Death Turns the Tables_aka The Seat of the Scornful

by John Dickson Carr

  “They all asked me to say good-by to you for them,” Jane went on. “They were terribly sorry not to have seen you before they went—”

  “They’re not gone? Everybody?”

  “Yes; they left this morning. It’s Monday, you know. Hugo Raikes in particular asked me to remind you of something or other; he didn’t specify what.”

  Constance studied the ground and smiled, thoughtfully.

  “Yes, Hugo’s rather nice, isn’t he? He knows how to enjoy himself. Other people don’t. Except for—”

  “Except for what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “He’s got a terrible hangover this morning,” said Jane practically. “And a bad welt on his forehead from trying fancy dives off the high board.”

  “Oh? How did the swimming party go?”

  “Marvelously!”

  “You seem to have enjoyed yourself.”

  “I did.”

  “Oh. And how’s that dreadful slut in the red bathing suit, who hangs about him so much?”

  “Laura Cornish?—Connie,” said Jane quietly, “how do you know she wore a red bathing suit?”

  The sun was dead pale and very brilliant, only different from the color of the sky by its blaze. It was veiled and then revealed again by moving, dull-gray clouds. Here on higher ground, the wind blew. A stray fowl scuttled in the middle of what should have been Wellington Avenue, rasping scattered gravel.

  “Connie, I want to talk to you. Let’s go across the way, shall we?”

  “All right. Though I don’t see why you should want to talk to me.”

  The detached house across the road, presumably once the pride of Messrs Eckmann & Co., had window frames painted green against the red brick and once white stucco. All these windowpanes were grimy; some were broken. The front door, set under a brick arch, drooped off its frame. There was a lean-to garage built out at the side.

  “Where are we going?” Constance demanded.

  “Here. I’ll show you.”

  “And what are you doing here anyway, Jane Tennant? What are you doing up here?”

  “I was trying to find a tramp called Black Jeff. His stuff’s in the other house; but he’s not here. What are you doing here, if it comes to that?”

  “Because I hadn’t anywhere else to go, really,” returned Constance. “They chased me out of the house. They’re all down at the bungalow now, Daddy and Fred Barlow and Dr. Fell and Inspector Graham, going on like mad. The little girl must go out and play while they talk about serious business.” She paused as Jane pushed open the sagging door. “In there?”

  “In there.”

  The little hall still had a small Venetian lantern hanging from the roof. They went through into a kitchen, dim with dust. Its walls, above the tiling, were scrawled with initials and messages written in pencil. An empty beer bottle stood on top of the electric refrigerator. Jane closed the door.

  “Nobody can hear us now,” she said. She put her handbag on the refrigerator top. She clenched her hands against the sharp pain of uncertainty which was hurting her. “Connie,” she added quietly, “it was really you who went for me last night at the swimming pool, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” answered Constance, after a pause.

  Nothing more than that.

  “But why? In heaven’s name, why? Why do you dislike me so much?”

  “I don’t dislike you. I envy you.”

  “Envy?”

  Constance had backed against the sink, holding to its edge with her hands on either side of her. To judge by her tone, she felt little emotion of any kind. Her eyes were large, brown, and quick-moving; they regarded Jane with real curiosity.

  “You haven’t got any parents, have you?”

  “Not living, no.”

  “And you’ve got lots and lots of money, all your own?”

  “Some.”

  “Nobody,” said Constance, “to say yes or no to you. And you’re older than I am, so if you do what you like nobody thinks it’s odd of you—as they always do with me. That’s it: you’re older than I am. I wish I were thirty-five. I might be old and wrinkled … ”

  “Connie, my dear, good fool—!”

  “But at least nobody would be surprised at what I did. You do as you, like. If you want to go to Cannes, or St Moritz, you can go. If you want to entertain people, you entertain people. But do you enjoy it? No. Not you. You didn’t enjoy having those people in your house a minute, did you?”

  Her voice trailed off to a whisper. It was little above a whisper when she spoke again.

  “Jane, I’m horribly, horribly sorry. I swear to God I didn’t mean to hurt you!”

  Before Jane could intervene, she hurried on.

  “I was jealous of you and Fred, in a way. I followed Fred. I wanted to frighten you. Just frighten you, and make you as upset and unhappy as I’d been feeling. I followed Fred because I knew you’d invite him to that party even before you did. I got that paper knife out of the lounge. I wore gloves because that’s what they always do in the detective stories. Are you furious with me?”

  “Oh, Connie, don’t you see it doesn’t matter?”

  Constance’s mind caught only one part of this.

  “You’re not furious with me? she asked incredulously.

  “No, of course not.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Connie my dear, listen. That isn’t the important part. Did you—well, did you happen to overhear what Fred and I were saying to each other?”

  “Yes, I did. And saw you.” Now Constance spoke with the utmost quiet, the quiet of conviction. “I think it was revolting. I’m not being catty or nasty now, Jane; really I’m not. But I do think so. I should never let—”

  Jane’s hands relaxed at her sides. She drew a deep breath. From the gray eyes uncertainty slowly cleared away, as did even the baffled expression.

  “Connie,” she said, “you’re a child. You really are a child. I never quite realized that until now.”

  “Don’t you say that to me too!”

  “Wait Connie, do you love Fred Barlow?”

  “No, of course not. I like him, naturally; but he’s no more exciting than a brother would be.”

  “Were you ever really in love with Tony Morell?”

  “Yes. Terribly! But, do you know—” Constance looked down, and scuffed at the floor, and wrinkled up her forehead — “do you know, now he’s gone and can’t come back, I don’t seem to miss him so much. I was always a bit uncomfortable when he was about. You mustn’t tell that to anybody, Jane, but I was. I think Hugo Raikes is much nicer. Not that I could ever feel for Hugo what I felt for Tony, of course; my life’s ruined and I’ll just have to make the best of it; but still I do feel that Hugo is ever so nice to go to parties with.”

  Jane began to laugh. She stopped immediately, for Constance imagined that she was laughing at these sentiments rather than at all the implications behind them. Her eyes strayed past Constance, out of the grimy window over the sink, at the sun brightening and darkening over the half-wintry landscape. It was bitter laughter; it ended with something like a sob.

  She fought this away.

  “Connie, have the police found you yet?”

  “No.”

  “You know they’re looking for you?”

  “Yes. Daddy hid me away at the bungalow last night, when they asked after me. I never thought he could be so human, Jane. He said he wanted time to think.”

  “You’ve heard why they’re looking for you?”

  “Y-yes.”

  Jane’s voice was fierce with sincerity. “I want you to believe that I’m your friend. It’s true, whether you believe it or not. Your father’s in great danger, Connie. I’m not trying to scare you: I only want you to realize something.”

  “I’d do anything,” said Constance simply, “to get him out of it.”

  “On Saturday night, at twenty minutes past eight, you tried to put a call through to my house from that telephone box down the lane. You were
trying to get in touch with me. Connie, what did you want to tell me?”

  “I wanted to ask you to send a car to bring me back to Taunton.”

  The reply was given instantly. To Jane’s ears it contained truth, yet only one face or aspect of truth. Constance’s manner was that of a person ready for instant flight.

  “Was that all you had on your mind?—You understand what I mean?”

  “No, I don’t understand what you mean!”

  “Sure?”

  Taking her hands off the edge of the sink, Constance stood up straight. She seemed surprised to find that her fingers were cramped and stiff where she had gripped. She drew her coat closely around her.

  “This place is dreadful,” she remarked, with the composure of a mannequin exhibiting clothes, and with something of the same slow deliberation. “I’m sure I don’t know why you want to stay here talking. And not getting anywhere either. I’m going.” Her voice grew apprehensive. “You won’t try to stop me?”

  “No, I won’t try to stop you. But, Connie! … ”

  She received no reply. Constance walked past her, opened the door, and went out through the hall into the ghost of a street.

  After a hesitation, Jane picked up her handbag and followed. She found Constance standing at the top of the gravelly road, as though elaborately unconscious of anybody near her, and only wondering where to go next in her stroll.

  From the top of this slight rise, a path wandered across the fields. It descended past scrub trees emaciated by the sea wind. Three hundred yards away, partly hidden by trees, they could see the edge of Mr. Justice Ireton’s bungalow. The sea was visible from here, too: a dim, bluish haze stung with light points when the sun emerged.

  Jane asked her question.

  “Connie, did your father kill Tony Morell?”

  Constance spoke breathlessly. “No! No! No! And if it’s the last words I ever say—”

  She stiffened. So did Jane. They both turned, determined figures on that windy hillside, and looked across the fields toward the judge’s bungalow. The same question was in both their minds. From that direction, borne by the wind, faintly muffled but crashing with ugly distinctness, they heard a shot fired.

  XVIII

  Some twenty minutes or half an hour before that event occurred, Mr. Justice Ireton watched his daughter go out by the front gate. He watched her stroll off aimlessly up the road. Then he turned back to his three guests.

  “And to what, gentlemen,” he inquired, “do I owe the honor of this unexpected visit?”

  He was this morning in town clothes. His dark coat, striped trousers, wing collar and gray tie were all immaculate. They gave him—the impression is hard to describe—a fussy appearance which was not lessened by his snappish manner over a cold, polite patience.

  Dr. Fell sat on the sofa, Frederick Barlow on the arm of the sofa. Inspector Graham occupied one of the easy chairs, and had his notebook on the chess table.

  “I still think, sir,” Graham said slowly, “it’d have been better to let Miss Ireton stay, like she wanted to. We shall only have to fetch her back, I’m afraid.”

  Even though this might be only his usual form of attack, Graham’s face was very grave.

  “She will be within call, if you want her. Meanwhile, I am still waiting. To what do I owe the honor of this unexpected visit?”

  “Well, sir,” said Graham, hunching up his shoulders rather nervously, and clearing his throat once or twice before he resumed, “it’s like this. Early this morning I had a conference with my Super and the Chief Constable. We’ve been all over this business. It’s not a thing we like. So they can’t see, any more than I can, that much good would be served by waiting any longer.”

  “Waiting any longer for what?”

  “To make an arrest,” replied Graham.

  Mr. Justice Ireton closed and latched the French window, which darkened the room still more.

  He returned to his usual chair, sat down, and crossed his legs.

  “Go on,” he said.

  Graham brooded.

  “You see, sir, it’s like this. I got off on the wrong foot in this business. I admit that. I was on the right track, maybe, but I didn’t notice a lot of things that were right under my nose all the time, until Dr. Fell showed ’em to me.”

  The upholstery of the gaudy chair was of some roughish material. They heard Mr. Justice Ireton’s fingernails scratching at the arms of it, as he opened and shut his hands.

  “Indeed.” He glanced at Dr. Fell “So it is to your—ah—lucubations, sir, that we are indebted for what we think we have learned now?”

  “No!” said Dr. Fell firmly. His big voice roared out of the gloom, and he lowered it “I was only able to show, by good luck, how this murder was committed. For the rest, I take no responsibility.”

  “How the murder was committed?” repeated Mr. Justice Ireton, in frank wonder. “Was there ever any doubt as to how it was committed?”

  “My good sir,” said Dr. Fell, “there was never any doubt in my mind on any point except that. With your permission, we propose to explain it to you.”

  “I am forgetting my hospitality,” remarked the judge, after a pause. “Will you take some refreshment, gentlemen?’

  “Not for me, thanks,” said Graham.

  “No, I thank you,” said Dr. Fell.

  “I’ll have a spot, sir,” said Fred Barlow.

  Mr. Justice Ireton went to the sideboard. He poured a whisky and soda for his guest, and for himself a thimbleful of brandy from an old, squat bottle. He handled the big goblet glass as tenderly as though it contained liquid gold: as, in a sense, it did. After clipping and lighting a cigar, he returned to his chair. He sat warming the glass, swirling its contents round gently, while the sun flashed and darkened outside the windows, and he regarded his guests with composure.

  “I am waiting.”

  “The difficulty in this affair,” said Dr. Fell, “was that from the start nobody seems to have noticed one very important thing. We saw it. It thrust itself upon our attention. Yet for some curious reason nobody seems to have realized what it meant. I refer to the following fact Round the bullet wound in Morell’s head there were no powder marks.”

  Mr. Justice Ireton frowned.

  “Well?”

  “I repeat,” insisted Dr. Fell. “There was no sign of powder singeing. Now, I hardly have to tell you what that means. It means that the revolver was not held directly against Morell’s head when the shot was fired. On the contrary, the weapon must have been held at least five or six inches away, and probably a much greater distance. We have no means of telling.”

  He drew in his breath in a long sniff.

  “Now observe what follows. We know that the shot was fired on the instant that Morell uttered his final word—’Help!’—the telephone operator. But how does anybody speak to a telephone? He speaks with his lips almost against the mouthpiece.

  “This bullet which killed Morell was fired from behind. It entered the back of the head behind the right ear. The weapon was held some distance away.

  “Then can you blame me for being astounded when I find that inside the edge of the mouthpiece—inside—there are distinct powder marks? Can you blame me for being astounded when I see that a shot fired from some distance back, with Morell’s head intervening between it and the telephone, not only left powder marks in the mouthpiece but had an explosion strong enough to crack the sounding drum inside?”

  Dr. Fell sat up.

  He said quietly:

  “I say to you, gentlemen, that this is impossible. I say to you that, when this particular shot was fired at half past eight, no head could have intervened. I say to you that the revolver must have been held within an inch of that mouthpiece, pointing sideways past it, so that a few powder grains stung the inside. I say to you, therefore, that the shot heard at half past eight could not have been the shot which killed Anthony Morell.”

  Dr. Fell paused. He ran his hands through his gray-streaked mop
of hair, with an expression of acute discomfort and even perplexity.

  “That’s clear, isn’t it?” he inquired, glancing from one to the other. “You were all so disdainful when I expressed surprise about the telephone, that I can’t help asking.”

  Mr. Justice Ireton swallowed brandy.

  “The explanation,” he conceded, “appears probable. Then it follows—”

  Dr. Fell made a gesture.

  “Why,” he said, “it follows that Morell did not whisper those words, ‘ “The Dunes.” Ireton’s cottage. Help!’ It follows that some other person did whisper them, and then deliberately fired a shot almost into the mouthpiece of the telephone, so that there should be no doubt in the operator’s mind of what had happened. It follows that the whole thing was a fake and a plant.”

  “Designed?”

  “Designed by the murderer,” said Dr. Fell, “to show that Morell had died at that particular time and in that particular place.”

  Inspector Graham fiddled with his notebook. Fred Barlow finished his whisky and soda. And Dr. Fell went on.

  “So much became clear after an examination of this room on Saturday night. Two shots, then, were fired. The first shot presumably killed Morell, who died at some time previous to eight-thirty. The second was fired in here. But only one spent cartridge case was found in the revolver later. Consequently, the murderer must have slipped another bullet into the magazine for the second shot to make us believe only one had been fired.

  “Now this raised two interesting points. First, where did this extra bullet come from? Did the murderer carry a spare for that purpose? Or a blank cartridge, perhaps? Or—”

  Dr. Fell broke off. With an air of apology he pointed at the chess table.

  “On Saturday night, musing densely over these points, I wandered up against that chess table. I found the chess pieces and began to mess about with them. I was throwing up and catching one of them, with utter absence of mind, when a great light blazed over these feeble wits of mine. For I remembered a certain habit of Morell’s; and I remembered his pocket piece.”