Margaret Millar

The Invisible Worm

1

Mr. Thomas Philips smiled happily. Not every man can afford to retire at the age of forty-five; in fact, not every man in Mr. Philips’s business lived to that age. The mortality rate in certain professions tends to be high, and Mr. Philips was planning an extended trip to South America.

There was nothing of malice in his smile. He intended to retire gracefully. Old grudges were forgotten, and the past was a lucrative, even a pleasant, memory.

He made an excited little gesture with his hands. He was going away and he was never coming back, and it was rather nice to be saying good-by to someone. Tomorrow, Mr. Philips explained, he and Dolly would be on their way, perhaps on the water by this time. It was very late, and he was tired. He scarcely felt the pinprick in his neck, and by the time the hand closed over his mouth it was too late to do anything about it.

The pinprick and the hand... South America... Dolly... and Mr. Philips’s heart stopped beating.

Unaware of Mr. Philips’s existence or its recent termination, Miss Amanda Bailey slept noisily in the old iron bed where she had slept for over fifty years.

It was a bed that a Spartan might have envied. Neither the mattress nor its occupant was disposed to compromise, and they endured each other like two old enemies, neither giving an inch.

It was the telephone which awakened her.

In later years, when Miss Bailey’s story had been so often repeated that it needed a touch of new life, she insisted that she was awakened out of a deep sleep some time before the telephone rang. She had, she claimed, switched on her bedroom light, and suddenly the room seemed quite unfamiliar. At first she could not account for the change at all but then she looked about her and saw the motto on the wall.

A well-nourished angel wearing a hideously smug smile was admonishing the occupant of the room to “Sleep Sweet! Sleep Sweet!”

But this night, Miss Bailey told her friends, she knew something was wrong immediately, for the angel seemed to be saying “Murder! Murder!” instead of “Sleep Sweet!” Her neighbors were delighted at this manifestation of Miss Bailey’s psychic powers, and so was Miss Bailey. The story became part of Mertonville mythology.

Actually it was the telephone ringing which incited Miss Bailey to get out of bed, throw a shapeless grey bathrobe over her shoulders and go downstairs to the front hall.

She picked up the receiver and muttered, “Hello!” rather crossly.

The woman at the other end of the telephone seemed to be out of breath. She asked for Inspector Bailey. Her name, she informed Miss Bailey, was Eve Hays. It was most urgent that she speak to the inspector.

“My brother,” Miss Bailey said coldly, “is asleep. It is two-thirty, and I do not encourage telephone calls in the middle of the night.”

“Obviously not,” said Miss Hays. “Nor do I encourage people to die on my front stairs. I’ve found a body.”

“A body?” Miss Bailey’s voice sank to a hoarse whisper. “You mean a dead person?”

Miss Hays groaned. “Of course, I mean a dead person. A corpse. A body.”

Miss Bailey became brisk. “Man or woman?”

“A man. I found him on the stairs. He must have died of heart failure.”

“Well, really!” Miss Bailey’s disappointment was palpable. “If the man is dead, why don’t you call an undertaker? I see no reason why I should rouse my brother at this time of night simply because a man died of heart failure. Now, if it had been murder—” Her voice rose hopefully.

“Murder?” Miss Hays sounded perplexed. “Oh no, it wasn’t murder. I believe I shall call an undertaker. I didn’t think of it. Thank you, Miss Bailey.”

Miss Bailey cried, “Wait!” but the line was dead.

She frowned and picked up the telephone pad and a pencil. “Call for William,” she wrote. “Two-thirty A.M. Miss Eve Hays found body of man dead from heart failure on stairs.”

She read it over. It was odd, certainly. Surely if a man had a weak heart he would arrange to be in bed at this time of night. And why on the stairs? If the man collapsed, wouldn’t he fall down the stairs? And — this was the strangest part of all — Miss Hays talked as if she did not know him! Decidedly, respectable women did not find the bodies of unknown men on their stairs.

Miss Bailey peered at her own well-polished steps and tried to visualize a dead man lying there; the attempt was so successful that she gave a slight shudder and felt suddenly grateful for the healthy masculine snores that were issuing from William’s room.

Even this part of her story had to be changed in later years. The neighbors were informed that after the telephone call Miss Bailey’s heart leaped wildly and that she could barely stagger into the living room and sink into a chair. When Mrs. Biggies put forward the suggestion that she ought to have called the inspector immediately, Miss Bailey retorted that she had suffered complete paralysis of the vocal organs. Even her dearest friends were frankly skeptical of this statement and justifiably so.

It was not vocal paralysis which made Miss Bailey hesitate so much as sheer common sense. William needed his sleep. It would be absurd to awaken him for no good reason. It was much more logical to assume that Miss Hays was drunk.

Drunk! She tasted the word and found it comforting. There was no doubt of it — the woman was quite drunk. Miss Bailey’s face grew momentarily wistful, but she turned her back firmly to the devil.

“Disgusting!” she snorted.

Halfway up the stairs she stopped abruptly as the telephone began to ring once more. She jerked the receiver off the hook.

Miss Bailey was not at all well acquainted with the effects of alcohol but despite her lack of experience she realized it was queer that Miss Hays’s voice should have undergone such a drastic change in a few minutes. It was thick and hoarse, and Miss Bailey could scarcely understand the stream of words she poured into the telephone.

But the idea was clear enough. Miss Hays was apologizing rapidly and profusely. To Miss Bailey’s intense satisfaction, Miss Hays confessed that she had taken too much to drink. She was sorry she had played such a joke...

“Joke!” Miss Bailey’s voice was strongly disapproving. “You mean you didn’t find a body at all?”

“No, no body,” Miss Hays muttered. “No body. Nobody. G’night.”

Miss Bailey sniffed audibly, walked back to her room, turned the smug angel to the wall and went to sleep.

It was three o’clock.

Mr. Philips was rocking gently back and forth. He had always been afraid of the water but now he floated easily and effortlessly on the waves.

Eve Hays turned her face to the wall and shut her eyes tightly.

Dolly Philips smiled in her sleep.

Inspector William Bailey of the Mertonville police department jumped out of bed at seven-thirty and turned off his alarm. He yawned loudly, touched his toes ten times, flung his arms violently to and fro ten times and sat down weakly in a chair. He mumbled mild threats against his sister as he leaned over to put on his socks.

Amanda was not noted for tact but even she should have known better than to give a man a book on Keeping Fit at Fifty on his forty-seventh birthday. The book indicated that exercises every morning, followed by a cold shower, a vegetarian diet, strict sleeping hours and not too much mental work were the secrets of keeping fit at fifty. Still puffing, the inspector decided to omit the cold shower this morning. He had long since omitted the diet.

Amanda’s voice floated up from the kitchen.

“Will-yum! Don’t forget to wear a clean shirt!” She resumed her absent-minded singing.

William, already halfway buttoned into yesterday’s shirt, groaned and grunted his way out of it and rummaged through his drawer for a clean one. He combed his hair cunningly to hide some of the bald spot that glowed pinkly on the top of his head, buttoned his coat and went down to breakfast.

“Three or four eggs, William?” Amanda asked brightly.

The inspector decided on four, glanced down guiltily at his waistline and amended his decision to three. Amanda slyly remarked that he had a very large frame to fill — surely he could eat four?

After his fourth egg the inspector felt more disposed to conversation and inquired politely but rhetorically after the health of his sister.

“I didn’t close my eyes all night, William!”

Her brother buttered a piece of toast and tried to think of a suitable reply to what he considered a palpable untruth. None came.

“Some silly woman kept telephoning with the most ridiculous story about finding a man’s body on her front stairs. As it turned out she was simply playing a joke, although I must say I didn’t think it very funny!”

The inspector could well believe this. There was a noticeable gap in Amanda’s sense of humor. She laughed uproariously at the antics of Mr. William Powell and considered her forty cents well spent, but outside of the motion-picture theater life was real, life was earnest. The inspector suffered accordingly. Amanda was the desert air on which he wasted the fragrance of his most pungent puns.

“Was the lady in a condition?” he asked delicately.

“Decidedly drunk!” Amanda cried. “She admitted it herself.”

The inspector raised his brows to indicate some slight interest in the matter. “It’s odd that she should. Hadn’t you better tell me the story more coherently?”

Amanda had almost finished when the telephone interrupted her. She jumped up to answer it, but William motioned her to sit down.

He did not come back for ten minutes. Amanda divided her time between trying to listen and trying not to listen. Finally in a sudden fit of honor, she began to rattle dishes vigorously.

William’s reappearance was not an occasion for rejoicing. Amanda knew instantly that something was wrong and that somehow or other she was the culprit.

“Sometimes, my dear Amanda,” the inspector said coldly, “I suspect your mind of being virgin ground.”

Amanda, who for private reasons resented references to virginity, began to expostulate, but the inspector stopped her with a glance.

“That was Doctor Munro on the telephone, Amanda. He is just performing a postmortem on the body of a man who was found in the lake behind the country club.”

“Dear me!” Amanda sat down suddenly. “I — do you really think it’s the man Miss Hays was talking about? Then how did he—?”

“He was murdered, Munro said, in quite a neat way.”

“Stabbed?” said Amanda hopefully.

“I don’t consider stabbing particularly neat. No, I think I shall leave you to puzzle it out for yourself.”

“Will-yum!” Amanda wailed.

William was not touched. “You’ve made a serious error, Amanda. Every minute is important in solving a murder. The man has been dead for six hours, and in those six hours whoever killed him has had an opportunity either to escape or to provide himself with a plausible story. And you alone were responsible for the delay.”

“But you don’t know it’s the same man, William!”

“This is Mertonville, Amanda, and in Mertonville dead bodies do not grow on trees!”

With this botanical truism, the inspector hurried out to his car.

As he drove through the streets of the city, shaded from the heat of a July sun by rows of giant maple trees, the inspector experienced a small thrill of excitement.

The last murder in Mertonville had taken place several years before, and the culprit was apprehended at the scene of his crime, still holding his ax and quite eager to confess. The Mertonville Daily had offered its congratulations to “our brilliant inspector of police, William Bailey, for his promptness and efficiency.” But it was a hollow victory, for any man could have done the same. This murder, he reflected, might prove more interesting.

He stopped his car in front of a large red brick house. A sign on the door informed the general public that inside the house Dr. H. H. Munro, physician and surgeon, was willing to accommodate them between two and four, from seven to eight and by special appointment, providing they ring and walk in.

Bailey walked in.

Mertonville was too small a city to support a regular morgue. But the police surgeon, Dr. Munro, had built a refrigerated room behind his regular office and given it a touch of realism by buying a cracked marble slab from the Chicago morgue. In this room Dr. Munro affectionately stripped the infrequent cadavers that came his way and performed his postmortems with loving care.

The doctor greeted Bailey without joy.

It was slightly disconcerting for the inspector to realize that the welcome would have been heartier had he been a corpse, but the thought did not rankle — the two were friends of long standing.

Only Bailey could have guessed that the sorrowful expression on Munro’s long, thin face was indicative of extreme satisfaction.

The inspector pulled the sheet from the dead man’s face and studied his features with no sign of recognition.

“Did Crabbe get the photographs before you started to — ah, dissect?”

“Half a dozen at least.” Munro stared down at the corpse with pride. “This one had me puzzled at first, but I fixed him. Looks like a nasty fellow, doesn’t he? The water wouldn’t improve him much either. Offhand, I’d say he’s been dead for some time — between one and three this morning is as close as I’d like to put it. He was dead before entering the water. There’s no evidence of any violence and no poison in his stomach.”

“But you said he was poisoned.”

Munro laughed soundlessly. “I said it and I meant it. There was no poison in the fellow’s stomach because it was injected into his neck. Hyoscine or scopolamine. Dissolves like a charm in alcohol or water. Then one jab of a hypodermic needle, and it’s all over.”

Bailey frowned. “I’ve heard of hyoscine but I didn’t know it worked that quickly.”

“Depends how much you use. The medicinal dose is one fiftieth of a grain at the most. It’s frequently used in conjunction with another drug like morphine. Hyoscine is peculiar stuff though. A hundredth of a grain may put one man to sleep and cause another to jump out of a window. This poor fellow did neither. He collapsed in a few seconds probably and died shortly afterward. Neat,” he added dolefully. “Very neat.”

“Is hyoscine easy to obtain?”

Munro shook his head thoughtfully. “No indeed. I’d say doctors or chemists are about the only ones who could get it easily. I mean, it’s not used for killing weeds or treating furs and things, like arsenic. But I’ve no use for a fellow who’d poison someone with arsenic. Very inefficient. Painful stuff, too.” Munro’s voice trailed away when he saw the inspector was not listening.

Bailey wrote some symbols in his notebook. “Any papers to identify him?”

“Not a one. Fact is, one of his pockets was turned inside out — must have been carefully searched. But there was no real effort to prevent identification. The tailor’s label and laundry marks were left in his clothes.”

“May I see them, please?”

Munro disappeared into the adjoining room and brought back a bundle of damp clothing. The inspector examined them carefully — a custom-made silk shirt, English brogues, a grey lounge suit which bore the mark of a Bond Street tailor.

If worst came to worst, Bailey thought, he could trace the man by cabling the London tailor, but he hoped this would not be necessary. Mertonville taxpayers were apt to frown on unnecessary expenditure, and a cable to England would probably elicit several caustic letters in the Mertonville Daily’s “Free Speech” column.

“How old would he be?”

“Oh, about forty, I’d say,” Munro replied. “Obviously well-to-do, don’t you think? Good clothes, body well cared for. I found a couple of stomach ulcers. Want to see them? Very interesting specimens. One was—”

“Later, later,” the inspector said hastily. Munro on the subject of stomach ulcers was likely to prove too much on top of a heavy breakfast, “What do you know about a young woman called Eve Hays?”

Munro looked up with interest. “George Hays’ daughter? You think they’re mixed up in this?”

“Probably.”

“Well, that is interesting. I knew George when he was in short pants. A regular go-getter, that fellow. He could make money with his hands tied behind his back. And then, of course, he married it, too — Barbara Merton. Her grandfather founded this town. Old Simon Merton was a remarkable man, but his son James cut loose and married his stenographer. The old man had a stroke, and James went to live in France and never came back. He and his wife were killed in a motor accident. James’ daughter, Barbara, came to America, and her first official act was to snatch the town’s best bachelor, George Hays. Too bad about Barbara. They say she’s become a bit touched.”

“Touched? You mean she’s a mental case?”

Munro looked slightly uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t go that far. She’s peculiar perhaps.”

“And her daughter, Eve, might possibly have inherited this — ah, peculiarity?”

Munro laughed. “You’ll meet Eve. I wouldn’t want to prejudice you. Oh yes, and there’s a boy in the family, too — Simon Hays. Don’t forget to investigate Simon while you’re at it. I think you’ll find it quite worthwhile.”

Bailey rose impatiently. “All you’ve done is to scatter a few dark hints. This Hays family is wealthy, I gather?”

“Not obtrusively so. They have the cash, all right, but George isn’t the type who’d invite trouble by advertising the fact.”

“Thanks.” The inspector closed his notebook with a snap and put on his hat. “See you later.”

He hurried out to his car, opened the door and let out an exclamation of surprise.

A woman was seated behind the wheel casually smoking a cigarette and flicking the ashes onto the floor. She stared at him rather insolently.

“Are you Bailey?”

The inspector stared back and was reassured by what he saw. If this was Eve Hays, his job was going to be less unpleasant than he had anticipated. Although the woman was not unattractive in an obvious way, her hair was too violently yellow, and her make-up was not fresh. Bailey decided that she had not washed her face the preceding night and he felt more cheerful at the thought.

She did not flinch under his scrutiny. She was, disconcertingly, rather amused.

“Like me?” she asked presently.

The inspector flushed, and the blonde woman uttered a hoarse laugh which stopped as abruptly as it began.

“I’d like to report a disappearance, Mr. Bailey,” she said, lighting another cigarette from the stub of the one she was smoking. “A man called Thomas Philips. He hasn’t been seen since twelve o’clock last night.”

“And you are—?”

The woman seemed surprised. “His wife. Dolly Philips.”

If the inspector had not had much experience in solving murders, he had had more than enough with disappearing husbands. He took out his notebook wearily.

“I’d like the details, please, Mrs. Philips. Have you any reason to believe your husband’s disappearance was involuntary?”

“His disappearance wasn’t involuntary,” Mrs. Philips said sharply. “He went out for a walk — but he never came back.”

She lived, she said, at 123 Claremont Avenue, where she and her husband had intended to stay for the summer. They had arrived in the beginning of June, but her husband had recently altered his plans, and they were to leave shortly on a trip to South America.

“Have you a photograph of Mr. Philips?” the inspector asked.

“Tom didn’t believe in photographs — for entirely private reasons.”

“Can you describe him accurately?”

“I’ll say I can.” Mrs. Philips smiled sardonically. “He was short, about five foot six, and thin. Black hair, brown eyes, a gold tooth at the front. He had a mean-looking face, I’d say, which is not surprising, considering his disposition. He wore a grey suit which was made for him in England. I’m not so particular. Chicago’s good enough for me.”

“What was your husband’s profession?”

“Gentleman.” Mrs. Philips thought this very funny indeed. She threw back her head and roared, and her cigarette fell onto the floor. She stopped laughing instantly and stared at the cigarette uncertainly for a moment, then put out her foot and stepped on it. Bailey noticed the gesture and made a mental note that Dolly Philips’ rise in the world had been recent.

Bailey arranged his face. “I’m afraid there is a great shock in store for you, Mrs. Philips. Your husband has met with an accident.”

The time-worn formula did not deceive Mrs. Philips. “You mean he’s dead? You’ve found him? Don’t beat around the bush, Mr. Bailey, I’ve had worse news.”

The inspector scrapped the little speech of sympathy he had prepared, and his voice was cold. “Will you come with me, please? I’d like a formal identification of the body.”

Mrs. Philips opened the door of Bailey’s car and stepped out. She proved to be quite short and inclined to curves, but her movements were graceful. She followed the inspector through Dr. Munro’s office into the morgue.

Bailey lifted the sheet from the dead man’s face, and the woman peered down at it. She seemed calm after her first shiver of distaste.

“God! Not pretty, is he? Worse than I expected even.” She smiled slightly at the inspector’s expression. “Don’t look so shocked, Mr. Bailey. You’ll be amazed how many people are going to love this! Tom’s fan mail was terrific.”

“Fan mail?”

“Yeah. ‘Stay away from my wife, or I’ll kick your teeth in!’ That sort of thing. It got to be quite monotonous. By the way, how did this happen?”

“Your husband was poisoned last night between one and three o’clock.”

“Poisoned?” Mrs. Philips was perturbed for the first time. “You’re sure?”

“Beyond a doubt. He was thrown into the lake after he was killed.”

Mrs. Philips was having some difficulty removing a cigarette from her case. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” she said thickly.

In the doctor’s waiting room, decorated inartistically with diplomas, some of Mrs. Philips’ self-possession returned. She lit a cigarette with exaggerated nonchalance.

Bailey watched her closely.

Mrs. Philips’ attitude was puzzling. She had not been startled by the removal of her husband but by the method of his removal. He wrote a short note in his book: “Mrs. P. approves the end but not the means. Inferences?”

He looked up suddenly and smiled at her. “I need your assistance badly, Mrs. Philips. I feel that you’ll be invaluable in helping us find out who murdered your husband.”

“You do, eh?” Mrs. Philips raised an amused eyebrow. “We disagree on that point. Tom deserved it. He got it. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry,” the inspector said, still mild. “We don’t consider a murder in that light. If we did we would be encouraging it — no one’s life would be safe. You understand that, surely?”

Mrs. Philips understood perfectly. “I know just how you feel. And now I’ll repeat how I feel. Whoever murdered Tom probably had a good reason — I had a couple of dandies myself — and I don’t care to help electrocute someone who’s done me a pretty good turn. Is that clear?”

“Very,” the inspector replied gravely. “I would like to know where you were between one and three o’clock this morning.”

“In bed. Alone, of course. Sorry I haven’t one of those things — she pointed to Dr. Munro’s diplomas — to prove it, but that’s life for you. Because I’m virtuous I have no alibi. But there’s a possibility I might be able to prove it. It depends.” She blew a smoke ring with great deliberation.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Well, I didn’t look under my bed last night, and so there might have been a man there. You might start canvassing the—”

“Your levity is ill timed, Mrs. Philips. You keep servants, I suppose?”

“I’d guess you’d call them servants. A cook, Marie Somebody-or-other and Jenny Harris, a general maid. They sleep out. That makes it nice — for you.”

“I am not going to attempt to disprove your alibi unless I have a good reason. You have a mistaken notion of the police department. We are not interested in framing innocent people to save our reputations.”

“Hell, no!” said Mrs. Philips without rancor. “I’ll be going now, if you don’t mind.”

“Not leaving town, I hope?” the inspector said grimly.

“Oh no.” She pulled her hat down over one eye and put on her gloves. The inspector watched her from the window as she got into her small blue coupe and drove off.

Dr. Munro entered the waiting room, grinning shamelessly.

“I hope you didn’t miss anything,” Bailey said dryly.

“You can’t expect me not to be interested in the wife of the finest corpse I’ve had in years.”

“What do you think of the — ah, bereaved?”

“I’d say she’s a little too happy about the whole thing,” Munro replied thoughtfully. “It makes you wonder — I mean, I’d hate to think my wife would — I mean, it gives you a jolt, doesn’t it? Gad, you can’t get to know women, can you?”

“Not if you’re married to them,” the inspector said cheerfully. “I’m going out to call on Miss Eve Hays.”

“I’ll save those ulcers for you, eh?” Munro called after him.

“Don’t bother. It’s too much trouble. I’m not worthy.”

“No trouble at all!” Munro shouted.

Bailey sighed deeply and went out to his car. He brushed out the cigarette stubs and ashes which Mrs. Philips had left behind, muttering under his breath. He removed his notebook from his coat pocket to look up the Hayses’ address. It was 149 Clarendon Avenue, interestingly close to the Philips’. The inspector was wearing a pleased smile when he drove away.

Amanda later remarked that surely he, being a Bailey, had had a premonition at this point. But the inspector stuck to his story — he had had no premonitions. In fact, he insisted, he had felt quite happy about the case.

2

Partly against his better judgment Inspector Bailey decided to pick up Sergeant Abbott before he paid a call on Eve Hays. Not that the sergeant would contribute anything to the sum of things, but two detectives are more impressive than one. Besides, if Miss Hays’ mother was “touched,” as Dr. Munro had said, it would be wise to prepare against the laws of heredity.

As Bailey pulled away from the police station he gave Sergeant Abbott a report of the progress he had made so far. The sergeant kept nodding his head sagely.

“These darn rich people are always getting in trouble,” said the sergeant with a sigh. It was two days before payday, and the sergeant was inclined to socialism when he was out of funds.

“Did you get anything about the Hays girl?”

Sergeant Abbott’s face crumpled into a smile. “I thought you’d be asking that, Chief! She’s been in the dock before.”

“She has? What for?”

“Parking in a bus stop.”

The inspector choked. “That’s a colorful record. She must be a hardened criminal, indeed, Sergeant. Are you quite sure that’s all?” The inspector became very gentle. “She didn’t run amok and toss some Mills bombs into the bus driver’s lap?”

Abbott blushed. “Nope. She just parked.”

“Thank you.”

They drove in cold silence until the inspector turned in at the Hayses’ driveway.

“This Eve Hays must be a simpleton,” Bailey said at last. “If she murdered Philips, why did she telephone my house?”

Abbott had long since learned that many of the inspector’s questions were rhetorical and he contented himself with looking profound.

“Well, why don’t you answer?”

Abbott jumped. “I figure she’s smart. She knew that if she reported that she found Philips you wouldn’t suspect her, naturally.”

“Why naturally? I do suspect her.”

“You do? Gosh. Well, in that case, I guess she...” The sergeant’s voice trailed away gloomily. The inspector, he felt, was becoming more difficult every day.

Bailey swept out of the car and up the steps of the huge white veranda, with Abbott scurrying after him.

“Nice dump,” said the sergeant, with his finger on the doorbell. “Funny thing though. If I had all this dough I’d hire people to do my bumping off, not do it myself.”

“You’d be wise,” the inspector agreed graciously. “It would save wear and tear on the electric chair.”

The sergeant relapsed into an injured silence.

Although Inspector Bailey was an unromantic man he found it hard to believe that the sedate, black-garbed butler who answered the door had not been borrowed from the local movie theater for the day. Joseph had exactly the right combination of hauteur and deference. Those who were haughty saw only his deference, but for the rest of the world Joseph wore an expression which made them wonder if they had forgotten an essential part of their toilette.

Inspector Bailey was not impressed. “Miss Eve Hays, please. Inspector Bailey and Sergeant Abbott of police headquarters.”

“On important business,” the sergeant added.

Joseph’s voice was politely indifferent. “I shall see if Miss Hays is in. Will you step inside, sirs?”

The hall they entered was a huge, high-ceilinged room, filled with massive oak furniture. From the walls dead Mertons stared down their thin aristocratic noses at the two interlopers.

But Bailey was more interested in the wide staircase at the end of the hall, for at the top of the stairs a pair of silk-clad legs was just disappearing.

Joseph was already halfway to the staircase when the inspector made his decision.

“By the way,” he called in a loud voice, “I think Miss Hays is in. If for some reason of her own she doesn’t want to see us, will you tell her that, in view of last night’s proceedings, I may have to swear out a warrant for her arrest on a serious charge?”

Joseph raised his eyebrows.

“It’s all right, Joseph. You may go,” said a girl’s voice from the head of the stairs.

Miss Eve Hays came down rapidly and walked across the hall toward the two detectives. Even from a distance Bailey could see that she was tall and pretty and that she moved with the ease of an athlete. She wore a brief yellow tennis frock, and her black curls were bound with yellow ribbon. Her skin was clear and deeply tanned.

“I hope you don’t think I was avoiding you, Inspector,” she said with a soft laugh. “I wanted to powder my nose before entertaining the law. Will you come into the morning room, please?”

She led the way into a cheerful-looking room decorated in faded yellow chintz. The walls were hung with water colors of flowers in ivory frames. The chairs, Bailey noted with satisfaction, all looked comfortable.

Eve observed his expression and hastily settled him in a worn leather chair, with an ashtray at his elbow. If Eve’s father had been present he might have warned the inspector that the instant he sank back into that particular chair he was a lost man. George Hays himself had only sat there twice; the first time had cost him a trip to Europe and the second a sports roadster.

The inspector, however, was only aware that he was comfortable.

“Everyone cozy?” Eve said brightly, sitting on a couch beside the windows. “Well then, we’ll go ahead with the lecture on the majesty of the law.”

The inspector cleared his throat and frowned. “I am not here to lecture, Miss Hays. Early this morning a woman, purporting to be you, called my house to report the discovery of a man’s body in her home. Five minutes later—”

“Oh dear, it sounds very grim,” Eve said abjectly. “I thought it was quite funny at the time. But surely you didn’t come all the way here because of my harmless little joke?”

“Your harmless little joke, as you call it, had rather an unexpected ending.” The inspector paused. “When I came here you were prepared to avoid me, Miss Hays. Since that proved unwise, you are prepared to lie. Your telephone call was no joke, was it?”

Eve looked out of the window and twisted the belt of her dress nervously. “Well, that’s a matter of opinion, isn’t it? I thought it was funny. So did Christopher.”

“And who is Christopher?”

“Chris Wells. We’d just come home from a party and we were feeling pretty silly — you know how it is.”

If the inspector knew how it was he gave no sign.

“What is Mr. Wells’s address, please?” He took out his notebook. “We shall have to question him. Separately, of course.”

Eve lost some of her self-possession. “But that’s absurd, Inspector. You can’t do that. We didn’t mean any harm. We were only—”

“His address, please?”

“Here. He lives here now, I mean. We’ve got a house full of guests, and he’s one of them.”

“Abbott, you might go and check Miss Hays’ statement with Mr. Wells. Unless, of course, Miss Hays decides to tell the truth.”

“Oh, all right,” Eve said flatly. “Chris doesn’t know anything about it. It was my idea. I wanted to see what the police would do if I had found a body in the house.”

“The police have found a body, Miss Hays, and we shall soon know whether it came from this house. I think you know the name of the man who was found.”

“How should I know?” She lit a cigarette with an assumption of indifference.

“Oh, I just thought you would,” the inspector said mildly. “You see, he was killed shortly before you phoned my house.”

“Killed?” There was no mistaking the astonishment in her voice. “Murdered, you mean?”

Bailey stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I can only hope your surprise is genuine, Miss Hays. You still claim you don’t know who it was?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know anything about hyoscine, Miss Hays? It is a convenient method of getting rid of, say, an unwanted lover, a blackmailer—”

Eve was a resourceful girl. She slid to the floor and lay in a crumpled heap. It was a difficult pose; moreover, she had hit her funny bone on the corner of a table, and it was all she could do to keep from crying out. But she was rewarded for her restraint by seeing the inspector rush excitedly out to the hall and shout for Joseph. He came back, picked Eve up and placed her on the couch. She allowed him to pour some brandy down her throat.

This operation was interrupted by the breathless arrival of a tall young man in white flannels. Inspector Bailey found himself pushed aside, and the glass of brandy was removed from his hand. The young man bent over Eve, felt her pulse and pressed her eyeballs hard. Eve winced. The man grinned and pinched her arm smartly.

“She’s in a bad condition,” he told the inspector with a sad shake of his head. “I think she had better be sent up to her room.”

Bailey stared angrily at the newcomer.

He was not as young as the inspector had first thought. His hair was slightly grey at the temples, and his face, more distinguished than handsome, bore the lines of maturity. He must be, the inspector decided, at least thirty-five and, if clothes were any indication, a prosperous thirty-five.

Dr. Prye was six feet, five inches tall. Dressed in immaculate white flannels topped with a navy-blue blazer, he looked like a man of the world, and the rather quizzical smile in his blue eyes suggested that he was also a man amused at the world.

“And who are you?” the inspector asked, frowning.

Prye put out his hand. “I am Doctor Paul Prye. I’m glad to know you, Superintendent?”

“Inspector Bailey and Sergeant Abbott. You are interfering with our job, Doctor Prye. I want to question this girl.”

“I’m afraid you can’t question her at the moment. I’m a physician, you know.” He gave Eve another surreptitious pinch. “She’s not fit to be questioned, are you, Eve?”

Eve opened her eyes carefully and shook her head in reply.

“Do you think you can walk, Eve,” Prye said mildly, “or shall I carry you?”

Eve hastily said that she’d try to walk. Prye took her arm, and they went out together. The inspector called after them, “I’ll see both of you later!”

Sergeant Abbott stood with his mouth open. “Well, can you beat that! Just when she was all ready to confess that guy whisks her away. I bet she knows plenty. I bet that pussyfoot butler knows a thing or two. And how about the tall guy?”

“Stop gibbering. He’ll be back.”

Bailey took a cigar from his pocket, unwrapped it tenderly and bit off the end. He sat down in the leather chair and lit up with a sigh.

Sergeant Abbott, now that he knew the Hays girl was implicated in a murder, began to feel more at home in his surroundings. He wandered about the room, examining the furnishings with a critical eye.

“The house will be well supplied with your fingerprints, Sergeant,” said Dr. Prye from the doorway. Abbott hastily replaced a vase. “I’m sorry to have interrupted the course of justice, Inspector, but that’s my business. I mean, it’s my business to look after the family. More or less.”

“Well more? — or less?”

Prye sighed. “I knew you were a stickler. I’m here more for Mrs. Hays and less for the others. Does that satisfy you?”

“You are a physician?”

“Well, more or— Yes, I am. But my practice for the last ten years has been in the field of mental abnormalities: neurology, psychoneurology, psychiatry, abnormal psychology, psychoanalysis. I’d rather be called a quack, however. It puts people at their ease.”

“But you have a medical license?”

“A medical license, a dog license, a driver’s license. I even bought a marriage—”

“You are whimsical, I see,” the inspector said dryly.

“Yes, indeed.

“The angel that presided o’er my birth

Said, ‘Little creature formed of joy and mirth...’

So you see how I stand.”

“You are a poet, too, apparently?”

Dr. Prye looked shocked. “I am not! I am, of course, widely acquainted with the works of William Blake” — he smiled modestly — “but that was more or less of an accident.”

“Oh? I dare say it was.”

“Although,” he added thoughtfully, “not really an accident. I was playing guinea pig at the time.”

Bailey forced himself to smile. The best thing to do in a case like this, he knew, was to humor the man. He stopped smiling for an instant to ascertain the exact position of the door in the event that a hurried exit might be necessary.

“Yes, if I hadn’t played guinea pig I’d never have learned Blake.”

The inspector’s smile took a turn for the worse. “I dare say guinea pig is quite an amusing game. I’ve never played it.”

Dr. Prye threw back his head and roared until the tears came to his eyes. “I’m going to like you very much, Inspector,” he said warmly. “You think I’m crazy.”

“I’ve formed no conclusions about your sanity,” the inspector said brusquely, “although your incoherence would justify me in doing so.”

“Incoherence? All I said was that I was the subject for lab experiments on memory — the rate of learning, forgetting and relearning, especially poetry. We got through a lot of poetry trying to prove that Ebbinghaus was wrong. Unfortunately, we were wrong.” He paused for a moment and then continued more cheerfully. “But I still remember Blake.”

“Suppose you forget him for a minute and answer some questions. I am investigating a murder. I have every reason to believe Miss Hays knows a great deal about it. Precisely why are you here?”

“George Hays called me to observe the behavior of his wife. She has been bothered with nerves for the past few months.”

“Is she so — ah, nervous that she couldn’t go to your office?”

“No, she is not. I have no office. I like to study my patients before they are aware that I am doing so.”

Bailey smiled wryly. “I wish policemen had the same privilege. I understand there are other guests in the house. Do they know you are here in a professional capacity?”

“No one does except George Hays. But I’m afraid Eve suspects. She’s a—” Prye closed his mouth abruptly.

“She’s an intelligent girl, you were about to say?”

“Oh no,” Prye said primly.

“What have you found to be the matter with Mrs. Hays?”

“I’m afraid I can’t divulge a case history. Mrs. Hays has shown signs of emotional disturbance, but you may rest assured that she has no homicidal tendencies. As a matter of fact” — he launched into his favorite subject with gusto — “not very many people who are suffering from mental disease do show homicidal tendencies. They are more inclined to suicide. A paranoid will kill a person who he believes is persecuting him. But Mrs. Hays has no such delusion.”

Since Dr. Prye seemed eager to continue on this subject, the inspector hastily suggested that he enumerate the people in the house at the moment. As Prye spoke the inspector made notes.

The family consisted of George Hays, his wife Barbara, his daughter Eve, who was twenty-two, and his son Simon, who was nearly twenty. In the family, but not of it, was Mr. Richard Vanstone, a second cousin to Barbara Hays. He had lived with the Hayses for some time, Dr. Prye believed. Christopher Wells, Eve’s fiancé, frequently came to visit and happened to be there at the moment. Miss Angela Breton was a guest of Barbara Hays and had been in the house for some months. Peter Morgan, Mr. Hays’s junior partner, and his wife Sally had arrived shortly before Prye.

“And that was?” the inspector prompted.

“A week ago.”

“Thank you, Doctor. And now perhaps you’ll tell me whether you’ve brought your instrument bag with you?”

Prye raised his eyebrows. “Naturally. I take it with me wherever I go, just in case somebody should ask if there’s a doctor in the house. You know, it’s a funny thing, Inspector—”

“Your bag contains a hypodermic syringe?”

“You interrupted me, Inspector,” Prye said severely. “I was just saying, it’s a funny thing, but I’ve never been anywhere where anyone said, ‘Is there a doctor in the house?’ Yes, I have several hypodermic needles — three, to be exact.”

“And supplies for them, like morphine, hyoscine—?”

“Oh yes!” said Prye blithely. “I carry lots of both. I use them a great deal in my work.”

“That’s fine,” said the inspector dryly. Prye looked up quickly at his tone.

“You old fox!” he exclaimed. “So the fellow was done in by hyoscine, eh? And I’ve given myself a swift kick in the direction of the electric chair, I suppose. Well, I’ll plead not guilty. I don’t even know who was killed.”

“How did you know it was a man then?” the sergeant put in quickly.

Prye grinned. “Good work, Sergeant. I thought it was a man because he was poisoned, because poison is more frequently used by women and women more frequently murder men. A series of assumptions. I’m gratified that I was right.”

“The man’s name,” the inspector continued, “was Thomas Philips. Recognize it?”

Prye beamed. “Of course! An old chap with a peg leg. Thinks he’s Captain Kidd. The last time I saw him he promised me three trunks full of gold and a—”

“This man has no peg leg!”

“Well, it’s not my Thomas Philips then,” Prye said stoutly. “Mine was a grand old chap with a peg—”

“I don’t want to hear about your Thomas Philips!” the inspector roared. “This is no time for jokes.”

“But I wasn’t joking,” Prye said huffily. “You asked me if I knew Thomas Philips, and I said yes, I did — he was an old chap with a—”

“That’s enough!” The inspector sank weakly into a chair. “Will you kindly go upstairs and check your medical supplies?”

As soon as Prye had left Bailey went out to the hall in search of a telephone. With tacit disapproval Joseph conducted him into the library and pointed out the telephone with the pained expression of one who is forced to divulge family secrets to an intruder.

Left alone, Sergeant Abbott sat down disconsolately on the edge of a chair. There are quite a few people in the world who like to be alone with their thoughts occasionally, but Sergeant Abbott was not one of them. He felt it was a sheer waste of time.

Consequently, the welcome that he accorded the pretty housemaid who entered the room was a wholehearted one. Dressed in a prim black-and-white uniform and carrying a duster nearly as big as herself, Miss Mamie Hodge presented what Sergeant Abbott told himself was a sight for sore eyes.

As Mamie whipped the duster efficiently over a table top she studied the sergeant out of the corner of her eye. Deciding that he was approachable, she remarked that it was a fine day and the sergeant agreed.

“Are you a cop?” Mamie asked casually.

“I’m Sergeant Abbott.” Feeling this sounded inadequate, he stretched the truth somewhat. “I’m Inspector Bailey’s right-hand man.”

Mamie polished a picture. “Yeah? Are you here on business?”

“I’ll say!” Abbott exclaimed. “A murder case.”

“Gee!” Mamie’s duster poised in mid-air. “Not kidding me, are you? Who got killed? Mebbe it’s a friend of mine.”

“Mebbe.” The sergeant hesitated. But Mamie’s big brown eyes did the trick. “A guy called Thomas Philips.”

Mamie sat down suddenly in a chair. “Gee whiz! It is a friend of mine. Can you beat that! Why, it’s just like a story, me saying that and it turning out to be true!”

The sergeant decided to combine business with pleasure. “How did you know him?”

Mamie scoffed. “Why, he’s been here dozens of times! A crabby-looking old boy with a gold tooth. Dressed like a swell — you know, them English suits that you don’t press on purpose. But he didn’t talk like a swell — not a real swell anyhow. Why, the other day he gave me five bucks and, just to think of it, now he’s dead and—”

“What was the five bucks for?”

Mamie blushed. “Well, it was really an accident. He caught me outside the library door. I was just doing the hall mirrors and I told him so. But he gave me five bucks to do the hall mirrors when he wasn’t there, he said.”

“This Philips was a friend of the family?”

