The Second Shot by Anthony Berkeley Read Free Book Online Page A

at that moment I had had a gun, a knife or a bludgeon – I say it frankly! – I would have killed Eric Scott-Davies.

chapter three
    ‘Pinkie, I’ve got to go down and get some bluebells before lunch for Ethel. Like to come and help me gather them?’
    ‘Thank you, Armorel,’ I smiled. ‘I should have liked to very much, but unfortunately I have another task myself.’
    This little rencontre, the morning after Eric Scott-Davies’ monstrous behaviour, was typical. Everybody, with the exception of De Ravel who had now come out in his true colours and definitely ranged himself on the oaf’s side, had been going out of their way to show, by such small but unmistakable indications, their appreciation of the way I had taken the affair. Apparently I had been elected, of all things, a ‘sportsman’. It was ridiculous, but I found myself positively warming towards people for whom I had had hitherto, I must confess, no other feeling than a mild contempt.
    Elsa, too, who with all her innocence could hardly have been unaware that it was, so to speak, in her cause that I had suffered, was sweetness itself. It did me good to see the prettily embarrassed way in which she repelled Eric’s victorious advances. Indeed, if I had done anything to avert the doom which hung over her, I was more than content.
    When I came downstairs that evening, then, after changing my clothes, beyond apologizing to my hostess for having no second evening suit with me, I made no further reference to the incident, realizing indeed that anything of the sort would be almost more awkward for Ethel and John than for myself. Nor did the others, when they returned from the bathing pool. There was nevertheless, and naturally, a feeling of some restraint. To ease it I engaged John Hillyard in a discussion upon the modern detective story, putting forward some of the tentative views which I held on that subject.
    ‘The crimes you writers invent are too artificial, John,’ I said, purposely provocative. ‘Too far-fetched. The great crimes in real life are the simple ones. The classical murderers didn’t seek involved and intricate ways of dealing death. They killed simply.’
    John muttered something into his whisky-and-soda to the effect that the great crimes of real life might be fine crimes, but they’d make rotten detective stories.
    ‘Exactly,’ I agreed instantly. ‘Because all you writers confuse intricacy with interest. You think the one means the other. It doesn’t, by any means. Does it, Armorel?’ I added, to bring her into the conversation.
    ‘I don’t expect so,’ she said, rather doubtfully. The discussion was, no doubt, a little above her head.
    ‘Yes, but our object is to bewilder the reader,’ said John. ‘Can’t expect us to stick too close to real life, you know.’
    ‘And do you know why?’ I countered triumphantly. ‘Because you must have a bewildering variety of clues to enable you to detect your own crimes – those of you who really do detect them. That’s why. If you were confronted with a mystery in real life, with no machine-made clues – a mystery such as the ordinary country detective inspector is often called upon to solve – why, you’d be able to make nothing of it at all. Yes, you’re all full of theories, John, but you could never turn one of them to practical account,’ I cried.
    Ethel clapped her hands gently in pretended applause, and John, who knew when he was beaten and could find nothing to say, took refuge in a yawn which he hastily pretended to stifle.
    I turned to the others, who had been following my words intently – all, that is, except Eric, who had the grace to absent himself, and Elsa Verity, who after shaking her head for some time at his efforts from through the window to induce her to join her out-of-doors, had (I was grieved to see) finally consented; no doubt feeling that the rest of us would be happier without him, even though it meant the sacrificing of herself.
    ‘Don’t you agree