Patricia Wentworth - Mr. Zero

Mr. Brewster had arrived at this point a few minutes before. He was not nearly so fast a walker as Algy Somers and he had not hurried himself. His thoughts were pleasant and he savoured them with enjoyment. He looked idly at the quarry as he skirted it. It was deep, and must have been long in disuse, for there were saplings growing here and there in the clefts, and a great tangle of blackberry bushes sprawled, climbed, and clung about its sides.

He went forward with the track and came out upon the road. There was a car coming from the direction of Railing. Dr. Hammond, at the wheel, saw a man emerge from the old cart track and, recognizing Mr. Brewster, trod hard on his brakes and came sliding up beside him. Mr. Brewster turned, and the car stopped.

Dr. Hammond opened the door, leaned out of it, and said,

“Hullo! Your name’s Brewster, isn’t it?”

Mr. Brewster in his primmest manner admitted it.

Dr. Hammond leaned a little farther out, his prematurely grey hair sticking up in tufts, his eyes more than ever like those of a terrier-a terrier who sees a rat. The bright spark in them alarmed Mr. Brewster. This man was the police surgeon. He slid a nervous hand into his pocket.

Dr. Hammond said in his sharp, barking voice,

“Met you at Cole Lester yesterday, didn’t I?”

“I believe so-if you can call it meeting.”

“You came in, and I went out. That’s how it was, wasn’t it? But I never forget a face.”

“A very useful faculty,” said Mr. Brewster with his hand in his pocket.

“Sometimes.” Jim Hammond grinned. “Can I give you a lift, Mr. Brewster?”

“No thanks, I have come out for some exercise.”

“Glutton for exercise, aren’t you? Do you often take it at three in the morning?”

“I really don’t-” Mr. Brewster’s hand was coming out of his pocket.

“I saw you getting over the gate at Hangman’s Corner last night. My headlights picked you up. I think the pond up there is about due for a clean out. Hangman’s Pond they call it. Nasty name. Nasty insanitary pond. I’m going to recommend its being cleaned out, Mr. Brewster-”

The name broke off a little short, because Mr. Brewster’s hand had come up level with Dr. Hammond’s eyes and it held a small automatic pistol.

“Put your hands up and keep them up!” said Mr. Brewster sharply. “Sit right back-I’m going to shut the door!” He did so, opened the rear door with his left hand, and got in.

Dr. Hammond felt the muzzle of the pistol cold against the back of his neck and cursed aloud.

“Be quiet!” said Mr. Brewster. “You can put your hands down now. I want you to start the car and drive down that field track-the one I came out of just now. You’ll have to reverse.”

With his hands on the wheel and the engine purring, Dr. Hammond said in a tone of concentrated fury,

“What damn fool game is this?”

“Drive along that track!” commanded Mr. Brewster.

Dr. Hammond gritted his teeth and did as he was told. What a fool he had been. The fellow meant to kill him. A double murderer already, he couldn’t afford to let him go. Play for time-that was the only thing. Stave it off and watch of the odd, improbable chance. He thought about Judith his wife and his heart was full of bitter rage.

“Stop here!” said Mr. Brewster in that new sharp voice.

They were round a bend and out of sight of the road. The car stopped, and in a flash the pistol which had been pressed against the back of Dr. Hammond’s neck was levelled at his temple. It was still in Mr. Brewster’s hand, but Mr. Brewster was now standing outside the car looking in upon the driver’s seat. Jim Hammond’s moment had come and gone. He ought to have ducked and jumped for it the moment the pistol moved, but the whole thing had been so unbelievably quick. He had had his chance and lost it.

“Hands up!” said Brewster. “And get out!” He opened the door and stood back enough to be out of reach. “I’m a dead shot, Hammond, so no tricks. I’d rather shoot you than not, because it would be safer for me, but I’ll give you a chance if you do what you’re told. Walk along the track in front of me and don’t let your hands down!”

Jim Hammond thought, “He can’t let me go. Why doesn’t he shoot and get it over?” And the answer, “He’ll drop me at the edge of the quarry-save him the trouble of dragging me there. No, not me, the body-Jim Hammond’s body.”

The cart track ran within twenty yards of the quarry’s edge. When they reached this point Mr. Brewster gave another order.

“Turn right! Leave the track and go towards the quarry!”

It was rough, broken ground. Dr. Hammond had many thoughts. None of them promised very much. He thought of a sudden dodging swerve and a quick tackle. But he had to turn-he had to turn-and the pistol was no more than a yard away. The quarry’s edge was no more than a yard away.

Algy turned off the road into the field track. This looked as if it was the right place, but he would soon know because of the quarry. William had made rather a point of the quarry, but you couldn’t see it from the road. The track was muddy, and a car had been over it recently. How any springs could be expected to stand up to these ruts was beyond him.

In a minute or two he came in sight of the car. The track swung to the right about a thicket of holly, yew, and leafless oak, and there, nicely tucked away, was the car, a V.8 Ford, and beyond it the quarry. He walked on, and a sound came to him, the sound of Brewster’s voice, and yet not Brewster’s. He heard the voice before he heard any words, and before he saw either of the two men upon the quarry’s edge. The car hid them. As he came on, the sound became words, the most unbelievable words.

“I’m going to shoot you. Take your hands down and I shoot at once. Keep them up and you have another minute or two to live. You despise me, don’t you? You thought I should cringe and ask you to hold your tongue. You made a great mistake. You made the same mistake that Francis Colesborough made. He thought he could use me, threaten me. Well, he had to pay for that. Sturrock paid the same price. He actually thought he could blackmail me, poor fool. Was that your game too, Dr. Hammond?”

Algy had reached the car. He heard Dr. Hammond snap out, “No, it wasn’t!” and he heard Brewster laugh, which was a surprising thing in itself because he had never heard Brewster laugh before. The sound was a strange and horrifying portent.

He looked cautiously round the car and saw Dr. Hammond a yard from the quarry’s lip, facing him with his hands above his head, and close to him Brewster with a pistol in his hand. They were about twenty yards away. If he were to shout, to run, what would happen? He thought that pistol would go off, and he thought Dr. Hammond would be a dead man. Suppose he sounded the horn. Would it make Brewster turn his head for just the fraction of a second which would give the Doctor his chance? He thought the pistol would still go off and put an end to Jim Hammond’s chances once and for all. The man who had shot Sturrock in his own pantry and got away with it must have a quite unshakable nerve.

As he thought these things, he was moving towards the quarry. That was the only real chance there was-to get nearer, to get near enough to startle the murderer out of his aim by rushing him. Even if he was heard, that might help. Brewster would be disturbed. He wouldn’t know what the sound was-whether he had really heard it. He would be tempted to look round and have to fight his own fear of being taken from behind.

The rough tussocky grass deadened the sound of his feet. He had got to within half a dozen yards, when Mr. Brewster’s voice changed. He said, “I’m tired of you. Out you go!” and fired.