by Joyce Porter
‘I was fairer to him than he’d been to me!’ retorted Mr Smithers. ‘If he hadn’t been a thief, he might still be alive today. Not that I owed him a chance to save his worthless life. He’d shown no mercy to us, had he?’ Mr Smithers’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. ‘ I shan’t deal so considerately with the next one, don’t you worry!’
The Hon. Con was too preoccupied to register the threat. She was gazing in fascinated horror at Mr Smithers. ‘ But, suppose somebody else had drunk that whisky? For all you knew, Rodney might have handed it round to hair a dozen of his chums and killed the lot.’
‘I don’t suppose they would have been much loss,’ said Mr Smithers indifferently. ‘Besides, you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, can you?’
‘You must have been damned hungry,’ muttered the Hon. Con.
‘I beg your pardon?’
The Hon. Con scowled. ‘I was just saying,’ she explained crossly,’ that you must have wanted to kill Rodney Burberry pretty badly.’
‘Well, of course I did! Now that Mother’s gone, retribution is all I’ve got left to live for. I have successfully punished Burberry and, in due course, I shall equally successfully punish Perkins.’
‘Perkins!’ The Hon. Con frowned. That name rang a tiny bell. ‘You’re not going to commit another murder?’
‘I certainly am – though I prefer to think of it as an execution. They were both equally guilty, weren’t they? Perkins even more than Burberry, if one wishes to distinguish between them. Both were apprehended by the police and brought before the courts and found guilty of a most heinous crime. And then what happened?’ Mr Smithers flung the spoon into the sugar basin and jumped excitedly to his feet. ‘What happened?’ he repeated wildly. ‘They were found guilty of the most disgusting, filthy crime one could ever imagine in one’s darkest nightmares and they got sentences so lenient that a howl of outrage went round the court room when that idiot of a judge announced them.’ To the Hon. Con’s acute discomfort he began hammering desperately on the table with bis fist. ‘Three years in Borstal for torturing and terrorizing my mother! Four years in prison for raping her! What sort of justice is that? Do you wonder that I’ve had to take the law into my own hands?’ He collapsed back in his chair and buried his head in his arms.
The Hon. Con sat and stared at him aghast. ‘Do you mean that your mother was the woman whose car those two louts took after they’d tried to rob that bank?’
‘Yes!’ Mr Smithers’s voice came in a muffled sob.
‘Good God!’ said the Hon. Con.
Mr Smithers raised his head a little. ‘She just happened to be parking her car when they came out of the bank,’ he said brokenly. ‘It was the first time in her life that she’d ever been in Waterbridge. She was just driving through and she’d decided to stop for a cup of coffee. They didn’t give her a chance. She’d never harmed or hurt anyone in her life and those filthy pigs didn’t give her a chance. Oh’ – he laughed bitterly – ‘they didn’t kill her, of course. That would have been too merciful. They just condemned her to a living death. What do you think it was like for someone like her afterwards with everybody knowing what had happened to her? She’d always been such a decent-living woman. And there was nothing I could do except stand helplessly by and watch her suffer. She just lay, quietly and uncomplainingly in the bedroom upstairs, and died. She’d been badly injured physically, of course, but it wasn’t that that killed her. The doctors talked about delayed shock – the fools! It was shame, I tell you, shame!’ He pulled his handkerchief out and blew his nose. The action seemed to steady him and he went on in a calmer voice. ‘That’s when I decided that I would deal with Burberry and Perkins myself. It’s about time this country started showing some sympathy for the victims, isn’t it? Three years she suffered. We hear plenty about not being cruel to criminals, but what about the people whose lives they ruin? You don’t find anybody getting up petitions and demonstrating for them, do you? Oh, no! They’re just the wreckage that society finds it more convenient to forget about. Well, when my trial comes up, society is going to have a pretty problem on its hands, isn’t it? What sort of a sentence are they going to pass on me, eh?’
The Hon. Con felt almost sick with relief. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you’re going to give yourself up, are you? Jolly sensible, if you ask me! I’m sure you’ll find they’ll treat you with every consideration. Got the dickens of a lot of sympathy for you myself, if it comes to that. Dashed rotten business altogether. Look, I’ll come along to the police station and give you a bit of the old moral support, if you like.’
