“‘I don’t wish him to suffer any pain’—so help me, I heard Boscombe say that! He said, ‘It’s not in the nature of my object.’”
Lucia Handreth, who was standing by the mantelpiece, turned away suddenly and thrust her hands over her eyes. She cried:
“He couldn’t have … not even Calvin Bos—You see … well, it’s too horrible! It must have been a joke, as he said, on that man Stanley’s nerves …”
During the heavy, sickly silence Hadley said:
“I don’t see that there’s much difference, if that’s the fellow’s idea of a joke on a neurotic cripple.” He cleared his throat and finally added: “Well, Mr. Hastings? What were they to do then?”
“Oh, the fun was over then, with just a little more work to be done. They would spread him out on the floor, wearing the shoes and gloves, beside the rifled box. They would put in his hand the Browning revolver, unfired. Stanley would shake hands with Boscombe, thank him for a pleasant evening, and slip away while Boscombe relocked the front door. Boscombe would then go and rumple up his bed. Leaving the exploded cartridge-case on the floor, he would go back to the room, hide the silencer and the man’s shoes, and fire a blank cartridge at nothing … When the crash of the shot awoke the household, Boscombe (the blank cartridge-case slipped out and its place filled) would explain that he had been aroused by a noise, and …
“Oh, you see it. He would not only have been instantly exonerated; he would even be praised. ‘Courageous Householder Shoots Armed Burglar in Self-defense. Picture inset, Mr. Calvin Boscombe, who was a fraction of a second quicker on the draw than the desperate criminal who threatened his life.’” Hastings choked off his gurgling laughter and leaned forward.
“That was what was supposed to happen. Now I’ll tell you what did happen.”
The door to the room softly opened and Boscombe came in. Nobody moved or spoke. Each person glanced at him, briefly, without seeing him at all, and then looked back to Hastings; but Melson could feel in the air a sort of rustling, a repulsion as though each person had moved a little back from him. The atmosphere was thick with it, the more so as Boscombe’s face wore a sickly smile and he was rubbing his hands together. He glanced at each one, but nobody would look back. Dr. Fell alone studied him, a puzzled blankness in his eye. Boscombe’s lip twitched, and he folded his arms.
“One thing I noticed,” Hastings went on, although his stamina was ebbing and he looked even paler than when he had come in—“one thing I noticed,” he said, heavily, “was that as the zero hour came closer Stanley began to shake less and grow a little more human—or inhuman. He’d lost some of his flabby jaw-twitching. And the minutes kept on ticking, until all of a sudden the big bell over at the Hall began to strike midnight. My God! It sounded loud! Like thunder and doomsday. I thought I couldn’t move at all, but I nearly jumped out of my skin at that. Directly on top of it Stanley said, in a voice that sounded as loud as the bell: ‘You’re going through with this? You do mean it?’ And Boscombe said, ‘Yes.’ He said, ‘Get behind that screen, and don’t bungle your part when you come out. You’ll be able to see the light-switch, because there’s a bright moon and I’ve left the—’
“There was where he looked up.”
“He saw you?” demanded Hadley, and jerked forward as though Boscombe were not there at all.
“No. The light was in his eyes, and he was thinking about other things, anyway. His face looked like a blind man’s behind the glasses. What distracted him just then, and put the wind up me, was that on the same second his doorbell buzzed.
“That buzzer must be up near the ceiling somewhere, because the blasted thing seemed to go off like a rattlesnake sounding directly under my hands. I jumped and nearly rolled. Boscombe said: ‘Behind the screen. I give him five minutes before he’s here,’ and switched off the lamp on the table.
