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Authors: John Dickson Carr
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were embedded in the skin’ , was bad enough when this applied to Rita Wainright. As we sat in the garden under the apple-tree, Rita had become no more than a heap of flesh on a morgue-slab. But any talk of murder, of someone feeling a hate violent enough to kill both Rita and Barry Sullivan, was completely incredible.
H.M., his mouth open, regarded Craft with something like awe. But he did not comment.
‘Now, let’s take the weapon,’ pursued the superintendent. ‘To be exact, a .32 Browning automatic. If Mr Sullivan shot the lady, and then shot himself – or the other way round, if you prefer – then you’d expect the gun to fall into the sea along with ’em. Wouldn’t you?’
H.M. eyed him. ‘I don’t expect anything, son. You’re tellin’ the story. You go ahead.’
‘Or else,’ argued Craft, ‘you’d expect to find it on the cliff somewhere near the place where they went over. But you wouldn’t –’ here he lifted the pencil and raised his shaggy eyebrows for emphasis – ‘you wouldn’t expect to find it lying in the main road a very long distance from the sea, and fully half a mile away from the Wainrights’ house?’
‘So?’ said H.M.
‘I’d better explain that. Is anybody here acquainted with Mr Stephen Grange? He’s a solicitor at Barnstaple, but he lives here at Lyncombe.’
‘Very much so,’ I answered, as H.M. shook his head. ‘That was his daughter out there in the street with us a while ago.’
Craft digested this.
‘On Saturday night,’ he went on, ‘or, rather, about one-thirty o’clock on Sunday morning, Mr Grange was driving back home in his car from a visit to Minehead. He passed the Wainrights’ bungalow. We – I mean the police – were there at the time, but naturally Mr Grange didn’t know there was anything wrong.
‘He was driving very slowly and carefully, as all people ought to do nowadays. About half a mile further on in the direction of Lyncombe, his lights picked up something bright and shiny lying at the side of the road. Mr Grange is a careful and methodical sort of gentleman, so he got out to investigate.’
(Just like Steve Grange.)
‘It was a .32 Browning automatic, bright polished steel except for the hard-rubber grip. Mind you, Mr Grange hadn’t any reason to think anything was wrong. It was just a gun. But, as I say, he’s a careful and methodical sort of fellow who’s been no end of help to us. He picked it up in his finger-tips’ – Craft illustrated – ‘and he could tell by smelling the barrel that it had been fired some hours before.
‘He took it home with him that night. Next day he turned it in at the police-station at Lynton. It was sent on to me at Barnstaple. In fact, it arrived early this morning: just after I’d got the news about two drowned bodies that weren’t drowned, but had bullet-holes in ’em. Two bullets had been fired from this gun; and it’d been wiped clean of fingerprints. I turned everything over to Major Selden, the ballistics man. I’ve just come from him. The bullet that killed Mrs Wainright and the bullet that killed Mr Sullivan were both fired from that Browning automatic.’
Superintendent Craft paused.
H.M. opened one eye.
‘Uh-huh,’ he murmured drowsily. ‘D’ye know, son, I’ve been rather expecting that, somehow.’
‘But that’s not all the major was able to say. If we hadn’t found the automatic, we’d have thought for certain it was suicide. Perfect crime, as you might call it. But this particular gun has got a distinct “back-fire”, as some of them have. That’s to say, in non-technical language, you can’t possibly fire it without a back-fire of unburnt powder-grains that get embedded in your hand –’
H.M. was no longer drowsy. He had sat up straight.
‘– like a trade-mark. Neither Mrs Wainright’s hand nor Mr Sullivan’s hand had the marks. So it wasn’t suicide, sir. It was murder.’
‘There’s no doubt about that, son?’
‘You just talk to
H.M., his mouth open, regarded Craft with something like awe. But he did not comment.
‘Now, let’s take the weapon,’ pursued the superintendent. ‘To be exact, a .32 Browning automatic. If Mr Sullivan shot the lady, and then shot himself – or the other way round, if you prefer – then you’d expect the gun to fall into the sea along with ’em. Wouldn’t you?’
H.M. eyed him. ‘I don’t expect anything, son. You’re tellin’ the story. You go ahead.’
‘Or else,’ argued Craft, ‘you’d expect to find it on the cliff somewhere near the place where they went over. But you wouldn’t –’ here he lifted the pencil and raised his shaggy eyebrows for emphasis – ‘you wouldn’t expect to find it lying in the main road a very long distance from the sea, and fully half a mile away from the Wainrights’ house?’
‘So?’ said H.M.
‘I’d better explain that. Is anybody here acquainted with Mr Stephen Grange? He’s a solicitor at Barnstaple, but he lives here at Lyncombe.’
‘Very much so,’ I answered, as H.M. shook his head. ‘That was his daughter out there in the street with us a while ago.’
Craft digested this.
‘On Saturday night,’ he went on, ‘or, rather, about one-thirty o’clock on Sunday morning, Mr Grange was driving back home in his car from a visit to Minehead. He passed the Wainrights’ bungalow. We – I mean the police – were there at the time, but naturally Mr Grange didn’t know there was anything wrong.
‘He was driving very slowly and carefully, as all people ought to do nowadays. About half a mile further on in the direction of Lyncombe, his lights picked up something bright and shiny lying at the side of the road. Mr Grange is a careful and methodical sort of gentleman, so he got out to investigate.’
(Just like Steve Grange.)
‘It was a .32 Browning automatic, bright polished steel except for the hard-rubber grip. Mind you, Mr Grange hadn’t any reason to think anything was wrong. It was just a gun. But, as I say, he’s a careful and methodical sort of fellow who’s been no end of help to us. He picked it up in his finger-tips’ – Craft illustrated – ‘and he could tell by smelling the barrel that it had been fired some hours before.
‘He took it home with him that night. Next day he turned it in at the police-station at Lynton. It was sent on to me at Barnstaple. In fact, it arrived early this morning: just after I’d got the news about two drowned bodies that weren’t drowned, but had bullet-holes in ’em. Two bullets had been fired from this gun; and it’d been wiped clean of fingerprints. I turned everything over to Major Selden, the ballistics man. I’ve just come from him. The bullet that killed Mrs Wainright and the bullet that killed Mr Sullivan were both fired from that Browning automatic.’
Superintendent Craft paused.
H.M. opened one eye.
‘Uh-huh,’ he murmured drowsily. ‘D’ye know, son, I’ve been rather expecting that, somehow.’
‘But that’s not all the major was able to say. If we hadn’t found the automatic, we’d have thought for certain it was suicide. Perfect crime, as you might call it. But this particular gun has got a distinct “back-fire”, as some of them have. That’s to say, in non-technical language, you can’t possibly fire it without a back-fire of unburnt powder-grains that get embedded in your hand –’
H.M. was no longer drowsy. He had sat up straight.
‘– like a trade-mark. Neither Mrs Wainright’s hand nor Mr Sullivan’s hand had the marks. So it wasn’t suicide, sir. It was murder.’
‘There’s no doubt about that, son?’
‘You just talk to
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