IV
Inspector Craddock was forced to spend quite a long time with Colonel and Mrs. Easterbrook. He had to listen to a long disquisition on the psychological aspect of the case.
'The psychological approach – that's the only thing nowadays,' the Colonel told him. 'You've got to understand your criminal. Now the whole set-up here is quite plain to a man who's had the wide experience that I have. Why does this fellow put that advert in? Psychology. He wants to advertise himself – to focus attention on himself. He's been passed over, perhaps despised as a foreigner by the other employees at the Spa Hotel. A girl has turned him down, perhaps. He wants to rivet her attention on him. Who is the idol of the cinema nowadays – the gangster – the tough guy? Very well, he will be a tough guy. Robbery with violence. A mask? A revolver? But he wants an audience – he must have an audience. So he arranges for an audience. And then, at the supreme moment, his part runs away with him – he's more than a burglar. He's a killer. He shoots – blindly-'
Inspector Craddock caught gladly at a word: 'You say 'blindly,' Colonel Easterbrook. You didn't think that he was firing deliberately at one particular object – at Miss Blacklog, that is to say?'
'No, no. He just loosed off, as I say, blindly. And that's what brought him to himself. The bullet hit someone – actually it was only a graze, but he didn't know that. He comes to himself with a bang. All this – this make- believe he's been indulging in – is real. He's shot at someone – perhaps killed someone… It's all up with him. And so in blind panic he turns the revolver on himself.'
Colonel Easterbrook paused, cleared his throat appreciatively and said in a satisfied voice, 'Plain as a pikestaff, that's what it is, plain as a pikestaff.'
'It really is wonderful,' said Mrs. Easterbrook, 'the way you know exactly what happened, Archie.'
Her voice was warm with admiration.
Inspector Craddock thought it was wonderful, too, but he was not quite so warmly appreciative.
'Exactly where were you in the room, Colonel Easterbrook, when the actual shooting business took place?'
'I was standing with my wife – near a centre table with some flowers on it.'
'I caught hold of your arm, didn't I, Archie, when it happened? I was simply scared to death. I just had to hold on to you.'
'Poor little kitten,' said the Colonel playfully.
V
The Inspector ran Miss Hinchliffe to earth by a pigsty.
'Nice creatures, pigs,' said Miss Hinchliffe, scratching a wrinkled pink back. 'Coming on well, isn't he? Good bacon round about Christmas time. Well, what do you want to see me about? I told your people last night I hadn't the least idea who the man was. Never seen him anywhere in the neighbourhood snooping about or anything of that sort. Our Mrs. Mopp says he came from one of the big hotels in Medenham Wells. Why didn't he hold up someone there if he wanted to? Get a much better haul.'
That was undeniable – Craddock proceeded with his inquiries.
'Where were you exactly when the incident took place?'
'Incident! Reminds me of my A.R.P. days. Saw some incidents then, I can tell you. Where was I when the shooting started? That what you want to know?'
'Yes.'
'Leaning up against the mantelpiece hoping to God someone would offer me a drink soon,' replied Miss Hinchliffe promptly.
'Do you think that the shots were fired blindly, or aimed carefully at one particular person?'
'You mean aimed at Letty Blacklog? How the devil should I know? Damned hard to sort out what your impressions really were or what really happened after it's all over. All I know is the lights went out, and that torch went whirling round dazzling us all, and then the shots were fired and I thought to myself, 'If that damned young fool Patrick Simmons is playing his jokes with a loaded revolver somebody will get hurt.''
'You thought it was Patrick Simmons?'
'Well, it seemed likely. Edmund Swettenham is intellectual and writes books and doesn't care for horseplay, and old Colonel Easterbrook wouldn't think that sort of thing funny. But Patrick's a wild boy. However, I apologise to him for the idea.'
'Did your friend think it might be Patrick Simmons?'
'Murgatroyd? You'd better talk to her yourself. Not that you'll get any sense out of her. She's down the orchard. I'll yell for her if you like.'
Miss Hinchliffe raised her stentorian voice in a powerful bellow:
'Hi – you, Murgatroyd…'
'Coming…' floated back a thin cry.
'Hurry up – Polieece,' bellowed Miss Hinchliffe.
Miss Murgatroyd arrived at a brisk trot very much out of breath. Her skirt was down at the hem and her hair was escaping from an inadequate hair net. Her round, good-natured face beamed.
'Is it Scotland Yard?' she asked breathlessly. 'I'd no idea. Or I wouldn't have left the house.'
'We haven't called in Scotland Yard yet, Miss Murgatroyd. I'm Inspector Craddock from Milchester.'
'Well, that's very nice, I'm sure,' said Miss Murgatroyd vaguely. 'Have you found any clues?'
'Where were you at the time of the crime, that's what he wants to know, Murgatroyd?' said Miss Hinchliffe.
She winked at Craddock.
'Oh, dear,' gasped Miss Murgatroyd. 'Of course. I ought to have been prepared. Alibis, of course. Now, let me see, I was just with everybody else.'
'You weren't with me,' said Miss Hinchliffe.
'Oh, dear, Hinch, wasn't I? No, of course, I'd been admiring the chrysanthemums. Very poor specimens, really. And then it all happened – only I didn't really know it had happened – I mean I didn't know that anything like that had happened. I didn't imagine for a moment that it was a real revolver – and all so awkward in the dark, and that dreadful screaming. I got it all wrong, you know. I thought she was being murdered – I mean the refugee girl. I thought she was having her throat cut across the hall somewhere. I didn't know it was him – I mean, I didn't even know there was a man. It was really just a voice, you know, saying, 'Put them up, please.''
''Stick 'em up!'' Miss Hinchliffe corrected. 'And no suggestion of 'please' about it.'
'It's so terrible to think that until that girl started screaming I was actually enjoying myself. Only being in the dark was very awkward and I got a knock on my corn. Agony, it was. Is there anything more you want to know, Inspector?'
'No,' said Inspector Craddock, eyeing Miss Murgatroyd speculatively. 'I don't really think there is.'
Her friend gave a short bark of laughter.
'He's got you taped, Murgatroyd.'
'I'm sure, Hinch,' said Miss Murgatroyd, 'that I'm only too willing to say anything I can.'
'He doesn't want that,' said Miss Hinchliffe.
She looked at the Inspector. 'If you're doing this geographically I suppose you'll go to the Vicarage next. You might get something there. Mrs. Harmon looks as vague as they make them – but I sometimes think she's got brains. Anyway, she's got something.'
As they watched the Inspector and Sergeant Fletcher stalk away, Amy Murgatroyd said breathlessly:
'Oh, Hinch, was I very awful? I do get so flustered!'
'Not at all.' Miss Hinchliffe smiled. 'On the whole, I should say you did very well.'