“The moonlight came into the room with a pale bluish colour. I couldn’t see Stanley, who was bumping about behind the screen, but I could see Boscombe distinctly—and ahead of him the moonlight on the double-doors, with the shadow of the big chair strong and black. Boscombe stood in that weird light, moving his shoulders up and down, and I heard the safety catch click on the pistol when he released it. The doorbell started in again, horribly, and buzzed out a couple of bursts—the victim clamouring to come into the trap. When the buzzing stopped—and it seemed incredibly loud and nervous—Boscombe backed into the big chair and sat down. I could see him leaning forward, his hand getting nervous on the pistol, and the moonlight trembling a little on the long blue barrel … “He’d said he would give the victim five minutes. It seemed like three times as long as that, although it couldn’t have been, because I’ll swear I held my breath the whole time. It was the dead silence of the place—everywhere. Not even a motor horn outside, or a creaky fire grate inside. I thought, now he’ll be opening the door downstairs, looking inside. Now he’ll be coming across the hall … “Minutes, hours …
“The strain was growing too much. I could hear Boscombe rustle in the chair, I could even hear his breathing; but he still had a pretty steady grip on the gun. Once Stanley rattled a tin or something behind the screen. It was as though you could hear a watch ticking the minutes in your own head. I felt that I couldn’t stand it much longer, when Boscombe spoke. It wasn’t much more than a whisper, but the man was losing his nerve and the gun had begun to wabble. He said:
“‘What the hell’s delaying him?’
“And there was a kind of agony in it, the voice gone to a crazy key and shooting out that whisper. It seemed to propel him out of the chair. He got up and took a couple of steps, stiffly, towards the double-doors. The bluish light was clear on the doors and I suddenly thought I saw one of the knobs starting to turn. But I know I heard a noise …
“It was a scratching noise on the outside of the doors, like a dog trying to get in. It wavered and fumbled for about ten seconds. Then with a crash the left-hand door was knocked open. Something or somebody pitched through, went forward on his hands as though he were salaaming, kicked himself round and lay writhing half inside the room. It was a man with something shiny sticking out of the back of his neck, and trying to talk as though he had his mouth full of water …
“Boscombe ripped out a curse and jumped back. There’d been a kind of sodden flap as that man hit the floor, and Stanley cried out something behind the screen. For a second nobody moved except that man twisting on the floor and rattling his heels. Boscombe stumbled around before he got back to the table and switched the lamp on.
“The shiny stuff was gilt. I looked once. Then I put my face down against the roof, and I was so weak that I couldn’t move. I think my own shoes rattled …”
Hastings stopped, twisted in the chair, and got his breath. He went on, more quietly:
“What made me look up I don’t know. It may have been a sound on the roof, but I don’t think I was in much condition to pay attention to sounds then. But I did look—towards a chimney on my right, and I saw it.
“It was standing by the chimney, staring at me. I don’t know whether it was a man or a woman; the only impression I got was of a white face, and (I don’t know if I can make this clear) of a malignancy so powerful that its very wave may have roused me like a noise. And I did see one hand along the side of the chimney. As I moved my body to one side, a little of the glow from the skylight fell on this hand just as the person slid back out of sight. On the hand there was a smear of gilt.”
His eyes moved over to the shining clock-hand on the table, and then he closed them. He was silent for so long that Hadley prompted:
“Well? What then?”
Hastings made a gesture. “You know the rest of it … The first coherent thought I had was that Eleanor mustn’t come upstairs, past Boscombe’s door, and see what was there if I could prevent it. I could have gone down through the trap-door in the roof—but I didn’t see any reason for betraying where I was to Grandma Steffins. I thought if I got down, ran to the front door, and …
I don’t know; I’m not sure what I did have in mind, except that it was to rush blindly somewhere and get that sight out of my mind. I’d got into the tree safely. I remember swinging over to it. That’s all I do remember except hearing leaves ripping and suddenly seeing the tree upside down, until I woke up. Some old chap with a grey chin whisker was bending over me in Lucia’s room, and the next minute he seemed to be pounding iron spikes in my head while I was talking. I think I was telling all this to Lucia …”
Hadley glanced over at her with sharp enquiry. She made a half-cynical gesture and anticipated his question.
“Yes, of course, Inspector,” she said. “You’ll wish to know about me. I don’t know how long it was after he fell that I picked him up; I didn’t hear him fall … I’d been reading in my bedroom, and I must have fallen into a doze …”
“You heard nothing of what went on in the house, either?”
“No. I told you I must have been dozing in the chair.” She hesitated, and shivered a little. “Something woke me; I don’t know what it was, but I know it startled me. I looked at the clock and saw it was well past midnight. I felt chilly and—well, dispirited, and I didn’t want to bother making a fire. So I went out to my kitchen to heat some water for a toddy before I turned in. The kitchen window was open, and I heard somebody groaning in the yard. I went out …”
“You showed great coolness of mind, Miss Handreth,” Hadley told her, evenly. “And then?”
