The Eight of Swords

J. R. looked at him sharply. 'No. It's a bad business, that's all I know. Going to hurt us — plenty. Why theorize? They've caught the murderer…'

'Have they?'

'If you're trying to apply theories…' The corners of the other's mouth turned down, and he surveyed his glass; looked around it, and over it, and under it. Til give you advice. Stick to John Zed, and let real life alone. Don't touch this business, anyway. It's mucky.'

'Well, that's what I was wondering. The police are likely to be asking you what you know about Depping; his past, and the rest of it—'

'You mean Gideon Fell will. Humph… What of it? I can't tell him any more than I can tell anybody else. Depping's credit's perfectiy sound and Bank-of-England. Otherwise he had — useful qualities. Standish vouched for him. If Fell wants any further information, hell have to ask the solicitor. Langdon will be here tonight or tomorrow morning.'

Morgan evidently saw that J. R. (if he knew anything) had no disposition to talk. But Morgan talked. He stood in the middle of the darkened lawn and proceeded with a recital which raised Donovan's hair— for, in essentials, it was inference for inference almost exactly the same explanation as Dr. Fell's.

Less closely reasoned, more discursive, and with a few points missing, he had nevertheless contrived to evolve the whole scene with the imaginative vividness of a story-teller. He started with the buttonhook, and went on with a multitude of details — after the fashion of the novelist — which were new to Donovan. When he announced his first surprise, Depping's disguise and imposture, Patricia gave a hoot of derision, and J. R. peered over his glasses in tolerant mockery. But presently he began pounding in his details, and the others were silent.

'And I can prove my assumptions,' he went on, striding back and forth among them, and addressing himself to Burke, 'on points I noticed when Murch and I examined the room this morning. I decided that there had been an imposture, and I examined the body first of all… ' He turned to Donovan. 'You were with Dr. Fell when he went to the Guest House. Did he examine the body carefully?' Donovan was cautious. 'Well, no. That is—' 'On the upper lip,' Morgan proceeded, 'there were traces of spirit-gum for the moustache; you can't take it off with water. Traces of the actor's cement were behind his ears. In the fireplace were not only remnants of burned clothing, but a scorched tuft of black hair from the wig… Then I went into his bedroom and bathroom, which adjoined the study. If there had been any further need for confirmation, it was there. On either side of the mirror over the washbowl in the bathroom, two candles had been propped up — to give Depping light in taking off his makeup, immediately after his return. Stuck in the drain was one of those strips of transparent fishskin that are used for drawing in sagging flesh round the cheeks and eyes, to present an appearance of youth. There were wet socks and a suit of wet underclothing across a chair; the rest had been burned. I didn't find any box of cosmetics, but Murch was watching and I couldn't make a thorough search. All this puzzled Murch considerably.' Again he peered at Hugh in the gloom. 'What did Dr. Fell make of it?'

This time Hugh was caught off guard. 'We didn't go in there,' he replied. 'When he deduced all you've said, it was only from the facts we'd heard—'

There was a silence. He heard his own words as though they had come back to him in an echo. Suddenly he tried to stumble into another explanation, but he could think of nothing. In the hush Morgan walked across, his head bent forward.

'Good God,' he said, 'do you mean to tell me that I'm right?'

There was a sort of staggered incredulity in his tone which puzzled Hugh still more.

'Right?' he repeated. 'Well, if you've been saying all this-'

‘I know' said Morgan, and passed a hand over his eyes. Then he started to laugh. I’d convinced myself of it, but… well, it seemed too good to be true. It was so exactly the way it should have happened according to romance that I didn't really believe it myself. That was why I was testing it out on all of you. Betrayed, by the Lord! Master mind betrayed into telling the true facts too soon.' He picked up the cocktail shaker, found it was empty, and set it down irritably. 'Why the devil couldn't I have waited and hit the bishop in the eye with it? Ill never forgive myself for this.'

