I
Ambrose looked a very long time at the inert heap by the door. He seemed to be settling some difficulty which had arisen in his mind, for the gloom passed from his face and pocketing the revolver slowly, he walked across to where Paul Moropulos lay. He was quite dead.
"I am glad," said Ambrose.
Lifting the body, he laid it in the chair; then he took out the pistol again and examined it. There were five live cartridges. He only needed one. In the kitchen he put on the heavy overcoat he had been wearing when he arrived. Returning, he lit the candle of a lantern and went out into the back of the house where Moropulos had erected a small army hut to serve as his garage. He broke the lock and wheeled out the little car. Ambrose Sault was in no hurry: his every movement was deliberate. He tested the tank, filled it, put water in the radiator; then started the engines and drove the car through the stable gates on to the main road, before, leaving the engines running, he paid another visit to the house and blew out the lamp.
As he reached the dark road again he saw a man standing by the car. It proved to be a villager.
"Somebody heard a shot going off up this way. I told 'un it was only Mr. Moropuly's old car backfiring."
"It was not that," said Ambrose as he stepped into the car. "Good night."
He drove carefully, because his life was very precious this night. He thought of Christina several times, but without self-pity. Christina would get well—and her love would endure. It was of the quality which did not need the flesh of him. Ronald Morelle must die. There was no other solution. He must die, not because he had led the woman to his way; that was a smaller matter than any and, honestly, meant nothing to Ambrose. Ronald's offense was his knowledge. He knew: he had told. He would tell again.
A policeman stopped him as he drove through Woking. He was asked to produce a license and, when none was forthcoming, his name and address were taken. Ambrose gave both truthfully. It was a lucky chance for the policeman. Afterwards he gave evidence and became important: was promoted sergeant on the very day that Steppe sneered at a weeping man. That was seven weeks later—in March, when the primroses were showing in Brother-of-God Farm.
Ambrose knew Ronald's flat. He had gone there once with Moropulos, and he had waited outside the door whilst Moropulos was interviewing Ronnie.
Nine o'clock was striking as the car drew up before the flat—Ronnie heard it through the closed casement.
Nine o'clock? He dropped his pen and leaned back in his chair. What was the cause of that cold trickling sensation—his mouth went dry. He used to feel like that in air raids.
A bell rung.
"François—" Louder, "François!"
"Pardon, m'sieur." François came out of his pantry half awake.
"The door." Who was it, thought Ronnie—he jumped up.
"What do you want, Sault?"
Ambrose looked round at the waiting servant. "You," he said. "I want to know the truth first—that man should go."
Ronnie flushed angrily. "I certainly cannot allow you to decide whether my servant goes or remains. Have you come from Mr. Steppe?"
Ambrose hesitated. Perhaps it was a confidential message from Steppe, thought Ronnie. This uncouth fellow often served as a messenger.
"Wait outside the door, François—no, outside the lobby door."
"I haven't come from Steppe."
Suddenly Ronnie remembered. "Steppe said you had gone to the country with Moropulos—where is he?"
"Dead."
Ronnie staggered back, his pale face working. He had a horror of death.
"Dead?" he said hollowly, and Sault nodded.
"I killed him."
A gasp. "God—! Why!"
"He knew—he said you had told him. He knew because he was outside your flat all night and photographed her as she went out."
The blood of the listener froze with horror. "I—I don't know what you're talking about—who is the 'she'?"
"Beryl Merville."
"It is a lie—absurd—Miss Merville—! Here?"
He found his breath insufficient for his speech. Something inside him was paralyzed: his words were disjointed.
"It is true—she was here. She told me."
"You—you're mad! Told you! It is a damned lie. She was never here. If Moropulos said that, I'm glad you've killed him!"
"He took a photograph and wrote a statement; you know about that because he spoke to you and you admitted it all."
"I swear before God that Moropulos has never spoken to me. I would have killed him if he had. The story of the photograph is a lie—he invented it. That was his way—where is this picture?"
Ambrose did not answer. Was this man speaking the truth? His version was at least plausible. He must go at once to the house in Paddington and get the envelope—it must be destroyed. How would he know if Ronnie was speaking the truth? Ronald Morelle, his teeth biting into his lip, saw judgment wavering. He was fighting for his life; he knew that Sault had come to kill him and his soul quivered.
"Where is that picture—? I tell you it is an invention of that swine. He guessed— Even to you I will not admit that there is a word of truth in the story."
He had won. The hand that was thrust into the overcoat pocket returned empty.
"I will come back," said Sault.
When he reached the street he saw a man looking at the number plate of his car. He took no notice, but drove off. He had to break a window to get into the house at Paddington. He had forgotten to bring his keys. That delayed his entrance for some while. He was in the room, and his fingers on the dial of the combination, when three men walked through the door.
He knew who they were. "I have a revolver in my pocket, gentlemen," he said. "I have killed Paul Moropulos, the owner of this house." They snapped handcuffs upon his wrists.
"Do you know the combination of this safe, Sault?" asked the tall inspector in charge. He had been reading a typewritten notice affixed to the top.
"Yes, sir," said Ambrose Sault.
"What is it?"
"I am not at liberty to say."
"What is in it—money?"
No answer. The officer beckoned forward one of the uniformed men who seemed to fill the hall.
"This safe is not to be touched, you understand? By anybody. If you allow the handle to be turned, there will be trouble. Come along, Sault."
The handcuffs were unnecessary. They were also inadequate. In the darkness of the car—
"I am very sorry, inspector—I have broken these things—I was feeling for a handkerchief and forgot."
They did not believe him, but at the police station they found that he had spoken the truth. The bar of the cuff had been wrenched open, the steel catch of the lock torn away.
"I did it absentmindedly," said Ambrose shamefaced.
They put him into a cell where he went instantly to sleep. The handcuffs became a famous exhibit which generations of young policemen will look upon with awe and wonder.