I made a reservation for that night by telephone. Then I slipped out of the house by way of the front door. I wanted one more look around before I finished my case.
I walked among the umbrellas on the terrace, sad-looking in the gray fog which had already blotted out the ocean only a few yards away. It was as thick a fog as I’d ever seen. The umbrellas looked like monsters, looming in the mist.
Then I took out my watch and began to walk, at a good pace, down the beach to the Club.
Five minutes later I reached the Club.
It was a strange walk. I couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of me. If it hadn't been for a cluster of rotten black pilings which marked the beginning of the Club beach I shouldn’t have known where I was. The Club House was invisible. There was no sound from its general direction.
I had the impression of being packed in cotton wool. I almost felt that if I put my hand out I could touch the fog, a gray heavy damp substance.
Far out to sea, I heard the horn of a ship, lonely and plaintive. Well, it would soon be over, I told myself. I was oddly depressed. I had solved the case but there was no elation, only relief and perhaps a certain fear.
I made my way back slowly. I followed the edge of the water which eddied black upon the white sand. If I hadn't, I would’ve got lost for there were no landmarks: nothing but white sand and gray fog.
I timed my return trip so that I'd know when I was abreast the North Dunes. Otherwise I knew I might keep on until Montauk without ever knowing where I was.
I was three minutes and two seconds from the Club when a figure appeared, tall and dark. We both stopped at the water’s edge: each had been following the water line. Then Randan approached. He was carrying my suitcase.
“I thought you were taking a walk,” he said amiably. “I followed you.”
“You thought I'd walk to the Club?”
He nodded. “It's a nice walk, isn’t it? Perfect for a foggy day.”
“I like the fog.” I glanced at the suitcase in his hand: this was it at last. I knew what was coming. “Not such a good walk, though, if you’re carrying something.”
“Like your suitcase?” he grinned.
“Or like your uncle.”
The smile faded from his face. We were only a yard apart and yet his features were faintly blurred by the intervening fog, white and enveloping. We stood within a circle of visibility whose diameter was not more than a yard. Somewhere far above, in another world, the afternoon sun was shining. We were like the last survivors of a disaster, alone with our secrets.
A wave broke close to us. Water swirled about our shoes. Simultaneously we moved farther up the shore, each keeping the other in range. Was he armed? The question repeated itself over and over in my brain. If he was...
“You know a great deal,” said Randan. He put the suit-
case down, He was wearing a trench coat, I noticed . . . very sensible, I thought inanely, keep the damp out: fog caressed us like damp cotton; my clothes were soaked, and not only from fog.
“I have my suspicions,” I said, trying to sound casual. “But they don’t do me much good since there’s no evidence of any kind.” Anything to throw him off the track. I was positive he was armed. I planned a sudden break up the beach, into the fog. One leap and I’d be out of sight. But if he were armed...
“You’re not stupid,” Randan sounded somewhat surprised.
“Thanks. Unfortunately neither are you. There’s no way of making a case against you. I think I know exactly what happened but there’s no proof of any kind. You thought of everything.” But he was too smart for such flattery. I was talking fast, to no point. My suitcase in his hand meant this was the pay-off.
“Tell me what you know, Sargeant.” The question was put quietly, without emphasis.
“Not enough.”
“Tell me anyway.” He put his hand in the pocket of his coat. I went death-cold: was he armed? was he armed?
I decided to talk, my legs tensed for a spring into the whiteness about us, into the protecting, the murderous fog. My mouth was dry. Sweat trickled down my side. With difficulty I kept my voice steady. “I think you made your plan in Boston, the night before you came here. You heard about the murder on the radio ... or rather the mysterious death of Mildred Brexton. You knew her husband would be held responsible. You also knew of Fletcher’s dislike of Brexton, on Mildred’s account. On a wild chance, you thought there might be an opportunity for you to kill your uncle, making it look as though Brexton had killed him.”
“AH this from having heard over the radio that Mildred Brexton drowned accidentally?” He sounded amused.
1 nodded. “Also from a conversation with Allie, by telephone, the day before. I think she told you pretty much the situation down here. You knew what to expect.” This was a guess. It was accurate.
“I didn’t think Allie would mention that telephone call,” said Randan. “Yes, that gave me the . . . the background of the week-end party. Go on.”
“Just in case, you prepared, in Boston, the note saying Brexton was the killer. I had my secretary check the Boston papers for your last day there: none carried an account of Mildred’s death . . . too soon. Because of that you weren’t able to get an X or a K out of the headlines. This bothered me when I first saw the note. I figured that anyone of us preparing such a note would have had no trouble finding Xs and Ks since the papers were full of references to Brexton, to Mildred’s death.”
“Good, very good.” Randan seemed pleased. “I was wor-122
ried that the police might discover my note was made from Boston papers. Fortunately, they were so positive Fletcher fixed the note that they didn’t bother tracking it down. Then what happened?”
“You arrived in the early morning, Sunday, by car. You went straight to the house. The guard was asleep. You looked around. In the living room you found Brexton’s palette knife with his initials on it, left there after Mildred attacked Mrs. Veering Friday night. You took it, for future use. You were in the kitchen . . . perhaps examining the fuse box, when I arrived. You struck me with...”
“Of all homely items, a rolling pin.” Randan chuckled. “Not hard enough either.” A gull shrieked. The surf whispered.
“You then left the house, making your official appearance later on that day. You found out soon enough what was going on. Your uncle no doubt told you he suspected Brexton of murdering his wife. He might even have told you of his denunciation of Brexton to the police. If he did, and I think he did, the moment was right. Your uncle had accused Brexton of murder. Your uncle is murdered. Brexton, without a doubt, would be held responsible. The rest was comparatively simple.”
“I’m all ears.”
I watched his face while I talked, reading his responses in his expression rather than his words. I recapitulated quickly. “Mildred died by accident. Brexton knew this. The rest of us did too until that policeman, prodded by your vindictive uncle, scenting an easy case, decided to make something out of it. Both he and your uncle played your game to perfection ... to their regret.”
“Greaves will certainly benefit. He’s already a hero.” Randan was smug. I played right along.
"That’s right. I don’t suppose Greaves will ever know that he’s sent an innocent man to the chair.”
“No, he’ll never know,” Randan agreed cheerfully. “There’ll be no one to tell him he was wrong.”
I pretended not to get this but I did and I was ready: he was armed all right. Under cover of the fog he would commit his last murder, destroy the only witness of his cunning. I made plans while we talked.
“You fixed two alibis for Sunday night, the night you killed your uncle. First was at the Club. The second was at the Evans party where you ran into us ... an unexpected meeting, I’d say. You made a date to meet your uncle at the club around twelve thirty. You drove over. He walked . . . along the beach. You met on the beach, I think, probably near the cabanas, in the dark. You talked. Perhaps you strolled away from the Club, toward the house. At some point you both sat down. You struck him on the head with some object...”