‘And then—it happened. The guest of honour went up the four shallow steps that led to the platform in front of the cornerstone. There was a shot, and both men fell. A minute later Tom, the servant, died in his master’s arms. As he died he was heard to say: “Thank God they only got me! It was meant for you.” ’
‘He said it over and over,’ said the woman who had been near the site. ‘Over and over. It was so dreadful, so touching—’
‘Let us hear from our witnesses later,’ said Mysterioso; but he looked down at his hands, lying in his lap, and when she continued, made no further attempt to stop her.
For the woman was carried away, full of tragic memories, and could not be still. ‘I can see them now! A moment before, it had all been so lovely, so sunny and pleasant, all the doctors from the hospital there and lots of guests, and Matron, of course, and some of the nurses, and Mr. Mysterioso looking so magnificent, if I may say so’—she made a little ducking movement which the great man graciously accepted—‘with his top hat and flowing black cloak, as though he’d just walked down from the stage to come and lay our cornerstone for us.
‘And then—they went up the steps together, he on the left. His man walked very close to him, and I suppose that under the cloak his arm was holding tight to his man’s arm; but you wouldn’t have guessed that he was lame at all. They stood there in the sunshine and a few words were spoken and so on; and then the man put out his hand to take the trowel, which was on a stand to his right, and pass it across to his master—and suddenly there was this sharp crack!—and before we knew what was happening, the man fell and dragged his master down with him.’ And the lifting up of the splendid head with its tawny, grey-streaked hair, the great roar of defiance flung up at the window from which the shot had come…
‘When you think,’ said the woman, ‘what a target he presented! We had all swung round to where the shot came from, and we could see a man up on the roof. Of course, we all thought he was the murderer. And at any moment he might have taken a second shot and really killed the right man this time.’
‘If he was in fact the right man,’ said Inspector Block, throwing a cold pebble into this warm sea of emotion. ‘Not all of us were convinced at the time that the shot wasn’t meant for Tom.’
‘For God’s sake!’ said Mysterioso. ‘Who would want to kill Tom?—my poor, inoffensive, faithful, loving old Tom. And what about the threatening letters? Besides, he said it himself—over and over, as the lady says. He’d have known if he’d had such an enemy, but he said it himself, “It was meant for you.” ’ He appealed to the woman. ‘You heard him?’
‘Yes, of course. You called me close. “Listen!” you said.’ She shuddered. ‘The blood was coming up, bubbling up out of his mouth. They were the last words he spoke. “Thank God they only got me. It was meant for you.” ’
‘And so he died—for my sins,’ said the Grand Mysterioso, and again was silent. But he’s not sorry, really, thought the boy, crouched in his sofa corner, watching the big handsome old face heavy with sadness, and yet spread over with a sort of unction of self-satisfaction. ‘He’s pleased, underneath it all, that everyone should know that even at that age he could still be seducing girls, breaking up homes, getting threatening letters from husbands.’ And certainly in the ensuing years the ageing lion had done nothing to obliterate the public’s memory of that terrible, yet magnificent day. ‘I was so bloody mad, I forgot all about everything but Tom. Dying for my sins!’ In a hundred talks and broadcasts he lived it over again, mock regretful, mock remorseful (thought the young man) that a man should have died to pay for the triumphs of his own all-conquering virility. ‘I think you’re pleased,’ the boy said. ‘I think you’re proud of it. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t have kept telling people about it all this time.’
‘He’s got you there, old boy,’ said the actress, Marguerite Devine, without venom. ‘Literally below the belt,’ she added, laughing, and then said: ‘Oh, I’m sorry, love!’ and laughed no more.
‘I know a lot about people,’ said the boy, and it was true; the insecurities of his childhood had heightened his perception—solitary, anti-social, he paid no lip service to conventional pretences, was not deceived by them. Life had accustomed him to be ready for the worst.
‘Well, the cheeky monkey!’ said the old man in a comic accent, trying to make light of it. Inspector Block asked patiently if they might now get on. ‘What happened next—’