The Final Solution: A Story of Detection by Michael Chabon Read Free Book Online

think. She felt sorry for that intense little inspector from London, Bellows. No wonder he had sent for the old man's help. "He is preparing a monograph on our church."
    "And yet he's never there," Reggie said. "Least of all on Sunday."
    The detective looked at her for confirmation of this.
    "He is presently making a survey of some very old village rolls they keep in the library at Gabriel Park," she said. "I'm afraid I don't really understand it. He's trying to make calculations about the height of the tower in the Middle Ages. It's all-he showed me once. It seemed as much math as architecture."
    The old man sank slowly back into his chair, but this time with an air of great abstraction. He was no longer looking at her or at Reggie, or, so far as she could see, at anything in the room. His pipe had long since gone out, and working through a series of automatic steps he relit it, without appearing to notice that he did so. The four human beings sharing the room with him stood or sat, waiting with a remarkable unanimity for him to come to some conclusion. After a full minute of furious smoking, he said, "Parkins," clearly and distinctly, and then he gave a little mumbled speech whose words she couldn't catch. He appeared, she would have said, to be delivering a lecture to himself. Once more he made it up onto his feet, and then headed toward the door of the waiting room, without a backward glance. It was as if he had forgotten them entirely.
    "What about me?" Reggie said. "Tell them to let me out, you silly old geezer!"
    "Reggie!" She was horrified. Thus far he had said nothing that even remotely resembled an expression of regret over what had happened to Mr. Shane. He had confessed without a jot of shame his plan to steal Bruno from an orphaned little refugee Jew, and to going through the contents of Mr. Parkins's wallet. And now here he was, being rude to the only really worthwhile ally he had ever possessed, apart from her. "For heaven's sake. If you can't see the mess you've got yourself into this time . . ."
    The old man turned back from the door, wearing an annoyed little smile.
    "Your mother is right," he said. "At this point there is very little evidence to exonerate you, and a good deal of circumstantial evidence that might seem to implicate you. These gentlemen"-he nodded toward Noakes and Woollett- "would be in dereliction of duty if they were to free you. You appear, in short, to be quite guilty of murdering Mr. Shane."
    Then he pulled on his hunting cap and, with a last nod in her direction, went out.
    6
    The old man had visited Gabriel Park once before; sometime in the late nineties, that would have been. Then as now it was a question of murder, and there had also been an animal concerned, then-a Siamese cat, painstakingly trained to administer a rare Malay poison with a brush of its whisker against the lips.
    The great old house's fortunes appeared in the intervening years to have declined. Before the last war a fire had destroyed the north wing, with its turreted observatory from whose slitted eyelid the Baroness di Sforza-that grand and hideous woman-had leapt to her death, with her precious Siam Queen clutched yowling to her breast. Here and there one still saw blackened timbers jutting from the tall grass like a row of snuffed wicks. The main hall, with all the surrounding pasturelands, had been taken over just before the present war by something called the National Research Dairy; its small, admirably healthy herd of Galloways was the subject of immense skepticism and amusement in the neighborhood.
    Forty years ago, the old man recalled, it had needed a regiment of servants to tend the place. Now there was no one to clip the ivy or repaint the window frames, or to replace the lost tiles of the roof, which five years of occupation by the Research Dairy had transformed from a stately defile of chimneys to an upset knitting-basket of aerials and wires. The dairy researchers themselves were seldom seen in town,