The superintendent shook his head in defeat.
“Well, in that case, I give up. Jasper, the servant, has a cast-iron alibi because he was with Rose at the time of the crime. And that, of course, eliminates her as well. That leaves the young officer who lost a hand on the Belgian front. One can readily imagine him falling for the girl even on the very first night, but it’s quite a stretch to imagine that he immediately set about trying to rid himself of her fiancé by killing the colonel and framing his rival. And how could he have shot the fellow as he was leaving? From your own account, the angle of flight rules out the arrow having been fired from anywhere near the front door. And anyway, how could he have manipulated a crossbow with just one hand? It’s completely impossible, just like everything else in this damned story… arrows appearing from nowhere and gongs sounding all by themselves!”
Dr. Twist smiled knowingly. “But in fact, the solution to the whole mystery lies in those two elements. Remember the circumstances: It was just after hearing the sound that Philip saw the colonel collapse, mortally wounded by a crossbow arrow. Think carefully, that wasn’t a coincidence: There was a clear connection between the strange noise and the arrow.”
Charles Cullen looked perplexed.
“Quite frankly, I don’t see it. If anything, the problem is more complicated than ever. Am I supposed to believe the legend whereby the sound of the gong presages death and disaster? Or that someone familiar with the gong’s deadly powers succeeded in invoking them?”
The celebrated detective shook his head. “No, of course not. You’re not looking at this the right way. I’m afraid you’re allowing the legend to influence your thinking. Once again, think how short a time elapsed between the sound and the fatal wounding of the colonel.”
“Put me out of my misery,” announced Cullen, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “Just tell me what happened.”
“Philip was exonerated,” replied Twist reflectively. “He escaped the rope, but not his fate. One month after his release, he was killed in an accident at the factory.”
“Well, that’s all very sad,” observed the superintendent. “But what about the solution to the puzzle?”
“I hate to disappoint you, my dear fellow, but it’s simplicity itself. When you hear it, you’re going to kick yourself.”
“Well then, give me a clue, for heaven’s sake.”
“Very well. You’ve heard of William Tell, no doubt. The Swiss archer who had to shoot an apple from the top of his son’s head or die himself.”
With difficulty, the policeman controlled himself. “Of course, everyone knows the story. Get on with it!”
“Well, it’s the key to the whole mystery. Except in this case it was an orange, not an apple. An orange perched on the hat of the snowman at the bottom of the cul-de-sac. It was reminiscent of William Tell and his son, wasn’t it? And it was too tempting. One of the revellers thrown out of the pub couldn’t resist trying out the crossbow he’d just bought, which was in the suitcase he was carrying. On the way to the pub, he’d noticed the snowman and, in particular, the orange stuck on his head. On the way back, after he and his friend had sunk a few, he recalled that the seller had challenged him to be worthy of William Tell and spear the fruit. When next they saw the snowman, they were at the top of the cul-de-sac, about ninety feet from it — not a great distance for a crossbow. The orange on top of its head was illuminated by the light of the street lamp. And that’s the solution to the mystery, because the two jokers confessed to the inspector. A simple accident, the result of a drunken bet.”
“I still don’t understand,” announced the superintendent, now at the limit of his patience. “If things happened the way you describe, the archer was well outside the line of fire as defined by the police experts. Unless Colonel Strange, in direct conflict with Philip’s testimony, stuck his head out of the window at that precise moment and then fell back wounded into the room.”
“You’re still off the mark, even though I drew your attention to the warning sound of the Gong of Doom or, more precisely, the strange reverberations Philip heard at the moment of the killing. It was, in fact, caused by the crossbow arrow that was deflected from its course and struck its victim’s neck after flying through the open window. And, as you know, a crossbow bolt, even on ricochet, retains a remarkable force and momentum.”
“But what the devil could it have struck? A brick? Ridiculous! There has to be a hard, smooth, metallic surface for that to happen and there was nothing like that in the street, according to your own account.”
“But there was! A round, smooth metallic surface as obvious as the nose on your face: the bronze lamppost which, by the way, resonates when struck — and which Philip’s fervent imagination mistook for the sound of a gong. Think back to my description of the scene and envisage the respective positions of the archer, the lamppost, and the victim. Connect the dots and you have the precise path of the projectile. And you have to admit that the explanation is childishly simple.”