A Fearsome Doubt - Charles Todd [106]
“Or to keep me from wandering? I could drive away in that motorcar. I wasn’t able to do it today, but by tomorrow—”
“Yes, you could do that,” Rutledge agreed impassively. He found a kitchen bowl that would hold the broth, and a spoon. Handing both to Hauser, he said conversationally, “All things considered, what will you do now that Ridger is dead?”
“There’s no choice but to go home. I haven’t the money to waste on wishful thinking.”
The crows flew up in noisy protest, and Rutledge stepped to the door to look out. But there was no one there, only a prowling cat.
He came back to the kitchen, satisfied. “Tell me, why do you think these ex-soldiers were killed?” Seating himself on the edge of the heavy wooden table, he said, “You must have known about them. Did you think that because you were whole, no one would touch you?”
“I didn’t have the luxury of waiting the killer out. I told you. Money is short. When it’s gone, I have nothing, and nowhere to turn.” He ate the soup with relish. “Men kill for passion, and they kill for money. And they kill to keep a secret. Take your pick.”
“They kill for revenge.”
Hauser regarded him for a moment, spoon in midair. “So. You have been asking questions about me!”
Concealing his surprise, Rutledge said, “The old Frenchman shot you for revenge. It’s common enough in wartime.”
“Still. You must know about my brother.” A pause. “Did you bring the laudanum so that when the police come, they will find it in my possession? Oh, yes, I looked in the sack while you were seeing to the crows. I’m a suspicious man.”
“I told you. It was brought to help you sleep. I want the hangman to find you healthy enough to break your neck as you fall through the trapdoor.”
Hauser put the cap on the Thermos of broth, leaving half of it for later. As if he’d lost his appetite.
Rutledge said, “Tell me about your brother.”
“There’s nothing to tell. Except that after the cup was stolen, my brother Erich was killed.” He looked away. The wound was still rawer than the slash on his chest. “Perhaps if we had had the cup, he would still be alive. Call it superstition, if you will. So. I had every reason to kill Jimsy Ridger. But no one else.”
“And yet you claim you’ll sell the cup, if you find it.”
“If we stay in Germany, my son will be old enough to fight in the next war. There’s always a next war. If I take him away from Europe, he won’t need the protection of the cup. He’ll be safe.”
Hamish cautioned, “He would make a verra’ fine chess player. But I wouldna’ turn my back on him!”
Rutledge, rising from the table’s edge, conceded the point.
RUTLEDGE WAS WALKING down the passage to his room when the maid, her arms full of brooms and mops, a bucket clutched in one hand, smiled at him. “Mr. Rutledge? Mr. Haskins at the desk asked me earlier if I’d seen you. There’s a telephone message for you!”
It was from Chief Superintendent Bowles. When he had been located, his voice came down the line affably. “I’ve had no word on the situation in Marling. No progress to report, eh?”
“So far, there’s nothing new. But the killing has stopped. For the present.”
“The Chief Constable will be grateful for that blessing. But it’s not good enough. There’s bound to be something to point in the murderer’s direction! What does the local man have to say? Dowling.”
“Murder at night on a deserted road leaves very little to be going on with. By the time police reached the scene, morning traffic had already obliterated any tracks or other evidence.”
“Not good enough,” Bowles repeated. There was a pause. “The Chief Constable informs me you’ve dined with the great Raleigh Masters. Rumor says the man’s dying.”
Rumor, Hamish was pointing out, had clearly said a great deal more.
“He seemed lively enough,” Rutledge replied, trodding carefully. “He was reminiscing about Matthew Sunderland. I remember him from the Shaw