“He is. If they get here quickly enough we may save him.” Tony got up and came to May, looking hopeful. She passed him without a glance, knelt over her husband, and stared down at the bland unmarked face, the blood on the carpet coming from the wounds on his head. Yes, the hairs in his nostrils moved slightly.
May reached for her handbag resting on the settee. She opened it and snatched out a linen handkerchief, dropped the bag beside her, folded the square into a pad. She placed this over her husband’s nose and mouth and pressed down with both hands.
“May, what are you doing?”
“Keep away, Tony.”
He put a hand on her shoulder but her voice and the expression on her face sent him back. “Don’t, damn you! I’m sorry, Tony, but I’m right. We want to be together. We love each other. This is our chance.”
“But you’re murdering Jason!”
“Who says? He could be dead in a few minutes or a few hours. Or he could end up a vegetable. What kind of life would I have then? Would we have?”
“But give him his chance—”
“Too late, Tony. Jason had no chance from the day you and I met. It’s us now. Don’t spoil it.”
The police were impressed by the situation. Not only two dead bodies on a damp night in Wimbledon Village, but the killings in the house of May Stanstead, the television actress. It was even a kick to see the funny wog waiter from the TV show sitting on the settee looking spaced out, which he undoubtedly was. What sort of stuff would they find if they searched his pockets?
But the case in point was the break-in, the murderous assault on the owner when he came in ahead of his wife and surprised the thief, and then Mrs. Hughes-Price’s quick work with the pistol as she caught up with the killer in the kitchen. The Detective-Inspector took a statement from the shaken actress, then turned to Tony Bhajwa. May Stanstead spoke up for him. “He’s very upset,” she said.
“I can understand that. But you’ll be able to support the lady’s statement, sir, if you’re asked at the inquest?”
Tony said faintly, “Not really.”
“Sir?”
“I didn’t arrive with May and her husband,” he said. “It was all over when I got here.”
“But it was as I said,” May insisted.
“Perhaps. One thing I did see though. Jason was still breathing a few minutes ago. She put a handkerchief over his face and smothered him.”
The Detective-Inspector was silent, listening, as if he had heard something that sounded like the truth.
“He’s mad,” May said flatly. “He must be hallucinating. He has a head full of cocaine most likely.”
Tony Bhajwa turned smiling, pain-filled eyes on her. “I wish it were so. But, Inspector,” he continued, “if you’ll take that handkerchief from her handbag and have it analyzed, you’re probably going to find it’s got moustache wax on it.”