The Eight of Swords dgf-3

by John Dickson Carr

  "Poor Mr. Burke!" said Madeleine, keeping her face straight with an expression of concern. "Diddums get hit by a mean old bicycle?"

  "Yes, my dear," said J. R., and squinted sideways with his rifle-barrel glare, "yes, I did. And on the main road. I was deliberately assaulted by a bicycle on the main road—after having successfully dodged twenty-four of them in all the back lanes of Gloucestershire. Fellow coming down this hill at a speed that ought to be prohibited. It's a blind corner. I didn't see him. Bang?

  "Never mind, sir," said Morgan consolingly. "You were just off your game, that's all. You'll fool him next time."

  J. R. looked at him.

  "Fellow got up off the road dizzy, and helped me get up. Then he said, 'Are you Mr. J. R. Burke?' I said yes. He said, I’ve got a telegram for you.' I said, "Well, this is the hell of a way deliver it, isn't it?' Imagine his confounded nerve. 'What is your procedure,' I said, Svhen unusual circumstances compel you to deliver a telegram at somebody's house? Is it necessary to use a tank, or do you only wrap the telegram round a hand grenade and chuck it through the window?' " Evidently satisfied by this retort, J. R. recovered some of his good humor. He growled something into his glass, and glanced sardonically at Morgan. "By the way, it was from Langdon, Depping's solicitor in London. You people at The Grange — I don't suppose anybody thought to do that, eh? Fine practical minds. Suppose you thought his affairs would take care of themselves."

  "Any ideas," said Morgan, "about the murder?"

  J. R. looked at him sharply. "No. It's a bad business, that's all I know. Going to hurt us — plenty. Why theorize? They've caught the murderer…"

  "Have they?"

  "If you're trying to apply theories…" The corners of the other's mouth turned down, and he surveyed his glass; looked around it, and over it, and under it. Til give you advice. Stick to John Zed, and let real life alone. Don't touch this business, anyway. It's mucky."

  "Well, that's what I was wondering. The police are likely to be asking you what you know about Depping; his past, and the rest of it—"

  "You mean Gideon Fell will. Humph… What of it? I can't tell him any more than I can tell anybody else. Depping's credit's perfectiy sound and Bank-of-England. Otherwise he had — useful qualities. Standish vouched for him. If Fell wants any further information, hell have to ask the solicitor. Langdon will be here tonight or tomorrow morning."

  Morgan evidently saw that J. R. (if he knew anything) had no disposition to talk. But Morgan talked. He stood in the middle of the darkened lawn and proceeded with a recital which raised Donovan's hair— for, in essentials, it was inference for inference almost exactly the same explanation as Dr. Fell's.

  Less closely reasoned, more discursive, and with a few points missing, he had nevertheless contrived to evolve the whole scene with the imaginative vividness of a story-teller. He started with the buttonhook, and went on with a multitude of details — after the fashion of the novelist — which were new to Donovan. When he announced his first surprise, Depping's disguise and imposture, Patricia gave a hoot of derision, and J. R. peered over his glasses in tolerant mockery. But presently he began pounding in his details, and the others were silent.

  "And I can prove my assumptions," he went on, striding back and forth among them, and addressing himself to Burke, "on points I noticed when Murch and I examined the room this morning. I decided that there had been an imposture, and I examined the body first of all… " He turned to Donovan. "You were with Dr. Fell when he went to the Guest House. Did he examine the body carefully?" Donovan was cautious. "Well, no. That is—" "On the upper lip," Morgan proceeded, "there were traces of spirit-gum for the moustache; you can't take it off with water. Traces of the actor's cement were behind his ears. In the fireplace were not only remnants of burned clothing, but a scorched tuft of black hair from the wig… Then I went into his bedroom and bathroom, which adjoined the study. If there had been any further need for confirmation, it was there. On either side of the mirror over the washbowl in the bathroom, two candles had been propped up — to give Depping light in taking off his makeup, immediately after his return. Stuck in the drain was one of those strips of transparent fishskin that are used for drawing in sagging flesh round the cheeks and eyes, to present an appearance of youth. There were wet socks and a suit of wet underclothing across a chair; the rest had been burned. I didn't find any box of cosmetics, but Murch was watching and I couldn't make a thorough search. All this puzzled Murch considerably." Again he peered at Hugh in the gloom. "What did Dr. Fell make of it?"

