She looked at the gun in her hand.
It had not been fired.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Violet didn’t scream or sob or tremble, she hardly even reacted.
She looked down at the corpse and clicked her tongue a couple of times. “So that’s that,” she said, then smiled. “Guess it wasn’t old Derrick,” she added with a giggle.
She went up to the house. One of the French windows to the lounge was open, and a still-smoking rifle lay on the floor.
“Okay, whoever you are,” Violet called out. “Let’s get this over with.”
Silence.
Then a roll of thunder, like rumbling laughter, broke near the house.
“Come on!” Violet shouted, looking up at the ceiling, feet spread apart, hands on her hips. “Come on!”
Suddenly, Violet felt herself picked up, seized as though in a giant hand, shaken. A unbelievable force, superhuman, godlike in its strength, hurled her across the room.
So powerful was the force that when she struck the wall she was killed instantly, on contact. The impact was so great that it compressed her spine, and when she dropped to the floor, she was several inches shorter than she had been in life.
As Sebastian might have said, for the first, last, and only time, his normally gregarious, outgoing sister could now genuinely be called a shrinking violet.
Again the big house was silent.
Then the thunder rolled again, another peal of cosmic laughter shaking the house, filling it, echoing down empty corridors.
The thunder passed and the house became still.
With a crackle of static, the ancient radio in the lounge came back to life. “We bring you a news bulletin,” it announced to the empty room. “Francis Hacker, the fugitive psychopathic killer, has been apprehended trying to cross into Mexico. We repeat: Francis Hacker has been caught. The danger is over.”
EPILOGUE: CONVERSATION IN LIMBO
I
Violet Cornichon walked down the long corridor. At least she thought it was a corridor. Certainly it felt like one, although the pale, luminous, faintly iridescent grey that surrounded her provided no indication of where the walls stopped and the floor and ceiling began.
She came to an arrow hanging on the “wall” pointing in the direction she was going. Superimposed on it were the words, WAITING ROOM. What the hell is happening? she thought.
She continued walking and soon saw a figure in the distance. As she drew closer, she saw it was an elderly man dressed in a priest’s cassock. He had a fringe of bright white hair, merry twinkling eyes, and a friendly welcoming smile. He seemed to be expecting her.
“Come along, Violet,” he said with a pleasant Oxonian accent. “They’re all waiting.”
“Where the hell am I?”
“Not there, I can assure you. Now, come along, please.”
Violet held her ground, feet spread, hands on her slender hips, rising defiance showing in her eyes. “Just who are you?”
“Oh, forgive me,” the priest said, smiling and shaking his head. “Most inconsiderate of me. My name’s Knox. Ronald Knox.* Now, please come along.”
Making a face and shrugging, she followed Father Knox through a doorway (though again she could perceive no lintel or jambs) into what seemed to be a much larger open area. Violet had an impression of space, but without any point of reference to provide a focus or a sense of scale; it was like being inside a giant glass ball surrounded by glowing but impenetrable fog. It was warm and comfortable, though, and Violet assumed that this was the Waiting Room.
“Come along, Violet.”
She followed the priest and soon saw a long conference table, coming from which she heard the sounds of a heated discussion. As she came nearer, she saw that the nine people around the table were her former companions from Komondor Island, all apparently restored to their original state, unbloody, unhacked, unbludgeoned, unshot, all whole and hale and hearty.
Violet moved closer, and conversation at the table trailed off, then stopped entirely as, one by one, the speakers noticed her.
“You see! I told you it wasn’t Violet,” Sebastian said, then turned towards his sister. “Violet, some of them have been saying that you were the one who done it—I mean who did it. Why, Mr. Drupe, here, and Derrick have even taken to calling you Violent. That’s not entirely inappropriate, but I insisted that they were wrong. It wasn’t you. And now you’re here, so I guess I was right. It wasn’t you, was it?”
Violet stared coolly at her brother, shook her head, sighed, then sat down at the empty place. “No, it wasn’t me.”
Sounds of surprise, confusion, and puzzlement greeted this simple statement. Sebastian flashed a big smile at Mr. Drupe, who merely sniffed and clicked his teeth twice.