“Well, he certainly wasn’t calling on me!” Mamie said vehemently. “I happen to know he’s a married man, and married men are something I’m not having any of!” She flung an accusing look at Sergeant Abbott and went on. “Well, he was supposed to be a friend of the family. But I know one person in it who didn’t think much of him, I can tell you.”

Mamie narrowed her eyes mysteriously, and the sergeant prompted her to go on.

“And that’s Mr. Hays!” she cried with a triumphant flourish of her duster. “In fact, I heard him tell Mr. Philips to get out and stay out. I heard that with my own ears. And then Mrs. Hays had one of her fits!”

“Fits?” repeated the sergeant, impressed.

“Yeah, fits. Screaming and carrying on something awful. I wrote all about it in my diary. I write in my diary every day. There are so many interesting things around here, like Mrs. Hays’ fits and the way Mr. Simon is carrying on with that red-headed woman. Really, it’s just like a movie.” From Mamie this was high praise indeed.

Sergeant Abbott glowed. He was very fond of the movies, too. “Can I see your diary?”

Mamie sniffed. “Well, I should say you can’t, fresh guy. A diary’s a diary. I don’t want people snooping around my inner life.”

At this point Inspector Bailey and Dr. Prye re-entered the room, and Sergeant Abbott rushed up to them.

“Chief, this girl knows plenty. She keeps a diary and she’s ready to spill the works.”

Mamie froze. “Who’s been spilling what works, you lousy flatfoot?”

“Your name, please?” the inspector demanded.

“Mamie Hodge. I’m parlor maid. But I got nothing to say.” With that Mamie sailed out of the room.

Prye grinned at the sergeant. “You lack finesse. One should avoid uncouth expressions like ‘spilling the works’ when addressing a lady.”

“She’s no lady,” said Abbott crossly.

There was a gasp from the other side of the door, then an indignant snort and the receding sound of brisk, angry footsteps.

“We’ll get around to her later,” the inspector said. “Right now I want to know if there’s anything missing from your bag, Doctor Prye.”

“Not a thing. I even counted the applicators.”

“Perhaps you had better hand over to me what drugs you have in your bag. If there is a murderer in the house there’s no point in making it easier for him.”

“I object. You’ve got to leave me something with which to ply my trade. After all, you can kill a man with a spade, and you’re not taking the gardener’s spade away from him, are you?”

“Well, keep an eye on everything then,” the inspector said gravely. “Someone in this house doesn’t stick at murder.”

“Sure of that?”

“I’ll be sure of it shortly. I’m waiting for a report from Captain Crabbe. I’ll be back when I get it.”

Bailey put on his hat and prepared to leave.

“Wait a moment,” Prye said. “I have a proposal to make to you. Why not appoint me as a deputy or something in this case?”

“Quite impossible. As a doctor, admittedly in possession of hyoscine, you are bound to come under some suspicion. I should hate to have to arrest my own deputy.”

“Well then, would you have any objections to my going ahead and solving it on my own account? You see,” he continued blandly, “I have two advantages over you: I’m a member of the household and I’m more used to dealing with people who are under a mental strain. And if there has been a murder committed here there will be more than enough mental strain! Then my job is to sit around and watch the murderer give himself away by flicking his wrists or batting his eyelashes or wiggling his ears— No, don’t go! I’m quite serious. I’d like to help.”

The inspector turned around at the door.

“I really don’t require your help, Doctor Prye. The only thing you can do is to tell the truth yourself.”

“But I have, Inspector! It’s agreed then. You come back after lunch, and I’ll have a couple of them thawed out for you.”

The inspector nodded curtly and went out to his car, followed closely by the sergeant. They drove off.

If the inspector had been less preoccupied he might have noticed a small blue coupe drawn up at the curb near the Hayses’ driveway. Seated inside the coupe was Mrs. Dolly Philips, waiting to keep an appointment she had made.

She had dressed carefully for the occasion and lavishly renewed her make-up. Despite her thirty-five years she was looking quite pretty.

She was not looking nearly so pretty when they found her that night.

3

Miss Angela Breton was worried. In return for a pair of green suede shoes, Mamie Hodge had just provided her with a graphic recital of the events of the morning. Perhaps Mamie’s recital had been too graphic, for Miss Breton had hastily packed her bags and was now in the act of donning a grey tailored suit for traveling.

She pulled a white blouse over her head and brushed her hair back into place before the mirror.

Miss Breton’s hair was the subject of warm controversy. Some said that the color was startlingly improbable, others said that here at last was a real Titian. Miss Breton herself said nothing.

There were other subjects for controversy in the person of Miss Breton. Her skin, for example. Was her ivory pallor natural? “Of course it’s natural!” “Liquid powder, my dear!”

And what did she do? “She looks just like a sculptress!” “Not possibly, darling — her nails are too good.” “She’s an authoress.” “My dear, do you really think she has the brains?” “An actress?” “I never heard of her!”

As a matter of face, Miss Breton’s profession was not related to the arts.

Lighting a cigarette, she sat down to await the bell for luncheon.

Scylla and Charybdis, the devil and the deep, the frying pan and the fire. The outworn metaphors ran through her head as she pondered her position. For private reasons Miss Breton had no wish to become involved with the police. On the other hand, her prolonged visit to Mertonville had been both a pleasant and profitable one. She had even had some hope of making a permanent alliance with the Hays fortune.

Although older men were accustomed to regard Angela’s sophisticated charms with some wariness, young Simon Hays had proved highly susceptible to them. Her red hair, her thin black eyebrows, her long bronzed fingernails had spelled glamour to the impressionable Simon, as Miss Breton had intended they should. To the infinite disgust of his father and the secret amusement of Miss Breton, Simon began to refer to her as “my girl.”

“‘My girl!’” George Hays had snorted to his wife. “My grandmother, more like it!”

But neither Simon’s rose-colored glasses nor his father’s smoked ones revealed Miss Angela Breton as she was.

She was thirty-four years old and she freely admitted to twenty-eight. The discrepancy was justified — her tennis was good, her cosmetics excellent and her wardrobe superb.

Miss Breton tossed her cigarette onto the rug and stamped on it. She went to her mirror for one last look, studied her face intently and permitted herself to frown. A woman over thirty, she decided, should avoid the sun like a mushroom. Pleased with this thought, Miss Breton smiled as she started downstairs. But when she entered the dining room for lunch she wore her accustomed expression of mystery and sorrow, and it had its accustomed effect on Simon. He took her arm tenderly and escorted her to the chair beside his own.

The gallantry was not lost on Mr. George Hays. He scowled and mumbled in the direction of his plate that you’d think the woman was blind or half-witted or a cripple, the way she had to be guided around. He was rewarded by one of Miss Breton’s most patient smiles.

The older Mr. Hays represented a type that is reputed to be common among American businessmen. A large, bulky, forceful-looking man who could dominate a stockholders’ meeting, he was, nevertheless, malleable in the hands of his wife and children. Rather absent-mindedly fond of his family, he had no close bond with any of them — except, perhaps, Eve. He had a great deal of respect for Eve — she quite often beat him at his own game.

But his wife Barbara and his son Simon were strangers to him. He had made one or two attempts to be a “real father” to his son, but Simon had made it quite clear that his father bored him. As for Barbara — well, he didn’t have to bother trying to understand her any more. Dr. Prye had been retained for that purpose.

He attacked his chicken salad, found that there was too much mayonnaise on it and glared around the table. It wasn’t enough that he was compelled to entertain a lot of people he had no use for, but he had to eat a chicken salad that was downright disgusting!

His wife caught the glare and returned it.

“If you don’t like your salad, George,” she said coldly, “just eat your rolls.”

“I think it’s jolly good salad,” Mr. Vanstone said cheerfully.

“So do I,” said Simon.

“Well!” George’s face reddened. “I can see that I’m outnumbered. The salad must be very good indeed. I’m just unable to appreciate it, I suppose.”

Dr. Prye buttered another roll. One of the advantages of belonging to the medical profession is that you learn to accept food and sleep whenever those commodities are available.

“You may be right, George,” he said agreeably. “At your age, you know, the taste buds become rather jaded, and quite often—”

“My taste buds are not jaded!” George roared.

“All right, all right,” Prye apologized, “your taste buds are like those of a newborn baby. You know” — he addressed the table at large — “the taste buds are situated along the base of the tongue—”

“I don’t want to hear another word!” George interrupted hastily. “At every meal for the past week I’ve had to listen to a lecture on anatomy and I don’t like it at all.”

Prye winked at Eve and became silent. They resumed their lunch.

It was Sally Morgan who eventually tossed the bomb.

“What were those men doing here this morning, Eve?” she asked with interest. Her husband nudged her and kicked her foot, but she was having a fight with Peter and ignored him. “They looked like policemen to me. Especially the little one.”

“What are you talking about, Sally?” Eve asked weakly.

“Oh, come on, Eve. You can’t expect to keep it a secret,” Dick Vanstone observed. “After all, the servants saw them.”

“Saw whom?” George cried. “What is all this mystery? Does no one think of telling me what’s going on in my own house?”

“Sally’s been having a dream,” Angela put in sweetly. “A great big, beautiful dream. Like the one I had last night. It was about you, Dick. Aren’t you flattered?”

Mr. Vanstone was flattered.

“You were playing tennis, it seemed,” Angela went on musingly, “with a silly cap on your head. I was your partner, so of course we lost. Then you became quite angry and hit me over the head with your racket. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Dick grinned. “Not wonderful for my racket.”

“That dream business is pure bunkum,” Simon said sulkily. He felt the sting of hearing “his girl” recounting a dream in which another young man figured largely. “It’s like going back to the Middle Ages and believing in witchcraft.”

Prye could not let this pass unchallenged.

“You mean, it’s like going into the future,” he said briskly. “The day will probably come when you can tell everything about a person from his dreams except his age and weight. In fact, a great deal can be deduced now. The unconscious mind—”

“I don’t believe in unconscious minds,” George declared stoutly. “I certainly haven’t got one.”

“I didn’t say you had,” said Prye. “But I’ve got one. At least, there is a part of my mind that works undercover. I don’t care what you call it. It sends up little messages—”

“Please read us some of these little messages,” said Miss Breton serenely.

“—to my conscious mind. For instance, the other day I found myself whistling an old popular tune. With some difficulty I remembered the name of it — ‘When Ruba Plays the Tuba Down in Cuba’ — and tried to reconstruct the process by which I came to be whistling it. I was reading a paper at the time and had just seen a picture of a movie star, Gary Cooper—”

“And he once starred in a picture in which he played a tuba,” Dick finished eagerly. “What a detective you’d make!”

Dr. Prye sighed. “And now we’re right back where we started. I recommend that the detective situation be cleared up. Take over, Eve.”

“I refuse to pay another fine for you, Eve,” George said flatly.

“Do be quiet, George,” said Eve calmly. “You’ll probably have to do a lot more than pay a fine. I entertained two members of the police force this morning. They measured me for — a chair.”

They all stopped eating to stare at her.

“A chair?” Barbara’s voice was tense. “You don’t mean the—?”

“Let’s all be jolly about this,” Eve said blithely. “We’ll need to be. There has, it seems, been a murder committed.”

“A murder?” Sally Morgan’s face had become slightly green. “Who was it?”

Dr. Prye answered. “That old family friend, Mr. Thomas Philips.”

With a groan Sally Morgan toppled sideways in her chair and landed precisely in Miss Angela Breton’s lap. Rising to the occasion, Miss Breton caught her neatly, lowered her to the floor and put a hand on her pulse.

The rest sprang up, and a brief pandemonium ensued. George’s voice rose distinctly above the minor noise, demanding to know why his house was being used for a lot of damn silly tomfoolery.

It was Prye who restored order. Picking Sally up in his arms, he carried her into the morning room and laid her on the couch. Shutting the door firmly in Peter Morgan’s outraged face, he opened all the windows, loosened the collar of Sally’s dress and sat down in a chair, rather breathless. Sally was heavier than she appeared to be. When she had rested for a minute he got up and put a pillow under Sally’s feet.

Dr. Prye was not unsympathetic but he had taken the injunctions of his favorite medical lecturer to heart. “When a woman faints,” the old doctor had repeated gruffly, “let her faint. Don’t go pouring brandy or water down her throat. Lots of air, feet raised. Probably likes fainting anyway.”

Prye sat down again and studied the woman on the couch. Sally Morgan was blonde, tiny and appealing, and men had frequently referred to her as a “sweet little thing.” Dr. Prye did not find this description particularly apt. Mrs. Morgan was certainly little, but her sweetness was transitory.

Her faint was a genuine one, Prye knew. What connection could she have with Thomas Philips? Was he a lover perhaps? An ex-husband? A brother?

Eve’s relationship with Philips was even more difficult to fathom. He had attempted to question her to no avail. Eve was strictly her father’s daughter.

Sally’s whimpering brought him back from his thoughts.

“Feeling better?” he asked with a professional smile. “Like some water? Here you are.”

Sally drank thirstily and fell back with a sigh.

“Thanks,” she whispered pitifully. “I’m so tired, so tired.”

“So am I,” Prye said callously. “I’ve got a toothache too.”

Sally’s innocent blue eyes narrowed slightly.

“I wish I hadn’t come to at all!” she said fiercely. “I wish I hadn’t!”

Prye refused to respond in the usual way.

“We all get those moments. You probably ate too fast.”

Sally winced at this vulgarity. “You don’t understand. No one does. I have a feeling” — she put her hand over her heart — “in here.”

“That proves it. Indigestion. And now, Mrs. Morgan, suppose we leap out of this beautiful world of make-believe and have a talk.”

Sally sniffed. “I don’t care to talk.”

“I didn’t think so but I hope you’ll change your mind. The police will be here in a few minutes. They’ll be questioning everyone in the house, and someone is bound to give away this little fainting spell of yours. I suggest that you tell them the truth. What was your connection with Philips?”

“I didn’t murder him, if that’s what you mean,” Sally cried angrily. “I didn’t even know he was dead. You do believe me, don’t you? Oh, you don’t, eh? Well, a hell of a lot of difference that makes! Let me pass, please.”

Prye grinned. “Aren’t you forgetting your lines? But perhaps it’s just as well. Now I can be brutally frank.”

“That should be easy.”

“I suppose you know you’re withholding information and obstructing the police?”

“I take it that you’re the police?”

“Inspector Bailey’s deputy,” Prye said without a blush. “I break trail, and the inspector trudges after me.”

“Well, I hope you both fall in a bear trap,” Sally said coldly. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must dash up and murder some people who’ve been annoying me.”

With an angry swish of her skirts Sally stalked out of the room.

Prye sat back in his chair, lit a cigarette and began to reflect on the waywardness of women. There was always the third degree, of course, but he was vague on the fine points of that technique. Besides, he doubted its efficacy. Like most doctors, he was not convinced that women were the weaker sex, and a woman with something to lose can be incredibly stubborn.

He began to take a keener interest in the murder of Thomas Philips. Eve was concealing something and so was Sally Morgan. And, if he knew anything about women, Miss Breton’s inscrutable face masked a great deal. Funny — there was something he wanted to remember about Angela Breton, something she had said or done at lunch...

There was a light tap on the door, and Richard Vanstone came in.

“I thought I’d better warn you, Prye. The police are with us.”

“No hurry,” Prye said lazily. “Sit down, Dick. We’ll be called when we’re wanted.”

Dick took out his pipe and began the tedious task of lighting it. Prye watched him with interest.

He was a tall, muscular young man whose chief pride in life was his backhand at tennis. His features were too rugged to be called handsome, but there was a good-natured set to his face. The corners of his eyes were creased into tiny wrinkles from laughing or, as the cynical Dr. Prye suggested to himself, from squinting at the sun. Prye could not guess his age, but he was still young enough to swim before breakfast, and to Prye this was very young indeed.

“Know anything about Chris Wells going off?” Dick asked. “The police are worried — they think he’s made a getaway. Sheer nonsense, of course.”

“Of course,” echoed Prye, who did not think it was sheer nonsense at all. “When did he leave?”

Dick laughed. “Eve’s down there now swearing that he went home to his family. But Bailey found out that his clothes are still here and his bed wasn’t occupied last night. So he thinks Chris killed Philips and that Eve helped him make his escape. Every policeman in the state has his description by this time, and he’s a wanted man. Damned unpleasant.”

“Also damned unpleasant to be murdered though,” Prye said with a grin. “This Philips man seemed to be very unpopular. I can’t understand why he was invited here at all.”

“Can’t you?” said Dick shortly.

“I gather that he forced his way in. Is that right?”

Dick shook his head impatiently and got up from his chair. “Gather what you will. I’ve told all I know about him.” His face flushed slightly. “Well, nearly all. There are some things I’d rather not—”

“Such as?”

“Nothing to do with the murder at all,” Dick said quickly.

“About Eve?” Prye pursued.

Dick shut his mouth firmly.

“About Simon?” The shot went home. Dick looked very uncomfortable. “What about Simon?”

“You are a nosy parker, aren’t you?” Dick said bitterly.

“You’re the rottenest liar, Dick. You blush and fidget and look as guilty as hell. What about Simon? Was he the one who brought Philips here in the first place?”

Dick nodded curtly.

“How did Simon meet him?”

“Look, I’m trusting you not to repeat this to Inspector Bailey. Simon met Philips at the Flamingo Club. Philips was part owner. Simon introduced the rest of us—”

“What rest of you?”

“Well, Eve and Angela and me. Simon picks up odd people sometimes and he wanted to bring Philips here to dinner. I spoke to George about it — Philips wasn’t the kind of man to entertain. But George and I aren’t very good friends.” He laughed suddenly. “And that is understating it. I’m eight years older than Simon, and Eve and I like to keep an eye on him. But George told me I’d make one hell of a chaperone and that Simon could bring home whomever he chose to bring home. So that was that. Nobody argues with George.”

“And after that did you and Philips get along?”

“We did — by the simple expedient of avoiding each other.”

“No bad debts? No conflicting love interests? Everything was serene and smooth? By the way, have you said good-by to Angela?”

“Good-by to Angela?” Dick whispered.

“She is leaving. Didn’t you know? She’s probably halfway to Chicago by this time—”

Dick had run out of the room.

Dr. Prye, smiling to himself, took out a black-covered notebook and wrote a few illegible scrawls.

“Cupid rears his ugly head,” he said aloud. “Simon loves Angela, Dick loves Angela, and Angela loves Angela. It would make the case much simpler if Miss Breton had been murdered instead of Philips. But,” he sighed, “You can’t have everything.”

He put the notebook back into his pocket and went upstairs.

His room was near the back of the house, opposite that shared by Sally and Peter Morgan. He passed the door of the upstairs sitting room, heard voices within and stopped abruptly. There was no one in the hall. He stood unblushingly outside the door.

Mr. George Hays seemed to be demanding that someone leave the house immediately.

“...right now. I will not have her here for one minute longer. I ought to have the right to pick my guests. It’s my house.”

“Your house?” Miss Breton laughed. “You married it, George.”

“Oh, why can’t we discuss this sensibly?” Barbara Hays wailed.

“There’s no discussion necessary,” George said loudly. “Ask this woman to leave. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Barbara, letting this creature ogle at Simon and not raising a finger to stop it!”

“I can’t stand this!” Barbara shrieked.

“Very well, very well. Stop that infernal crying. You’ve won, haven’t you? As for you, Miss Breton, you’re not welcome here but you may stay. For some obscure reason my wife tolerates you.”

Angela laughed. “Thank you, George. You’re a gracious host. But, really, all this excitement was unnecessary. I’m leaving this afternoon anyway.”

“Leaving? You can’t!” Barbara cried. “You wouldn’t!”

“I would,” Miss Breton corrected. “I am. You haven’t the guts of a mosquito, Barbara.”

Prye could almost feel the sharp intake of Barbara’s breath. “You can’t leave!”

But Miss Breton was already gone. She pushed past Prye, recognized him with a sneer and went on to her room.

Prye hastily tiptoed to the head of the stairs and came back whistling loudly. George hurried past him with an abrupt apology and went downstairs.

Mrs. Hays was alone in the sitting room when Prye entered. She did not look up. He sat down without waiting for an invitation, and a long, uncomfortable silence ensued.

As a psychologist, Prye realized that Barbara Hays was not entirely responsible for her actions. Usually a well-bred and charming woman, she would sometimes sink into a fit of depression which might last for hours or for weeks. Her dark aristocratic beauty had faded; she was haggard and thin almost to emaciation.

“What do you want?” she said at last.

“Oh, nothing. I was just sitting thinking.”

“Oh?” There was no interest in her voice.

“I was thinking,” Prye continued with deliberation, “of the unnecessary output of energy during emotional scenes. It is one of the weaknesses of civilization that convention forces us to build up inhibitions. The more civilized a society becomes the more restraint is imposed on its members. Consequently, we waste so much energy in deciding what to do that we often haven’t any left to do it with.”

Barbara jerked her arm nervously. “What is all this leading up to, Doctor Prye?”

“I was suggesting, in my mild way, that, since the truth will eventually have to come out, you may as well help it along.”

“The truth?” Barbara seemed faintly surprised. “The truth about what?”

“My dear Mrs. Hays, you may be politely incredulous if you wish but you can’t explain away a murder by lifting your eyebrows and saying, ‘Really?’ Inspector Bailey will want to ask you some questions, and when he does you’d be wise to have some answers.”

“Such as?”

“Such as, what are those marks on your left arm?” Barbara covered her arm quickly with her hand, and Prye frowned. “Why is it people always think they can deceive their doctor? I’ve actually had a patient in the throes of delirium tremens swear to me that he had never broken his Sunday-school abstinence pledge. I suppose you’ll claim that you never owned a hypodermic needle?”

Barbara did not reply.

“This Bailey is no fool, Mrs. Hays,” Prye went on more gently. “It doesn’t require much medical knowledge to discover that you’ve been using morphine. How much have you been taking? Eighths?”

She nodded.

“For how long?”

“A few months.”

Prye frowned. “That long? Are you positive you’ve been using eighths of a grain? You don’t look— Oh well, pass that. Is that why Philips has been blackmailing you?”

“Don’t be absurd, Doctor Prye.”

“Don’t begrudge me a guess, Mrs. Hays. I apologize. What do you know of Mr. Philips’ murder?”

“Nothing. I didn’t know he was murdered until lunchtime. Anyway, why should I kill a man?” Her voice was bitter. “It would be so much easier to kill myself, easier and better for everyone.”

“This is no time to kill yourself,” Prye said with a wry smile. “The police would undoubtedly think you had been murdered.”

“They’d all be better off without me,” Barbara moaned.

Prye spoke with some irritation. “To tell you the truth, Mrs. Hays, I’m exasperated by people who when the least trouble occurs want to go dashing madly after a razor or a revolver, because, for all their mad dashing, they usually contrive not to get there. Try to behave more rationally. Bailey is downstairs now — probably questioning the servants.”

“The servants? What can they know?”

“Well, if they’re all like Mamie” — Prye grinned — “I’d say they know everything. There’s nothing you will tell me? For instance, where Mr. Wells has gone and why? Or why Eve telephoned the police last night?”

“Nothing. I know nothing.” She turned her face away.

Prye shrugged his shoulders and went out. His temper was slightly frayed, and he decided to take a brisk walk. The policeman on duty at the back door was of a different mind and refused to let him out. By the time Inspector Bailey’s permission had been granted Prye had cooled down, and a walk was unnecessary. Still, it might be his last chance.

He walked rapidly in the direction of the lake, followed at a discreet distance by a policeman in uniform.

Thoughts whirled in his head. Why were those unreasonable women all lying? To protect each other? To protect someone else? It would be ridiculous to suppose that Barbara Hays was covering Eve, who was covering Chris Wells, who was covering—

Oh hell! Prye thought, I will resign.

The lake looked blue, dull blue, like Angela Breton’s eyes. Miss Breton, the woman of mystery. Or was she a woman of mystery?

Prye waved his hands excitedly, and the policeman carefully noted the gesture in his book. “Of course!”

Miss Breton bending over Sally Morgan, feeling her pulse — she had done it in a very professional manner. And Miss Breton daring Barbara Hays to send her away...

Prye retraced his steps, and by the time he reached the house his mind was clear on two points: Miss Breton had at one time been trained as a nurse and, more important, she was the one who supplied Mrs. Hays with morphine.

The implications, Prye felt, were terrific. As a nurse Miss Breton would be well acquainted with the use of hyoscine; as a member of an illegal profession she would be liable to blackmail at the hands of someone like Philips. And Miss Breton, Prye realized, was not a woman who would submit to blackmail. Method and motive!

Then where did the other women come into this picture? And where was Mr. Wells?

4

Prye mounted the steps of the front veranda, pushed his way through a covey of twittering reporters and rang the bell. Captain Crabbe, a thin, earnest young man who was Bailey’s most efficient subordinate, opened the door and conducted Dr. Prye into the library.

At Bailey’s request the library had been set aside for his interviews with the members of the Hays household. It was a long, narrow room, with high windows lighting shelves of books which looked as though they had never been read. Its cold austerity made it eminently suitable for Bailey’s purpose.

Prye entered and was asked to sit down.

George Hays was seated in a high-backed chair answering questions, and Sergeant Abbott was writing down his answers with painful earnestness.

The inspector remained standing. “You claim, then, to have gone to bed at eleven o’clock. You remained there until what time?”

George took a deep breath. “Eight.”

“Your wife can verify this?”

“Unfortunately, she can’t.”

“Why ‘unfortunately’?”

George smiled grimly. “I’d like an alibi as well as the next one. As I say, that’s impossible. We — Barbara and I — occupy separate rooms, with a dressing room between them. There is a door into the hall from each of our rooms.”

The inspector glanced through some notes. “You drive a Lincoln sedan?”

“Yes.”

“The car is looked after by your chauffeur, John Jacobs. Is that correct?”

“Yes, but I can’t see what you’re getting at!” George’s tone was puzzled.

“Jacobs has been with you three years, on his own statement. You have no reason to doubt his honesty or his efficiency?”

“Of course not!”

“In that case you will probably be prepared to take his word that your automobile was removed from the garage last night sometime after Jacobs had put it away and locked up. Jacobs usually checks the mileage when he puts the car away for the night. Between eleven last night and seven this morning your car was driven some twenty miles.”

There was a slight pause.

“Of course!” George said heartily. “I’d forgotten about that. I didn’t think it was important. I did take the car out last night.”

“Why?”

“Why? It’s a funny thing if a fellow can’t take his own car to go and buy some cigars.”

“You drove out to buy some cigars at what time?”

“Eh?”

“What time did you take your car out? Did you get up after you went to bed?”

“Yes, of course. It was about twelve, I suppose.”

“You went to bed at eleven and got up at twelve to buy some cigars. Do you frequently smoke in the middle of the night?”

George shifted uneasily. “I’m a very heavy smoker.”

“Did anyone see you leave the house?”

“I don’t think so. Everyone retired quite early last night. Joseph had already locked up and put the lights out by the time I left.”

“Where did you buy the cigars, Mr. Hays?”

“Eh? I can’t remember. Say, what is the meaning of all this? You’ve practically called me a liar! I won’t tolerate such impudence from anyone. I don’t think we have to submit to this badgering. You haven’t the faintest proof that Philips was killed in this house. I’ll get the best lawyer in the country!”

“Go ahead, Mr. Hays,” the inspector said blandly. “You’re going to need the best you can get. You see, there are quite a number of things that need explaining. For instance, there is a track where the grass is crushed running from the side door of your house to the garage. It indicates that some heavy object was dragged across the lawn. It is no coincidence that we found samples of the same grass clinging to parts of Mr. Philips clothing and a substantial amount stuck in the heels of his shoes. Nor is it a coincidence that the upholstery in the back seat of the Lincoln shows faint grass stains. Do you still doubt that Philips was murdered in your house?”

George did not reply, but his face paled.

“I have a few more questions to ask you, Mr. Hays,” the inspector continued, more mildly, “concerning your household and this man Philips. I understand that he was a fairly frequent visitor here. At whose invitation did he come?”

“Certainly not mine!” George said vehemently.

“I think I can answer that, Inspector,” Prye interrupted. “Mr. Vanstone admitted, under pressure, that it was Simon Hays who invited Mr. Philips here, although Eve and Miss Breton and Mr. Vanstone himself were all acquainted with Philips through their membership in the Flamingo Club. Did not Mr. Vanstone approach you, Mr. Hays, and tell you that the friendship between Simon and Philips should be discouraged?”

“He did, the insolent puppy. I don’t admit that he wasn’t right, in this particular instance, but I will not have him dictating to me!”

“You disliked Philips, Mr. Hays?” the inspector went on.

“Decidedly. Only a week ago I practically threw him out of my house.” He gave an ironical smile. “But I suppose you know all about that, too.”

“We do. When did you first meet Philips?”

“At dinner — about five months ago, I think.”

“Did his wife accompany him?”

“I didn’t know he had a wife.”

“Were your present guests with you at that time?”

George pondered. “Vanstone was, naturally, if you’d call him a guest. Morgan and Wells may have been here — I don’t know definitely. You’d better ask my wife.”

“And Miss Breton?”

“No, she wasn’t here at that time but she has met him here at other dinners since then.”

“And Mrs. Morgan?”

“I have never seen Mrs. Morgan before this visit. The Morgans were married only two months ago, and I invited them here for a couple of weeks to taper off their honeymoon. Morgan’s my partner, and I have some things to discuss with him.”

“Mr. Vanstone lives here?”

“Unfortunately, yes. His mother was my wife’s cousin, and when she died two years ago Barbara invited him to come and live here, partly out of generosity and partly because he would be company for Simon. Fine company, too! I’ve offered the fellow a job, but he says he’d rather play tennis. Probably just as well, too. He hasn’t a brain in his head.”

Bailey tactfully changed the subject. “Mr. Christopher Wells is engaged to your daughter?”

“Well, there’s an understanding, of course. But Eve is still a child. I want her to wait for a few years.”

“Have you any idea where Mr. Wells is at present?”

George seemed surprised. “I thought he was here. Has he gone?”

“He has. We are looking for him.”

A discreet rap on the door announced the return of Captain Crabbe.

“That will be all for now, Mr. Hays,” the inspector said.

George rose with a grunt and went out of the room.

“Well, Crabbe?”

“Jones says there are no fresh fingerprints on the wheel of the Lincoln,” Crabbe reported. “Whoever was driving the car wore gloves.”

Prye was roused to interest. “That clinches it. George didn’t take that car out last night.”

“I didn’t think he did,” said the inspector, somewhat ruffled. “Any schoolboy can think up a more convincing story than the one about the cigars. Have you any ideas on who did take the car out?”

“Oh, a wee one,” Prye admitted modestly. “It’s possible that the person who removed the body from the house is not the murderer. You see, the murder itself was neat, but everything connected with the removal of the body was hopelessly bungled — the crushed grass, the stains in the back seat, the failure to readjust the mileage — it all looks like the work of an amateur. Now, would an amateur think of wearing gloves when he or she drove the Lincoln? Possibly, but I think not. There are, however, people who wear gloves normally in the middle of summer.”

“Women, of course!”

“I think so,” said Prye smugly. “And besides women?”

“A man in evening clothes. Was Mr. Wells dressed that formally?” He glanced through some notes. “Yes, on Miss Hays’ own evidence, Mr. Wells was wearing full dress with white kid gloves. That’s interesting. It’s doubly interesting if I grant your premises: that the driver of the car wore gloves accidentally and not to avoid leaving fingerprints and that the murderer and the driver were not the same person. But, however you look at it, Miss Hays is in a difficult position. She has already told a number of lies and she is obviously shielding Mr. Wells. And from what? According to my evidence, Mr. Wells and Philips have only met once, possibly twice. Her actions are completely irrational.”

“Isn’t that to be expected?” Prye said briskly. “People who are normal under normal circumstances are not necessarily normal when the circumstances are abnormal. Murder produces peculiar reactions. The most innocent person may run to cover and tell absurd lies. Don’t concentrate on Eve for that reason. Consider the cases you have against the others. George Hays, for example.”

“I’ve got a case,” the inspector said shortly, “and I’m coming closer to proving it every minute. George Hays doesn’t come into it at all.”

Prye grinned. “Don’t be hidebound, Inspector, or I’ll prove you did it. Where were you last night between one and three?”

“In bed. I have not time for this—”

“Are you a married man?”

“I am not.”

“Unmarried and obviously virtuous. That leaves you without an alibi.”

“Not quite. I’m told that I snore,” the inspector said with a sigh.

“That doesn’t prove anything. My bull terrier, Susanna, snores, too. She could have taken your place. Now for the method. You stole the hyoscine and needle from the police doctor. Motive? Well, this man Philips owned a gambling club. He has been paying you protection money, let us say. Then he becomes stubborn and refuses to pay. You’ve bled him white already. You are desperate. You need the money to buy a new winter overcoat. In a fit of rage you kill him and steal his diamond stickpin. The evidence of the crushed grass is cleverly faked, of course. Shall I go on?”

“Don’t bother, Prye,” the inspector said dryly. “I’m already convinced of my own guilt. What surprises me is that I didn’t discover it sooner.”

Prye lit a cigarette. “And now perhaps you’ll listen to my case against George Hays?”

Bailey sat down wearily and waved to him to continue.

“Well, I won’t go into George’s character — you’ve seen him and you’ll probably agree that if George decided to commit murder he’d do it.”

“And the motive?”

“Oh, I can think up dozens of motives,” Prye said airily. “He didn’t like Philips — that will do for a start. He may have suspected Philips of dishonorable intentions toward Eve. Or,” Prye’s voice became somewhat grim, “perhaps he didn’t like the idea of Philips blackmailing his wife.”

If Prye had expected a reaction from Inspector Bailey he was disappointed. Bailey merely nodded.

“Perhaps George makes an appointment with Philips, ostensibly to pay up once and for all, actually to murder him. Suppose he and Philips meet in the upstairs sitting room. After the murder George starts to carry the body downstairs and suddenly hears Eve’s key in the lock. He leaves Philips on the stairs and goes back to his own room in a panic. Eve comes in, sees the body and goes into the library to telephone to the police. George hears her. Terrified of having the body found in the house, he rushes down and starts to take it out the side door. Unfortunately, he is not quick enough. Eve comes back and sees him. Hence the second telephone call to your house — she’s got to protect her father. But there is also her fiancé to consider, so she sends Chris Wells away—”

“Thereby making him an outlaw,” the inspector finished dryly. “There are some weak spots in your story, Prye. George Hays is a very large man, and Philips a very small one. Why was the body dragged across the lawn if George could carry it downstairs?”

“Ah, but by this time he’s in a panic! He’s weak and trembling. You can hardly blame him, can you?”

“And why did Mr. Hays admit taking out the Lincoln?”

“That’s the cleverest part of all. He told the lie so badly that he knew you wouldn’t be deceived by it. He wanted you to think he was trying to protect someone. And you do think it.”

“I do,” the inspector agreed imperturbably.

“There’s still another difficulty. If Mr. Hays intended to murder Philips, why should he have made an appointment with him in his own house?”

“All right, we’ll say he didn’t intend to murder him. He did it on the spur of the moment.”

“And I suppose Mr. Hays is in the habit of carrying around a hypodermic needle containing a lethal does of hyoscine in case of emergency?”

“Oh hell!” said Prye, shaken. “You’re obviously on the murderer’s side, not the law’s. Personally, I consider it rather an ingenious theory.”

“So do I,” the inspector agreed dryly. “I don’t suppose you carried your ingenuity too far and killed Philips yourself?”

Prye groaned. “Are we back at that again? In the interests of justice I’ve dashed around all morning soothing hysterical women and campaigning for Truth. Do you want to hear some of my campaign slogans? ‘Do your duty; Truth is beauty.’ ‘Don’t hide the truth’s light under—’”

“Indeed? Who is next on the list, Abbott?”

“Anna Bellinger, the cook.”

“Bring her in, please.”

“Why the cook?” Prye asked.

“I’m questioning those people first who are more likely to tell the truth by accident or design,” the inspector said frankly. “The others won’t talk until I have enough evidence to make them talk. I can’t make arrangements for an inquest until somebody admits something.”

Sergeant Abbott escorted Anna Bellinger into the room.

She was a tall, middle-aged woman with a long, grim face which was at the moment lit by a triumphant smile. In private life Miss Bellinger had a pronounced weakness for the more lurid type of detective fiction. She had already solved the case to her own satisfaction, and she condescended to accompany Sergeant Abbott to the library in the hope of putting the inspector straight on a few facts.

She was forty-eight years old, she informed the inspector, and had been cook in the Hays household for four years. She had been well paid and well treated. And why not? she demanded belligerently. And she considered Mr. Hays an old grouch, Mrs. Hays too flighty, Mr. Simon an idle good-for-nothing, Miss Eve a sweetheart, Miss Breton a she-devil and Mr. Vanstone no better than he should be. Mr. Wells was all right, she conceded, although not half good enough for Miss Eve. The Morgans were just silly — kissing one minute and fighting the next minute. Dr. Prye was ostentatiously omitted from her summing up but he felt sure he would be classified later.

Miss Bellinger had gone to bed early the night before and slept soundly until half-past six, as all the God-fearing should. Although she was not one to gossip and tell tales, she happened to know that Satan had finally found work for Mr. Simon’s idle hands to do, and it was quite plain to anyone with an ounce of brains that he and the she-devil, Miss Breton, had conspired to kill Mr. Philips and to lay the blame on that sweet angel, Eve, for reasons best known to themselves.

Although she had seen Mr. Philips ‘sneaking around’ occasionally, she had not known him personally.

“In that case you’d have no reason to murder him, would you, Miss Bellinger?” the inspector said with a smile.

Miss Bellinger’s answer was decisive.

“No, but if I’d had a reason I wouldn’t have needed anything so fancy as what was used. A grain or two of strychnine in his food — that’s what I’d use, being the cook.”

“That’s nice,” Prye murmured.

“Little lamb, who made thee?

Dost thou know who made thee?”

Miss Bellinger regarded him coldly.

“You are acquainted with the effects of strychnine, Miss Bellinger?” the inspector asked sharply.

“Naturally.” Miss Bellinger’s tone expressed contempt for those lacking in such elementary knowledge. “Twitching of the muscles, severe pain, convulsions and then death. They are usually conscious till the end, too, and if the detective gets there in time they can name the murderer.”

“In that case, you’d be foolish to use strychnine, wouldn’t you?” the inspector said mildly. “I think those are all the questions I have to ask you at the moment. Abbott, will you see Miss Bellinger to the door, please?”

“I guess I can see myself to the door, Inspector,” she said virtuously. “I’m not one of these clinging women!” She flung an accusing glance at Prye and departed.

“And that,” Prye said weakly, “is what is laughingly called the frail sex.”

“Who is next, Abbott?” the inspector asked.

“Joseph, the butler. I’ll get him, Chief.”

“I don’t think you’ll get much out of Joseph,” Prye said.

“I can try,” Bailey replied, but not hopefully.

Inspector Bailey found it difficult to decide which kind of witness could be the more annoying — the willing and garrulous or the unwilling and reticent. If the Misses Hodge and Bellinger fitted into the former classification Joseph fitted even better into the latter.

The inspector decided to shift his tactics.

“Name, please,” he said sternly.

“Joseph Butler.”

“Joseph Butler?”

“Joseph Butler,” Joseph repeated firmly.

“Sure, it’s possible, Chief,” Sergeant Abbott said eagerly. “I knew a broad once who was called Broad!”

