“Sorry,” Elliot was beginning—when he stopped short with an uncanny feeling that the world had slipped its moorings. “Swine, damned swine, clever swine.” He had not said those words aloud. He had seen them in his mind as clearly as though they were written on moving teletype, but he had not spoken them. This girl might be intelligent, except as concerned Mr. George Harding. But she was not a mind-reader.
Marjorie herself appeared to be unconscious of it.
“And how I hoped,” she said, with a kind of violence, “that George would give Uncle Marcus back as good as he sent! Oh, I wanted him to make a good impression. Naturally. But this—this
humble
tail-wagging was too much. There was a day in Pompeii when Uncle Marcus decided to have the whole thing out, just like that (in front of Wilbur and Professor Ingram too), and right in a public place where anyone might have walked in. He as good as gave George his orders, exactly how everything was to be managed for the future; and George took it like a lamb. And you ask me why I felt low and dispirited and ready to scream when I stepped off that ship! I saw there wasn’t going to be any change. I saw my life was going on exactly as it always had before. Everywhere I turned it would be nothing but Uncle Marcus, Uncle Marcus, Uncle Marcus.”
Elliot pulled himself up.
“You didn’t like your uncle?”
“Of course I liked him. I loved him. But that isn’t the point. Do you understand?”
“Ye-es, I suppose so.”
“He was wonderful, in his own way. He’s done everything for me, and he went out of his way to give me a wonderful holiday when I needed it. But if you could only have heard him talk for five minutes! And then these eternal, non-stop arguments with Professor Ingram about crime—even when there was real, true crime right here among us—and his ‘criminological’ manuscript.…”
Elliot abruptly picked up his pencil again.
“Criminological manuscript?”
“Yes; I told you. He was always working at some scholarly effort or another, but mostly to do with the science of the mind. That’s why he was so thick with Professor Ingram. He used to say, ‘Well, you maintain that a practising psychologist would make the greatest criminal alive. Why not be a pioneer in the interests of science? Commit a purely disinterested crime and prove your theory.’ Brr!”
“I see. And what did Professor Ingram say to that?”
“He said no, thanks. He said he wouldn’t commit a crime until he could devise a perfect alibi——”
(Elliot had heard this somewhere before.)
“—and, so far as even a practising psychologist could see, it was still impossible for a man to be in two places at the same time.” Marjorie crossed her knees and leaned back against the sofa. “What gave me the shivers was that they were always so cool and calm about it. Because, you see, it has happened. All these horrible things are going on, and we don’t know how or who or why. And now Wilbur is dead.
Wilbur,
who never did anybody the least harm, any more than Frankie Dale or the Anderson children or Uncle Marcus himself. I’m nearly at the end of my string, es-especially when they begin throwing stones at
me
and heaven knows what else that might happen to me. Like lynching or burning or I don’t know what. Help me. Please help me!”
She paused.
Such a soft and vital directness had come into her voice, such a strength of appeal, that Elliot came near losing his official calm. She was leaning forward, her hand outstretched as though she were asking to be helped up from the sofa; and her eyes never left his. It was here that they heard outside the closed door a continued noise like an elephant stumping and pawing the ground, and a trumpeting sound like a challenge at feeding-time. After this there was a loud knock; Dr. Fell, navigating the doorway sideways, turned round and blinked down at them.
“I don’t want to interrupt,” he said, “but I think you’d better postpone questioning until a little later. Crow and Bostwick are on their way up. I think it would be better for you to go, Miss Wills. Mr. Stevenson is locking up the shop; but his assistant will drive you home in the car. Then——”
He fastened his eyes on the cinema-projector.
Major Crow and Superintendent Bostwick passed Marjorie in the doorway as she was going out. But Major Crow did not speak until the door had closed. He was himself again.
“Good morning, Inspector,” he said politely. “Or rather, good afternoon. We were unable to find you this morning.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“It is of no consequence,” said the other, still politely. “I only wanted to tell you that there is the small matter of another death to be considered——”
“I said I was sorry, sir.”
“Since you went to my friend Fell, I’ve got no objection. You had more luck than I had.