Mr Smithers looked at her in surprise. ‘ I’m not going to surrender myself to the police until I’ve killed Perkins. He was older than Burberry and he got sent to prison. He’s lost his remission for good conduct, so I hear, and it’ll be another nine months or so before I can get my hands on him. When he’s dead, I shall be able to come out into the open and expose this whole shameful business at the bar of public opinion. I’ve no intention of stopping now, with the job only half done.’
The Hon. Con managed an uncertain little smile. ‘ But things have changed a bit, haven’t they, old son? I mean – well – I know now, don’t I?’
Mr Smithers leaned emotionally across the table and, to the Hon. Con’s acute embarrassment, clasped both her hands warmly in his. ‘Nothing’s changed,’ he murmured. ‘ I knew that as soon as I saw you on the doorstep. You’d have loved my dear mother, if only you’d known her, and I’m sure your womanly heart is bleeding for her now. I’m not even asking you to conceal a crime, am I? I’m just asking you to wait another few short months.’
‘While you commit a second murder?’ asked the Hon. Con bluntly. ‘Blimey, you want jam on it, you do!’
Mr Smithers dropped her hands. ‘ While I avenge my mother to the full!’ he corrected her angrily. ‘Dear God, whose side are you on? Do you honestly think three years in Borstal is sufficient punishment for what Burberry did to my mother? Do you beliexe in being kind to animals like him and Perkins? They deserve flogging to death for what they did!’
‘Well, yes,’ agreed the Hon. Con, finding herself in more than a bit of a quandary, ‘I’ll admit that the sentences were ludicrously light but’ – she groped for the right cliché – ‘two blacks don’t make a white, do they? Your killing Rodney Burberry and this Perkins fellow won’t help your mother, will it?’
Mr Smithers shoved his chair back from the table. ‘You’re a fool!’ he said. ‘Don’t think you’re going to get round me with your mealy-mouthed platitudes! I shan’t escape the consequences of what I’m doing. On the contrary, I want to be put on trial. I want the whole world to hear what I have to say and to judge me. Let’s see how long they dare send me to prison for! Oh, you needn’t worry – justice will be done on me when I have dealt with Perkins.’
The Hon. Con shook her head. ‘ Sorry.’
Mr Smithers’s eyes narrowed. ‘Nothing is going to stand in my way,’ he warned her quietly.
The Hon. Con gulped. ‘I can’t conceal a crime, even for a few months,’ she apologized. ‘And I certainly can’t permit you to commit a second murder. It’s quite out of the question. Look, you’ve made your point with Burberry. There’s no need to go on. What happened to your mother was beastly rotten – but you’re just reducing yourself to their level, aren’t you?’
‘One must fight fire with fire,’ said Mr Smithers grimly. ‘You realize that I now have only one course of action open to me. I shall have to kill you.’ He opened a drawer on his side of the kitchen table and took out a revolver. ‘I’ve taken precautions against just such an emergency,’ he remarked as he pointed the gun at the Hon. Con. ‘The house is empty and nobody will hear the shot. That’s why I invited you down here into the kitchen.’
Chapter Sixteen
‘Changed my mind,’ said the Hon. Con with a sheepish grin. ‘I won’t breathe a word to a living soul. Scout’s honour.’
Mr Smithers shook his head primly. ‘You should h
ave thought of that before. It’s too late now. I couldn’t possibly trust you after the opinions you expressed earlier. I hope you don’t mind my asking but – are you a religious person?’
‘Oh, heck!’ groaned the Hon. Con.
‘It’s just that I have no objection to giving you a few extra minutes to make your peace with your Maker or commend your soul to God or whatever it is you do.’
The Hon. Con experienced instant conversion. ‘I’m very religious,’ she assured him quickly. ‘Pillar of the church and all that. Spend several hours every night on my knees.’
‘Well’ – Mr Smithers smiled rather unpleasantly – ‘you’re not going to get several hours now. In fact, if you don’t hurry up, you won’t even get several minutes. I’m going to have a lot of extra work to do today, getting rid of your body and everything.’
‘Ah!’ said the Hon. Con, clutching at any straw that presented itself. ‘That’s reminded me. Knew there was something I wanted to say. Killing me won’t solve anything.’