“A most striking analogy, Sergeant, but this is hardly the time for amorous reminiscences.” Bailey turned to Joseph. “Now, Joseph, I’d like to point out to you that it is your duty to lay whatever information you have before the police, even though it may seem to be damaging to your employers. I appreciate your loyalty but I must have the truth. You are an Englishman, Joseph?”

Joseph asserted with pride that he was born in England and, like his father before him and his father’s father before him, he had been employed as butler to the family of Sir Edmund Marlowe. On a journey to France with the Marlowes, Joseph had made the acquaintance of Miss Barbara Merton, who was about to leave for America. Although he had felt bound to the Marlowe family, he was an adventuresome lad — at this point Prye was seized with a fit of coughing — and he had accepted Miss Merton’s offer and accompanied her to America. Joseph’s tone and eyebrows indicated clearly that this had been the biggest mistake of his life, for if he had had the sense to stay in England he would not be in a position where he had to divulge family secrets to prying policemen.

Bailey ignored Joseph’s disapproval and asked him for an account of his movements on the night of July the fourteenth. Joseph said that as usual he had locked all the downstairs doors and windows at eleven-fifteen, having been instructed by Mrs. Hays to do so. Miss Eve Hays and Mr. Wells had dined out that evening and had not yet returned, but Miss Eve had a latch-key.

“The next morning, Joseph, the windows and doors were in the same state as you left them at eleven-fifteen?”

“Precisely, sir.”

“What did you do after you locked up?”

“I drank a cup of chocolate in the kitchen and retired to my bedroom on the third floor at eleven-thirty. I went to sleep almost immediately and awoke as usual at seven o’clock.”

“That’s all, Joseph. You may go.”

The inspector sighed when the door had closed.

“‘See no evil; hear no evil; speak no evil,’” Prye said. “A barren philosophy, don’t you think?”

“Barren perhaps,” the inspector agreed, “but still, it’s refreshing to talk to someone who thinks no one in the house is guilty after listening to you trying to prove everyone is guilty.”

There was a period of silence. Inspector Bailey sat down to think, and Prye closed his eyes and apparently went to sleep. Sergeant Abbott, after one or two attempts to keep the conversation rolling, was withered into silence by the inspector and sat down huffily beside the door.

When Sergeant Abbott had first realized there was a murder to be solved he had conjured up breathtaking visions of the way he would catch the criminal. These visions involved a cross-country chase in an airplane, a beautiful girl trapped in a cellar full of rats — or, better still, octopuses — and the final arrest made in Hollywood, Calif., where he could get Miss Myrna Loy’s autograph while he was there. He would then fly back to Washington to be thanked personally by the President, and return to Mertonville, where he would graciously accept Inspector Bailey’s humble apologies for treating him so badly.

Alas for dreams! The sergeant sighed deeply.

“Must you snore, Abbott?” the inspector asked caustically.

“I wasn’t snoring, Chief,” said Sergeant Abbott with indignation.

“Well, please don’t repeat it. Bring Crabbe in here, will you?”

Captain Crabbe entered the library with his usual air of innocent zeal.

“Well, Crabbe, what about Philips’ insurance?”

“He took out fifty thousand dollars six months ago when he was married,” Crabbe said earnestly. “It’s carried by two companies, and Mrs. Philips is the beneficiary.”

“What about his personal bank account?”

“It amounts to three times that. And then there’s his interest in the Flamingo Club besides.”

“Two hundred thousand dollars,” the inspector repeated thoughtfully.

A few seconds later Dr. Prye was dreaming that someone was offering him two hundred thousand dollars and as he was about to take it he woke up.

“Eh?” he said sleepily.

“Would you murder your wife for two hundred thousand dollars, Prye?”

Prye sat up with a start. “Now this is going too far, Inspector. First you accuse me of murdering a man I didn’t know and now you ask me if I’d murder a wife I haven’t got for two hundred thousand dollars she wouldn’t have.”

“The question was hypothetical, Prye. I was simply asking you if you considered two hundred thousand dollars a strong enough motive for doing away with a spouse you weren’t fond of anyway.”

“Hmm. Half that would suffice. The spouse in question is Philips, I suppose. What’s Mrs. Philips like?”

“A tough baby,” said Sergeant Abbott.

“As the sergeant says, Mrs. Philips seems to be a determined woman. I believe she once called herself Dolly Devore and went through a rather suggestive routine in a Chicago burlesque house.”

“A strip teaser,” said Sergeant Abbott quickly.

“I realize you mean well, Sergeant,” said the inspector coldly, “but it is unnecessary to translate my words into your own piquant idiom. My limited vocabulary has always been sufficient for my simple needs.”

The sergeant retired to the windows, a much-wronged man.

“So now Mrs. Philips is the favorite,” Prye said with a grin.

“Among the lambs clothed in white

She walked with her Thomas in sweet delight.

I’m glad Dolly is in the running. Every new suspect carries me a yard or so farther from the electric chair. Mrs. Philips’ motive is two hundred thousand dollars. And her opportunity?”

“Poor, I should say,” Bailey replied. “How would she get into the house?”

“By walking behind her Thomas in sweet delight. Enter Thomas. Enter Dolly.”

“And how did Philips himself get in? Joseph’s evidence about the doors and windows proves that either Philips was admitted by someone in the house or that he had an impression made of one of the locks and ordered a key to fit it. I think it more likely that he was admitted to the house.”

“Unless,” Prye said, “he was killed outside and brought into the house later by someone with a key. No, that would be pretty silly. People don’t go dragging corpses into their own houses. Unless,” he added thoughtfully, “they have a good reason.”

“Granted. But can you think of a good enough reason?”

“I can. I have.” Prye began to pace up and down the room. “As you suggested, Inspector, the method used to kill Philips shows that the murder was premeditated and, consequently, that Philips was killed in this house deliberately and for an excellent reason. Unless that reason is excellent we are dealing with an extremely stupid murderer, and I don’t believe that. The reason is excellent, Inspector, because nearly everyone in this house was connected with Philips in some way, in some unpleasant way. George frankly detested the man. Eve, Barbara and Sally Morgan are all hiding the truth about their relationship to him. Dick Vanstone disliked him. Even two of the servants, Mamie and Miss Bellinger, disliked him.”

“Dislike is a poor motive for murder.”

“Yes, but it can turn into hate, can’t it? Besides, I think you’ll find that the feelings of everyone here toward Philips went a lot deeper than dislike. Counting the servants, there were fifteen people in this house last night. One of them murdered Philips, probably figuring on the fact that there is safety in numbers. And there is. So there’s your reason why the man was killed here. Thirteen people swear they were sleeping while the murder was committed — and not one of them can prove it. Two people were at a party and can’t prove they didn’t get home in time to murder Philips. No alibis, and plenty of motives scattered around. Our murderer is probably patting himself on the back, and I don’t blame him.”

“Interesting speculation,” Bailey said. “You think the murderer intended to incriminate the others in the house?”

“At least one other. According to my theory, the attempt fell through. And that’s why the body was removed from the house. Let’s call the murderer A and the person he wanted to incriminate B. Let’s also disregard genders. I won’t bother with too many details. A lets Philips into the house and kills him. He plants evidence on the body which will point to B and leaves it on the stairs.

“B, however, discovers Philips with the evidence planted on him. The others are all in bed, but there is a possibility that someone may wake up at any minute. B drags the body to the garage to search it properly. Well, there B stands, with his hands full of watches, wallets, letters and money from Philips’ pockets. How to get rid of them? Ah, he thinks, the lake! So he tosses Philips into the back seat of the Lincoln and drives down to the beach. He dumps Philips into one part of the lake, drives a few miles along the beach and gets rid of Philips’ possessions in another part of the lake. B comes back and re-enters the house through the side door which he had left open. And so to bed!”

“And how did B get into the garage?”

Prye laughed. “I was waiting for that. I suppose Jacobs told you he locked the garage before he went to bed?”

“He did.”

“And did he also tell you that there are at least five keys to the place?”

The inspector sank into a chair, scowling. “The imbecile didn’t mention it. Who has these five keys?”

“The owners of the five cars in the garage: to wit, Miss Breton, Mr. George Hays, Simon, Peter Morgan and— Can’t you guess who has the fifth? It’s someone very close to you, someone you—”

“All right, you have the fifth key. That’s very, very interesting.”

“You have a deplorable habit of jumping to conclusions,” Prye said briskly. “I have my car parked in the garage. Why shouldn’t I have a key?”

“Precisely what the others are going to say,” the inspector observed.

“Well, I said it first.”

“You have three hypodermic needles, lots of hyoscine and a key to the garage. There’s still another fact which points to you.”

The inspector paused, and Prye said with bitterness: “Are you waiting for me to guess? Do your own work.”

“Well, it really does seem remarkable that no one in the house woke up during the night. Suppose they’re all telling the truth?”

“Why should you suppose they’re telling the truth? Why can’t I be telling the truth? Talk about prejudice!”

“I was saying, it seems odd that no one woke up. I suggest that the murderer took some precautions to ensure that no one should wake up.”

Prye shook his head sadly. “A nasty bit of logic, that. Still, I’m not the only one in the house who can dish up a sedative. And, if I’m the murderer, what was my motive? Ah, I have it— Dolly Devore Philips. During my frequent debauches in Chicago I met and loved the lady and killed her husband to supply her with a dowry of two hundred thousand dollars. I have a key to the garage but naturally I don’t want to clutter up my own car with corpses. So I dash upstairs, steal into George’s dressing room from the hall and borrow his ignition key.”

“There is a door from the hall into the Hayses’ dressing room? Is it kept locked?”

“Well, it wasn’t locked last night when I stole George’s key,” Prye said cheerfully.

“If you wouldn’t try to be funny, Prye,” the inspector remarked coldly, “I would be much obliged.”

He wrote a note in the margin of his book and sat back in his chair, frowning.

That door made all the difference. Anyone in the house could have borrowed a key to the garage and the ignition key of the Lincoln with scarcely any risk.

Prye grinned. “I see you follow me, Inspector. We’re back at home plate.”

5

The exciting events of the morning had disturbed Mamie Hodge’s routine, and at four o’clock in the afternoon she was still engaged in making the beds and tidying the bedrooms.

She picked up Miss Breton’s clothes from the floor with distaste. Although Miss Breton was sometimes very generous with Mamie in return for information received, Mamie had no use for the woman and she saw no reason why she should have to pick up the clothes Miss Breton had flung from her bags in a fit of rage.

To recompense herself for her trouble Mamie helped herself liberally to Miss Breton’s “Dream of Love” perfume and sat down at the dressing table to try some of the bronze nail polish. Mamie painted the nails of her left hand, thinking what a pity it was that she had bitten them at the movie the night before. But still, the bronze polish looked very classy, and when a girl has to work for a living she can’t expect to have as nice nails as Miss Breton, who never had to make beds or shine furniture.

Mamie blew on the polish to dry it and began to do her other hand. She might not have nice nails like Miss Breton but at least she didn’t have to dye her hair! She had nearly finished her right hand when she fancied she heard voices from the adjoining room.

In Mamie’s world there were no rules about eavesdropping, beyond the basic idea that you were a fool if you didn’t. She crept close to the windows and settled down cozily.

Mr. Peter Morgan’s voice, though it was not raised, floated out of the open window of the room next door right into Mamie’s delighted ears. Many of his words were indistinguishable, but his tone was unmistakably that of an angry man.

“...damn fool if you don’t. It’s the only chance, you idiot!”

The idiot, Mamie figured, must be Sally Morgan. It was her own opinion of Mrs. Morgan, and, besides, a man wouldn’t talk like that to anybody but his wife.

“...carrying on scandalously... wonder why I ever married you...”

Mamie nodded. Yes, she wondered that, too. Mr. Morgan looked like too sensible a man to fall for a dizzy little blonde. A real blonde, though, Mamie admitted grudgingly.

“Say you were in my bed. No time for modesty... protect ourselves.”

Mamie was pleasantly shocked and edged a little closer to the window.

“...killed Philips myself!”

Mamie jumped, and the bottle of nail polish flew out of her hand and clattered on the floor. She sat very still, listening. The voice from the next room had ceased. Shaking with fright, she picked up the bottle, stuffed it hastily into a pocket and ran from the room.

Straight into Mr. Morgan’s arms.

Mr. Morgan grabbed her. “Going anywhere?” he said with an unpleasant smile.

Mamie’s teeth were chattering, but she managed to say that she was just hurrying to get her work done, it being so late and—

“She’s lying.” Mrs. Morgan had come out of the room, too. “The little rat has been doing her nails — I can smell the polish. Come in here, Mamie. We’ll have a talk.”

Morgan pushed her into the room and closed the door. Mamie stood in front of him defiantly. She was frightened — but thrilled, too. Here she was, shut up in a room with a murderer and his wife, like any movie actress.

“All right, Mamie, what did you hear?” Mr. Morgan’s voice was coldly impersonal, and Mamie shivered. “Come, get a hold on yourself. I don’t want any fuss. We’re not going to harm you.”

Mamie grew white and began to tremble. A murderer saying he didn’t want any fuss and wasn’t going to harm you!

“The little brat’s going to faint,” Mrs. Morgan said.

Mamie had had no intention of fainting but she began to realize the potentialities of such a move.

“I feel — so weak,” she moaned.

Mr. Morgan said “Damn!” and went to the bathroom to bring some water.

Mamie moved fast. Sending Mrs. Morgan sprawling with a push, she dashed for the door and ran down the steps, screeching at the top of her lungs.

The inspector and Prye came running from the library, and Joseph and Miss Bellinger emerged from the kitchen.

“I been kidnapped!” Mamie shrieked. “I been kidnapped!”

“And with policemen all over the house, too!” Miss Bellinger cried. “Oh, the poor lamb. How did it happen?”

“Don’t open your mouth, Mamie,” Prye said loudly. “Stop shrieking. The rest of you had better go away.”

The inspector confirmed this order, and Joseph and Miss Bellinger went reluctantly back to the kitchen. Mamie was shoved unceremoniously into the library and given a chair.

She was rapidly recovering from her fright and beginning to enjoy herself. She had heard a murderer confess his guilt, she had been kidnapped, and now she was having her pulse taken by a good-looking doctor.

Prye straightened up. “That’s a fine constitution you have, Mamie. Bight back to seventy-four already. Now take your time and tell us what happened.”

“I been kidnapped,” Mamie began. She paused for a moment, and her voice sank to a whisper. “By the murderer!”

“What was his reason for kidnapping you?” the inspector asked with a trace of skepticism.

“I knew too much!”

She told her story in the vivid vernacular she favored, insisting frequently that she heard it ‘with her own ears.’ The inspector was forced to the conclusion that Mamie had two pairs of ears, a superficial set used for hearing ordinary, everyday things and a private set through which she received information of a more startling nature. It was with her ‘very own ears’ that she had heard Mr. Morgan confessing his guilt and preparing an alibi for himself.

“And then,” Mamie went on breathlessly, “I was just going to run down and tell you when I bump straight into Mr. Morgan. He grabs me quick as a flash and throws me into his room. Then he sez in a terrible voice, what did I hear? But I didn’t say a word. And then Mrs. Morgan sez, ‘She’s going to faint.’ So I say I am very weak, and he goes to get some water, and I pushed Mrs. Morgan and ran for the door and—”

“Did Mr. Morgan threaten you in anyway?” the inspector asked.

“He didn’t have to threaten. I knew what he meant. He wasn’t going to let me out of there alive, I bet. It wasn’t so much what he sez as the way he sez it, as if I was a worm—”

The inspector raised his eyebrows. “But his actual words were not a threat?”

“Well,” Mamie shifted uneasily, “Not his actual words but the way he looked at me. I knew what he meant, all right.”

“Thank you, Miss Hodge. I appreciate your coming to me directly. You’ve been very helpful indeed.”

“You mean, I got to beat it? Just when everything’s going to bust wide open? I can’t see him arrested or anything? Can’t I?”

The inspector was firm. “I haven’t any reason to arrest Mr. Morgan. But I intend to question him...”

Mamie sniffed.

“...and ask for an explanation. I think it would be wiser to question him alone.”

The inspector’s last word was emphatic, and Mamie started for the door with lagging feet. She looked back hopefully to see if the inspector would change his mind. He would not. In that case, the next best thing would be to finish up her work so she wouldn’t miss any subsequent excitement. Once more she disappeared into Miss Breton’s bedroom.

Prye laughed uneasily. “Well?”

“Well,” repeated the inspector. “I wish I knew how literally to take Miss Hodge. Abbott, bring the Morgans down here, will you?”

As Abbott disappeared the inspector sat down, frowning.

“I think Mamie’s honest,” Prye volunteered. “But, of course, she may have exaggerated somewhat. The Morgans are involved in some way — I don’t know how deeply.”

He went on to describe the scene at luncheon and his interview with Sally Morgan. “What Mamie heard about Mrs. Morgan ‘behaving scandalously’ may have referred to a love affair with Philips. Morgan strikes me as being a very jealous man, and I suppose jealousy could be a motive. But you’d think he would be more careful than to talk as he did.”

“But he was careful,” the inspector insisted. “Miss Hodge said his voice was not raised at all. And Morgan may have previously made sure that Miss Breton was not in her room. He wouldn’t think of Mamie coming in to clean.”

“Well, if I had just murdered my wife’s lover I certainly wouldn’t rush in to tell her about it. But I see what you mean. He may have had to tell her in order to provide an alibi for himself.”

When the Morgans appeared they did not seem ready to perjure themselves for love. Mrs. Morgan was frankly glaring at her husband, and he was completely ignoring her.

“Sit down,” the inspector said sternly. “I hope you are prepared to offer me an explanation of your conduct toward Miss Hodge. There is a penalty for intimidating witnesses, Mr. Morgan.”

“Witnesses of what?” Morgan asked calmly.

The inspector ignored the question. “Did you kill Thomas Philips, Mr. Morgan?”

Morgan laughed. There was some relief in the sound. “So that’s what Mamie heard! No, I didn’t kill Philips. In the course of a conversation with my wife I merely mentioned that, given a certain set of circumstances, I could have killed Philips myself.”

“These circumstances were?”

“None of your business, I think, Inspector,” Morgan replied. “I don’t have to answer your questions, you know. I came down here purely as a favor. I’d like to help you find the murderer as soon as possible but I don’t want any unnecessary interference with my private life. What I was discussing with my wife had no bearing on the murder.”

“In that case, you were foolish to try and prevent Miss Hodge from reporting it to me,” the inspector said coldly. “You see, Morgan, when a man goes to some trouble to fabricate an alibi for himself it usually indicates that he feels the need of one.”

“For myself!” Morgan laughed unpleasantly. “An alibi for myself! I don’t need an alibi.”

“The hell you don’t!” Sally cried.

“But my wife needs one, I fear.” He shot a malevolent look in her direction.

“You’re a liar!”

“You slut!” Morgan hissed. “You little slut!”

“Oh hell,” said Prye shakily, “this isn’t an interrogation — it’s a brawl.”

The inspector frowned and put up his hand. “Mr. Morgan, please confine yourself to answering my questions. You were overheard preparing an alibi. Why?”

Morgan began to realize the gravity of his position. “I thought Mrs. Morgan needed one. I thought there was some connection between her and Philips.”

“You might have given me a chance to explain,” Sally said acidly.

“This is your chance, Mrs. Morgan.”

“Well, my husband put an entirely wrong interpretation on my fainting at lunchtime. When I heard that Thomas Philips had been murdered I was naturally upset. But it turned out it wasn’t the Thomas Philips I knew at all!”

Prye brightened. “Was your Thomas Philips an old chap with a peg leg who—?”

“That’s enough, Prye,” the inspector said brusquely. “It seems that almost everyone knows a Thomas Philips but never the right one. Odd, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think it odd,” Sally said, with a hostile glance at Prye. “It’s a common name. The one I know happens to be my brother-in-law.”

“You didn’t tell me you had a brother-in-law,” Morgan said coldly.

“I’m telling you now then. I haven’t thought of him for ages. It was naturally a shock to hear that he was murdered. But when I came to reasoning it out I realized that it couldn’t have been my brother-in-law after all.”

“Why not?” the inspector asked dryly.

“Because he lives in Arizona.”

The inspector slumped into a chair and sighed. “Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Morgan. That will be all.”

The Morgans departed.

“That’s dandy,” the inspector groaned. “It couldn’t have been her brother-in-law because he lives in Arizona. I assume there’s an unwritten law which prevents residents of Arizona from being murdered in Illinois.”

“I suppose you could arrest her,” Prye said doubtfully.

“For telling a thin story?” The inspector laughed. “In that case, I’ll have to arrest quite a number of people. There will be yourself, Miss Eve Hays, Mr. George Hays, Mr. and Mrs. Morgan and possibly others. I’d like nothing better than to arrest someone but I don’t want to depopulate the city. Besides, the accommodations at the jail are inadequate. Mertonville people usually go to Chicago to commit their crimes.”

“This one didn’t.”

The inspector rose from his chair and yawned. “And now I’d like an introduction to a lady. Miss Angela Breton.”

“That was no lady,” Prye grinned.

Joseph informed them that Miss Breton had retired to the morning room, leaving orders that she did not want to be disturbed.

“I’ll bet she doesn’t,” Prye said. “I don’t suppose you would allow me to handle Miss Breton, Inspector? I think I know enough about her to make her open up like a flower. You could listen outside the door.”

Under ordinary circumstances the inspector would have scorned the idea for the sake of his dignity. But he was tired and he had missed his lunch. It was not difficult to persuade him.

Prye tapped on the door of the morning room and walked in. Miss Breton looked up from her knitting. Only the sharpest observer could have caught the expression of anger which tugged at her face before she prepared her efficient smile.

“Hello,” Prye said cheerfully. “Tiny garments? Who’s the lucky man?”

“I never know whether the garments will be tiny or not,” Miss Breton said with a laugh. “My knitting is not an exact science. I just do it for my nerves.”

“Don’t confess that you have nerves, Miss Breton. I’ll be very disappointed in you. In a household full of hysterical women I depended on you to be the cool and ministering Angela.”

“Now it’s my turn to be disappointed, Doctor Prye,” she said with a smile.

“But surely you used to be a ministering angel, didn’t you? When you worked in the hospital?”

Miss Breton’s smile blurred. “How did you find that out, Doctor Prye?”

“Intuition. I’ve worked with a great many nurses.”

“And probably worked on a great many more,” she said coolly. “I can see my turn is coming.”

Prye felt that the honors went to Miss Breton and hoped that the inspector did not share this feeling. He decided on a change of tactics.

“Rotten mess, this murder, isn’t it? Although, from what I hear, Philips probably got what he deserved.”

“Probably.”

Prye frowned. “I wish you’d put down that knitting, Miss Breton, or give me something to knit, too. It’s hard to carry on a conversation with a couple of knitting needles flipping around in your face.”

“I didn’t suggest a conversation,” Miss Breton said coldly. “In fact, it disturbs me.”

Prye blushed and subsided into silence. He came out of it again in a moment to observe that the weather was quite hot and quite humid as well.

“Oh, quite,” said Miss Breton.

“It must be the heat that’s making Mrs. Hays look so ill. Or perhaps it’s the stuff you’ve been selling her.”

The needles stopped, but her voice was still steady. “Oh, you mean the sedative I’ve prescribed for her?”

“Climb down,” Prye said rudely. “You know damned well a nurse isn’t allowed to write a prescription.”

“A nurse?” She seemed amused. “But I’m not a nurse, Doctor Prye. Your psychic powers didn’t carry you far enough. I’m a doctor.”

Prye was too dismayed to conceal his feelings. “I don’t believe you,” he said flatly. “What school?”

“Now, that’s hardly any concern of yours. I haven’t asked you for your diploma, have I?”

“Why don’t you call yourself a doctor?” he demanded. His ego still rocked from the blow, and he hesitated between disbelief and anger.

Miss Breton replied airily, “Why should I? I didn’t want to spoil your anatomy lectures at meal times perhaps. Or perhaps I’ve retired. Or I might be too modest. There are plenty of explanations, Doctor Prye. But, as one member of the profession to another, I prefer you to keep this quiet. Since the inspector already knows—”

“He doesn’t know!”

“—it won’t matter if the rest of the household does not. Oh, I think the inspector knows by this time. You left the door open so obviously, Doctor Prye. I’m ashamed of you.” She picked up her knitting and prepared to leave, but Prye motioned her to sit down again.

“Doctor or no doctor, Miss Breton, you have been supplying Mrs. Hays with morphine, have you not?”

There was no reply.

“And you know that a physician may be held on a narcotics charge as well as anyone else?” Miss Breton rose swiftly and went to the door. There was no one there. She came back and faced Dr. Prye. “That was very neat. While you were talking the inspector tiptoed away.”

Her voice was rather uncertain, and Prye seized on her doubt. “Your imagination is too keen. I forget to close a door, and you conjure up an army of policemen standing behind it. Sounds like the symptoms of a bad conscience to me, Miss Breton.”

“Let us understand each other, Doctor Prye. You came to me to get information but you haven’t succeeded because I have none to give you. I want you to stop prying into my private affairs.”

Prye laughed. “Private affairs? Your private affairs embrace quite a number of people in this house. Mrs. Hays depends on you for morphine. You have tied Simon up hand and foot and now you’re trying the same thing with Dick. Mr. Hays has ordered you to leave his house — more than once probably—”

“So you listen at doors, too, Doctor Prye?”

“—but you’re still here. You knew Philips quite well, yet you don’t raise an eyebrow when he’s murdered. And now in order to make your dope peddling seem legal you claim to have a medical degree. But that admission works two ways. If you are a doctor you would have no trouble getting hyoscine. If you aren’t you’re going to find yourself up against a narcotics charge.”

Miss Breton smiled. “You are whistling in the dark, Doctor Prye.”

“Then why did you ask me to keep secret the fact that you have a medical degree?”

“Pure vanity,” Miss Breton replied lightly. “People might start adding and come to the conclusion I am more than twenty-eight.”

“As you are?”

“As I am. At one time I entertained the idea of marrying into the Hays family. As Simon is not yet twenty, I carried out a quite harmless deception. And even though I’ve changed my mind about Simon—”

“Have you?”

“Yes, I have. I thought a million dollars might improve Simon, but—” She shrugged her shoulders gracefully.

“Perhaps it’s just as well you’ve changed your mind,” Prye said. “I don’t think George is eager to be a father to you.”

He went out of the room, with Miss Breton’s laughter ringing in his ears. He made his way to the kitchen, circled the indignant Miss Bellinger and went into the pantry to telephone.

When Prye reappeared half an hour later he was wearing a satisfied smile. But it changed to a look of surprise when he reached the front hall. The place seemed to be swarming with policemen.

“What’s up?” Prye asked one of them.

“Searching the house.”

Prye took the steps two at a time. The inspector was just emerging from Angela Breton’s room. He greeted Prye rather sourly.

“So she opened up like a flower, eh?”

“I underestimated the lady. Did you find anything in her room?”

“Quite a number of things. A broken wristwatch, some lipsticks and other gadgets, a carton of cigarettes—”

Prye frowned. “What about the wastebasket?”

“Some cigarette ends, matches, make-up tissues and a powder puff. All very illuminating clues. I deduce from the cigarette ends that she smokes, from the powder puff that she uses powder.”

“Not even a letter?”

“Not even a letter,” the inspector repeated gravely. “What’s more, according to Mamie, there never has been a letter in the wastebasket. And I think we can depend on Mamie to know that.”

Prye nodded. “Our Miss Breton is a bright girl — perhaps a little too bright. In her eagerness to destroy any evidence of her private life she forgot that a complete lack of such evidence is suspicious in itself. People with nothing to hide don’t cover their traces so carefully. Did you hear her tell me she holds a medical degree?”

The inspector nodded.

“Well,” Prye went on, “she may have one but she’s not on the American register. I did a little telephoning.”

Inspector Bailey pondered this for a moment. “I don’t see how that can help us. We found no drugs in her possession anyway.”

“Well, it proves she’s a liar.”

“I would rather prove she’s telling the truth,” the inspector replied.

Prye nodded. “I see what you mean. ‘A truth that’s told with bad intent beats all the lies you can invent.’”

A commotion in the hall downstairs put an end to their discussion. Several voices seemed to be raised in protest against the intrusion of the policemen. Bailey walked halfway down the steps and raised his hand majestically. George Hays came to the foot of the stairs, with his chin thrust out.

“You’re overstepping the bounds this time,” he cried. “What right have you to search my house? I won’t allow it!”

The inspector smiled grimly. “I expected this attitude on your part, Mr. Hays, and I took the precaution of getting a search warrant. You will please save trouble for us all and take your guests into the drawing room. Dinner will have to be postponed for a time. After the second floor has been searched you may go to your rooms and dress for dinner while we search this floor. I regret the necessity of this step, but your refusal to co-operate with me makes it imperative. Now, if you will please adjourn to another room we will take as short a time as possible.”

Inspector Bailey could be impressive when he chose to be. There were a few muttered protests, but the hall was cleared immediately, and Grabbe and his men set to work upstairs.

Prye was herded into the drawing room with the others and he was scarcely surprised to find himself the most unpopular person in the room. Sally Morgan was frankly discourteous; Miss Breton ignored him, and George Hays scowled frequently in his direction.

Eve was the last to appear. She stood in the doorway and surveyed the gathering with a mocking smile. “What a merry party!” she observed, taking a seat beside Prye. “Playing charades, I bet. Now, don’t tell me the answer. I want to guess.”

“This is no time for humor, Eve,” her father said stiffly. “You young people are as irresponsible as a pack of monkeys. It was you, Eve, who got us into this mess in the first place.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” she said airily. “Whoever murdered Thomas Philips did that. Unless you would rather have kept the murder hidden and let the murderer go free — that would save your hide, anyway, George.”

“Don’t call me George! I forbid it.”

Simon laughed shrilly.

“If you’re so keen on justice, Eve,” Miss Breton put in silkily, “why don’t you help Doctor Prye listen at doors? After all, there are a great many doors and only one Doctor Prye.”

Dick Vanstone frowned. “Surely there’s no need to insult each other. Our only chance to get rid of the police is to stick together and give them whatever help we can.”

Eve agreed: “Dick’s right. We should all tell the truth and get it over with.”

“This is developing into a revival meeting,” Prye chuckled. “Eve sees the light. Dick sees the light—”

Dick was offended. “It’s nothing to joke about, Doctor Prye.”

“But we’re all busy hiding our light under bushels.”

“What’s all this talk about light?” George cried. “What’s the matter with everyone? Has everybody but me gone stark, staring mad?”

Nobody replied, and George turned to Prye. “You’re a psychiatrist. Is anybody normal around this house at all?”

Prye brightened. “I’m glad you brought that point up, George. There is no such thing as a normal person. We all deviate in some way — a foible here, a phobia there. Take yourself, for instance. Every time you go up the stairs you avoid the bottom step.”

George looked uncomfortable, and Simon groaned: “Gawd, another lecture!”

“That’s the kind of thing I mean,” Prye went on. “You have a compulsion neurosis. A part of your mind compels you to avoid touching the first step. It’s completely unreasonable, as neuroses are.”

Eve was delighted. “I always suspected there was something the matter with you, George. A compulsion neurosis! What have I got, Doctor Prye?”

“I know what I haven’t got,” Simon interrupted, “and that’s a drink. How about it, George?”

George rang for Joseph. But Inspector Bailey entered instead.

“You may go upstairs now,” he announced.

George scowled. “When we want to go up we have to stay down and when we want to stay down—”

“That’s enough, Mr. Hays,” the inspector said shortly.

Dr. Prye lingered as the rest filed out of the room.

“Find anything?” he asked.

“A couple of things,” the inspector said with heavy irony. “Nothing important. A phial of hyoscine in one of Eve Hays’ shoes, a hypodermic needle in one of Mrs. Hays’ drawers and a note from Thomas Philips suggesting that someone meet him in the library at 1:30 A.M.”

“Where was the note?”

The inspector affected surprise. “Don’t you know? It was in your instrument bag, Doctor Prye.”

6

According to the clock in the Bailey kitchen, it was five minutes past seven. William was thirty-five minutes late for dinner, and the cheese soufflé had degenerated into a sodden brown mass. Amanda detested cheese soufflés, but still, it was disheartening to watch one deflate before your eyes.

William was thirty-five minutes late for dinner and he had not come home at all for lunch. As a self-respecting housekeeper, Amanda began to turn scathing phrases over in her mind. This was poor comfort, however, for her heart was not in it. For all she knew, William was sick or injured or even dead!

“Oh dear!” Amanda said quite crossly.

Beneath her thick armor of asbestos Amanda had a warm heart. But this fact was known only to a privileged few, and William was not among them. He never dreamed he was the apple of Amanda’s eye. This was fortunate, for the knowledge would have embarrassed both of them. The Baileys had always scoffed at people who showed their feelings.

At seven-ten Miss Bailey removed the cheese soufflé from the casserole and threw it into the backyard for the birds to eat next morning. By one of the injustices of fate, William was just coming in the front door. Amanda hastily collected some eggs from the refrigerator and was already frying them when he entered the kitchen.

Amanda’s greeting expressed both anger and relief. William looked too tired to endure a scolding, however, and Amanda had to show her displeasure by carefully refraining from asking any of the questions that were consuming her. But when the coffee was poured she could restrain her curiosity no longer.

“A dreadful business, this murder, isn’t it, William?” Amanda tried to sound sorrowful, but there was a note of ghoulish excitement in her voice.

“It’s quite a strange coincidence, too,” she pursued. “I met Mrs. Horner in the grocery store today.”

William disclaimed all interest in Mrs. Horner.

Amanda sniffed. “Well, she’s the housekeeper at the Hays residence. Isn’t that where you were all afternoon? Hadn’t you better keep your wits about you, William? Mrs. Horner told me several very interesting things.”

She paused, found that an invitation to continue was not forthcoming and continued anyway. “She says — Mrs. Horner, that is — that she was up all night with a headache.”

William raised his eyebrows politely. “It scarcely sounds unusual enough to repeat. I thought a great many of your friends suffered from headaches, Amanda.”

Amanda ignored the snub. “Really, William, I should think you’d realize the importance of what she says. If she was up all night she may have heard the murder!” Amanda paused for effect and continued disappointedly, “But, as it happened, she didn’t hear the murder at all. She heard Miss Eve Hays come home with her fiancé and she says they both went straight up to their rooms. There, what do you think of that, William?”

“It isn’t worthwhile thinking about,” the inspector replied succinctly. “Mrs. Horner is lying.”

Amanda gave him a pitying smile. “You have a suspicious nature, I fear, William. I found Mrs. Horner a most upright character, quite beyond—”

“My dear Amanda, you can’t possibly scrape up an acquaintance with a woman in a grocery store and swear to her integrity after ten minutes’ conversation. I suppose you did not force her acquaintance?”

Amanda blushed.

“And I suppose you told her who you were and that your brother was in charge of the case? And then she obligingly volunteered this information?”

“What’s wrong with that?” Amanda cried with spirit.

“My dear Amanda, do you remember when I was trying to catch the man that stole Mrs. Witham’s pearls?”

Amanda remembered only too well.

“And all the time I was compiling enough evidence to convict him you were keeping him informed of my progress because you thought he had nice eyes.”

“I did not!” she corrected him indignantly. “I thought he had very sneaky eyes, as a matter of fact. I simply made a mistake about his character.”

“And do you remember what happened as I was about to arrest him?” the inspector continued inexorably. “He left town, and we’ve never seen him since.”

“Oh, that was months ago, William,” Amanda said reproachfully. “You needn’t be so small about it. You’ve made a few mistakes yourself.”

William glared at her helplessly. “Well, there’s one mistake I don’t intend to repeat — telling you any details of this case. I don’t need or want your help, Amanda.”

“You may yet,” said Amanda, unperturbed.

She helped herself to a cigarette and after several attempts to light it put it down in annoyance.

“I can’t think how other women do it so nicely,” she said crossly. “I’m afraid these matches are defective, William.”

“You’re too old for that sort of thing,” her brother said brusquely. He pushed back his chair and stood up. Amanda followed him into the hall.

“Anything important tonight?” she asked with intense casualness. “Will you be late?” The inspector put on his hat. “I don’t think so. I’m going to the office first and then out to have a talk with Mrs. Philips.”

“It looks like rain, William. You had better wear your rubbers. There’s no sense in catching pneumonia, is there?”

This was compelling logic, and the inspector was wearing his rubbers when he went out to the car. Amanda watched him until he turned the corner and then hurried upstairs to get her hat. Her long, thin nose was quivering like a bloodhound’s.

By the time she was dressed in an old blue raincoat, with a black felt hat pulled down over her ears, she had her story ready. She would say, “I’m Miss Bailey. As representative of the ladies of the Presbyterian congregation I wish to extend to you our deepest condolences,” and so on.

And then Mrs. Philips would say, “Oh, thank you. Won’t you come in? A cup of tea?”

From then on, Miss Bailey thought, it should not be difficult. There would be many little details that Mrs. Philips would hesitate to give to William but might confide to another woman.

By the time Amanda reached Claremont Avenue she had convinced herself that she was going not only to assist her brother but to comfort a bereaved woman out of the goodness of her heart. She peered into the dark porches of several houses, looking for Mrs. Philips’ number. It was just eight o’clock, but already night was falling. The clouds out over the lake were black and laced with heat lightning.

Miss Bailey sighed. There was just one more house, and it was far back from the street, nearly hidden in a grove of poplars. She turned into the lane, glanced around her with apprehension and marched swiftly in the direction of the house. This was it — 123 Claremont!

Amanda mounted the veranda steps without hesitation and pressed the doorbell. There were no lights showing from any of the windows, and Amanda felt a twinge of uneasiness. Still, the poor woman might be in there all alone in the dark, grieving.

She pressed the bell again. It was useless to fancy that the bell was out of order — she could hear its ringing echoing inside the house. She waited another five minutes. Suppose that poor Mrs. Philips had killed herself! Amanda flicked away this idea as she might a bothersome fly. Nonsense! People didn’t commit suicide so easily as that.

She carefully made her way around to the rear of the house. A wind had risen and it was playing an eerie tune in the poplars. They tossed and swayed like syncopating giants. Although she was not impressionable, Amanda picked up a stick from the driveway. She clutched her purse more tightly as she approached the garage.

Through the small window at the side she saw a blue coupe and a black sedan parked side by side. The door of the garage began to open slowly and then banged sharply shut. Amanda jumped. Grasping her stick firmly, she crept to the front of the garage.

“Just the wind,” she told herself cheerfully.

Amanda was very fond of the story of the Christian lady who heard a burglar downstairs one night and began to sing a hymn in a loud voice. Touched by the hymn, the burglar had hastily turned over a new leaf, marched up the stairs and flung himself at the lady’s feet, a convert. Amanda forgot what hymn had been so effective but she took a chance on “Onward Christian Soldiers.”

No convert emerged from the garage, and Amanda stopped in the middle of the refrain. If there was no one there it would be foolish to attract someone. Besides, it was hard to think and sing simultaneously.

Those cars in the garage — why were they there if the house was deserted? But was the house deserted?

It was quite dark now, but Amanda, prepared as usual for any contingency, took a small flashlight from her purse and lighted her way to the back door. The milk had been taken in that day — that was a good sign. She turned the knob carefully, and her heart began to pound. Why should the back door of a deserted house be left unlocked?