I
tried to interest him in this business last June. But no. Wasn’t sensational enough for him, it seems. No hermetically sealed rooms. No supernatural elements. No funny business at the Royal Scarlet Hotel. Only a brutal murder by strychnine, and several near-murders. But now we’ve got a broad range of evidence, and two more victims—one of whom, Inspector, it might be worth your while to examine——”
Elliot picked up his notebook.
“I’ve told you twice I was sorry, sir,” he replied slowly. “I don’t see that I need to say it again. And furthermore, if you want the truth, I don’t admit I’ve neglected anything I should have attended to. By the way, are there any constables in Sodbury Cross?”
Bostwick, who had also taken out a pipe and pouch, stopped in the act of unscrewing the stem of the pipe.
“There are, my lad,” he said. “And why do you want to know that, now?”
“Only because I didn’t see any. Somebody smashed a plate-glass door downstairs with a stone, and made a noise you could hear as far as Bath; but I didn’t see any.”
“Dash my buttons,” said Bostwick, suddenly blowing down the stem of the pipe and looking up again. It was an optical illusion; but his face seemed to swell to a startling extent. “What do you mean by that, now?”
“What I say.”
“If you mean,” said Bostwick, “that I think—mind, I say I think—that pretty soon we’ll be able to arrest a certain young lady who needn’t be named—why, yes, I do think it.”
“HEY!” roared Dr. Fell.
It was a blast that shook the window-frames, making all the contestants turn round.
“This has got to stop,” said Dr. Fell seriously. “You are rowing over nothing, and you know it. If there is anybody to be blamed, blame me. The real reason for all this tempest (and you know this too) is that each of you has a different, definite, preconceived, and stubborn notion as to who is guilty. For the love of Mike come off it, or we shall get nowhere.”
Major Crow broke the tension by chuckling. It was an honest, homely sound; both Elliot and Bostwick grinned.
“The old blighter’s quite right,” agreed Major Crow. “Sorry, Inspector. The fact is (you could add) we’ve got our nerves so much on edge that we can’t see straight. And we’ve got to see straight. We’ve
got
to.”
Bostwick extended his tobacco-pouch to Elliot. “Have a fill,” he invited.
“Thanks. I don’t mind if I do.”
“And now,” said Dr. Fell murderously, “now that the amenities are preserved and a general warmth of cosiness reigns o’er all——”
“I don’t admit I have a definite, preconceived notion,” said Major Crow with dignity. “I haven’t. All I know is that I’m right. When I saw that poor devil Emmet lying there—”
“Hah!” muttered Superintendent Bostwick, with such a sceptical and sinister inflection that Elliot was surprised. He wondered in what direction they were headed now.
“—but there’s nothing to go on, Inspector. Nothing to hold to. There Emmet is: bang. Someone walked in during the night and put a hypodermic into his arm. Nobody heard, or will admit having heard, anything suspicious in the night. Anybody could have done it. Even an outsider could have done it, because they never lock doors at Bellegarde. Very few people hereabouts do lock doors at night. I say even an outsider could have done it, though I know what I think. Oh: and I’ve seen West, by the way, for the medical report. Chesney was killed with pure prussic acid, about a grain of it. That is, there were no traces of other ingredients to show he was killed with a preparation of the stuff like potassium cyanide or mercury cyanide. And that’s all we’ve got.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Dr. Fell with satisfaction. “Here’s Mr. Stevenson. Now, my lad. We’re ready. Touch her off.”
An uneasy silence settled on the group.
Stevenson, conscious of his own importance, trod lightly and had a tendency towards fussiness. After mopping his forehead, he inspected the fire. He glanced at the windows. He studied the sheet hung in the space between the double-doors. After a prolonged scrutiny of the table, he hauled it back, bumping, until it was almost against the wall opposite the sheet. Then he pushed it forward some inches. From a bookcase he dragged out a number of volumes of the
Encyclopaedia Britannica,
which he piled up on the table to make a higher platform for the projector. All four investigators were now smoking pipes, so that a cloud of smoke rose in the dusky room. They had a tendency to prowl.
“This won’t work,” said Major Crow suddenly. “Something’ll go wrong.”
“But what can go wrong?” demanded Elliot.
“I don’t know. Some damned thing. This is too easy. You’ll see.”
“I assure you it’s all right, sir,” said Stevenson, turning a perspiring face. “Ready in just a second.”
