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They were dearer to me than I can bring myself to say, I have said. Let's just say that I thought of Ned Beaumont as a brother, a wild, hotheaded, let us say "peremptory" brother, but a brother nonetheless. Daisy Buchanan? Have you ever seen moonlight on some lake? Have you ever heard mission bells ringing? That was Daisy. Oh, I know my own reputation as a hardheaded, ruthless "tycoon" of the publishing world. But Daisy—she would melt you, truth to tell, destroy you with her gentleness. Ned Beaumont was breaking her heart. Of course I was concerned. That doesn't mean that I would have killed him! If I could only remember what happened earlier this evening——— But I will remember!

The police should be here soon.

It's I who called them, Halpin's the name.

Let me take you back, and take myself back too. (What good is it if I take you back and leave myself here? Who then will tell you the dark tale?) Back to the beginning of this unbelievably tragic affair. Perhaps the truth can then be seen, emerging like the image in a jigsaw puzzle. Perhaps it will not, but lie there (the truth) in myriad pieces, waiting for a surer hand and a more perceptive eye than mine to put it all together. If people are hurt, they'll just have to be hurt.

Call me Halpin—Martin Halpin. Some of my friends call me Marty. Some few call me "Chuck."

Better not think about it.

I've used the name Halpin—Martin Halpin—for so long now that we might as well be done with it and say that it is my name, and that I have no other. After all, what portends in a name? 'tis mine, 'tis his.

The lake is speckled with little whitecaps flicked up by the wind from the darkling Canadian forests. It's beautiful in an unearthly way. One would never think that next door, in the den, Ned Beaumont lies on the floor, his head bashed in by an andiron, or some other blunt instrument.

It's all unreal.

Let's say that I'm Martin Halpin. Who cares? For the purposes of my story that name will do as well as any. If you'd prefer to call me by another name, that's all right, but remember what it is you choose to call me so that when you hear the name "Martin" or "Halpin" or even "Marty" or "Chuck," and so on, you'll know it's I. I've done all right as Martin Halpin for years, and I'll keep on doing all right. If there are any more years!

The police are on their way.

I called them about two minutes ago.

Next door, in the den, Ned Beaumont is slumped in a chair, a bullet hole above his right temple.

So if Halpin is all right with you—it's certainly all right with me—then, call me Halpin. The night is dark and windy. Winter is in the air, a cold front from Canada is moving in. In the den next door lies what is left of Ned Beaumont, my friend, golf partner, business associate, the would-be fiancé of Daisy Buchanan, fresh Daisy, ah! "They" used to say, "fresh as Daisy." They'll say I killed him, perhaps I did. But why would I want to kill Ned Beaumont? "You, Martin 'Chuck' Halpin, killed Ned Beaumont, your business associate, didn't you?" That's what the police will say. And what will I say?

They're coming now. . . .

I'm distraught tonight, Nervous. I don't know why.

I have no motive, not really a motive. Oh, yes, I was—was?—am in love with Daisy Buchanan, but that's no motive. I happen to know that she didn't really love Ned Beaumont, that she would never have divorced Tom, her husband, for Ned Beaumont or for anyone else. And she would have tired of Ned Beaumont. I can never forget that party for the publication of Cecil Tyrell's new novel, Broken Bottles, when I overheard Daisy at the bar saying, "But surely! Ned Beaumont? You can't be serious! Why he's just an amusing young man." So you can see that I have no motive, no motive at all. If I had wanted to kill someone it would have been Tom, her wretch of a husband. The only thing to do, of course, is to start at the beginning.

The wind is beginning to howl like a damned soul.

Daisy is coming too. I called her right after I called the police.

I somehow want to go in and make Ned Beaumont comfortable. I think I'm beginning to lose my nerve. I don't want to do that. A brandy should help. I'll pour myself a brandy and start at the beginning.

I suppose it all really started with Ned Beaumont and that "magic" act that he took so seriously, Corriendo and Delamode. Oh, certainly it started before that, but it was when those two heartless, gold-digging, and perverse women appeared on the scene that everything started to go downhill—for all of us. Let me tell you about this act. Let me tell you how these two, these two—charlatans—administered their poisonous potions to completely destroy Ned Beaumont's personality and character.

I'll start at the beginning.

The windows are rattling as if some damned soul wants to get into this house of the damned.

Perhaps as I talk the pieces will fall into place like the pieces of a gigantic jigsaw puzzle, and the truth will be seen plain. Perhaps God, or Fate, plays with us as we play with the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, toying with us, trying to make us fit where we don't belong, dropping us to the floor. When I was a boy I remember I had a jigsaw puzzle that depicted a destroyer in action on the high seas. It was a beautiful ship, a "can" of the "Horace Rosette" class. I remember playing with the pieces, toying with them idly, dropping them on the floor, trying to make them fit where they did not belong: perhaps—perhaps God, or Fate, or whatever, toys with us as I toyed with those multicolored pieces.

It was a beautiful ship. That it was a destroyer now seems portentous.

How long ago it all seems now!

It's getting colder now, the wind seems to be calling to me, calling to me with Ned Beaumont's voice!

It was Corrie Corriendo and Berthe Delamode, implausible names (implausible women!) if I ever heard them, who were at the root of this sinister tragedy.