“Was everyone in that room, or was there anyone in the far room?”

“Phillipa Haymes had moved in there, I think. She was over by that far mantelpiece. I think she was looking for something.”

“Have you any idea as to whether the third shot was suicide or an accident?”

“I’ve no idea at all. The man seemed to swerve round very suddenly and then crumple up and fall—but it was all very confused. You must realise that you couldn’t really see anything. And then that refugee girl started yelling the place down.”

“I understand it was you who unlocked the dining room door and let her out?”

“Yes.”

“The door was definitely locked on the outside?”

Edmund looked at him curiously.

“Certainly it was. Why, you don’t imagine—?”

“I just like to get my facts quite clear. Thank you, Mr. Swettenham.”

IV

Inspector Craddock was forced to spend quite a long time with Colonel and Mrs. Easterbrook. He had to listen to a long disquisition on the psychological aspect of the case.

“The psychological approach—that’s the only thing nowadays,” the Colonel told him. “You’ve got to understand your criminal. Now the whole setup here is quite plain to a man who’s had the wide experience that I have. Why does this fellow put that advert in? Psychology. He wants to advertise himself—to focus attention on himself. He’s been passed over, perhaps despised as a foreigner by the other employees at the Spa Hotel. A girl has turned him down, perhaps. He wants to rivet her attention on him. Who is the idol of the cinema nowadays—the gangster—the tough guy? Very well, he will be a tough guy. Robbery with violence. A mask? A revolver? But he wants an audience—he must have an audience. So he arranges for an audience. And then, at the supreme moment, his part runs away with him—he’s more than a burglar. He’s a killer. He shoots—blindly—”

Inspector Craddock caught gladly at a word:

“You say ‘blindly,’ Colonel Easterbrook. You didn’t think that he was firing deliberately at one particular object—at Miss Blacklock, that is to say?”

“No, no. He just loosed off, as I say, blindly. And that’s what brought him to himself. The bullet hit someone—actually it was only a graze, but he didn’t know that. He comes to himself with a bang. All this—this make-believe he’s been indulging in—is real. He’s shot at someone—perhaps killed someone … It’s all up with him. And so in blind panic he turns the revolver on himself.”

Colonel Easterbrook paused, cleared his throat appreciatively and said in a satisfied voice, “Plain as a pikestaff, that’s what it is, plain as a pikestaff.”

“It really is wonderful,” said Mrs. Easterbrook, “the way you know exactly what happened, Archie.”

Her voice was warm with admiration.

Inspector Craddock thought it was wonderful, too, but he was not quite so warmly appreciative.

“Exactly where were you in the room, Colonel Easterbrook, when the actual shooting business took place?”

“I was standing with my wife—near a centre table with some flowers on it.”