Inspector Block went and stood in the middle of the room. He said, “The truth of it is very short, and very simple. I can tell it to you in—” he counted on his fingers — “in fourteen words. In fact, I could reduce those words to six, and give you the whole story. Of course I could say a lot of other words, but I’m not going to. It’s not for me to accuse. Our business is to exonerate.” And he spoke the fourteen words. “I think the rest is self-explanatory… Verdict unanimous? Let’s have the young man back.”
The big lush room, curtains drawn, hushed in the evening quiet, no traffic rumbling outside, scented with flowers and the upward curl of cigar and cigarette smoke, bottles and glasses hospitably placed within reach of outstretched hands… The door opened and Mr. Photoze came jangling through and the young man was standing there, wearing the dark look again, his eyes like the eyes of a frightened animal, his hands tensed into claws. Mr. Mysterioso struggled his helpless limbs forward in his chair and held out a hand. “Come over here, son. Come and stand by me.”
He came over and stood by the chair. “It’s all right,” said Mysterioso and took the narrow brown hand and held it, strongly and comfortingly in his own. He said, “You see, it hasn’t taken long. We all recognized the truth immediately. Verdict unanimous.” And he gave it. “Mr Photoze — not guilty; neither motive nor opportunity. And your father — not guilty; neither motive nor opportunity. My hand on my heart!”
A sort of shudder ran through the young man. Tears ran down his face as he stood motionless, his head bowed. “All go!” said Mysterioso. “I’ll look after him. We’ve done our job. But never again,” he said, giving a little shake to the nerveless hand still held in his own, “any threats to Mr. Photoze, let alone any violence! You accept the verdict? That’s a promise?”
The bowed head nodded.
“Good boy! Well, then, good night to you all,” said the old man, “and thank you.” And he said again to the young man. “I’m sure you thank them too?”
Yes, nodded the hanging head again; thin hand still clasped in the veined old hand, the beautiful, still mobile, veined old hand of the master magician, the Grand Mysterioso.
Mr. Photoze walked away with Inspector Block. “Well, thank God that’s over! I think I’m pretty safe from now on. He gave his promise and he’ll keep it, I’m sure.”
“Oh, yes, you’ll have no more trouble,” said Block. “He meant it. I know these kids; they only need convincing.” He walked a little farther in silence. “What you and I now know,” he said carefully, “at least I think you know it? — had better be kept secret.”
“Mysterioso and the others know it.”
“Some of it,” said the Inspector. A vain man, Mysterioso, he added, really one of the vainest he had ever known. “Of course, as you said, it’s their stock-in-trade.”
“For what he admitted tonight,” suggested Mr. Photoze, “I think much may be forgiven the old man.”
“Nevertheless, through his vanity he’s obstructed the course of justice. From the very beginning — from before the very beginning.”
“You mean — the letters?”
“The letters — anonymous letters signed ‘Her Husband.’ In all sorts of different envelopes, in all sorts of different type, posted from all sorts of different parts of the country—”
“Ye Gods! And who traveled all over the country constantly, with his act? And who got all that lovely publicity? You mean he wrote them to himself?”
“No, I think the letters were genuine,” said Block slowly. “Genuine letters in genuine envelopes. I just think the letters didn’t belong in the envelopes.”
Typed envelopes — envelopes that had previously held circulars, impossible to distinguish, even by the senders, from the myriad of similar envelopes pushed day after day through letter boxes up and down the land. “He’d just pick one with a Birmingham postmark or a Glasgow postmark or what you will — put the letter in that, seal it up instead of merely tucking it in — the glue would be still intact; tear it open again and then send it off to the police — first taking care to arrange for the maximum publicity.”
“The publicity I understand,” said Mr. Photoze. “But for the rest — I daresay I’m dense, but why put the letters into new envelopes? Why not just show them as they were?” And he answered himself immediately, “Well, but good God, yes — of course! Because the letters were addressed to someone else.”
Fourteen words: The young man’s father couldn’t have killed Tom. Tom was the young man’s father.
While the cat’s away, the mouse will play. And why shouldn’t the mouse play? How had the indispensable servant spent the long waiting hours, while his master dallied five stories above?
“So the letters were really addressed to Tom — Tom Cat perhaps we should call him from now on. And the shot — but good heavens, that performance at the foot of the cornerstone?”
“A performance,” said Inspector Block briefly.
“With a dying man in his arms — his friend?”
“I wonder if the poor neutered cat felt so very warmly towards the full Tom after all? And think of the dividends! The photograph — but that was a bonus — of the great, defiant gesture; the reputation ever afterwards for heedless courage. Some defiance! — he knew perfectly well there wouldn’t be another shot. The murderer hadn’t got the wrong man at all. It was meant for Tom.”
“But Tom himself said—”
“Just recall the way that went,” said Inspector Block. “The man was bleeding at the mouth, hardly in good shape for clear articulation. Mysterioso listened, then he called the woman to come close. He told her what the man was saying: ‘Thank God they only got me — it was meant for you.’ He told them all. The woman listened to the choked-out words and believed what she’d been told. No doubt Tom gasped out something like, ‘My God, they’ve got me. He really meant it’ — something like that. Don’t you see, the magician forced the card on her; she heard what he told her to hear, that’s all.”
“Some opportunist!”
“He’d shown that in the matter of the letters. This was only an extension of that.”
“He’d bring the first letter to his master — I daresay there weren’t many secrets between those two. I wonder,” said Inspector Block, “what Mysterioso’s first reaction would have been?”
“Jealousy,” said Mr. Photoze.
“I think so too, especially after what we heard tonight. I think Mr. Mysterioso wanted those letters for himself. So — all sorts of good reasons to the man: you’re in danger; this idiot, whoever he is, might try something funny. The police won’t bother too much about you, but if I were to ask for protection— And Tom, after long years in ‘the business,’ would be the first to appreciate the value of the publicity, the anxious fans, the eager sensation-seekers, flocking to performances with the subconscious hope that something tragic would happen — as they flock to the circus.”
“Why no letters before that?”
“I think,” said Block slowly, “that all the way along this was a crime arising out of opportunity. And here was the first opportunity. The months passed, the baby was born, Robbins fumed and was sick with anger; he couldn’t just go and beat up the seducer — he was in the police and the police wouldn’t stand for that sort of thing; and more important, he wasn’t going to let the world know of his shame. But then — well, Mysterioso told us that these invitations to lay cornerstones and whatnot were arranged months in advance; and the first people to know about forthcoming events are the local police. Suddenly P.C. Robbins learned that his enemy was coming to Thrushford.