Murder in the Queen's Armes

'Right.'

'So, tell me, Mr. Skeleton Detective: If the police were investigating his murder, wouldn't they develop any film he had in his camera? In case it should give them a clue?'

'I don't know.'

'Of course they would. I read it all the time in detective books. Randy got killed when?'

'November thirteenth, probably.'

'And Leon's card got filled out November first. So the pictures were maybe still in the camera. I think you should give Inspector Bagshawe a telephone call.'

'I think you're right,” Gideon said after a moment.

He called from a red telephone booth on Lower Sea Lane and got Sergeant Fryer. Abe had been correct. They had indeed found that Randy's camera contained film, and had developed it. To their disappointment, the pictures had all been of rocks, potsherds, and other such useless things. If Gideon wanted them, he could have them. Inspector Bagshawe had to pass through Charmouth on his way from work and would no doubt be glad to drop them off at the Queen's Armes. Would eight o'clock or thereabouts be convenient? Eight o'clock, Gideon said, would be perfect.

Abe nodded with satisfaction when Gideon hung up and told him. “Good,” he said, stopping under a sedate sign that read Dampiers of Charmouth. Licensed Grocers. Provision Merchants. “Maybe we'll find out something. Now I got to buy what goes into the guggle-muggle, and then maybe I can get Nate to have a bite before the meeting.'

* * * *

TEN minutes later Gideon was hammering on the door of the Queen's Armes, hoping that Julie was inside and could hear him. Andy and his wife, he'd remembered too late, had gone off shopping again, and Gideon had neglected to take his key with him. Abe, who probably had one, was of course at the Cormorant, pouring his horrific concoction into poor Nate. Whether it sobered him up or not, Gideon thought, it would surely cure him of any incipient tendency toward alcoholism.

As far as he knew, there were no other guests at the hotel to come to his rescue, and the George, which looked so inviting across the street, would not be open until five, thereby ruling out the expedient of a cozy pint before the fire. Gideon was just beginning to feel sorry for himself when the heavy door swung inward. Paul Arbuckle stood there, looking, as usual, surprised and gently perturbed.

'Well, hi, Gideon.'

'Paul—I thought you weren't due back until tomorrow.'

'No, getting back from Dijon is complicated. I had to leave there today.” His eyes brightened. “Boy, Gideon, we came up with another Acheulian scraper, and some worked Dama clactonia bones. It's fantastic! You ought to come and see it!'

Gideon, envying him, smiled. “How about letting me in? It's a little chilly out here.'

'Sorry.” Arbuckle laughed and stood aside.

They walked down the long entry corridor, lined with dark wooden walls, still redolent of cedar after five hundred years. Gideon stopped opposite the Tudor Room.

'Listen, Paul, have you taken any official action on this mess yet?'

'No, not till tomorrow.'

'Good. Are you free at seven o'clock tonight?—eight o'clock, rather?'

'Yes, why?'

'There's going to be a meeting of the whole crew here in the sitting room. Something's come up that you're going to want to hear about.'

'What?'

'Well, I made a promise that I'd keep the thing under wraps until then,” Gideon said, feeling silly, “but you're going to want to rethink the action against Nate when you hear about it.'

'And it's a secret?” Arbuckle looked doubtfully at Gideon, then broken into his doughy smile. “All right, I guess I can wait till eight. But don't get your hopes up too high. Nate really has behaved like a fool. Robyn believes he should be drummed out of the corps entirely, and... well, to be perfectly frank, I think the poor dumb bastard has it coming.” He colored slightly at this excess. “I don't know what your surprise is, but I hope it's a good one.'

'It's a good one,” Gideon said. Nate might be a poor dumb bastard, but at least he wasn't a dishonest, fraudulent dumb bastard, and that ought to count for something.

* * * *

'NO,” Julie called from the bathroom, “I never heard you knocking. I was washing my hair.” She came out, with a towel wrapped turban-style around her head, her pretty face freshly scrubbed. She was one of those people who look clean when they're dirty, and when she was newly washed she positively glowed. “What are you looking for?'

Gideon was on his knees and elbows, poking about under the bed. “My tennis shoes,” he said. He got up, went to the bureau in the corner, and looked through the drawers for a second time. “I thought I'd wearthem on ourwalk tonight in case it's still muddy; they'll be easy to wash.” He stood looking around the room, hands on his hips. “Now where the heck are they? Or did I bring them with me at all?'

Standing before the mirror, Julie tucked her blouse neatly into her gray slacks. “Yes, Gideon,” she said patiently, “you were wearing them this morning. When you couldn't find your slippers.'

'Well, I found my slippers. They were under the bed. But my tennis shoes are gone. Don't bother looking in the closet,” he said as she went to it, “I've already looked in there.'