“What is wrong, Maria?” I askedher. “Who did you come upstairs to see?”
“None of your business, Nagoth,”she replied. “You are not my husband!”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “But I’mjust concerned about you. Was it Willie you went tosee?”
Shesuddenly looked like she hated me. “Let go of me this minute,” shesaid, through clenched teeth.
“No, Maria. I won’t let go,” Ireplied stubbornly, holding on to her. “What’s happening? Talk tome.”
Shetried to struggle free, but I was far stronger. But she fought melike a wild cat. That was when she used her long nails on bothhands to scratch my arms. I was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and Ifelt the stinging sensation so badly, that I quickly let go of her.As she ran off to her room, I looked at my arms. Her nails hadtraced some ugly paths and taken off the skin. I cursed aloud andclimbed back upstairs.
On the landing, I passedJohn. He wasgoing downstairs.As usual, he was moving like a ghost; he gave me quite ascare.
CHAPTERNINE
MORE COMPLICATIONS
I stared steadily at Nagoth, when hefinished his story.
“So, that was how she scratchedyou?” I asked him.
“Yes,” replied Nagoth, stilllooking downcast. “I’ve a rare blood type, Mr. Simpson. When thatlab test result comes out, I’ll be sunk, finished!”
“But when the DPO asked if youhad any quarrel recently with her, why didn’t you use thatopportunity to explain about your hands?” I asked.
“I knew hewould never believe that story, Mr. Simpson. He isalreadyconvinced that thekiller is the person who got scratched. I had made up my mind thereand then, to run away.”
“Thatwillnot help thesituation; it may actually be seen as an admission of guilt. Ibelieve that the truth will come out eventually, if you areinnocent.”
“But how?”
“I’m working on an idea whichmay help,” I said.
“What’s the idea?” he asked andI could see a small ray of hope lighting up his eyes.
“I can’t give you the detailsnow, but I’m working on it,” I replied.
“Is it that you suspect someoneelse?” he probed.
“Just leave it at that for now,”I said.
“Okay, Mr. Simpson,” he said.“I’ve got to go now, thanks.”
“Just be calm and don’t loseyour head, because you will need it. Don’t panic, or run away or doany other foolish thing,” I advised. “You understand?”
Henodded as he got up.
“I’ve a confession to make,” hesaid suddenly as he put his hand on the doorknob.
“What is it?” Iasked.
“I was the one who pushed youdown the staircase the other night. I’m sorry about it. I feelashamed when I think of it now,” he said.
“Oh, I knew you were the one andI hold no grudges against you since you say that you aresorry.”
“I am sorry,Mr. Simpson, but how did you know it was me?” he asked. He lookedpuzzled. I went to the wardrobe and took out the shirt I had beenwearing on the night I'd gone tumbling down the stirs. I had notwashed it since and it still had milk stains all over it.
“When I passed your room thatnight, something fell like the crash of thunder inside. I know nowthat it was a can of the paint that you use for your work. I heardyou curse. You probably tried to clean it up and got your handsstained with the paint. You then decided to come downstairs to getsomething to mop it up. That was when you saw me hesitating at thetop of the stairs. It was too good an opportunity for you toresist; you wanted to pay me back for what I had done to you. Youcame up quickly behind me and gave me a shove with both of yourhands, but your fingers left paint marks on the back of myshirt.”
I showedhim the back of my shirt. “If you look closely, you'll see thatthere are only eight fingerprints showing. Three fingers from theright hand and five from the left one. So, it wasn't difficult forme to know who pushed me.” He stared silently at hisfingerprints.
“And you kept quiet?” heasked.
“I only saw it the next day,when I took out the shirt for washing. But I also noticed that youhad started asking after my health. You seemed concerned andfriendlier towards me. I had no doubt in my mind that you weresorry,” I said.
“Thank you,Mr. Simpson,” he said. “For being able to forgive me. It was a badthing I did. You could have broken your limbs, or fractured your neck or spinalcord.”
And heleft, looking quite sorry.
As I gotup to go downstairs, still burning with the desire to check thosedrawers in Maria’s room, I heard the second knock. I opened thedoor to find Tonye Briggs standing with his hands, deep in hispockets and his big head cocked to one side. He stared at me in afoolish way, as if I had three ears or something.
“Yes?” I said, without a traceof a smile on my face.
He looked at me from my head tomy feet as if weighing my worth as a person on a scale.Then,he smiled andnodded his head several times. “Can I come in?” heasked.
“Well, if youmust,” I replied, hesitantly. He sat down on one of the armchairs with a lotof ceremony, his inquisitive eyes giving the entire room a seriousappraisal.
“Well, what is it?” I asked him,as he seemed in no hurry to state his business. Instead, he was nowlooking down at my trousers as if he found the colour, fabric oreven the style, wanting. He suddenly slapped his thighs, likesomeone who had just made up his mind about something, beforenoisily clearing his throat.
“I believe I know who killedMaria Marshall,” he said looking steadily into my eyes.
“You do?” I asked quite unmovedby the pronouncement. I knew that anything he had to say, wouldeventually amount to foolishness.
“Yes, I do,” he said. “It washer mother who killed her!” And he sat back with a self-satisfiedgrin to watch my reaction.
“Well,” I began, quite unmoved.“Why do you think so?”
“I heard her the day before themurder, telling Maria during an argument that she was going to killher,” he said.
“But that is not enough reasonto conclude that she did it.
