Free Miss Marple and Mystery by Agatha Christie

in and was lying concealed there. But his search revealed nothing. His man Milson, was away, and the flat was absolutely empty.
    He returned to his bedroom and undressed slowly, frowning to himself. The sense of danger was acute as ever. He went to a drawer to get out a handkerchief, and suddenly stood stock still. There was an unfamiliar lump in the middle of the drawer – something hard.
    His quick nervous fingers tore aside the handkerchiefs and took out the object concealed beneath them. It was a revolver.
    With the utmost astonishment Dermot examined it keenly. It was of a somewhat unfamiliar pattern, and one shot had been fired from it lately. Beyond that, he could make nothing of it. Someone had placed it in that drawer that very evening. It had not been there when he dressed for dinner – he was sure of that.
    He was about to replace it in the drawer, when he was startled by a bell ringing. It rang again and again, sounding unusually loud in the quietness of the empty flat.
    Who could it be coming to the front door at this hour? And only one answer came to the question – an answer instinctive and persistent.
    ‘Danger – danger – danger . . .’
    Led by some instinct for which he did not account, Dermot switched off his light, slipped on an overcoat that lay across a chair, and opened the hall door.
    Two men stood outside. Beyond them Dermot caught sight of a blue uniform. A policeman!
    ‘Mr West?’ asked the foremost of the two men.
    It seemed to Dermot that ages elapsed before he answered. In reality it was only a few seconds before he replied in a very fair imitation of his man’s expressionless voice:
    ‘Mr West hasn’t come in yet. What do you want with him at this time of night?’
    ‘Hasn’t come in yet, eh? Very well, then, I think we’d better come in and wait for him.’
    ‘No, you don’t.’
    ‘See here, my man, my name is Inspector Verall of Scotland Yard, and I’ve got a warrant for the arrest of your master. You can see it if you like.’
    Dermot perused the proffered paper, or pretended to do so, asking in a dazed voice:
    ‘What for? What’s he done?’
    ‘Murder. Sir Alington West of Harley Street.’
    His brain in a whirl, Dermot fell back before his redoubtable visitors. He went into the sitting-room and switched on the light. The inspector followed him.
    ‘Have a search round,’ he directed the other man. Then he turned to Dermot.
    ‘You stay here, my man. No slipping off to warn your master. What’s your name, by the way?’
    ‘Milson, sir.’
    ‘What time do you expect your master in, Milson?’
    ‘I don’t know, sir, he was going to a dance, I believe. At the Grafton Galleries.’
    ‘He left there just under an hour ago. Sure he’s not been back here?’
    ‘I don’t think so, sir. I fancy I should have heard him come in.’
    At this moment the second man came in from the adjoining room. In his hand he carried the revolver. He took it across to the inspector in some excitement. An expression of satisfaction flitted across the latter’s face.
    ‘That settles it,’ he remarked. ‘Must have slipped in and out without your hearing him. He’s hooked it by now. I’d better be off. Cawley, you stay here, in case he should come back again, and you keep an eye on this fellow. He may know more about his master than he pretends.’
    The inspector bustled off. Dermot endeavoured to get at the details of the affair from Cawley, who was quite ready to be talkative.
    ‘Pretty clear case,’ he vouchsafed. ‘The murder was discovered almost immediately. Johnson, the manservant, had only just gone up to bed when he fancied he heard a shot, and came down again. Found Sir Alington dead, shot through the heart. He rang us up at once and we came along and heard his story.’
    ‘Which made it a pretty clear case?’ ventured Dermot.
    ‘Absolutely. This young West came in with his uncle and they were quarrelling when Johnson brought in the drinks. The old boy was threatening