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IV
Ex-Inspector Blore said in a low hoarse voice to Philip Lombard:
‘Know what I’m thinking?’
Philip Lombard said:
‘As you’re just about to tell me, it’s not worth the trouble of guessing.’
Ex-Inspector Blore was an earnest man. A light touch was incompre-
hensible to him. He went on heavily:
‘There was a case in America. Old gentleman and his wife—both killed
with an axe. Middle of the morning. Nobody in the house but the daughter
and the maid. Maid, it was proved, couldn’t have done it. Daughter was a
respectable middle-aged spinster. Seemed incredible. So incredible that
they acquitted her. But they never found any other explanation.’ He
paused. ‘I thought of that when I saw the axe—and then when I went into
the kitchen and saw her there so neat and calm. Hadn’t turned a hair!
That girl, coming all over hysterical—well, that’s natural—the sort of thing
you’d expect—don’t you think so?’
Philip Lombard said laconically:
‘It might be.’
Blore went on.
‘But the other! So neat and prim—wrapped up in that apron—Mrs Ro-
gers’ apron, I suppose—saying: “Breakfast will be ready in half an hour or
so.” If you ask me that woman’s as mad as a hatter! Lots of elderly spin-
sters go that way—I don’t mean go in for homicide on the grand scale, but
go queer in their heads. Unfortunately it’s taken her this way. Religious
mania—thinks she’s God’s instrument, something of that kind! She sits in
her room, you know, reading her Bible.’
Philip Lombard sighed and said:
‘That’s hardly proof positive of an unbalanced mentality, Blore.’
But Blore went on, ploddingly, perseveringly:
‘And then she was out—in her mackintosh, said she’d been down to look
at the sea.’
The other shook his head.
He said:
‘Rogers was killed as he was chopping firewood—that is to say first thing
when he got up. The Brent wouldn’t have needed to wander about outside
for hours afterwards. If you ask me, the murderer of Rogers would take
jolly good care to be rolled up in bed snoring.’
Blore said:
‘You’re missing the point, Mr Lombard. If the woman was innocent
she’d be too dead scared to go wandering about by herself. She’d only do
that if she knew that she had nothing to fear. That’s to say if she herself is the
criminal.’
Philip Lombard said:
‘That’s a good point…yes, I hadn’t thought of that.’
He added with a faint grin:
‘Glad you don’t still suspect me.’
Blore said rather shamefacedly:
‘I did start by thinking of you—that revolver—and the queer story you
told—or didn’t tell. But I’ve realized now that that was really a bit too ob-
vious.’ He paused and said: ‘Hope you feel the same about me.’
Philip said thoughtfully:
‘I may be wrong, of course, but I can’t feel that you’ve got enough ima-
gination for this job. All I can say is, if you’re the criminal, you’re a
damned fine actor and I take my hat off to you.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Just
between ourselves, Blore, and taking into account that we’ll probably both
be a couple of stiffs before another day is out, you did indulge in that spot
of perjury, I suppose?’
Blore shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. He said at last:
‘Doesn’t seem to make much odds now. Oh well, here goes, Landor was
innocent right enough. The gang had got me squared and between us we
got him put away for a stretch. Mind you, I wouldn’t admit this—’
‘If there were any witnesses,’ finished Lombard with a grin. ‘It’s just
between you and me. Well, I hope you made a tidy bit out of it.’
‘Didn’t make what I should have done. Mean crowd, the Purcell gang. I
got my promotion, though.’
‘And Landor got penal servitude and died in prison.’
‘I couldn’t know he was going to die, could I?’ demanded Blore.
‘No, that was your bad luck.’
‘Mine? His, you mean.’
‘Yours, too. Because, as a result of it, it looks as though your own life is
going to be cut unpleasantly short.’
‘Me?’ Blore stared at him. ‘Do you think I’m going to go the way of Ro-
gers and the rest of them? Not me! I’m watching out for myself pretty
carefully, I can tell you.’
Lombard said:
‘Oh well — I’m not a betting man. And anyway if you were dead I
wouldn’t get paid.’
‘Look here, Mr Lombard, what do you mean?’
Philip Lombard showed his teeth. He said:
‘I mean, my dear Blore, that in my opinion you haven’t got a chance!’
‘What?’
‘Your lack of imagination is going to make you absolutely a sitting tar-
get. A criminal of the imagination of U. N. Owen can make rings round
you any time he—or she—wants to.’
Blore’s face went crimson. He demanded angrily:
‘And what about you?’
Philip Lombard’s face went hard and dangerous.
He said:
‘I’ve a pretty good imagination of my own. I’ve been in tight places be-
fore now and got out of them! I think—I won’t say more than that but I
think I’ll get out of this one.’
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