“I didn’t show great coolness of mind, and I don’t think you need to be sarcastic. I got him in. He was bleeding horribly. I thought I might wake up Chris Paull or Ca—” She looked towards Boscombe, checked herself, and a glitter showed under the drooping eyelids, although her face remained palely set—“get Chris to help without waking the others up. I opened my sitting-room door to the hall, but there was a light shining down the stairs and I heard voices. I also saw Mrs. Steffins. She was standing in the light, looking upstairs and listening. I noticed she was fully dressed. She saw me, and I closed the door and went back to Don. That was a few minutes before you arrived. When the doctor came to see Don, Mr. Carver came with him and told me what had happened. When Don came to himself he insisted on speaking, too.”
She spoke the words with the meaningless sing-song inflection of a policeman giving evidence before a magistrate. Then the voice came alive.
“Of course he only fell thirty feet, and of course the branches did rather break the fall,” she added, hotly. “And of course he must give the evidence. But will you let him go now?”
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Hastings snapped. His voice grew querulously high. “For God’s sake, Luce, will you stop treating me like a kid?” He was in such a weakened state that small things assumed a monstrous hue, and strained almost to the point of a grotesque blubbering. “You’ve done it ever since the old days, and I’m getting sick of it. I’ve got one purpose in telling this, whatever they think of it. I’ve nothing in particular against Boscombe. I don’t like him”—his eyes flashed round briefly, “but I’ve got nothing against him. It’s that swine Stanley. Whoever killed the fellow, I know damned well they didn’t; but they meant to, and I want to see that everybody knows what kind of swine Stanley is. I want ’em to know that he encouraged a murder; that he stood by and watched while—”
“Yes,” said Hadley. “But so did you.”
Hastings grew very quiet, and for the first time very sure of himself. A quiet, rather terrible smile grew on his face.
“Oh no,” he said. “That’s different. Didn’t I make it clear?” The smile grew crooked. “That’s what conked my nerves, you see—the joyous anticipation. I had it all planned out. I had plenty of time. When they’d talked their fill to the victim, and prepared to fire that bullet, I was going to drop through the skylight. I hoped the victim could deal with Boscombe; if he couldn’t, old Bossie looked as though he couldn’t add much punch to the two of ’em. Maybe I ought to explain that I skippered the boxing-team at my college. First I was going to beat Stanley; beat him to such a squashed jelly that—” he stopped, drew a deep breath, and the smile grew to a murderous ecstasy. “Well, never mind. Then I was going to give ’em both in charge, with the testimony of the victim and all the supporting evidence they couldn’t destroy—for attempted murder. They wouldn’t hang. But I’m willing to bet you that even yet they’ll burn in effigy on the highest bonfire that’s built for Guy Fawkes’ Day.”
“But why? Steady, Mr. Hastings! What have you got against—?”
“You’d better tell them, Don,” Lucia suggested, quietly. “Things are so mucked up that it will come out, anyway. And if you don’t, I will.”
“Oh, I’ll tell them. I’m not ashamed of it …
“My full name,” he said, harshly, “is Donald Hope-Hastings. And that swine shot my father.”
He jerked himself up out of the chair and made for the door. When it had closed behind him, they heard a startled exclamation from Sergeant Berts, and the thud of knees collapsing on the floor.
10
Gilt Paint
“ATTEND TO HIM,” HADLEY SAID, curtly, to Lucia Handreth, “and come back here. I want all the ladies in the house to come here immediately.” He stared at the door as it closed after her, and listened to the commotion in the hallway. Then he growled to Dr. Fell: “It’s becoming more of a nightmare, complicated by the fact that that young fellow loves melodrama. I suppose he is telling the truth? H’m. I seem to remember that old Hope—that’s the fellow I was telling you about, who looted his own bank for something like a quarter of a million—did have a child about seven or eight years old then. If this youngster didn’t love melodramatics so much …”
But Hadley did not feel easy. He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief, and stared at his notebook as though it contained only useless information.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Hadley,” Dr. Fell contradicted in a heavy voice. “He doesn’t love melodrama; he only lives it. That’s because he’s one of the real, breathing, erratic human race, and not a character study. Emotion scares you, my boy, so much so that you’ve driven into saying it doesn’t exist unless somebody talks about it in terms of the weather. All you can understand are the chaste feelings of the burglar who wants somebody else’s property. When somebody really does have a large human chunk of hatred or grief in his shaky soul, he doesn’t treat it as an interesting metaphysical problem like a character in Ibsen. That’s why all Ibsen’s houses are dolls’ houses. On the contrary, he goes off his onion and talks stark raving melodrama. The same as—” He rumbled to himself, smoothing his moustache, and seemed more puzzled than ever. “I believe I know what you are thinking about now,” said
Boscombe, softly.