  This time Hugh was caught off guard. "We didn't go in there," he replied. "When he deduced all you've said, it was only from the facts we'd heard—"

  There was a silence. He heard his own words as though they had come back to him in an echo. Suddenly he tried to stumble into another explanation, but he could think of nothing. In the hush Morgan walked across, his head bent forward.

  "Good God," he said, "do you mean to tell me that I'm right?"

  There was a sort of staggered incredulity in his tone which puzzled Hugh still more.

  "Right?" he repeated. "Well, if you've been saying all this-"

  ‘I know" said Morgan, and passed a hand over his eyes. Then he started to laugh. I’d convinced myself of it, but… well, it seemed too good to be true. It was so exactly the way it should have happened according to romance that I didn't really believe it myself. That was why I was testing it out on all of you. Betrayed, by the Lord! Master mind betrayed into telling the true facts too soon." He picked up the cocktail shaker, found it was empty, and set it down irritably. "Why the devil couldn't I have waited and hit the bishop in the eye with it? Ill never forgive myself for this."

  He sat down. J. R. was making protesting noises.

  "Look here," he said, "do you mean to tell me Gideon Fell believes all this tommyrot?"

  "I'd be willing to bet," said Morgan thoughtfully, "that you believe it yourself?'

  "Tommyrot!" snapped J. R. "You're making Depping out as an ex-criminal, who wanted to kill Spinelli—"

  "I only said there was something highly unsavory in his past."

  "Humph." After a time of lowering his head and grunting, the other's tone changed again to tolerant sarcasm. "It would look well enough for a book, my lad, but it won't do. There's one great big thundering hole in it. Know what it is? Shut up. Let me talk. Ill see to what lengths of nonsense you're willing to go before I explode the thing… Suppose it's true. Which I don't admit, mind. What then?"

  "Why, we come back to the fact that the murderer is somebody in our midst." Morgan got up again, stared at the darkening sky, and began to move about rather uneasily. He had the air of one who has started up more than was his intention. "That is… Look here, is this what Dr. Fell thinks? For God's sake, man, tell me the truth!"

  Donovan, who had been cursing himself, made an attempt at mysteriousness that was not very successful. He shrugged his shoulders. Patricia was brooding with her chin in her fists. Morgan went on:

  This was Depping's world. If he wanted a confederate to keep guard in his room while he went out after Spinelli…"

  "Rubbish," said J. R. "And I’ll tell you why… Assume what you say is true. His having a confederate for this business is fantastic. Worse than the idea he was a criminal in the past. Much. Pah! Listen to me." The red bowl of his pipe stabbed out in the gloom. "What did Depping most want to do?"

  "About what? I don't follow you."

  Patricia passed a hand over her hair and then gestured like one who wants silence in which to think. "I say, wait a bit. I think I follow." She turned accusingly to J. R. "At least you'll admit this. You've always thought he was playing some sort of part — now, haven't you?"

  "Got nothing to do with it. Don't ask me questions," growled the other. "Go on"

  "He wanted to be thought a scholarly and well-bred country gentleman; that's what he wanted," said Patricia with emphasis.

  "Humph. Which he may have been, mind… Anyhow, that's what I
meant. He wanted to establish his position for that; he'd been working towards it for five years. Humph." J. R. gathered his shoulders together. His face was barely visible in the gloom; but they could feel the Chinese-image expression hardening and staring out as though to convince them by weight of personality, like the bishop. Then is what you say very likely? — Would he go up to one of the people hereabouts and say, 'Look here. Sorry to deceive you all this time, but the fact is I'm really an ex-criminal and baby-killer. There's a fellow I used to know, who's been trying to blackmail me, and I've got to bump him off. Give me a hand, will you? Take my place in the study while I go out and attend to him; there's a good fellow. I’ll do the same for you sometime.' " He snorted. "Nonsense!"

