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Authors: Patrick Quentin
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household?’
‘Me?’ Gino flicked the card back to him. ‘Sure. Chauffeur, handyman, bodyguard. I’m just about everything around here, I guess. Morelli’s the name. Need some help, Inspector?’
‘Well,’ said the Inspector and paused for what seemed like eternity. Then he said, ‘Well, maybe, yes. Maybe it’d be kind of tactful to keep Miss Rood out of this for the time being. Mr Morelli, I wonder if you’d be good enough to tell me what Miss Rood was doing around ten o'clock last Thursday night.’
Hovering in the background, I counted wildly backwards in my mind. Thursday. Of course. Why had I bothered to count when I knew? The Night of the Plunge.
I should have realized that Gino could take care of things far more efficiently than I, but, in spite of myself; I heard myself blurting, ‘That was the night Norma Delanay died, wasn’t it, Inspector? I’ve just come back from Paris but Mother was telling me about it and I think she was at home that night.’
The Inspector’s back was towards me and he didn’t turn. He paid no attention to me at all. He merely went on looking at Gino, who went on looking back at him unconcernedly.
‘Thursday?’ he said. ‘Sure. The kid’s right. That night we all stayed home, ate supper and went to bed early.’
The Inspector went in for another pause. ‘I imagine there’s help in this house? I mean regular help? A couple or something?’
‘Sure,’ said Gino.
‘You wouldn’t object if I just checked up with them?’
‘Go ahead. They won’t know anything though. They were out. Thursday’s their night out.’
‘I see,’ said the Inspector. Then his eyes fell on Uncle Hans brooding over his chess-board. ‘Is that gentleman a part of the household too?’
‘That’s Mr Harben,’ said Gino. ‘Miss Rood’s uncle.’
And then, to my horror, Inspector Robinson started across the hall to Uncle Hans. Uncle Hans with a police inspector! Uncle Hans way, way off in his chess-game with his genius brain totally disconnected! I glanced desperately at Gino, who was looking rattled too. But there was nothing we could do. The Inspector was tapping Uncle Hans on the shoulder. Uncle Hans glanced up rather testily because he loathed being interrupted. Then, realizing it was a stranger, all his old-world Swiss courtesy came out and he jumped up, smiling. The smile made me pray that an earthquake would crack the imported marble floor and engulf us all, because it was his all-too-well-known sweet, elsewhere smile.
‘Mr Harben?’ said the Inspector.
‘Yes, sir, that is correct.’
‘I’m an Inspector of the Police. I’m checking up on what Miss Rood was doing last Thursday night.’
Inspector, Uncle Hans! A Police Inspector! I tried to hurl the information across the intervening space into his brain by an act of will. But the elsewhere smile was just as charmingly vague as ever.
‘Thursday night?’ he murmured. ‘How interesting you should ask this. Always I have claimed that if one had to swear to what one was doing even a few hours previously, one would be hard put to it. Yes. Very hard put to it. Thursday night.’ He put a finger to his lower lip and pushed it upward against his upper lip. ‘Today is Monday, isn’t it? Well, last night …’
He broke off then with a little delighted cry. ‘Ach, dumb-head! Why do I not think of it before? Years ago, I learned not to trust that most imperfect of faculties: the human memory. To protect myself, I always have my diary handy.’
He felt awkwardly around to the back pocket of his cutaway. As he fumbled and I died a thousand deaths, Tray came over, tugged at my trousers, whimpered and tried to stand on his head again. Finally Uncle Hans managed to pull out a crumpled little leather book. Then he had to find his glasses and put them on.
‘Thursday — Thursday.’ He started to leaf through the book. ‘Ach, here we are. Thursday night — dinner with Ronnie and Norma.’
‘With Miss Delanay?’ The
‘Me?’ Gino flicked the card back to him. ‘Sure. Chauffeur, handyman, bodyguard. I’m just about everything around here, I guess. Morelli’s the name. Need some help, Inspector?’
‘Well,’ said the Inspector and paused for what seemed like eternity. Then he said, ‘Well, maybe, yes. Maybe it’d be kind of tactful to keep Miss Rood out of this for the time being. Mr Morelli, I wonder if you’d be good enough to tell me what Miss Rood was doing around ten o'clock last Thursday night.’
Hovering in the background, I counted wildly backwards in my mind. Thursday. Of course. Why had I bothered to count when I knew? The Night of the Plunge.
I should have realized that Gino could take care of things far more efficiently than I, but, in spite of myself; I heard myself blurting, ‘That was the night Norma Delanay died, wasn’t it, Inspector? I’ve just come back from Paris but Mother was telling me about it and I think she was at home that night.’
The Inspector’s back was towards me and he didn’t turn. He paid no attention to me at all. He merely went on looking at Gino, who went on looking back at him unconcernedly.
‘Thursday?’ he said. ‘Sure. The kid’s right. That night we all stayed home, ate supper and went to bed early.’
The Inspector went in for another pause. ‘I imagine there’s help in this house? I mean regular help? A couple or something?’
‘Sure,’ said Gino.
‘You wouldn’t object if I just checked up with them?’
‘Go ahead. They won’t know anything though. They were out. Thursday’s their night out.’
‘I see,’ said the Inspector. Then his eyes fell on Uncle Hans brooding over his chess-board. ‘Is that gentleman a part of the household too?’
‘That’s Mr Harben,’ said Gino. ‘Miss Rood’s uncle.’
And then, to my horror, Inspector Robinson started across the hall to Uncle Hans. Uncle Hans with a police inspector! Uncle Hans way, way off in his chess-game with his genius brain totally disconnected! I glanced desperately at Gino, who was looking rattled too. But there was nothing we could do. The Inspector was tapping Uncle Hans on the shoulder. Uncle Hans glanced up rather testily because he loathed being interrupted. Then, realizing it was a stranger, all his old-world Swiss courtesy came out and he jumped up, smiling. The smile made me pray that an earthquake would crack the imported marble floor and engulf us all, because it was his all-too-well-known sweet, elsewhere smile.
‘Mr Harben?’ said the Inspector.
‘Yes, sir, that is correct.’
‘I’m an Inspector of the Police. I’m checking up on what Miss Rood was doing last Thursday night.’
Inspector, Uncle Hans! A Police Inspector! I tried to hurl the information across the intervening space into his brain by an act of will. But the elsewhere smile was just as charmingly vague as ever.
‘Thursday night?’ he murmured. ‘How interesting you should ask this. Always I have claimed that if one had to swear to what one was doing even a few hours previously, one would be hard put to it. Yes. Very hard put to it. Thursday night.’ He put a finger to his lower lip and pushed it upward against his upper lip. ‘Today is Monday, isn’t it? Well, last night …’
He broke off then with a little delighted cry. ‘Ach, dumb-head! Why do I not think of it before? Years ago, I learned not to trust that most imperfect of faculties: the human memory. To protect myself, I always have my diary handy.’
He felt awkwardly around to the back pocket of his cutaway. As he fumbled and I died a thousand deaths, Tray came over, tugged at my trousers, whimpered and tried to stand on his head again. Finally Uncle Hans managed to pull out a crumpled little leather book. Then he had to find his glasses and put them on.
‘Thursday — Thursday.’ He started to leaf through the book. ‘Ach, here we are. Thursday night — dinner with Ronnie and Norma.’
‘With Miss Delanay?’ The
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