Whenever Amanda’s curiosity engaged in combat with her common sense the outcome was a foregone conclusion. She pushed the door open carefully, stepped in and shut it firmly behind her. Outside the storm had broken, and in the intermittent glare of the lightning the kitchen was plainly visible.

It is one thing to be curious and quite another to indulge that curiosity so far that you find yourself in the deserted house of a murdered man in the midst of a raging storm. But the storm, Amanda decided, was somehow fateful. She could not go out in that drenching rain, and the only alternative was to go further in. Like Macbeth, she had stepped in too far.

Whatever Amanda had expected to find, it was not in the kitchen. She pushed open another door and tiptoed down a long hall into the dining room. A sharp clap of thunder sounded outside.

“Really!” Amanda said aloud in exasperation.

She turned her flashlight over the dining room, which seemed quite as ordinary as the kitchen. Still, a murdered man had dined in this room, had lived in this house. Surely there would be a clue somewhere. Encouraged by this thought, Amanda decided to go over the whole house systematically from top to bottom. She tiptoed back into the hall and up the stairs.

She tried the first door on the landing, found it open and went in. Handling her torch like a habitual burglar, she swung its beam over a bed, several leather chairs, a desk and a chest of drawers. It was a masculine room, Amanda decided. Probably the dead man’s room. But there was certainly nothing startling in it.

Now that her first fears had vanished Amanda began to view her surroundings with a more critical eye. She tested the mattress of the bed by sitting on it and found it too soft for her own taste. Should she take a chance and switch on the lamp beside the bed? She decided against this — the less attention she attracted the better.

Her eyes fell on a book lying open on the bedside table. Probably the very last book Mr. Philips had read before he was murdered. Amanda picked it up and examined it with the aid of her flashlight.

“The Decameron of Boccaccio,” she read aloud. She turned over a page and came upon an illustration. Amanda blushed and hastily turned the page. The next picture was even more immodest. Surely Mr. Philips hadn’t borrowed this book from the Mertonville Public Library!

She turned to the back flyleaf to see if it bore the library’s stamp. No, it had not come from the public library, thank heaven. But where the library usually pasted a folder to hold the borrower’s card a similar folder had been fastened. Out of this Amanda drew three envelopes.

Trembling and eager, she stuffed the envelopes into the pocket of her grey dress. Now that she had found her clues she must get away as quickly as possible and show them to William. Someone might come looking for these very envelopes at any moment. She pinned her purse to the front of her dress in order to leave one hand free and, with the flashlight in her other hand, she prepared to leave.

Was it her imagination, or had the flashlight flickered?

Amanda maintained in later years that it was fate and not a defaulting bulb which decreed that her light should go out the very next minute. But, whatever the cause, the effect was that she was stranded in a strange house in utter darkness, liable to arrest for breaking and entering. William was going to be very angry with her when he arrived. She felt her way back to the bed and sat down to think it all out.

It was several minutes before she realized that there was definitely somebody in the hall downstairs. Whoever or whatever it was, it could not be William, for the movements she heard were stealthy and almost imperceptible.

It was difficult to decide what to do now. Should she go downstairs to face what was there, singing a hymn en route? Should she scream loudly out of the window? Or should she sit quietly where she was and just pray?

Amanda frowned. It would be too great a strain on her faith to sit and pray under such conditions. And suppose she started to scream out of the window and lost her voice, or no one heard her? There was only one course left. Amanda removed her shoes and, armed with one shoe, she started slowly and quietly down the stairs.

It was certainly no fault of Amanda’s that the intruder had just as slowly and quietly started up the stairs, but it was a tense moment when each became aware of the other. Amanda raised her shoe and struck.

There was a low cry of rage, and she felt a hand grasp her throat. But the fight was not a fair one. Amanda’s corns always bothered her in damp weather, anyway, and when they were stepped on into the bargain her strength was as the strength of ten. She emitted a roar that William could not have surpassed, and the two figures rolled down the steps.

When William entered the Philips’ house he had not expected to be greeted by two people desperately clawing each other in the dark. He drew his gun, shouted to Sergeant Abbott and snapped on the hall light.

“Oh, William!” Amanda’s voice flickered and failed. For the first time in her life she had swooned.

The inspector bent over Sally Morgan. He picked her up with ease and carried her through the first door he saw. Finding himself in a sitting room, he laid Mrs. Morgan on the chesterfield to inspect her injuries.

In a few minutes Sergeant Abbott had revived Amanda by the simple, if crude, expedient of slapping her face smartly.

“Attababy,” the sergeant encouraged her. “Wake up.”

Amanda rose slowly to her feet, leaning on the sergeant. But even in a half-dazed condition she remembered her dignity and disengaged her arm. She sat down weakly in a chair against the wall and looked around for her brother.

“Oh!” Amanda’s whisper crescendoed to a scream. “Oh, William! Look!”

For the second time in her life Amanda swooned.

Sergeant Abbott looked where she had pointed and gasped. Dolly Philips lay sprawled on the floor beside the wall, a few feet from the hall telephone. Her blue eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling, and her right hand clutched the leg of the telephone stand.

Sergeant Abbott found his voice as the inspector emerged from the sitting room. “Chief! Mrs. Philips is in here dead!”

The inspector moved swiftly to the body. “Call the station right away and get Doctor Munro and some men down here. No, don’t bother. Take the car. This telephone wire’s been cut.”

The inspector bent over Mrs. Philips as Sergeant Abbott disappeared. Her eyes stared up at him as if faintly surprised. He covered her face with a handkerchief.

“Amanda!” he shouted. “Amanda, will you stop this nonsense and go and tend to Mrs. Morgan!”

Like an old fire horse at the sound of the bell, Amanda rose and tottered into the sitting room.

Nearly an hour later Sally Morgan tried to open her eyes and found that one of them refused to open. With the other she examined her surroundings. She was lying in a strange bedroom, and beside her sat a formidable middle-aged woman in a grey dress. For a horrible moment Sally thought that she was in jail and that Amanda was a policewoman set to guard her.

She was not far wrong. As a result of the night’s adventure Miss Bailey was temporarily on the police force. Her brother had been faced with the unsatisfactory alternatives of putting Sally Morgan in jail or committing her to a hospital where he could not question her as soon as she regained consciousness. He had hit upon the apparently happy thought of placing Mrs. Morgan in Amanda’s care for a few hours. Although the inspector felt that his remarkable sister could probably take care of herself he had pressed a .32-caliber revolver on her, with instructions how to use it, and left with a stern admonition to keep out of trouble.

Amanda had gingerly placed the revolver on the table beside her bed, and it was only with an effort of will that she could force herself to look at it.

Sally opened her eye wider and gave a little gasp. Those long scratches on her nurse’s face had probably been inflicted by Sally’s own nails! She remembered scratching the person who had flung her down the stairs and now she had apparently been kidnapped by that same person. But why? Sally groaned.

“Feeling better?” Amanda asked grimly. Her face was stinging badly, and she had no intention of lavishing sympathy on a blonde wildcat.

Under ordinary circumstances Amanda would have been delighted with this romantic episode in her spinsterly career. She was entertaining, in her own bed, a young and pretty woman who was deeply involved in a double murder. But to be frightened out of one’s wits, to find a corpse and to barely escape arrest at the hands of one’s own brother is enough to bring out the acid in anyone.

On the point of tears, Amanda scared them away by saying very severely: “Really, Mrs. Morgan, I see no reason why you had to claw me.”

“I didn’t claw you!” Sally sat up in bed and fell back with a groan. “You pummeled me. You’ve broken every bone in my body.”

“I should think this might teach you to stay at home and mind your own business after this,” Amanda said, unconscious of the irony.

“Who are you? What right have you to keep me here? How did I get here?”

“I,” Amanda said with dignity, “am Miss Amanda Bailey. And I have every right to keep you here. My brother is Inspector Bailey.”

Sally began to moan, and Amanda hastened to pursue her advantage. “Your only chance, Mrs. Morgan, is to tell me whatever you know, and I shall judge for myself whether or not you are guilty. After all, you did break into the dead man’s house, didn’t you?”

“So did you, you old harridan!” Sally cried.

Amanda regarded her pityingly. “Sticks and stones will break my bones, Mrs. Morgan. I was in the Philips’ house at the express command of my brother.” Amanda crossed her fingers to indicate to the Almighty that she realized she was lying but felt it was expedient. “And I certainly didn’t kill Mrs. Philips.”

“Kill — Mrs. ... Philips!”

“Are you going to pretend that you didn’t know Mrs. Philips was dead?” Amanda cried, indignant that anyone should tamper with the truth. “Her body was lying right there in the hall where you were.”

Sally was motionless, and Amanda peered into her face.

“Mrs. Morgan!”

Sally did not stir.

“Mrs. Morgan, have you fainted again?”

Still there was no reply.

“Oh dear!” Amanda hastily picked up the revolver from the table and scurried into the bathroom to get the smelling salts. By the time Amanda had found the smelling salts, poured out a glass of water and balanced the glass and the bottle in one hand and the revolver in the other Mrs. Morgan had reached the foot of the stairs. With an indignant howl Amanda dropped the glass and the bottle and pulled back the safety catch on the revolver. She closed her eyes tightly and fired.

There was a deafening report followed by a crash, and Amanda felt a dreadful pain in her shoulder. Her last thought before she fainted for the third time was that she had allowed Mrs. Morgan to escape and had shot down the only photograph she had of her brother William.

Unaware of these stirring events, Inspector Bailey was talking to Dr. Munro in the waiting room of the doctor’s office.

“The poisoner,” Dr. Munro was saying, “has a number of advantages over the ordinary murderer. If Mrs. Philips had been shot or strangled or stabbed we could eliminate some of the suspects by establishing their alibis. But the hyoscine may have been placed in that cocktail shaker any time at all, perhaps even before Philips himself was killed. In that case, alibis are useless. You can’t expect a whole houseful of people to be able to account for and prove their movements over a period of thirty-six hours or more. I don’t suppose you’ve been able to trace the purchase of hyoscine to anyone in the house?”

The inspector’s countenance vied with Munro’s in dolefulness. “Every druggist and chemist in Mertonville has been questioned — without success. It’s no use trying to cover Chicago — the hyoscine may have come from San Francisco. Did you find any trace of hyoscine in Mrs. Hays’ hypodermic needle?”

“Not a trace. I got a faint morphine reaction though.”

“Yes, I know about that,” the inspector replied sourly. “Thanks to Doctor Prye.”

He wrote a brief note in his book.

“To get back to Mrs. Philips, you say she didn’t get as much hyoscine as her husband?”

“Not half,” said Munro. “There was nearly a grain left in the cocktail shaker. I reconstruct it like this: Mrs. Philips takes a drink sometime between three and four and begins to feel faint. She suspects what has happened and goes out to phone the police. She picks up the phone — it had her fingerprints on it — and can’t get an answer. Perhaps she doesn’t see that the wire has been cut and keeps trying to phone until she collapses. That would account for the position of her body.”

“Wait a minute!” The inspector seemed suddenly perturbed. “I’ve got to phone. I’ve been a damn fool.” He rushed out.

In ten minutes he was back, looking pleased with himself. “Jenny Harris, one of Mrs. Philips’ maids, used the telephone this morning at eight-thirty. Since the murderer would surely poison the cocktail shaker and cut the wires at the same time, the time limit is narrowed down.”

Munro pondered. “Not necessarily. It would be logical to do both at the same time, but murderers are not always logical. You’d better allow for doubt there.”

The inspector leaned forward eagerly. “But how could the murderer have known Mrs. Philips was going to let her servants go? If he was afraid that Mrs. Philips would use the telephone to tell us what had happened or perhaps even who had poisoned her husband and herself he would have been equally afraid that she would tell the servants. I think there’s no doubt that the poison was planted and the telephone wires were cut sometime after the servants left at ten o’clock this morning. You say Mrs. Philips must have been dead by four this afternoon. So our time is narrowed down to the six hours between ten and four.”

“What time did you put police guards on the Hayses’ house?”

“Shortly after lunch — as soon as I had established that Philips was murdered there.”

“Well, that cuts down on the time further. What time was luncheon served at the house?”

“About one-thirty, I think.”

“So the poison was planted between ten and half-past one. Was anyone missing from luncheon at the Hayses’ house?”

“So far as I know, only Mr. Wells was absent,” the inspector replied. “This Wells is certainly behaving like an idiot, whether he’s guilty or not.”

“Well, he’s the first person definitely without an alibi.” Munro continued thoughtfully, “How long would it take to walk or drive from the Hayses’ house to the Philips’ house?”

“About four minutes’ fast walking. They’re only a block apart. So, you see, it won’t be easy to eliminate anyone. Probably everyone in the house has ten minutes unaccounted for between ten and one-thirty, and ten minutes was all the time required if the murderer had any luck. As for witnesses who would be likely to see him, they’ll be few and far between. There’s a path along the beach from the Hayses’ to the Philips’ back door. All the houses along there have private beaches, and it would be quite possible for the murderer to meet no one at all. We can try that angle though,” he added, without much hope.

Mrs. Philips’ death had been a blow to the inspector. He blamed himself entirely; he should have arrested the woman in the morning and held her for questioning. Still, Mrs. Philips could not have been compelled to talk, and it was improbable that she would have talked of her own accord. She had made it clear that she considered her husband’s murderer a public benefactor and that she had no intention of helping the police to find him.

But why had she been killed? She may have known the identity of the murderer — in fact, the inspector felt almost certain she had — but she had refused to say whom she suspected. If the murderer was safe, why had he felt it necessary to kill her? Had she withheld her information from the police in order to sell it to the murderer? In view of the amount of money her husband had left her, blackmail seemed out of the question. But suppose it had not been blackmail for money? It was possible that the murderer had been her lover — or, at any rate, someone she was in love with. In that case, she might have tried to force him to marry her.

Bailey smiled grimly. Blackmail for marriage was not a new thing but as a motive for murder it seemed preposterous. This theory was weakened, too, by the number of women under suspicion: Mrs. Hays, Eve, Miss Breton, Sally Morgan—

The inspector jumped to his feet. “Sally Morgan!” he roared. Munro stared after him in amazement, but the inspector had no time to explain. When he reached his car he saw by the dashboard clock that it was midnight and he cursed roundly under his breath.

When he turned the corner and saw the light pouring out of his open front door he knew that his misgivings had been justified. And when he entered the hall and saw his shattered photograph lying on the floor amid lumps of plaster Inspector Bailey exploded.

“Amanda! Where are you?”

As the echoes died he heard the click of a door being unlocked upstairs. A voice he scarcely recognized as his sister’s quavered, “Oh, William!”

The inspector dashed up the stairs two at a time and stopped, aghast.

“My God!” he whispered. “You’re all bloody!”

Touched by his solicitude, Amanda was moved to hide her emotion by saying quite angrily, “Use your wits, William. I’ve simply put some mercurochrome on my face. If you hadn’t been so careless as to leave the top off I wouldn’t have spilled it all over myself.”

The inspector sank into the nearest chair.

“And what’s more,” Amanda continued crossly, “that revolver you gave me was quite defective. Completely out of order. It nearly wrenched my shoulder off.”

“I—” began the inspector.

“So it’s quite useless to blame me for that woman’s escape. You really couldn’t expect me to catch her with a revolver that won’t even shoot straight.”

“I—”

“I want no excuses, William,” she said firmly. “What’s done is done. But I forgive you quite freely. I’m not one to harbor a grudge. Now I think I shall retire. Good night, William. I hope you will see fit to buy yourself an efficient revolver.”

Miss Amanda Bailey retreated into her room and shut the door. The inspector found himself swearing at thin air.

Two murders, innumerable suspects, two witnesses missing — and not one decent clue! The inspector had a bad night.

7

Early the following morning a tall young man was eating breakfast in one of the moderately priced restaurants in downtown Chicago. He was a decidedly handsome young man, and it was not surprising that the waitress who was serving him took more than an ordinary interest in his behavior.

In the first place, he was wearing evening clothes which were badly in need of a pressing; then, too, at every bite he looked rather furtively about him.

The waitress, who was very fond of the combination of blue eyes and black curly hair, confided her preference to the cashier, and the two women spent some time discussing the young man’s resemblance to assorted movie stars. As they were about to decide whether he looked more like Robert Taylor or Tyrone Power the young man suddenly leaped to his feet, shouted, “Mr. Williams! Mr. Williams!” and made a dash for the door.

There was a hurried conference beside the cash register.

“He just saw someone he knew,” the waitress said uneasily. “He’ll be back.”

The cashier was a cynic. “That old gag!” she said.

There was, however, no need for her to call the manager. Metropolitan policemen, accustomed as they are to the strange and wonderful, are still curious enough to become interested in handsome young men in evening clothes who dash out of a restaurant in the morning yelling, “Mr. Williams!”

The policeman and the young man had a short talk, and shortly afterward Mr. Christopher Wells was a guest of Inspector Bailey in the Mertonville jail.

Mr. Wells was not merely reluctant; he was savage. His threats were mingled with a variety of epithets until finally the inspector, who was usually a patient man, lost his temper.

“Mr. Wells, I think you’re awfully pretty,” Bailey said coldly. “I think you’re pretty as hell. But that’s not going to build up your resistance to two thousand volts. I want to know why you ran away the night before last and also why, once you had escaped, you were so thickheaded as to dash around Chicago in evening clothes.”

Mr. Wells choked in an endeavor to think of a suitable reply.

“Beautiful but dumb. A mentally immature Apollo. I suppose you think you have only to turn those big blue eyes on the jury, and they’ll acquit you in three minutes.”

Mr. Wells found his voice. “You’re a half-witted, inefficient, corrupt blockhead if you think you can pin this murder on me.”

“This murder? Ha!”

“What do you mean, ‘Ha?’”

“I mean just that!” Bailey roared. “There’s been another murder.”

Mr. Wells’ mouth gaped.

“I’m glad to see you’re suitably impressed,” Bailey went on. “Now, would you care to tell me why you—?”

“If you’re in such pressing need of information, Inspector, you’d better consult an encyclopedia. I want a lawyer. I will not say one more word until I have a lawyer.”

Mr. Wells meant what he said. Although Bailey hammered questions at him for another ten minutes his only answer was a contemptuous sniff.

“Very well.” The inspector put on his hat and prepared to leave. “You may not realize it, Wells, but you’ve told me just what I wanted to know. Miss Eve Hays will tell me the rest.”

Christopher Wells’ angry shouts followed him down the corridor, but the inspector refused to turn around.

Sergeant Abbott was waiting at the wheel of the car.

“Get anything out of him, Chief?” he asked as Bailey climbed in.

The inspector’s grunt indicated that he had not.

“This sure is a tough case, Chief,” the sergeant commiserated as they moved away from the curb. “It’s tough for you, with your sister being mixed up in it.”

Bailey showed a complete lack of interest.

“Yeah, I can’t see for the life of me why your sister should kill Philips. Unless she was being blackmailed, say, on account of something in her past.”

“Suppose you endeavor to keep your thought processes inaudible, Sergeant Abbott.”

They drove in silence, broken only by the inspector’s sharp command to drive to the back of the house to avoid the reporters.

Bailey managed to avoid the reporters but he could not avoid Dr. Prye. The doctor was sitting on the steps of the back veranda talking to a policeman and, at the sight of Bailey’s car, he came forward to greet him.

“What’s this about Mrs. Morgan disappearing?” he asked as they made their way into the house. “Mamie says she wasn’t here last night.”

“What! Didn’t you get my report on that?” Bailey said with heavy irony. “Look here, Prye, I wish you’d behave less like an affectionate bloodhound under my heels all the time. If you want something to keep you busy go up and get Eve Hays. I’d like to see her in the library immediately.”

Prye went upstairs. The inspector took advantage of the opportunity to reduce the policeman responsible for Mrs. Morgan’s escape to a moral pulp. He felt somewhat better when he entered the library to meet Eve Hays.

“Good morning, Miss Hays,” he said severely.

Eve’s early-morning sprightliness was a source of irritation to her family, but one look at Bailey’s face convinced her that she was going to need every erg of it.

“Good morning, Inspector. You sound like the lost chord. What’s up?”

“A number of things. First, Mrs. Morgan has disappeared. Second, Mrs. Philips has been murdered. Third, Mr. Wells is under arrest.”

Eve’s face grew pale, and she bit her lower lip. But her voice remained quite steady.

“And what is Chris charged with?”

“At the moment he’s booked for leaving the scene of a crime, pending a more serious charge.”

“Meaning murder?”

“Meaning murder. Mr. Wells refused to give an account of his movements or an explanation of them.”

They stared at each other with hostility. Eve was the first to drop her eyes.

“And you think I can help him, Inspector?”

“He’s going to need help, Miss Hays. Let’s not waste any more time. You sent Mr. Wells away from this house in the early hours of July the fifteenth. Why?”

“I wanted some information.”

“Information about what?”

“About Philips.”

“Was he dead then?”

Eve tossed her head impatiently. “Of course he was dead then.”

“What was the information you required from Mr. Wells?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“It concerned your mother perhaps?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“All right, I won’t insist on that at the moment. But I’d like you to tell me exactly what you did on the evening of July the fourteenth. And let me assure you, Miss Hays, that any efforts you make to protect your mother or anyone else in your family will be absolutely useless. We know enough about Philips to convince us that his calls here were not entirely social. Perhaps you’d better start at the beginning. When did you meet Philips?”

Eve lit a cigarette before she replied.

“About six months ago, I think, at the Flamingo Club in Chicago. Simon, Dick, Chris and myself were there.”

“Not Miss Breton?”

“No. We didn’t know her then. She met Philips later, however.”

“Simon was the first to meet Philips?”

“Yes. He introduced him to the rest of us. Simon immediately wanted to bring him home. He... well, he does things like that. Dick and I tried to dissuade him. We didn’t know anything definite against the man but we both felt that Barbara shouldn’t meet people like that.”

“You mean that you were trying to shield your mother from unpleasant contacts?”

“Yes.”

“You are very fond of your mother?”

“That sounds silly and sentimental. I like Barbara. We are good friends.”

“You have a strong protective instinct toward her?”

Eve flushed. “No, I have not.”

“Despite your arguments Simon brought Philips home to dinner?”

“He did.”

“And kept on bringing him?”

“I guess so,” Eve said uneasily.

“Does this protective instinct of yours extend to Simon?”

There was no reply.

“You see, Miss Hays,” the inspector continued more gently, “I’m quite sure it was you who moved Philips’ body and I’d like to know why. There are four people, perhaps five, whom you would protect if you could: your parents, Simon, Mr. Wells and Mr. Vanstone.”

Eve laughed shortly. “Well, you can strike three of them off if you like. George and Dick and Chris are quite capable of looking after themselves.”

“When did you first suspect that Philips was blackmailing your mother?”

“About four months ago.”

“Were your suspicions based on anything in particular?”

“Yes. I overheard Barbara and Philips talking in the library. I heard him laugh and thank Barbara for something, and shortly afterward Barbara came running out, half crying. I don’t know why, but I suspected that Miss Breton was mixed up in it somehow. But I was mistaken apparently. Barbara seems to like having her around.”

“And you don’t?”

Eve shrugged. “I don’t mind. She’s really rather interesting to talk to.”

“Your brother is in love with her?”

“No, I don’t think so. It’s just a bad crush. It won’t do Simon any harm to have his heart broken.”

“As he will?”

Eve seemed surprised. “Certainly. I don’t think Angela intends to marry him.”

“All right, to go back to the night before last, tell me what you did.”

“Chris and I went into Chicago to dine and attend the theater. We left here about six o’clock, I suppose. Afterward we went on to the supper dance at the Plaza. We returned home about fifteen minutes after two. I got out of the car at the entrance to our driveway, and Chris went on to Green’s Garage, where he keeps his car. There isn’t room in our garage at present. I walked up the driveway and let myself into the house with my key. I turned on the hall lights, and the first thing I saw was a man lying on the stairs. I went up to him and saw that it was Philips.”

“Did you touch him?”

Eve spoke jerkily. “I had to. I felt his pulse and couldn’t find any. His wrist was still warm. I knew he must have just died. Well, then I went out into the pantry off the kitchen to phone the police.”

The inspector held up his hand. “Wait a moment, please. During the time you were examining Philips did you hear or see anyone on the second floor?”

Eve paused for a moment, frowning. “I’m sure I didn’t see anyone. The hall upstairs was dark. But I can’t swear there was no one there. I was too upset.”

“When I first questioned you, Miss Hays, you led me to believe that you did not know Philips had been murdered. Will you explain, then, why you telephoned me?”

Eve looked up angrily. “I didn’t know he’d been murdered. There were no marks on him and no blood. I thought perhaps he had gotten into the house somehow and had collapsed on the stairs on his way up to see someone.” Her voice took on a tinge of acid. “After all, Inspector, more people die from heart failure than from poison. It never occurred to me that he’d been murdered. I phoned you because there wasn’t any use phoning a hospital. The man was dead.”

“How long were you at the telephone?”

“About ten minutes. Perhaps less. I tried the police station first but I didn’t like the sound of the man who answered. He gave me your name, and I spoke to your sister.”

Bailey blushed. “And then what did you do?”

“I came back to the hall and saw Barbara bending over Philips’ body.” There was an undertone of defiance in her voice.

“What did you think when you saw your mother there?”

“I don’t remember. What difference does it make? You want to know what I did, not what I thought, don’t you?”

“Both,” the inspector said coolly. “What was your mother doing when you saw her?”

Eve trembled. “Searching Philips’ pockets. Don’t ask me what she was looking for, because I don’t know. But it did seem pretty silly to be searching through a dead man’s clothes in the middle of the stairs. I told Barbara we’d have to move him because someone might come downstairs any minute. We took him out to the garage.”

“One moment. Was the garage locked?”

“Yes, it was. Barbara went up and got her keys from her dressing room. She and George both use the Lincoln.”

“Where was Mr. Wells all this time?”

“Just as Barbara and I had gotten Philips out the side door I heard Chris walking up the driveway. I went to meet him. I told him nothing about Philips’ death. I just said that Barbara and I were in serious trouble and that he was to go back to Chicago and see Mr. Williams at the Flamingo Club.”

“Mr. Williams?”

“Philips’ partner. I thought that he and Philips were in the blackmailing game together and that if Chris threatened him with the law he might hand over whatever they had against Barbara. I told Chris as much as I could. He thought I was crazy but he went. Then I came back to the house and telephoned your house again. Your sister thought I was drunk.”

“And then?”

“We dragged Philips into the garage and put him in the back seat of George’s car. He had nothing in his pockets — not even a wallet — and we knew then that he must have been searched thoroughly before I found him. This was the first time I suspected that he’d been murdered. If he had died naturally he would have been carrying some money — or his watch, at least.”

“Did you and your mother discuss the manner of his death?”

Eve laughed shakily. “Heavens, no! It was all I could do to keep Barbara conscious as it was. She thought, too, that he had just died naturally. And she’s rather slow minded — she didn’t stop to wonder why there was nothing in his pockets.”

The inspector stared at her for a moment. “Perhaps not. Go on from the point where you finished searching Philips.”

“Well, I thought of the awful shock George was going to get in the morning when he came out to his car. And also—” She hesitated, and the inspector continued for her.

“And also you knew that Philips had been murdered and you preferred the police to think that he had not been murdered in your house. Is that right?”

“Well?” Her voice was defiant.

“Well,” the inspector said gravely, “that makes you an accessory after the fact.”

Eve said nothing.

“Who suggested taking the body to the lake?”

“I did. We drove down past the country club. I pushed Philips off the end of the pier into the water.”

“You didn’t exhibit much respect for the dead, did you, Miss Hays?”

“You don’t waste respect on a rotten little blackmailer whether he’s dead or alive,” Eve said flatly. “Anyway, I don’t handle corpses for sheer love of it. It seemed essential to dispose of his body, and I did.”

The inspector was shocked at the cold finality in her voice, but no expression crossed his face. “And then?”

“By that time we were feeling quite panicky, so I drove along the beach for a while until we cooled off. Then we came home. I put the car away, and we went upstairs. Everything was quiet.”

“One more question, Miss Hays. If you were thinking of hiding a small object where would you put it?”

“Well, I usually— What small object?”

“You usually what?”

Eve blushed. “It sounds crazy, but I hide things in the toes of an old pair of evening slippers.”

“Does everyone in the house know of this habit?”

“I think so. They’re always ragging me about it.”

“Do you know anything about hyoscine, Miss Hays?”

“A little,” Eve admitted. “There’s a book on toxicology over on that shelf. Simon and I read quite a few detective stories and we hate to have anything slipped over us.”

Bailey went over to the shelf she indicated and took out the volume on toxicology. He turned to the pages on hyoscine. The book had been slightly used, but there were no indications that the section on hyoscine had been marked for special attention.

“May I borrow this?” he asked Eve.

“Go ahead.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I hope it won’t hang me.”

“We don’t hang people in Illinois,” the inspector said with a smile. “You’ll have to go to Maryland or up to Canada for that.”

“I’m not that eager for the experience, Inspector. May I go now?”

“You may. Thank you for your information. You might have saved me some trouble if you had told me before. Perhaps next time you’ll be less reticent. A policeman’s duty is not to punish the guilty so much as to protect the innocent. Remember that, Miss Hays, and act accordingly.”

Eve went out the door. Prye, whistling very loudly, came forward to meet her.

“Inquisition over?” he asked cheerfully.

“Well, off to a good start anyway,” Eve replied with a tremulous smile. “If you’re next you can step right up.”

She started up the stairs, and Prye turned into the library.

“That whistling stunt,” the inspector said grimly, “is as old as Adam. I suppose you heard every word?”

“Every word.

I wonder whether the girls are mad,

And I wonder whether they mean to kill.”

“I wonder, too. Sit down, Prye. Over here.” He indicated a straight-backed chair beside the window.

Prye sat down. “Chairs like these were all right in their day, when ladies and gentlemen were what their names implied. But you can’t expect me to be comfortable in one of them.”

“I’m afraid your comfort doesn’t concern me,” the inspector said brusquely. “This is your opportunity to explain the note I found in your instrument bag.”

“Oh, that?” Prye lit a cigarette and watched Bailey through the smoke. “What did the note say, by the way?”

“Am I to assume that you have a compulsion neurosis to forget the contents of letters? The note said: ‘Meet me in the library, one-thirty sharp. You know why. T. P.’ It was typed, and the typing checks with that of the typewriter in the Philips’ house.”

“Dear me, that’s a nasty thing to find in a man’s instrument bag, isn’t it? I wonder how it could have gotten there. Have you any ideas on the subject?”

“Just one,” the inspector said coldly, “but it covers everything. You received the note from Philips and hid it there.”

“Why didn’t I burn it?”

The inspector took a deep breath. “Maybe you were out of matches. Or maybe you planted it on yourself deliberately. It would be quite bright of you to frame yourself.”

“Oh hell, I’m not that bright,” Prye said modestly. “I’m as innocent as pre-apple Eve when it comes to the technique of murder. Once again I repeat: I did not know Thomas Philips. I did not receive that note. I did not hide it in my instrument bag. And I did not steal my own bag afterward.”

“What!” The inspector whirled around. “Your bag is gone? You blasted imbecile, Prye! I told you to keep an eye on it. Why in the devil didn’t you lock your room?”

Prye wagged his finger. “Is that consistent? First I’m bright, then I’m a blasted imbecile. As a matter of fact, I’m betwixt and between. Don’t interrupt, please. I was just about to explain that I did lock my door — carefully and precisely. But ‘locked doors do not a prison make.’”

“The lock was broken or picked?”

“Picked.”

“When did you see your bag last?”

“Last night about eight I took out a hypodermic needle to give Mrs. Hays an injection of sterile water.”

“Sterile water?”

Prye laughed. “Pure and simple. It worked like a charm. Mrs. Hays is very suggestible. She spent a very good night after a tablet of baking soda and this morning she’s quite chipper after another injection of water.”

Bailey moved impatiently. “You can tell me the tricks of your trade some other time. Where did you leave your bag?”

“In my clothes closet.”

“Well, get busy! Search the downstairs! If the bag was stolen last night after eight it’s still in the house. Mrs. Morgan may have taken it, but I doubt it.”

Prye went off to begin his search, and Bailey walked out into the hall.

Mamie was blithely polishing mirrors and carrying on a conversation with the policeman on door duty. Mrs. Horner was running a vacuum cleaner over the rugs.

The inspector had no trouble making himself heard above the noise of the machine. “Where’s Mr. Morgan?”

Mrs. Horner switched off the motor. “He’s gone out, Mr. Bailey.”

The inspector walked menacingly toward the policeman at the door.

“Didn’t I tell you to keep them all here?” he roared. The policeman blushed and stammered.

Mamie tilted her head saucily. “Don’t lose your hair, Inspector,” she said cheerfully. “Mr. Morgan was just going after you. He said he was going to push your fat face in if he found out you’d arrested his wife.”

Bailey choked.

The policeman rediscovered his tongue. “I’m sorry, Inspector Bailey,” he said abjectly. “I thought, being as Mr. Morgan was going to see you, it would be all right to let him go.”

The inspector’s bulk shook with rage.

“I suppose it didn’t occur to you that I wouldn’t like having my face pushed in? Never mind. I’ll attend to you later.” He strode off to find Prye.

Dr. Prye was having his own difficulties. He had searched several of the rooms downstairs and unearthed nothing more than three moth-eaten fur galoshes, a concealed mousetrap and a tennis racket without any strings.

It was unfortunate, too, that Miss Anna Bellinger had decided to prepare luncheon and was inclined to resent any intrusion into her private kingdom. After three minutes of exposure to Prye’s best smile she was still unpersuaded.

“Over my dead body!” Miss Bellinger was saying grimly as the inspector rounded the corner.

Prye brightened at the sight of him.

“Thank heaven you’ve come! This harpy here won’t let me in to search the kitchen. Speak the magic words, eh?”

The inspector was still smarting from his encounter in the front hall and he was not moved to be gentle.

“There’s a serious penalty for obstructing a policeman in the performance of his duty,” he said warningly. “Move out of the way.”

“Duty!” Miss Bellinger cried lustily.

“Scat!” Dr. Prye hissed, and Miss Bellinger jumped aside nervously.

They found the bag on the top shelf of one of the cupboards. Prye opened it hastily. It had been thoroughly ransacked, and the phials of hyoscine were missing. The rubber tubing of Prye’s stethoscope had been neatly cut through.

“My stethoscope!” Prye shouted. “This is an outrage! I’ve had that stethoscope ever since I graduated. Wait till I get the bastardly dastard that did this!”

“Don’t you mean dastardly bastard?” the inspector corrected gently.

“I mean the bas—”

“Really, Doctor Prye,” said the inspector, quite pleased, “don’t you think it’s rather bad taste to make more fuss over a damaged stethoscope than you have over two murders?”

8

Inspector Bailey turned to Miss Bellinger.

“You! What do you know about this?”

“How should I know anything about it?” Miss Bellinger demanded. “Seems to me like the doctor should look after his things better if they’re so precious.”

Prye darkened. “Look after things in this house? Ha! Someone around here could steal the gold out of your teeth without your knowing it. And I’m going to find out who it is.”

“Don’t rant,” said the inspector. “Collect everyone in the drawing room and close the windows.”

“But it’s hot. Why close the windows?”

“Because sound travels too well around this house, and the veranda is full of reporters. You see, if they find out that your hyoscine has been stolen and that I let it be stolen we’ll both be roasted in every paper in the country. Are you convinced?”

The drawing-room windows were closed, and the members of the household, still protesting vigorously, were gathered in the room. But Inspector Bailey was not to be trifled with that day, and gradually their protests faded away into a sulky silence.

“I have brought you all here to issue a warning to you,” the inspector began gravely. “There is a murderer in this house. Doctor Prye’s supply of hyoscine has been stolen. These two facts added together should make you realize that there is danger for every one of you.”

Every eye in the room was turned on Prye, and in each there was resentment, terror, reproach.

“In your own interests,” the inspector continued, “I want you to speak out frankly if you have information which might have a bearing on this investigation. No matter how trivial you think it is, it may help us catch the person responsible for these two murders.”

“What two murders?” Dick asked in a shocked voice.

“The murders of Thomas Philips and his wife Dorothy. Since you’re interested, Mr. Vanstone, we’ll begin with you. Were you aware that Doctor Prye kept his instrument bag in his room?”

“I was not. I knew doctors carried some kind of satchel but,” Dick added, with a mocking glance at Prye, “I didn’t know Doctor Prye needed one to interpret dreams.”

“What about you, Mr. Simon Hays?”

“No,” Simon said in a bored voice. “I’m not as interested in Prye’s belongings as he is in mine.”

“I am a social leper,” Prye whispered to Eve, “who cannot change his spots.”

“And the rest of you?” Bailey droned.

Angela Breton and Barbara Hays began speaking simultaneously and after an exchange of coldly elaborate apologies they claimed to have known of the bag, but, naturally, neither of them would dream of touching it. George disclaimed all knowledge of any damned bag and demanded to know what the hell Prye meant by not looking after his own possessions and letting them all in for being murdered any minute.

“Oh, dry up, George,” Eve said coolly. “I don’t see why you can’t—”

“Suppose you let me handle this, Miss Hays,” the inspector interrupted. “Since Mr. and Mrs. Morgan and Mr. Wells are not here, I shall have to question them later.”

“If they’re not dead,” George put in acidly.

The inspector frowned. “Meanwhile, I want everybody in this room to give Captain Crabbe a complete account of their movements between ten and one-thirty yesterday morning and between eight and twelve last night. Prye, will you bring Crabbe in here, please?”

“This is ridiculous!” Barbara’s voice rose shrilly above the protests of the others. “You’re treating us all like common criminals.”

Bailey smiled grimly. “Not common criminals, Mrs. Hays. Our murderer is a cut above that. And I’d like you to realize this: until I find out which one of you is guilty you are all guilty.”

Captain Crabbe entered the room, and the inspector spoke to him in a whisper. “You know your job. Get them working against each other. They should be ready to tell tales.” He turned toward the other people in the room. “Simon Hays and Doctor Prye will please come with me.”

“Why me?” Simon demanded.

“Cause you’re mighty like a rose,” Eve said with a grin. “Or maybe Doctor Prye is going to hypnotize you and get a confession.”

“It’s quite possible, of course,” Prye said seriously. “I’ve mentioned it to the inspector. But evidence obtained under such conditions is inadmissible in court. Come along, Simon Pure.”

Simon glared. Prye took him firmly by the arm and marched him into the library. The inspector shut the door and requested Prye and Simon to sit down.

“Mr. Hays, why did you say that Doctor Prye took an interest in your belongings?”

“Because he does,” Simon answered bluntly. “I don’t know what else you’d call it when a man comes barging into your room in the middle of the night.”

“I didn’t barge into his room in the middle of the night!” Prye objected. “I slipped in quite quietly, I thought. But perhaps Simon’s slumbers were disturbed by his conscience. Naturally I didn’t figure on that.”

Bailey eyed him accusingly. “Don’t change the subject, Prye. What were you looking for?”

“A bathroom,” said Prye modestly.

“He’s lying!” Simon sprang to his feet, but Bailey pushed him back into his chair.

Prye sighed. “The wee bairn is right, Inspector. What I really wanted to find out, Simon, is whom you were entertaining at two o’clock in the morning. And why did you play possum when I came in? Why didn’t you rise up from your silken sheets and denounce me?”

