I pushed myself painfully off the table and limped round till I was within three feet of him.
“You can’t prove any of this,” Raine said hoarsely.
“That’s why I have to kill you here,” I agreed indifferently. “No court in the country would look at my case. No proof, but there were many things that pointed to your guilt, Raine, things that I didn’t see till it was too late. How did Fleck know that Marie had a gun in the false bottom of her bag-scientists’ wives don’t usually carry guns. Why did LeClerc-Witherspoon, as I knew him then-say we weren’t long married, we didn’t behave that way? Later, why did he show no surprise when I told him we weren’t married? He said I’d a photographic memory-how the hell did he know that unless you told him? Why did LeClerc and Hewell try to cripple me with a heavy safe-they knew I was an intelligence agent, you told them and they didn’t want me snooping around? Who gave Fleck security clearance from London? How did they know the Shrike was about to be tested, if the word hadn’t been relayed from London? Why was no attention paid to the S.O.S. cable I sent to London, no action taken? LeClerc spun a yarn about sending a second message cancelling the first, but you know every message to this office, coded or plain, must have my identification word ‘Bilex’ in the middle. Why were no enquiries made at the Grand Pacific Hotel after our disappearance: I checked on the way home and neither the government house nor the police had been asked to investigate? The observer who was supposed to accompany us on the plane never reported our disappearance-for there was no observer, was there Colonel Raine? Pointers, only, not proof: you’re right, I couldn’t prove a thing.”
Raine smiled: the man seemed to have no nerves at all.
“How would you feel, Bentall, if you killed me and found out you were completely wrong?” He leaned forward and said softly: “How would you feel if I gave you absolute proof, here and now, that you’re completely, terribly wrong?”
“You’re wasting your time, Colonel Raine. Here it comes.”
“But damn it, man, I’ve got the proof!” he shouted. “I’ve got it right here. My wallet-”
He lifted his left lapel with his left hand, reached for the inside pocket with his right, the small black automatic was clear of his coat and the finger tightening on the trigger when I shot him through the head at point-blank range. The automatic spun from his hand, he jerked back violently in his seat, then fell forward, head and shoulders striking heavily on the dusty desk.
I took out my handkerchief, pulling with it a piece of paper that fluttered to the floor. I let it lie. Handkerchief in hand I picked up the fallen gun, replaced it in his inside pocket, wiped the Luger, pushed it in the dead man’s hand, pressed his thumb and fingers against the butt and trigger, then let gun and hand fall loosely to the table. I then smeared doorknobs, armrests, wherever I had touched, and picked up the fallen paper.
It was the note from Marie. I opened it, held it by a corner above Raine’s ashtray, struck a match and watched it slowly burn away, the tiny flame creeping inexorably down the paper until it reached the words at the-foot, “You and me and the lights of London”, until those, too, one by one, were burnt and blackened and gone. I crushed the ash in the tray and went.
I closed the door with a quiet hand and left him lying there, a small dusty man in a small dusty room.
THE END