At that, Mrs. Parkhurst began to shriek, “No, no!” Her sister wrapped her arms tighter around her, and now Hannah Boulton began to sob loudly. Mrs. Clemens and her daughter Susy both had shocked expressions, but neither seemed quite as stunned as the other ladies—of course, they had not known the victim.
Lady Alice’s face was grim, but she went and touched Martha on the shoulder. “Mrs. McPhee, is there another room where we can take Mrs. Parkhurst and the other ladies? This is a rather terrible scene, I’m afraid.”
Martha was still in her seat, blinking like a person just awakened from sound sleep. At Lady Alice’s words, she started and rose to her feet. “Yes, of course, what am I thinking of? Please, ladies, come with me. Mrs. Parkhurst, may I take your arm?”
Still sobbing loudly, Mrs. Parkhurst let herself be led through a door, apparently into a bedroom, supported by Martha on one side and by her sister, Miss Donning, on the other. The other women followed them—although Susy Clemens seemed reluctant to leave. I almost would have traded places with her, had I any good excuse to remove myself from the grisly scene. When the door closed quietly behind them, Sir Denis said, “Now we must call in a doctor—though I fear there’s little the fellow can do. And we need to inform the police.”
“Good thinking,” said Mr. Clemens. “Is there a telephone in the building?”
“I certainly wouldn’t know,” said Cedric Villiers, with a surprisingly indifferent shrug. “Ask that fellow out in the foyer—he’s the one renting the flat.”
Mr. Clemens was closest to the door; he stepped over and opened it. “Ed, you better come inside. We’re in trouble.”
“What, is the show over already?” said McPhee, getting up quickly from the red velvet-covered couch where he’d been sitting. I could see a deck of playing cards spread out on a small table in front of him—some sort of game. Apparently he had not given up cardplaying quite as completely as Martha had suggested. He took out his watch and glanced at the time. “Martha usually keeps things going a bit longer than this.”
“The show’s all over, Ed,” said Mr. Clemens, in a weary tone. “Or maybe it’s just gotten started. Somebody shot Dr. Parkhurst while the lights were out, and it looks like he’s done for. We’re going to need the police. And we might as well have a doctor, just in case.”
“Shot? Police?” McPhee’s jaw fell. “Sam, you wouldn’t pull my leg about something like that, would you? It ain’t a bit funny, and that’s the truth.” His voice had nothing of its usual jovial tone.
“I fear he’s got right of it, Mr. McPhee,” said Sir Denis, and his sober expression emphasized the truth of his words. “Here’s the poor fellow on the couch.”
McPhee stepped inside the door and took in the scene at a glance. His face turned white as he saw Dr. Parkhurst’s body on the sofa. “Jesus, it looks like he got in front of a cannon.”
“Yes, I’d say he took at least a forty-caliber round,” said Sir Denis. “Now we need to fetch the constable.”
A cagey look crossed McPhee’s face. “Look here, I don’t think we need to go bothering the cops about this little thing,” he said, trying his best to regain his usual poker face. “Poor man’s dead and gone, and can’t nobody help him, right? Seems to me we can settle things up without any big fuss.”
“It’s way too thick for that, Ed,” said Mr. Clemens, taking McPhee’s elbow. “Here’s a respectable citizen shot dead, and that’s murder in anybody’s book. You can’t just throw around a couple of bucks and make it right, as if you were caught with loaded dice in your pocket. We’re in a foreign country, and the police play by different rules. Now, is there a telephone in this building, or don’t you know the answer?”
McPhee wrinkled his brow for a moment, then brightened up and said, “Well, there ain’t no phone in here, but I seem to remember there’s one at the tobacco shop two streets over—owner lives right upstairs from the shop. I reckon he’d let me use it if I tell him how it’s an emergency. Why don’t I just go do that? I’ll only be a few minutes . . .”
“Let’s not be so hasty,” said Cedric Villiers, holding up his hand. “I don’t at all like the way this fellow acts. If we let him go, who’s to say we’ll ever lay eyes on him again?”
Mr. Clemens nodded. “I guess you’ve got a point, Villiers. If we let Ed out the door, he’s as likely to skedaddle as to go find a bobby.”
“Sam, you ought to know me better than that,” said McPhee, puffing himself up like a rooster. “Ed McPhee ain’t so low as to run off and leave little Miss Martha all by herself when trouble starts. ’Sides, I’m the only one that knows his way around this here neighborhood, It’d take anybody else twice as long as me, with all these misty dark streets.”
“What, are you daft? A yank know Chelsea as well as I?” said Cedric Villiers, sneering. “I’ll wager I could walk blindfold to this tobacconist, or anywhere else within a mile of here. But I hardly think it’s necessary to knock up the shopkeeper. There’ll be a constable out on the streets, most likely over at the corner of King’s Road.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Sir Denis. “But consider this—we’ve got a murder on our hands, and every man in this room will undoubtedly be considered a suspect. In fact, Mr. McPhee may be the only one of us with a sound alibi—at least we know he was out of the room when the shot was fired.”
Mr. Clemens looked around at the rest of the company, his eyebrow raised in questioning, then shrugged. “Well, then, I guess Ed’s the one that has to go. But just to be on the safe side, I say we send somebody to keep an eye on him. How about Wentworth, here? He used to play football—if that old potbellied card shark tries to give him the slip, I reckon my man can run him down and put a hammerlock on him.”
“And how do we know they won’t both abscond?” said Cedric Villiers. “As Sir Denis points out, everyone in the room is a suspect. Your man has as much reason as Mr. McPhee to run away.”
“You can’t be serious,” I said. “I never saw that poor man before this evening. What reason would I have to kill him?”
“That’s for the police to determine, isn’t it?” said Villiers, fixing me with his gaze. “Your employer wanted to discredit the medium—it was obvious the minute you came in the room that you were not believers. Mr. Clemens has evidently had dealings with Mr. McPhee before, and it’s plain they are not friends.”
“That’s preposterous,” I began, but Mr. Clemens raised his hand, and I deferred to him.
“Fair enough, Villiers,” said my employer. “I know Wentworth, and I know Slippery Ed, and I know damn well which one I’d trust in a pinch. That don’t cut ice with you, and there’s no reason it should. But the sooner we get the police in here, the sooner we can all get out—the ladies in particular. My wife and daughter won’t stay the night next to a cadaver—not if I can help it, they won’t. So we’ve got to send somebody. I say we send ’em both, and get it over with.”
Neither Sir Denis nor Cedric Villiers could think of any further objection, and so McPhee and I put on our coats and hats and went down the stairs to look for a policeman, or failing that, a telephone. As we came out on the street, something occurred to me. “Where’s the other fellow who was here when we arrived—the Irishman? Did you send him home already?”
“Oh, Terry?” said McPhee. “Why, once Martha started her show, he wanted to go wet his throat. There wasn’t nothing I needed him for, so I told him to go ahead, long as he came back to straighten up when things were over. Martha usually runs just two hours, so Terry knew how much time he had. You can bet he’ll be surprised when he gets back and finds that fellow dead, and cops all over the place.” McPhee chuckled, as if amused at his assistant’s probable discomfiture.