The answers did not come before Marc fell asleep.
* * *
Marc was not unhappy to be wakened. He had been dreaming that he and Beth were rumbling over a dusty, grasshopper-ridden prairie in a Conestoga wagon towards some Yankee paradise named after a decimated Indian tribe, and Beth was saying, “But I don’t see any millinery shops!” just before a typhoon of some sort came wriggling out of the endless horizon like a rabid black cobra. He recognized it as a nightmare even before he was fully awake.
But it was not the morning sun he felt on his right cheek. In fact it felt more like snow. The pistol lay where he had placed it, on his chest, except that it was now covered with fine, white flakes. His hair was ruffled by a tiny, chill breeze.
He sat up quickly, knocking the dressing-screen over against the fireless stove. His eye went immediately to the door. The booby-trap was intact. He sighed with relief. He had not counted on the extent of his fatigue and the consequent depth of his sleep: even if someone had forced the door open, he was unlikely to have heard the intruder, who would have had plenty of time to murder both the dummy and its creator.
He turned now to the source of the draft and the snow. The lone window-overlooking the woods behind the inn-was ajar. If there had been much wind, it would have been blown completely open. With growing dread he turned slowly and made himself look at the bed. The night-capped pumpkin was still in its place, but the bedclothes had been knocked askew. He went over and examined his “head.” There was a two-inch incision just below the “chin.” In the deep of the night, someone had crept in through the window, stabbed him through what should have been his throat, and crawled back out-undetected by the great investigator.
TWELVE
Despite the obvious jeopardy Marc’s fatigued sleep had placed him in, it had left him feeling rested, alert, and ready to discover who was trying to murder him-and why. That he was the intended victim was no longer in doubt. Stiffly but with great determination, he walked over to the window and peered out. The snow was falling gently, drifting down with just the whisper of a breeze to suggest it was in motion at all. Marc could actually see a hazy outline of sun above the shadowed treeline to the southeast. Looking directly down, he noticed for the first time that a wooden ledge, about a foot and a half across, ran along the width of building between the two floors, all the way to the rickety fire-stairs, now mantled with snow like a derelict scaffold. He could see footprints-two sets probably, one going and one coming-stretching along the ledge to the fire-stairs. The assassin must have come up those stairs, or out onto them from the inside hall, and shuffled along the ledge to his unbarred window. From there, if one were bold or desperate enough, it would be simple to ease open the window, enter, and do the deed.
Marc noticed also that it seemed to be about nine o’clock, from the position of the sun, and that the footprints on the ledge were three-quarters filled with fresh snow. Thus, he could not determine their true size or imprint, though he guessed that they were made by a small or medium-sized person, certainly not a large man.
Dismantling his booby-trap, he went out into the main hall. He could detect no sounds from the other rooms. No doubt everyone but he was down in the dining area having breakfast. Well and good. He went to the smaller hall, where it met the main one, and followed it back to the rear exit. Again, he stopped to listen and heard no-one. He eased open the rear door, ignored the sudden chill of the January morning, and examined the landing. It was dotted with bootprints, as if someone, or more than one person, had stomped about there-impatiently? to keep warm? to get up enough nerve? These imprints were also drifted in with snow. Several pairs of prints were visible leading up and down the stairs and, at ground level, veered off in several directions. He realized that the hotel staff might use this back entrance in the course of their duties, and so it was really impossible to tell if the assassin had climbed these stairs to reach the ledge or had got to it from inside the inn.
A few yards behind the building lay several barns and sheds, with well-trod paths leading to and from. Still, intent on considering all angles, Marc walked down the steps, creaking and shuddering, and followed various sets of near-obscured prints, ending up either at one of the sheds or on a much-frequented path that led into the woods towards the creek, where Brookner had been promenading earlier last evening. Marc did not pursue these farther, as any prints there could have easily been those of staff or guests or locals enjoying the scenery. Besides which, Marc was no tracking scout.
Mildly discouraged, he went back up the fire-stairs to the second floor and scanned the carpet of the rear hall in search of wet stains. He ran his hand along its surface, feeling for dampness. He found none. But if the murder had been attempted as early as midnight, say, any telltale signs of snow having been brought back in on the assassin’s boots might be lost. He upbraided himself for sleeping in. The only conclusion he could draw at this point was that the intruder had used the ledge and the landing. How he got there was anybody’s guess.
Back in his room, Marc took time to scrutinize the “wound.” It was a precise incision, very thin and slightly wavy, the work of a flensing-knife, perhaps, or an extremely thin dagger. Other than that, he could find no other clues. His trunks had not been opened or searched. Nothing else seemed out of place.
The next question was whether or not he should reveal this attempt to the others. If the culprit were an outsider, they could well have seen or heard something of importance. On the other hand, if it were Lambert, for instance, Marc thought he would be wise to keep his counsel and merely watch. Perhaps his sudden appearance at breakfast, like Banquo’s ghost, might be enough to startle the killer into giving himself away in some manner. But if that failed, would another attempt then be made? The opportunity for it now seemed remote, as the group would be travelling together all day, with the outside possibility of reaching Kingston by late in the evening. However, if they only made Gananoque and had to put up as a group for one more night, Marc would have to come clean or be extraordinarily cautious. He decided to watch and wait.
Marc wheeled sharply to his left at the bottom of the stairs and strode across the foyer to the open dining area and the table where several of the entourage were seated at breakfast. “Good morning!” he boomed cheerfully, but his eyes darted about, seeking signs.
Pritchard, Sedgewick, and Lambert looked up from their coffee and newspapers. The Brookners were not present. What on earth was going on with those two? Marc had heard no sounds from their room. Down here, though, it was plain that his abrupt entrance had made no particular impression on any of the gentlemen. Lambert barely glanced up from his paper to nod a surly hello. Pritchard, addicted to bonhomie, smiled and stood up almost halfway to greet him. Percy Sedgewick said “Good morning” to Marc as if he were genuinely glad to see him.
“Here’s my newspaper, Lieutenant,” Pritchard said. “I’ve finished with it. I’ll get Dingman to bring in some fresh supplies. There’s quite a good pot of coffee on the sideboard.”
“You’re most kind,” Marc said.
“I trust you’ve had a solid night’s sleep,” Sedgewick said. “Did you happen to see anythin’ of Addie or Randolph? They’re awfully late, and the captain usually goes for his fool walk long before this.”