Buffet for Unwelcome Guests(60)

‘And so must this meeting,’ said Inspector Block, tapping an impatient toe.

‘I’m sorry. Yes—well, I went on taking pictures till the crowd surged in and there was nothing to take but the backs of their heads. So then I suddenly thought about the shooting, and I peeked over the parapet, and there, to my horror, I saw the tip of a gun, the barrel, just showing beyond the window-sill. To this day I don’t know why I did it, but I dropped all my gear and ran along the ledge to the trap door, to get down and—I don’t know, do something, I suppose. Sheer madness, because imagine if the murderer had still been there! But anyway, I couldn’t get the trap door open. I tugged and I kicked, but—well, we know now that it had been bolted from the inside. So I ran back to where I’d seen the gun, and what was in my mind then, I think, was that there it still was, still pointing down at all those helpless people—’

‘He’d have cleared out long before,’ said the boy scornfully, ‘while you were taking pictures and running up and down.’

‘Well—’ He spread artistic, explanatory, jingly hands. ‘I mean, one isn’t exactly a man of action, is one? I dare say what I thought didn’t make much sense. But I did imagine him crouching there with that gun in his hands—of course I didn’t know then about the tripod and all that—and all those poor dear people in danger down below. And suddenly I started smashing at the slates, bashing at them with the heel of my shoe, clearing a little hole so that at least I could look down and see what he was doing—perhaps to frighten him off, make him clear out.’

But he had cleared out long ago—cleared out, vanished into thin air. Nobody was there except two policemen, staring back, astonished, into Mr. Photoze’s startled face. One said, ‘What are you doing up there?’

‘He had permission. To take photos. I know him,’ said P. C. Robbins. ‘He’s all right.’

‘My poor father—little did he think!’ said the boy.

Mr. Photoze collapsed into his chair with an air of giving up. ‘I don’t know. What can you do? The facts, you silly boy, I’ve just given you the facts! I was up on the roof, I couldn’t get down—it was your own father who pulled the bolt and locked me out. How could I have committed the murder, how could I have fired the gun? Even if I’d wanted to, how could I have done it? We’ve all just given you the facts.’

The trapped animal, head turning from side to side, seeking a way out. And then—the release. The boy was absolutely still, struck mindless for a moment by the immensity of the idea. He blurted out at last, ‘The apples!’

‘The apples?’

‘Who ties a bag of apples at the neck with string? And—yes, there was other string in that room, wound round the tripod and the butt of the rifle, a long piece of string. What for? The rifle was already tied into place with the rope.’ He said to Inspector Block, ‘Was there a nail in the wall opposite the window?’

‘There were nail holes,’ said Block. ‘They were everywhere.’

‘The rifle fixed steady, tied by the rope, aligned on the spot.’ The dark was receding from his face, he was alive with excitement. ‘And tied to the rifle—to the trigger of the rifle—the string; tied with a slip noose, easy to undo afterwards, and the other end of the string tied, stretched taut, with a slip noose to a nail in the wall opposite the window. And a bag of apples—an innocent-looking bag of apples that no one will worry about too much. A little light refreshment for the murderer while he waits?’ he suggested to Inspector Block with a fine contempt.

‘I was a plain copper in those days,’ said Block, ‘and not in the close confidence of my superiors. But I don’t think they took it all quite so easily as that. On the other hand, murderers are funny animals, they have all sorts of cock-eyed reasons for what they do. He could, for example, have been a smoker and didn’t want to draw attention to the fact—leaving ashes and stubs around. So he supplied himself with something to munch, to fill the gap.’

‘Are you a smoker?’ said the boy nastily to Mr. Photoze.

‘I have no idea what either of you is talking about,’ said Mr. Photoze.

‘A bag of apples is a funny thing,’ said the boy. ‘Sort of—nobbly. Of course, other things would have done as well, but the presence of a bag of apples on the scene could be explained in lots of ways—for example, something to stop the murderer from wanting to smoke.’ His face, growing white and pinched now where the dark had been, stared, ugly with spite, at Mr. Photoze. ‘I was sure you must have done it,’ he said, ‘because I knew my father hadn’t. But now I know. Because I know how.’ And his hands described it, stretched apart, holding taut an imaginary string. ‘One end tied to the trigger, one end fixed to the wall. At the right moment, something heavy falling on the string, jerking it down, yanking back the trigger, firing the shot.’