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.

XXXVIII

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.

Algy’s shout and the shot rang out almost together. Dr. Hammond pitched forward into the quarry, and Mr. Brewster whisked round with the pistol in his hand. Algy ran in, swerved, ducked, and got him round the knees. A shot went wide. They came down together.

Algy had the surprise of his life. Falling on Cyril Brewster was like falling on an eel-an eel that writhed, contorted itself, twisted, and was out of his grasp. As he rose on his knees, he saw that Brewster was up already, and that the muzzle of the pistol was only a yard away.

“If you move you’re dead. Hands up!”

“I’m dead anyhow,” said Algy. He put up his hands. Cyril Brewster nodded.

“Quite right. But just a word first. I’ve disliked a great many people in my life, but I’ve hated you. Now I’m going to pay off my score.”

“But, good heavens, why? I mean, why should you hate me? I’ve never-”

“Haven’t you?” said Mr. Brewster. “Think again! My people had to skimp and save to give me a good education. I took scholarships or they couldn’t have done it. You were probably never more than half way up your form. You didn’t have to work. You had time for games-I hadn’t. And so you despise me.”

“Brewster, you’re mad.”

“I assure you that I am not. I am your superior in every possible way, but you despise me because-you have money, and I haven’t-you are an athlete, and I’m not-you have been to a famous school, and I haven’t. Well, now I’ve got you on your knees to me.”

At this point Algy got to his feet. He was certainly for it. He preferred to be shot standing up.

Mr. Brewster did not shoot yet. He said sharply,

“Keep your hands up! I want to tell you what has happened and what is going to happen. You have just shot Dr. Hammond because he had discovered that you were Mr. Zero. You are about to commit suicide. You will be found with the pistol in your hand.”

“And a full confession in my left boot?” said Algy pleasantly.

Something was happening. He was facing the quarry and Mr. Brewster had his back to it. Behind that back something was happening. A hand had come over the lip of the quarry, a very scratched, dirty hand. It felt for a hold and found it. The other hand appeared. Dr. Hammond’s head appeared.

There was blood running down over his forehead. His hair stood bolt upright. He showed all his teeth in a vicious grin.

Algy said, “I still don’t see why you hate me so much, you know. You’ve simply imagined all that about my despising you. Good lord, man, one doesn’t go about despising people!”

Dr. Hammond got a knee over the edge, flung himself forward, and plucked Mr. Brewster’s ankles from under him. A bullet went singing past Algy’s cheek as he ran in. There were two of them now to grapple with that twisting eel, and the two of them had their work cut out.

“The pistol, man-get the pistol!” snapped Jim Hammond, who had been kicked in the face.

Algy got a whirling arm and a wrenching wrist. The pistol went off again. Cyril Brewster’s teeth met in his thumb and with another twist he was free.

The police car came round the corner, bumping over the ruts and bumping off them across the rough ground between the track and the quarry. Inspector Boyce jumped out. Police Constable Collins and the tall young man who had looked doubtfully at Algy in the lane jumped out. They saw three men all running in a very surprising order, because Mr. Brewster, the Home Secretary’s secretary, had the lead. He also had a pistol in his hand. Mr. Somers, whom they had come to arrest, was running him close, and hard upon his heels Dr. Hammond, collarless and dishevelled, with a hand to his jaw.

Mr. Brewster gained a little and, coming round the turn, looked across a quarter circle and saw the second car, the Inspector, and the two policemen. They saw him look down at the pistol in his hand, and they saw him turn and aim at Algy Somers. They heard the crack of the shot.

Perhaps Mr. Brewster had been boasting when he claimed to be a dead shot, perhaps his wrenched wrist betrayed him. He missed handsomely and, with Algy closing in, turned the pistol on himself and did not miss. From the lip of the quarry he stepped back and went crashing down to the rock and the brambles below.