Buku The Case of the Seven Sneezes by Anthony Boucher

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The Case of the Seven Sneezes by Anthony Boucher

Author:Anthony Boucher

Language: eng

Format: epub

Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Media

Published: 2018-06-10T16:00:00+00:00

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The Case of the Seven Sneezes by Anthony Boucher

Chapter 8

Catherine Brainard did not see them. She stumbled toward the door, wide-eyed and blind. Fergus caught her by the wrists. “Where are you going?”

She lurched forward and stopped. “Lucas. He killed Lucas.” The blood from her robe smeared onto Fergus’ yellow shirt.

 

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The Case of the Seven Sneezes by Anthony Boucher

Author:Anthony Boucher , Date: June 11, 2019

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Author:Anthony Boucher

Language: eng

Format: epub

Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Media

Published: 2018-06-10T16:00:00+00:00
Chapter 8

Catherine Brainard did not see them. She stumbled toward the door, wide-eyed and blind. Fergus caught her by the wrists. “Where are you going?”

She lurched forward and stopped. “Lucas. He killed Lucas.” The blood from her robe smeared onto Fergus’ yellow shirt.

“Who killed him?”

“He did. I don’t know. He can’t …”

“What did you see? What brought you in here?”

“Let me go. Let me go, I have to …”

There was strength in her wrists, a wrenching twisting strength that almost freed her. Then all force abruptly went out of her and she sagged limp against the detective. Her body jerked with dry sobs.

“Go back to bed,” said Fergus. “Dr. Arnold will give you something. You’ll feel better.”

“Here. Let me.” This was Stella Paris standing behind him in the doorway. She put a gently compelling arm around the shaken woman and led her off toward the master bedroom. Horace Brainard stood by the open door of that room. His face was pale and his jaw hung down useless. He did not say a word as the two women went past him. He only stared at Fergus and moved his eyes questioningly to indicate the inside of Quincy’s room.

Fergus nodded. Brainard’s pale face grew paler yet, and he leaned back against the doorjamb for support. Then Fergus saw another door open. Janet was coming out. Hastily he stepped back into the room where Quincy lay, and shut the door behind him.

Dr. Arnold straightened up from his examination. “I’ve touched as little as possible,” he said.

“No chance for him then?”

“It was a sharp knife this time.”

“Is it there?”

“No. I simply judge from the wound. The knife is gone. Probably our friend prefers to remain armed.”

Fergus tried not to stare at him. It was unbelievable. No man could remain so composedly unmoved beside the corpse of a friend of twenty-five years standing. It was understandable, perhaps, that the passing of Lucas Quincy should be not too deeply mourned; but an attitude of such complete indifference bordered on the terrible.

Fergus shook his head wordlessly and started pacing. For the duration of one cigarette he roamed the room in silence. His green eyes glanced eagerly about, trying to take in each last detail that might be significant.

“In that famous vanished suitcase,” he said at last, “there was a damned accurate little Leica which would come in mighty handy now. Though at that I’m hanged if I know what it would find worth recording. Tidy man, the late Mr. Quincy. Room all shipshape and not a sign of anybody else’s presence. … What can you tell me from the wound, doctor?”

Dr. Arnold spoke with the impersonality of a police surgeon. “Very little, I fear. The murderer must have stood here beside the bed, slightly behind Quincy. He made it with one stroke.”

“Indicating some knowledge?”

“Knowledge? Oh, surgical, you mean? Perhaps. Not impossibly. But equally possibly it was simply good luck.”

“And practice,” Fergus added bitterly. “He’s had plenty of that. Go on.”

“As you can see, the blood spurted forward. I doubt if so much as a drop hit the murderer.

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