him?”
“I did,” said Johnson. I was beginning to change my mind, too, about Johnson. I had appealed to him that morning as to an ally. And since then, it seemed to me, he had taken altogether too much upon himself and his nasty bifocals. I said coldly, “He’s probably out shooting Landrace Cutters with a submachine gun.”
“Don’t be bitter, dear,” Maurice said. “Why shouldn’t it have been Charles on the Dome roof last night? He knows the observatory better than most. It was his camera, if I remember rightly, that our frozen friend wrecked. Might he not have been a little carried away the other night outside the Dome and shot him?”
“He might,” said Johnson. “Except that he hadn’t a key to the Dome. Neither had Ruth. And according to both Ruth and Jacko, a key was used to open the Dome door this evening. The lock hasn’t been marked or splintered or in any way forced.” He paused and then said, “In any case, there is something we are all forgetting. Whoever entered the observatory last night opened that trapdoor deliberately, with the intention of killing either Ruth or Jacko, or both. It was only thanks to Jacko in fact that Ruth survived…”
The wall panel twitched. Maurice suddenly ground out his cigar and said, “Yes. Then who else had a key?”
“Innes,” said Timothy dulcetly. He laid an arm along the back of Johnson’s chair and gazed at his drawing. “I emptied his pockets last night: keys make such a difficult bulge and you can’t ask
too
much of bespoke work. Maurice, he’s got you exactly. And all those clouds, like my chintzy hop pillows. Maurice thinks I’m a fusspot, but I swear they make me sleep like a baby.”
“Like Innes,” said Jacko.
“Oh, well,” said Timothy. “He was knocked out, you know. One had to try to revive him with
something.‘’‘’
“Aftershave lotion,” I said this time.
“Yes,” said Timothy. “Silly me.”
Johnson contemplated his drawing and then, detaching the page, proceeded to fashion it into a splendidly contoured paper dart. “And do you think,” he said, “that Innes, resuscitated from his aftershave, could have nipped about climbing cranes yesterday evening?”
“No,” said Timothy with regret. He opened his palms as Johnson launched the dart in a graceful parabola near him. The dart sailed past him and landed on Maurice’s bedcover. Johnson’s hand, at the extremity of its sweep, brushed the coffeepot and a full cup, poised just beyond it, tilted and emptied its contents against Maurice’s artistic wall.
There was a flash of flame, a barking report and a wisp of smoke traveled lazily up to the putti. The thicket of filaments, arrested in mid-twitch, hung on the wall, inanimate as the corpse in the freezer.
Make a wall happy this weekend
. Johnson said, “Oh dear. What have I done?”
There was a little silence. Then, “Made your point,” said Maurice dryly. “Or do I mistake a subtle gesture of reproach when I see one? Take a note, Timothy: a telephone call to the electrician. Also, I think Lord Digham is trying to enter the room.”
I got up and sat down again. It was true. The door had opened and Charles was standing there, his oldest cloak slung over his shoulders and, I suspected, his pajama top lurking underneath his scarf and sweater. He said, “Ruth?” and then, “Christ, I thought I’d never get in. I’ve been standing out there for fifteen bloody minutes, trying to get your bloody staff to knock on that door, Maurice. What do you need, the Keys of Saint Peter to get into the Throne Room?” He said to me, “Are you all right?”
I was used to urbanity. Not having urbanity was, I found, perfectly agreeable too. I said, “Yes, I’m all right. Why couldn’t you walk in yourself? Oh, Charles, of course. The Mouse Alarm?”
“The revolting noise,” said Charles, “that this former matinée idol in his dotage chooses to inflict on human beings because he is frightened of mice. I
“I did,” said Johnson. I was beginning to change my mind, too, about Johnson. I had appealed to him that morning as to an ally. And since then, it seemed to me, he had taken altogether too much upon himself and his nasty bifocals. I said coldly, “He’s probably out shooting Landrace Cutters with a submachine gun.”
“Don’t be bitter, dear,” Maurice said. “Why shouldn’t it have been Charles on the Dome roof last night? He knows the observatory better than most. It was his camera, if I remember rightly, that our frozen friend wrecked. Might he not have been a little carried away the other night outside the Dome and shot him?”
“He might,” said Johnson. “Except that he hadn’t a key to the Dome. Neither had Ruth. And according to both Ruth and Jacko, a key was used to open the Dome door this evening. The lock hasn’t been marked or splintered or in any way forced.” He paused and then said, “In any case, there is something we are all forgetting. Whoever entered the observatory last night opened that trapdoor deliberately, with the intention of killing either Ruth or Jacko, or both. It was only thanks to Jacko in fact that Ruth survived…”
The wall panel twitched. Maurice suddenly ground out his cigar and said, “Yes. Then who else had a key?”
“Innes,” said Timothy dulcetly. He laid an arm along the back of Johnson’s chair and gazed at his drawing. “I emptied his pockets last night: keys make such a difficult bulge and you can’t ask
too
much of bespoke work. Maurice, he’s got you exactly. And all those clouds, like my chintzy hop pillows. Maurice thinks I’m a fusspot, but I swear they make me sleep like a baby.”
“Like Innes,” said Jacko.
“Oh, well,” said Timothy. “He was knocked out, you know. One had to try to revive him with
something.‘’‘’
“Aftershave lotion,” I said this time.
“Yes,” said Timothy. “Silly me.”
Johnson contemplated his drawing and then, detaching the page, proceeded to fashion it into a splendidly contoured paper dart. “And do you think,” he said, “that Innes, resuscitated from his aftershave, could have nipped about climbing cranes yesterday evening?”
“No,” said Timothy with regret. He opened his palms as Johnson launched the dart in a graceful parabola near him. The dart sailed past him and landed on Maurice’s bedcover. Johnson’s hand, at the extremity of its sweep, brushed the coffeepot and a full cup, poised just beyond it, tilted and emptied its contents against Maurice’s artistic wall.
There was a flash of flame, a barking report and a wisp of smoke traveled lazily up to the putti. The thicket of filaments, arrested in mid-twitch, hung on the wall, inanimate as the corpse in the freezer.
Make a wall happy this weekend
. Johnson said, “Oh dear. What have I done?”
There was a little silence. Then, “Made your point,” said Maurice dryly. “Or do I mistake a subtle gesture of reproach when I see one? Take a note, Timothy: a telephone call to the electrician. Also, I think Lord Digham is trying to enter the room.”
I got up and sat down again. It was true. The door had opened and Charles was standing there, his oldest cloak slung over his shoulders and, I suspected, his pajama top lurking underneath his scarf and sweater. He said, “Ruth?” and then, “Christ, I thought I’d never get in. I’ve been standing out there for fifteen bloody minutes, trying to get your bloody staff to knock on that door, Maurice. What do you need, the Keys of Saint Peter to get into the Throne Room?” He said to me, “Are you all right?”
I was used to urbanity. Not having urbanity was, I found, perfectly agreeable too. I said, “Yes, I’m all right. Why couldn’t you walk in yourself? Oh, Charles, of course. The Mouse Alarm?”
“The revolting noise,” said Charles, “that this former matinée idol in his dotage chooses to inflict on human beings because he is frightened of mice. I
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