They Found Him Dead Read online

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Jim. ‘Do you suppose I haven’t grasped what you’re up to? You’re quite obviously hunting for the fatal weapon. Of course it would be concealed in a rain-tub bang on the scene of the crime.’

  ‘We shall see,’ said Hannasyde. ‘Give me a hand, will you, Sergeant?’

  The Sergeant, secretly in sympathy with Mr James Kane’s evident scepticism, stepped into the flood, and assisted his superior to lower the heavy tub off its platform on to the ground, and to tilt it on to its side. A little muddy water trickled out of it, and, as they tilted it still farther, something was heard to slide inside it, grating on the wood.

  ‘Right up!’ Hannasyde said.

  The Sergeant got his hands under the bottom of the tub, and gave it a hoist. A Colt .38 revolver clattered down the side of the tub, and fell into the pool of water with a splash.

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ said Jim, staring.

  ‘Sometimes, Mr Kane, the obvious place is the right place,’ said Hannasyde calmly, and bent to pick up the gun.

  It was at this somewhat inopportune moment that Mr Harte came wandering round the corner of the house, his whole bearing proclaiming the fact that he was bored, and did not know what to do with himself. At sight of the two detectives the cloud left his brow, and he pranced up to them, full of zeal and curiosity. ‘Hullo, Sarge! What are you doing?’ he demanded. ‘Golly, what a mess! I say! What have you found?’

  The Sergeant, who had been staring at the gun in Hannasyde’s hand like one bemused, recollected himself with a start, and said: ‘Look here, sonny, you trot off and tell yourself an anecdote! We’re busy.’

  ‘You’ve found the gat!’ cried Mr Harte. ‘Gosh! I say, what’s that weird thing on the end of the barrel?’

  Hannasyde raised his eyes from the revolver and glanced thoughtfully at Mr Harte’s eager countenance. The Sergeant was trying to edge him away, but Mr Harte had no intention of leaving. ‘All right, Hemingway,’ said Hannasyde quietly. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  The Sergeant sent him a quick, puzzled look, but stopped trying to get rid of Mr Harte.

  Jim, frowning at the revolver, said: ‘I don’t understand. Isn’t that thing a silencer?’

  ‘It is,’ replied Hannasyde.

  ‘But then, that can’t be the gun you’re looking for,’ Jim objected. ‘It made the hell of a noise! They heard it in the hall.’

  ‘Very odd, isn’t it?’ said Hannasyde unemotionally. He slid the gun into his pocket, and turned towards the house. His intent, questing gaze fell on the little brick platform built for the tub to stand on, he stepped up to it, and bent, closely scrutinising it. He picked something up very carefully. ‘Now I’m beginning to understand,’ he said.

  The three others craned forward to see what lay in the palm of his hand. ‘That’s a bit of burnt-out fuse!’ Jim exclaimed.

  ‘My lord!’ muttered the Sergeant, and went down on his knees by the platform. ‘Here’s another bit, Chief. That seems to be the lot.’

  ‘About eighteen inches of it,’ said Hannasyde, measuring the fragments with his eye. ‘Say three minutes’ burning time.’ He glanced up at the pipe which fed the rain-tub. ‘It must have slipped down behind the tub from –’ He paused, and raised a hand to one of the brackets clamping the pipe to the wall, feeling it carefully ‘– from this bracket,’ he concluded, bringing his hand away with another tiny fragment of the mottled fuse in it. ‘There should be a detonator.’ He looked down at Mr Harte, and said with a faint smile: ‘If you want to be useful, see if you can find it.’

  ‘You bet your life!’ said Mr Harte fervently, and proceeded without any more ado to create havoc amongst the antirrhinums planted thickly in the bed along the wall of the house.

  The Sergeant, his eyes fixed on Hannasyde’s face in an expression of shocked inquiry, opened his mouth to speak, encountered a steady look from Hannasyde, and thought better of it. He joined Timothy in the search for the detonator. It was Timothy who presently let out a squeak of triumph, and held up between an earth-stained finger and thumb a brass object like a cartridge which had been pinched at the open end. ‘Look, is this it?’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Hannasyde, taking it from him.

  Jim was still looking bewildered. ‘How did it work?’ he asked.

  ‘Quite simply,’ Hannasyde replied. ‘One end of the fuse was inserted at this end. Then the sides of the cap were very carefully pinched together so that they gripped the fuse. Do you see? It was then hung over that bracket, and the other end split and set light to. Standard fuse, which it is safe to assume this is, being white, burns at the rate of six inches a minute, and I should judge that we’ve found just about eighteen inches of it. What you and the others heard, Mr Kane, was not the shot that killed your cousin, but the detonator going off.’

  ‘Good God, then that accounts for my not seeing a sign of anyone when I looked out!’ Jim said. ‘My cousin was shot some minutes earlier?’ Hannasyde nodded. ‘Yes, but I still don’t quite get it. I gather that it lets me out, but –’

  ‘What do you suppose can have been the reason for setting the fuse, Mr Kane?’

  ‘Alibi!’ gasped Mr Harte, executing a slight war-dance. ‘Whoopee!’

  ‘Alibi,’ repeated Jim. ‘Yes, of course. Sorry to be so dense. But –’

  ‘Oh, Jim, you ass!’ said Timothy. ‘You couldn’t have done it, because you didn’t get yourself an alibi! Golly, I do think this is fun!’

  ‘I’ve grasped that,’ said Jim. ‘But what I don’t immediately perceive is, which of us did benefit by this contraption. Neither of the Mansells established an alibi, nor did Dermort, nor did – in fact, none of us did except Miss Allison, I suppose, and you can’t seriously suspect –’

  Mr Harte drew a shuddering breath, and fixed the Sergeant with a glittering and accusing gaze. ‘I told you so!’ he said. ‘I told you you ought to keep an eye on him!’

  ‘Keep an eye on who?’ demanded the Sergeant.

  ‘Pritchard, of course! It’s obvious!’

  ‘Pritchard?’ said Jim. ‘My good lad, what on earth should he have to do with it? He’s only been employed here since old Barker died last year, so he had no expectations of a legacy. Besides –’

  Mr Harte danced with impatience. ‘The Hidden Killer! He knew when Cousin Silas went out that night, and of course he followed him! And then he fixed up this affair to give himself an alibi for doing Cousin Clement in, and nobody even bothered to find out where he was before he went to answer the front-door bell, because it looked as though he couldn’t possibly have done it!’

  ‘But why?’ said Jim.

  ‘Cousin Maud’s husband!’ hissed Mr Harte.

  ‘Get out!’ said Jim scornfully.

  ‘I bet you I’m right! I bet you Mr Roberts will think there’s something in it, even if you don’t. Because the only thing that put him off Pritchard’s scent was his being in the hall when they heard the shot. It’s no use your making that face! It’s perfectly true! I talked to Mr Roberts about it when you first started wondering about this Leighton bloke, and he said it had occurred to him, quite early on, only it led nowhere, because Pritchard had a cast-iron alibi.’

  Hannasyde, who had been listening to him with an unmoved countenance, said: ‘You mustn’t mention this to Pritchard, you know, or to any of the servants.’

  ‘Rather not! Of course I wouldn’t breathe a word to them! I can tell Mr Roberts, can’t I?’

  ‘Oh yes, you can tell him if you want to,’ replied Hannasyde. ‘Help me to put the tub back, will you, Sergeant?’

  Jim said, his brows knit: ‘Do you think he ought to say anything about this to anyone at all, Superintendent? It’s not my affair, I know, but –’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what he tells Mr Roberts,’ replied Hannasyde. ‘It mustn’t come to the butler’s e