Man Sinister

I dropped the slug back in my pocket. My mind reviewed how it had happened here in the cottage. McGinty had hurled his body away from Harold’s spitting gun, had reached the next room where he had tripped over a piece of furniture and fallen. Not knowing whether Harold had missed or whether he actually was mortally wounded, McGinty had realized his only chance lay in silence and in the hope that Harold would not follow him into the dark room and start shooting again.

When he had heard Harold rush out of the cottage, McGinty had allowed a few moments to elapse. Then he had got up and walked out, crossing the back yard along the general course of Harold’s flight.

Little wonder the yard had not revealed McGinty’s passage to me. I had been looking for a trail left by a crawling, dying man, not that of a man completely healthy, whole — and able to strike again!

Chapter VIII

Probably it gave Wilfred a turn when I allowed him to stay in the cottage, for he’d expected a forced return to the Cranford house. I was certain, though, that he wouldn’t run further now, and I didn’t want him near Harold when I sprang the business about the doctored gun. I had a purpose for Harold. I was certain of the identity of the murderer, but the only way I could convince Hagan of my belief was to give him everything Harold also had to tell.

Harold was lingering in the lower hallway when I slipped back to the house. I guessed that he was waiting for me. I nodded. “Wilfred was in the bungalow.”

“Did you learn anything? Does Wilfred know enough to get the police off our necks so Vera and I can settle Papa Joe’s estate and get out of here?”

“Perhaps. At least he told me enough to prove to you that McGinty is still alive.”

Harold’s face tightened. “You and I both know what happened to McGinty,” he said with a rasp in his voice. “What do you want — for me to say or do something that will guarantee you’ll never be implicated?”

“We’ll both know in a minute what happened to McGinty,” I corrected. “Do you know you went to the bungalow with an unloaded gun?”

“Steve, you are crazy! I checked the gun.”

“Naturally. You broke the cylinder of the revolver and there were the rims of five unfired bullets. You also heard the crashing of the gun in the bungalow. But Wilfred had already taken the teeth out of the bullets with a pair of pliers. Here is one of them. The rest he carried away.” I held the slug up before his face between my thumb and forefinger.

He stared at the bullet. Then he took a deep breath to recapture his bravado. “What are you trying to make me admit with this cock and bull story?”

“Only the truth. For Hagan’s ears.”

“Good night, Steve.”

My voice stopped him at the bottom of the stairs. “This thing is real, whether you want to believe it or not. McGinty will come again. Or he’ll phone. He’ll let you know that he’s still alive, more determined than ever to nail you. A man who followed you all the way from New York won’t give up easily. When he comes or calls, I’ll be waiting, Harold. I’ll do what I can to help you, in exchange for the truth.”

His gaze stayed fastened to my face a moment longer, then he turned and mounted the stairs.

I went into the parlor. McGinty, I was certain, would not be long in bringing my prediction to pass. He had given Harold time to consider himself safe. Now was the psychological moment to strike.

I picked up a book, settled myself in an armchair under a lamp, and opened the yellow pages. I had read a dozen paragraphs before it occurred to me that I had not bothered to take a look at the title.

The phone rang at ten forty-five. I allowed it to scream three times before I picked up the receiver.

A heavy voice asked, “Cranford?” I heard a click as the extension in the upper hallway was raised from the hook.

The voice repeated, “Cranford?” And on the extension Harold asked, “What is it?”

I replaced the receiver and began to count the minutes. When five of them had passed, Harold and Vera came downstairs.

He was a picture of abject defeat, of utter misery, of nerves too long stretched beyond the snapping point.

He stood before me, his face a pale thing of hollow shadows. Vera stood beside him, not once taking her eyes from his face.

“McGinty phoned,” he said.

“I know.”

“What do you want me to say?” he asked dully.

“I want to know everything there is to know.”

“All right.” He looked around, as if searching for a place to sit down.

“And I want Hagan to know it later,” I said.

The effort to bring his ego into the battle revealed itself on his face. The effort failed, and he said in a limp voice, “It’s the only way out. I can’t go on with things as they’ve turned out to be. You’ll guarantee your help?”

“All I’m able to give. Now for a few details. First, the girl. The one you painted after she tried to commit suicide off a dock one night.”

“McGinty rescued her,” he said.

“That much I know. He brought her into the café where you were eating and you saw the girl. Was it for the first time?”