Hannah was not an expert in handguns. He would not have known, at a glance, a Webley 4.55 from a Colt .44 Magnum. Not to look at, that is.
“Fine, Alan. Now tell me, what is so special about the Webley 4.55?”
“Its age. It’s a bloody antique. It was first issued in 1912, discontinued about 1920. It’s a revolver with an extremely long barrel, quite distinctive. They were never very popular because that extra-long barrel kept getting in the way. Accurate though, for the same reason. They were issued as service revolvers to British officers in the trenches in the First World War. Have you ever seen one?”
Hannah thanked him and replaced the receiver.
“Oh yes,” he breathed, “I’ve seen one.”
He was rushing across the hall when he saw that strange man Dillon from the Foreign Office.
“Use the phone if you like. It’s free,” he called, and climbed into the Jaguar.
When he was shown in, Missy Coltrane was in her wheelchair in the sitting room. She greeted him with a welcoming smile.
“Why, Mr. Hannah, how nice to see you again,” she said. “Won’t you sit down and take some tea?”
“Thank you, Lady Coltrane, I think I prefer to stand. I’m afraid I have some questions to ask you. Have you ever seen a handgun known as a Webley 4.55?”
“Why now, I don’t think I have,” she said meekly.
“I take leave to doubt that, ma’am. You have in fact got one. Your late husband’s old service revolver. In that trophy case over there. And I’m afraid I must take possession of it as vital evidence.”
He turned and walked to the glass-fronted trophy case. They were all there—the medals, the insignia, the citations, the cap badges. But they were rearranged. Behind some of them could be dimly discerned some oil smudges on the hessian, where another trophy had once hung.
Hannah turned back. “Where has it gone, Lady Coltrane?” he asked tightly.
“Dear Mr. Hannah, I’m sure I don’t know what you are talking about.”
He hated to lose a case, but he could feel this one slipping slowly away. The gun or a witness—he needed one or the other. Beyond the windows the blue sea was darkling in the fading light. Somewhere out there, deep in its unquestioning embrace, he knew lay a Webley 4.55. Oil smudges do not make a court case.
“It was there, Lady Coltrane. On Thursday, when I came to see you. It was there in the cabinet.”
“Why, Mr. Hannah, you must be mistaken. I have never seen any .. . Wembley.”
“Webley, Lady Coltrane. Wembley is where they play football.” He felt he was losing this match six-nil.
“Mr. Hannah, what exactly is it you suspect of me?” she asked.
“I don’t suspect, ma’am, I know. I know what happened. Proof is another matter. Last Tuesday, at about this hour, Firestone picked you and your chair up with those huge arms of his and placed you in the back of your van, as he did on Saturday for your shopping expedition. I had thought perhaps you never left this house, but with his help, of course, you can.
“He drove you down to the alley behind the Governor’s residence, set you down, and with his own hands tore the lock off the steel gate. I thought it might take a Land-Rover and chain to pull that lock off, but of course he could do it. I should have seen that when I met him. I missed it. Mea culpa.
“He pushed you through the open gate and left you. I believe you had the Webley in your lap. Antique it may have been, but it had been kept oiled over the years, and the ammunition was still inside it. With a short barrel you’d never have hit Sir Moberley, not even firing two-handed. But this Webley had a very long barrel, very accurate.
“And you were not quite new to guns. You met your husband in the war, as you said. He was wounded, and you nursed him. But it was in a maquis hospital in Nazi-occupied France. He was with the British Special Operations Executive, and you, I believe, were with the American equivalent, the Office of Strategic Services.
“The first shot missed and hit the wall. The second did the job and lodged in a flower-basket full of loam. That’s where I found it. London identified it today. It’s quite distinctive. No gun ever fired that bullet but a Webley 4.55, such as you had in that case.”
“Oh dear, poor Mr. Hannah. It’s a wonderful story, but can you prove it?”
“No, Lady Coltrane, I can’t. I needed the gun, or a witness. I’ll bet a dozen people saw you and Firestone in that alley, but none of them will ever testify. Not against Missy Coltrane. Not on Sunshine. But there are two things that puzzle me. Why? Why kill that unlovable Governor? Did you want the police here?”
She smiled and shook her head. “The press, Mr. Hannah. Always snooping about, always asking questions, always investigating backgrounds. Always so suspicious of everyone in politics.”
“Yes, of course. The ferrets of the press.”
“And the other puzzle, Mr. Hannah?”