“Why does it prove that?” Simon inquired.
“Well, it couldn’t have been Ginny, because she was talking to you. It couldn’t have been me—”
“Couldn’t it?”
She looked at him blankly. But her brain worked. He could almost see it. She might have been reading everything that had been traced through his mind, a few minutes ago, line by line.
“It couldn’t have been me,” Esther insisted plaintively. “I didn’t have a stitch on. Where could I have hidden a gun?”
Ginny gazed at her speculatively.
“It’ll be interesting to see how the servants can account for their time,” Simon said hastily. “But I’m not going to get optimistic too quickly. I don’t think anything about this business is very dumb and straightforward. It’s quite the opposite. Somebody is being so frantically cunning that he must be practically tying himself — or herself — in a knot. So if it is one of the servants, I bet he has an alibi too.”
“I still think you ought to tell the police,” Ginny said.
The drinks arrived. Simon lighted a cigarette and waited until the waiter had gone away again.
“What for?” he asked. “There was a guy in Lissa’s room last night. Nobody saw him. He didn’t leave any muddy footprints or any of that stuff. He used one of our own kitchen knives. If there ever were any fingerprints on it, they’ve been ruined. So — nothing... This afternoon somebody shot at Freddie. Nobody saw him. He didn’t leave his gun, and nobody could ever find the bullet. So nothing again. What are the police going to do? They aren’t magicians... However, that’s up to you, Freddie.”