Death of a Bore

Elspeth opened her mouth to tell him he was mad but shut it again. He had gone over the edge. Keep him talking.

“You knew Joha Heppel before, didn’t you?” she asked.

“I wrote to him once. I wanted to dramatise his book. I didn’t think much of it, but I thought there was enough there to make a dark drama. I wrote a lot of flattering guff I didn’t mean. That’s how he remembered me, and he asked Harry Tarrant if I could direct.”

“But why kill him? You could simply have gone to Tarrant and pointed out that the script was unworkable.”

“God, I tried. The silly bugger said, “You don’t know literature when you see it. If you can’t work with it, I’ll find a producer-director who can.” It was my big chance. Everyone in Scotland watches Down in the Glen. It was scheduled to be shown in England next year. No one was going to get in my way.”

Hamish, what on earth can you do? wondered Elspeth miserably.

¦

Hamish approached the back of the Tommel Castle Hotel on his snowshoes. He let himself in at the kitchen entrance, unstrapped the snowshoes, and propped them against the wall. Clarry, the chef, was enjoying a quiet glass of sherry and stared in surprise at Hamish.

“Clarry,” said Hamish urgently, “there’s a man with a gun in Elspeth’s room. Get the manager in here.”

Clarry hurried off and came back shortly with Mr. Johnson. “What’s this about a gunman?” asked the manager.

Hamish told him. “I need to get into Elspeth’s room. This castle is full of back passages and things. Any way I can get in there?”

The manager shook his head. “You’ll need to get a squad up from Strathbane.”

“Can’t do that. It’s Paul Gibson. If he sees so much as a uniform, he’ll shoot her. He’s got nothing to lose now. He’s been fired.”

¦

Upstairs, Elspeth fumbled in her handbag, which was on the desk.

“What are you doing?” demanded Paul.

“Looking for a cigarette.”

“Leave it.”

“Okay.”

But Elspeth had managed to switch on the small tape recorder she carried in her bag, and she left the bag wide open.

“Why mothballs?” she asked. “What put that idea in your head?”

“Because he was like a sodding great moth, batting against my light whenever I tried to do anything. I’d distilled a solution and held the gun on him till he drank it. Then when he was dying, I got into his computer and wiped out that rotten script. No one was going to complain about my script. They’d all had enough of John except Miss Mimsy, Alice Patty, burbling on about what a genius her dear John was.”

“So you had to kill her as well?”

“She phoned me up in tears and said that she was sure I had killed John, that John had told her I had threatened his life. I told her to sit tight and I would come round and explain everything. I told her I had proof that Patricia Wheeler had done it. She loved hearing that because she was still jealous of Patricia. I drugged a bottle of wine and took it round.”

I’m going to die, thought Elspeth miserably. I don’t think Hamish can get me out of this.

¦

“We could take a tray up and say, “Room service,” and put some drugged drink on the tray,” suggested Clarry.

“He’d just make her say to leave it outside the door,” said Hamish.

“I could say she had to sign for it, and when she opens the door, we could rush him.”

“He’d shoot her in the back. He’s deranged.”

“So how do we smoke him out?” asked Mr. Johnson.

Hamish stared at him and then said, “That’s it! You start the fire alarm, get whoever it is who has the keys to the television vans in the forecourt, and usher everyone into them so they don’t freeze to death. Clarry, we need something that makes really black smoke and those old–fashioned bellows from the lounge fire.”

¦

Paul had fallen silent, although the gun in his hand never wavered. At last he said, “Where’s that boyfriend of yours?”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” said Elspeth wearily. “Didn’t it cross your mind he might not bother, that he might just be waiting for reinforcements from Strathbane?”

“Then you’re dead.”

Paul jumped as the fire alarm sounded through the hotel. Elspeth half rose. “Stay where you are,” he shouted.

They began to hear people running along the corridor. Faintly she could hear someone shouting, “Fire!”

There came a pounding at the door and then Matthew’s voice. “Elspeth, are you in there? The hotel’s on fire.”

Then Freda’s voice. “Come on, Matthew. She’s probably downstairs.” Then the sound of retreating footsteps.

“It’s not on fire,” said Paul. “It’s that copper thinking he can trick me into coming out.”

Keeping the gun trained on Elspeth, Paul went to the window and twitched aside the curtain. Down below, he could see figures hurrying through the blizzard and into the mobile units. Some were turning and pointing up at the building.

“It must be a trick,” he said.

“I don’t think so,” said Elspeth. “Look!”

She pointed at the door.

Acrid black smoke was beginning to seep under it. “We’ve got to get out of here,” shouted Elspeth. “The place really is on fire.”

“Stay where you are! No, open the window.”

Elspeth tried. “I can’t. It’s sealed shut.”

“Get to the door and unlock it.” Elspeth did as she was told. “Now stand back. I’m going to take a look. One move from you and I’ll kill you. You’ll see it’s a trick.”

Paul looked round into the corridor. It was filled with black smoke, and to his horror, he saw red flames leaping up at the end.

“Come on,” he said. “We’re leaving. Get in front of me.” He dug the gun into her back. “Now move!”

Choking and gasping, they headed for the stairs. All the lights were out.

Suddenly a tall dark figure materialised and Paul’s wrist was seized in an iron grip.

“Run, Elspeth!” shouted Hamish.

Paul struggled and fought like the madman he had become. At the top of the stairs Hamish smashed Paul’s wrist down on the banister. He let out a cry of pain and dropped the gun, which fell down the stairwell.

Hamish grabbed him by the ankles and held the struggling, screaming director upside down over the stairwell.

Clarry’s calm voice sounded in Hamish’s ear. “Just pull him up and handcuff him and caution him, Hamish. There’s a good lad. No point in killing him.”

Hamish and Clarry pulled Paul back up. Hamish handcuffed him and cautioned him.

Somehow word had got around about what was really happening. The dishwasher had overheard the plan and had told the under-chef, who had told the maitre d’, who had told the barman, and so when Paul was led handcuffed down the stairs, it was to find television cameras pointed at him, recording his arrest. He let out an unearthly yell and was still screaming when they locked him in the office and Hamish phoned Strathbane and asked for a police helicopter to lift them off.

He found Elspeth at his elbow. “Are you all right?” he asked. Her face was black with smoke.

“I feel a bit sick. I’ll be worse tomorrow when the shock sets in.”