A canvas sack, like a mail pouch, lay in the corner and bulged half full. I didn’t bother to examine it. I was trying to figure out Fred’s attitude towards me: he wasn’t expressing much but keeping hold of himself pretty firm.
“Jerry made the rattle with the silver,” Fred went on, “to draw father downstairs. He did it.
“As father appeared on the landing, Jerry fired from here—from beside this silk hanging. He fired twice; and neither before the shots nor between them nor afterwards did Jerry make any attempt to hide, in spite of the portière right there; and the light was on. He hit father both times; and father’s pistol went off in his hand as he was falling; father fired wild, undoubtedly, but in Jerry’s general direction.” Fred showed the bullet hole near the door. “Jerry wasn’t hit; but he did a complete job with his gun. He hit father first——”
I stopped Fred. “I know from the papers,” I said.
“Well, they had that right. Father lived about five minutes. He fell on the landing and was dead before they carried him up.”
Fred’s voice cracked; and I put my hand on his arm without saying anything. Old Win, if he had played the fool towards the end of his life, at least had showed good nerve at the finish; and when everything else was said, he was Fred’s father. When Fred was a boy, Winton Scofield had been a good father; no one called him a fool then. Every one knows the thousand touches of memories of fondness from a father; and Fred was thinking of them.
He went on telling: “Shirley ran down to him as soon as he fell; she must have been nearly behind him when he got the second bullet. She wasn’t hurt but she certainly took a big chance to help father. Rowan reached him maybe a minute later.”
“Rowan, the butler?” I said.
“That’s right.”