The Second Shot (14 page)

There perhaps I could discern a ray of hope. If by any fortunate chance the experts decided that the bullet must have been fired at a moderately long range, there would be a very definite point in my favour; for with the known fact that I did not shoot, and my shortness of sight, it would be highly improbable (a) that I should ever have deliberately attempted to shoot at such a distance with intent to kill, (b) that I should have succeeded in hitting so small a mark as the vital spot opposite the heart, had I done so. On the other hand it had not needed John to point out that should it turn out that the range had been short, the inference would be that Scott-Davies had been shot by someone so well known to him that he had kept his back turned as the two progressed in single file along the path, which would be yet another point against myself; had it been someone not well known to him Scott-Davies, of course, as staying in the house, would have been following the other, not preceding him.

And yet, I thought to myself now, that did not really hold water, for the assailant might, as I had considered just now, have been standing up concealed in the thick undergrowth waiting to shoot Scott-Davies just after he passed. Was that a point worth putting to the police? Surely any point that tended to help me was worth that. I considered it further. In that case the firer would have had to be stationed where the path made a twist, and on the outer edge of such a twist, so as to get a full view of Scott-Davies’ back instead of a slanting one as would have been the case had he stood beside a straight portion of the path. Well, that was possible enough. The path was full of twists, and the undergrowth was quite thick enough for concealment. But then how, in this case, was the assailant to have known at all that Scott-Davies was going to pass along that particular and quite unlikely path?

My mind grew unwontedly confused. I could not decide whether it was better to speak to the police or not. My instinct was to speak, to make strenuous efforts to free myself from this appalling predicament; but might I only make matters worse by doing so? Would it not be better to leave well enough alone, and rely on the police themselves discarding their fatal theory? For the life of me I did not know what to do. One thing only I had decided, almost without reflection: I would
not
adopt John’s suggestion and get in touch with my solicitor. For one thing he would almost certainly institute investigations on my behalf, and endeavour to take control of affairs out of my own hands; and in that case other people’s real motives for getting rid of Scott-Davies, as well as my own supposed ones, would without doubt be brought to light. That, for the moment at any rate, I would not have. I might be in a highly perilous position, but I would not free myself from it by throwing suspicion on others. I claim no credit in this resolve for chivalry or high-mindedness. It was a matter merely of fair play (and had I not already earned the title of ‘sportsman’?). Whoever had killed Scott-Davies deserved the thanks, not the execration, of his fellows. Of that I still had no doubt at all.

Although by now fully dressed, in the maelstrom of my whirling thoughts I had dropped into a chair in my bedroom instead of going at once downstairs, listening automatically for the dinner bell. I should hardly get another chance of being alone until bedtime, and I wished to reduce my incoherent ideas into something resembling order while the opportunity still held. I was not in any sort of panic, I should like to make it clear, though I certainly was alarmed; but I was puzzled, confused, and very doubtful of what to do for the best.

There was the sound of heavy footsteps outside the door, a rap, and John Hillyard came in. He carried a large glass filled with some kind of liquid. Like myself, he was already dressed.

‘Just been knocking up a cocktail,’ he said, in rather gruff tones. ‘Do us all good. Thought you’d like a spot up here, eh? Feeling a bit knocked up, I expect.’

‘Thank you, John,’ I said, touched by this small attention, so unlike the normal John Hillyard. The stimulant was indeed by no means unwelcome. The whisky I had already drunk might have been water for all the effect it had had.

John hovered for a moment while I sipped the generous allowance he had brought me. He seemed ill-at-ease.

‘Look here, Cyril,’ he blurted out at last, ‘I didn’t say anything downstairs, but you understand. I’ll see you through this somehow.’

‘See me through it?’ I echoed, somewhat surprised.

‘Yes. And – and I’d like to say, Cyril, I think it was – Look here, are you in love with Elsa?’

My surprise changed to astonishment, but I answered this remarkable question frankly enough. ‘No, I’m not.’

‘You don’t want to marry her yourself?’ John persisted, in what in other circumstances would have been incredibly bad taste; now, however, questions of taste no longer seemed to arise.

