Murder of a Snob by Roy Vickers Page B

with Ralph Cornboise.
    â€œSit down, Mr. Cornboise,” said Crisp.
    â€œI am under your orders.” Ralph sat down. “But I shall not answer any more questions.”
    â€œThen you can listen. In your confession you state that you left the library at five fifteen after killing your uncle. Your statement as to time has been confirmed by two independent witnesses, one of whom is Mr. Querk.”
    â€œYou have discovered that I am not a liar! Congratulations, Colonel!”
    Crisp turned to Querk.
    â€œMr. Querk, did you enter the library after you had seen Mr. Cornboise leave it?” As Querk assented. “Did you then have a conversation with Lord Watlington lasting until approximately five thirty?”
    â€œI did, Chief Constable.”
    Ralph sprang from his chair. Crisp motioned him to silence.
    Querk seized the opportunity to go on talking.
    â€œBut surely my friend, Mr. Cornboise, does not maintain that he did this dreadful deed before five thirty?”
    â€œWhat’s the good, Querk!” groaned Ralph. “I know you think it’s kind of you—it is kind! But they’ll prove you’re only trying to save me. And I don’t even want to be saved!”
    â€œRalph! You want us to believe that you killed your uncle? Before five fifteen? Come, my dear boy!”
    Exasperated, Ralph dropped back in his chair without answering.
    â€œHe does believe it, Chief Constable!” exclaimed Querk. “It is the clearest possible case of hallucination. He can even persuade himself that I am telling a deliberate falsehood.”
    â€œOh, shut up, Querk!” snapped Ralph. “It’s no good, I tell you!”
    â€œYou observe,” said Querk with triumph, “how irritably he addresses—er—myself. Because I am menacing the hallucination. There can be no question whatever of my friend’s sincerity. I gladly pardon his brusquerie. Such cases are well authenticated. The patient first wishes he had killed a given person. I grieve to admit that he wishes he had killed his uncle, but before all else, Chief Constable, we must be realistic. The patient—”
    A snort of ill-temper came from Ralph.
    â€œCan’t you let me off this, Colonel? I’ve saved you a lot of trouble—you might treat me decently!”
    â€œThe patient,” boomed Querk, “becomes terrified of his own wish—it is his secret fear of himself that gives the nightmare the semblance of reality.”
    â€œI’m not a patient, damn you!” shouted Ralph.
    So far the process of shaking them up together had yielded little but noise. Crisp decided to give it direction.
    â€œCornboise, wouldn’t you like to ask Mr. Querk a few questions?”
    â€œAbout that psychological nonsense? No thanks. I’ve had a bellyfull of the subconscious from—others. I’ll ask you a question, Chief Constable. I happen to know as well as you do that a doctor can tell how long a chap’s been dead. What time did my uncle die?”
    For a second only, Crisp hesitated.
    â€œBetween five and five thirty,” he said.
    â€œChief Constable! ” gasped Querk.
    â€œThere you are, Querk!” Ralph laughed contemptuously. “If you prove I didn’t do it, you prove you did.”
    Querk constructed a smile—the smile that suffocates opponents with understanding and forgiveness.
    â€œI think, my dear boy, that I can safely leave the Chief Constable to deal with that little dilemma!”
    There fell a short, intense silence.
    â€œI don’t know the answer,” said Crisp.
    With tolerance, with dignity, the saintlike smile faded. Querk coughed, gave a little deprecatory laugh. “Can it be, Chief Constable, that you think it is I who am suffering from hallucination? That Mr. Cornboise did indeed kill poor Lord Watlington?”
    â€œI don’t believe you’re suffering from hallucination,” answered Crisp. “And I