He sat down. J. R. was making protesting noises.

'Look here,' he said, 'do you mean to tell me Gideon Fell believes all this tommyrot?'

'I'd be willing to bet,' said Morgan thoughtfully, 'that you believe it yourself?'

'Tommyrot!' snapped J. R. 'You're making Depping out as an ex-criminal, who wanted to kill Spinelli—'

'I only said there was something highly unsavory in his past.'

'Humph.' After a time of lowering his head and grunting, the other's tone changed again to tolerant sarcasm. 'It would look well enough for a book, my lad, but it won't do. There's one great big thundering hole in it. Know what it is? Shut up. Let me talk. Ill see to what lengths of nonsense you're willing to go before I explode the thing… Suppose it's true. Which I don't admit, mind. What then?'

'Why, we come back to the fact that the murderer is somebody in our midst.' Morgan got up again, stared at the darkening sky, and began to move about rather uneasily. He had the air of one who has started up more than was his intention. 'That is… Look here, is this what Dr. Fell thinks? For God's sake, man, tell me the truth!'

Donovan, who had been cursing himself, made an attempt at mysteriousness that was not very successful. He shrugged his shoulders. Patricia was brooding with her chin in her fists. Morgan went on:

This was Depping's world. If he wanted a confederate to keep guard in his room while he went out after Spinelli…'

'Rubbish,' said J. R. 'And I’ll tell you why… Assume what you say is true. His having a confederate for this business is fantastic. Worse than the idea he was a criminal in the past. Much. Pah! Listen to me.' The red bowl of his pipe stabbed out in the gloom. 'What did Depping most want to do?'

'About what? I don't follow you.'

Patricia passed a hand over her hair and then gestured like one who wants silence in which to think. 'I say, wait a bit. I think I follow.' She turned accusingly to J. R. 'At least you'll admit this. You've always thought he was playing some sort of part — now, haven't you?'

'Got nothing to do with it. Don't ask me questions,' growled the other. 'Go on'

'He wanted to be thought a scholarly and well-bred country gentleman; that's what he wanted,' said Patricia with emphasis.

'Humph. Which he may have been, mind… Anyhow, that's what I meant. He wanted to establish his position for that; he'd been working towards it for five years. Humph.' J. R. gathered his shoulders together. His face was barely visible in the gloom; but they could feel the Chinese-image expression hardening and staring out as though to convince them by weight of personality, like the bishop. Then is what you say very likely? — Would he go up to one of the people hereabouts and say, 'Look here. Sorry to deceive you all this time, but the fact is I'm really an ex- criminal and baby-killer. There's a fellow I used to know, who's been trying to blackmail me, and I've got to bump him off. Give me a hand, will you? Take my place in the study while I go out and attend to him; there's a good fellow. I’ll do the same for you sometime.' ' He snorted. 'Nonsense!'

Morgan had been lighting his pipe. The match abruptly stopped just above the bowl; it showed his face gone tense, and rather strained, and he was staring at the beach umbrella. Then the match went out.

He said slowly: 'No. Depping needn't have said that at all.'

'More theories—?'

The only theory' Morgan answered in a queer voice, 'that will account for all the facts. A theory that turns half-a-dozen of the most harmless people in England, including myself, into a group of potential murderers.'

Another pause. Hugh stared at the sky, turning to colors of pale white and purple after sunset, and he was conscious of a chill that had taken hold of everybody. Madeleine said, 'Don't talk like that—' all of a sudden, and struck the side of the deck chair.

'Let's hear it,' said J. R. sharply.

'I'm rather muddled myself,' Morgan admitted, with his hand over his eyes; 'and there have been so many cross-deductions that we're apt to tangle up what we know with what we only suspect. But here it is…

'The last part of the hypothesis I told you — that is, the murder of Depping by his confederate — was based on the assumption that the confederate was a willing accomplice, who knew what Depping meant to do; and, second, that this accomplice had meantime devised his own plan for killing