“Wait a second,” Violet said. “Do you mean that none of you knows who did it?”
“Well, I think I know,” Sebastian said. “And Cerise thinks she knows.”
“But didn’t anyone see who it was?”
“Hee, hee, hee,” Mrs. Argus said. Her eyes were glazed, and her hair stood straight out around her head in a wild electrified halo; even more than usual, she resembled Charlton Heston after his conversation with the burning bush.
“Mrs. Loony Tunes here did, but all she’ll say is that she was glad she met her Maker.”
“Hee, hee, hee.”
“Oh, shut up!” Sebastian said.
“You mean, none of us is a murderer?”
“Now, Sis, I didn’t say that. There are at least two that I know of for sure. Mrs. Argus and Mrs. Hook.”
“Then.…But they couldn’t.…How…?”
“I didn’t say they were our killers, Violet. It was a long time ago.”
“What?” Violet said weakly, slumping in her chair, her pale, pretty face looking utterly confused.
“Maybe I’d better summarize so you’ll know what’s what.” Sebastian looked around the table to see if there were any objections, but everyone indicated he should go ahead. “First, your friend Mousey was only half-right in her accusation against Mrs. Argus, and even then for the wrong reasons. The death of Mousey’s mother was a genuine accident, for which Mrs. Argus—wrongly—felt so responsible that it unbalanced her. The father, though, was another story. Apparently old Ripley was a prime candidate for the Swine Hall of Fame. He was so busy chasing the ladies that he barely noticed his wife’s death. On top of everything else, this was highly upsetting for Mrs. Argus. But when he started chasing her, it was too much. She figured Mousey had to be better off as an orphan, and one fine morning she dropped a gargoyle on Ripley’s head. I gather that the sounds of cheering and celebration were heard across four counties.
“I don’t blame you at all, dear,” Budgie said, patting Mrs. Argus on the arm while looking steadily at her husband.
The Colonel shifted in his seat, hmphed and cleared his throat, but said nothing. Mrs. Argus said, “Hee, hee, hee.”
“Mrs. Hook,” Sebastian continued, “is in fact that Milch woman—though she’ll always be Hook to me.” He smiled at her, but received only a stony gaze in return. “She did wipe out the nine members of that family she worked for, but she still insists it was an honest mistake. While I do not want to suggest that I in any way doubt this assertion, I still intend to eat nothing but canned food that I open myself when La Hook is around.”
“Fine,” she said, glowering. “Less work for a body.”
“So neither of them had anything to do with anything?” Violet said.
“That’s right.”
“Then it must be—”
“Hold on, Sis. Don’t go jumping to conclusions again, until you have all the information. Mr. Drupe is, of course, a sleazy, corrupt, contemptible, crooked, pettifogging shyster. He is not, however, an embezzler. Or, at least from Mousey, he’s not. There was nothing left in the estate, because it had almost all gone by the time Ripley died. He must’ve spent money even faster than me. It was only exceptionally good management on Mr. Drupe’s part that made w
hat remained of the estate last as long as it did. He was fleeing down to Rio, all right, but that was in connection with an entirely different matter. In fact, he delayed his departure so he could explain to Mousey Squeak just how things stood.”
“But what about all of his nonsensical obstructionism?” Violet asked.
Sebastian shrugged. “The habits of a lifetime. Also, he really couldn’t afford to get involved in a criminal investigation; the authorities were on his tail, and he had to get out fast.” He looked at the lawyer, who nodded and indicated that Sebastian should go on. “Also, Violet, he finds you to be a self-centred, selfish, nasty, vindictive, greedy, grasping, self-promoting young woman who has a grossly exaggerated idea of her own importance, intelligence, and ability.” Sebastian smiled pleasantly. “In other words, Sis, he thinks you’re a stupid bitch—”
“Hear, hear!” said the Colonel.
“—and he enjoyed doing anything he could to get in your way, even when it involved acting stupidly himself. Apparently, he feels much the same way about you that you do about him.”
