk again. He snatched it from his pocket and pulled up the aerial.

"Channel open," he said crisply. "How goes the walk?"

"Freezing!" the girl's voice said. "But the breakers down below the path as you walk round the corner into the cove are something to write home about. Fabulous!"

"Plenty of spray for you?"

"Mark, the cliff must be nearly a hundred and fifty feet high there — and it seems as though some of the big ones are going to wet the top when they break! The seagulls are being tossed about like confetti!"

"We note your remarks and are pleased that you are happy in your work. To return to the subject of the operation, however— where are you now?"

"Like all your generation, you're an anti-romantic!"

"Comes of being an anti-hero, I suppose. I always was fashionable."

"Is it fashionable to be corny? — Don't answer that. I'm up above the cove now. I've just passed a coastguard station — a kind of wooden hut on a bit of the cliff that rises higher than the rest. I don't think it can be used any more. Everything is boarded up and closed."

"No, it isn't. There's none between here and Coverack. That's used any more, I mean... Tell me, just how does the land lie there?"

"Well, as I said, the cliffs are about a hundred and fifty feet sheer, then there's a kind of grassy shelf, sometimes narrow, sometimes wide, along which this path runs. And then above that the ground shoots up again — not a cliff but a steep slope with rock outcrops — until it reaches the Tor. Beyond the cove, the cliffs are much higher, much wilder — but the ground on top of them is practically flat, with fields and things."

"So the total height is less than the Tor?... Wright's house is at the head of the cove, is it?"

"Yes, it's just come into sight as I walk along. It's a big, low rambling place with thatched roofs. There's a little valley — the stream runs out into the cove — and it's tucked away among a grove of trees there. Looks as though there are a dozen rooms or more and quite a few outhouses."

"Any sign of life?"

"It's so sheltered it's difficult to see, really. But there are two cars — a big Citroen and a shooting brake — and I think I heard a couple of shots a few minutes ago. Presumably Joyful Gerald is out after the dinner."

"You be careful, miss. There are no other houses there, I suppose?