2
someone from what other people said.
Edgar Lawson had been described by a good many different people that
morning, but looking at him now, Curry’s own impressions were almost
ludicrously different.
Edgar did not impress him as “queer” or “dangerous” or “arrogant” or
even as “abnormal.” He seemed a very ordinary young man, very much
cast down and in a state of
humility3 approaching that of Uriah Heep’s. He
looked young and slightly common and rather pathetic.
He was only too anxious to talk and to apologize.
“I know I’ve done very wrong. I don’t know what came over me—really
I don’t. Making that scene and kicking up such a row. And actually shoot-
ing off a pistol. At Mr. Serrocold, too, who’s been so good to me and so pa-
tient, too.”
He twisted his hands
nervously4. They were rather pathetic hands, with
bony wrists.
“If I’ve got to be had up for it, I’ll come with you at once. I deserve it. I’ll
plead guilty.”
“No charge has been made against you,” said Inspector Curry crisply.
“So we’ve no evidence on which to act. According to Mr. Serrocold, letting
off the pistol was an accident.”
“That’s because he’s so good. There never was a man as good as Mr. Ser-
rocold! He’s done everything for me. And I go and repay him by
acting5 like
this.”
“What made you act as you did?”
Edgar looked embarrassed.
“I made a fool of myself.”
Inspector Curry said drily:
“So it seems. You told Mr. Serrocold in the presence of witnesses that
you had discovered that he was your father. Was that true?”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“What put that idea into your head? Did someone suggest it to you?”
“Well, it’s a bit hard to explain.”
Inspector Curry looked at him thoughtfully, then said in a
kindly6 voice:
“Suppose you try. We don’t want to make things hard for you.”
“Well, you see, I had rather a hard time of it as a kid. The other boys
jeered7 at me. Because I hadn’t got a father. Said I was a little
bastard8—
which I was, of course. Mum was usually drunk and she had men coming
in all the time. My father was a foreign
seaman9, I believe. The house was
always
filthy10 and it was all pretty fair hell. And then I got to thinking sup-
pose my Dad had been not just some foreign sailor, but someone import-
ant—and I used to make up a thing or two. Kid stuff first—changed at
birth—really the rightful heir—that sort of thing. And then I went to a new
school and I tried it on once or twice hinting things. Said my father was
really an Admiral in the navy. I got to believing it myself. I didn’t feel so
bad then.”
He paused and then went on.
“And then—later—I thought up some other ideas. I used to stay at hotels
and told a lot of silly stories about being a fighter pilot—or about being in
military intelligence. I got all sort of mixed up. I didn’t seem able to stop
telling lies.
“Only I didn’t really try to get money by it. It was just swank so as to
make people think a bit more of me. I didn’t want to be dishonest. Mr. Ser-
rocold will tell you—and Dr. Maverick—they’ve got all the stuff about it.”
Inspector Curry nodded. He had already studied Edgar’s case history
and his police record.
“Mr. Serrocold got me clear in the end and brought me down here. He
said he needed a secretary to help him—and I did help him! I really did.
Only the others laughed at me. They were always laughing at me.”
“What others? Mrs. Serrocold?”
“No, not Mrs. Serrocold. She’s a lady—she’s always gentle and kind. No,
but Gina treated me like dirt. And Stephen Restarick. And Mrs. Strete
looked down on me for not being a gentleman. So did Miss Bellever—and
what’s she? She’s a paid companion, isn’t she?”
Curry
noted11 the signs of rising excitement.
“So you didn’t find them very sympathetic?”
“It was because of me being a bastard. If I’d had a proper father they
wouldn’t have gone on like that.”
“So you appropriated a couple of famous fathers?”
Edgar blushed.
“I always seem to get to telling lies,” he muttered.
“And finally, you said Mr. Serrocold was your father. Why?”
“Because that would stop them once for all, wouldn’t it? If he was my
father they couldn’t do anything to me!”
“Yes. But you accused him of being your enemy—of
persecuting13 you.”
“I know—” He rubbed his forehead. “I got things all wrong. There are
times when I don’t—when I don’t get things quite right. I get
muddled14.”
“And you took the revolver from Mr. Walter Hudd’s room?”
Edgar looked puzzled.
“Did I? Is that where I got it?”
“Don’t you remember where you got it?”
Edgar said:
“I meant to threaten Mr. Serrocold with it. I meant to frighten him. It
was kid stuff all over again.”
Inspector Curry said patiently, “How did you get the revolver?”
“You just said—out of Walter’s room.”
“You remember doing that now?”
“I must have got it from his room. I couldn’t have got hold of it any other
way, could I?”
“I don’t know,” said Inspector Curry. “Somebody—might have given it to
you?”
Edgar was silent—his face a blank.
“Is that how it happened?”
Edgar said passionately:
“I don’t remember. I was so worked up. I walked about the garden in a
red mist of rage. I thought people were spying on me, watching me, trying
to hound me down. Even that nice white-haired old lady … I can’t under-
stand it all now. I feel I must have been mad. I don’t remember where I
was and what I was doing half of the time!”
“Surely you remember who told you Mr. Serrocold was your father?”
Edgar gave the same blank stare.
“Nobody told me,” he said
sullenly15. “It just came to me.”
Inspector Curry sighed. He was not satisfied. But he judged he could
make no further progress at present.
“Well, watch your step in future,” he said.
“Yes, sir. Yes, indeed, I will.”
As Edgar went Inspector Curry slowly shook his head.
“These pathological cases are the devil!”
“D’you think he’s mad, sir?”
“Much less mad than I’d imagined. Weak-headed, boastful, a liar—yet a
certain pleasant
simplicity16 about him. Highly suggestible I should ima-
gine….”
“You think someone did suggest things to him?”
“Oh yes, old Miss Marple was right there. She’s a shrewd old bird. But I
wish I knew who it was. He won’t tell. If we only knew that … Come on,
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