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

After what seemed like a long time, Wilson, the head of the crew of technicians, approached us with the results of the gunpowder tests.

“Wilson,” I said, “I can tell you exactly what you found. There were gunpowder grains on the hands of everyone except Pomfret.”

Wilson shook his head. “No. We found plenty of gunpowder grains on Pomfret’s hands.”

I frowned. “You’re positive there were gunpowder grains on Pomfret’s hands?”

Wilson nodded.

I saw the light. “But of course — Pomfret must have done target-shooting with the rest of them. When Henrietta said that all of them had gone shooting, I naturally assumed that this did not include Pomfret, since he was hired help. But evidently he had a preferred status or the murderer cleverly involved him so as to spread the range of suspects.”

Wilson cleared his throat. “Pomfret is the only one in the house who has gunpowder grains on his hands.”

My mouth dropped. “No gunpowder grains on anyone else’s hands? Just Pomfret’s? But that’s impossible.”

I strode firmly back to the study and confronted Henrietta. “You distinctly said that all of you went target-shooting this afternoon. Then how the devil do you explain the fact that there are no gunpowder grains on any of your hands?”

Henrietta thought it over. “I suppose it’s because we used bows and arrows. It’s an archery range.”

I looked up at the portrait of the late Andrew Fergusson hanging over the fireplace. In real life I would have heartily disliked him. Eyes too close together. Mouth too thin. Chin definitely weak.

Pomfret spoke. “I’m getting a little tired just standing here. When do I get the ride to headquarters?”

We took Pomfret downtown where I insisted that he be given a lie detector test. According to the results — if one can believe the word of these weird contraptions — Pomfret was telling the exact truth about the death of Andrew Fergusson and how it occurred.

Ralph and I left him and went to the nearest tavern.

“Ralph,” I said, “machines are taking over the world. There’s no longer any room for the play of the mind and the scope of the imagination.”

“Never mind, Henry,” Ralph said. “What’ll you have?”

“A glass of sherry,” I said. “And make it a double.”

It took the bartender ten minutes to find the bottle.