“Go to hell, you damned snoop!” Simon got up and started for the door, but the inspector anticipated him.

“Children should be obscene and not heard,” Prye murmured.

“Mr. Hays,” the inspector said coldly, “you have not yet explained why you quarreled with Philips three days ago at his club.”

Simon turned white.

“Nor why you called at his home on the afternoon before he was killed and made some very serious threats. Nor why you planted a phial of hyoscine from Doctor Prye’s bag in the toe of your sister’s evening slipper.”

Simon clenched his fists and began to scream. “Lies! Lies!” He ran out of the room.

“Is that trembling cry a song?

Can it be a song of joy?”

“I doubt it,” Bailey said shortly. He sat on the edge of the mahogany desk and lit a cigar. “For a small inducement I’d leave all these charming people flat and let them murder each other. I am neither a cynic nor a misanthrope but I can’t see that any one of them is worth saving.”

Prye demurred. “Right now you’re seeing them at their worst. Under ordinary circumstances they’re quite a decent lot.”

Bailey smiled sourly. “Naturally. Alter the circumstances and you alter the person. If Bluebeard’s wives had understood him he might have been a gentle fellow. If Mr. James Whale had not been of a sober disposition Mrs. Whale might not have been tied to a stake, strangled and burned to ashes for murdering him.”

He paused for a moment to replace the cigar stub in his pocket.

“What puzzles me about this case is the type of person involved and the stupid way in which each one is reacting. Mr. Hays buries his head in the sand and convinces himself that a murder in his house is quite beyond the bounds of possibility. Mrs. Hays doesn’t have to bury her head; she simply closes her eyes, gently but firmly. Eve wisecracks. Simon shrieks. Vanstone talks. Mrs. Morgan roams around the country. Their attitudes are incredible. I thought people of their social standing accepted their fate more philosophically than the rest of us.”

Prye laughed.

“You’ve been deceived, Inspector. Ever since the days of Francis Galton psychologists have been concentrating on the importance of individual differences, from person to person, family to family, race to race. I am a heretic, I confess. What appalls me is not the differences but the similarities. Faced with a murder, Mr. Hays is no better and no worse than one of his messenger boys would be.”

They smoked in silence for a time. Bailey stared out of the window, frowning. Prye was absently reading the titles of a row of books.

“Why,” Bailey said at last, “should anyone destroy a stethoscope? The only possible reason I can think of is that your unpopularity around here has hit a new high. But it seems a petty way to spite you.”

Prye pondered. “If it was done to spite me I’m pretty sure who did it. Miss Breton not only dislikes me, but she’s the only one in the house who would realize how I’d react to such a dirty trick. Still, that’s childish. And Miss Breton is not exactly a childish sort of person.”

“Decidedly not. What other reason could anyone have?”

“Well, we’ll see. The obvious reason for destroying a stethoscope is to make it useless. Somebody in the house, then, is afraid of having a chest-and-heart examination.”

“That seems ridiculous, Prye.”

“Farfetched, but not ridiculous. With the aid of a stethoscope I can also detect any signs of unusual excitement by the pounding of the heart. Remember, too, that I am a psychologist and that right from the start I’ve done my best to help you. As far as the murderer is concerned, then, I’m another detective bent on trapping him or her into a confession. Now, a stethoscope is based on an entirely different principle from a lie detector, but an imaginative layman might conceivably regard it as an infernal machine.”

“And you believe that the murderer put it out of commission because he was afraid of it?”

“It’s possible that my stethoscope was damaged because the murderer was stupid enough to believe that I could use it as a kind of lie detector. And that would bring one to the conclusion that we are dealing with a person who is either very unintelligent or very apprehensive. Perhaps both. If my theory is correct Miss Breton is out. And that disappoints me considerably.”

“It would,” Bailey said dryly.

Prye grinned. “Why shouldn’t it? Hyoscine cannot be bought in large quantities — or in any quantity, in fact — by a layman. A doctor or a pharmacist can get hold of it, as you know, and it can be stolen, of course. But the obvious thing is to suspect a doctor or a pharmacist. Since there are no pharmacists about, Doctor Breton and I have been sharing the position behind the eight ball. And now I’m there all by myself. Is that the way your mind is working?”

The inspector nodded. “It is. So far we have been unable to trace the purchase or theft of hyoscine to anyone in the house.”

“That does not prove much,” Prye said. “It could have been brought from a thousand miles away. Mr. and Mrs. Morgan have just returned from Bermuda, and you pass through a lot of territory between Bermuda and Illinois. Mr. Wells lives in Nashville. I come from Detroit. Miss Breton comes from?”

“Miss Breton dropped out of the sky,” the inspector said sourly, “according to her story. She says she has no family and lives wherever her fancy takes her. And that’s all she’ll say. But she doesn’t talk like a Chicagoan.”

Prye leaned forward eagerly. “What’s that?”

“I said, she doesn’t talk like— Where are you going?”

But Prye had disappeared through the door.

Bailey muttered a curse and went out into the hall. From the drawing room came the sound of Captain Crabbe’s earnest, high-pitched voice. Bailey smiled to himself. If that voice affected the others as it affected him there would be several cases of shattered nerves before lunchtime.

He walked down the hall into the morning room and sat down at the table to bring his notes up to date. The inspector was beginning to hate the sight of his notebook as well as the people on record in it. He turned back to the pages reserved for Dr. Prye and reread them carefully. If Prye had been able to read those pages he would have been amazed at the number of things he had done to incriminate himself.

But the doctor was busy elsewhere. Closeted in the pantry off the kitchen, he was smoking a series of cigarettes, waiting for a long-distance telephone call to be relayed. It was over half an hour before he entered the morning room, wearing a smug smile.

The inspector looked up irritably. “Well, whose canary did you swallow?”

“I didn’t swallow anybody’s canary,” Prye said blithely, “but I fancy I’ve cooked somebody’s goose.”

“That doesn’t surprise me in the least. Whose goose?”

Prye held up his hand. “Not so fast. I just said I fancied I cooked it.”

“Whose goose?”

“Miss Breton’s.”

“Still chivalrous, I see. Why Miss Breton?”

“Because,” Prye said darkly, “she is not what she seems.”

Bailey groaned. “This would be one hell of a world if we were all what we seem. What did you find out about Miss Breton?”

“To begin with, Miss Breton’s name is Breton, but the Angela is a rather fanciful version of plain Anna. I don’t blame her for changing it. All the Annas I know are solid, respectable citizens, and I believe Miss Breton’s ambitions don’t incline in that direction.”

“Go on,” the inspector said impatiently.

“Well, eight years ago plain Anna Breton graduated from the University of Toronto Medical School.”

“She’s a Canadian?”

“French Canadian, to be more explicit. After she graduated with first-class honors she took a year at Toronto General Hospital as an intern. I got all that information from the medical school. They then referred me to the hospital. The hospital was less generous but more interesting. Miss Breton at the end of her internship was released for unethical conduct.”

Bailey sat up straight in his chair, but Prye waved his hand deprecatingly.

“Don’t explode. Unethical conduct covers a multitude of sins. She may have left a sponge in somebody’s stomach; she may have disobeyed orders or,” he concluded with a grin, “she may have had too lavish a hand with the hyoscine.”

Bailey rose to his feet with a sigh of exasperation. “Why didn’t you ask them precisely what she did?”

Prye regarded him pityingly. “I not only asked — I demanded. As a matter of fact, I said that I was Inspector Bailey and that I was arresting Miss Breton on a serious charge. I hope I didn’t do the wrong thing?”

“Of course not! Impersonating an officer is a mere triviality compared with some of the things you’ve done. And now that you’ve uncovered this information about Miss Breton, am I supposed to arrest her?”

“If you don’t mind,” Prye answered politely. “I’d feel a lot safer.”

“On what charge? Changing her first name? Illegal entry into the United States? Dyeing her hair?”

“She doesn’t dye her hair. I managed to snatch some samples of it from her rug. There’s not a trace of dye.”

“Have you any more information about her internship?”

Prye bristled. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Frankly, no. It’s not a crime to be a doctor and it’s not a crime to be a Canadian. We have no proof that she supplied Mrs. Hays with morphine. We have no indications that her relationship with Philips was anything but casually friendly. We have searched her room and discovered no hypodermic needle and no trace of any hyoscine. We cannot disprove her statement that on Monday night she retired at ten forty-five and slept peacefully throughout the night. As far as we are concerned, Miss Breton is a series of negatives. And now, to cap it all, you claim that she doesn’t even dye her hair.”

“So she can’t be a dyed-in-the-hair villainess,” Prye finished.

“The phrase,” Bailey said coldly, “occurred to me instantly, but I hesitated to — Great Scott! What’s that?”

A bloodcurdling shriek reverberated through the house, followed by another, and another.

By the time Bailey, with Prye at his heels, reached the hall Crabbe was already there, holding the door of the drawing room shut despite the shouts of protest from within.

At the front door was Sally Morgan, struggling in the arms of her husband and still screaming. Her clothes were torn; one of her eyes was black, and her blonde hair was caked with mud.

“Hey!” The inspector chose a moment when Sally was getting her breath. “Let her go, Morgan!”

Peter Morgan let go too suddenly, and Sally sank into a heap on the floor.

“Oh! Oh!” she cried. “You devil! You beast!”

Prye helped Sally to her feet, but she shook his arm off and faced the inspector defiantly.

“Arrest that man!” She pointed at her husband with a shaking forefinger. “He assaulted me. Look at me! Look at my eye! Arrest him, I say!”

Morgan stared at his wife rather curiously for a moment and then turned to Prye with a slight smile. “Prye, will you see that Mrs. Morgan is attended to? She’s been in a fight, I fear. She’s in an extremely nervous condition.”

“Nervous condition!” Sally shouted. “Listen to that big baboon telling me I’m in a nervous condition!”

“And please,” Morgan added calmly, “fix her eye, will you? It looks perfectly vile.”

“Oh!” Sally cried.

“You’re going to look pretty funny if you don’t let me treat your eye,” Prye said. “Do we walk up those stairs together, or do I chase you up?”

Sally’s one eye opened wide in surprise.

“Hurry up.” Prye prodded her firmly. “You’ll be disfigured for life.”

Sally’s lower lip began to tremble. She turned to the stairs without a word.

The inspector faced Morgan belligerently. “I understand you were looking for me?”

“I was,” Morgan said coolly.

“And what were you intending to do when you found me?”

“I was intending to ask you what you had done with my wife. If I found out you’d arrested her I was prepared to reason with you.”

“You are in love with your wife and extremely anxious about her?”

“Yes.”

“And was that touching scene at the door representative of your married bliss? Where did you find Mrs. Morgan?”

Morgan looked bored.

“Do you realize I can book her on a charge of breaking and entering?”

“Let us have accuracy at all costs. You mean breaking and exiting, don’t you?”

“My version is correct,” the inspector said coldly. “Mrs. Morgan was apprehended last night after making an illegal entry into the house of Thomas Philips.”

Morgan took off his glasses and began to polish them. His hands were shaking.

“In the same house, Mr. Morgan, we found Mrs. Philips. She had been murdered.”

“You’re crazy!” Morgan said thickly. “Sally wouldn’t murder anyone.”

“Of course not,” the inspector agreed.

“Well then?” Morgan replaced his glasses and regarded the inspector haughtily.

“You know, Morgan, there are one or two things about you that interest me,” the inspector said in a mild voice. “Why was it so important that you get to Mrs. Morgan before I did? And why the drama at the front door? Mrs. Morgan played her part well enough, but you’re a rank amateur.”

Morgan pressed his lips together firmly.

The inspector shook his head sadly. “No, I’m not altogether convinced that you and Mrs. Morgan are as bad friends as you would have me believe. Not at all convinced, in fact.”

“Is that so?” Morgan said politely. “Must you be convinced of a thing before it is the truth?”

“Where did you find Mrs. Morgan?”

“Under a cabbage.”

“You’re still on your honeymoon, Morgan?”

“Technically.”

“Doesn’t it strike you as odd that a honeymoon couple should behave like a pair of orangutans?”

Morgan clenched his fists. “Say that again, will you?”

Bailey sighed. “I detest violence. How old are you, Morgan?”

“Too old for an orangutan. And old enough to know that I’m not obliged to answer your officious questions.”

The inspector turned the pages of his notebook. “Let’s see. You’re thirty-six. Hmm. And you’re already in long pants. Well, this is an age of progress. Where did you find Mrs. Morgan?”

Morgan relapsed into a mulish silence.

Upstairs in her room Sally was turning an equally deaf ear to the entreaties of Dr. Prye.

“You look as if you spent the night in an unused coal mine,” Prye said as he bathed her eye with witch hazel. “Did you?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a fresh youngster.” He pressed the skin around her eye. “That hurt?”

Sally winced. “Naturally it hurts.”

“What time did you leave this house last night?”

“Around eight. Who wants to know?”

“Right after you said you were going to bed with a headache?”

“Yes.”

“Before or after the rest of us started to play bridge?”

“After, of course. You and Mrs. Hays came upstairs for a few minutes. After you had gone down I slipped down the back stairs. The policeman at the door was asleep. So I just left. That’s all I have to say.”

“Not quite all,” Prye corrected. “In addition to Mrs. Hays and myself, did you see anyone up here?”

“Just Miss Bell-something. The cook. She was on her way upstairs.”

“No one else?”

Sally thought for a moment. “I didn’t actually see anyone else but I thought I heard a door shut.”

“Was it the door of my room?”

“It couldn’t have been. It was one of the rooms near the head of the stairs. But what’s so important about that?”

“My instrument bag was stolen sometime between eight and twelve last night. At eight I used it, locked my door and went downstairs. At twelve I came up to bed and locked my door behind me. From a quarter after eight until twelve we were all playing bridge in the drawing room. If we exclude the servants, it means that whoever stole my bag stole it between eight, when I went downstairs, and eight-fifteen, when the bridge game was started. The thief then went down the back stairs and hid my bag in one of the kitchen cupboards.”

“Well, what has that to do with me?” Sally demanded. “Do you mean—? Oh, I know what you mean, you devil! You think I took your silly bag.”

“I didn’t say so.”

“Well, you’ve got a fat chance of proving it. From now on I take Peter’s advice and keep my mouth shut.”

“So that’s Peter’s advice, is it? It sounds as if you’re both trying to break a speed record to the electric chair.”

“You can’t scare me,” Sally said shakily. “If you’ve finished fixing my eye, why don’t you beat it?”

“That will be ten dollars, please.”

Sally gasped. “Ten dollars? You... you robber!”

“Cash, of course.”

Sally took a bill from her purse and handed it to him contemptuously. “There you are. It’s worth it to get rid of you.”

Prye pocketed the money with a flourish. “Thanks. Want to change your story about the unused coal mine?”

Sally shook her head. “No. I like it.”

“Did Peter really give you that shiner?”

Sally turned away.

“Funny if he did. I was playing bridge with him last night and I saw him go to bed afterward. And whoever painted your eye did if last night. Never try to deceive your doctor.” He turned and opened the door. “See you at lunch.”

When Prye reached the hall downstairs Bailey was in conference with Crabbe outside the closed door of the drawing room.

“Anything startling?” Prye asked.

“The only thing that would startle me is the truth, and they’re not that far gone,” Bailey replied. “I was trying to find a gap in the movements of one of them between ten yesterday morning and one-thirty, when luncheon was served.”

“And did you?”

Bailey gave a grunt of disgust. “Gaps? I found canyons. In the entire household only three people have complete and unbreakable alibis for that period. Mrs. Horner, the housekeeper, Mamie Hodge and one other.”

“Me?” said Prye.

“Not you. Doctor Breton.”

“Dear me! Are you sure?”

“Indeed we are sure,” said Captain Crabbe, nodding his head dolefully. “On Joseph’s evidence, Miss Breton was eating breakfast between nine and a quarter to ten. Miss Hodge says that Miss Breton came upstairs while she was cleaning her room at a quarter to ten. Miss Hodge left the room at ten-fifteen. Between ten and eleven-thirty Mrs. Horner was doing the woodwork and rugs in the upstairs hall. For the next two hours she was polishing the stairs and so on, and not once was Miss Breton’s door out of her sight.”

Prye grinned. “That sounds like the crack o’ doom to me. I suppose I’m now leading by a length?”

“I’m not at all convinced that you are the guilty person,” Crabbe said somberly.

“That cheers me. What do you think, Inspector?”

Bailey coughed delicately. “That’s a penetrating question. Doctor Prye. My answer will not be satisfactory. As far as I’m concerned, you’re either a stupid murderer or a murderer pretending to be stupid or an innocent dupe of the real murderer. I can scarcely believe you are the first but I have no way of choosing between the last two possibilities.”

“Then I’m not under arrest?

A robin redbreast in a cage

Puts all heaven in a rage.”

The inspector smiled blandly. “Why should I take the chance of putting all heaven in a rage? You can’t escape, anyway, for very long. There are four policemen in the house; your car has no spark plugs, and I have the ignition key in my pocket.”

9

Mamie Marie Hodge Her Diary Wednesday, July 16

Dear Diary: Mrs. Horner, the old cat, sent me upstairs to unpack the laundry and if she catches me writing to you instead, diary, I’ll get fired sure as blazes. But what I say is, people can’t expect to have their laundry and everything on time when there’s murders going on like there is around this house. And anyway this has been the most Exciting Day of my life, and I don’t want to forget anything, so I better write it all down fast.

First of all Joseph goes and gets those pains in his joints and says to me that I gotta serve lunch — which I don’t mind at all because then I’m right in the middle of things. Just when I was setting the table I heard a terrible scream and sure enough in comes that Morgan man and he was just mawling his wife around terrible. Him and the inspector had a lot of words, not loud, but you could tell it was awfully serious, and even if you couldn’t tell I’d of known because Mr. Morgan aided and a betted a fugitive from justice which is what Mrs. Morgan was. I did hope Mrs. Morgan would have the sense to stay away because I feel in my Bones that Mr. Morgan only brought her back to murder her like he did the rest. I told the inspector so too, and he says I am too ubiquitous, which I looked up in the dictionary, which means ‘all-pervasive,’ so that sounds quite nice, diary. I am beginning to kinda like the inspector though he is not very bright when he doesn’t arrest Mr. Morgan.

But really, diary, lunch was Awful. They were all there even Mr. Wells, who I think is still very handsome even though he’s been in jail.

Miss Breton got awfully mad because I spilled some soup on her green silk dress. I was hoping if I spilled a little something on it she would give me the dress to match the green shoes, which I think is becoming because I tried it on last week, and the color suits me if I do say so myself. But she just got mad so now I guess I won’t get the dress after all and I had all that trouble for nothing. But I guess there are lots of dresses in this world after all.

I’m really beginning to think Mrs. Hays is losing her mind. Joseph says this is a Terrible Thing to say and I should be ashamed, but I say just because folks are rich don’t mean they can say anything and call me a nasty little gossip. I won’t take that kind of treatment from anyone lying down.

But I better hurry and tell you about the lunch, diary. First nobody talked at all and you’d of thought I was working in a Morg, but after I spilled the soup on Miss Breton which didn’t work out so well, everyone loosened up, Mr. Morgan most of all, which he did probably to Disarm suspicion.

Then Mr. Hays got mad at Mr. Morgan who is just a hired man like me after all, except he gets more money of course. Then Mr. Morgan calls Mr. Hays a nasty windbag which there is some truth in, and Mr. Hays orders Mr. Morgan to get out, and Mr. Morgan says he can’t get out until the murderer is caught, but he’d like nothing Better because he hadn’t expected to run into a bunch of murders when he’d come there in the first place.

Really I was so excited!!!

Then Mr. Simon pipes up with hadn’t they all better keep their mouths shut since there was a spy in the room, meaning me the fresh thing. And Mr. Wells says, what have they all got to kick about he was the one who’d been put in jail. And then Mr. Vanstone says Mr. Wells must be getting to be a regular sissy if he can’t put up with a couple of lousy hours in jail. And then Miss Eve got terribly mad and says Mr. Vanstone is so virile he should still be swinging from tree to tree like his ancestors. Then Dr. Prye got to his feet real calm, and says he is enjoying the scene immensely but since the inspector would probably hear every word of it some time, they’d better not blow the lid off too far. Which I agree with but it wouldn’t be so exciting.

I do not know what to make of Dr. Prye, diary. He doesn’t seem like a regular doctor except sometimes when he wears that look that makes you feel you aren’t sick when you are, and you are sick when you aren’t. He never makes passes at people but occasionaly he winks at me which I don’t know what to make of, so I just wink back which doesn’t comit me one way or the other.

Miss Bellinger says Dr. Prye is an awful Flirt, and she says he calls her all sorts of familiar names but personally I do not believe that he is seriously interested in Miss Bellinger who is fifty if she’s a day and too old for Dr. Prye although he is No Spring Chicken.

But really I’m worried about Mrs. Morgan even though I don’t think much of her. The inspector should have arrested her but instead of that he’s put a policeman at her door so she can’t get out without him knowing, which is just as good as killing her Mr. Morgan being what he is and Dr. Prye’s poison missing which Miss Bellinger told me about. I don’t know what Mrs. Morgan has done yet but I’m going to make friends with the policeman guarding her, because the inspector is grouchy today and won’t tell me anything. Sarjent Abbott went away on business, but he did not say what business and of course I didn’t ask him, he might think I was fresh.

I guess I will unpack the laundry now and then offer to do Miss Breton’s nails, so maybe I’ll get the green dress after all, and my trouble was not all wasted.

Goodby until tomorrow diary.

From the Statement Made by Dr. Prye to Dr. Munro

Q. What is the position you have been occupying in the Hays household for the past week?

A. I was called in by Mr. Hays to observe the behavior of his wife.

Q. Merely to observe it?

A. Yes. I am a diagnostician of mental illness. I do no therapeutic work whatever. It is my business to diagnose and recommend what form of therapy I consider best for that type of mental illness. Many sanatoria specialize in one particular branch of treatment, and it is my job to choose the right one. For example, I send persons suffering from a deep-seated psychosis to a sanatorium which uses psychoanalytic therapy, a schizophrenic to—

Q. Yes, yes, I understand. Would you say that Mrs. Hays has definitely a mental illness?

A. It’s too broad a term. When I first talked with her she complained of chronic fatigue and severe headache. She seemed morbid, self-centered and anxious.

Q. Would her use of drugs account for these symptoms?

A. No. I have proved to my own satisfaction that Mrs. Hays’ craving for morphine was highly imaginary.

Q. How do you explain that?

A. The morphine she was using was considerably diluted beforehand. It is a fairly common practice among traffickers to use a filler in their wares. Mrs. Hays told me that she had been using an eighth of a grain several times a day for the past few months but actually she was using a mere fraction of that. She is a highly suggestible woman. Her reaction to an injection of sterile water is identical with her reaction to a twelfth of a grain of morphine.

Q. Is this a further symptom of her mental condition?

A. Taken by itself, suggestibility is not a symptom of mental disease. One finds it frequently in children and in adults who are emotionally mature in other ways. In conjunction with Mrs. Hays’ other symptoms, it indicates that she has a tendency to neurasthenia.

Q. What is causing Mrs. Hays’ neurasthenia?

A. I am only guessing when I say that at one time or another she suffered a severe shock and, in trying to repress the memory of it, she only succeeded in detaching the emotion which accompanied the shock and driving it into another channel.

Q. I think we had better pass that by. Mrs. Hays, to your knowledge, has no tendency to homicide?

A. I am not saying she would not commit homicide but I think it is highly improbable. At the moment she is a suicidal subject.

Q. Is Mrs. Hays so far gone as to require treatment?

A. I think she might derive some benefit from psychoanalysis.

Q. Would you say that the Hayses’ family life was a happy one?

A. Fairly happy. Although Mr. and Mrs. Hays are very dissimilar in temperament I believe they get along well enough.

Q. No mental tension?

A. At the moment a good deal. But that is to be expected. During a period of strain every small quirk becomes magnified. The behavior pattern of a normal person is intensified, not changed, by abnormal circumstances.

Q. The Hays children are quite ordinary?

A. No, they’re not. Simon is like his mother, introspective and morbid and not particularly intelligent. Eve has her father’s disposition, tempered somewhat by a sense of humor.

Q. Is there anyone in the house whom you would describe as criminally insane?

A. No, there is not.

Q. You think, then, that the murders were committed by a sane person for a sane reason?

A. I certainly do.

Q. The guests are all behaving normally?

A. No, they are not. I should be surprised if they were.

Q. Is anyone in particular showing signs of special mental stress, stress which would be caused by a sense of guilt?

A. I don’t believe I can answer that question. Mrs. Morgan’s eccentric behavior may be as indicative of guilt as Miss Breton’s exaggerated self-control. Psychology has not yet attained to scientific accuracy in these matters.

Miss Amanda Bailey to Miss Hattie Featherstone, July 16.

My Dear Hattie:

I really had no intention of writing to you until you answered my last letter.

But, as you have probably read in the papers, William and I are deep in a murder case, and I knew you would be dreadfully curious and eager to have a firsthand account.

If it were an ordinary crime with ordinary people involved! But the Hays family is amazingly rich. Oh, they haven’t yachts and things like that, but that’s probably because they can’t be bothered with them. And I’m certainly in a position to know! I called on Mrs. Hays herself this afternoon!

I wanted to see if she had any information that she would give to me, as woman to woman, you know. But naturally I couldn’t be too blunt about it. So I dropped into a florist’s and bought a beautiful bouquet of cream and yellow snapdragons for $2.

Hattie, they have a real butler! Quite an old man, but with a most impressive accent. I told him that I was representing the Presbyterian Ladies’ Aid, which, of course, wasn’t strictly true. (But I did belong until that Miss Snythe made herself so unpleasant about those sweaters I knitted for the heathen!)

I had to be quite firm with the butler. Apparently he suspected me of being a newspaperwoman or one of the neighbors coming to gossip. Fortunately the snapdragons convinced him, and he showed me into the drawing room, which was really magnificent, Hattie!

Mrs. Hays is most unusual looking and still quite young. I know you’re dying to know what she wore, but, for the life of me, I can’t remember, Hattie. But I think it was something black — or nearly black anyway. She wasn’t very cordial, but then, William and I have grown to expect that from people who are under suspicion of having committed two murders!

There was a snippy young man there, quite nice looking, but incredibly tall. I must have misunderstood his name; it sounded like Pry! He asked me whether the ladies did the aiding in a Ladies’ Aid or were the ladies aided. Can you imagine such effrontery?

William, of course, had no idea I should be at the Hayses’ house and he was simply dumfounded when he came in and saw Mrs. Hays and me chatting together! It’s a pity I was still holding the flowers when he came in — William is not close but he has firm ideas on how our money should be spent, and I shall probably have to endure a lecture when he comes home.

I told. Mrs. Hays the flowers were to be an oasis of beauty in a sea of troubles and I could see she liked this thought very much. But this Pry person said I meant a “desert” of troubles. A most annoying man, I thought.

I gave William a sharp look so that he would not let on that I was his sister, for this really would have spoiled the purpose of my visit entirely. But William is not very subtle, I fear, and the look had to be so sharp that I’m afraid this Pry man noticed it — the insolent fellow actually winked at me! I’m sure William must have seen him, because William left the room quite hurriedly.

Mrs. Hays was unnaturally quiet, I thought. (I can’t understand these people who won’t talk out frankly, can you?) And finally this Pry (who, it turned out, is a doctor!) said that she should retire to her room and he would have her tea sent up. Fortunately, I am not so thin skinned as to consider this a hint and, also, I felt that the least I should get in return for the snapdragons was a cup of tea — or two cups at the most. (As it turned out, it was iced tea, and I just took half a glass.)

As soon as I found out that this Pry man was a doctor I thought it would be an ideal opportunity to ask him about that neuritis in my left shoulder. He seemed quite interested, although he didn’t ask any questions. He nodded his head and said he knew all about my ailment and recommended me to take a tablespoon of oleum ricini night and morning. (I thought it very good of him and on my way home I dropped into a druggist’s and bought some. Imagine my surprise, Hattie, when it turned out to be plain castor oil! The dose seems quite a large one to me, and I never heard of taking a cathartic for neuritis, did you? I took a tablespoon but I shall have to ask William when he comes home if this man Pry is dependable!)

Well, about a quarter to five they began to arrive in the drawing room for tea. They all seemed quite surprised to find me there. (Indeed, I was surprised myself, but one never knows beforehand about these turns of fate!) Dr. Pry introduced them to me quite gallantly.

There was a tall girl who would be very pretty if she weren’t so dreadfully tanned. She was Eve Hays, the daughter, and Mrs. Homer, the housekeeper, says she is extremely nice. I must say I wasn’t impressed with her manner. She was quarreling quite openly with a very handsome young man who was introduced to me as Mr. Wells. I couldn’t overhear much of their conversation (not that I tried to) but I thought Mr. Wells said something about “making a sucker out of him” — a dreadfully crude expression.

The Hays boy, Simon, I do not like at all. He is quite small and pasty looking and he bites his fingernails with a horrible clacking sound. (I believe psychologists nowadays would take that as an indication that he has something on his conscience.) But you should have seen the change in him when Miss Breton came into the room!

My dear Hattie, she’s enough to make anyone sit up and take notice! She’s got red hair that looks just like a wig and light blue eyes with quite the longest, blackest eyelashes. (It would not surprise me in the least to find out that they’re false!) The instant I set eyes on her I realized that she was disguised — for what reason I don’t know. (I shouldn’t like to be unjust but I’ve heard that disguise is a favorite device of fifth columnists, and even in Mertonville you can’t tell! I shall warn William when he comes home!)

But, disguised or not, that little wretch of a Hays boy adores her. He sat down at her feet (at her feet, mind you!) and looked up at her with a most sickening expression.

There was another young man there who talked a great deal, rather incoherently, I thought. Although he tried to be pleasant I had the feeling that he was very unhappy somehow. The others called him Dick, except the red-haired woman who didn’t call him anything but kept looking at him rather slinkily, I thought. Some women are just born to cause trouble, and I’m quite certain that Miss Breton is one of them.

After a while Dr. Pry began to talk about the murders, and of course I was delighted at this, though no one else seemed to be. He said that nearly every murderer leaves some clues; before criminals had become educated to the dangers of fingerprints and footprints scientific detectives concentrated on clues like these. But at the present time, he said, even physical clues like his stolen instrument bag were more important from a purely psychological angle. Miss Breton asked him to explain this to her, and he smiled at her rather peculiarly, I thought. Then he said that the recovered bag was actually a physical clue, but if you look at it from the viewpoint of a psychologist you can deduce some psychological characteristics of the person who took the bag. Miss Breton said that she didn’t care to hear any more, that she was quite upset by the whole thing. Then Dr. Pry laughed and said, “I bet you are, Doctor.”

(Now, why ‘Doctor’? I’ve puzzled and puzzled over this and I think it must be a slang form of address like ‘toots’ or ‘baby’ and things like that. Still, it seems quite silly. I must ask William about this.)

But the oddest incident of the whole afternoon took place just as I was leaving. By this time it was after five, and I hadn’t done a thing toward preparing dinner. So I got up and told Dr. Pry I’d better be going. Miss Eve Hays was still talking to Mr. Wells right beside the door. I felt it was too good an opportunity to miss, so I stopped right beside them for a moment to fix one of my rubbers. And as plain as day I heard Mr. Wells say, “I’m up to my neck in this already. One more push from you, and I’ll—”

It was very unfortunate that he looked up at this moment and saw me. Really, Hattie, you should have seen how he looked at me. The shivers ran up and down my spine. Before that I was sorry I had to leave but I was glad enough to get out of the house then!

I hope you will not think from all this that I did not enjoy myself, for I did. I had the most thrilling time. It is disappointing that everyone staying in the house did not come in for tea because then I should have been almost certain that I was in the same room with the murderer! As it was, neither Mr. and Mrs. Hays nor Mr. and Mrs. Morgan were present. But still, the murderer may have been there, and I choose to think he or she was.

Isn’t it dreadful? We aren’t even sure whether it’s a man or a woman. I’ve heard it said more than once that poison is a woman’s weapon but I don’t believe it for a minute. I should certainly not use it because, as William says, it is difficult to get hold of, whereas you can buy a knife or a bit of cord at any store.

It was disappointing that the butler did not show me out, as I’ve always wanted to know how a real butler would do it. Instead, it was a policeman, one I’ve never seen before, fortunately. I should not like William’s subordinates to accuse me of snooping, no matter how unjustly.

By this time it was half-past five, and I had to hurry to get to the grocery store before it closed. Mr. Biggies was not in the store, but I had quite a long chat with Mrs. Biggies after I bought a can of beans and some bacon. Her husband is down with a bad knee again, and I recommended some of this oleum ricini to her. She was very grateful.

You can imagine how surprised she was that I had been for tea at the Hayses’ house! She apparently misconstrued what I said and thought the Hayses had invited me there. (I considered that it would do no harm to humor her, especially since the Presbyterian Ladies’ Aid might put an entirely wrong interpretation on my harmless deception.)

Naturally the conversation turned to the murders, and it seems that William very annoyingly forgot to tell me that Mrs. Biggies herself had witnessed something of great importance! The grocery store is only a block away from the house where Mr. and Mrs. Philips were living. A couple of days ago (July the fourteenth, to be exact) a young man came into the store for a packet of cigarettes and he acted so peculiarly that Mrs. Biggies naturally looked out of the window to see where he was going. He was driving a sports roadster, Mrs. Biggies says, and he parked directly in front of the Philips’ residence. Perhaps that doesn’t sound very important, but when I tell you that the young man was Simon Hays and that he had a dreadful quarrel with Philips that same afternoon you will realize how perplexed and annoyed I was that William did not tell me this.

William has just phoned that he will not be home for dinner tonight, as he is busy at the office. There is another storm coming up, I fear. The clouds are turning quite black. I do not know whether it’s the storm or the medicine Dr. Pry ordered that is giving me quite a pain in my abdomen.

Perhaps I had better close for now. Give your canary a piece of apple for me. And do write soon, Hattie! You are quite lax in this respect.

Affectionately,

Amanda

10

Shortly after six o’clock on the evening of July the sixteenth a black Packard sedan drove up in front of the Mertonville police station, and from its well-upholstered bowels emerged Sergeant Abbott and a small, dapper man in evening clothes. Mr. Williams, the manager of the Flamingo Club, had been reluctant about making the journey to Mertonville just at the time, he said, when the club was about to wake up for the night. But Sergeant Abbott had given him no chance to argue.

For Sergeant Abbott the trip was a dull one. He was fond of conversation, and his repertoire ran the gamut from horse racing to the World’s Series. Mr. Williams, however, was destined never to know this. He was too preoccupied with his thoughts to be drawn into a discussion. He sat in silence.

It was not Mr. Williams’ first experience with the forces of law and order, and he felt it expedient to estimate how much of the truth he could tell without implicating himself in any way.

By the time he was ushered into Inspector Bailey’s private office he had become astonishingly genial.

“You needn’t have taken all this trouble, Inspector,” Mr. Williams said affably. “I could have driven down here myself.”

“No trouble at all,” said the inspector politely. “I hope we won’t keep you long. But that depends entirely on you, of course.”

Mr. Williams was too modest to consider himself the master of his fate. “I can hardly believe that, Inspector. I know so little, really very little, about my poor employer. It’s scarcely worth questioning me.”

“You mustn’t underestimate yourself, Mr. Williams. I expect you will help us a great deal. I should like all the information you can give me about Thomas Philips’ affairs.”

“Of course, naturally!” Mr. Williams said heartily. “I understand perfectly. But I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed in me, Inspector. Mr. Philips was my employer, certainly, but he was not a man to confide in his staff — not that kind of man at all!”

The inspector raised his eyebrows. “Your employer, Mr. Williams? You have no financial interest in the club then?”

“Oh, a few cents,” said Mr. Williams with a deprecatory wave of his hand. “A few cents, that’s all.”

“I see. You had no idea, then, that Mr. Philips was running a blackmailing business in addition to the club?”

Mr. Williams was shocked.

“Dear me! I can scarcely believe such a thing. Mr. Philips a blackmailer!” He looked reproachfully heavenward. “Not for a minute would I have condoned such a thing. Dear me, no!”

“You and Philips were on good terms?”

“The very best of terms, indeed, Inspector. It was an awful shock to me when he was murdered, a truly terrible shock. I don’t believe I shall ever get over it. One minute the poor man was alive and the next minute dead!”

“That’s usual in cases of murder, I believe. You have no idea who might be behind this truly terrible shock you have suffered?”

“Not the slightest. Not even a hint. My dear Inspector, I’d do anything to help you apprehend this murdering fiend!”

“Thank you. You might begin by giving me an account of your own movements on Monday night and Tuesday morning and afternoon.”

“Of course!” cried Mr. Williams. “My life is an open book, I assure you. Well, Monday I had dinner at home with my wife and went to the club about nine. I was busy there the whole evening — indeed, until well on into the morning. I often don’t arrive home until four o’clock. On Tuesday I got up at twelve, had my lunch and went back to the club to check the receipts and arrange for someone to take Mrs. Philips’ place.”

“Mrs. Philips’ place? What was her position?”

“Oh, she sang a bit with the orchestra and saw to it that things went along smoothly. Poor Dolly! She’ll never sing another song.”

“What made you arrange for someone to take Mrs. Philips’ place on Tuesday afternoon?”

“Now, now, Inspector,” said Mr. Williams playfully. “I’m too old a hand — I’m too sharp to be caught like that! I had no idea the poor woman was dying or dead at that time. She phoned my house early Tuesday morning and left a message to the effect that she was going away.”

“She didn’t say where or when she intended to go?”

“Not a word. But, of course, one assumes that she was going immediately, doesn’t one?”

“This telephone call came from Mertonville?”

“Oh yes, indeed.”

“At exactly what time?”

Mr. Williams’ eyes became pained and penitent; his beautiful silk B.V.D.’s became a hair shirt.

“How I should like to be able to answer that! Alas! I cannot. I was in bed. But I know it was early, dreadfully early!”

“That’s close enough,” the inspector assured him, and once more Mr. Williams’ glowing smile filled the room, and the hair shirt vanished into the past.

“This telephone call was the first intimation you had that Mrs. Philips was leaving the country?”

On Mr. Williams’ lips the smile writhed in its death throes. “Leaving the country? With her husband?”

“I presume so. You did not know of it?”

“Dear me, no! I... well, I’m staggered. I freely confess I’m staggered. First intimation? Yes, indeed.”

“Mr. Philips did not confide his plans to you?”

“I’m afraid not. I told you he was that kind of man — I told you plainly. Ah, little did I think my words were so true!”

The inspector took a deep breath and counted to ten while Mr. Williams clicked his tongue and shook his head.

“You have no knowledge of Mr. Philips’ family or background?”

“No, none at all. I met him just three years ago, quite by accident. I assumed he was an orphan, poor fellow.”

“You are acquainted with Mr. Simon Hays and Miss Eve Hays?”

“Of course. Charming young people, utterly charming!”

“And Mr. Vanstone?”

Mr. Vanstone was also quite charming!

“And Miss Breton?”

Miss Breton likewise!

“They were all friendly with Philips?”

It appeared that friendliness was the watchword of the Flamingo Club.

“And do you also know a young man called Christopher Wells?”

“Christopher Wells? Now, let me see. I can’t be sure, Inspector. It’s a common name. In my business one gets to know so many people!”

