Starkwedder moved about the room as he replied. ‘Well, the way we’re building this up, old MacThing–the father of the child Richard ran over–is more likely to come bursting in, breathing blood and thunder and revenge, with his own weapon at the ready. But one could, after all, make out quite a plausible case the other way. This man–whoever he is–bursts in. Richard, only half awake, snatches up his gun. The other fellow wrenches it away from him, and shoots. I admit it sounds a bit far-fetched, but it’ll have to do. We’ve got to take some risks, it just can’t be avoided.’
He placed the gun on the table by the wheelchair, and approached her. ‘Now then,’ he continued, ‘have we thought of everything? I hope so. The fact that he was shot a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes earlier won’t be apparent by the time the police get here. Driving along these roads in this fog won’t be easy for them.’ He went over to the curtain by the french windows, lifted it, and looked at the bullet holes in the wall. ‘“RW”. Very nice. I’ll try to add a full stop.’
Replacing the curtain, he came back to her. ‘When you hear the shot,’ he instructed Laura, ‘what you do is register alarm, and bring Miss Bennett–or anyone else you can collect–down here. Your story is that you don’t know anything. You went to bed, you woke up with a violent headache, you went along to look for aspirin–and that’s all you know. Understand?’
Laura nodded.
‘Good,’ said Starkwedder. ‘All the rest you leave to me. Are you feeling all right now?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ Laura whispered.
‘Then go along and do your stuff,’ he ordered her.
Laura hesitated. ‘You–you oughtn’t to do this,’ she urged him again. ‘You oughtn’t. You shouldn’t get involved.’
‘Now, don’t let’s have any more of that,’ Starkwedder insisted. ‘Everyone has their own form of–what did we call it just now?–fun and games. You had your fun and games shooting your husband. I’m having my fun and games now. Let’s just say I’ve always had a secret longing to see how I could get on with a detective story in real life.’ He gave her a quick, reassuring smile. ‘Now, can you do what I’ve told you?’
Laura nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Right. Oh, I see you’ve got a watch. Good. What time do you make it?’
Laura showed him her wristwatch, and he set his accordingly. ‘Just after ten minutes to,’ he observed. ‘I’ll allow you three–no, four–minutes. Four minutes to go along to the kitchen, pop that paper in the boiler, go upstairs, get out of your things and into a dressing-gown, and along to Miss Bennett or whoever. Do you think you can do that, Laura?’ He smiled at her reassuringly.
Laura nodded.
‘Now then,’ he continued, ‘at five minutes to midnight exactly, you’ll hear the shot. Off you go.’
Moving to the door, she turned and looked at him, uncertain of herself. Starkwedder went across to open the door for her. ‘You’re not going to let me down, are you?’ he asked.
‘No,’ replied Laura faintly.
‘Good.’
Laura was about to leave the room when Starkwedder noticed her jacket lying on the arm of the sofa. Calling her back, he gave it to her, smiling. She went out, and he closed the door behind her.
Chapter 5
After closing the door behind Laura, Starkwedder paused, working out in his mind what was to be done. After a moment, he glanced at his watch, then took out a cigarette. He moved to the table by the armchair and was about to pick up the lighter when he noticed a photograph of Laura on one of the bookshelves. He picked it up, looked at it, smiled, replaced it, and lit a cigarette, leaving the lighter on the table. Taking out his handkerchief, he rubbed any fingerprints off the arms of the armchair and the photograph, and then pushed the chair back to its original position. He took Laura’s cigarette from the ashtray, then went to the table by the wheelchair and took his own stub from the ashtray. Crossing to the desk, he next rubbed any fingerprints from it, replaced the scissors and notepad, and adjusted the blotter. He looked around him on the floor for any scrap of paper that might have been missed, found one near the desk, screwed it up and put it in his trousers pocket. He rubbed fingerprints off the light switch by the door and off the desk chair, picked up his torch from the desk, went over to the french windows, drew the curtain back slightly, and shone the torch through the window onto the path outside.
‘Too hard for footprints,’ he murmured to himself. He put the torch on the table by the wheelchair and picked up the gun. Making sure that it was sufficiently loaded, he polished it for fingerprints, then went to the stool and put the gun down on it. After glancing again at his watch, he went to the armchair in the recess and put on his hat, scarf and gloves. With his overcoat on his arm, he crossed to the door. He was about to switch off the lights when he remembered to remove the fingerprints from the door-plate and handle. He then switched off the lights, and came back to the stool, putting his coat on. He picked up the gun, and was about to fire it at the initials on the wall when he realized that they were hidden by the curtain.
