Thirteen
1A lex Restarick was voluble. He also gestured with his hands.
“I know, I know! I’m the ideal suspect. I drive down here alone and on the way to the house, I get a creative fit. Ican’t expect you to understand. How should you?”
“I might,” Curry¹ put in drily, but Alex Restarick swept on.
“It’s just one of those things! They come upon you there’s no knowing when or how. An effect—an idea—andeverything else goes to the winds. I’m producing Limehouse Nights next month. Suddenly—last night—the setup waswonderful …the perfect lighting². Fog—and the headlights cutting through the fog and being thrown back—andreflecting dimly a tall pile of buildings. Everything helped! The shots—the running footsteps—and the chug-chuggingof the electric power engine—could have been a launch on the Thames. And I thought—that’s it—but what am I goingto use to get just these effects?—and—”
Inspector³ Curry broke in.
“You heard shots? Where?”
“Out of the fog, Inspector.” Alex waved his hands in the air—plump, well-kept hands. “Out of the fog. That wasthe wonderful part about it.”
“It didn’t occur to you that anything was wrong?”
“Wrong? Why should it?”
“Are shots such a usual occurrence?”
“Ah, I knew you wouldn’t understand! The shots fitted into the scene I was creating. I wanted shots. Danger—opium—crazy business. What did I care what they were really? Backfires from a lorry on the road? A poacher afterrabbits?”
“They snare⁴ rabbits mostly round here.”
Alex swept on:
“A child letting off fireworks? I didn’t even think about them as—shots. I was in Limehouse—or rather at the backof the stalls—looking at Limehouse.”
“How many shots?”
“I don’t know,” said Alex petulantly⁵. “Two or three. Two close together, I do remember that.”
Inspector Curry nodded.
“And the sound of running footsteps, I think you said? Where were they?”

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