  Morgan had been lighting his pipe. The match abruptly stopped just above the bowl; it showed his face gone tense, and rather strained, and he was staring at the beach umbrella. Then the match went out.

  He said slowly: "No. Depping needn't have said that at all."

  "More theories—?"

  The only theory" Morgan answered in a queer voice, "that will account for all the facts. A theory that turns half-a-dozen of the most harmless people in England, including myself, into a group of potential murderers."

  Another pause. Hugh stared at the sky, turning to colors of pale white and purple after sunset, and he was conscious of a chill that had taken hold of everybody. Madeleine said, "Don't talk like that—" all of a sudden, and struck the side of the deck chair.

  "Let's hear it," said J. R. sharply.

  "I'm rather muddled myself," Morgan admitted, with his hand over his eyes; "and there have been so many cross-deductions that we're apt to tangle up what we know with what we only suspect. But here it is…

  "The last part of the hypothesis I told you — that is, the murder of Depping by his confederate — was based on the assumption that the confederate was a willing accomplice, who knew what Depping meant to do; and, second, that this accomplice had meantime devised his own plan for killing Depping. That he went to the Guest House prepared with rubber gloves. That he left Depping locked out on the balcony, pretending that the key was lost; that he made Depping come up through the front door to provide an alibi… Is that correct?"

  "Fair enough," said Hugh. "What then?"

  Morgan replied quietly: "Only that the accomplice was nothing of the kind, and had at first not the slightest intention of killing Depping."

  "But, look here-"

  "J. R.'s objection is perfectly sound. It's convincing, and it's true. Depping would never have suggested to anybody hereabouts that they assist him in a murder; or even have hinted at an unsavory past, until… Wait a bit. But there would have been any number of harmless people in this vicinity quite willing to assist Depping in what they thought was a lark."

  Burke snorted. "A lark! You've an odd notion of the people in your circle, my boy, if you think they're addicted—"

  "Have you forgotten the poltergeist?" said Morgan.

  After a silence he went on steadily:

  "Somebody was willing to cut up that row with the vicar, and probably enjoyed it. I should have enjoyed it, personally… I still insist that several people could have been drawn in to assist Depping, unwittingly, if they had been persuaded it was a show of that sort. It wouldn't be hard to spin up a tale that would plant an unconscious confederate in that study. Depping meant to go out and kill Spinelli. But the accomplice didn't know that."

  "In that case," said Donovan, who was trying to hold hard to reason, "what becomes of the plot to kill Depping? What about the rubber gloves — and the key that accomplice pretended to have lost — and—?"

  "They are all suppositions," said Morgan coolly.

  Hugh peered at him. "Good God, man, I know they are! They're your suppositions. What happens to them now?"

  "Put it this way. Depping, in disguise, was locked out. He was locked out for an obvious reason which doesn't seem to have occurred to anybody: that the accomplice really couldn't find the key. Depping had sneaked out the front door of the house intending to return by the balcony. But he had forgotten the key— left it behind in his other clothes, and it couldn't be found. Meantime, Depping can't wait in the rain. He conceives the idea that he can get in through the front door, if the other person will blow out the fuses…"

  "How?" demanded Hugh. "I thought we'd agreed about the buttonhook. Nobody with bare hands would have tried blowing the fuses like that."

  "Certainly not. But it could have propped against that low socket, and pushed in to make a contact…"

  "With what?"

  "With the sole of a tennis shoe," said Morgan, and struck another match. "We mustn't be too sure of those rubber gloves, you know. And thus we destroy the only basis for believing that the accomplice intended to kill Depping… with the sole of any ordinary tennis shoe."

  Donovan searched his mind for a suitable observation, and eyed his host with malevolence. "Nuts!" he said violently, after some consideration. "Nuts!"

  Patricia let out a protesting gurgle.

  "I say, Hank, it won't do!" she insisted. "I thought you said that, after Mr. Depping was shot, the murderer got out the balcony door, and the door was left open… If that's so, and the murderer really couldn't find the key, how did he get out that way?"

