The Eight of Swords

uncertainty. He shook his fist. 'We know! He's going to The Grange, every time! We know it — we — aaah!' He panted for a moment. 'You two see if the' can do anything for them that was shot, down there. Ill go to the big 'ouse. That's where our man is, and we know it.'

'Do you think you hit him?' Hugh asked, as calmly as he could. 'When you fired through the window, I mean? If you did—'

'Ah! I was off me head for a moment, d'ye see.' Murch looked blankly at the weapon in his hand. 'I don't know. Twas so sudden; I don't know. Stand guard, now. There's an other one that was shot at— where's he? Who was 'e?'

'Damned if I know,' said Morgan. He added bitterly: 'We're a fine parcel of men of action. This is one to remember for the book. All right, inspector; cut along. Well look for your missing body. Though, personally, I'd rather take castor oil.'

He hunched his shoulders and shivered as he went down the lawn. Hugh could still hear the stupefying crash of the shooting; and the emotional let-down was fully as stupefying. He accepted one of his companion's cigarettes, but his hand was not steady.

'Is this real?'' Morgan demanded in an odd voice.

'Hell-raising — gunplay — all over in a second; feel like a wet rag… No, no. Something's wrong. I don't believe it.'

'It's real enough,' said Hugh. He forced himself to go close to Spinelli's body. All around there was a smell of sickness and the warm odor of blood. As Morgan struck a match, the glimmer shone on bloodstains in the brush round the oak tree, where the second man had tried to crawl for safety. Hugh added: 'I don't suppose there's any doubt…?'

Spinelli lay on his face. Morgan, who was looking white, bent over and held the match near his head. It burned his fingers, and he jumped up again.

'Dead. No doubt. They — they got him through the back of the head, just over the hair line. Euh… I imagine,' he said blankly, 'that's rather like what a battle must be, that business. I can't tell just yet what did happen.' He shivered. 'I don't mind admitting that if anybody leaned out and said. 'Boo!' to me at this minute, I'd jump out of my skin. But, look here… H'm. One thing about it, that little marksman in the window was out to get Spinelli and the other chap; deliberately knock over those two, and nobody else. He didn't take a shot at either one of us, though he must have seen us easily.'

'He shot at Murch.'

' 'M, yes. But a wild shot, over his head, to keep him back. Not the way he picked off Spinelli. Like a sitting bird. Ugh! And the other fellow. Or maybe he lost his nerve. / don't know. God, I don't know anything…'

He began to pace back and forth. 'Come on. We've got to look for the other man, if it kills us. Who was he? Do you know?'

'I didn't see him either; at least, to recognize him. Here, I've got a cigarette lighter. That will be better than matches. If’ said Hugh, feeling a little sick, 'we follow that trail of bloodstains…'

But neither of them was anxious to start. Morgan made a gesture which said, 'Let's finish our cigarettes.' He said aloud:

'I was just thinking who it might be.' The thought, to Hugh, was as terrifying as anything that had gone before. They would need to penetrate only a little way among the trees, because the sniper had been too deadly a shot for his second victim to have got very far. But his mind was full of formless conjectures that were all horrible. Morgan seemed to meet his thought. He went on swiftly:

'Uh. A dead shot, and cool. My God, what's going on in this nice placid corner of the universe? Who's the maniac can sit at a window and break people's heads like clay pigeons? I told you how impossible it was. And yet it happened. 'Keep your stories probable.' I’d like to know what the hell a probable story is,' he said rather wildly, 'if this is one… Keep on talking; it'll whisde our spirits up. That reminds me, I'm carrying a flask. Like a drink?'

'Would I!' Hugh said fervently.

Two amateur criminologists,' jerked out Morgan, handing over the flask, 'afraid of the bogey man. The reason is, you and I are afraid there's somebody we know only too well lying in there with a couple of bullets through him.'

Hugh drank whisky greedily, shuddered at the bite in his throat; but he felt better. 'Let's go' he said.

The pocket lighter made a surprisingly broad flame.

Holding it low, Hugh stepped across the brick path towards the oak tree. The path here was bordered with foxglove, white and reddish-purple above the fern; but it had been torn and kicked about, and much of the red was blood. It was not difficult to follow the trail. Somebody had ripped himself loose from the thorns of a blackberry bush, and penetrated in where the trees were thickest. It was chill and marshy now, and there were gnats. More blood in a clump of bracken, which bore an impress as though somebody had dragged himself forward on his face, weakening…

Something rustled. The flame moved right and left, writhed in a draught, and almost went out. Their feet crackled on dead plants. Branches scratched past Hugh's shoulder; their snap and swish knocked his arm, and he had to spin the wheel of the lighter again.

'I could have sworn,' said Morgan. 'I heard somebody groan.'

Hugh almost stepped on it. It was a highly polished black shoe, scuffing in dead leaves at the bole of a maple tree. As they looked it jerked once, showed part of a striped trouser leg, and became only a shoe again. There were whitish rents in the bark of the tree where the owner of the shoe had scratched it as he fell. He was lying on his side in a clump of foxglove, shot through the neck and shoulder. They heard him die as Hugh's light flickered on him.

Morgan said: 'Steady. We can't go back now. Besides—'

Kneeling, Hugh wrenched the portly figure over on its back. Its face was dirty, the mouth and eyes open; and blood had not made it more attractive. There was a long silence as they stared at it.

'Who the devil is that?’ Morgan whispered. 'I never saw…'

'Hold the lighter' said the other, gagging in sudden nausea, 'and let's get out of here. I know him. He's a lawyer. His name is Langdon.'

CHAPTER XVIII Dr. Fell Meets the Murderer

They got back into the clearing somehow. Even then, Hugh remembered accidentally kicking Spinelli's hat as they crossed the brick path. By common consent they made for the Guest House. It was full of ugly suggestions and memories, but it was better than that area where the sniper had left his messy trophies.

Morgan peered at the house, and stopped. 'I know what's wrong,' he said. Funny. It never occurred to me before. Do you know what we've done? The lights, man!' He pointed. 'We've chased somebody we couldn't find all over the house and the grounds, and we never once thought to turn on the lights inside… Add psychological quirks, if you can add anything. What am I talking about anyway? Anyway, what we need is light… '

He ran up on the porch, and groped round inside the open front door. The electric lights of the hall glowed out; gloomy enough, but better than the darkness. They stood in the light as they might have stood before a fire on a cold day.

'All we can do,' said Hugh, sitting down on the step, 'is to take it easy and wait until Murch gets back with some — some minions.' (That, he thought, was an idiotic word to use; like somebody in a bad play. 'Minions!' What put that into his head?)

Morgan nodded. He stood bracing himself against the doorway, the collar of his blazer drawn up, and his face turned away.

'Uh. Yes, that's all. Question is, who is this Langdon down there, and why should he get killed?'

'I don't know why he should get killed. As to who he was, you'd have to hear all about what happened tonight. It's a longish story, and I don't feel up to it. Not just yet, anyhow. But—' an idea occurred to him, 'but at least there's something about it you ought to know.'

Automatically Morgan took out his flask and handed it over. 'Fire away,' he said.