‘Damn!’ he muttered. Quickly taking the desk chair, he used it to hold the curtain back. He returned to his position by the stool, fired the gun, and then quickly went back to the wall to examine the result. ‘Not bad!’ he congratulated himself.
As he replaced the desk chair in its proper position, Starkwedder could hear voices in the hall. He rushed off through the french windows, taking the gun with him. A moment later he reappeared, snatched up the torch, and dashed out again.
From various parts of the house, four people hurried towards the study. Richard Warwick’s mother, a tall, commanding old lady, was in her dressing-gown. She looked pallid and walked with the aid of a stick. ‘What is it, Jan?’ she asked the teenage boy in pyjamas with the strange, rather innocent, faun-like face, who was close behind her on the landing. ‘Why is everybody wandering about in the middle of the night?’ she exclaimed as they were joined by a grey-haired, middle-aged woman, wearing a sensible flannel dressing-gown. ‘Benny,’ she ordered the woman, ‘tell me what’s going on.’
Laura was close behind, and Mrs Warwick continued, ‘Have you all taken leave of your senses? Laura, what’s happened? Jan–Jan–will someone tell me what is going on in this house?’
‘I’ll bet it’s Richard,’ said the boy, who looked about nineteen, though his voice and manner were those of a younger child. ‘He’s shooting at the fog again.’ There was a note of petulance in his voice as he added, ‘Tell him he’s not to shoot and wake us all up out of our beauty sleep. I was deep asleep, and so was Benny. Weren’t you, Benny? Be careful, Laura, Richard’s dangerous. He’s dangerous, Benny, be careful.’
‘There’s thick fog outside,’ said Laura, looking through the landing window. ‘You can barely make out the path. I can’t imagine what he can be shooting at in this mist. It’s absurd. Besides, I thought I heard a cry.’
Miss Bennett–Benny–an alert, brisk woman who looked like the ex-hospital nurse that she was, spoke somewhat officiously. ‘I really can’t see why you’re so upset, Laura. It’s just Richard amusing himself as usual. But I didn’t hear any shooting. I’m sure there’s nothing wrong. I think you’re imagining things. But he’s certainly very selfish and I shall tell him so. Richard,’ she called as she entered the study, ‘really, Richard, it’s too bad at this time of night. You frightened us–Richard!’
Laura, wearing her dressing-gown, followed Miss Bennett into the room. As she switched on the lights and moved to the sofa, the boy Jan followed her. He looked at Miss Bennett who stood staring at Richard Warwick in his wheelchair. ‘What is it, Benny?’ asked Jan. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘It’s Richard,’ said Miss Bennett, her voice strangely calm. ‘He’s killed himself.’
‘Look,’ cried young Jan excitedly, pointing at the table. ‘Richard’s revolver’s gone.’
A voice from outside in the garden called, ‘What’s going on in there? Is anything wrong?’ Looking through the small window in the recess, Jan shouted, ‘Listen! There’s someone outside!’
‘Outside?’ said Miss Bennett. ‘Who?’ She turned to the french windows and was about to draw back the curtain when Starkwedder suddenly appeared. Miss Bennett stepped back in alarm as Starkwedder came forward, asking urgently, ‘What’s happened here? What’s the matter?’ His glance fell on Richard Warwick in the wheelchair. ‘This man’s dead!’ he exclaimed. ‘Shot.’ He looked around the room suspiciously, taking them all in.
‘Who are you?’ asked Miss Bennett. ‘Where do you come from?’
‘Just run my car into a ditch,’ replied Starkwedder. ‘I’ve been lost for hours. Found some gates and came up to the house to try to get some help and telephone. Heard a shot, and someone came rushing out of the windows and collided with me.’ Holding out the gun, Starkwedder added, ‘He dropped this.’
‘Where did this man go?’ Miss Bennett asked him.
‘How the hell should I know in this fog?’ Starkwedder replied.
Jan stood in front of Richard’s body, staring excitedly at it. ‘Somebody’s shot Richard,’ he shouted.