  Morgan was afire with his new idea. He went stalking up and down, banging into the table in the gloom, and bumping against chairs indiscriminately.

  "As simple as that!" he almost shouted. "Ha. Ha. Of course. When his accomplice can't find the key, Depping is hopping mad. Depping is hop…'m. Let the euphony pass. He comes upstairs in his disguise. He does exactly what you yourself would have done under the circumstances. 'Are you blind?' he says. 'Look here, you fathead!'—or words to that effect, however Depping would have phrased it. He goes in and finds the key himself, and produces it before the other person's eyes. In moments of great emotional stress, that's precisely the sort of silly thing a person would do. Can't you see Depping, wet to the skin, nervous, vicious; with his loud clothes and his wig coming askew; standing there shaking the key before the other person? Even with the murder of Spinelli on his mind…"

  "I don't know whether you are aware of it," said Hugh with great politeness, "but Spinelli happens to be alive."

  "Which," said Morgan, "Depping didn't know. He thought Spinelli's body was safe in the river… Murch told me what happened at the Chequers last night. Depping didn't know his attempt was a failure. And what then?"

  Morgan's voice sank. "Now he has the accomplice utterly at his mercy. I can see Depping with that little smirk he used to have — remember it? — on his face, and the stoop of his shoulders, and his hands rubbing together. He goes into the bathroom and painstakingly removes his disguise. He brushes his hair and puts on other clothes. His accomplice is still mystified; but he has been promised an explanation, after the clothes and evidences have been destroyed. Presendy Depping sits down, facing the other person, and smiles again.

  " 'I have killed a man,' he says in that dry voice of his. "You will never dare betray me, because I have made you accessory before and after the fact.'"

  Morgan's voice had unconsciously fallen into an imitation. Hugh had never heard Depping's voice; but it was just such a one as he would have believed Depping to have possessed — level, thin, harsh, and edged with malice. The man had suddenly become alive here in the dusk: a puzzle and a monstrosity, rubbing his hands together. Donovan could see him sitting up stiff in his leather chair, with a candle burning on the desk before him, and the storm roaring outside. He could see the long furrowed face, the grizzled hair, the dry leer out of the eyes.

  Across from him sat X…

  "You know how he repressed himself when he was with us," Morgan went on abruptly. "You could feel it. You knew he hated us, that he was thinking differently, and his mind was boiling the whole time. He'd got his new life; but he could never get used to it. That was why he went on those drinking sprees.

  "I don't know what there ha
d been in his past life. But I think that murder had probably been one of the least of his offenses. I think he sat there and carefully explained to his accomplice what he had been, and what he was; that all his spite came out; and that he pointed out carefully how the accomplice was caught. He couldn't be betrayed, or Depping would swear both of them were concerned in the murder. What the confederate had thought a lark was really a crime that put him at Depping’s mercy. Depping displayed the pistol, laid it on the table. And I think something was said — I don't know what; this is only a guess — that made one of our nice, harmless, inoffensive community go slightly insane. Maybe it was the way Depping smirked and moved his head. I don't know, but I could have killed him, myself, more than once. I think one of our harmless community found an excuse to get behind Depping — snatched up the gun from the table, and-"

  "Don't!" cried Patricia out of the dark. "Don't say that! You almost sound as though you'd been there!.."

  Morgan lowered his head. He seemed to catch sight of his wife, who was huddled back silently into the deck chair. Moving across, he sat down beside her and said in a matter-of-fact voice:

  "What price horrors? Actually, what we all want is another cocktail. Wait till I get the lights on, and another bowl of ice, and I’ll mix a new shaker…"

  "You don't get out of it," said Hugh grimly, "so easily as that."

  "No. No," the other replied in a reflective voice, "I didn't suppose I should. Well, the only question is: Which one of us would old Depping select for his lark?"

  The implication of his remark was setting slowly into all their minds when, with only a preliminary grunt, J. R. Burke spoke out. He said in a meditative voice: