"She came up on the balcony and let herself in through the door. Depping had already gone. But she saw… you understand?"
Morgan nodded, abstractedly. "His disguise preparations, his own clothes left behind, and all the traces of that masquerade."
"Exactly. She knew he was out after Spinelli in disguise. As yet the brilliant idea had not occurred to her. She could not have known Depping had lost his key. But it did occur — she says with some pride— when she heard Depping fumble at the door, and say he was locked out. You know what happened. She short-circuited the lights with her rubber glove, and the comedy was played.
"Meantime, Spinelli had followed Depping back from the river. He saw everything, and heard everything at the window. The woman got Depping back into his ordinary clothes, her stage set; and then she did not have to use her own pistol at all. She picked up Depping's own gun from the desk — not wearing her gloves, of course — sat on the arm of his chair, and shot him. Afterwards she wiped off the gun, blew out the candles, and left… to meet Spinelli on the lawn below.
"He was careful. He took away the handbag in which she carried the other pistol; got it but of her grasp first, and removed the bullets, before he talked business. He had her cornered. She couldn't give him all he demanded; she protested that Depping hadn't been as rich as Spinelli thought. But let her get away from the place, she swore, and she would arrange something, and agreed to meet him on that spot the following night to discuss terms.
"Eheu! Naturally she never went back to Paris at all. She caught the last bus to Bristol, where she had a hotel room under another name. She then took a morning train to London; put through a trunk call to Paris, to the maid at her flat (who had been well coached from the beginning) and found that the telegram informing her of her father's death had arrived. So, allowing a reasonable time, she called on Langdon in Gray's Inn Square, and asked him to accompany her down to The Grange… But Langdon, you see, knew she was not really Depping's daughter. On the way down, he informed her of it. Depping had been indiscreet, and told him the whole story.
"He wanted half, to which she agreed. Meanwhile, Langdon was wondering how he could connect up this murder with the phone call he had had from Spinelli, saying that he (Spinelli) was on the point of being arrested for murder and asking for advice. Langdon jumped to the conclusion — which was true — that Spinelli knew the facts of his own case: viz., that the girl was not Depping's daughter. Langdon hinted as much to her.
"And she invented a brilliant scheme for disposing of them both. She said that Spinelli did know, and was asking for his share of hush money. She told him that she was to meet Spinelli at the Guest House that night: Would he, Langdon, be along, and use moral terrors, or legal terrors, or both, in an attempt to intimidate Spinelli?
"It nearly fell through; because, you see, we confronted Spinelli with Langdon, and they had the opportunity to confer in private. You can understand now Langdon's horror and nervousness when I announced that Spinelli was ready to talk. He thought I meant talk of what he knew about the girl. But the girl's scheme worked because Langdon's suspicions were aroused at Spinelli's talk, and he wondered whether 'Betty Depping' mightn't have deeper reasons for wishing silence all around than that matter of her identity.
"We shall never know what passed between Spinelli and Langdon at their interview. Langdon realized that Spinelli knew something more; but he kept his own counsel, and determined to be present that night — unseen and unheard — at the rendezvous between Spinelli and the girl."
Dr. Fell threw his cigar into the fire. He leaned back and listened to the rain.
They were both marked," he said. "You know what happened."
"Moral observations," remarked J. R., after a silence, "are now in order. Somebody will have to talk for a page or two on the futility and sadness of it, and how she would have been safe if only she hadn't left one-little-damning clue behind…"
"It won't go, Fm afraid," said Dr. Fell. He chuckled. The one-little-damning clue was a large and many-caloried dinner, steaming before your noses. You might as well say that the Guiness advertisements plastered over the hoardings are a clue to the theory that somebody is trying to sell stout."
J. R. scowled. "All the same," he said, "Fm glad that the only detective plot in which I ever took part was not full of improbabilities and wild situations, like-well, like Morgan's Murder on the Woolsack or Aconite at the Admiralty. There are no fiendish under-clerks shooting poisoned darts through keyholes at the First Sea-Lord, or luxurious secret dens of the. Master Criminal at Limehouse. What I mean by probability…"
Hugh looked round in some surprise to see that Morgan was gurgling with rage.
"And you think," Morgan inquired, "that this is a probable story?"
"Isn't it?" asked Hugh. "It's exactly like one of those stories by William Block Tournedos. As Mr. Burke says…"
Morgan sank back.
"Oh, well!" he said. "Never mind. Let's have a drink."
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The Eight of Swords dgf-3 Page 21
