Eight Murders In the Suburbs by Roy Vickers Page A

reached the edge of the window sill the man loosened his hold on the gable, stooped for the ladder and overbalanced. Curwen shut his eyes. His mind stepped back some three hours. He saw himself standing in the wind a dozen yards from Sepastopol House, hesitating.
    â€œIf I had gone back, that man would be alive now.”
    In the office, he steadied himself. He was as able to distinguish fact from phantasy as anybody else. It would be hysterical to jump to the conclusion that he had caused the fire. That long sequence about the half finished cigarette falling through a chink in the floorboards, and the rest of it, had been phantasy. The mathematical chances against all that having happened were enormous. Admittedly, he had suspected that the cigarette might have missed the coal vase, but that did not mean that it had in fact done so. His suspicion had been created by the system. As Marion had pointed out, these systematic suspicions were uneconomical. The light always had been turned off. The taps never did leak. Judgment, therefore, could be suspended.
    The afternoon editions weakened the mathematical part of the argument by stating that the fire was believed to have started between the hall and the basement.
    Now and again, there came sharp mental images of Marion. Of Marion at breakfast, complaining about the system. Of himself giving way, against his better judgment. Of himself hesitating on the wind-swept pavement. Better go back and make sure about that cigarette. I promised Marion. Got to begin somewhere. Begin—oh God!—begin with the fire gong. Steady! Mathematical chances.
    He decided to say nothing to Marion about the fire. He was not thinking about her feelings—Marion wouldn’t have any feelings about someone else’s fire. Intuition warned him that it would be better for himself if the fire were never discussed with her.
    â€œSebastopol House has been gutted! There’s a whole column about it,” said Marion as soon as he came in. “But I expect you know, as it’s so near the office.”
    â€œI saw it when I came back from lunch.” As long as he kept close to the newspaper reports, there should be no danger. “I was there when that man fell.”
    â€œPoor darling! How upsetting for you! No wonder you look limp. Go and sit down and I’ll bring you a drink.”
    The hall lounge was warm and cosy. He sat down, under inward protest. He must be very careful about drink, now—never allow himself to get the very slightest degree fuddled.
    â€œWe’ve nothing on tonight,” Marion was saying, “so you can have a good rest.”
    Normally, he enjoyed a quiet evening at home. Tonight, he felt an undefined reluctance to be alone with Marion. He drank the whisky at a gulp.
    â€œI’m not tired. I was going to suggest that we look in at the Parnassus after dinner.”
    In his dressing-room he took out his notecase, stared at the tortoiseshell purse-comb, until he remembered buying it, to placate Marion. Why did that now seem so contemptible? He glanced at the communicating door, then furtively slipped the comb into a drawer, under a pile of handkerchiefs.
    The spiritual vulgarity of his action shocked him into momentary suspicion of himself. He was, he reminded himself, a free agent. If he wished, say, to turn back a dozen yards or so, for any purpose whatever, no one could prevent him. If he did not wish to turn back, the choice was exclusively his own, for which he would bear exclusive responsibility. Further discussion of this subject would be unnecessary.
    The inquest, as far as Peter Curwen was concerned, was far from satisfactory. The deceased, Henry Morprill, was a dark, in the middle thirties, employed by a manufacturer’s agent occupying the top floor. The manner in which he had met his death was not in dispute. The police did not suggest incendiarism, nor was there any evidence that anyone had been culpably careless.
    â€œIt