The Safety Pin by J.S. Fletcher

But when Simmons had hidden the revolver in a place where there was no chance of anyone finding it save by a search such as was not likely to be made, he proceeded to another stage in the path to uncertainty. He had no doubt whatever that the revolver was his brother's: Simmons knew all about it, how and why John 'had got it, and where John kept it. There was no secret about that; the revolver's usual resting place was in a certain drawer in John's bedroom--a drawer in which lay a miscellaneous collection of odds and ends and was always unlocked. He repaired to that drawer--to make sure. There was no revolver there: he had never thought there would be. He had the revolver; that revolver; the revolver with the initials J.H. scratched on the metal. So that was--that! When the whole thing was summarised it came to this--he, Simmons, had found a revolver in Mrs. Champernowne's orchard, close to the place whereat James Deane's body had been found, shot through the head, and the revolver was undoubtedly the property of his brother, John Hackdale. That was certain--certain as that he was Simmons, and that that was cold beef, there on the supper table. All right !--but what next? His ideas were still a little confused, but he had no doubt about one thing. He was going to turn this, and everything else connected with it, to his own advantage. All his life he had been sedulously sucking into his mental system the lesson which his elder brother had taught him from childhood--"Look to yourself! Self first!--and damn the rest!" --that was Simmons' creed, and he was a veritable bigot in his belief in it. He was not greatly concerned as to whether his brother actually shot Deane, or whether Mrs. Champernowne did, or whether Mr. Alfred did, but he was sure that one or other of 'em did, and that he had the means of proving their guilt--probably all three were guilty, as principals or accessories. Never mind that--it was an insignificant detail; for all he cared they could have shot Deane every day in the week if they liked. His care was for what he could make out of his knowledge. Mrs. Champernowne must pay--she was the person with the purse. Oh yes !--at last he had got her, and John, and all the lot in a string, and he would pull the string !--tightening and tightening it until they crawled to his feet, if need be. There was only one person to be considered--himself. He would cheerfully throw Mrs. Champernowne and her brother to the police if need be--cheerfully. And John, too--for it was self first, self all the time. But Simmons knew there would be no throwing anybody to the police--Mrs. Champernowne would pay. And all that was necessary now was, to walk warily, make sure of one or two little points; and then choose the exact, the psychological moment for a swift, determined, ruthless stroke.

His brother came in. Simmons behaved as if nothing had happened. He ate his supper, chatted, sat up a while smoking cigarettes while John-smoked his pipe, and eventually went to bed congratulating himself on his luck. What with his undoubted success with Miss Pretty and his discovery in the orchard he had had a good day, a splendid day. He slept soundly.