“How is Mrs. Hamel?” I asked, as Jarvis served chicken Maryland.
“I am glad to say she is much better. She left soon after Mr. Hamel departed. I understand she is spending the day on the yacht. Sun and the sea are great healers.”
It was while we were finishing the meal, the sound of a deep throated engine made Smith get to his feet.
“That must be Mrs. Hamel returning,” he said. “I know the sound of her car anywhere. I had better go.”
“Now, Mr. Smith,” Jarvis said, chidingly. “I am sure Mrs. Hamel won’t expect you to be on duty at lunch time. I have a very special Stilton I would like you to try.”
Smith hesitated, then sat down.
“Yes, you’re right. I informed Mrs. Hamel that I would be lunching here! A Stilton? What luxury!”
I pushed back my chair.
“I’d better show the flag,” I said, “but I won’t be long,” and winking at Jarvis, I set off down the drive towards the gates.
As soon as I was out of sight of the cottage, I broke into a run and climbed the tree to overlook the opposite hedge.
The Ferrari was standing before the house. The front door stood open. I waited. After five minutes or so, Nancy came out. She was wearing a dark blue turtle neck sweater, white slacks, her hair concealed by a red scarf, and enormous black goggles masked her face. She slid into the car and drove down to the gates which opened automatically. I looked straight down onto the roof of the car as, with a roar, if sped away.
I climbed down the tree and walked back to the cottage. Smith looked inquiringly at me as I took my place at the table.
“She’s gone,” I said. “She must have forgotten something.”
“Yes. Ladies have a habit of forgetting things. I left a note saying Mr. Hamel would be back at seven. No doubt she saw it.”
“Try a little more,” Jarvis said, scooping a big portion from the napkin wrapped cheese.
Smith left after 15.00. Jarvis retired for a nap. I sat in the shade, and also took a nap.
Around 19.00 while Jarvis was supervising the dinner, I again climbed the tree. There was no sign of the Ferrari. After a few minutes of patient waiting, I saw a taxi pull up. Hamel got out. He paid the cabby, then using a key, he unlocked the gates and walked up the drive. I saw he had swung the gates to, but they didn’t close.
As I watched him approach the house, I wondered if he would be surprised that Nancy wasn’t there to greet him. I also wondered where she was. She had been away from the house now for over six hours.
I descended the tree and walked back to the cottage.
“Ah, there you are, Mr. Anderson. I was about to call you,” Jarvis said. “I hope this will be to your taste.”
I regarded the silver dish on which lay a magnificent salmon, poached in a cream and herb sauce.
“It looks good enough for two honest, hardworking men to eat, Mr. Jarvis,” I said, sitting at the table.
“I think champagne goes well with salmon. I ventured to put a bottle in the ice bucket.”
Man! I thought. This is the way to live!
As we ate, I launched into one of my fabricated crime stories. It was sometime after 21.00 that I brought the yarn to an exciting conclusion. We were sipping coffee, with a Napoleon brandy for support, when we both heard the sharp bang of a fired gun.
I put down my coffee cup and jumped to my feet. The shot had come from across the road.
Leaving Jarvis gaping, I ran fast down the drive to the gates. I was sure the shot had come from Hamel’s place. Moving across the road, I shoved open the Hamel gates, and started up the drive to the ranch house.
As I reached the front door, it was open, and Washington Smith appeared in the doorway. He was shaking, his eyes rolling, his face the colour of lead.
“Oh, Mr. Anderson...”
“Take it easy,” I said, and caught hold of him.
“Mr. Hamel... in his study,” Smith gasped, then his knees buckled.
I pushed him aside and walked into the big lobby. A fat, elderly negress sat on a chair, her apron covering her face, and she was making whimpering sounds. Crossing the patio, I walked to Hamel’s study. The door stood wide open.
I smelt gun smoke. Pausing, I looked into the big room where, not so long ago, Hamel had talked to me.
Facing me was his big desk. He sat behind the desk, his head resting on the highback of the desk chair, his eyes staring at me with the emptiness of death. Blood trickled down the right side of his face. Powder bums discoloured the small hole in his temple.
For a long moment, I stood looking at him and the only thought that came to me was I would now never own a million dollars. Then shaking off this depression, I moved into the room, and up to the desk. On the floor, by the chair lay a Beretta 6.35 pistol. I looked at it, but didn’t touch it. The air conditioner was on. The windows were closed. My eyes travelled to the desk. An IBM typewriter stood before Hamel and there was a sheet of paper in the machine.
There was writing. I leaned forward and read:
Why go on? I am of no use to a woman. I have spoilt two marriages. Why go on?
I stood away and stared at the dead man.
“You poor sap,” I said, half aloud. “You certainly got your values wrong.”
“Mr. Anderson...”
I turned.
Smith stood wringing his hands, in the doorway.
“He’s dead,” I said. “Don’t touch anything here.” I moved out of the room and closed the door. “Where’s Mrs. Hamel?”
“Dead? Oh, Mr. Anderson... he was so good to us.”
“Get hold of yourself!” I barked. “Where’s Mrs. Hamel?”
“I don’t know. She hasn’t returned.”
Then it flashed into my mind that if Nancy found me — the guy who had bitten her for fifty thousand dollars — plus the news her husband had killed himself, she might flip and start trouble I wouldn’t want. I decided to do a quick fade.
“Mr. Smith! Listen carefully. I’ll get action. Don’t let Mrs. Hamel go in there. Just wait... okay?”
He nodded dumbly.
Moving fast, I left the ranch house and ran back to the cottage where Jarvis was waiting, his big black eyes alarmed question marks.
Briefly, I told him that Hamel had killed himself. Then I went into the cottage for the telephone, then paused. Mel Palmer had to be the first on the scene, then the cops.
Jarvis was hovering around.
“Got a telephone book?” I demanded.
He produced the local book. I found Palmer’s home number and, praying he would be home, I dialled.
I had to talk my way around a snooty sounding butler before Palmer came on the line.
“What is it, Mr. Anderson?” he asked crossly. “I have guests.”
“Russ Hamel has just shot himself,” I said. “He’s dead. Mrs. Hamel isn’t home. There’s a suicide note in his typewriter the press will love. I leave it to you to call the police.”
“I don’t believe it!” Palmer croaked.
“He’s dead. Get moving,” and I hung up.
As I moved out of the cottage into the humid darkness, I heard the throaty roar of the Ferrari. Nancy was back! I belted down the drive and climbed the tree. I was in time to see Nancy getting out of the car. She walked slowly up the steps to the front door. The porch light was on and I could see her clearly. Then Smith opened the door. He stepped back, and she moved forward and out of sight. The door closed.
I would have given a lot to have been able to watch Nancy’s reactions when Smith broke the news to her. Had she loved Hamel or had she married him only to escape from the Italian police?
Then a thought struck me with considerable force. By Hamel’s stupid suicide, Nancy would inherit his wealth, his copyrights and his film earnings. As his widow, she would become immensely rich!