"So y'see, as regards that nasty business of murder on the roof, there was only a twelve-year crawlin' back unseen, and out to his governess now screamin' what he'd done and how he'd got to be protected. That's why they took five minutes to get round. Nobody'd notice if Ricky Fleet was scared. Nobody'd notice him anyway. But it must 'a' made him nearly faint when he thought he saw God lookin' down from his father's study window.
"You," and H.M. pointed to Stannard, "said something else to the grown-up Ricky Fleet that shook his nerve too. You called him a 'grubby little boy.' It was twistin' and wrigglin' in his mind just later when I asked him about his father and Ricky Fleet blurted out: 'He never minded how filthy dirty you got' He was thinkin' about how almighty dirty he got when he crawled along that concrete roof to kill his father."
There was a long silence. H.M. picked up his whisky-and-soda, and drained the glass with a volcanic gurgle. Then he set it down.
"There's not much more to tell except what you know already," he went on. "That expedition to the prison on Saturday night…"
"Where," Ruth said, "Ricky later killed Enid Puckston. H.M., why?"
"Listen, my wench. Young Fleet said himself it was an 'expression.' An outlet. Did you ever see a golfer smash a golf-club against a tree? Or a woman throw a whole breakfast-tray in somebody's face? Well, that's normal; he wasn't.”
"Burn it Ricky Fleet had been hurt His girl preferred somebody else to him. His vanity was scratched raw. There was young Drake, the cause of it all. He wouldn't dare face Drake without a weapon, anymore than he'd have dared face his father. (That was still lurkin' got it?) But he had to hurt, had to inflict pain on a helpless person, before he killed Drake.
"No, It's not pretty. I warned you long ago it wasn't.”
"He prepared it all beforehand. Do you recall, when you were all sitting in that dark back garden just before you started t for the prison, how he kept rushin’ back to the house — apparently to see how his mother was?'' "Yes," said Martin. "Very well"
"The last time, just before you left, he made his preparations. On this occasion he was goin' to give you a good grownup sophisticated alibi He had the dagger and its sheath. He cut his own arm, got plenty of blood for the dagger; and the sheath would hold it without staining him, except for smears on the handle, if he wrapped it in a handkerchief and put it in his pocket Just as you later did when you shoved it in Dr. Laurier's pocket