‘I do not, John.’

‘Ethel and I would use – well, any influence we’ve got if you did,’ John said, almost wistfully.

‘I assure you, my dear John, I have not the faintest intention of asking Miss Verity to do me any such honour.’

John looked at me for a moment in a peculiar way. ‘Well, then, I think it was damned fine of you,’ he said, more gruffly than ever. ‘Damn it, I wouldn’t have believed it. You’ve got more guts than I have, Cyril. I swear I’ll see you through somehow.’

And while I was still staring at him in amazement, he had gone abruptly out of the room.

It was not until the door had closed behind him that I realized that John had actually been thanking me for shooting Eric Scott-Davies!

But my shocks were not yet over. The bell rang downstairs and, hastily consuming the rest of my drink (for which I felt considerably better already), I rose from my chair. But before I could reach the door it had opened in front of me and Ethel was inside the room.

She wore a dark blue dress of some soft stuff and looked exceedingly handsome, as she always does in the evening. But I had no time to admire her looks; her actions were occupying all my attention. She stood for a few seconds leaning back against the door, her arms slightly raised from her sides, looking at me so intently that I began to feel most uncomfortable.

‘Oh,
Cyril,’
she breathed, scarcely above a whisper. I have mentioned before that if dear Ethel has a fault it is a tendency at times to be a trifle dramatic.

‘Yes, Ethel?’ I said, in as matter-of-fact tones as I could produce. ‘You wanted to – er – see me about something?’

For answer she walked slowly towards me, while I stood uncertain whether to retreat or not, put her hands on my shoulders and, gazing for an instant with the same intentness into my face, solemnly kissed me. ‘Thank you, dear friend, thank you,’ she said, in a low, vibrant voice.

I stared after her as she walked slowly from the room, my mouth positively agape. My hostess as well as my host had come to thank me for shooting one of their guests. A pretty condition of affairs, indeed!

I went down to dinner in a state of greater confusion than ever.

Conversation during the meal was naturally most constrained. Either it was non-existent, till everyone began to feel in the highest degree uncomfortable, or else all spoke feverishly at once. Only Mrs de Ravel and John Hillyard appeared almost completely their usual selves. Armorel spoke scarcely at all. I noticed, however, that the colour had come back into her face, and she looked considerably more composed. Miss Verity of course did not appear.

I did my best to appear at ease while the meal was in progress, but in reality I was feeling anything but that. Recent events might have distorted my imagination, but it did seem to me as if everyone was determined so resolutely to behave quite naturally towards me that the effect was entirely unnatural. Everyone, that is, except De Ravel. He appeared to be going out of his way to make me the target of his barbed innuendos, which at times carried such bitterness that he might almost have had a grudge against me for being under suspicion. I could not make the man out.

Fortunately after the ladies left us he quickly muttered some excuse and went out of the room, leaving John and myself alone together. I wanted to have a few words with John. I was now feeling considerably more collected, and a number of obvious questions had occurred to me which I had been too upset before to put.

‘You said before dinner, John,’ I remarked quite calmly, pouring myself out a second glass of port with a perfectly steady hand, ‘that you had reason to believe that the police were not altogether satisfied with what I told them. I really can’t understand why. I told them merely the plain truth. In what direction does their lack of satisfaction lie?’

John fiddled with his tie in an embarrassed movement. ‘Look here, Cyril, I may have put the wind up you quite unnecessarily. Damned silly of me. The truth was, the idea had just been a bit of a shock to me, and I wanted to pass the warning on straight away. I think now I may have passed it on a bit too strongly. The superintendent never actually
said
anything of the sort. It was only my impression.’

‘I see. And you think now your impression may have been a mistaken one?’

‘No,’ said John reluctantly. ‘Not altogether. But I do think it may have been an exaggerated one. I’ll tell you exactly what gave it me. After he’d seen you he had me in again, you remember, and I’m quite sure it was for the sole purpose of checking up what you’d told him; and I’m equally sure there were a good many large questions still left in his mind after he’d finished with me. He asked me a lot of questions about your relations with Eric, too, which I thought rather a bad sign.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘Oh, I said you hardly knew each other.’