‘Oh, get on with it!’ snapped Mr Smithers, fiddling away awkwardly with a catch on the side of his revolver. ‘If you’re going to pray, pray!’
The Hon. Con was already doing just that – but it didn’t seem to be having much effect. Mr Smithers was still standing there, very much alive and kicking. She tried to keep her voice sweet and reasonable. ‘What I meant was that other people besides me suspect that you killed Rodney Burberry.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Mr Smithers without much interest. He was much more concerned in struggling with this catch thing on his revolver. ‘Still, thanks for the warning. I’ve got a special bolt-hole all lined up, just in case. I hadn’t expected to have to use it but, in the circumstances, it might be a wise precaution. I shall go and pack as soon as I have disposed of you. I’ll be able to lie low there until Perkins comes out of prison.’
‘You won’t even get out of the house!’ scoffed the Hon. Con with a great deal more bravado than the situation warranted. ‘Got a chum of mine sitting outside in a car. She’ll nab you if you try to leave.’
‘Liar,’ said Mr Smithers, peevishly examining a broken fingernail. ‘You don’t think I’m going to be caught by a hoary old trick like that, do you? I know your type. You’re a lone wolf if ever I saw one.’
‘I am not!’ the Hon. Con objected passionately. ‘Gregarious to a fault, that’s my trouble. Talk to strangers on trains and everything.’
‘Rubbish,’ sniffed Mr Smithers.
‘The police know, too,’ she gabbled desperately. ‘I’ve been working hand in glove with them, honestly. You lay a finger on me and they’ll get you.’
‘You’re not making things any better for yourself, you know. If I don’t kill you, you’ll go to the authorities. If I do kill you, there’s a fifty-fifty chance I’ll get away with it. I am merely going for the better odds. Ah!’ There was a sharp click as at long last he managed to push back the little lever on the gun.
The Hon. Con could have kicked herself for being such a dumb bunny. That was the safety catch he’d been messing about with! While it was still on he wouldn’t have been able to fire the gun. She’d had the perfect chance to make a run for it and she’d muffed it! Curses!
Mr Smithers wasn’t any too composed himself. He was using both hands to point the revolver at the Hon. Con but it was still wobbling about in a most unnerving manner. According to when he actually pressed the trigger, he was likely either to blow the top of the Hon. Con’s head off or score a bull’s eye on the kitchen window ten feet to her left. Mr Smithers was well aware of the problem. He gritted his teeth and tried to take a more accurate aim. ‘If, by any chance, you should happen to run into my dear mother,’ he said hopefully, ‘ I should be awfully grateful if you would give her my fondest love.’
‘Hey, steady on!’ yelped the Hon. Con. ‘You haven’t given me time to say my blooming prayers yet!’
Mr Smithers shook his head. ‘These are just delaying tactics. I’m very sorry but I can’t risk waiting any longer.’
The Hon. Con, mesmerized and indignant, saw his forefinger begin to tighten on the trigger.
Then everything seemed to happen at once. The Hon. Con grabbed the kitchen table, flung it up and over, and ducked nippily behind its thick deal top for shelter. Mr Smithers took a surprised leap backwards to avoid the table and involuntarily fired the revolver just as Miss Jones, with considerable diffidence, opened the kitchen door and peeped in. Miss Jones wasn’t having much luck with doors these days. The bullet passed a mere couple of inches over her head.
‘Goodness!’ squeaked Miss Jones as she turned to look at the hole in the corridor wall behind her. ‘ What was that?’ The answer sprang to her mind almost immediately and, with a soft and genteel groan, she fainted gracefully in the doorway.
The Hon. Con, meanwhile, was not letting the grass grow under her feet. Before the reverberations of the revolver shot had died away she emerged from behind the kitchen table like a slightly miniaturized bull elephant and flung herself on the hapless Mr Smithers. He was still staring in astonishment at the revolver, only just beginning to realize that he had actually pulled the trigger, when the Hon. Con hit him with the subtlety of a ton of bricks.
