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

“Ah,” I said smoothly, “and no doubt an operation, an expensive operation, might mend the limb so that he could once again walk tall?” I smiled. “You’d do anything for Gimpy, wouldn’t you?”

“No.”

I rephrased the question. “You would do anything for him if it did not conflict fundamentally with what you had already planned to do in the first place.”

He frowned over that for ten seconds and then said, “I don’t think an operation would do Gimpy much good.”

“Why not?”

“He died in his sleep two weeks ago. Of natural causes. I went to the funeral.”

I decided it was about time to question Henrietta Fergusson.

She was nearly as tall and angular as her brother. I guessed that she was in her middle thirties.

“You and your brother live here in this house?”

“Yes.”

“And neither one of you is married?”

“Neither.”

“Were you fond of your uncle?”

“He had his good points.”

“But he is with us no longer,” I said. “You are — shall we say — free at last?”

She smiled. “You damn well bet. As soon as I find out how much of the money the government will let me keep, I’m on my way on a trip around the world. I might not come back at all.”

“Do you have any money of your own? Besides the anticipated inheritance?”

“Uncle Andrew gave me a weekly allowance. I think at the present moment I have something like thirty-seven dollars in my checking account.”

“Suppose that your uncle had continued to live for another thirty years. What would your future have been?”

“I’d probably still be here playing bridge nearly every night.”

“When was the last time you spoke to Pomfret? I mean before the murder.”

She thought about that. “Late this afternoon when we returned from the target range.”

I blinked. “Target range?”

“Yes. It’s out behind the greenhouse. We spent an hour there this afternoon.”

“We? Who is included in this we? Your brother? Jason Quinlan? Your late uncle?”

“Yes.”

I smiled thinly. “Just who was it who suggested that all of you go to the target range this afternoon?”

Her eyes closed in reflection. “I believe it was Uncle Andrew. But I really don’t remember. Why?”

I took Ralph aside.

“We have a cunning opponent here, Ralph. One can almost admire him. Or her. Or them. This is truly a challenge to send the blood coursing through one’s veins.”

“What are you talking about, Henry?”

“This puts a new light on the whole situation and definitely establishes premeditated murder.”

“I don’t follow you, Henry.”

“Don’t you see how devilishly clever our murderer is? The target range. All of them just coincidentally went out target-shooting this afternoon. Our murderer, knowing that the police would undoubtedly check everyone’s hands for gunpowder residue, craftily maneuvered the situation so that all of the logical suspects would be on the range this afternoon. In that way, after he committed the murder, he would not stand out like a sore thumb because he was the only one to have the incriminating grains on his hands.”

Ralph and I gave orders to the technicians that everyone was to be given the test for gunpowder grains.

Then Ralph and I stepped out onto the terrace to wait.

“So you think that one of the three beneficiaries killed Andrew Fergusson and that Pomfret stumbled in on the scene and decided to take advantage of it?”

“I believe that’s the answer, Ralph. Though, of course, there are still other possibilities.”

“Like what?”

“Possibly Fergusson committed suicide.”

“Why the hell would Fergusson want to commit suicide? No one’s mentioned that he was depressed or anything of the sort.”

“One can never tell the state of a person’s mind simply by his demeanor. However, there is yet another possibility. Fergusson might have been murdered by an intruder — a burglar he surprised in the act. And Pomfret, hearing the shot, arrived at the scene and quickly took advantage of the situation for his own personal gain.” I paced the flagstones for a few moments. “On the other hand, Ralph, suppose this intruder was not really a burglar at all but a killer hired by one of Fergusson’s beneficiaries. He was supposed to make it look like a burglary and killing, but Pomfret messed up the script. Perhaps Rudolph Fergusson hired him. Or Henrietta. Or Quinlan. Or Henrietta and Quinlan. Or Rudolph and Quinlan. Or Henrietta and Rudolph. Or possibly all three of them chipped in to cover the expense of hiring a killer.” My jaw firmed. “I’m going to nail the killer’s employer, whoever he, she, or they are or is, if it takes me all summer.”

“Henry,” Ralph said. “If one, two, or all three of them hired a killer, then why all this monkey business about getting gunpowder grains on everybody’s hands at the target range?”

I snapped my fingers. “By George, Ralph, you’re right. It would have been unnecessary. Yet still it was done. Therefore the only obvious conclusion is that no killer was hired at all. Nor was the murderer some surprised legitimate burglar.” I shook my head. “No, Ralph, one of our three suspects killed Fergusson.”