Trent's Last Case by E. C. Bentley (bookreader .txt) 📗

had to say I was delayed by a breakdown after leaving Manderson at half-past ten, and challenged any one to produce any fact connecting me with the crime. They couldn’t have done it. The pistol, left openly in my room, might have been used by anybody, even if it could be proved that that particular pistol was used. Nobody could reasonably connect me with the shooting so long as it was believed that it was Manderson who had returned to the house. The suspicion could not, I was confident, enter any one’s mind. All the same, I wanted to introduce the element of absolute physical impossibility; I knew I should feel ten times as safe with that. So when I knew from the sound of her breathing that Mrs. Manderson was asleep again, I walked quickly across her room in my stocking feet, and was on the grass with my bundle in ten seconds. I don’t think I made the least noise. The curtain before the window was of soft, thick stuff and didn’t rustle, and when I pushed the glass doors further open there was not a sound.”

“Tell me,” said Trent, as the other stopped to light a new cigarette, “why you took the risk of going through Mrs. Manderson’s room to escape from the house. I could see when I looked into the thing on the spot why it had to be on that side of the house; there was a danger of being seen by Martin, or by some servant at a bedroom window, if you got out by a window on one of the other sides. But there were three unoccupied rooms on that side; two spare bedrooms and Mrs. Manderson’s sitting-room. I should have thought it would have been safer, after you had done what was necessary to your plan in Manderson’s room, to leave it quietly and escape through one of those three rooms.... The fact that you went through her window, you know,” he added coldly, “would have suggested, if it became known, various suspicions in regard to the lady herself. I think you understand me.”

Marlowe turned upon him with a glowing face. “And I think you will understand me, Mr. Trent,” he said in a voice that shook a little, “when I say that if such a possibility had occurred to me then, I would have taken any risk rather than make my escape by that way.... Oh well!” he went on more coolly, “I suppose that to any one who didn’t know her, the idea of her being privy to her husband’s murder might not seem so indescribably fatuous. Forgive the expression.” He looked attentively at the burning end of his cigarette, studiously unconscious of the red flag that flew in Trent’s eyes for an instant at his words and the tone of them.

That emotion, however, was conquered at once. “Your remark is perfectly just,” Trent said with answering coolness. “I can quite believe, too, that at the time you didn’t think of the possibility I mentioned. But surely, apart from that, it would have been safer to do as I said; go by the window of an unoccupied room.”

“Do you think so?” said Marlowe. “All I can say is, I hadn’t the nerve to do it. I tell you, when I entered Manderson’s room I shut the door of it on more than half my terrors. I had the problem confined before me in a closed space, with only one danger in it, and that a known danger: the danger of Mrs. Manderson. The thing was almost done; I had only to wait until she was certainly asleep after her few moments of waking up, for which, as I told you, I was prepared as a possibility. Barring accidents, the way was clear. But now suppose that I, carrying Manderson’s clothes and shoes, had opened that door again and gone in my shirt-sleeves and socks to enter one of the empty rooms. The moonlight was flooding the corridor through the end window. Even if my face was concealed, nobody could mistake my standing figure for Manderson’s. Martin might be going about the house in his silent way. Bunner might come out of his bedroom. One of the servants who were supposed to be in bed might come round the corner from the other passage—I had found Célestine prowling about quite as late as it was then. None of these things was very likely; but they were all too likely for me. They were uncertainties. Shut off from the household in Manderson’s room I knew exactly what I had to face. As I lay in my clothes in Manderson’s bed and listened for the almost inaudible breathing through the open door, I felt far more ease of mind, terrible as my anxiety was, than I had felt since I saw the dead body on the turf. I even congratulated myself that I had had the chance, through Mrs Manderson’s speaking to me, of tightening one of the screws in my scheme by repeating the statement about my having been sent to Southampton.”

Marlowe looked at Trent, who nodded as who should say that his point was met.

“As for Southampton,” pursued Marlowe, “you know what I did when I got there, I have no doubt. I had decided to take Manderson’s story about the mysterious Harris and act it out on my own lines. It was a carefully prepared lie, better than anything I could improvise. I even went so far as to get through a trunk call to the hotel at Southampton from the library before starting, and ask if Harris was there. As I expected, he wasn’t.”

“Was that why you telephoned?” Trent enquired quickly.

“The reason for telephoning was to get myself into an attitude in which Martin couldn’t see my face or anything but the jacket and hat, yet which was a natural and familiar attitude. But while I was about it, it was obviously better to make a genuine call. If I had simply pretended to be telephoning, the people at the exchange could have told at once that there hadn’t been a call from White Gables that night.”

“One of the first things I did was to make that enquiry,” said Trent. “That telephone call, and the wire you sent from Southampton to the dead man to say Harris hadn’t turned up, and you were returning—I particularly appreciated both those.”

A constrained smile lighted Marlowe’s face for a moment. “I don’t know that there’s anything more to tell. I returned to Marlstone, and faced your friend the detective with such nerve as I had left. The worst was when I heard you had been put on the case—no, that wasn’t the worst. The worst was when I saw you walk out of the shrubbery the next day, coming away from the shed where I had laid the body. For one ghastly moment I thought you were going to give me in charge on the spot. Now I’ve told you everything, you don’t look so terrible.”

He closed his eyes, and there was a short silence. Then Trent got suddenly to his feet.

“Cross-examination?” enquired Marlowe, looking at him gravely.

“Not at all,” said Trent, stretching his long limbs. “Only stiffness of the legs. I don’t want to ask any questions. I believe what you have told us. I don’t believe it simply because I always liked your face, or because it saves awkwardness, which are the most usual reasons for believing a person, but because my vanity will have it that no man could lie to me steadily for an hour without my perceiving it. Your story is an extraordinary one; but Manderson was an extraordinary man, and so are you. You acted like a lunatic in doing what you did; but I quite agree with you that if you had acted like a sane man you wouldn’t have had the hundredth part of a dog’s chance with a judge and jury. One thing is beyond dispute on any reading of the affair: you are a man of courage.”

The colour rushed into Marlowe’s face, and he hesitated for words. Before he could speak Mr. Cupples arose with a dry cough.

“For my part,” he said, “I never supposed you guilty for a moment.” Marlowe turned to him in grateful amazement, Trent with an incredulous stare. “But,” pursued Mr. Cupples, holding up his hand, “there is one question which I should like to put.”

Marlowe bowed, saying nothing.

“Suppose,” said Mr. Cupples, “that some one else had been suspected of the crime and put upon trial. What would you have done?”

“I think my duty was clear. I should have gone with my story to the lawyers for the defence, and put myself in their hands.”

Trent laughed aloud. Now that the thing was over, his spirits were rapidly becoming ungovernable. “I can see their faces!” he said. “As a matter of fact, though, nobody else was ever in danger. There wasn’t a shred of evidence against any one. I looked up Murch at the Yard this morning, and he told me he had come round to Bunner’s view, that it was a case of revenge on the part of some American black-hand gang. So there’s the end of the Manderson case. Holy, suffering Moses! What an ass a man can make of himself when he thinks he’s being preternaturally clever!” He seized the bulky envelope from the table and stuffed it into the heart of the fire. “There’s for you, old friend! For want of you the world’s course will not fail. But look here! It’s getting late—nearly seven, and Cupples and I have an appointment at half-past. We must go. Mr. Marlowe, goodbye.” He looked into the other’s eyes. “I am a man who has worked hard to put a rope round your neck. Considering the circumstances, I don’t know whether you will blame me. Will you shake hands?”