Violet, eyes flashing, looked into the smiling faces of her brother and the lawyer for a long time before she nodded once and relaxed. “And the Colonel didn’t kill him?”
“Hmph!”
“Of course not, Sis. Haven’t you figured out that the Colonel is nearly a total fraud? He was never in the Far East, never in the war, never wounded. Probably never even in the army. He is definitely an insufferable bore, a boor, and a pig. Like most people who are completely unaware of anything outside of themselves, he is wildly insensitive to other people, and rides his hobbyhorses roughshod over them with monomaniacal dedication. Still, for all of his talk about violence, his only involvement with it is whatever he can get poor Budgie to inflict upon him. You could say that he’s a typical product of British public schools. Besides, Violet, why would he kill Mr. Drupe?”
“I don’t know. Something to do with the treasure?”
“Oh, he is indeed obsessed with that. However, since he can never figure out which direction is north, all the maps in the world aren’t much help.”
“Then maybe he was afraid that Drupe knew about what he did to Mousey.”
“Entirely unsubstantiated hearsay, Miss Cornichon,” the lawyer said with a thin-lipped smile.
“That’s right, Sis. The Colonel is a foul, disgusting old man with abundant malignant kinks, but child molestation is not necessarily one of them. I’m not saying that it’s not true; just that we don’t know, and that it doesn’t enter in here.”
Violet rubbed her blue eyes and shook her head. “I suppose you’re going to tell me next that Aunt Budgie doesn’t hate the Colonel.”
“Of course she hates him! Don’t be silly. How could she help it? She just didn’t kill him. No matter what she says she’d like, she’d never leave her husband—never. She detests him, but she also knows that without him her life would be empty, meaningless, and quite without focus. Surely you recognized that theirs is a symbiotic relationship of mutually satisfying misery, antagonism, and conflict. His role is to make waves; hers is to smooth them over. Maybe she hates the role, but it’s the only one she has. That’s why she fell apart after he was killed. She realized that she’d lost her purpose.” Sebastian turned to Budgie. “How’d I do?”
“Just fine, dear.”
“Then,” Violet sighed, “Derrick must have killed the Colonel.”
“I say!”
“Why, Sis? The treasure again? Come on. Oh, he might well have killed to protect the treasure if he’d found it, but since he hadn’t.…”
“But he returned to the house all muddy, just after the Colonel was killed.”
“What did he say? That he fell?” Sebastian shrugged. “He fell. It’s that simple.”
“But—”
Mr. Drupe cleared his throat with a rasping sound. “Perhaps, Miss Cornichon, it is your involvement in the cosmetics field that is responsible for the difficulty you have distinguishing between what is and what seems to be. Surely you, of all people—since your business is solely concerned with appearance—should know that appearance is not necessarily indicative of anything…except itself. Yet, you persist both in reading more into the appearance of things than is actually warranted, and in ignoring the fact that other possibilities may well lie beneath the surface.”
Violet gave the lawyer a chilly smile. “I suppose I should listen to you, Mr. Drupe, since you, too, have made a career out of covering up your clients’ blemishes.”
Mr. Drupe’s dentures snapped closed with a brisk click.
“As I was explaining,” Sebastian hastily put in, “Derrick might have killed to protect the treasure. His situation is desperate. He’s a gambler, deeply in debt. Even worse, he’s not been a very fortunate fortune hunter; the word was getting around on him, and his little Pinky was just about his last chance to score. Derrick’s character is certainly not very appealing or classy. And he’s definitely not all that swift. Oh, I must admit that he’s not as dumb as you and I made him out to be, but he’s not precisely top-of-the-line in that department either. But still, the only thing he’s guilty of is being interested in his Pinky’s money. As were you, Violet; as was Cerise. Though at least she had something of a legitimate—or illegitimate, if you wish—claim to part of the estate. She’d even developed some interest in and affection for her half-sister. You and Derrick, however, had no real interest in the Pink Mouse, except insofar as you could manipulate her. Now, don’t get upset: I’m hardly one to pass judgement; I’m just trying to get things clear.”
