3
“That fixes it pretty well.”
the window overlooking the lake.
Curry went on.
“If I’m half-turned on the piano stool, watching the study door, I can’t
see you.”
Sergeant Lake rose softly and edged quietly through the door to the lib-
rary.
“All this side of the room was dark. The only lights that were on were
the ones beside the study door. No, Lake, I didn’t see you go. Once in the
library, you could go out through the other door to the corridor — two
minutes to run along to the Oak
Suite4, shoot Gulbrandsen and come back
through the library to your chair by the window.
“The women by the fire have their backs to you. Mrs. Serrocold was sit-
ting here—on the right of the fireplace, near the study door. Everyone
agrees she didn’t move and she’s the only one who’s in the line of direct
vision. Miss Marple was here. She was looking past Mrs. Serrocold to the
study. Mrs. Strete was on the left of the fireplace—close to the door out of
the Hall to the lobby, and it’s a very dark corner. She could have gone and
come back. Yes, it’s possible.”
Curry grinned suddenly.
“And I could go.” He slipped off the music stool and sidled along the wall
and out through the door. “The only person who might notice I wasn’t still
at the piano would be Gina Hudd. And you remember what Gina said,
‘Stephen was at the piano to begin with. I don’t know where he was later.’”
“So you think it’s Stephen?”
“I don’t know who it is,” said Curry. “It wasn’t Edgar Lawson or Lewis
Serrocold or Mrs. Serrocold or Miss Jane Marple. But for the rest—” He
sighed. “It’s probably the American. Those fused lights were a bit too con-
venient—a coincidence. And yet, you know, I rather like the chap. Still,
that isn’t evidence.”
He peered thoughtfully at some music on the side of the piano.
“Hindemith? Who’s he? Never heard of him. Shostakovitch! What names
these people have.” He got up and then looked down at the old-fashioned
music stool. He lifted the top of it.
“Here’s the old- fashioned stuff. Handel’s
Largo5. Czerny’s Exercises.
Dates back to old Gulbrandsen, most of this. ‘I know a lovely Garden’—
Vicar’s wife used to sing that when I was a boy—”
He stopped—the yellow pages of the song in his hand. Beneath them, re-
posing on Chopin’s
Preludes6, was a small automatic pistol.
“Stephen Restarick,” exclaimed Sergeant Lake
joyfully7.
“Now don’t jump to conclusions,” Inspector Curry warned him. “Ten to
one that’s what we’re meant to think.”
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