shoot guns without a reason!”
Seabury insisted. “But did you think of Hermione? Did you think of danger?”
Jim replied slowly: “I don’t know what I thought. I imagine I assumed that she’d got frightened at something. That or accident. But I wouldn’t have heard a gun shot and made no inquiry about it.”
“Did you see anybody?” Seabury asked.
“I saw Hermione. I thought—as nearly as I can remember—she’s had an accident. I ran to look and just as I did it, I thought that I heard something in the shrubbery beyond the driveway. I couldn’t be sure; I’m not sure now. It was very windy, gusts of wind, and everything happened at once.”
“Did you see anybody running along the road or driveway?” Seabury asked, turning to Nonie.
“I didn’t see anybody at all. I didn’t even pass a car.”
“A car could have been hidden almost anywhere in the thick shrubbery along the road. The rain has washed out tire marks by now—if there were any.” Seabury sighed. “This is Dick Fenby’s job. He’s Chief of Police.”
“Well, we’ll have to do what we can ourselves,” Jim said. “We’d better phone the commissioner at Port Iles and report the thing. That’s what Dick would do. The commissioner will tell us exactly what to do.”
Seabury said suddenly: “The doctor will have to see the body before we take her away. Poor Hermione. I’m sorry about this.”
Wind sifted through the hall, so the red Turkish carpet quivered gently, the curling bamboo screen across Hermione’s bedroom door seemed to sway a little as if hands touched it lightly, as if Hermione herself were listening.
No one spoke for a moment. In the pause, the door from the veranda was flung open again. Dick Fenby, a sodden wet figure, came in, caught the door, forced it to close and stood with his back against it. His gaze fixed itself on an object upon the table. He made a sudden lunge forward, picked up Jim’s gun, held it and turned it to his nose and sniffed at the barrel. Loudly over the sound of the storm he said: “What’s happened? This gun’s been fired. Who shot what?”
He peered at the gun. “Whose gun is this anyway? I’ve never seen it before. It’s certainly been fired within the last half hour; you can still smell the smoke.”
Jim went to him and took the gun. “It’s my gun. I fired it into the bushes when I thought I’d heard somebody there.”
There was another sharp moment of silence. Then Seabury rose. The look of intense, inward question had gone. He said: “Hermione Shaw was a woman of wealth. I was her lawyer. I know her well. I know all of her circumstances. From now on, Jim, I’m afraid I’ll have to act in my official, capacity. Give me the gun.”
8
W IND SHOOK THE HOUSE and wild rain drummed upon it. Seabury Jenkins walked over to Jim and took the gun, wrapping it in his handkerchief. Nonie watched the white linen and Seabury’s tanned, thin hands and again a wave of incredulity washed over her. It was not real, it was a film, it could not be murder. She had never in her life seen anyone intentionally preserve fingerprint evidence, to give to the police. But then, she had never seen murder. And she thought with a sense of horror and bewilderment: it’s Jim ! Jim they suspect, Jim they already think killed a woman.
But Dick had hated her too! He had said, defeated and helpless: “I’m still tied.”
Dick, however, couldn’t have shot her, even to break the chains he hated. Dick had an alibi. She wished with all her heart that Jim had an alibi half as sound, half as firm.
Roy rose abruptly and went to Jim. “That’s all right. The slug that killed her can be proved not to have been fired from Jim’s gun. This will clear you, Jim.”
Dick’s vague but interested gaze was still on the gun. “Is anything wrong? I’m the Chief of Police. Mustn’t have people firing guns.”
Jim crossed the hall and took him by the arm. “Something very serious has happened. Listen, Dick
Seabury insisted. “But did you think of Hermione? Did you think of danger?”
Jim replied slowly: “I don’t know what I thought. I imagine I assumed that she’d got frightened at something. That or accident. But I wouldn’t have heard a gun shot and made no inquiry about it.”
“Did you see anybody?” Seabury asked.
“I saw Hermione. I thought—as nearly as I can remember—she’s had an accident. I ran to look and just as I did it, I thought that I heard something in the shrubbery beyond the driveway. I couldn’t be sure; I’m not sure now. It was very windy, gusts of wind, and everything happened at once.”
“Did you see anybody running along the road or driveway?” Seabury asked, turning to Nonie.
“I didn’t see anybody at all. I didn’t even pass a car.”
“A car could have been hidden almost anywhere in the thick shrubbery along the road. The rain has washed out tire marks by now—if there were any.” Seabury sighed. “This is Dick Fenby’s job. He’s Chief of Police.”
“Well, we’ll have to do what we can ourselves,” Jim said. “We’d better phone the commissioner at Port Iles and report the thing. That’s what Dick would do. The commissioner will tell us exactly what to do.”
Seabury said suddenly: “The doctor will have to see the body before we take her away. Poor Hermione. I’m sorry about this.”
Wind sifted through the hall, so the red Turkish carpet quivered gently, the curling bamboo screen across Hermione’s bedroom door seemed to sway a little as if hands touched it lightly, as if Hermione herself were listening.
No one spoke for a moment. In the pause, the door from the veranda was flung open again. Dick Fenby, a sodden wet figure, came in, caught the door, forced it to close and stood with his back against it. His gaze fixed itself on an object upon the table. He made a sudden lunge forward, picked up Jim’s gun, held it and turned it to his nose and sniffed at the barrel. Loudly over the sound of the storm he said: “What’s happened? This gun’s been fired. Who shot what?”
He peered at the gun. “Whose gun is this anyway? I’ve never seen it before. It’s certainly been fired within the last half hour; you can still smell the smoke.”
Jim went to him and took the gun. “It’s my gun. I fired it into the bushes when I thought I’d heard somebody there.”
There was another sharp moment of silence. Then Seabury rose. The look of intense, inward question had gone. He said: “Hermione Shaw was a woman of wealth. I was her lawyer. I know her well. I know all of her circumstances. From now on, Jim, I’m afraid I’ll have to act in my official, capacity. Give me the gun.”
8
W IND SHOOK THE HOUSE and wild rain drummed upon it. Seabury Jenkins walked over to Jim and took the gun, wrapping it in his handkerchief. Nonie watched the white linen and Seabury’s tanned, thin hands and again a wave of incredulity washed over her. It was not real, it was a film, it could not be murder. She had never in her life seen anyone intentionally preserve fingerprint evidence, to give to the police. But then, she had never seen murder. And she thought with a sense of horror and bewilderment: it’s Jim ! Jim they suspect, Jim they already think killed a woman.
But Dick had hated her too! He had said, defeated and helpless: “I’m still tied.”
Dick, however, couldn’t have shot her, even to break the chains he hated. Dick had an alibi. She wished with all her heart that Jim had an alibi half as sound, half as firm.
Roy rose abruptly and went to Jim. “That’s all right. The slug that killed her can be proved not to have been fired from Jim’s gun. This will clear you, Jim.”
Dick’s vague but interested gaze was still on the gun. “Is anything wrong? I’m the Chief of Police. Mustn’t have people firing guns.”
Jim crossed the hall and took him by the arm. “Something very serious has happened. Listen, Dick
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