The Eight of Swords

"So he would," agreed Dr. Fell. "In time for a blackmailer to have seen a great deal"

The inspector frowned. "Seen, sir?" he repeated, with a sort of hoarse jocosity. " M! Tisn't what he'd've seen, not much. That's the time he walked straight in that door there, after the lights went out, and upstairs — as we know. And shot poor Mr. Depping. He didn't get back to the Chequers until half-past one. Mrs. Kenviss," the inspector said virtuously, "said it was her bounden duty to sit up, and watch that window, and see what was what. Blessmes’l, she and Mr. Kenviss do get a scare when they learn this morning what's happened!'And they didn't dare speak to Mr. Travers; so she hurries out after Sergeant Ravens, and that's how I know. But," announced Murch, tapping his notebook with heavy emphasis, "we don't give our knowledge away, Ravens and me. To Mr. Travers, I mean. I thought I'd best nip back here straightaway, get that Storer chap, take him and identify Mr. Travers, and we've got him."

He closed his notebook. "My superior officer, the chief constable," he continued, with an air of putting on the final touch, "has made the information against him as being one Louis Spinelli, and that completes it. I have now my warrants for arrest and search."

"Got him, eh?" inquired the colonel, glancing from one to the other of the figures on the porch. "Got him drunk on parade — dead to rights, damme! Sorry to have pulled you down here for nothing, Fell. Still… Hallo, I'm sorry; I forgot!.. Let me introduce, Dr. Fordyce, my daughter Patricia…" He whirled round with an air of inspiration.

"How do you do?" said Hugh Donovan instantly.

"You've already introduced everybody," said the sad-faced medical man with some asperity. "And since the police seem to have finished, Fll be thankful to get on with my postmortem and be off."

"Oh, yes..Carry on, then" said Dr. Fell, with an absentminded air. He waited until the doctor and the two constables had tramped past him into the house. Then he looked round the little group, and fixed Murch with a sombre eye. "So you came back here for an identification of Spinelli from the valet, Inspector?"

"Yes, sir." Murch wheezed out a breath of relief. "And, by Gearge, sir! I'm free to confess how glad I am it was this man Travers, or Spinelli; one of those there gunman chaps, that'd as soon shoot as look at you, like you see in the films; and not one of our own folk. Ah, ah, hell soon learn you can't do that business over here, by Gearge!" Another breath of relief, which agitated the ends of his sandy moustache. "Ah, ay, a good thing. I’m bound to admit I was having ideas, sir."

"Ideas?"

"Ah," agreed the inspector. " Tis nonsense, sir, but there it is." A broader strain had crept into the good inspector's speech now that the burden of an official report had been removed. "Ah, but when an idea cooms to you, blest if you can drive 'ee cot. There he is, and there he stays. Eh zed to meself, Eh zed, by Gearge!" proclaimed Murch, illustrating what he said to himself by sweeping a big arm through the air and snapping his fingers as though he had just thrown a pair of dice, "is that true? Eh zed. Tis queer, when I heard some of the things that are being said hereabouts — hints, like — and had a look at his letters, then I had ideas. Both Mr. Morgan and I had ideas; yon's a clever lad, Mr. Morgan; he helped me this morning. Aa-hh-ha, yes. But Eh zed to meself. Eh, zed, 'Luther Murch, you'm dimp!' And a small matter now, too, with us having the murderer"

He threw out his big hands, dismissing it, but not without a frown. Dr. Fell regarded him steadily.

‘I shall want to hear those ideas, Inspector. H’m, yes. Together with all the evidence you have collected today; we haven't done much but talk. Please come upstairs. I’m afraid I've bad news for you."

The colonel interposed. He said:

"Well, well, what are we waiting for, demmit?" in a querulous tone. "Time we were busy. I've got to drive six miles to a telegraph office, confounded nuisance, just to tell Hadley we've caught our man… Morley! What the devil are you doing here, eh? Come along with me; I can't write telegrams; never could… You, Patricia! Dash it, this is no place for you, you know!" he protested, rather defensively.

She spoke for the first time. It was one of those warm, soft, ginch-like voices also. She looked down from her contemplation of the stone peacock.

"Of course not, Dad," she agreed, with such readiness that the colonel stared at her.

"Eh?" he said.

"Of course not." The hazel eyes grew sombre. They flickered past Hugh, and then looked squarely at him for the first time. They had such an overpowering effect that the shooting-gallery bell clanged six times in rapid succession, and with unnerving noise. Patricia went on in bright helpfulness:

"Shall I take Mr. Donovan up to The Grange and introduce him to Mother? And I'm sure he must be dying for a dr — for something to eat."

She smiled. The colonel caught up with the suggestion with his usual air of inspiration.

"That's it, by Jove!" he assented warmly. "Take him along. Introduce him. Oh, yes; and that reminds me… Patricia, this is Joe Donovan's son. Hugh, my boy, let me present my daughter Patricia. Patricia, this is Hugh Donovan."

"How do you do?" said Donovan obediently.

"Are you sure you've got it clear now?" she inquired. "Right-ho, then! Gome along with me; do."

CHAPTER IX The Deductions of Old John Zed

That was how, in a few short moments, he found himself walking away beside this lithe, bright-eyed, altogether luscious ginch in the tennis frock — walking rather hurriedly, because he was afraid he would hear his father's stern hail from the porch, bidding him back to duty and the lighthouse. If possible, that last remark of hers drew her closer to him than ever, a powerful, unspoken, dazzling sympathy. "He must be dying for a dri—" She knew. This must be the sort of thing Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote about in the sonnets. It was not only sympathetic feminine intuition on her part, but he realized that the very sight of this girl had made him want to reach for a cocktail; some women have that effect. Such a glamour must have attended all the great sirens of the ages. In its absence there are unfulfilled romances. If, when Dante met Beatrice that famous time on the what's-its-name bridge, Beatrice had smiled at him and whispered, "Look here, I could do with a slug of Chianti," then the poor sap would have tried to find out her address and telephone number, instead of merely going home and grousing about it in an epic.

Here in the twilight coppice the strength and reasonableness of this theory grew on him; and, as he looked down at the hazel eyes which were regarding him inquiringly over her shoulder, he was struck with inspiration.

He burst out suddenly:

There once was a poet named Dante,
Who was fond of imbibing Chianti—
He wrote about hell
And a Florentine gel,
Which distressed his Victorian auntie."

Then he said, "Hah!" in a pleased, surprised tone, and rubbed his hands together as though he were waiting for the gods to throw him another.

"Hullo!" observed Patricia, opening her eyes wide. "I say, that's a nice opening speech from a bishop's son! Your father told me a lot about you. He said you were a good young man."

"It's a contemptible lie!" he said, stung to the depths. "Look here! I don't want you to go believing any such—"

"Oh, I don't believe it," she said composedly. "H'm. What made you think of it? That limerick, I mean?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, I think it was you. That is, it was a sort of inspiration — the kind that's supposed to soak you on your first sight of Tintern Abbey, or something of the sort. Then you rush home, and wake up your wife, and write it down."