Sebastian paused for a moment. “Now what else is there? Oh, yes. Violet, you and I are both pretty far around the bend, though not necessarily the same bend. We are both seriously disturbed individuals. I, at least, have never denied it; I recognize it, accept it, perhaps even revel in the cachet it gives me. Besides, I’m basically harmless. While I can be annoying and selfish and inconsiderate, mostly I’m just frivolously self-destructive. You, though, have a real capacity for violence—as Mr. Drupe and Derrick rightly perceived—over which your control is at best tenuous. You dislike being thwarted, you have a tendency to lash out at anyone who gets in your way, and I do believe that you are capable of just about anything if you think it will further your interests. It’s quite conceivable that you could have killed the lot of us—or most of us—in order to get some much-needed publicity.”
“Only I didn’t.”
“I know you didn’t. And besides, bad as it is, your mental health is not much—if at all—worse than anyone else’s. Indeed, I suspect that Cerise—who was the only one who worried about cracking up—is probably the least crazy, most decent person here.”
“You only say that because she laughs at your jokes,” Violet said.
“Well, she does have marvellously good taste and a wonderful sense of humour.”
Violet rolled her eyes. “Give me a break. Are you through yet, Sebastian? It seems as though you’ve been running on forever.”
“Yes, I guess that’s it.… No, it’s not. I forgot Mr. Ching.” He turned to the cook. “Sorry about that.”
Mr. Ching folded his muscular arms and growled something in Mandarin.
“You were right, Sis, to be suspicious of his cooking. Certainly, that was the most suspicious-looking kedgeree that I’ve ever seen. But, except for the quality, there was nothing sinister about it. Mr. Ching is actually a very accomplished cook. It’s just that he has the idea that Occidentals only like bad food. So that’s what he prepares.”
The Colonel loudly cleared his throat.
Sebastian nodded. “Right. I should also point out that the Colonel was pretty close when he accused Mr. Ching of being an enemy agent.”
“What?”
“Calm down, Violet, you’re starting to squawk. He’s not an enemy agent, more like a friendly one. Besides being a good cook, he’s also a trained psychologist. He was put in place by Mr. Drupe in order to observe Mousey, and also to keep an ey
e on the predators that were circling around her. When Mr. Drupe was killed, he felt that he had some obligation to figure out what was going on. That’s why he kept making notes. And his mad kung-fu act was to make sure that people kept their distance and didn’t penetrate his cover.”
“But what about the footsteps next to Mrs. Hook’s body?”
“He’s a powerful swimmer, as his arms and shoulders suggest. He decided he had to try to reach the mainland for help. He’d put on the wetsuit and fins, and was about to leave, when he heard Mrs. Hook scream. He went to investigate, but it was too late.”
“Misleading appearances again,” Violet sighed, shaking her head. “Are you going to tell me that it was Hacker after all?”
“No, it wasn’t, Violet,” Father Knox said. “He—it turned out to be Francis with an ‘i’—was far away. He’s now back in his cell, heavily sedated.”
“So that’s it,” Derrick said. “It wasn’t Hacker. We’re all here. It wasn’t any of us. What’s the story?”
Suddenly, Violet sat up straight, eyes gleaming, and snapped her fingers. She had an idea…or the glimmer of an idea. All was not yet lost; damn! she thought, I might still be able to redeem something from this mess.
“No, we’re not all here,” Violet said. “One of us is missing. Though it’s easy to see why this was not commented upon. Since her presence was almost never noticed, it’s hardly surprising that her absence should go unremarked.”
“I say! You mean—”
“Of course! I mean your fiancée, my friend, Budgie’s niece, et cetera, et cetera. I mean the person who was responsible for our all being together in. the first place. I mean the person who—rightly or wrongly—felt she had grievances against us, who thought we were using her, taking advantage of her in different ways. I mean the person who—and here I must, however reluctantly, acknowledge Mr. Drupe’s earlier contribution—has provided abundant evidence of her paranoia, her neuroses, her delusions, and her generally unbalanced condition. I mean the person whom I’ve been calling ‘poor little Mousey,’ but who not only started to roar, but turned into a goddamned avenging Fury.”
An Old-Fashioned Mystery Page 21