"This is the end of the road for you, Cavell." His voice came in hoarse gasps punctuated by half-sobbing inhalations. "You've gone too far this time. Unprovoked assault—"
He broke off, flinching, as he saw the barrel of the Hanyatti arching towards his face. Both hands were flung up in instinctive self-defence and he grunted in agony as my free hand caught him in the midriff again. He stayed down longer this time and when he finally dragged himself, trembling, to his feet, he was in pretty bad shape. His eyes were still burning mad but there was something else in them now as well. Fear. I took two quick steps towards him, lifting the Hanyatti high. MacDonald took two corresponding steps back then collapsed heavily on a settee as it caught him behind the knees. His face held rage and bewilderment and fear, lest I hit him again: It also held hatred for both of us, for me because I was doing what I was doing, for himself because he knew he was going to do what I said. MacDonald wasn't ready to talk but he was going to all the same and both of us knew it.
"Where were you on the night Baxter and Clandon were killed?" I asked. I remained on my feet, the Hanyatti ready.
"Hardanger has my statement," he said sullenly. "At home. I'd had three friends in for bridge. Until almost midnight."
"Friends?"
"A retired scientific colleague. The local doctor and vicar. Good enough for you, Cavell?" Maybe he was getting some of his courage back.
"Nobody more skilled at murders than doctors. And priests have been unfrocked before." I looked down at my feet, at the smooth grey sweep of a wall-to-wall carpeting: if a man dropped his diamond tie-pin in that nap he'd have to call in a tracker dog. I said with no particular inflection, "Fancy line in floor-coverings you have here, Doctor. Five hundred quid wouldn't have bought this little lot."
"Being clever or just insolent, Cavell?" He was getting his courage back. I hoped he wasn't going to be so foolish as to get too much of it back.
"Heavy silk drapes," I went on. "Period furniture. Genuine crystal chandelier. A pretty big house and I'd wager the whole house is furnished on the same scale. The same expensive scale. Where does the money come from, Doctor? You do the pools? Or just a bingo expert?"
For a moment he looked as if he were about to tell me to mind my own damn' business, so I half-lifted the Hanyatti again, not much, just enough to make him change his mind. He said stiffly, "I'm a bachelor with no dependants. I can afford to indulge my tastes."
"Lucky you. Where were you last night between nine and eleven p.m.?"
He frowned and said, "At home."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure." Apparently he'd decided that stiff indignation was his safest line.
"Witnesses?"
"I was alone."
"All night?"
"All night. My housekeeper arrives at eight each morning."
"That may be very unfortunate for you. No witnesses for last night, I mean."
"What the devil are you trying to tell me?" He seemed genuinely puzzled.
"You'll know soon enough. You don't run a car, do you, Doctor?"
"As it happens I do."
"But you come to Mordon on an Army bus."
"I prefer it that way. It's no concern of yours."
"True. What kind of car?"
"A sports car."
"What kind of sports car?"
"A Bentley Continental."
"A Continental. A sports car." I gave him a long look but it was wasted. He was staring down at the carpet, maybe he had lost a diamond tie-pin there. "Your taste in cars is like your taste in rugs."
"It's an old car. Second-hand."
"When did you buy it?"
He looked up abruptly. "What does it matter? What are you trying to get at, Cavell?"
"When did you buy it?"
"Ten weeks ago." He was giving the carpet the once-over again. "Maybe three months ago."
"An old car, you say. How old?"
"Four years."
"Four years. They don't give away four year old Continentals for box-tops. They give them away for about £5,000. Where did you get £5,000 from three months ago?"
"I didn't. I paid £1,000 down. The rest over three years. It's the way most people buy their cars you know."
" An extended credit scheme aimed at capital conservation. That's for people like you. For people like me they call it hire-purchase. Let's see your hire-purchase agreement."
He brought it: a quick glance showed that he had been speaking the truth. I said, "What's your salary, Dr. MacDonald?"
"Just over £2,000. The government is not generous." He wasn't blustering or indignant any more. I wondered why.
"So that after taxation and living expenses you couldn't possibly have as much as a thousand left at the end of the year. In three years, £3,000. Yet, according to this agreement, you're going to pay off close to £4,500—balance plus interest — in three years. How do you propose to accomplish this mathematical impossibility?"
"I have two insurance policies maturing inside the next year. I'll get them for you."
"Don't bother. Tell me, Doctor, why are you so worried, so nervous?"
"I'm not worried."
"Don't lie."
"All right, so I'm lying. I am worried. I am nervous. The questions you are asking would make anyone nervous."
Maybe he was right at that. I said: "Why should feat make you worried, Doctor?"
"Why? He asks me why." He glared up at me then went back to looking for his diamond pin. "Because I don't like the trend of your questioning. I don't like what you're trying to prove. No man would."
"What am I trying to prove?"
"I don't know." He shook his head, not looking up. "You're trying to establish that I live beyond my means. I don't. I don't know what you're trying to prove."
I said, "You've got the old tartan eyes this morning, Doctor, and if you don't mind me saying so you stink of stale whisky. You have all the signs of a man who had a heavy session with the bottle last night and is paying the price now — not, I suppose, that a couple of belts on the solar plexus improved matters. Funny thing is, you're listed on our books as a moderate social drinker. You're no alcoholic. But you were alone last night — and social drinkers don't drink alone. That's why they're social. But you were drinking alone, last night — drinking heavily, Doctor. I wonder why? Worried, perhaps? Worried even before Cavell and his worrisome questions ever came along."
"I usually have a night-cap before retiring," he said defensively. He was still staring at the carpet but his interest lay not in any tie-pin but in not letting me see his expressions on his face. "That doesn't make me an alcoholic. What's a night-cap?"
"Or two," I agreed. "But when a night-cap turns out to be the better part of a bottle of whisky, it ceases to be a nightcap." I glanced round the room then said, "Where's your kitchen?"
"What do you—"
"Damn it, don't waste my time!"
"Through there."
I left the room and found myself in one of those gleaming stainless steel monstrosities that started out to be an operating theatre and changed its mind at the last moment. More evidence of money. And, on the gleaming sink, more evidence that Dr. MacDonald really had had an extended night-cap. A bottle of whisky, three-fifths empty with the torn lead seal still lying beside it. A dirty ashtray, full of mashed-up cigarettes. I turned as I heard a sound behind me. MacDonald was standing in the doorway.
"All right," he said wearily. "So I was drinking. I was at it for two or three hours. I'm not used to those things, Cavell. I'm not a policeman. Or a soldier. Two horrible, ghastly murders." He half-shuddered: if it was acting, it was brilliant acting.