coat that never had it; but you can’t pin a motive where there
couldn’t be one!”
“So you had no motive?”
“Certainly not. Quite the opposite. What happened last Thursday morning
was the worst thing that has ever happened to me in my life. I should have
thought that was obvious even to an outsider.”
“And of course you had not the faintest idea that Miss Clay had made a
codicil to her will leaving you a ranch and a large sum of money.”
Tisdall had been readjusting the folds of a garment. He stopped now, his
hands still holding the cloth, but motionless, and stared at Grant.
“Chris did that!” he said. “No. No, I didn’t know. How wonderful of
her!”
And for a moment doubt stirred in Grant. That had been beautifully done.
Timing, expression, action. No professional actor could have done it better.
But the doubt passed. He recrossed his legs, by way of shaking himself,
recalled the charm and innocence of murderers he had known (Andrew Hamey, who
specialized in marrying women and drowning them and who looked like a choir
soloist, and others of even greater charm and iniquity) and then composed his
mind to the peace of a detective who has got his man.
“So you’ve raked up the perfect motive. Poor Chris! She thought she was
doing me such a good turn. Have I any defense at all, do you know?”
“That is not for me to say.”
“I have a great respect for you, Inspector Grant. I think it probable that
I shall be unavailingly protesting my innocence on the scaffold.”
He pushed the nearer cupboard door to, and opened the further one. The
door opened away from Grant, so that the interior of the cupboard was not
visible. “But you disappoint me in one way. I thought you were a better
psychologist, you know. When I was telling you the story of my life on
Saturday morning, I really thought you were too good a judge to think that I
could have done what you suspected me of. Now I find you’re just a routine
policeman.”
Still keeping his hand on the doorknob, he bent down to the interior of
the cupboard as if to take shoes from the floor of it.
There was the rasp of a key torn from its lock, the cupboard door swung
shut, and even as Grant leaped the key turned on the inside.
“Tisdall!” he shouted. “Don’t be a fool! Do you hear!” His mind raced over
the antidotes for the various poisons. Oh, God, what a fool he had been!
“Sanger! Help me to break this open. He’s locked himself in.”
The two men flung their combined weight on the door. It resisted their
best efforts.
“Listen to me, Tisdall,” Grant said between gasps, “poison is a fool’s
trick. We’ll get you soon enough to give you an antidote, and all that will
happen is that you’ll suffer pain for nothing. So think better of it.”
But still the door resisted them.
“Fire axe!” Grant said. “Saw it when we came up. On wall at the end of the
passage. Quick!”
Sanger fled and in eight seconds was back with the axe.
As the first blow of it fell, a half-dressed and sleepy colleague of
Tisdall’s appeared from next door and announced, “You mek a noise like thet
you hev the cops een!”
“Hey!” he added, seeing the axe in Sanger’s grasp. “What the hell you
theenk you do, eh?”
“Keep away, you fool! There’s a man in that cupboard committing
suicide.”
“Suicide! Cupboard!” The waiter rubbed his black hair in perplexity, like
a half-awakened child. “That is not a cupboard!”
“ Not a cupboard .”
“No, that is the what you call eet—leetle back stairs. For fire, you
know.”
“God!” said Grant, and made for the door.
“Where does it come out—the stairway?” he called back to the
waiter.
“In the passage to the front hall.”
“Eight flights,” Grant said to Sanger. “Lift’s quicker, perhaps.” He rang.
“Williams will stop him if he tries to go out by the door,” he said,
searching for comfort.
“Williams has never seen him, sir.
couldn’t be one!”
“So you had no motive?”
“Certainly not. Quite the opposite. What happened last Thursday morning
was the worst thing that has ever happened to me in my life. I should have
thought that was obvious even to an outsider.”
“And of course you had not the faintest idea that Miss Clay had made a
codicil to her will leaving you a ranch and a large sum of money.”
Tisdall had been readjusting the folds of a garment. He stopped now, his
hands still holding the cloth, but motionless, and stared at Grant.
“Chris did that!” he said. “No. No, I didn’t know. How wonderful of
her!”
And for a moment doubt stirred in Grant. That had been beautifully done.
Timing, expression, action. No professional actor could have done it better.
But the doubt passed. He recrossed his legs, by way of shaking himself,
recalled the charm and innocence of murderers he had known (Andrew Hamey, who
specialized in marrying women and drowning them and who looked like a choir
soloist, and others of even greater charm and iniquity) and then composed his
mind to the peace of a detective who has got his man.
“So you’ve raked up the perfect motive. Poor Chris! She thought she was
doing me such a good turn. Have I any defense at all, do you know?”
“That is not for me to say.”
“I have a great respect for you, Inspector Grant. I think it probable that
I shall be unavailingly protesting my innocence on the scaffold.”
He pushed the nearer cupboard door to, and opened the further one. The
door opened away from Grant, so that the interior of the cupboard was not
visible. “But you disappoint me in one way. I thought you were a better
psychologist, you know. When I was telling you the story of my life on
Saturday morning, I really thought you were too good a judge to think that I
could have done what you suspected me of. Now I find you’re just a routine
policeman.”
Still keeping his hand on the doorknob, he bent down to the interior of
the cupboard as if to take shoes from the floor of it.
There was the rasp of a key torn from its lock, the cupboard door swung
shut, and even as Grant leaped the key turned on the inside.
“Tisdall!” he shouted. “Don’t be a fool! Do you hear!” His mind raced over
the antidotes for the various poisons. Oh, God, what a fool he had been!
“Sanger! Help me to break this open. He’s locked himself in.”
The two men flung their combined weight on the door. It resisted their
best efforts.
“Listen to me, Tisdall,” Grant said between gasps, “poison is a fool’s
trick. We’ll get you soon enough to give you an antidote, and all that will
happen is that you’ll suffer pain for nothing. So think better of it.”
But still the door resisted them.
“Fire axe!” Grant said. “Saw it when we came up. On wall at the end of the
passage. Quick!”
Sanger fled and in eight seconds was back with the axe.
As the first blow of it fell, a half-dressed and sleepy colleague of
Tisdall’s appeared from next door and announced, “You mek a noise like thet
you hev the cops een!”
“Hey!” he added, seeing the axe in Sanger’s grasp. “What the hell you
theenk you do, eh?”
“Keep away, you fool! There’s a man in that cupboard committing
suicide.”
“Suicide! Cupboard!” The waiter rubbed his black hair in perplexity, like
a half-awakened child. “That is not a cupboard!”
“ Not a cupboard .”
“No, that is the what you call eet—leetle back stairs. For fire, you
know.”
“God!” said Grant, and made for the door.
“Where does it come out—the stairway?” he called back to the
waiter.
“In the passage to the front hall.”
“Eight flights,” Grant said to Sanger. “Lift’s quicker, perhaps.” He rang.
“Williams will stop him if he tries to go out by the door,” he said,
searching for comfort.
“Williams has never seen him, sir.
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