“I believe you know Mr. Wells. He’s a tall young man, very good-looking, black hair, blue eyes. Do you recognize the description?”

Mr. Williams shifted in his chair and coughed slightly behind one pink-nailed hand. “Nowadays it seems to me that nearly all young men are tall and handsome. I may know him, of course. But in my business one gets to know so—”

“What time did you see Mr. Wells on Monday night?”

In an instant Mr. Williams had bounced to his feet, bounced back and arranged his face in a smile of delicate reproach.

“My nerves are not accustomed to that sort of thing, Inspector. It’s a dreadful affliction to be troubled with nerves.”

“What time did you see Wells?”

“You’re a forceful man, Inspector. I didn’t see Mr. Wells. He wanted to see me.”

“What time was this?”

“Before I went home — well after three, I should imagine.”

“Why did Mr. Wells want to see you?”

“Really, I don’t know.”

“Would you care to tell me what happened in your own words?”

“Indeed, yes! As a matter of fact, the incident has been worrying me. It was quite inexplicable. I wasn’t intending to tell you because I didn’t want to get the young man into trouble. Ah, these impetuous youths! One never knows what they will do.”

“What did this one do?”

“You told me to tell you in my own words, Inspector!” Mr. Williams objected playfully. “Around three o’clock I was seated in my office at the club when I happened to glance into my eyes.”

“Your eyes?”

“A figure of speech, Inspector. It’s a little gadget I have, quite a useful little thing. It gives me a view of the front door. One never knows when to expect gangsters—”

“Or policemen?”

“Or policemen,” Mr. Williams admitted coyly. “That’s in confidence, of course, strict confidence. We do nothing out of the way at the club, you understand, but policemen are inclined to be suspicious, and I don’t like to have my guests annoyed. You don’t blame me, Inspector?”

“You saw Mr. Wells enter the club?”

“Yes, indeed. He seemed to be having an argument with the doorman. Harry, my... er, bouncer, gave me the details. Mr. Wells insisted on talking to me personally about Mrs. Hays. I was puzzled, very puzzled. I’ve never even met Mrs. Hays. I thought perhaps the young man was drunk and I ordered Harry to see him to the door.”

“And Harry did?”

“Yes, indeed. I considered the episode at an end, naturally, until I got home and found the young man waiting outside my house. I drove away to get Harry, but by the time we got back the young man was gone.”

The inspector rose to his feet. “Thank you, Mr. Williams. You’ve been very helpful. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

Mr. Williams implied by a sweeping wave of his hand that he was willing to go to the ends of the earth for the inspector. Another nod of his head, another smile, and Mr. Williams was gone.

Inspector Bailey was not pleased with the results of his interview but he felt cheered at the surprise he had planned for Mr. Williams. The Flamingo Club was at that instant being carefully searched, and, while Bailey had no hope of finding any incriminating document, it was somehow satisfying to know that Mr. Williams would have a restless night. It was still more satisfying to know that a report of Mr. Williams’ movements would be phoned in every few hours.

“A nasty customer,” Crabbe said with a frown. “But why put a tail on him? He’s got an alibi for both murders.”

Bailey laughed shortly. “I don’t suspect that little manikin of murder. But he’s a congenital liar, and I’d like to keep an eye on him. He may lead us to something or someone. Or he may get himself murdered.”

“Do you really think so?” Crabbe said, impressed.

“It’s a possibility. It really depends on what motive the murderer had for killing Philips. If Philips was killed because he was a blackmailer — and that is the likeliest inference — then I think Mr. Williams’ position is precarious. I don’t believe that Williams and Philips weren’t partners in both businesses. And it’s probable that what one knew the other knows.”

“You say if Philips was killed because of his blackmailing activities. I thought we took that for granted.”

“I don’t. There are too many other possibilities. Philips was a ladies’ man — he may have been murdered by Morgan, for instance, because he had been connected with Mrs. Morgan. He was a blackmailer — was he killed to keep his mouth shut? Was he robbed? Was he murdered by one of his confederates whom he had planted in the house?”

“He worked with someone else then?”

“Always, as far as we know. He really had a complete organization. The members were few in number but they were well paid, well trained and well protected.”

“Why don’t we question them if you know who they are?”

“We don’t. On the Star there is a young man with a wide acquaintance among a certain type of criminal. It is to him that we owe the information we have, and he owes it to a lady who is, and will remain, anonymous. She left Philips’ organization over a year ago and married. She says that Philips would pick out a wealthy family beforehand, preferably one with a closet well stocked with skeletons, and in their house he would plant one of his operatives. There was no need for haste or bungling. Eventually some papers or photographs or letters would be missing, and some time later Philips would start negotiating to sell them back to the owner. It was all done so carefully and gradually that not one of his operatives was ever convicted, nor even suspected, if this girl’s story is true.”

The inspector paused to light a cigar.

“Philips’ price would be high, but he usually got it, and, as you know, the victims of blackmail are unlikely to report to us. That is the way he usually conducted his business. But is it so in this case? And, if it is, where does that get us? They can say what they like about solving crimes psychologically, but I’d trade every theory of psychology in the world for one honest-to-heaven fingerprint.”

It was, Crabbe decided, time to change the subject. He reached into his pocket and drew out several slips of paper.

“Here are the banking accounts. Philips had a private account in a First National branch amounting to nearly one hundred and sixty thousand dollars, deposited by cash at approximately monthly intervals. Every recent deposit checks with a withdrawal by Mrs. Hays in point of time. But the amounts differ. On June the first Mrs. Hays drew five thousand, and Philips deposited four thousand. That’s the way it is with nearly every deposit for the past six months. Last one, June the twentieth, four thousand.”

Bailey pondered. “Is there any chance that Philips just kept out the thousand dollars’ difference for living expenses?”

“I doubt it. He drew a regular salary from the club.”

“Then someone has been getting the percentage. Have you any leads on that?”

“Not one. The servants’ accounts are what you would expect. Joseph has a savings account of nearly ten thousand. Mr. Jacobs and Mrs. Horner have smaller amounts. Neither Miss Bellinger nor Miss Hodge uses banks at all. Miss Bellinger doesn’t trust them, and Miss Hodge, I believe, spends all her money on clothes.”

“And the Hays family?”

“Mrs. Hays’ account I’ve told you about. It was impossible to check Mr. Hays’. The banks refused to co-operate. Both the boy and girl are on allowances from their father and have no separate accounts. Mr. Wells is also on an allowance from his father, who is a very successful surgeon in Nashville. Mr. Vanstone deposited fifteen thousand two years ago when he came here. Several small withdrawals, no deposits. I haven’t a report from Prye’s bank in Detroit just yet. Miss Breton refused to give me any information about her account, and I’ve been unable to trace any — under that name anyway. The Morgans have a joint account opened just after their marriage. One withdrawal of fifteen hundred for current expenses made in Florida three weeks ago.”

The inspector got up and began to pace up and down the room. Crabbe watched him in uneasy silence.

The inspector, he felt, was doing his best in this investigation, but his lack of experience and the social and financial standing of the Hays family were hampering him considerably.

“Have you thought of the possibility of more than one person being involved in the murders?” Crabbe said diffidently.

Bailey grunted. “It wouldn’t surprise me if every single one of them is involved.”

“But there are one or two combinations which seem likely to me, Chief. Miss Breton is hand in glove with Mr. Simon Hays, for instance.”

The inspector stopped him with a glance.

“Please. That’s enough theorizing. It’s possible to build up a case against every single person in that house. I did it last night to my own satisfaction. Even the old butler had a motive — to protect the family honor. It’s no use. We have to go over and over the few facts that we have and see how far they take us.

“On July the fourteenth someone staying in the Hayses’ house was requested by Thomas Philips to meet him in the library at one-thirty. Since Philips was found in the house, we must assume that the person met him. Between the time he arrived, one-thirty, and the time Miss Hays found him, two-twenty, he was murdered and left on the stairs.

“Miss Hays left the body for ten minutes. When she came back she saw her mother searching Philips’ pockets. Nothing was found; Mrs. Hays and Eve disposed of the body. Both claim they did not know Philips had been murdered. Eve began to suspect when she discovered that his pockets were empty. Mrs. Hays did not. That is all we know of the first murder. The second is even more obscure.”

Bailey puffed savagely on a cigar.

“Mrs. Philips was murdered between three and five on Tuesday afternoon. The poison was placed in her cocktail shaker probably between ten in the morning, when the servants left, and one-thirty in the afternoon, when we can account for everyone in the Hayses’ house. Her body was found at eight-thirty that night. Mrs. Morgan was in the house at the time. Not a very conclusive set of facts, is it?”

The inspector’s voice was bitter, and Crabbe hastened to reply: “But we have some clues, Chief!”

“The kind that merely obscure the issue, as far as I can figure out. A note from a dead man which could have been written to anyone. A phial of hyoscine planted in one of Miss Hays’ shoes, a hiding place known to everyone in the house. A doctor’s instrument bag stolen and subsequently discovered, with some hyoscine missing and a stethoscope damaged.”

“Well, that’s a real clue,” Crabbe said quickly. “If Doctor Prye really locked his room it proves that the thief has some knowledge of locks. That should narrow it down.”

“Nonsense!” cried a brisk voice from the doorway. Miss Amanda Bailey entered, carrying a large picnic basket. “Nonsense. I can pick a lock myself.” She banged the basket on the desk. “Sergeant Abbott taught me. With a hairpin. So you needn’t look so supercilious, William.”

“I wasn’t looking supercilious. What’s in the basket?”

“Sandwiches. I do think it’s too bad of you, William, not to come home to your meals like an ordinary man. Have a sandwich, Mr. Crabbe. I believe I shall, too.”

It was some time before the inspector had an opportunity to speak. He swallowed the last sandwich and turned to his sister. “You didn’t come here just to bring sandwiches, Amanda!”

Amanda beamed. “That’s awfully bright of you, William. I did and I didn’t, as a matter of fact.”

She paused to assure herself that the members of her audience were properly puzzled and interested.

“What I mean is, I did make you the sandwiches, but then a most peculiar thought occurred to me.”

The inspector’s bored expression indicated that Amanda’s peculiar thoughts were not infrequent and usually turned out to be what everyone else had been thinking for some time.

Amanda was not discouraged. She unbuttoned the neck of her raincoat as if to allow the peculiar thought to come winging out.

“The question I asked myself, William, was: Why was Dolly Philips killed? I should think the answer is obvious to the meanest intelligence. She wasn’t killed!”

Bailey and Crabbe exchanged glances.

“My dear Amanda, the last time I saw Mrs. Philips she was not only dead — she was lacking a stomach. Just how dead a person has to be before you are satisfied I don’t know.”

“Oh, use your wits, William!” Amanda said tartly. “Of course, the woman is dead. I discovered her, didn’t I? I meant, she should not be dead.”

Crabbe spoke up timidly. “Miss Bailey’s idea is much the same as mine, except it’s better, of course.”

Amanda nodded at this tribute. “You’re improving, Mr. Crabbe,” she said graciously.

“In other words,” the inspector said, “you both think that the poison in the cocktail shaker was intended for Mr. Philips. Aren’t you forgetting one small point?”

The inspector paused. Crabbe looked thoughtful for a moment, then his pale face turned slightly green.

“No, I haven’t forgotten one small point, William. You haven’t proved to my satisfaction that the poison was put in the cocktail shaker the same day she was murdered.”

The color flooded back into Crabbe’s face. “Miss Bailey may be right. According to my reconstruction, she is.”

“Go on.”

“I’d like to start with the hypothesis that Mrs. Philips accidentally swallowed the poison originally meant for her husband. On Monday afternoon Simon Hays went to the Philips’ house and had a quarrel with Mr. Philips. He went prepared to murder Philips if no other solution was found. He found an opportunity to put the poison in the cocktail shaker, confident that Philips would drink from it. He went home to await news of Philips’ death, but, by a trick of fate, Philips did not take a drink. He sent a note to Simon. Simon realized that his scheme had misfired, so he decided to kill Philips definitely that night. He did.

“The next morning, however, he began to wonder about the contents of that cocktail shaker. He sneaked out of the house, went to the Philips’ and discovered Mrs. Philips packing up to leave. The servants had been dismissed.

“Perhaps Mrs. Philips let him know that she knew he had killed her husband; he decided that he must poison her as well. So he simply left the cocktail shaker as it was, cut the telephone wires and went home.”

The inspector nodded. Amanda yawned.

“And the motive,” Crabbe went on, “is the same as the motive for the quarrel.” He paused for a moment and added gloomily: “Whatever that was.”

“It looks,” Amanda said wistfully, “as if anyone could have done it.”

11

While Inspector Bailey, clad in his disreputably crushed business suit, was munching his sandwiches Richard Vanstone, impeccably clad, was adjusting his tie before going down for dinner. The expression of amiability which was one of his chief assets was lacking. When the world went along smoothly there was no more sanguine and tolerant a young man than Mr. Vanstone. But tonight even his tie was obstinate, and the mere thought of going down to a dinner of forced appetites and forced conversation made him shudder. But these were not the real reasons for his uneasiness.

He had fallen in love.

At the age of twenty-seven, when one has successfully evaded the toils of designing women for a number of years, it is unnerving to meet a woman whose toils one has no wish to evade. There was another difficulty: Richard did not believe in love.

In his one and only novel he had discussed the horrors of marriage earnestly and at length. As he was not a very intelligent young man, when he came to write his second novel he found himself discussing the horrors of marriage for a second time. His publishers had become bored, apparently, for they sent the novel back, and Richard had laid aside his pen and taken up a tennis racket instead. There was no doubt it suited him better.

He was not championship material, but, as he had been heard to remark, what of it? He was young and healthy and, since his mother had obligingly died well insured, he had a moderate bank account. His living expenses had been negligible since he had promptly accepted the vague invitation issued at his mother’s funeral by his mother’s cousin, Barbara Hays, to consider her home as his own.

That Mr. Hays was not a party to this invitation did not upset Richard. He had smarted once or twice under George’s stinging remarks but he could afford to overlook such small injuries to his pride; both Miss Bellinger’s cooking and the Hayses’ tennis courts were superb. Richard felt himself a fortunate young man. He had written a novel; he had the best backhand stroke in Mertonville; he had enough money to repel wolves from his door and, best of all, he had no desire to change either himself or the world.

At least, not until love entered his life.

Angela Breton’s type was an open book to Richard. Since her arrival several months before he had treated her with casual amiability, and the only real interest he felt in her was a kind of wonder at the color of her hair. He had had no fear of falling in love with her. He was considerably surprised, therefore, when he found himself longing to kick Simon Hays in the teeth.

Jealousy? Richard pondered. Not jealousy exactly. He could hold his own with Simon as a lover. But could he combat a million dollars? Richard’s hands shook. A million dollars or even half a million seemed a lot of money, and he had no illusions about his beloved. Better women than Angela had considered a million dollars an acceptable substitute for certain other husbandly graces.

Richard was a reasonable man. If Angela was angling for a fortune he could not criticize her. He retained a vivid memory of his own proposal to Eve Hays, actuated by a similar motive. Eve would have made a good wife but not, Richard felt, so interesting a one as Angela. Eve was jolly, but Angela was... well, she was— Novelist though he had been, Richard could not find a word for her.

He leaned toward the mirror and examined himself critically. Not handsome, he had to admit, but quite passable. Nice deep tan. Fairly good eyes. His hair was rather nondescript in color, but he was not displeased with the wave in it.

Hearing a knock on the door, he hastily turned away from the mirror and sat down as composedly as possible.

“Come in.”

Dr. Prye opened the door and stepped into the room. “Ready for dinner, Dick?”

Richard scowled. He did not like Prye and he was more than a little disappointed that his caller was not Angela.

“You’re looking very black tonight,” Prye observed, helping himself to a cigarette. “Were you expecting someone with Titian hair?”

“That’s hardly any of your business, is it? As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t mind knowing what your business is.”

Prye looked at his watch and found it was earlier than he had thought. He sat down, facing Richard, and stretched out his legs.

“My business is quite innocent, Dick. I watch people and find out what makes them tick. And if they’re not ticking properly I do something about it.”

“I see,” said Richard coldly. “A mental mechanic. And are you quite satisfied with my ticking?”

“Candidly, no. I could almost swear you’re not ticking at all. I’m talking to you like a father, Dick, my lad. Don’t lose your temper. Do you want to know what Doctor Adler says of people who lose their tempers?”

“No, I don’t.”

“He says they’ve got oversensitive consciences. I shouldn’t like to think that you have one of those. But cheer up! I don’t believe you have. No, there’s something different the matter with you, Dick — you have no morals.”

Dick’s mouth dropped open. “I what? No morals?” He spluttered and grew red.

“No standards of conduct,” Prye repeated firmly. “I found a copy of your book down in the library. My, my! I wonder if Miss Breton has read it. The Open Pit. Where on earth did you get the title?”

Dick stood up. “If you weren’t old enough to be my father—”

“Now, don’t exaggerate. I was precocious, I admit. But ten is somewhat early for fatherhood. Let us say an older brother. I think you could do with an older brother.”

There was a rapid knock on the door.

“Answer the door. It may be a lady.”

Dick strode to the door and pulled it open. Eve Hays entered hastily, saw Dr. Prye and started to retreat.

“Don’t go. I was just about to leave.” Prye crushed his cigarette in an ashtray and went to the door. “Dick is tired of me anyway. See you later.”

Eve stood in the doorway uncertainly and watched him start down the stairs. When he had disappeared she came into the room and carefully closed the door behind her.

“What’s up?”

Eve put her finger to her lips. “Hush! That man has ears like a fox and he gets around in the damnedest way. I have to look under my bed every night.”

“Fear or hope?”

Eve frowned and sat down in a chair. There was a short silence during which she occupied herself in peeling the polish from one pink fingernail. She looked up suddenly.

“Dick, are you still in love with me?”

Dick’s mouth fell open, but he shut it almost immediately.

“Well, are you?” she repeated impatiently.

He recovered himself. “You don’t get over things like that, Eve,” he said, with some truth.

“That’s lovely. Because I have a favor to ask of you.”

A small portion of his dismay must have reached his face, for she added quickly, “Just a tiny favor. Say you’ll do it!”

“Ye gods, woman, I can’t say I’ll do it if I don’t know what it is. You can’t take advantage of a man because he’s in love with you. It’s not cricket.”

“Cricket or not, I want you to play up to Miss Breton. For my sake. You needn’t go too far, you know. Just get into her confidence until she confesses to you.”

Dick began to feel very uncomfortable indeed. He loosened his collar.

Eve leaned forward confidingly. “You’re absolutely the only one for the job. Simon is gone on the woman, completely blotto. Doctor Prye is too old, and, besides, she doesn’t like him. That leaves only you. I suppose I could hire someone, but that would only make everything more difficult.”

“How about Christopher Wells?”

“Chris? You don’t think I’d let Chris within a mile of that redheaded man-eater!”

Dick fingered his tie, disrupting its symmetry. “I... don’t you think you’re being a little hard on Miss Breton? She strikes me—”

“Please don’t interrupt, Dick. Do you realize they suspect my family of those murders? And that redheaded cat is obviously as guilty as hell!”

“And you want me to make love to her so she’ll confess?” Dick groaned. “That’s just the sort of thing you would think of, Eve. Or did you get the idea out of a thriller? It isn’t reasonable, Eve. If she did fall for me the last thing she’d do is whisper in my ear that she’d committed two murders.”

“But, angel!” Eve’s voice rose. “You don’t get it at all. The approach is much subtler than that. Here’s the whole thing in a nutshell—”

“Just a moment, please. Supposing I’m silly enough to do as you ask, what arrangements have you made for protecting me?”

“Protecting you? From whom?”

“From Simon.”

Eve laughed. “Why, Dick, Simon wouldn’t hurt a fly. Oh, he’ll be crazy jealous of you, but I know for a fact he wouldn’t hit you.”

“Or murder me?”

Eve’s eyes widened in astonishment. “That’s silly. Simon Pure is as harmless as warm milk. You surely wouldn’t suspect Simon?”

“No,” said Dick wretchedly.

“Well, all right then. Here’s my idea...” The others were already seated in the dining room when Eve and Dick came downstairs. Eve was wearing a smile which Dr. Prye instantly classified as smug. He regretted missing his opportunity to find out what they were up to — or, rather, what Eve was up to. Dick appeared a reluctant party to her scheme.

Prye was not the only one at the table who cursed silently between mouthfuls. Christopher Wells’ face was a study in self-pity, and he seemed to have difficulty in swallowing his food. Turning a deaf ear to Eve’s friendly overtures, he ostentatiously addressed all his remarks to Sally Morgan, who was sitting on his other side.

Sally was delighted with his attentions. The pleasure of talking to a good-looking young man was intensified if one’s husband was glaring from the other side of the table. Peter’s glare seemed particularly ferocious when he was wearing his glasses; he reminded Sally of the professional villain in a third-rate stock company.

Dr. Prye studied them all surreptitiously and was puzzled by what he saw: love, jealousy, fear, even hate mirrored in their faces. Prye was proud of his ability to see through pretense; he had always held that someone playing a part never failed to give himself away somehow. But every one of these people seemed consistent to the last detail.

At the head of the table George Hays was attacking his food with his usual energy, oblivious of the conversation going on around him. Beside him Eve was talking brightly to anyone who cared to listen. But Prye was aware that she felt Christopher’s displeasure. On the other side of the table Angela Breton sat between Simon and Dick, bestowing her attention impartially on both of them. She looked up to find Dr. Prye’s gaze upon her, and a faint smile passed across her face.

To Prye Barbara Hays was the most interesting psychological specimen of them all. He had observed and talked with many neurotics during the past ten years, but none of them had had the self-control which Barbara had forced upon herself. Her thin, pale face, which still had moments of beauty, was as inexpressive as a mask. But emotion flickered deep in her great dark eyes. Was it hate? Or fear? Or simply hysteria?

She caught his eye and nodded her head. Prye rose to his feet, and the conversation ceased.

“Mrs. Hays has asked me to make an announcement,” he said with a smile. “You won’t like what I have to say, but in your own interests you should hear me out.”

“We usually have to anyway,” Simon put in petulantly.

“Mrs. Hays has instructed me to assure you that her cook, Miss Bellinger, is entirely trustworthy and that it would be better for all of us if we ate less sparingly. I’d like to add to Mrs. Hays’ advice. Hyoscine is both tasteless and odorless. You could not possibly detect its presence, although it is obvious that you are trying to.”

“That’s absurd! I’m not thinking of such a thing,” George Hays cried angrily.

“Others are, I believe,” Prye replied. “But I don’t think we are in much danger of being poisoned by our food if we take reasonable precautions.”

“Such as making it ourselves,” Eve suggested with a laugh.

“No. Miss Bellinger prepares it, and we have no reason to mistrust her. Joseph serves it and he is above suspicion if anyone is. But from the time it is served you are all responsible for your own food and drink. If you don’t trust your neighbor keep an eye on his hands. Sorry to be so blunt, but we don’t want another murder if it can be avoided.”

“Good God!” George glanced down at his empty plate, and his face turned purple. He looked up and met Peter Morgan’s eye.

Peter glared back at him. “I have nothing up my sleeve, George. You’re safe enough. Doctor Prye’s imagination is too vivid.”

Dick looked at Angela Breton’s face and then at her long, slim hands with their bronzed nails. He tried to smile but could not and after a moment of hesitation he rose to his feet and excused himself in a hoarse voice. The others watched him uneasily as he went out.

“Perhaps we had all better leave,” Barbara murmured, “if everyone is willing.”

Everyone was more than willing.

“Don’t bother with dessert, Joseph,” she said wearily. “Coffee and liqueurs in the drawing room.”

George Hays was the only one who remained in the dining room.

“What was the dessert, Joseph?” he asked.

“Peach Melba, sir.”

“Bring me some. I’ll be damned if I’m going to skimp my meals because of some fool notion of that doctor’s. Peach Melba’s my favorite dish.”

“It’s especially good tonight, sir.”

In the drawing room Angela sank gracefully into a chair beside Dr. Prye. “Where has everyone disappeared to?”

Prye grinned. “Dick has a headache. Mrs. Hays has a headache. Chris has a headache. I wish someone would display a little originality in inventing ailments.”

She laughed softly. “I myself require a carminative for my tympanitis. Crème de menthe. Will you join me?”

“I can’t abide the stuff. Brandy for me.”

When Prye had filled their glasses he proposed a toast. “To married life!” He glanced at the Morgans, who had retired to a corner of the room and were arguing in intense whispers. He raised his glass, but Angela remained staring into hers.

“It’s almost too pretty to drink.” But with a sudden laugh she tossed it off.

“A liqueur should be sipped,” Prye objected.

“I don’t live by rules,” she replied. She rose from her chair. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I, too, have developed a headache.”

A moment after she went out George came bustling into the room.

“Where’s Simon?”

Prye nodded his head toward the chair in which Simon was reclining. George walked over and shook him roughly. Simon’s head lolled to one side, but his eyes did not open.

“Prye, come here and take a look at him.” George’s voice was worried.

Prye hurried over and knelt by Simon’s chair. He opened one of his eyes and felt his pulse. A sigh of relief escaped him as he rose to his feet.

“Drunk,” he said.

“Oh, I thought— Damned young fool! Thank you, Prye.”

George bent over his son and lifted him as if he had been a baby.

“Damned young fool,” he repeated. “Will you see if any of the servants are in the hall?”

Prye opened the door. “Nobody in sight. Could I help?”

“Don’t need any help to handle this young idiot. Deserves a horsewhipping. May give it to him.”

As George climbed the stairs with Simon in his arms Prye quoted to himself:

“Awake, awake, my little boy!

Thou wast thy mothers only joy;

Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep?

Awake! Thy father does thee keep.”

He walked toward the front door, feeling rather pleased with himself. There were two reporters on the veranda playing poker with the aid of a flashlight. The policeman at the door was watching them with some wistfulness.

“Good evening,” Prye said.

The flashlight was instantly removed from the floor by one of the young men and flashed in Prye’s face.

“It’s Doctor Prye!” said the red-haired young man. “This is luck. I’m pleased to meet you, Doctor Prye.”

“So am I, Doctor Prye!” cried the other young man fervently.

“I’ve always wanted to meet a famous alienist!” said the first.

“I’ve always wanted to be one,” said the second.

Prye was staggered by this reception.

“I’m Roberts of the Star. May I shake your hand?”

Prye’s hand was shaken by Mr. Roberts of the Star and Mr. Fisher of the Inquirer.

The policeman at the door decided that these amenities were leading to no good.

“You’re not to give out any information,” he said to Dr. Prye. “Orders.”

“Information?” Mr. Roberts repeated, injured. “I haven’t asked a single question!”

“Policemen,” Mr. Fisher said sadly, “are notorious for not understanding. Do you play poker, Doctor Prye?”

“Immaturely,” said Prye.

“Hey!” It was the policeman again. “I know what you two are up to.”

“Just listen to that man,” Mr. Roberts said.

“He’s raving,” said Mr. Fisher.

“He’s stark staring,” said Mr. Roberts.

Prye coughed delicately. “Does this sort of thing go on indefinitely?”

“What sort of thing?” said Mr. Fisher.

“Yes, what?” said Mr. Roberts.

The policeman turned to Prye. “They’re just fresh. Or drunk. I dunno which.”

“Just listen to him,” Mr. Roberts said.

“Infamy,” said Mr. Fisher.

“Blasphemy,” said Mr. Roberts.

Prye shut the door behind him and leaned against it, sighing.

The house was strangely quiet; everyone seemed to have retired. The lights were still on in the drawing room, and he made his way toward it.

Peter Morgan was sitting in a corner of the room. Sally had made her departure, and Prye judged from the expression on Morgan’s face that it had not been a friendly one. Prye sat down and studied the man from beneath half-closed eyelids.

At first glance Peter Morgan looked like a prig. His small, prim mouth, his neatly combed sandy hair, the pince-nez perched on his thin nose made him resemble a dyspeptic scholar. His eyes were surprising — large and brown and rather childlike.

“Can’t see his hand in front of his face without glasses,” Prye decided to himself. “Too thin. Bad tempered. Probably has stomach ulcers.”

Unconscious of Prye’s scrutiny, Morgan removed his glasses and began to polish them with his handkerchief. He polished steadily for ten minutes. Prye’s nerves began to tingle.

“What are you trying to do — wear them out?”

Morgan jumped, and the glasses flew out of his hand. He stared down at the pieces on the floor, speechless with rage.

“You imbecile, Prye! You interfering dolt!” His voice was thick.

Prye was on his feet in an instant. “Here, let me pick them up. I suppose there’s no use apologizing. What a clumsy idiot I am!”

Morgan was so amazed at this outburst that he began to mumble some apologies in return, but Prye checked him. “It was my fault entirely, Morgan. My nerves, you know.”

“I do know,” Morgan said with feeling. He rubbed his eyes. “What the devil do I do now? I can’t see a blasted thing without them.”

“Wait here.”

Carrying the pieces of the lens in his hand, Prye went out of the room. In the hall he selected the largest piece and examined it against the light.

He was back in five minutes. “I’ve sent one of the policemen to rout an optometrist out of bed. You’ll probably have your glasses back in twenty-four hours.”

Morgan sat down. His rage had given way to what Prye considered an amusing mixture of exasperation and politeness. “Damn, it’s too bad. This whole visit has been completely wretched. It’s no wonder I’ve developed nerves.”

Prye agreed. “The atmosphere is rather tense. I wonder if Bailey is getting onto the fellow who’s responsible?”

“You think it’s a man then?” Morgan asked quickly.

“Not necessarily. I used the word without thinking. Sex doesn’t make much difference anyway in this day and age. The hand that rocks the cradle is equally adept at holding a gun or plying a hypodermic needle.”

“I need a drink to go with that pleasant thought.” Morgan got up and poured out a whisky and soda. “You, too?”

Prye nodded. “You’ve a good aim with that siphon, even if you can’t see.”

Morgan’s hand stopped for a moment. “Instinct,” he said lightly. “Like Miss Breton knitting with her eyes shut.”

“Just so,” Prye said dryly.

Morgan sipped his drink as if it were an unpleasant duty. “It’s incredible that every day we sit down to meals with someone who is an out-and-out villain, isn’t it?”

“It is. I find the whole system of villains and heroes incredible. Fiction abounds in people who are all white or all black, but nature does not go to such extremes. Real people are all shades of grey. And if the murderer of Philips is a little darker than you or I, well, perhaps there are extenuating circumstances.”

Morgan’s spine stiffened at this heresy. “It’s all very well to be broad-minded, Prye. I flatter myself that I am. But you sound as if you actually sympathize with the brute.”

“I do rather. Neither Mr. Philips nor his wife is a great loss to the world. I refuse to condemn a man for an act until I know his motive.”

“I don’t think motive can excuse anyone.”

Prye sighed. “You should make a good district attorney. But I hope you don’t get the chance to cross-examine me.”

“I may.” Morgan was staring at him with hostility. “I may unless you’re more careful.”

“More careful?”

In the silence that followed, the voice of Mr. Roberts could be heard from the veranda.

“Why, Constable, you’re stark staring, Constable.”

“Get thee to a nunnery, Constable.”

“Infamy.”

Morgan looked away. “If I were district attorney I’d ask you why you visited Simon’s room last night. And then I’d ask you if you’d visited my room.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. You see, my wife’s diamond necklace has disappeared.”

12

The Brodie family lived in three rooms of a tenement in New York’s East Side, in a style much the same as their neighbors’. There were, however, a few minor differences. The Brodies had only eight children, where the Murphys in the flat above had twelve, and old man Brodie could drink two pints to every one drunk by old man Sullivan in the flat below. But the chief thing that distinguished the Brodies from their neighbors was Sarah Brodie.

Sarah was going to be an actress.

Sarah, her mother reiterated, was not “gonna hafta work in no lousy shoe factory for a lousy fifteen bucksa week.” “Fifteen bucks is fifteen bucks,” was Mr. Brodies claim, “and fifteen bucks is a lotta dough.”

A conflict was inevitable. When she was just fourteen Sarah pushed her sire down a flight of stairs while he was drunk and left New York one jump ahead of a juvenile-delinquent officer.

Three years later she appeared in the second line of the chorus in a Chicago burlesque house. She was still Sarah and she still wanted to be an actress, but not so fervently as she had before. It took two more years to convince her that the stage offered her no future.

She became a mannequin. During the day she learned how to walk; while resting her feet at night she learned, from a remarkable variety of books, how to talk. Some years later she took a holiday at a fashionable resort and learned the technique of snubbing before being snubbed. Sarah Brodie was now equipped for life.

Finally a young man appeared on the horizon. Sarah was a good listener. The young man talked himself hoarse for four nights. On the fifth he was very quiet and kept polishing his glasses vigorously. Sarah murmured, “Yes.”

The dreams had come true. She had a wealthy husband, a beautiful car, trunks crammed with expensive clothes, a diamond necklace—

“I haven’t got anything!” Sally Morgan sobbed into her pillow. “I haven’t anything!”

The wealthy husband had fled; the necklace was gone, and the only thing left was the clothes.

But the Brodies had always been natural optimists. Although Sally’s sorrows weighed heavily on her shoulders she dried her eyes in anticipation of breakfast.

Of all the people in the house only Joseph guessed Mrs. Morgan’s background, and when he entered the room with her breakfast tray his deference was almost imperceptibly tinged with contempt.

“Inspector Bailey is below, madam, and wishes to see you as soon as possible.”

“At eight o’clock? What on earth for?”

Joseph’s eyebrows deplored this lack of good form, but his voice was respectful. “Concerning your necklace, madam.”

“Tell him I’ll be down in twenty minutes.” Joseph began to retreat, but Sally held him back. “Joseph, I don’t suppose you — I mean, you’ve no idea—?”

The eyebrows ascended and descended.

“I mean, do you know whether my husband has gone?”

“Mr. Morgan enjoyed a very good breakfast, madam. Mrs. Horner has provided a room for him on the third floor.”

Joseph departed.

Sally temporarily reverted to the language she had learned at home and swore resourcefully for several minutes. Feeling much better, Mrs. Morgan, too, enjoyed a good breakfast.

Inspector Bailey was waiting for her in the morning room. His expression made Sally deplore once again the fact that neither Dr. Prye nor the inspector had his due share of masculine vulnerability.

“Your diamond necklace has disappeared, Mrs. Morgan?”

“Yes. Isn’t it dreadful?” Sally arranged herself prettily in a chair. “But if you ask me all kinds of questions about where or when I saw it last I shall simply scream!”

“Shall you indeed!” the inspector said coldly. “When did you see it last?”

“I really couldn’t say, Inspector,” Sally replied, looking up at him frankly. “Things have been so upset around here.”

“About when did you see it last?”

“Well, I wore it several nights ago at dinner.”

“How many nights ago?”

Sally began to flush. “I said I didn’t know. It may have been Monday.”

“Last Monday? The night Philips was murdered?”

“I guess so.”

“And when did you miss the necklace?”

“Last night. I went to put it on, and it was gone. I kept it locked in a jewel box on my dressing table.”

“The necklace was valued at how much?”

“I don’t know,” Sally said indifferently. “Peter said something about twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“If he said something about twenty-five thousand dollars I assume that was the price of it.”

“He didn’t buy the necklace, Inspector. It belonged to his grandmother.”

“It was insured?”

“Of course.”

“You have notified the insurance company?”

“I haven’t. My husband may have.”

“It’s your necklace, not mine, Mrs. Morgan. I suggest that you answer a little more spontaneously.”

“How can I be spontaneous? You keep asking me questions.”

“Do you know or suspect who took your necklace?”

“I certainly do not. Anyone could have done it. The jewel box was on my dressing table, and the lock is quite a simple one.”

“You locked your door?”

“Not during the day.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t think it was necessary.”

And that, the inspector said to himself, is the co-operation I get. Two murders and several thefts, and a scatterbrained woman doesn’t think it’s necessary to lock her door.

He rang for Joseph and dispatched him to bring down the jewel box wrapped in a handkerchief. Bailey smiled sourly at this precaution. If the theft of Mrs. Morgan’s necklace was connected with the two murders the chance of finding fingerprints was a thin one.

It was not Joseph who entered with the jewel box.

“Good morning, Mrs. Morgan. Good morning, Inspector.

Are not the joys of morning sweeter

Than the joys of night?”

Prye laid his offering on the table and turned to the inspector. “Joseph is really too old to run up and down stairs. I thought I’d save him a trip.”

“Very thoughtful of you, Doctor Prye,” the inspector said grimly.

“It’s nothing, nothing at all.” He pointed to the box on the table. “Do you see what I see?”

“Mrs. Morgan, I don’t think I need you any longer.” The inspector waited until Sally had gone out and then examined the lock on the jewel box.

“Picked by an amateur. Was that your idea?”

Prye nodded. “It was. By an amateur with a bad case of panic. See those deep scratches around the lock? They let me out. If a doctor’s hand shook like that he’d probably cut your throat to take out your appendix.”

“I thought you didn’t treat, you merely suggested?”

“Ah, but before you reach the point where you merely suggest you have to do some spade work. I’ll never forget the first appendix I—”

“Please don’t tell me,” the inspector said dryly. “I probably couldn’t forget it either.”

He wrapped the box again and put it into his pocket. “You’ll be at the inquest at ten, Prye?” Prye’s reassurances followed him out to the car.

Bailey’s eyes were thoughtful as he drove in the direction of Dr. Munro’s office. Munro might be able to answer the question that was puzzling him:

If Philips had been admitted to the house at one-thirty, why was Eve Hays at two-twenty convinced that the man had just died?

A person does not carry a needleful of hyoscine unless he intends to use it. And, if he intended to use it, why should the murderer while away forty or fifty minutes when someone in the household might awaken at any minute?

Had the two spent the time in quarreling? It was unlikely. Quarrels are not conducted in whispers, and no one in the house had heard voices raised. It was scarcely possible that murderer and victim had had an amicable discussion about the weather.

One point was clear: Philips had not expected trouble. Had he trusted his companion? Or was it because he had no reason to fear him or her?

Or her.

Philips had been an unusually suspicious man, yet he had probably talked to his murderer for forty minutes, quite unaware of his danger.

Bailey swerved to avoid a telegraph pole. “Tom’s fan mail was terrific.” “Stay away from my wife.” “Philips was a ladies’ man.”

Philips must have been talking to a woman, a woman he knew.

The dainty Mrs. Morgan? The inscrutable Miss Breton? Mamie? Perhaps even Mrs. Hays?

Bailey stopped his car in front of Dr. Munro’s office. The doctor was just coming out of the front door, and Bailey hurried to catch him.

“Now what?” Munro said with a mournful smile. “Another body?”

“A question. Miss Hays, in her statement, said that she examined Philips at two-twenty and came to the conclusion that he had just died. Is it possible for a layman to judge such a thing with any accuracy?”

“Don’t see why not,” Munro grunted. “If the body’s still warm it’s fairly conclusive. Would she know that?”

“That and more. She reads detective stories.” Bailey turned back to his car. “Want a lift to the courthouse?”

The double inquest was held at ten o’clock, and both the coroner and the more curious residents of Mertonville who attended were disappointed at the paucity of evidence. The witnesses were reluctant and the verdict inevitable — death at the hands of a person or persons unknown.

The inspector was glad when it was over, and he endeavored to forget the somewhat caustic remarks of the coroner by eating largely of Amanda’s vegetable casserole.