The silence lengthened, except for an occasional mysterious tinkling sound in Stevenson’s operations, or a mournful whish of traffic from the High Street. Stevenson edged the sofa to one side so that there was an uninterrupted line to the screen. He arranged chairs. There was a slight wrinkle in the screen, so he altered the position of a drawing-pin and smoothed that out. Finally, while a vast breath of relief came from the spectators, he moved back slowly on his heels towards the windows.
“Now, gentlemen,” he said, groping for one curtain. “Ready. If you’ll just take chairs before I close these curtains——”
Dr. Fell lumbered over to the sofa. Bostwick sat down gingerly on the edge beside him. Elliot drew a chair to a position closer to the screen but at one side of it. There was a rattle of rings as one set of curtains swept together.
“Now, gentlemen——”
“Stop!” said Major Crow, taking the pipe out of his mouth.
“Oh, my ancient hat,” howled Dr. Fell, “what is it NOW?”
“No need to get excited about it,” protested the other. He pointed with the stem of his pipe. “Suppose—well, suppose nothing does go wrong.”
“That’s what we’re waiting to see, you know.”
“Suppose it comes out as we hope. There are certain things we’re bound to get: Dr. Nemo’s actual height, for instance. It’s only fair to take a show of hands now. What are we going to see? Who was Dr. Nemo? What do you say, Bostwick?”
Superintendent Bostwick turned round a moon-face over the back of the sofa. He held his pipe in such a way that it seemed to be poised in the air behind his head.
“Well, sir, if you ask me—I haven’t got much doubt we shall find he was Mr. Wilbur Emmet”
“Emmet! Emmet? But Emmet’s dead!”
“He wasn’t dead then,” the Superintendent pointed out.
“But—never mind, than. What’s your view, Fell?”
“Sir,” said Dr. Fell with polished courtesy, “my view is this. My view is only that I wish to be allowed to have a view. On some points I am certain what we shall see. On other points I am uncertain what we shall see. On still further points I am beginning not to give a curse what we see, provided only that we are ultimately permitted to get on and see it.”
“Right-ho!” said Stevenson.
The remaining curtains swept shut. Now the darkness was broken only by the faint glow of the fire, or the uncertain goblin gleam of a pipe. Elliot became conscious of the dampness which clings to old stone houses; of stuffiness, and smoke. He had no difficulty in making out the shapes or faces of any of his companions: even of Stevenson at the back of the room. Stevenson moved round, stepping gingerly to avoid the electric flex attached to the projector. He switched it on. Chinks and gleams of light sprang up from the box, illuminating him like an alchemist over a crucible; and the beam of the projector, which the smoke caught and followed, appeared on the screen in a blank white patch some four feet square.
From the back of the room came a series of rattling, tinny sounds, and a click as of something opened or shut. The projector began to hum, rising to a steady whirring noise. The screen flashed, flickered, and then went dead black.
There was nothing wrong, for the whirring noise still filled the room. The blackness continued, shot a little with grey, and wavering slightly. It seemed to go on interminably. Then a faint blur of light appeared, becoming a dazzle. It was as though a vertical crack was opening down the centre of the screen, with a vague black blur pushing and stretching it open. Elliot knew what it was. They were back in the Music Room facing the office; and Marcus Chesney was pushing open the double-doors.
Someone coughed. The picture jumped a little; then they saw, as though cut off from them by a lawn of darkness, the back part of the office at Bellegarde. A moving shadow wavered along the edge of it, evidently that of a man walking back to the table. Harding had taken the picture from slightly too far to the left, so that you could not see the French windows. The light was vague and rather bad despite its sharpness of shadow. But you could distinctly see the glimmering mantelpiece, the face of the clock whose pendulum threw back gleams, the back of a desk-chair, the broad table-top, the chocolate-box whose pattern showed grey, and the two tiny pencil-like articles lying on the blotter. Then there was a stir at the edge of the light—and Marcus Chesney’s face stared out from the screen.
Marcus Chesney was not a pleasant sight. Due to the placing of the light, the absence of make-up, the jumpy flickering world created by the unsteady camera, he looked already dead. His face was bloodless, his eyebrows accentuated and eye-sockets hollowed out, his cheeks streaked with darkness whenever he turned his head. But he wore an expression of high and lofty calmness. He bobbed into the picture, moving leisurely.…