“Let’s see what this one does,” came Lestrade’s voice, followed by the muffled ringing of a bell. “Oho, a regular orchestra we have here. But that’s not even the best part of it. Watch here, ladies and gentlemen.”
I was not quite certain where he meant, but it quickly became evident as a small oval picture on the wall swung quietly to one side, and Lestrade’s face could be plainly seen peering out the opening. “Here’s where your shot was fired from,” said Lestrade. “You’ll notice it’s in a direct line with the chair the victim sat in. An easy shot, especially if you’ve lined it up in advance.”
“That’s all well and good,” said Slippery Ed, who stepped forward, ignoring Martha McPhee’s hand on his elbow. “But I was in that room the whole time, and didn’t nobody come in and shoot that fellow. I’d have seen him, sure as you’re born.”
“Perhaps you should look in a mirror,” said Lestrade. “By your own admission, you were in this room when the shots had to have been fired. What’s more, you were in a perfect position to make loud noises just at the right time to prevent the shot’s being heard.”
“Hey, I didn’t shoot nobody,” said McPhee, a hurt expression on his face. “I never even seen the poor man before this very evening, ain’t that right, Martha?”
“What I’d like to know is, where did he put the gun?” demanded Cedric Villiers, strutting over to Lestrade. “There lies Dr. Parkhurst with a bullet through his head, so there must have been a gun. And yet, after searching the place from top to bottom, you’ve found no murder weapon. You haven’t a notion where it is, do you?”
“Not yet,” Lestrade admitted. “That’s a detail, but we’re good at piecing together details. This scoundrel may have had time to take the gun outside for disposal. Or—”
Whatever he was going to propose, he was interrupted by the opening of the outer door to admit a man I recognized as the one who’d been with McPhee on the doorstep when we’d arrived. “Hello, where’s Mr. McPhee?” he asked, his voice somewhat slurred. Then his eyes took in the constable’s uniform, and they opened wide for a brief moment before he turned and we heard his boots pounding as he beat a hasty retreat down the stairway. Constable Wilkins was after him in a flash, and I heard the constable’s whistle blow as he thundered down the stairs.
“There’s your answer, Villiers,” crowed Lestrade, turning to the astonished dandy. “McPhee’s accomplice took his gun away right after the shooting—by now, he’s pitched it in the Thames, or stowed it somewhere for future devilment, just as like.”
“A smashing bit of luck, what?” said Sir Denis DeCoursey, rubbing his hands. “You practically called your shot!”
“There’s still something I don’t understand,” said Mr. Clemens. “Why the hell would that man come back here, if he’d just taken away the murder weapon?”
“Your common criminal is a pitiful sort, at best,” said Lestrade, with an air of confidence. “Low mentality—you could see it written all over that man’s face. That’s why the criminal always returns to the scene of his crime, like a moth to a burning candle.”
“Maybe so, but you’ve missed the point,” said Mr. Clemens. “If he’s the one that ditched the gun, he knew what it was used for, and he’d make himself scarce around here. If he absolutely had to come back afterwards, he’d have been ready for the cops to be here. He’d have had a bulletproof alibi all ready, and a face as innocent as any choirboy. But the way he bolted just now, he didn’t have the faintest glimmer that he’d be walking into a roomful of constables and detectives—if he did, I’ll buy every man in Scotland Yard a drink.”
The chief inspector grimaced. “You’d lose that bet, or my name’s not Lestrade,” he said. “We’ll learn the whole story when Wilkins fetches him back for questioning. But I don’t think there’s any more reason to detain you all—Coleman will note down your names and addresses, and we can come by tomorrow or next day to record your statements. It’s as plain as the nose on your face, this fellow here pulled the trigger.” He pointed triumphantly at Slippery Ed McPhee.
There was a stunned silence. Every eye in the room turned toward McPhee, and those nearest him took a step back—so that where we had all been bunched together, there was now an open circle around Mr. and Mrs. McPhee.
“You wait a cotton-pickin’ minute, Mr. Scotland Yard,” said McPhee. He took a step toward Lestrade, his fist raised. Then Martha, her face grim, touched her husband on the arm, and he regained his composure. “I ain’t never pulled the trigger on a living soul,” he said firmly, “and you can take that to the bank. You ask Sam here—killin’ ain’t Ed McPhee’s style, no sir, and any man who says different is a bald-faced liar.”
Mr. Clemens rubbed his chin, then nodded. “I’ll grant him that much, Lestrade. Don’t get me wrong, now—I wouldn’t lend Ed two cents if he gave me the keys to the mint for collateral. But I don’t believe he’s got it in him to shoot a man.”
“If you’d spent as many years as I have at the Yard, you’d not be so quick to think you know what a man’s got in him,” said Lestrade, shaking his head.
“That may be true,” said McPhee, “but I never laid eyes on that poor doctor before this very night. I swear, I never shot him.” Suddenly I realized that as he spoke he had been edging closer to the half-open door out of the apartment.
Lestrade stepped forward and