Amanda was in an expansive mood. The inquest, it was true, had not been as thrilling as she had expected, but she had been compensated by a meeting with Dr. Prye, who, it turned out, was quite a nice person. He asked after her neuritis and advised her not to take any more oleum ricini. The modest man was quite stunned at the news that her neuritis had completely disappeared and that she was feeling as fit as a fiddle. Decidedly a nice person.

“I think,” Amanda observed to William, “that Doctor Prye is a trustworthy young man, and you know, William, that I have a sixth sense about people.”

“You mean you have a sixth column,” Williams said callously. “Mrs. Biggies, Miss Snythe—”

“That’s quite a different matter. I trust my intuition. And I hope that you have more sense than to suspect Doctor Prye of these murders.”

The inspector’s mind was running in a similar channel, but Amanda’s remark made him vaguely unhappy.

“I have eliminated no one,” he said, buttering a piece of roll, “although I think it’s highly unlikely that Prye is guilty. I’ve satisfied myself that he was not acquainted with Philips.”

“Well then?”

Amanda’s voice was unnecessarily loud, and William promptly choked on a sausage. His sister watched his sputterings with musing indifference.

“You eat too fast, William. What did the good Lord give you teeth for, except to chew your food?”

“You might at least have handed me a glass of water,” the inspector said stiffly, “since it was your fault I choked in the first place.”

They ate in silence for a time, the inspector red in the face, and Amanda wearing a pitying smile which her brother rightly took to mean, “Forgive him, for he knows not what he says.”

“Well, William,” Amanda said at last, “I’m only a woman and I have no intention of interfering with your business. But I feel that if you would let Doctor Prye know that you trust him utterly he would be able to give you a great deal of information that you haven’t been sharp enough to find out for yourself.”

The inspector closed his eyes to this red rag, and Amanda went on. “Mrs. Biggies told me that Mrs. Horner told her that Doctor Prye has been looking for clues in the bedrooms at night. I don’t know how else you can expect him to prove his good faith.”

“He may have been looking for clues,” the inspector said acidly, “or he may have been gathering some little geegaws worth twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“Dear me!”

She listened avidly to the details which William reluctantly provided.

Meanwhile, Sally Morgan was faced with an important decision. Should she go down to lunch to show Peter she didn’t care? Or should she have lunch in her room and allow him to think that she was prostrated with grief and illness?

She favored prostration. Besides, she really didn’t feel well.

She ate half her soup and then suddenly she really did feel ill. Her head began to swim, and the spoon clattered from her hand to the plate. She pushed away the tray, and it fell to the floor with a crash.

She made her way unsteadily to the door and crept down the back stairs into the pantry. She flipped through the telephone book in furious haste, found her number and dialed it.

“Hello, is that Miss Bailey?” It was. Sally’s voice broke with relief. “I’m so glad I found you in! It’s Mrs. Morgan speaking. You blacked my eye. Now do you remember? I’m in terrible trouble, Miss Bailey. I said I was in trouble. It certainly is not my own fault! I can’t speak any louder. I don’t want anyone to hear. Listen, Miss Bailey, I’m scared. Scared, I said. Could you get here quite soon? I can’t tell you why until you come. It is not buying a pig in a poke! It’s very important. Joseph will bring you straight up to my room. Oh, Miss Bailey, I’ll be grateful to you for the rest of—”

But Miss Bailey had hung up.

Sally grimaced into the telephone. The old harridan was as hard to manage as her brother. She went back to her room, her eyes brimming with tears. Everyone was so unsympathetic. Life was so difficult.

At the other end of the line Miss Bailey’s thoughts were more specific. Miss Bailey did not find life difficult but she considered Mrs. Morgan extremely so.

Amanda deplored inconsistency. One moment Mrs. Morgan was passing out delicately on the couch like a true Victorian and the next moment she was a wildcat clawing the first face she could get hold of.

If William had his wits about him, Amanda figured, Sally Morgan would be in jail. But William had been adamant on this point. He assured his sister that Mrs. Morgan would have no chance to escape again and that if she were given enough rope she might tie it into a noose. William had added, very sheepishly, that no noose was good noose. Amanda had sniffed.

She hastened up to her room. She pulled a shapeless brown felt hat well down on her head, armed herself with an umbrella and set off down the street at a trot.

She stared down her long, thin nose at the reporters grouped on the Hayses’ veranda, and they withered before her eyes. She greeted Joseph as an old friend and followed him sedately up the stairs. She paused only to run her finger along the banister for possible signs of dust.

Sally was looking ethereal in a long white negligee. For Miss Bailey’s benefit she had removed her make-up and painted dark circles under her eyes with blue eye shadow. The artistry was lost on Amanda. She sat down warily in a chair, keeping one hand on her umbrella.

“I’m so sorry I had to trouble you, Miss Bailey,” Sally said in a pale, weak voice. “But you’re the only one in the world I can turn to.”

Amanda was not gratified by her uniqueness.

“No man would appreciate my position.” Observing a faint glimmer in Amanda’s eye, Sally hastened to elaborate on this theme. “Men are callous. They don’t understand. They don’t know what it is to have everything you cherish flung to the winds.”

For that matter, neither did Amanda, but she nodded in the manner of one who has everything she cherishes flung to the winds almost daily.

“And, besides that, my life is in danger! Every meal I eat is an agony of suspense.” Sally’s voice sank to a sinister whisper.

Amanda’s answering whisper was equally sinister.

“You mean, you know who the murderer is?”

Sally was not pleased with this turn of the conversation, and there was a trace of exasperation in her voice as she continued. “No, I do not. But that isn’t the important thing.”

“It’s quite important, I fancy,” Amanda said coldly.

“Oh yes, I know. I meant that it wasn’t what I wanted to tell you. Miss Bailey, do you remember the night we met in the Philips’ house?”

“I’m not likely to forget it,” Amanda retorted.

“You were there before me. Did you find anything?”

Amanda did not move a muscle. In that moment of blinding revelation, with the thoughts whirling madly in her head, the incomparable Amanda remained quite still. The papers — the envelopes from Philips’ book — the book with the awful pictures. Oh, William was right — she was a fool!

“You must have found something!” Sally cried. “You did. I know it.”

Amanda held up her hand. “Please, Mrs. Morgan! My hearing is quite intact.” Her hand closed a little more firmly on the handle of her umbrella. “What on earth were you expecting me to find? Dear me, I’m sure I didn’t find anything!”

Sally’s voice was flat. “You’re a liar.”

“No, indeed,” said Amanda, shaken.

“Whatever you found belongs to me. I want it. I intend to have it. I’ll pay you,” Sally did some rapid calculation, “five thousand dollars. You needn’t tell anyone. It’s just some private business between you and me.”

“I must be going, Mrs. Morgan. Of course, I shall have to think over your offer. Five thousand dollars seems a lot of money for something quite trivial.”

Sally urged out of her chair. “Trivial!”

Amanda was taking no chances. She retreated hastily to the door and out into the hall.

Several people stared incredulously at the scurrying figure in the blue raincoat, but Amanda was beyond caring. She had committed an inexcusable blunder. She had risked her very life to hunt for clues and then had forgotten all about them.

Breathless and worried, she plunged into the house, up the stairs and into the dark recesses of her clothes closet.

Thank heaven! There was a slight rustle of paper as she removed the grey dress from its hanger and carried it over to the light. Her fingers trembled as she drew the three envelopes out of the pocket, laid them on the bed and sat down.

Breathing heavily, she picked up the first envelope and removed a letter. It appeared that someone called P. J. was planning to kill Philips at the earliest opportunity. After a few minutes of careful pondering Amanda decided that P. J. was unknown to her, and, besides, the postmark was Portland, Ore. The second letter was equally to the point. A man called Jake informed Mr. Philips that he was a d — b — blackguard. Amanda blushed and hastily laid it aside.

At first glance the last envelope seemed to be empty, but a more careful search revealed the negative of a photograph. Amanda hurried to the window and held the negative against the light.

Dear me! Surely her eyes were deceiving her!

It looked like the picture of a woman with no clothes on. Amanda peered more closely. It was a woman with no clothes on!

This was not strictly true. The woman was wearing a few feathers, but — Amanda blushed hotly — they were in the wrong places! But Amanda’s embarrassment was spiced with triumph; the woman was undoubtedly Sally Morgan.

Still clutching the negative, Amanda sank into a chair by the window to think. What she ought to do was to give this dreadful picture to William immediately.

But she could not. She could not hand William such a shocking thing, even if he was her own brother. Amanda pressed her lips together firmly. How could any woman allow herself to be photographed in such an indecent state?

No, she could not hand it to William but she might leave it beside his plate at dinner and then go out of the room herself. She stole one more glance at the negative, and her face reddened, and her heart hardened simultaneously. Mrs. Morgan might well offer five thousand dollars for such a picture!

She slipped the negative into its envelope and put it in her purse. She must not let her personal feelings interfere with the course of justice, she told herself as she left the house.

William was not pleased to see her. He was, he said without raising his head, extremely busy writing out a report.

“Not too busy to look at this! I found it in Thomas Philips’ bedroom.”

Amanda flung the envelope on his desk and removed herself to the window where she stood with pursed lips, studying the view intensively.

William said, “Hmph!” and cleared his throat twice. Without a word Amanda walked out the door. The Baileys understood each other perfectly.

The inspector called to Captain Crabbe.

Crabbe took the negative, whistled and laid it down. “Very... ah, suggestive. It suggests a motive, for one thing.”

“We won’t go into the other things it suggests,” the inspector said coldly.

Crabbe blushed. “No, indeed. I was just about to say that when you’ve married a man of Morgan’s social standing that picture is not a pretty thing to have in circulation. We’ve found our motive, don’t you think?”

“Possibly. Concentrate a bit more on Mrs. Morgan’s background. The picture should give you a clue — some burlesque house.”

Crabbe trembled with excitement. “But Mrs. Philips was in burlesque, too. They probably knew each other!”

“Perhaps they did,” the inspector admitted cautiously.

But Crabbe was past all caution. “And all along it may have been Mrs. Philips who was blackmailing Mrs. Morgan, and Mrs. Philips’ death was the first one planned. In that case, Mr. Philips’ murder was just a blind or an accident or—”

“Stop! I feel like a whirling dervish.” The inspector passed a handkerchief over his forehead. “This picture may have been the motive behind the two murders, but it’s hardly possible, surely?”

Crabbe was unabashed. “It’s possible when you realize what that picture may have meant to Mrs. Morgan. Murders have been committed in this country for five dollars. Mrs. Morgan stands to lose first, her husband, and second, the money that goes with him, and that’s many thousand times five dollars.”

“On the other hand,” the inspector said grimly, “she stands to lose her skin. And, if she murdered Philips to get the picture, why didn’t she get it?”

Crabbe leaped over this obstacle like a gazelle. “Philips double-crossed her.”

“Indeed?”

Crabbe looked pained. “If you’d listen for a moment I could explain the whole thing. The appointment Philips made was with Mrs. Morgan. She knew, of course, what it was all about. Perhaps she had already told him that she could not get enough money but that she would give him her diamond necklace in return for the picture. The plan was to give Philips the necklace and report to the insurance that it had been stolen. Then Philips has the necklace; Mrs. Morgan collects the insurance on it, and the insurance company is the goat. A very neat arrangement.”

“These insurance companies are hard to fool. Mrs. Morgan probably would not take such a risk.”

“She wasn’t taking a risk. If anyone was, it was Philips. He could have been caught with the necklace!”

“Not if he was in South America.”

“You see? Everything fits!”

“Except that Mrs. Morgan did not get the negative.”

“Well, she thought she was getting it. That’s just as good.”

“Just as good? It’s superb!” said the inspector with heavy irony. “She gives away a diamond necklace and commits two murders for the sake of a picture she didn’t get.”

“She took the necklace back after she murdered him.”

“We’ve searched the house twice. Where is it?”

“I hate,” Crabbe said virtuously, “to point out the obvious, but Mrs. Morgan was missing from eight o’clock Tuesday night until the next morning. And when she did come back she looked as though she had spent the night on the beach. And if I wanted to hide something valuable I’d bury it in the sand. And then, if I were Mrs. Morgan, I’d pick the lock on my jewel box with a nail file. Did you find any prints on the box?”

“I did.”

“Hers?”

“Mrs. Morgan’s? No. There was a right index print, somewhat smudged, but belonging unmistakably to Mamie Hodge.”

“Hell!” said Crabbe.

13

Eve had once remarked that her brother Simon was callow, sallow and shallow, and no one had ever been able to improve on the description. The phrase was intended to be funny, but Simon’s sense of humor, like his father’s, was hermetically sealed. The words still rankled.

Simon was that unhappy paradox, a thinker without thought, and, like most of his kind, he suffered from creative spasms. Simon’s happened to be literary.

In fact, shortly after lunch he had retired to his room to write a eulogy of Miss Breton in free verse. Simon’s verse was very free. Rhyme and meter, he said, shackled the emotions.

He bit the end of his pen, tried to think of a rhyme for ‘fingernails’ and remembered just in time that rhyme was a shackle.

“Shackle,” Simon said to himself. “Backle. Cackle. Dackle.”

A knock on the door put an end to this breach of ethics. He hid the poem under his blotter and shouted, “Come in!”

The caller was Dick, and there was obviously something wrong with him. Instead of picking up Simon’s tennis racket to make a few practice strokes he slumped into a chair and sat staring at the floor.

“What the devil’s the matter with you?” Simon said in surprise. “You look as though you’ve been crossed in love.”

A slow flush spread over Dick’s face. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words refused to come. He was, he thought savagely, in one hell of a mess.

“If it’s my fair sister you hanker after,” said Simon, “consider yourself lucky that she refused you. Eve is my idea of someone not to be married to.”

Dick reached for a cigarette and lit it.

“I have,” he announced unsteadily, “something unpleasant to say. I’ve done something unforgiveable.”

“Well, don’t confess to me,” Simon said with an abrupt laugh. “I have enough troubles of my own. Angela’s becoming as skittish as— Why do you jump like that?” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Is it about Angela?”

Dick nodded.

“What about her?”

“I’m in love with her.”

“You’re crazy!” Simon laughed rather shrilly. “You were always warning me against her. You said she was a—”

“I know.”

“And now you’re in love with her?” Simon’s voice was still incredulous.

The two stared at each other in silence.

“She’s been making passes at you,” Simon stated with finality.

“You’re wrong. She never gives me a thought. I’d never have told you if I’d thought—”

Simon brushed this aside. “I knew something was the matter. I knew she couldn’t keep her hands off.”

“Shut up! You don’t realize what you’re saying.”

“The little bitch!”

Dick rose from his chair menacingly. “You can’t talk like that about her!”

Simon sneered: “Why not? Didn’t you used to?”

“Yes.” The word was scarcely audible. Dick sank back into his chair. “I don’t want to fight with you, Simon. I fell in love with your girl and I wanted to tell you, to warn you that I intend to ask her to marry me when all this business is over.”

Simon spoke without moving his lips. “You’d better beat it.”

Dick went to the door and looked back. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it, you know.”

“Beat it.”

The door closed. Simon went over to his desk and took out a pen and some paper.

“But he doesn’t answer!” Barbara Hays was close to hysteria, and Dr. Prye was having difficulty in calming her. “I know something has happened to him. He’s such a queer boy.”

Prye conjured up his professional smile. “He’s probably just queer enough to want to get us all worried. I’m positive Simon is all right.”

“But you don’t know him! He gets so dreadfully unhappy sometimes. I’m afraid. Yesterday he said that we wouldn’t have to be bothered having him around much longer.”

Prye was somewhat reassured by this statement. “If you’ll remember, you made some dark hints about suicide yourself not long ago. It is a truism that those who talk of suicide are the ones who never commit it. Like many truisms, it is not very true. Suicides frequently announce their intentions.”

“We’ve got to do something then! Break in his door—”

“Let me finish, Mrs. Hays. Simon is not the type to kill himself. He’d like to experience all the excitement and sorrow that his death would cause but he doesn’t want to die. I had an interesting case not long ago. A middle-aged man, after talking of suicide for years, finally hanged himself in his barn. He was careful not to hang himself properly and after delivering a number of lusty yells he was discovered and cut down. He promptly set fire to the barn and was rescued once again. While his family was busy extinguishing the blaze he went back to the house and slashed his wrists with a razor. It wasn’t a very deep slash, and it was a very dull razor. It was, he confided to me later, the happiest, most thrilling day of his life. A stiff neck and sore wrists were a small price to pay for a few hours in the limelight.

“I made a test on him after that, which wasn’t entirely ethical perhaps. I gave him a revolver filled with blanks and told him it was loaded. He refused to take it. He said he was afraid of firearms. I asked him why he was afraid. He looked at me very reproachfully and said: ‘But, Doctor, I might get shot!’”

It was one of Prye’s favorite case histories, and he sighed deeply when he realized that Barbara had not heard a word of it.

“All right,” he said. “If you’re worried we’ll try again. But when we find Simon safe and sound I insist that I have a right to say I told you so.”

Simon’s door was still locked, and no amount of pounding elicited a response. Prye reached into his pocket, brought out a penknife and started to work on the lock. Five minutes later, ruffled and hot, he turned the knob and walked into the room, with Barbara at his elbow.

Simon sat at his desk, his face buried in his arms. Barbara rushed over to him with a shriek.

Prye sniffed. “The second time,” he remarked enigmatically. “If someone lit a match this room would ignite like a wassail bowl.” He picked up a bottle lying beside Simon’s head and turned it upside down. One lone drop of scotch came trickling out.

Barbara left the room hastily. Prye shut the door behind her, crept over to Simon and, in a voice that carried clear down to the lake, yelled, “Fire!”

Simon jumped.

“Where I come from,” Prye observed coldly, “we’re old-fashioned. We still use water to put out fires.” He nodded in the direction of the bathroom. “Now, do you shower quietly, or shall I have to drown you?”

“Wanna die,” said Simon.

Ten minutes later his desire for death had become acute. “Let me out! Let me out! Damn you!”

Prye, a firm hand on the glass door of the shower, smiled at him encouragingly. “Two more minutes of the cold, or you’ll stay in there all night.

“Naked, helpless, piping loud,

Like a fiend hid in a cloud.”

Simon, shivering and swearing, turned on the cold water. After two minutes Prye released his hold on the door and beat a hasty retreat to his room. He sat down, puffing violently, and counted his pulse.

“One hundred and twenty,” he said sadly. “I’m a sick man.”

George Hays, after spending the afternoon playing chess with Christopher Wells, was not in the best of humor.

“That young puppy has uncanny luck,” he shouted to Barbara, who was dressing for dinner in her room. “You can’t beat luck. Never liked the fellow anyway. Can’t see what Eve sees in him.”

He struggled into his shirt. “Barbara! Where the devil are my studs? Isn’t it enough that I’ve got to entertain a pack of thieves and murderers? Do I have to go down to dinner without studs?”

Barbara appeared at the door. “They’re in your hand. Are you ready?”

“No, I’m not ready. Why should I be ready? Answer me that!”

Barbara tactfully disappeared.

“My house is full of thieves and murderers,” he yelled after her, “and I’m supposed to hurry and get ready to entertain them!”

However, George’s guests, if their expressions were any indication, expected little in the way of entertainment. They sat dolefully in the drawing room, spasmodically attempting to carry on a conversation. It was a relief to everybody when Joseph announced dinner, but a relief that was momentary.

The thunderstorm which had been threatening for the past twenty-four hours broke soon after they were seated. Sally Morgan gave a little shriek at the first clap of thunder, and it required no more than this to jangle their taut nerves. Morgan hissed across the table at his wife. Barbara dropped her knife, and George began to beat out a rhythmic tattoo on the tablecloth with his fingers. Sober and pale, Simon kept his eyes fastened on his plate.

A hot gust of wind came through the open windows, and the candles on the table flickered and went out. Someone gasped, and then a tense stillness settled over the room.

Was it only ten seconds before Joseph reached the switch? In ten seconds you can run fifty yards or you can put on your coat. In ten seconds you can drop something into a glass or jab a needle into an arm. In ten seconds you can die.

The light went on, and they stared at each other, wondering: Can I be right? Am I watching the right one? One of us — but which one?

Joseph seemed the very symbol of death standing there, immovable in his black suit, his face white and lifeless.

Somebody in this room, they were thinking — perhaps Joseph. One of us — but which one?

Prye pushed his plate away impatiently.

“I don’t think I—” The discovery that he still possessed a voice cheered him considerably. “How about some bridge in the drawing room? Mrs. Hays and I will take on all comers.”

“Oh yes!” Eve’s voice was nearly a sob. “Chris and I will take you up on that, won’t we, Chris? We’ll have two tables. Joseph, will you get the tables ready?”

“I don’t feel like—” Barbara began, but Prye interrupted with a hearty, “You can’t let me down, Mrs. Hays. I have cast down my gauntlet.”

“Simon, you and Dick better play against each other for a change.” Eve’s voice was still rather shrill. “I don’t trust your footwork.”

Simon and Dick started to deny this slander, caught each other’s eyes and exchanged sheepish smiles.

“Since Mrs. Morgan and Miss Breton don’t play,” George suggested, “that will give us a purely male table. Simon and I will play against Dick and Morgan.”

“I haven’t my glasses,” Morgan said coldly.

Prye took out a case from his pocket. “Here they are. I just got them before dinner. Sorry I forgot to hand them over.”

“I prefer not to play,” Morgan said.

George scowled at him. “You’re being extraordinarily obstinate, Morgan. Of course, you’ll play. Miss Breton, I believe you knit. Will that amuse you sufficiently?”

“Everything amuses me,” Miss Breton said with infinite patience.

“And you, Mrs. Morgan?”

Sally exclaimed that she’d always wanted to learn to knit and she begged Angela prettily to teach her. Angela regarded her distastefully for a moment and said she would be quite delighted to do her bit. She went upstairs to get her knitting, and the others followed Eve into the drawing room.

Simon poured himself a drink. “I play better when I’m two down,” he assured his father, who was remonstrating rather loudly. “I get almost psychic.”

“In that case, you’d better give me one,” Dick said. “Brandy develops my X-ray eye — always providing it’s good brandy.”

“My brandy has always been good enough for you before,” George said stiffly.

Morgan observed to the room at large that George had execrable taste in brandy. Simon agreed. Prye made a few remarks about taste buds. George took exception to the statement. Eve told them all to dry up. They all refused.

“Well, don’t then.” Eve turned to Joseph. “Joseph, I believe you’ve forgotten Miss Breton’s crème de menthe.”

It was fifteen minutes before the brandy question was disposed of and they finally settled down to the game.

Sally, in a corner with Angela, proved an inept pupil in knitting, and the lesson was postponed. They came back to watch the bridge games.

By a competent piece of strategy Miss Breton maneuvered herself into position beside the purely male table. Simon promptly overbid his hand, and Dick let his cards fall onto the floor.

George glared, and Miss Breton moved gracefully away with the observation that cards were incredibly silly, anyway, a mere mental palliative.

“Miss Breton has caught Prye’s disease,” Morgan said acidly.

“The same effect,” Miss Breton continued rather absently, “can be achieved by alcohol, motion pictures, reading or even,” she raised her eyebrows wearily, “love. And the greatest of these is alcohol.” She completely ignored the little flicker of excitement she had caused and poured herself some crème de menthe. She sat down and stared into her glass.

“Well, I guess I let you down, Chris,” Eve said cheerfully. “I thought the king was played. Are you quite sure you didn’t pull it out of your sleeve, Doctor Prye?”

“Quite,” said Prye smugly. “I never pull out anything less than an ace.

If you play a game of chance, know

before you begin,

If you are benevolent, you will never win.”

“I’m hoping,” Christopher, said dryly, “that someday we may be able to do or say something which Blake hadn’t an opinion about.”

Prye beamed. “That’s a very nice compliment for Blake. The poets and philosophers are centuries ahead of the scientists, as you say.”

“I said nothing of the sort!”

“Well, you should have,” said Prye, looking pained. “Theory anticipates fact, not fact theory.”

“Inspector Bailey doesn’t think so,” Eve objected. “I heard him say that you can’t solve a murder without facts.”

Prye sighed. “I wasn’t thinking about murders,” he said as gently as possible.

“Then you should be,” Eve said severely. “Simon, have you people finished a rubber?”

“Not yet. One more hand might do it. We — Angela!”

Simon’s voice rose to a shriek. “Angela!”

Miss Breton’s glass clattered to the floor. She slumped forward on her hands and knees, crawling and moaning, and crashed on her face.

Simon lunged out of his chair and tried to raise her in his arms. He lifted her head, and it lolled to one side. Her eyes were closed.

“You killed me. You dirty rat.” The words were a whisper. Her eyes rolled until only the whites were visible.

Prye pushed Simon away and knelt beside the prostrate woman. He could feel no pulse.

“Anna,” she said, with the slightest of smiles.

Prye got up unsteadily. His voice was shaking. “She’s dead. Don’t touch her.” He started toward the door. “I’m going to telephone Inspector Bailey. You’d all better stay here.”

Simon fell forward on his face. Unconscious of what he was doing, Dick picked him up and carried him to the chesterfield. Then he stood at the window, white faced, grim, terribly quiet, staring out sightlessly into the storm.

No one spoke or moved. The bottle of liqueur glistened in the light like an evil green eye.

Prye came back into the room, with two policemen at his heels.

“It would be better if you’d all sit down,” he said quietly. “The inspector wants you all to remain here until he arrives.”

The policemen stood uneasily beside the body.

Simon stirred and then lurched to his feet. “Her hair!” he screamed. “Her hair! Cover up her hair! I can’t stand it!”

He made a dash toward the dead woman, but one of the policemen held him back, and he sat down with his head in his hands, sobbing.

Eve managed to keep her voice steady. “Please, couldn’t you — cover her? Or let us go?”

“Oh no, don’t!” Barbara’s smile was curiously bright. “I like it. Her hair looks alive, doesn’t it? Very much alive.” She turned to her husband confidingly. “Don’t you think her hair is alive, George?”

George turned to his daughter. “Eve, help me get her out of here.”

“But I don’t want to go. Her hair is so pretty. Couldn’t I feel it, George?”

“God!” The word was torn from Simon’s mouth.

George took his wife gently by the arm, and they started for the door.

“All my enemies are dying.” Barbara looked back, smiling. “One by one. I’m getting safer, aren’t I, George? Couldn’t I feel her hair, George?”

Eve followed them out.

The policemen were paralyzed. They made no move to stop them. One of them mopped his forehead with his handkerchief.

His voice was uncertain. “I guess you’d all better leave. What room is that across the hall?”

“The library,” Morgan said.

“That will do. You can all go into the library.”

They filed out like a herd of frightened sheep.

“You too,” the policeman said. “You at the window there. You’re supposed to go into the library with the rest of them. Hey! You at the window!”

“I guess he’s deaf,” his colleague said uneasily. “You better take him away.”

Dick offered no resistance to the policeman who took his arm and led him into the library.

The policeman came back rubbing his nose thoughtfully.

“They’re all going off their nuts,” he announced. He sat down weakly in a chair and stared at the body on the floor. “Can’t say I blame them.”

14

An hour later Miss Breton had been photographed for the last time and covered with a sheet. Prye, standing beside Inspector Bailey in the hall, turned his head away as the two men bearing the stretcher went past and disappeared through the front door.

Prye was unusually sober. He stood, with his hands in his pockets, staring at the door.

“You, too, Brutus?” the inspector said dryly.

Prye shrugged his shoulders. “No, I wasn’t in love with her. But I have a sincere admiration for intelligence, and Miss Breton was an intelligent woman.”

“Miss Breton,” the inspector said quietly, “was a dangerous woman.”

“And the Philips were dangerous people.” There was an undercurrent of excitement in Prye’s voice. “Could it be possible that someone in the house was getting rid of these people on moral grounds?”

“You mean a religious fanatic? I haven’t seen any around here. No, I think I know why Miss Breton was killed. I believe she has known the identity of the murderer right from the start.”

“You mean she’s a better psychologist than I am? Or did she have some fact that I’ve missed?”

The inspector changed the subject abruptly. “Would it be possible for me to question Mrs. Hays later?”

“It would not. I’ve given her a hypodermic, and she’s asleep.”

“And the Hays boy?”

Prye’s mouth tightened. “If you want to question Simon you’d better hurry before he drinks himself into a stupor.”

Bailey sighed. “As far as I’m concerned, Simon in a stupor is only slightly more repulsive than Simon in his natural state.”

They walked together into the library. At one end of the room the guests were sitting huddled together. Only Dick remained standing at the window. The servants, frightened and irritable, were lined up at the other end of the room under Joseph’s surveillance.

“It would be advisable for you to sit down,” Bailey told them. “We may all be here for some time.”

Joseph started to protest against this breach of good form, but the servants, too, preferred to sit down, and he was forced to yield.

The inspector took up a position in the center of the room.

“Miss Breton is the third to die.” He paused and let his gaze wander over the room. “And, unless I am given more co-operation, there may be a fourth, perhaps a fifth—” He was gratified by the expressions of horror that crossed their faces.

“Why don’t you let us go home then?” Sally cried.

“Mrs. Morgan, you should be the last one in the room to insist on going home. You have been consistently concealing evidence. As for the rest of you, would it be logical for me to let Mr. Wells, for instance, return to his home in Nashville until I find out whether he’s the murderer?”

“I’m not the murderer,” Chris said abruptly. “But I see your point. I’m prepared to stay here until the case is cleaned up.”

“Mr. Wells is prepared to stay. Is there anyone who is not?”

The inspector smiled grimly when no one answered. “Who first saw that Miss Breton had fallen?”

“I did.” Simon’s voice was thick and barely audible.

“What did you do then?”

“I got up and went over to her. I tried to help her up. Then Doctor Prye pushed me aside.”

“All right, Prye. Go on.”

“I felt her pulse. It was slow and weak, signs of collapse. Almost instantly her pulse became imperceptible. She died in about a minute or two.”

“During that time did she attempt to speak at all?”

There was an uneasy silence in the room. Eve shifted her position. “Well, she said ‘Anna.’”

“‘Anna!’” The inspector was politely skeptical. “Nothing more?”

“Well, there was something more,” Morgan said, clearing his throat, “but of course it had no significance.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. What was it?”

Morgan began to polish his glasses. “She said: ‘You dirty rat! You killed me’ — or something of the sort.”

“In reverse order,” Prye corrected.

“Do you think the order is important, Doctor Prye?” the inspector asked.

“Yes, I do. Accuracy is always important.”

“To whom was she referring as a dirty rat?” The inspector choked slightly over the word.

“I was holding her in my arms when she said it,” Simon said. “You’ll find that out anyway.” He glanced at Morgan with hostility.

“Did you all get the impression that Miss Breton was referring to Mr. Simon Hays?”

George Hays rose to his feet. “Of course not! It’s ridiculous! My son would never—”

“Mr. Simon Hays, did you think Miss Breton was referring to yourself?” There was no reply. “Had she any reason to suspect you of trying to kill her?” Simon’s eyes dropped before the inspector’s steady gaze. “What was the reason?”

“Stop badgering my son!” George shouted. “The young idiot was in love with her. He would have no reason to kill her.”

“The two are not irreconcilable,” the inspector said mildly.

Miss Bellinger quoted in a sepulchral voice to the other servants, “‘For each man kills the thing he loves,’” and Eve began to giggle hysterically. Prye shook her roughly until she stopped.

“I don’t think—” Prye began.

The inspector raised his voice. “I see I am once more faced with a conspiracy of silence. Mrs. Philips could have given me some information. She didn’t and she is dead. Miss Breton could have helped. She, too, is dead. My men might be able to protect you against a bullet or a knife, but we cannot protect you against poison. In your own interests I advise you not to keep silent if you have any information I should have.”

There was a pause for a few seconds. Then Mamie jumped up and exclaimed that the inspector surely couldn’t be referring to her, as she had certainly told all she knew, but that’s all the good it had done!

The inspector regarded her quizzically. “I’ll talk to you later, Miss Hodge, alone.”

Mamie sat down, her lips quivering.

“Has any of you any idea why Miss Breton was killed?”

No one answered.

“Has any of you seen that bottle of liqueur in the hands of anyone except Miss Breton and Joseph?”

Joseph observed that, since the liqueurs were kept in the cabinet in the dining room, anyone might have had access to them. The dining room was empty except during meals and morning cleanings.

Mrs. Horner said that she had dusted the cabinet that morning as usual but she had not opened it.

“None of you saw anyone at the cabinet?”

“I thought I—” Sally began, then changed her mind and said: “No.”

But the inspector took the cue. “You thought what, Mrs. Morgan? You saw someone at the cabinet?”

“He was just pouring himself a drink,” Sally said sharply. “Simon, I mean.”

“Mr. Hays, you had a drink at what time?” the inspector pursued.

“I don’t know,” Simon said hoarsely. “After lunch sometime. I was nervous. I needed a drink.”

The inspector did not press him. “When did Miss Breton last drink this liqueur without ill effects?”

“Last night, I believe,” Prye answered. “After dinner Miss Breton and I had a drink together. We had a joke about her taste for crème de menthe. No one else in the house drinks it.”

“Who was in the room at that time?”

Prye thought for a minute. “Mr. and Mrs. Morgan were sitting in one corner. Simon was asleep in a chair. Mr. Hays came in later and helped Simon upstairs. That was after Miss Breton had gone upstairs. When Mr. Hays left I went out to the veranda for a few minutes.”

“That left Mr. and Mrs. Morgan alone in the drawing room?”

“What’s that got to do with it?” Morgan cried irritably. “I couldn’t have poisoned the stuff. I’d broken my glasses. I could scarcely see a thing!”

“It was later when you broke your glasses, I believe,” Prye said mildly. “I came back into the drawing room, Inspector, and found Mr. Morgan alone. I was more or less responsible for the accident to his glasses. We talked for some time.”

“How were you responsible?”

“I startled him as he was polishing them, and they fell on the floor.”

The inspector turned to Morgan. “Your sight is poor, Mr. Morgan?”

“Extremely poor. I am almost blind without glasses.”

“You’re exaggerating somewhat, don’t you think?” Prye suggested.

“Let that pass, please,” the inspector said. “During this time the bottle of liqueur was on the table?”

Morgan said he didn’t know. Prye said that it was.

“Joseph, when did you put it back in the cabinet last night?”

“Shortly before I retired, sir. Around eleven o’clock.”

“The cabinet is not kept locked?”

“Naturally it isn’t,” George put in angrily. “I have guests in the house. They’re free to have a drink whenever they choose.”

“It also means,” the inspector said dryly, “that they’re free to scatter poison, doesn’t it? As far as opportunity is concerned, then, am I to assume that anyone in the house had an opportunity to poison the liqueur sometime last night or today?”

Mamie could no longer contain herself.

“But that green stuff was all right after lunch,” she cried excitedly. “I saw her. I saw her drinking some with my own eyes. I remember thinking it looked so pretty.”

The inspector regarded her stonily. “Why didn’t you say so?”

Mamie’s answer was spirited. “You said you’d talk to me alone!”

“What time did you see Miss Breton take a drink?”

“Right after lunch,” Mamie said sulkily. “Around two, I guess. I went into the dining room to change the flowers.”

“And what time did you have a drink, Mr. Simon Hays?”

Simon’s face turned even paler. “Around four.”

Inspector Bailey went to the door and had a whispered conversation with one of his men. He came back with a sheet of paper in his hand and held it up for Simon to see.

“Do you recognize this, Mr. Hays?”

Simon did not reply.

“This is a letter you wrote to Miss Breton, is it not? Do you remember the contents of this letter?”

For the first time Dick turned his eyes away from the window. His face was white and bewildered.

“Isn’t it true, Mr. Hays,” the inspector continued, “that you made several threats against Miss Breton’s life in this letter?”

“Get your damned hands off it!” Simon made a lunge for the letter. With a quick movement Dick held him back. “Don’t be a fool, Simon!”

Dick turned to the inspector. “I can explain that letter.”

“Keep out of this, Dick.” Simon jerked away.

Dick paid no attention. “I’m responsible for that letter more than Simon is, Inspector. I thought I was doing a very noble thing and I warned him that — well, I told him that I was in love with Miss Breton and that I intended to ask her to marry me.”

He faced them defiantly. Eve gave a little gasp of surprise.

“I did love her. But Simon is my friend, and I thought I’d better tell him first. It was a foolish gesture. Simon misunderstood. Instead of blaming me, as he should have, he thought Miss Breton encouraged me. And she didn’t. He wrote that letter in the heat of the moment. Simon, for God’s sake, say something! That’s how it happened. Tell him so.”

Simon did not look up. “You’re only getting yourself involved, you fool.”

The inspector spoke quietly. “Isn’t it true, Mr. Hays, that you made similar threats against Philips the day he died? Isn’t it true that you called at the Philips’ home on Monday afternoon and dropped poison into the cocktail shaker?”

“You’re crazy!” Simon’s voice was a terrified whisper. “I didn’t! I didn’t!”

“Isn’t it true that you intended that poison for Mr. Philips? And when Mr. Philips did not die according to schedule didn’t you kill him with an injection of hyoscine?”

He paused for a moment. The room was completely still.

“And didn’t Miss Breton herself give you that poison?”

“No!” Dick was swaying on his feet. “I don’t believe it. You’re mad. Accusing a dead woman who can’t defend herself—”

Sally Morgan began to scream. Prye seized her by the shoulders and slapped her face smartly. She stopped in the middle of a scream, amazed.

“Quiet!” Bailey’s shout rose above the noise and imposed silence on them. “Mr. Simon Hays will please come with me.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“You are under arrest, Mr. Hays,” the inspector answered gravely. “I warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence against you.”

A policeman came through the door with a pair of handcuffs.

“Those aren’t necessary,” Simon said with a contemptuous smile. “I’m a poisoner, not a prize fighter.”

“Shut up, Simon,” Eve said urgently. “Didn’t you hear what he said?”

The policeman put the handcuffs back into his pocket. Simon turned to the inspector. “Thanks, Bailey. I’ll go quietly as a mouse. But when I come back I’ll make you damned sorry for this.”

He went off between two policemen, without looking back.

Dick faced the inspector. “Bailey, you’re an unmitigated ass. I intend to see that you lose your job for this.”

“If you don’t I will,” George shouted.

Bailey walked out into the hall, smiling faintly, and Prye followed him.

“Don’t say it,” the inspector said dryly. “You think I’m wrong, of course. You always do.”

“I’m not blaming you,” Prye said. “You’re doing your duty, but I can’t help thinking that you’re making a mistake.”

“Indeed? If I am I’ll be the first to admit it. Right now I’m facing one big fact: Simon Hays threatened two people with death, and they are both dead. Add to that the fact that Miss Breton accused him with her dying breath, and you have a case against him that is too strong to ignore.”

“I’m not asking you to ignore it,” Prye said quickly. “I simply want you to remember that there is a possibility that Simon is not guilty, and you must keep everyone here.”

“I had no intention of allowing anyone to leave just yet. I haven’t finished compiling my evidence. There are some things that need to be explained, and I’m waiting for Mrs. Hays and Mrs. Morgan to explain them. By the way, what do you think Miss Breton meant when she said ‘Anna’?”

“I don’t believe it’s important,” Prye said without hesitation. “There are only two Annas in the house that I know of, Miss Breton herself and Miss Bellinger, the cook. She couldn’t have been referring to Miss Bellinger.”

