Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 35, No. 10, October 1990

“As I said, that might have been an accident. Pomfret was surprised, pointed the weapon automatically, and it went off.”

“All right,” Ralph said. “It sounds fine to me. We’ll take Pomfret to headquarters and book him.”

I rubbed my jaw. “On the other hand, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to ask just a few more questions.”

We took Jason Quinlan into one of the anterooms.

Quinlan was in his middle forties, with a full dark mustache.

“You were Andrew Fergusson’s lawyer?” I asked.

He nodded. “And also his accountant, business adviser, longtime friend, and now executor.”

“I understand that Fergusson was a wealthy man. Worth something in the vicinity of fifteen million dollars.”

“Quite right.”

“And what would ten percent of fifteen million dollars be?” I asked cagily.

“One million five hundred thousand dollars.”

“And why is Fergusson leaving you that much money?”

“Because I was his lawyer, accountant, business adviser, longtime friend, and now executor.”

“What was the state of Andrew Fergusson’s health?”

“Excellent, I would say.”

“He could have lived to be a hundred?”

“If he really tried.”

“I suppose that you are, in your own right, comfortably well off?”

“Not at all. I’ve gone badly into debt and there are my losses at the track.” He brightened. “One and a half million dollars certainly will come in handy.”

“What do you know about Pomfret?”

“Well, I know that he was an ex-convict. He has been agreeable enough though, except for tonight’s episode.”

“Did he seem happy here? Contented? Cheerful?”

Quinlan pondered. “The last month or so he seemed a bit melancholy. Mentioned something about missing all the friends he had back in prison.”

I drew Ralph into a corner. “Suppose you wanted to kill somebody but you didn’t have enough nerve to do the deed yourself. What would you be most likely to do, outside of giving up the project entirely?”

“Hire someone else to kill him?”

“Exactly, Ralph.”

“Come now, Henry. Are you saying that Pomfret was hired by someone around here to kill Fergusson and maybe even take the rap for it?”

“Why not? Here we have one of the beneficiaries of Fergusson’s will who sees Pomfret’s melancholia and ferrets out the reason. Pomfret would really rather be back in prison, so this beneficiary says, ‘Pomfret, I know a way to get you back to prison and at the same time do me a tremendous favor.’ ”

“That’s far-fetched, Henry. Pomfret could get himself sent back to prison just by tossing a brick through a window.”

“There is the matter of prestige, Ralph.”

“Prestige?”

“Of course. Pomfret was sent to prison for murdering a policeman. You and I do not find anything admirable in killing a police officer, but our view is not shared by many convicts. I imagine that behind the walls, Pomfret had a certain social position not gained by seniority alone. No, he had to go back to prison as a murderer or suffer a considerable loss in stature. Tossing a brick through a window would not do. And, despite what I speculated earlier, a simple theft would not either. It had to be murder, Ralph. Murder.”

Ralph studied the ceiling for a while. “Henry, if you were going to hire a killer, would you go to someone who is seventy-two years old?”

“I would if he were the only person available — the only person I knew who would do it.” I cogitated fiercely. “On the other hand, Ralph, there’s another possibility. Suppose Pomfret really initiated the entire thing himself. Once he decided that he wanted to go back to prison and didn’t care who he murdered to do it, he approached one of the beneficiaries of Fergusson’s will and made him or her an offer. He would kill Fergusson and even take the blame for it.”

“But what possible incentive could Pomfret have for murdering Fergusson as a favor for anybody? Money? Wine? Women? Song? Pomfret would be going back to prison where they confiscate most of those things.”

“It was probably money,” I said thoughtfully. “Money Pomfret could spend altruistically. I suspect that if we delve into his background we’ll find some dearly beloved who can benefit enormously from Pomfret’s charity.”

We returned to the study.

“Pomfret,” I said, “you were sent to prison for the murder of a police officer. How were you regarded by the other inmates?”

He brightened. “I was someone really important. Murderers are looked up to. Especially cop killers.”

I nodded. “Do you have any living relatives?”

“None that I know of.”

I pursued the point. “Perhaps someone almost forgotten but now remembered? Some little grandniece or grandnephew requiring expensive medical attention but unable to afford it?”

Pomfret shook his head. “Nobody. I don’t know a soul outside the walls.”

Rudolph Fergusson had been listening. “Who was that grey-haired man who visited you last month?”

“That was Gimpy O’Rourke. He was paroled about the same time I was.”

I moved in. “Gimpy O’Rourke? Why is he called Gimpy?”

“On account of his leg. He broke it sliding into second base when we played Ohio Penitentiary in ’43. It never did grow back together right.”