“Our lab report shows that the blood stains on the canvas holdall and the floorboard check out the same as those on the Army records of Walter Mills. That was a deliberate attempt on your part, Mr. Marshall, to mislead the police. And your story about being in the Merchant Navy has checked out as equally false.”
This is it, Phillip thought, as the Inspector paused to light a cigarette. There’s no way out of it I’ll have to tell them.
“You can make it easier for yourself and for us, but especially for yourself, if you’re frank and tell us the truth,” the Inspector said, giving him a thin smile. “Maybe it was an accident that killed Walter Mills and you’re afraid to say so. If you’re not frank with us, Mr. Marshall, I must warn you I shall apply for a warrant for your arrest on the evidence available and charge you with the murder of Walter Mills.”
Thoroughly satisfied with himself, the Inspector sat back. In his experience, if there was anything that scared a man into talking it was the threat of arrest.
Sighing audibly, Phillip reached up and slowly peeled the beard from his face. “I am Walter Mills,” he said quietly.
A profound silence settled on the boat-house. It didn’t last for long. Inspector Marples seemed to explode upwards, and for nearly ten minutes remained almost completely incoherent at the thought that he was arresting a man for murdering himself.
When the Inspector had calmed down sufficiently, Walter Mills told them why he had done it. He spoke eloquently of his love for Noreen Harper, and he appealed to the Inspector’s better nature not to let his little masquerade become generally known as this would most surely result in the loss of his fiancée. Walter Mills was smiling to himself as he laid it on as thick as he could.
But Inspector Marples had no better nature left; a beautiful case had dissolved from under his very nose. Jumping to his feet, he shouted, “This is the most outrageous example of a public mischief I have ever encountered. And if you think you’re just going to walk out of here free, you’re greatly mistaken,” he roared. “I’m going to charge you with a public mischief, impersonation, and anything and everything I can think of.” He dropped back in his chair, breathless, and stared unbelievingly at the unhappy, chinless face in front of him. “Get out,” he shouted suddenly, “get out or I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”
Walter Mills got to his feet hesitatingly. He had turned towards the door when it burst open, as one of the flat-hatted River Police charged in.
“We’ve got the body, sir,” he shouted excitedly.
Inspector Marples got slowly to his feet. I must keep calm, he told himself. At all costs, I must keep calm.
“Sergeant,” he said wearily, “this is Waiter Mills. Take whatever you’ve got and begone.”
“I didn’t say it was the body of Walter Mills, sir. It’s...” Before he could say any more he was knocked to one side as two more flat-hats pushed in, carrying between them a dripping sack. They dropped it with a thud that shook the boathouse.
“Harper’s the name sir, one of the flat-hats said,” handing Inspector Marples a sodden leather wallet. “It was sunk with the mooring blocks, just as you said, sir.”
The Inspector stared at him in amazement, then at the wallet. “Harper?” he echoed, looking at Walter Mills, who had shrunk back against a wall.
Slowly a little smile dawned on Inspector Marples’ long, thin face. “Weren’t you just telling us of your great love for Noreen Harper?”
But Walter Mills’ eyes were fixed in horror on two of the sergeants who were tugging at one end of the sack. It came away slowly, letting the body flop to the floor. He forced himself to look at it. It didn’t look like Noreen. Dank black hair lay plastered across the forehead of a sallow face. Then he saw that the body was dressed in a man’s suit.
“Noreen Harper’s husband, eh?” said Inspector Marples. “I might have guessed it.”
“I... I didn’t know there was a husband,” Walter Mills stammered.
“Isn’t that what they always say, Sergeant?” Inspector Marples said to his assistant.
“Always, sir. Never fails.”
Walter Mills was staring at the dead man and thinking of Noreen. Curly and Noreen, probably at the other side of he world by now, not that it mattered. Nothing mattered now.
“I never knew him,” he said in a tired voice.
“Save it,” Inspector Marples cut in. “Save it for the Old Bailey.”
But Walter Mills didn’t hear him, for there was a singing in his ears, as he stood with the smartly cut beard clutched tightly in his hand.
Chain Smoker
by Arthur Porges
At that point when physical achievement is attained, one ordinarily feels replete, but under extraordinary circumstances, one might pursue an anticlimax for emotional satiation.
If you want the pure, bracing air, the privacy, and the unspoiled coast of California Highway 1, there is, as with all good things, a price to be paid But Rex Morland thought the price a cheap one. True, he had to drive thirty miles, round trip, to Seaview, the nearest town; and he couldn’t get the electric company to bring him power; but the big tank of butane ten yards from his door kept not only a freezer and stove going, but also a fine brute of a generator. And since he made his living as a writer, his home was his office, where over the top of his typewriter he could see the thunderous surf battering the rocky shore ninety feet below.
Sometimes friends from Los Angeles or San Francisco, observing his isolation, and the steep, winding road that led from the highway to his house, itself quite hidden from above, would remark, “Isn’t your wife afraid to live in such a lonely place? What if some criminal broke in at night, or something?”
Morland found this amusing. “It’s the city jungles that are dangerous,” he often reminded them. “Out here, there are nothing but raccoons, foxes, deer, and bobcats. Maybe a few rattlers, but no animal is as deadly as one of your big city delinquents, believe me!”
He honestly believed this himself; and it was true, in general; but what happens when evil from the city turns the isolation to its own advantage?
The ordeal began towards dusk of a fine August day. Morland’s wife and his sixteen-year-old daughter, Kathy, were inside the house; he could hear them giggling over the dinner dishes, a sound that warmed his heart. He had gone out to take a reading on the big butane tank that kept the house livable. He knew he was childishly compulsive about this; the thing had been filled to capacity only six days earlier, but he had a foolish dread of finding himself without light, heat, or cooking facilities on some weekend, with the service company twenty-odd miles away, and closed until Monday. He also enjoyed checking; the serviceman had shown him how, and the operation fascinated him. You turned one indicator to the 100 % mark, opened a valve, and then brought the first metal finger clockwise until the stream of escaping gas changed to a liquid spray. This evening it did so at the 73 % mark, which meant that the tank was over three-quarters full. Not for the first time, his hand grazed the rushing flow of liquid and was badly stung; for the stuff, expanding as it blew free, became extremely cold No doubt it could freeze a finger solid in a few seconds.
He gave a grunt of satisfaction to learn that so much of the gas remained, and stood up, turning towards the house. There was a stealthy footstep behind him; he whirled, startled, and almost bumped his nose on the gun muzzle. It was quickly withdrawn, however; the skinny youth who held it was taking no chance of its being grabbed.