Murder in the Queen's Armes

'Is that possible? Can you just walk up to a dog and let it sniff someone's shoes—and then it goes tearing off after him?'

'A hound like Bowser? Most certainly. And with the ground as damp as it is, the dog wouldn't have a problem in the world. They do better in moist weather, you know.'

'Someone wanted Bowser to kill you?” Julie asked incredulously. “But who? Why would anyone want you dead?'

The answers couldn't have been more obvious. Gideon stood up—a little too suddenly; his vision blurred and a hundred places in his body twinged and burned, as if he'd been rubbed all over with heavy-grade sandpaper. But he was anxious to get going. There were still plenty of things he didn't understand, but now he had a personal score to settle and he wanted to get on with it.

'Let's go,” he said to Julie. “It's after eight.'

Conley looked startled. “But ...you can't simply go like that....You must let me—here, let me write down my name and address.” He pulled over a notepad that had been near the telephone and began scribbling. “I absolutely insist that all bills be sent to me. And—here—I'll write a little statement that wholly accepts responsibility: “I, Grahame Baldwin Conley...'

Gideon stood there, swaying slightly, his mind still hazy.

'No, that isn't necessary....” Standing up so suddenly had been a mistake. He was dizzy as well as muddled. He steadied himself with both hands on the table and made himself focus on the crisp, white pad of paper against the purple check of the plastic tablecloth. Conley's square hand moved purposefully over it.

'You write like a left-hander,” Gideon murmured.

'What?” Conley looked up. “I am left-handed. Look here, are you sure you're all right? Would you like to stay the night? I can have a bed made up in no time.'

Gideon shook his head, smiling. The motion actually seemed to clear his thoughts. “No, thanks.” He gestured at Conley's writing hand. “I just seem to have a one-track mind.'

'Oh, I see,” the colonel said, clearly failing to see.

'And, please, don't worry about any bills. It wasn't your fault.'

'I'm afraid I must insist. And shouldn't we call the police?'

'I'll take care of it. Thanks for getting there when you did. You saved our lives.'

'Well, of course, old fellow. I'm awfully sorry about all this. I hope you're not too terribly angry.'

'Not at you, Colonel.” And then, as a rumbling woof from in back shook the house, “And not at Bowser, either.'

Not really.

HE strode so quickly down Barr's Lane that Julie had to trot to keep up.

'Who wanted to kill you?” she demanded.

'Leon Hillyer. That bastard.'

It had to be. And how unbelievably stupid he, Gideon, had been. He'd trustingly promised to tell no one about the skull before eight o'clock—giving Leon a full five hours to figure out a way of getting rid of him. Then, to make it easier, he'd announced in front of all of them that he would be in the dark and deserted Dyne Meadow at precisely 7:04 p.m. And now, with 8:00 come and gone, Leon was no doubt sitting in the Tudor Room, munching Danish pastries, wondering with the rest of them where in the world Gideon Oliver was, and looking as befuddled as anyone else about the reason for the meeting.

Julie jumped in front of him and placed her palms against his chest.

'Whoa.'

Impatiently, he stopped.

'Just take it easy,” she said. “I've never seen you like this. You're really mad, aren't you?'

'Goddam right I am!'

Goddam right he was. That vicious, fast-talking kid had not only tried to kill him; he'd coolly decided to sacrifice Julie, too, no doubt on the off-chance that Gideon had told her about his tawdry little fraud. And, my God, how close it had been!

'Wait a minute,” Julie said, “I'm not sure you're thinking clearly. I want to ask you some questions.'

'Later. Come on, Julie, get out of my way.'

She paid no attention. “First of all, are you saying that Leon not only tried to kill you but murdered Randy, too?'

'Probably. I don't know. I don't have it all figured out yet.'

'Then what was that bit about Colonel Conley being left-handed? I thought you suspected him.'

'Conley?” Gideon said, surprised. “Conley? Not at all. My mind was wandering, that's all. I've got left-handers on the brain. Today I looked in a mirror and accused Leon of being left-handed. I was wrong about that, but I was sure right about—'

And all at once, everything fitted; everything clicked sharply into place, as with the final twist of a Rubik's Cube. “He is left-handed,” Gideon said, bedazzled, not sure if he was marveling at his own brilliance or at his own obtuseness.

'Leon? But you told me he was right-handed.'