It probably hurt the Hon. Con more than it hurt Mr Smithers because, after a couple of seconds, he was taking no more interest in the proceedings. She had propelled him with such force across the kitchen that, striking his head against a conveniently projecting ledge on the dresser, he had gone out like a light. The Hon. Con, puffing hard, clambered to her feet and surveyed the scene of carnage around her with no little satisfaction. She picked the revolver up from the floor and carefully put the safety catch on before stuffing it down the waist belt of her trousers. She didn’t want that shooting itself off accidentally and ruining her for life, thank you very much!
Miss Jones managed a feeble groan and fluttered her eyelids. The Hon. Con scowled and wondered what the dickens old Bones was doing there anyhow. Oh well, she’d soon find out! She took a quick glance at Mr Smithers to make sure that he wasn’t likely to come creeping up on her unawares and then tip-toed over to the sink where she filled a large pan with water.
Miss Jones thought that the Hon. Con was about to make a cup of tea. She heard the thumping of feet across the kitchen floor and, timing it nicely, opened her eyes. ‘Where am I?’ she murmured.
The Hon. Con raised her pan on high.
‘Oh, no, Constance!’ screamed Miss Jones and tried to slither out of the way. She failed. Five pints of ice cold water got her full in the face.
‘That’ll teach you!’ said the Hon. Con and took her pan back to the sink.
‘Oh, Constance!’ wailed Miss Jones, flapping ineffectually at her sopping head and bosom. ‘How could you be so heartless? I might have been lying there shot through the head for all you knew.’
‘Quickest way to find out,’ grunted the Hon. Con and strolled over to see how Mr Smithers was getting on. ‘No guts, that’s your trouble, Bones! One bit of a bang and you keel over like some soppy Victorian Miss with the vapours. What are you doing here, anyhow? Thought I told you to stop in the car.’
Miss Jones was on her feet now and trying to dry herself off with a tea towel. ‘Have you killed him, dear?’ she asked anxiously.
‘’Course not!’ laughed the Hon. Con scornfully. ‘Can’t you see him breathing. And don’t change the subject! Why didn’t you do as you were told, eh?’
Miss Jones creased her forehead in an effort to remember. Really, at times dear Constance could be so callous, so unfeeling! One is shot at with a gun, one faints, one is drenched in cold water, one recovers to find a room reduced to a shambles with a man lying senseless on the floor and, for all the sympathy one gets, one might as well … ‘ Oh,’ said Miss Jones, ‘it was those dreadful boys! I thought I’d better come and warn you straight away.’
‘What dreadful boys?’
‘They were driving slowly down the road looking for the numbers, just like we had
to do. That nasty one with the spots all over his face got out of the car and I was afraid he would see our Mini and recognize me.’
‘Damn!’ said the Hon. Con. ‘Pimp must have got out of the bathroom after all.’
‘It certainly looks like it, dear. What are we going to do? They’ll be here any minute.’
The Hon. Con’s face blackened. ‘How many of them are there?’ she demanded, poking Mr Smithers with her toe. She would dearly have loved to stand, arms folded, with one foot on his recumbent body but she was a bit afraid of what old Bones would say.
‘I don’t know, dear.’ Miss Jones shook her head and drops of water sprayed merrily in all directions. ‘It was a big car, though, and it looked to be packed full of the little horrors.’
The Hon. Con made up her mind quickly. ‘Nip into one of the front rooms,’ she commanded, ‘and have a look at what they’re up to. And lock the front door, too, while you’re about it.’
Miss Jones hesitated. She wasn’t too keen on leaving the comparative safety of the kitchen. ‘ Wouldn’t we do better to barricade ourselves in here, dear?’
‘No,’ said the Hon. Con, grabbing the tea towel and ripping it in two.
‘What are you doing, dear?’
‘Going to tie this blighter up,’ explained the Hon. Con, ‘ and then, when I’ve neutralized him, I shall deal with the Kama Sutra gang. Provided,’ she added heavily, ‘we don’t have ’ em storming in here before we know what’s happening.’
Miss Jones sighed and scurried off. There was no arguing with the Hon. Con when she was in her Napoleonic mood.
Mr Smithers was only half-trussed up when Miss Jones came back again.
‘Oh, Constance, they’re coming up the front garden path! Five of them, dear!’
‘Cripes!’ said the Hon. Con and stopped trying to work out whether it was right over left or left over right for a reef knot. ‘Did you bolt the front door, Bones?’