Dr. Fell started a little. “Hey? Oh! Oh, you’re still here, are you?” he enquired, blankly, and wheezed as his little eyes flickered over the other. “To be candid, I was hoping you had gone.”
“So I am under a cloud?” asked Boscombe, rather shrilly. His self-consciousness was showing again, although he tried to assume an air of cynical pleasantry. “You regard me as a monster?”
“No. But I think you’d like to believe you were one,” said Dr. Fell. “That’s your trouble and your amiable phobia. You’re stuffed full of unpleasant nonsense, but I believe you’re a fraud. Your brains aren’t one-two-three with the real devil who’s behind this, and of course you never really intended to kill Ames …”
“Which I told you,” Boscombe pointed out. “I told you it was a joke on that overstuffed braggart upstairs, and that I was a bit tired of hearing him gabble about his iron personality in the old days.”
“Uh! Yes. That was when you thought you might be had up for murder. But now that we’ve learned what really did happen, and you’re in no danger, you may be apt to get some pleasure out of making a howling bogey of yourself. You may maintain you really did mean murder, and go and gibber on the stairs to celebrate yourself. Somehow you annoy me, my friend.”
Boscomb
e laughed, and Hadley swung round.
“You think you are in no danger, eh?” he snapped. “Don’t count on it. I think I shall just give myself the pleasure of taking you up on an attempted-murder charge.”
“You can’t,” Dr. Fell said, dully. “I know it’ll be bad for his reputation as a bogey, but I looked at that gun when Pierce had it … The silencer is a dummy.”
“What?”
“It’s not a silencer at all; it’s a tin cylinder painted black, with a nozzle at the front to give the design beauty. Blast it, Hadley, don’t you see it’s only another bit of fiction-fed imagination? You ought to know there are only half a dozen real silencers in England; they’re too hard to get; but every good bogus murder-plot entails the use of one. Bah! Your whole case against Boscombe and Stanley would have to depend on Ames’s being shot with a silencer, and they could give you the merry ha-ha the moment you produced Exhibit A. It’s a good thing, Boscombe, you didn’t give Stanley a close look at it. He may strangle you yet for your little joke.”
Hadley got to his feet and looked at Boscombe. “Get out,” he said, heavily.
“I should like to suggest—” Boscombe began.
“Get out of here,” said Hadley, taking a step forward, “or in just one minute more …”
“Before the end of this case,” Boscombe told him, his nostrils pinched as he backed away, “you will come to me for advice. I can tell you something, with which I don’t feel inclined to assist you now. Enjoy yourself until I do.”
The door closed. Hadley muttered something, rubbed his hands together, and turned back to his notebook. “What bothers me most,” he exploded, “is the mess this whole thing’s got into by such an unholy series of coincidences piled one on top of the other. Look at them! Somebody in this house—anonymous—tells Ames that the woman who stabbed the shop-walker lives here, hiding damning evidence somewhere, but refuses to help Ames get in. Subsequently somebody else invites Ames in—so that he may walk into a casual murder-trap arranged for amusement by Boscombe and a former police officer who was once closely associated with Ames. While walking into this trap, Ames is stabbed by still another person—presumably the woman who killed the shop-walker to begin with. Watching the whole infernal business through the skylight is a young man whose father was shot by Stanley fourteen years ago, and whose father had also been tracked down and proved guilty by Ames! Fell, if coincidence can go any farther, I never want to hear of it. If the thing were fiction and not fact, I would flatly refuse to believe it.”
Death-Watch Page 10
