The Madagaskar Plan by Guy Saville Page B

to the phone. He identified himself as though his name were expected.
    “That Suffolk business, the two dead officers, I have the killer here … in my house … No, I’m perfectly safe, he’s not going anywhere … Good, send them quickly but keep it discreet—I don’t want to alarm the neighbors.”
    He replaced the receiver.
    “We assumed you’d come here; they’re only minutes away.” He sipped his brandy. “There will be a guilty verdict, Major, and a noose. Personally, I’d rather you rot in prison for the rest of your days, but the law is the law. Whatever reputation you might have had will be ground into dirt. Worth nothing.”
    Burton listened to those final words, the unrestrained thrill of them. “And in the dock, I’ll tell them what you did to Madeleine.”
    “Which was?”
    “You had her murdered.”
    “No. She’s alive.”
    He showed his wedding ring as if it were proof.
    Burton felt a murmur of hope before dismissing it. Cranley was toying with him. “I don’t believe you.”
    “Of course I thought about it. How it would feel—that final, pleading look in her eyes.” Another sip of brandy. “But as I said, I don’t believe in death penalties. They’re too kind. A bullet, or a rope, and it’s done. But a lifetime of torment: that is retribution.”
    “So you sent her to the madhouse?”
    “Is that what they’re saying?” Cranley clapped his leg, the sparkle in his eyes genuine. “One can always rely on the tittle-tattle of society women!”
    “Then where is she?”
    From outside came the sound of an engine.
    Keeping the Browning pointed at Burton, Cranley stepped to the curtains. “The police, two cars.”
    Burton twisted his wrist: just a few more inches.
    “There’s one last thing I have to tell you,” said Cranley, returning to his perch. “Something for you to dwell upon in the months before you choke. The real reason why I couldn’t kill her.” He leaned in close, whispered as he prodded the Browning into Burton’s ribs. “It’s my baby.”
    “You hadn’t touched her in months.”
    “Only an idiot would believe a woman who lived a double life. Every time she returned from your trysts, I visited her room, smelled you on her.”
    “You’re lying.”
    Cranley’s next words emerged with complete assurance: “She never loved you, no matter what she professed. I hope you understand that.”
    Burton tore at the rope. When it didn’t give, he hurled himself forward with such ferocity that the chair toppled over and they smashed into each other. The wood around his stump splintered, allowing him to free his arm. Burton grabbed the tie around his feet, forced it over his boots, and released his legs. Next he reached for the rope that bound his right wrist to the armrest. His stump was useless against the knot.
    Cranley rose. He watched Burton struggle but made no attempt to stop him. “After your telegrams, I had the security improved. The house is locked like a fortress. Even if you could get past this”—he poked the air with the Browning—“you’d have no way out.”
    “It isn’t loaded.”
    Cranley pointed the pistol at Burton and fired. An empty snap. “You’re right: it’s not.” He placed the weapon on the table, his poise unaffected.
    Burton would enjoy beating the confidence out of him. He gave up on the rope and got to his feet, the chair still secured to his arm; its seat caught the backs of his knees, making him stand like a hunchback. He stepped toward Cranley, who made no move to retreat.
    Outside the engines stopped; doors opened and were carefully shut. The click of shoes as men hurried to the house.
    Burton heaved the chair above his head and swung.
    It came crashing down as Cranley slipped out of range. Burton lifted it again and smashed it against the table. On the third blow it broke into pieces, freeing him, though the armrest remained bound to him like a baton. He spun round as Cranley charged.
    Burton toppled onto the table,