the sound of gunfire, and I’ll swear there wasn’t a weapon fired within yards of me tonight.”
“That ain’t the half of it,” said Mr. Clemens. “Lestrade’s right about one thing, if nothing else—if a man’s been shot, there’s got to be a gun somewhere. Where the hell is it?”
“I wonder . . .” It was Hannah Boulton who spoke, her voice tremulous. She was sitting on the foot of the bed, wringing her hands. She looked to Sir Denis, as if asking permission to speak, and he nodded to her.
“Could it be possible that the shot was not fired in this world?” she asked, her eyes wide. “That would explain why we neither heard nor saw the weapon, and why it cannot now be found.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Sir Denis, slapping his forehead. “I’ve never heard of such a thing, but yes, it might account for the missing gun. Do you think it’s possible, Clemens?”
“I wouldn’t waste time on that idea,” said Mr. Clemens, shaking his head. “It’s against all common sense, not that common sense is all that common anymore.”
“The spirits you heard tonight are real,” said Martha McPhee, quietly. “I know that as well as I know anything.”
“Maybe so, but that ain’t the question on the floor,” said Mr. Clemens, pointing downward. “Even if there is a spirit world, and even if we heard voices from it tonight, you’re going to have a pile of convincing to do if you want me to believe that some spook took a potshot at the doctor.”
“I’m surprised at your lack of imagination,” said Cedric Villiers. “Surely, Clemens, you aren’t going to rule out the possibility of a supernatural agency without due consideration.”
“You’re the ones who ought to be ashamed at your lack of imagination,” said Mr. Clemens. “You haven’t even begun to look at all the perfectly natural explanations for what happened there tonight. Why, there must be dozens of ways it could have been done.”
“Name one,” said Villiers, with a smile that conveyed no warmth at all. “Will you be so kind as to elucidate the matter with one of your perfectly natural explanations, Mr. Clemens?”
“That’s the police’s job, not mine,” said Mr. Clemens. “If you’re promoting the theory that Dr. Parkhurst was murdered by a spook, go right ahead. There’s no law I know against spreading damn-fool ideas. But don’t waste your breath on me—tell it to that Detective Coleman, when it’s your turn to talk. I guess he’ll give it all the consideration it deserves.”
“There, so much for his natural explanations. He as much as admits that he doesn’t have one,” said Villiers, turning to the rest of the room with a superior smirk.
“Now, I wouldn’t sell ol’ Sam short—” McPhee began, but he was interrupted by the door opening to admit Chief Inspector Lestrade, followed by Constable Wilkins.
“Where’s the fellow who says he was in the other room when the shot was fired?” said Lestrade, looking at the group.
“That’s me, sure enough,” said McPhee. “But I didn’t hear no shot, no more than any of the others.”
“And I suppose you knew nothing about the peephole in the wall, did you now?” Lestrade shook his finger under McPhee’s nose.
“Peephole? Why, no, nothing at all about it,” said McPhee, doing a creditable job of appearing surprised.
“How long have you occupied this flat?” Lestrade continued. His gaze was fixed intently on McPhee’s face.
“Five or six weeks, I reckon,” said McPhee, shrugging. “Something just over a month.”
“And you’ve been giving these spiritualist parties the whole time, have you not?”
“Well, off and on, you know. A nonstop party would get pretty tiresome, with all the goings-on—”
“Yes, the goings on must have been quite impressive,” said Lestrade. “Did you install the apparatus, or was it all here already?”
“Apparatus? What in the world do you mean?” said McPhee, his face all innocence. I’d seen exactly the same expression when he’d claimed to have cheated me in order to teach me a lesson.
“I thought it was rather peculiar to find three bellpulls in the foyer of a little flat like this, and none anywhere else,” said the chief inspector, a feral grin on his face. “What do you think happens when you pull them? Or perhaps you already know, don’t you, Mr. McPhee?”
“I reckon a bell rings somewhere, is all,” said McPhee, shrugging. “We’re just regular folks, can’t afford no servants, so we hardly even gave ’em a look, did we, Martha?”
“Why, no, we’re not at all used to that sort of luxury,” said Martha McPhee. “What exactly are you intimating, sir?”
“Why don’t I just show you?” Lestrade said. “These people ought to know exactly what kind of chicanery you were up to so they can make up their own minds about your spiritualist rubbish.”
“Inspector Lestrade, I am sorry to learn that you are so closed-minded,” said Hannah Boulton, disapproval plain on her face. “I would have hoped that the police might have some concern for things beyond this earth.”
“Rubbish I said, and rubbish I meant,” said Lestrade. “Come into the next room, the lot of you, and I’ll show you something to open your eyes.”
Not knowing quite what to expect, I looked at Mr. Clemens, who shrugged. He took his wife on one arm and his daughter Susy on the other, and followed the chief inspector, who had spun on his heel and marched out into the main room. Along with the rest of those in the bedroom, I went with him, curious to see what the detective had discovered. I noticed, though, that McPhee and his wife exchanged a glance that to my eyes suggested quiet resignation to whatever the search had turned up.
Coming into the main room, I found it impossible not to glance at the couch where Dr. Parkhurst’s body lay. To my relief, someone had found a large bedspread and draped it over the body. Even so, I found a macabre urge to peek at the huddled mass under the covering, imagining its posture and terrible expression . . .
“Now, the lot of you stand here while I go into that outer room for a moment,” said Chief Inspector Lestrade, once we were all there in the main room. “Only this time, you’ll have the lights on and the door open.”
He strode through the door, and a moment later we heard a distinct rap from the vicinity of the table. “How’s that?” crowed Lestrade. “Here’s another!” And sure enough, there came another rap, just as predicted, from a different corner of the room.
Mr. Clemens strolled over to the doorway and looked through at the policeman. Behind him, I could see the faces of Detective Coleman and Mrs. Parkhurst, looking out at us. “Do that again, if you don’t mind,” my employer said. A pair of loud raps followed. Mr. Clemens turned and looked back at us, a mischievous smile on his face. “Well, Ed, I think I know why you had to leave the room after the lights went out,” he said.
“Let’s see what this one does,” came Lestrade’s voice, followed by the muffled ringing of a bell. “Oho, a regular orchestra we have here. But that’s not even the best part of it.