‘Looks like it,’ Starkwedder agreed. ‘You’d better get in touch with the police.’ He placed the gun on the table by the wheelchair, picked up the decanter, and poured brandy into a glass. ‘Who is he?’
‘My husband,’ said Laura, expressionlessly, as she went to sit on the sofa.
With what sounded a slightly forced concern, Starkwedder said to her, ‘Here–drink this.’ Laura looked up at him. ‘You’ve had a shock,’ he added emphatically. As she took the glass, with his back turned to the others Starkwedder gave her a conspiratorial grin, to call her attention to his solution of the fingerprint problem. Turning away, he threw his hat on the armchair, and then, suddenly noticing that Miss Bennett was about to bend over Richard Warwick’s body, he swung quickly round. ‘No, don’t touch anything, madam,’ he implored her. ‘This looks like murder, and if it is then nothing must be touched.’
Straightening up, Miss Bennett backed away from the body in the chair, looking appalled. ‘Murder?’ she exclaimed. ‘It can’t be murder!’
Mrs Warwick, the mother of the dead man, had stopped just inside the door of the study. She came forward now, asking, ‘What has happened?’
‘Richard’s been shot! Richard’s been shot!’ Jan told her. He sounded more excited than concerned.
‘Quiet, Jan,’ ordered Miss Bennett.
‘What did I hear you say?’ asked Mrs Warwick, quietly.
‘He said–murder,’ Benny told her, indicating Starkwedder.
‘Richard,’ Mrs Warwick whispered, as Jan leaned over the body, calling, ‘Look–look–there’s something on his chest–a paper–with writing on it.’ His hand went out to it, but he was stopped by Starkwedder’s command: ‘Don’t touch–whatever you do, don’t touch.’ Then he read aloud, slowly, ‘“May–fifteen–paid in full”.’
‘Good Lord! MacGregor,’ Miss Bennett exclaimed, moving behind the sofa.
Laura rose. Mrs Warwick frowned. ‘You mean,’ she said, ‘–that man–the father–the child that was run over–?’
‘Of course, MacGregor,’ Laura murmured to herself as she sat in the armchair.
Jan went up to the body. ‘Look–it’s all newspaper–cut up,’ he said in excitement. Starkwedder again restrained him. ‘No, don’t touch it,’ he ordered. ‘It’s got to be left for the police.’ He stepped towards the telephone. ‘Shall I–?’
‘No,’ said Mrs Warwick firmly. ‘I will.’ Taking charge of the situation, and summoning her courage, she went to the desk and started to dial. Jan moved excitedly to the stool and knelt upon it. ‘The man that ran away,’ he asked Miss Bennett. ‘Do you think he–?’
‘Ssh, Jan,’ Miss Bennett said to him firmly, while Mrs Warwick spoke quietly but in a clear, authoritative voice on the telephone. ‘Is that the police station? This is Llangelert House. Mr Richard Warwick’s house. Mr Warwick has just been found–shot dead.’
She went on speaking into the phone. Her voice remained low, but the others in the room listened intently. ‘No, he was found by a stranger,’ they heard her say. ‘A man whose car had broken down near the house, I believe…Yes, I’ll tell him. I’ll phone the inn. Will one of your cars be able to take him there when you’ve finished here?…Very well.’
Turning to face the company, Mrs Warwick announced, ‘The police will be here as soon as they can in this fog. They’ll have two cars, one of which will return right away to take this gentleman’–she gestured at Starkwedder–‘to the inn in the village. They want him to stay overnight and be available to talk to them tomorrow.’
‘Well, since I can’t leave with my car still in the ditch, that’s fine with me,’ Starkwedder exclaimed. As he spoke, the door to the corridor opened, and a dark-haired man of medium height in his mid-forties entered the room, tying the cord of his dressing-gown. He suddenly stopped short just inside the door. ‘Is something the matter, madam?’ he asked, addressing Mrs Warwick. Then, glancing past her, he saw the body of Richard Warwick. ‘Oh, my God,’ he exclaimed.
‘I’m afraid there’s been a terrible tragedy, Angell,’ Mrs Warwick replied. ‘Mr Richard has been shot, and the police are on their way here.’ Turning to Starkwedder, she said, ‘This is Angell. He’s–he was Richard’s valet.’
The valet acknowledged Starkwedder’s presence wth a slight, absent-minded bow. ‘Oh, my God,’ he repeated, as he continued to stare at the body of his late employer.
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