‘Miss Verity’s name was not mentioned?’ I asked, taking the bull by the horns.

‘Certainly not, by me. In fact,’ said John awkwardly, ‘I intend to pass the word round to the others to say nothing about her and – and you.’

In proportion as John’s embarrassment grew, my own singular calmness increased. I noted the fact with interest.

‘Perhaps it would be as well. You know perfectly well why I displayed a public interest in Miss Verity. It was on Ethel’s express request. I think in fairness to myself something of that should be explained to the others. If the police got to hear of it they would leap to the obvious conclusion, and it might be extremely difficult to rid them of it afterwards.’

‘I’ll do that of course,’ John muttered. ‘God knows we owe you that, at least.’

‘John,’ I said curiously, ‘do you really believe I shot Scott-Davies? Quite frankly?’

But John would not answer frankly. ‘Not if you say you didn’t, of course,’ he wriggled.

‘Would it really be the least use to tell you I didn’t?’

John suddenly grinned. ‘Well, whether you did or whether you didn’t, Cyril, I don’t know if you’ve noticed that I’ve brought up a bottle of the ‘87 this evening. I won’t say anything about cause or effect; I just mention the fact. And I’ll drink another glass with you on the strength of it. Your very good health, Cyril Pinkerton!’ An unusually jocular speech for John.

But I had not quite finished with him yet. I had one last question to ask. ‘Well, tell me this instead, John: are you so – really, there’s no other word for it – are you so
delighted
that Scott-Davies is dead?’

John at once looked his usual serious self. ‘Look here, Cyril, I’m not a sentimental man. I don’t subscribe to this modern mush about sanctity of human life. The ancients knew better than that. The only human life they considered sacred was the life that was valuable to the community; and when it was more valuable to the community that even such life should be sacrificed on its behalf rather than preserved, they didn’t go maundering about and around the point; they promptly claimed it. Well, if our modern sentimentalists can find anything sacred in the life of a seducer, a waster, and a professional adulterer, I can’t. There are some men, and women too (very few, I admit, but some), whom it ought to be reckoned justifiable homicide to shoot at sight, and Scott-Davies was one of them. I don’t propose to descend to the conventional hypocrisy of pretending to have the faintest regret that a life that was not merely valueless but a positive menace to the community has been ended. Yes, Cyril, certainly, if you want to hear me say it, I’m
delighted
that Scott-Davies is dead.’

‘Really, John,’ I said lightly, for he was looking so intensely serious, ‘I never knew you had the interests of the community so much at heart. You must be a Socialist in disguise.’

He relaxed a little. ‘Of course I am. I’m a hidebound Conservative, which means I’m more of a practical Socialist than all the theoretical ones put together. Finished your port? Well, suppose we go into the other room.’

But though John passed through the hall into the drawing room, I was not destined to reach that sanctuary just yet. De Ravel was hovering in the hall. He came towards us as we emerged from the drawing room.

‘Pinkerton, can I have a word with you?’

‘Certainly,’ I replied, not without surprise. ‘What is it?’

‘Come out into the garden a minute.’

I saw John hesitate by the drawing-room door, but nodded to him to go on. I did not care at all for De Ravel’s peremptory tone, but it was better to hear what he wished to say. I followed him out of doors.

It was a fine evening, by no means yet dark, and I had no difficulty in seeing De Ravel striding impetuously ahead of me down the path, impatience in every line of him. I could not imagine what he wished to say.

He waited for me in the lane in front of the house, and I must say I was reminded strongly of that evening which seemed so long ago but which was in reality exactly forty-eight hours old, when Eric Scott-Davies had done much the same thing.

Eric’s disciple came to the point with promptitude. ‘Look here, Pinkerton,’ he said, in a thick, unpleasant voice, his little black moustache positively brisling with hostility. ‘Look here, I want to know what the devil you mean by sticking your nose into my affairs and doing my jobs for me?’

‘Mr dear De Ravel,’ I could only protest in amazement, ‘I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.’