man !’ I exclaimed.
Everyone, it appeared, knew about Mr Paladrini and our chase up the Corso. There was a ripple of animation. ‘Except,’ said Johnson, ‘that one wonders how Mr Paladrini was able to find his way about the Dome. Even to locating a trapdoor in darkness?’
‘And.’ said Maurice, smiling bewitchingly, ‘to possessing a new key to open the front door with, my darlings.’
‘You had a key, Maurice,’ I said. ‘Who did you lend it to?’
Not a hair in the white mink was disturbed. Smiling, Maurice gently applauded me, the cigar notched with grace in one finger, and said, ‘No one. But then, I can’t shoot. Italians can’t shoot either. They come here every Sunday, poor dears, with their elephant guns and the sparrows go berserk, but marksmanship, no. On the other hand . . .’
‘Yes?’ said Johnson. He had an envelope on his knee and was doing little sketches of Maurice with a red ballpoint pen: as I watched he gave him a cloud, a harp, a pair of wings and a halo.
‘Astronomers are perfectly unbelievable shots,’ said Maurice fondly. ‘All that work with the cross wires. I tell you. Take Ruth or Jacko or that other young man with the machinery to any rifle range and I guarantee you. Two shots out of three straight into the gold. Or the temple. I can’t of course speak with any certainty about Digham. But photography, I should have thought, needed the most accurate eye. I thought you sent for 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
Everyone, it appeared, knew about Mr Paladrini and our chase up the Corso. There was a ripple of animation. ‘Except,’ said Johnson, ‘that one wonders how Mr Paladrini was able to find his way about the Dome. Even to locating a trapdoor in darkness?’
‘And.’ said Maurice, smiling bewitchingly, ‘to possessing a new key to open the front door with, my darlings.’
‘You had a key, Maurice,’ I said. ‘Who did you lend it to?’
Not a hair in the white mink was disturbed. Smiling, Maurice gently applauded me, the cigar notched with grace in one finger, and said, ‘No one. But then, I can’t shoot. Italians can’t shoot either. They come here every Sunday, poor dears, with their elephant guns and the sparrows go berserk, but marksmanship, no. On the other hand . . .’
‘Yes?’ said Johnson. He had an envelope on his knee and was doing little sketches of Maurice with a red ballpoint pen: as I watched he gave him a cloud, a harp, a pair of wings and a halo.
‘Astronomers are perfectly unbelievable shots,’ said Maurice fondly. ‘All that work with the cross wires. I tell you. Take Ruth or Jacko or that other young man with the machinery to any rifle range and I guarantee you. Two shots out of three straight into the gold. Or the temple. I can’t of course speak with any certainty about Digham. But photography, I should have thought, needed the most accurate eye. I thought you sent for 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
Similar Books
