The Hound of Death. Агата Кристи

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      Without a word, Dermot got up and left her. For the moment he was touched and racked by her words beyond argument. He went for his hat and coat, running into Trent as he did so.

      ‘Hallo, Dermot, you’re off early.’

      ‘Yes, I’m not in the mood for dancing tonight.’

      ‘It’s a rotten night,’ said Trent gloomily. ‘But you haven’t got my worries.’

      Dermot had a sudden panic that Trent might be going to confide in him. Not that—anything but that!

      ‘Well, so long,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I’m off home.’

      ‘Home, eh? What about the warning of the spirits?’

      ‘I’ll risk that. Good night, Jack.’

      Dermot’s flat was not far away. He walked there, feeling the need of the cool night air to calm his fevered brain.

      He let himself in with his key and switched on the light in the bedroom.

      And all at once, for the second time that night, the feeling that he had designated by the title of the Red Signal surged over him. So overpowering was it that for the moment it swept even Claire from his mind.

      Danger! He was in danger. At this very moment, in this very room, he was in danger.

      He tried in vain to ridicule himself free of the fear. Perhaps his efforts were secretly half-hearted. So far, the Red Signal had given him timely warning which had enabled him to avoid disaster. Smiling a little at his own superstition, he made a careful tour of the flat. It was possible that some malefactor had got in and was lying concealed there. But his search revealed nothing. His man Milson, was away, and the flat was absolutely empty.

      He returned to his bedroom and undressed slowly, frowning to himself. The sense of danger was acute as ever. He went to a drawer to get out a handkerchief, and suddenly stood stock still. There was an unfamiliar lump in the middle of the drawer—something hard.

      His quick nervous fingers tore aside the handkerchiefs and took out the object concealed beneath them. It was a revolver.

      With the utmost astonishment Dermot examined it keenly. It was of a somewhat unfamiliar pattern, and one shot had been fired from it lately. Beyond that, he could make nothing of it. Someone had placed it in that drawer that very evening. It had not been there when he dressed for dinner—he was sure of that.

      He was about to replace it in the drawer, when he was startled by a bell ringing. It rang again and again, sounding unusually loud in the quietness of the empty flat.

      Who could it be coming to the front door at this hour? And only one answer came to the question—an answer instinctive and persistent.

      ‘Danger—danger—danger …’

      Led by some instinct for which he did not account, Dermot switched off his light, slipped on an overcoat that lay across a chair, and opened the hall door.

      Two men stood outside. Beyond them Dermot caught sight of a blue uniform. A policeman!

      ‘Mr West?’ asked the foremost of the two men.

      It seemed to Dermot that ages elapsed before he answered. In reality it was only a few seconds before he replied in a very fair imitation of his man’s expressionless voice:

      ‘Mr West hasn’t come in yet. What do you want with him at this time of night?’

      ‘Hasn’t come in yet, eh? Very well, then, I think we’d better come in and wait for him.’

      ‘No, you don’t.’

      ‘See here, my man, my name is Inspector Verall of Scotland Yard, and I’ve got a warrant for the arrest of your master. You can see it if you like.’

      Dermot perused the proffered paper, or pretended to do so, asking in a dazed voice:

      ‘What for? What’s he done?’

      ‘Murder. Sir Alington West of Harley Street.’

      His brain in a whirl, Dermot fell back before his redoubtable visitors. He went into the sitting-room and switched on the light. The inspector followed him.

      ‘Have a search round,’ he directed the other man. Then he turned to Dermot.

      ‘You stay here, my man. No slipping off to warn your master. What’s your name, by the way?’

      ‘Milson, sir.’

      ‘What time do you expect your master in, Milson?’

      ‘I don’t know, sir, he was going to a dance, I believe. At the Grafton Galleries.’

      ‘He left there just under an hour ago. Sure he’s not been back here?’

      ‘I don’t think so, sir. I fancy I should have heard him come in.’

      At this moment the second man came in from the adjoining room. In his hand he carried the revolver. He took it across to the inspector in some excitement. An expression of satisfaction flitted across the latter’s face.

      ‘That settles it,’ he remarked. ‘Must have slipped in and out without your hearing him. He’s hooked it by now. I’d better be off. Cawley, you stay here, in case he should come back again, and you keep an eye on this fellow. He may know more about his master than he pretends.’

      The inspector bustled off. Dermot endeavoured to get at the details of the affair from Cawley, who was quite ready to be talkative.

      ‘Pretty clear case,’ he vouchsafed. ‘The murder was discovered almost immediately. Johnson, the manservant, had only just gone up to bed when he fancied he heard a shot, and came down again. Found Sir Alington dead, shot through the heart. He rang us up at once and we came along and heard his story.’

      ‘Which made it a pretty clear case?’ ventured Dermot.

      ‘Absolutely. This young West came in with his uncle and they were quarrelling when Johnson brought in the drinks. The old boy was threatening to make a new will, and your master was talking about shooting him. Not five minutes later the shot was heard. Oh! yes, clear enough. Silly young fool.’

      Clear enough indeed. Dermot’s heart sank as he realized the overwhelming nature of the evidence against him. Danger indeed—horrible danger! And no way out save that of flight. He set his wits to work. Presently he suggested making a cup of tea. Cawley assented readily enough. He had already searched the flat and knew there was no back entrance.

      Dermot was permitted to depart to the kitchen. Once there he put the kettle on, and chinked cups and saucers industriously. Then he stole swiftly to the window and lifted the sash. The flat was on the second floor, and outside the window was a small wire lift used by tradesmen which ran up and down on its steel cable.

      Like a flash Dermot was outside the window and swinging himself down the wire rope. It cut into his hands, making them bleed, but he went on desperately.

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