Free The Blind Side by Patricia Wentworth Page A

it?”
    Detective Abbott spoke in his pleasant public school voice.
    â€œIt looks as if he wanted to make sure that there wouldn’t be any fingerprints except those Rush and Peterson had seen him make after Craddock was dead.”
    The Inspector nodded.
    â€œMeaning he knew something about the fingerprints that were there, and meant to cover them up—his own likely enough. A bold, impudent trick that, and no mistake.”
    Young Abbott shook his head.
    â€œI shouldn’t think they’d be his own. If he’d shot the man he’d have wiped the revolver and left it in Craddock’s hand. He’s too cool a card to have left the place shouting murder when there was quite a decent chance of staging a suicide.”
    â€œBright ideas you have—don’t you, Abbott? Makes me wonder where you get ’em from. What do you know about Mr. Renshaw that makes you say he’s a cool card? Ever come across him before?”
    Young Abbott’s face did not change at all. He said,
    â€œYes, sir. I was wondering whether I’d better tell you.”
    â€œWell, you’d better tell me now.”
    â€œWell, sir, we were at school together for a bit. He’s older of course. I—well as a matter of fact, I fagged for him.”
    â€œAnd you say he’s a cool card?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œWell, remember you’re not fagging for him now. Lord—it’s hot!” He wiped his brow. “Better have the porter next,” he said, and settled back into his chair.
    The curtains had been drawn, and the sun shone bright outside. Rush came stumping into the room, his face very red and his back very stiff. He refused to sit down, and delivered all his answers to a point about a foot over the Inspector’s head. His name was Albert Edward Rush, his age was sixty-five years, and he had been porter at Craddock House for thirty of them, leaving out the four years he was away at the war.
    The Inspector sat up and took notice.
    â€œServed in the war, did you?”
    â€œAugust nineteen-fourteen to December nineteen-eighteen.”
    Rush had no sirs up his sleeve for policemen. His war record was dragged from him a word or two at a time. Royal Fusiliers. Three times wounded. Finished up a sergeant. Glad enough to be back at his job. Yes, of course he knew how to fire a revolver. “What d’you take me for—a blinking fool?”
    Inspector Lamb laughed.
    â€œNo, sergeant. Weil now—did you know Mr. Craddock had a revolver?”
    Rush wasn’t so ready with his answer this time.
    â€œIf I did, what about it?”
    â€œDid you? That’s the question.”
    Rush glared.
    â€œAnd I say, what if I did?”
    The Inspector spoke him fair.
    â€œCome, come—there’s no need to take it like that. Did you know he had a revolver?”
    Rush was not placated.
    â€œI suppose I did,” he said in his surliest voice.
    â€œDid you know where he kept it?”
    Rush let out his breath with a snort.
    â€œWhat are you a-hinting at? Everyone knew where he kep’ it. He’d leave the drawer open—anyone could see what was inside.”
    â€œDid you ever handle it?”
    Rush’s eyes were hot and angry. His voice rasped.
    â€œWhat’d I handle it for? Had enough of the mucky things in the war without wanting to handle one of them now! What are you getting at?”
    Detective Abbott’s colourless eyebrows rose a little, but the Inspector refused to take offence.
    â€œWell, well, you didn’t handle it. But you saw Mr. Renshaw handle it, didn’t you?”
    â€œWho says I did?”
    â€œThat doesn’t matter, sergeant. The question is, what do you say about it?”
    Rush stood there stiff and scowling. He snapped out,
    â€œHe picked it up. I told him he hadn’t oughter.”
    â€œHow did he pick it up?”
    â€œButt end first, and when I told him off he caught hold of the muzzle