“It’s improbable,” the inspector agreed. “But, if you’ll remember, Miss Bellinger had strong feelings about Miss Breton.”

Prye laughed. “We all did, one way or the other.”

“I’d like to speak to Miss Hodge. Could you spirit her away from the others in an unobtrusive way?”

Prye went back into the library.

It was a chastened Mamie who faced the inspector a few minutes later. Her face was streaked with tears.

“Miss Hodge, did you go into Mrs. Morgan’s room this morning?”

Mamie nodded her head, and a tear trickled off the end of her nose. “I did the bed while she was downstairs getting a book, so she said.”

“Mr. Morgan was not there at the time?”

“Mrs. Morgan,” Mamie said primly, “is a wife in name only. Mr. Morgan sleeps on the third floor.”

The inspector blushed. “You were in the room alone then?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“You are inclined to be interested in such things as clothes and jewels?”

Mamie gasped. “Are you acusing me of taking that necklace? I didn’t even know it was gone until—” Mamie bit her lip.

The inspector prompted her gently. “You looked in Mrs. Morgan’s jewel case this morning?”

“I didn’t exactly look in,” Mamie protested. “I just peeked in.”

“I find it hard to distinguish between the two. That’s all, Miss Hodge. However, I wouldn’t, if I were you, ‘just peek’ into anything else. Fingerprints quite often send people to jail.”

The word ‘fingerprints’ was the last straw. Mamie fled to her room and had a good cry. The inspector went home.

Some time later Eve, in pajamas and bathrobe, came wearily downstairs and went into the morning room. She curled up on the couch, her chin resting in one hand.

From the depths of the big leather chair came a discreet cough. She looked up in surprise.

“Oh? You still up, Pete?”

“Still up,” Morgan echoed. “Cigarette?”

“Thanks.” She took one, and he held his lighter to it. “It’s getting pretty awful, isn’t it?”

Morgan nodded.

“Pete, you don’t think Simon did it, do you? Why, the lad faints at the sight of blood!”

“There wasn’t any blood,” Morgan said accurately. “And he did faint.”

Eve shook her head impatiently. “You know what I mean. Simon’s full of tall talk like George but he’d never kill anyone. Pete, look me in the eye. You do think Simon is guilty, don’t you?”

She got up, put out her cigarette in an ashtray and yawned. She glanced down at Morgan with a musing smile.

“It’s funny that you should think so, Pete. You see, I happened to notice a light in your room when I came home with Chris on Monday night.” She paused and added carelessly: “All the other lights were out.”

15

Heavy pounding on her door awoke Sally Morgan an hour before she cared to awake. She jumped out of bed with a cry of disgust and reached for her negligee.

“Who’s there?”

“Joseph, madam. Inspector Bailey would like to see you immediately.”

For half a minute Sally’s rage was vigorously articulate. On the other side of the door Joseph winced.

“I’m sorry to have awakened you, madam.”

“Sorry? You ought to be hanged. Show him up.”

She ran a comb through her hair, powdered her nose and unlocked her door.

“Am I too early?” the inspector asked politely.

Sally clenched her teeth. “No, of course not. I like entertaining before breakfast.”

The inspector blandly ignored the irony and reached into his pocket. “I have the negative of a photograph in this envelope, Mrs. Morgan. I intend to sell it to you — for a price.”

“That snooping sister of yours gets around, doesn’t she? How much do you want?”

“I don’t want money,” the inspector said softly.

Sally stared at him incredulously. When she spoke her voice dripped with scorn. “Why... why, you old lecher!”

Bailey’s face turned almost purple.

“My interest in you as a woman, Mrs. Morgan, is, I may say, insultingly slight. In return for this picture I want some information about what happened in this house on Monday night. When did you receive the note from Thomas Philips asking you to meet him in the library?”

“It wasn’t a note. It was a letter. I got it Monday morning.”

“What did you do with the letter and the envelope?”

“I tore them both up and threw them in the wastepaper basket.”

“You tore them up?”

Sally raised her eyebrows. “Naturally I tore them up. What’s surprising about that?”

“Simply the fact that your letter was found, and it was all in one piece.”

“Nonsense. You don’t think I’d leave a thing like that lying around, do you? The letter you found wasn’t mine.”

“What was the wording of the letter you received?”

“Oh, something about meeting him in the library at one-thirty. I was to know why.”

“And did you know why?”

“I did.”

“Where is the post usually left?”

“On the table in the hall downstairs.”

“What time did you go down for your letters on Monday morning?”

“Late, I think. I expected to hear from Philips and I wasn’t in any hurry to see what he had to say.”

“You were consistently lying when you said you didn’t know him?”

“Obviously,” Sally said with a bored smile. “It wasn’t big-time lying though. I’d only met him once.”

“And that was?”

“Last Thursday afternoon on the street. He stopped me and said he had a rare photograph he wanted to sell. He said his wife had come across it, whoever his wife was.”

“Dolly Devore.”

Sally started. “Do you really mean it? Dolly? Well, I always knew she was a—”

“What did he demand in return for the picture?”

“Twenty thousand dollars. You look surprised. I wasn’t. Philips knew it was worth that much, because the instant Peter sees that picture I lose a hell of a lot more than twenty thousand dollars.”

“Your husband knows nothing of your past?”

“I don’t like the way you say ‘past.’ I had to earn a living, didn’t I? But it isn’t the kind of profession you brag about to a prig like Peter, so I just didn’t tell him. Unless,” her eyes glittered with rage, “that rat of a Philips did.”

“Did you get the twenty thousand dollars for Philips?”

“I did not. I told him I didn’t have it and couldn’t get it. But he knew about my diamond necklace and said I’d have to give him that. He was leaving the country, he said, and would have an opportunity of selling it. I was to wait until I heard from him and follow the instructions in his letter.”

“Didn’t you think he was taking a risk in coming to this house, especially at that time of night?”

Sally laughed bitterly. “A risk? Just think about it for a while. The scheme was foolproof. It was late enough so that he wouldn’t be seen. He came prepared to double-cross me — remember that — and I couldn’t raise a finger to stop him because the whole house would wake up, including Peter. One lusty yell from Philips, and everybody here would be craning their necks to get a look at that picture. Now do you see what a neat plan he had?”

“Not neat enough, apparently. You let him into the house at one-thirty?”

“Yes. I got dressed after Peter was asleep and went downstairs. I waited until I heard Philips walking up the driveway and I let him in. We went into the library.”

“What about the lights?”

“They were all off, except a lamp in the library. I gave him the necklace, and he gave me an envelope. I was so upset I just took it and got upstairs as fast as I could. I didn’t find out till I was back in my room that the double-crossing little crook had put a copy of the picture in the envelope instead of the negative. I started to go downstairs again, but Peter woke up and asked me what I was doing. He didn’t notice that I was dressed, so I told him that I’d gotten up for a glass of water. I pretended to go back to bed, waited until I thought he was asleep again and went out into the hall to see if I could catch Philips.”

“How long were you downstairs with Philips?”

“Less than five minutes.”

“And how long did you have to wait before Mr. Morgan went back to sleep?”

“It seemed ages, but I suppose it was no more than ten minutes.”

“At a quarter to two, then, you left the room for the second time. Did you go downstairs?”

“I did not. When I got to the head of the stairs I heard voices. I didn’t know who was talking but I suspected that one of them was Philips. I don’t even know whether the other person was a man or a woman. I was scared silly. I thought perhaps someone had seen me give Philips the necklace and might tell Peter about it. I went back to my room as quietly as I could, undressed and got into bed. I was in an awful stew. I left my lamp on for the rest of the night.”

“During these two excursions did you hear or see anyone besides Philips and the person he was talking to?”

“Not a soul. The whole house was dark, and I thought everyone was asleep.”

“You did not hear Miss Eve Hays come in?”

“No. I must have been asleep by that time. Anyway, my room is at the back of the house, as you can see, quite a long distance from the front stairs.”

The inspector finished writing in his notebook and replaced it in his pocket. He looked at Sally with mild reproach.

“Why did you tell me you had lost your necklace, Mrs. Morgan?”

“Well, I had, hadn’t I? Anyway, I didn’t mean to mention it, but Peter asked me to wear it, and I had to say it had been stolen.”

“Did you pick the lock on your jewel box?”

“Yes. With my manicure scissors.”

The inspector stared at her hard. “And you swear that the last time you saw your necklace it was in Philips’ hands?”

“In his pocket. Yes, I swear it.”

“You have acted,” the inspector said gravely, “in a very foolish manner, Mrs. Morgan. I might say in a criminal manner. You would have done better to take your husband and myself into your confidence. The truth usually comes out, anyway, and you’ve made your situation doubly worse by lying about the theft of your necklace. Has your husband put in a claim with the insurance company?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“If he hasn’t you need not fear prosecution from me. You know, of course, that you will have to tell your husband the truth eventually?”

“I know,” Sally said grimly. “But I’d rather tell him about the picture than have him see it. May I have it now?”

Sally held out her hand for the negative, and the inspector gave it to her without a word. She had struck a match before he reached the door.

Prye was waiting in the hall downstairs, and Bailey greeted him with a scowl.

The doctor was unabashed.

“In the morning I went,

As rosy as morn,

To seek for new joy;

But I met with scorn.

What is the latest bulletin? Has Mrs. Morgan confessed?”

“She confessed what I wanted her to.” Bailey patted the notebook in his pocket. “She gave her necklace to Philips Monday night.”

“And did she get it back?”

“No, she didn’t.”

“I suppose the necklace was Simon’s motive?” Prye said with a grin. “He couldn’t wait until George died to inherit nearly a million dollars, so he murdered three people to get a twenty-five-thousand-dollar necklace. He must be a firm believer in a bird in the hand being worth several hundred in the bush.”

“The business of the necklace was purely accidental, I believe,” Bailey said shortly. “He may have taken it — even wealthy people have feelings about twenty-five thousand dollars — and then given it to Miss Breton.”

“And what did Miss Breton do? Swallow it?”

The inspector regarded him coldly. “The choice is a difficult one, but I think I prefer your quotations to your humor.”

“I hope so,” Prye said airily. “One thing has been worrying me, Inspector. Were you guessing last night when you said Miss Breton supplied Simon with hyoscine?”

“You might call it guessing. I prefer to think of it as logic. I’ve made thorough inquiries about hyoscine, and the conclusion was forced on me that either you or Miss Breton was responsible for procuring it. Since I’ve come to trust you,” the inspector blushed hotly over this confession, “I decided it was Miss Breton.”

Prye, too, blushed.

“And that, of course, fits in with the evidence I have pointing to Simon Hays’ guilt.”

“Oh quite, quite.” Prye indicated the inspector’s notebook. “Did Mrs. Morgan give Simon another gentle push toward the brink of eternity?”

“Not explicitly. She said she heard voices downstairs shortly before two o’clock.”

“The Morgans are certainly doing their bit for the law. Morgan generously reported Miss Breton’s last words, and Sally gave evidence (and with such delicate reluctance!) that Simon was at the liquor cabinet. And now, to cap it all, Sally hears voices. What about the note from Philips?”

“Mrs. Morgan swears she tore it up and threw it in the wastebasket,” the inspector replied with a frown. “In that case, the letter was opened before it reached her hands or the pieces were fitted together after she tore it up—”

“Or,” Prye interrupted mildly, “somebody in this house was in Philips’ confidence and didn’t have to see the letter to Mrs. Morgan.”

“Why do you think that?”

“A little bird told me. Like Saint Francis, I have many feathered friends.”

“Your feathered friends,” the inspector said coldly, “are all bats, I’m afraid, and you entertain them in your belfry. As I was saying, when Simon went to the Philips’ to cut the telephone wires he simply typed a similar note on the Philips’ typewriter—”

“With Mrs. Philips looking over his shoulder, telling him how to spell ‘library.’”

“—and used it to implicate you.”

“Why me?”

“He realized you would come under suspicion because you were a doctor and you were carrying hyoscine in your bag. And, as even you may have noticed, Simon finds you singularly distasteful.”

“Yes, he does, doesn’t he? Would you mind very much if I read Mrs. Morgan’s statement?”

The inspector took out his notebook and gave it to him.

“Well,” Prye said after a few minutes, “Sally has certainly provided a beautiful alibi for herself and her husband. That’s interesting, don’t you think? An alibi extracted with difficulty is much more convincing than one offered freely right from the start. Ho hum! Sally of our alley.”

The inspector grunted. “Mrs. Morgan’s story was perfectly straightforward. I hope Mrs. Hays will tell as good a one.”

“I’m sorry, you cannot question Mrs. Hays,” Prye said quickly. “She is rational this morning, but an interview with you might push her over the edge again.”

Bailey spoke gravely. “There’s no possibility that your diagnosis of Mrs. Hays’ illness was wrong, that she is actually mad?”

“None at all. Her period of irrationality last night after the murder can be compared to the mental condition of a man three quarters drunk. He knows what he is doing, but the inhibitions which would normally arise to stop him are swept away. Mrs. Hays realized that she was behaving oddly last night; she remembers everything clearly. Probably there were others in that room whose minds were running in the same direction, but they had enough control to refrain from speaking.”

“But why did she act like that?”

Prye shrugged. “A mixture of self-pity, terror, hysteria, with more than a dash of melodrama. Her mind ran something like this: There’s that Breton woman trying to marry my son. I hate her. What’s happened? She’s been murdered! Maybe I’ll be the next — poor little me. I can’t stand it any longer. I’m going crazy — perhaps I am crazy! Then of course Simon clamped the lid on by screaming about Miss Breton’s hair, and Mrs. Hays caught the idea nicely. Simon and his mother are amazingly similar.”

“And this lecture is meant to prove that I’d be unwise to question Mrs. Hays this morning?”

“Very unwise. But I’ll have a shot at it, if you like.”

The inspector sighed gratefully. “Thank you, Prye. But, even with your powers of persuasion, I doubt whether you’ll learn anything from her.”

Prye grinned.

“If the sun and moon should doubt,

They’d immediately go out.

Wait here, and I shall return laden with pertinent facts.”

Barbara Hays was lying on her bed when Prye entered the room. The curtains had been drawn, and in the dim light the pallor of her face took on a greenish luster. She did not open her eyes.

“Hello, Barbara,” Prye said cheerfully.

She stirred slightly, in surprise at his use of her first name.

“You’re scorning the sunshine this morning. Do you mind if I let some in?”

“Yes, I do,” she said irritably.

“There, that’s much better.” Prye drew back the curtains. “How are you feeling, Barbara?”

She sat up with a slight frown. “The light hurts my eyes. What do you want? Why don’t you leave me alone? What right have you to call me Barbara?”

“Your eyes will get used to the light. I want to talk to you. You’re better off when you’re not alone. And Barbara is my favorite name.”

She smiled faintly.

“Do you know what day this is?” Prye asked.

“No.”

“This is the day you’ve been awaiting for a long time. Today we stalk the bogeyman to his lair and extract his teeth.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

She sat up and pushed a pillow behind her back. The color had begun to return to her cheeks.

“You have a secret, Barbara, and it’s not the kind of secret you can talk about to your family or friends. I offer myself as a substitute listening post.”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Very well. Your son is in jail. By all means don’t help him by spilling your little secret.”

“I intend to help him,” she said coldly. “I’m going to confess.”

Prye groaned. “There’s been too much lying from everyone. If you committed the murders confess. If you didn’t let’s hear the truth.”

She looked at him stonily. “I didn’t do these murders. But I killed a man once.”

It was, Prye decided, a good beginning. There would be tears and denunciations and wringing of hands and all the trappings of melodrama.

He was wrong. Mrs. Hays’ face was as expressionless as his own. Her hands lay quietly in her lap. “He was my husband. I married him when I was seventeen. My parents had gone on a trip around the world, and I was left in a convent.

“Naturally you don’t know what a French convent is like. Believe me, it was grim and dull, impossibly dull. And I was only seventeen, and it was Paris! I ran away in three months. I wanted to live.”

She smiled bitterly. “I couldn’t have chosen a better person than Robert Prideau to teach me how to live. For several months I had the gayest time a young girl ever had. One night he didn’t come home.

“He spent the next six months in prison for receiving stolen goods. I left him, of course. I was humiliated and bitter and dreadfully lonely. I found a little pension near the convent where I had stayed. My parents were in Egypt at the time. I didn’t tell them anything about it. There was always the chance that Robert would die in prison. I hoped and prayed that he would.

“Well, he did die, but not in the way I expected. When he was released he found out my address somehow and began to write to me, begging me to come back to him. Some of his letters were violently abusive. Then one day he came to my pension.”

Her voice was perfectly flat. “He cut his throat. There was blood all over everything. It bubbled out. It went all over my dress, my green silk dress that I’d been married in.” She shook her head impatiently, as if to shake away the picture of the dress and the blood bubbling over it. Her voice hardened.

“I didn’t move. I let him die right there before my eyes. He asked me to go for a doctor. But I wanted him to die.”

“That was redundant, surely,” Prye said. “If he cut his throat he would have died anyway.”

She shrugged. “So the police thought. The verdict was suicide. But I killed him. Don’t try to soften the fact. I’ve been facing it for twenty-five years.”

“I’m not softening it — I’m straightening it,” Prye corrected. “You can’t fool around with a jugular vein. He would have been dead by the time you reached a doctor.”

Barbara paid no attention to his reassurance.

“My parents came back to Paris, and I went to live with them again. I told them nothing about my marriage. I was so positive that it was all over and that I could forget it. I was mistaken. About six months later I found Robert’s letters in one of my trunks. I read them over and over until every word was imprinted on my brain. He said I was a cold-blooded, inhuman woman, that I was killing him. It was all true. I was in the hospital for months — the doctors called it nervous prostration.

“When I was nineteen my parents were killed in a motor accident. Father left me all his money on the understanding that I should go to America and reopen my grandfather’s house. I was glad to leave France. When I had been here a year I married George.”

Prye gave her a cigarette and held a match to it. She inhaled deeply.

“You kept these letters from your first husband?”

“I must have,” she said bitterly, “because they turned up in Thomas Philips’ hands six months ago.”

“They were kept accidentally then? They were just packed in with your other stuff when you came to America?”

“That’s the only possible explanation. I only took one trunk with me to the pension where I stayed. They must have been left in that.”

“You still have the trunk?”

“I think so. All the luggage is kept in the storage room on the third floor. But I haven’t opened that trunk since I came here, so I can’t be sure it’s still there. I couldn’t bear to look at it.”

“What did it look like?”

“Trunks are pretty much alike, I suppose. But this one would have my name and the address of the convent on it.”

With an abrupt apology Prye went out and ran up to the third floor. After trying two doors, one of which belonged to an outraged Miss Bellinger, he found the storage room.

A breath of hot, stale air struck him as he opened the door. It was a huge room, smelling strongly of moth balls and piled nearly to the ceiling with trunks, wardrobe cases, clothing and even an old billiard table, standing on end. He picked his way carefully to the window and pulled up the blind. A shaft of sunlight made a spotlight for a million dancing particles of dust.

Prye sneezed, swore, sneezed and sat down on a trunk. He bent forward to sneeze once more but stopped short. Beside his foot lay a book, open at the flyleaf, and he saw written in a small, precise hand: Barbara Merton. 19, Rue Valmy, Paris.

“And so the trunk,” he said aloud, “can’t be far off. I’m getting warm.” He looked around. “In fact, I’m sitting on it.”

He brushed off his trousers before examining the trunk. The lock had been broken and, it seemed, broken by someone with dirty fingers. He took out his handkerchief and draped it over his hand before opening the trunk.

The top compartment was empty, and he lifted it out. The bottom part was equally empty.

He closed it again and went back to Barbara Hays’ room, looking thoughtful. Whoever had broken that lock had stolen the letters, and whoever had stolen the letters had given them to Thomas Philips.

“Did you find it?” Barbara asked.

“I found it empty. And that makes it all very interesting because I don’t believe our Thomas could have discovered those letters by himself. He wouldn’t know of their existence in the first place or where to look for them in the second. Who does know of your previous marriage and your husband’s suicide?”

“No one at all. Until Philips came to me with those letters I was positive that no one knew anything about it.”

“Not even George?”

“George only knew that I’d been married and widowed when I was very young — nothing of Robert’s death and certainly nothing about his letters.”

“There’s no chance that your husband or Simon or Eve could have been looking through the trunk and found the letters?”

“My husband and children would scarcely try to blackmail me,” she said stiffly. “Probably one of the servants decided to rummage through my trunks for curiosity’s sake, found the letters and realized their value.”

“But I can’t understand why they were valuable!” Prye ran his hands through his hair wildly. “I’m getting old. I can’t think. And I find it very difficult not to lose my temper.”

Barbara’s smile was not devoid of malice. “You interfered of your own accord — Paul.”

Prye grinned. “I haven’t been called Paul since a lady told me I must have been named after the cathedral because I had such an imposing façade to cover so much emptiness. That should delight you. Once more, why were those letters valuable?”

“The contents,” she replied soberly, “could be, and were, misconstrued. Robert was a violent, passionate creature. He told me I was killing him, draining his life’s blood — the sort of thing a Frenchman would say.” Her voice was edged with contempt. “Philips said that he had verified the circumstances of Robert’s death through a friend of his who was living in Paris. Philips was convinced that I had murdered Robert by cutting his throat and that I could be arrested if those letters ever came to light. Naturally, I bought them. I paid him thirty thousand dollars for five letters. There was one left. I don’t know who has it.”

“No one has approached you with an offer to sell the sixth letter?”

“No.” For the first time her voice broke. “Do you—? Will this clear Simon?”

“I hope so,” Prye said briskly. “As far as Bailey is concerned, my opinions are flotsam and jetsam, but I’m going down now and tell him your story with one omission: you did not refuse to call a doctor when your husband killed himself. You and I are the only ones who know that, and ten minutes after I pack my bags I won’t know it.”

The inspector was still in the library. Prye repeated Barbara’s story almost word for word.

“Well,” the inspector said dryly, “it’s no wonder that she wanted to keep it a secret. How is it she finally broke down?”

Prye smiled modestly. “My personality. Mrs. Hays’ story is interesting enough, but what followed is terrific. The implications will hit you like a hammer.”

“If you say so,” the inspector murmured politely.

Prye told of his trip to the storage room and the trunk with the broken lock.

He broke off abruptly, went to the door and pulled it open. There was no one there.

“I could have sworn—” He stopped with an uneasy laugh. “Nemesis is taking a crack at me. I’ve spent years of my life convincing people that nerves are largely a figment of the imagination and now I have a beautiful case of them myself. When I get out of here I want a long, quiet rest in the homicidal ward of an institution. Better chances of survival there, too.”

“You’ll never get out of here if you waste my time by blathering. You say there are fingerprints on this lock?”

“They look like fingerprints.”

Bailey left the room for a few minutes and came back looking slightly worn. “I don’t know why I do these things to please you, Prye, unless, as you say, it’s your personality.”

“To please me!” Prye snorted. “You think your men will find Simon’s prints on that lock. On the other hand, I think they won’t. If Simon had taken those letters he would have confronted his mother with them, and they’d have had a good, old-fashioned weep and teeth gnashing and forgotten about the whole episode.”

“I can believe it,” the inspector said in a disgusted voice. “But I’m fairly sure, you see, that the letters, like Mrs. Morgan’s necklace, are a side issue and have no real connection with the murders. I’m not worrying about them. When you’re solving a problem in calculus you don’t have to take into consideration how many flies are on the wall.”

“That’s sheer sophistry.”

The inspector was unperturbed. “I believe that Simon took the necklace while he was searching Philips’ pockets for something entirely different.”

“Such as?”

“Whatever he and Philips quarreled about. I don’t know yet what it was. But please remember that the police occasionally — by accident perhaps — arrest the right man.”

“Such irony leaves me bloody but unbowed,” Prye said. “Would you mind if I went to call on Simon?”

“Go ahead. And if you can get him to talk you’ll be our next district attorney.”

Prye drove to the jail in the company of Sergeant Abbott. The sergeant had lost much of his joy of living during the week and he sat behind the wheel silent and gloomy. Spurned by the inspector and condemned to writing long, dull reports, Sergeant Abbott found his only happiness in his infrequent conversations with his new light o’love, Mamie. Into her receptive ears the sergeant poured his woes. They even planned on attending the movies together — the sergeant scowled — after this nasty business was settled.

“Tummy-ache?” asked Prye innocently.

“Naw!” the sergeant snapped.

“Love?”

“Go on!” the sergeant’s voice was contemptuous, but a blush crept over his face. “What would I be doing falling in love? I don’t believe in it.”

“Neither did Don Juan.”

“Well, okay then. This Wonn had the right idea.”

He stopped the car in front of a dreary building of grey stone and got out.

“‘All the world loves a lover,’” said Prye, following him into the jail.

Sergeant Abbott exchanged monosyllables with the turnkey and was given the key to Simon’s cell.

“Must you stay with me, Sergeant?” Prye said with a sigh. “I feel that Mr. Hays would be more communicative if you weren’t around. You might embarrass him. Anyone can tell at a glance that you’re a man in love. Your features positively glow with your secret. And, since Mr. Hays recently lost the woman he loved—”

But the sergeant had hastily retreated.

Simon was sitting on his cot when Dr. Prye entered his cell and he did not look up. He appeared to be enduring this new set of circumstances with more fortitude than Prye had expected he would. Although he was pale and haggard, he had not given way to hysteria nor, Prye was amazed to discover, to overwhelming grief. The boy was growing up.

“Your hospitality is refreshingly different,” Prye remarked, sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall. “The host usually offers his best chair to his guest.”

Simon looked up from his book. “Did I ask you to come?”

“Don’t be technical, Simon.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a flask. “I’ll probably be arrested for this, but would you like a drink? It’s brandy — without any of the usual impurities like water or soda or hyoscine.”

Simon reached out his hand. “I don’t give a damn about the hyoscine.”

“The rules of this jail are pleasantly lax,” Prye said, looking around with interest. “I could have smuggled you an acetylene blowtorch while I was at it. Like the brandy?”

“Very, very good stuff. It tastes like the rare old that George has been saving.”

Prye beamed. “I thought you’d like it. It’s straight from George’s cellar.” He added modestly: “I have a way with locks.”

Simon became more cheerful. “How’s the family taking my... er, retreat?”

“Very nicely. George has used up his complete vocabulary to describe the inefficiency of the police. Eve is poisonously calm. And your mother is all set to confess to the murders.”

“Is that a fact?” Simon was pleased with the news. “And what about Dick?”

“Dick’s language is only slightly less virile than your father’s.”

Simon looked completely happy.

“How long has Morgan been your father’s partner?”

“Three years, I think. Why?”

“Was he a frequent visitor at your house?”

Simon smiled bitterly. “Too darn frequent, if you ask me.”

“What did you quarrel with Philips about?”

“Bailey asked me that, too. Funny, isn’t it?”

“Hilarious. Why the quarrel with Philips?”

“A check.”

“From you to him?”

“From me to him via George.”

Prye whistled. “How much?”

“Ten thousand dollars. I was drunk. I lost it at roulette and signed George’s name to a check. I didn’t even remember doing it until Philips showed me the thing.”

“Ten thousand dollars! What a modest fellow you are! Why didn’t you simply go to George and get the money to make it good?”

Simon grimaced. “Because one doesn’t ‘simply go to George’ for ten thousand dollars. Especially since — well, I’d done it before. So you can see I’m no damned good.”

Simon’s voice had become slightly shrill, and Prye pointed to the flask. “Have a drink. I couldn’t bear another orgy of self-denunciation today. Here’s a cigarette, too.”

Simon took both. “Thanks. Why all these kindly ministrations?”

“Bribery,” Prye said with candor. “I want to know whom you were talking to before I came into your room on Tuesday night.”

“You certainly get around for a man of your age, don’t you?”

“One is hardly decrepit at thirty-seven.”

“I thought you were older,” Simon said frankly. “You look older.”

“It’s the life I lead. Who was in your room that night?”

Simon gave a malicious chuckle. “You’ll be disappointed. It was Dick. We were hatching a scheme whereby he would distract the policeman at the back door while I escaped to get my check before Bailey got it. I knew it was in Philips’ house. He used to wave it in front of my face often enough. You, of course, had to queer the whole plan.”

“It was a bum plan anyway. Well, I must go now. Keep the cigarettes and the flask. The flask is probably yours anyway. I found it in your desk.”

Simon gasped. “You... you meddlesome—”

“Well, you didn’t expect me to give you mine, did you? See you later.”

Sergeant Abbott stared at him suspiciously when he came out. “You were a long time in there, weren’t you?”

Prye shook his head sadly. “One must do what one can to cheer one’s fellow creatures, Sergeant.”

They drove back to the Hayses’ house in silence.

The inspector was waiting at the front door, wearing an expression which even from a distance Prye recognized as peculiarly nasty.

Prye stopped, looked behind him and to both sides of him and discovered that there was no one else around. The conclusion was inevitable: the inspector was glaring at him.

“Are you crazy?” Bailey roared.

16

Prye was unabashed. He walked up the steps of the veranda, quoting:

“Terror in the house does roar,

But Pity stands before the door.”

“Prye, from the beginning of this case you’ve been nothing but a monkey wrench!” the inspector was shouting. “Why—”

“Don’t bellow, Inspector. People inclined to apoplexy should learn never to raise their voices.”

“Why didn’t you tell me Mrs. Hays had confessed to the murders?”

“Has she, indeed!” Prye murmured. “I hope you didn’t take her confession too seriously.”

“And all this business about the trunk — you knew that trunk wasn’t empty!”

It was Prye’s turn to be astonished. “Great Scott! Not another body!”

The inspector’s voice became deceptively gentle. “No, not a body. A letter. A letter and no fingerprints.”

Prye brightened. “Not the letter from Monsieur Prideau! This is marvelous, Inspector! In the name of all good Frenchmen I salute you.” He leaned over as if to kiss the inspector on the cheek. “Vive la France!”

The inspector drew away, and his face blanched. “A madman. You’re a madman.”

“Now come into my parlor, and I shall explain as to a little child.” Prye led the way to the library. The inspector no longer had strength to resist.

“Now you stand there, Inspector, and I stand here.”

“And we sing ‘La Marseillaise,’ I suppose.” Inspector Bailey was recovering.

“We could, but I don’t trust my accent,” Prye said briskly. “We’ll talk instead. About one hour ago we were here in these very spots discussing the trunk and the missing letters and we heard footsteps outside the door, didn’t we?”

“I didn’t.”

“I did. Someone was listening to us and did not like the new turn the case had taken. Whoever it was scared enough to take a long risk, dash up to the storage room, wipe off the prints and put back the letter.”

“How do I know the letter wasn’t there before?”

“Because you’re an intelligent man and a good judge of character and you know I’m telling the truth,” Prye said firmly. “Now, why would anyone run around in broad daylight wiping off fingerprints and carrying an incriminating letter in his pocket? Because there must be a close connection between that letter and trunk and the murders. So we ask ourselves: How did this unknown get Mrs. Hays’ letter? And we answer: From Philips. Then I ask you: Did this unknown get the letter from Philips alive or Philips dead? And you answer: If he got it from Philips alive he and Philips were probably in cahoots. If he got it from Philips dead he is probably the murderer. And then I succumb to the temptation to suggest that the murderer and the cahooter are one and the same.”

“I don’t,” Bailey said flatly. “Why should the murderer replace the letter in the trunk then? Explain that.”

“Aha! You’re interested. I will reconstruct. The murderer overhears us talking in the library about the prints on the trunk lock and knows the prints are his (or hers). So he rushes up to the storage room, wipes off the prints and puts back the letter.”

“Why?”

“Don’t rush me. After all, this is impromptu. I don’t actually know, since I am not the murderer, why the letter was put back. But there’s a strong possibility that the murderer was in too much of a hurry to do anything else. You had already sent for a fingerprint expert and, for all the murderer knew, you were going to search the house again.

“He acts on the spur of the moment and puts the letter back to avoid being found in possession of it and perhaps to discredit my story that there were prints on the lock and that the trunk was empty. Or perhaps to incriminate Mrs. Hays more deeply. Attempts to involve others are very characteristic of this murderer, and he couldn’t pass up a chance like that.”

“And all this proves?”

“That you should concentrate on the people on the third floor. It’s doubtful that Simon will ever wear wings, and he certainly hasn’t a pair with him now. So he couldn’t possibly have overheard our conversation in the library and twenty minutes later be back in jail where I found him.”

“No, he could not. But there are other possibilities. Mrs. Hays may have already bought the letter back from Philips and put it in the trunk so that we would release her son on the strength of just such an argument as you’ve offered. Or she may have invented the whole story about her French husband and his suicide. It sounds rather fishy anyway.”

“She may have, but it would mean I was twenty points out in estimating her intelligence quotient.”

The inspector’s smile was a little hard. “Your infallibility is still open to doubt as far as I’m concerned. In any case, we have no tangible reason to believe that Philips’ confederate is the murderer or even that he had a confederate. But if he had one in the house and the confederate did replace this letter in the trunk he may have done so for reasons wholly unconnected with the murders. Blackmail draws a substantial prison term, you know.

“Everything considered,” the inspector said after a pause, “I’m afraid Simon Hays will have to remain where he is. If he’s not the murderer he’s at least protected against him. If he is the murderer the rest of you are protected. Isn’t that common sense?”

“Common sense is a vastly overrated virtue,” Prye said coldly. “I myself prefer the spark of genius.”

“That’s because you’re a sensationalist. You’d like to discover that the gardener is a foreign spy with twelve murders to his credit. As a matter of fact,” he added thoughtfully, “the gardener is a cousin of mine.”

Prye snorted. “Even if he is your cousin he could be guilty, couldn’t he? The trouble with you is you’re hidebound.”

“Not at all. I’m keeping an open mind.”

“By eliminating all your cousins, I suppose,” Prye said bitterly. “I won’t argue. But you’re going to feel pretty silly when I solve this thing, pretty darn silly.”

Prye went out. In truth, he was feeling pretty silly himself. He had conducted two difficult interviews, formed several reasonable conclusions, talked until he was as hoarse as a presidential campaigner and missed his lunch, and the only tangible result of these hardships was an empty stomach.

He listened at the kitchen door for the unmistakable footsteps of the formidable Miss Bellinger. Concluding that she was absent, he plucked up his courage, entered the kitchen and made himself a sandwich. He decided to take it up to his room to eat without fear of interruption. He opened the door of the pantry, intending to go up by the back stairs, and stopped quite suddenly.

The pantry was occupied. Seated at the telephone, with his head leaning against the wall, was Joseph. His mouth gaped, and his teeth had fallen half out. Around his withered neck, imbedded in the flesh and knotted under the ear, was a piece of brown twine. Prye touched the old man’s cheek; it was cold.

Prye stepped out of the pantry and closed the door behind him. He noticed that he was still holding the sandwich in his left hand. He dropped in onto the floor and walked rapidly away.

The inspector was on the point of leaving when Prye reached the front hall.

“You’d better not go just yet,” he told the inspector gravely. “Joseph has been strangled.”

“Where?” The inspector’s voice was unsteady.

“In the pantry off the kitchen. I think — I’d rather stay here.”

“I may need you, Prye.”

Prye followed him reluctantly back to the pantry. Bailey’s examination was brief.

“I’d like you to stay here, Prye. I need some men and I prefer not to use that telephone. Keep both doors closed.”

There was one other chair in the pantry, and Prye sat down in it rather weakly. He closed his eyes but he could not shut out the vision of Joseph’s grinning teeth. Feeling suddenly quite ill, he got up hurriedly and sat down outside the pantry door.

Prye accepted death as a doctor should: an incontrovertible fact and a part of the nature of things. He had seen deaths that were calm and dignified and even beautiful. But Angela Breton had groveled on her hands and knees like a wounded animal, and Joseph’s false teeth were grinning a horrible, static grin. A harmless old man and a dangerous young woman had died with equal indignity. And Bailey had said there might be another death, and still another.

Dr. Munro arrived, followed soon after by several policemen in plain clothes. The pantry was small, and the inspector took Prye into the morning room until the routine work was completed.

Prye sat down and lit a cigarette, but Bailey could not keep still. As he spoke he moved like an angry bull in a stall.

“Joseph’s death indicates that you were right about the trunk,” he said slowly. “The old man must have seen someone enter the storage room who had no business to be there. Not realizing that I was in the house, he went down to the pantry to telephone me but he was followed and killed before he could carry out his intention. Joseph’s room is on the third floor, beside the storage room.”

Prye took out his watch. “It is five minutes to three. I was talking to you about the trunk in the library around one o’clock. You sent for the fingerprint man about ten minutes later, and it took him about ten minutes to get here. That gave the murderer twenty minutes to visit the storage room and to follow Joseph down to the pantry and strangle him. Haste accounts for the change in method; there was no time to prepare hyoscine.”

“Stay here for a minute, please.”

The inspector was away five minutes.

“I’ve issued an order for Simon Hays’ release. And I’ve found out where the cord probably came from. Munro says it’s an old cord, quite dusty. Does that suggest anything to you?”

“The murderer brought it with him from the storage room — is that right?”

Bailey nodded. “He probably heard Joseph come out of his room, grabbed the first weapon he could find and came down, intending to murder Joseph if he had to.” His voice became grim. “He had to.”

Bailey rose to his feet with a heavy sigh.

“I’d like to speak to Miss Bellinger first. Will you get her, please?”

Miss Bellinger was stunned by the news of Joseph’s death. She sat down in the morning room, speechless with the shock, her gaunt hands tearing at her apron. Bailey questioned her patiently, insistently.

After a stormy fit of weeping she became more voluble. Joseph, she said, had been the kindest man she had ever known. Bailey led her gently up to the events of the morning.

Joseph had retired to his room on the third floor in the middle of the morning. He felt an attack of rheumatism coming on and arranged with Mamie that she should serve the lunch. Miss Bellinger had not seen him since.

She had worked the whole morning in the kitchen. No, she had not gone into the pantry. She explained that it was not really a pantry anymore, but served as a private telephone booth. She had heard no sound from the pantry. She was washing dishes, and there was quite a lot of noise when she was cooking lunch. Besides, she and Mamie had been talking.

When the inspector let her go she turned back at the door, and her eyes filled with tears. “You won’t — I can’t — no one will want dinner with poor Joseph dead—?”

“They will, indeed,” Prye said firmly. “Perhaps Mamie will help you, Miss Bellinger. We must all eat as well as we can. Hysteria thrives on empty stomachs.”

Miss Bellinger went out feeling that perhaps the doctor had some sense after all.

“We’ll eat,” Prye said grimly. “We’ve eaten through three murders already. Mrs. Hays is the only one who would mourn for Joseph and she will be having dinner in her room anyway. Besides, I think dinner should be — interesting.”

“I want to speak to the others. Will you get them, or shall I?”

“I’ll go.”

One by one the members of the household were brought into the room and one by one they filed out, leaving the inspector with no more information than he had had. They were shocked, grieved, terrified and wholly without knowledge. The guests straggled into the drawing room, not desiring each other’s company but afraid to be alone. It was as if the old house had given away under the strain, and desolation had crept in under the eaves.

Simon came home at four o’clock. His father made a slightly comic King Lear as he soliloquized about the disgrace brought down upon his grey hairs. Eve silenced him with the remark that he hadn’t any hair to speak of, and he retired to a corner.

“Eve, are we going to bother having dinner?” Sally Morgan asked plaintively. “I couldn’t really—”

George came out of his corner in haste. “Just because you couldn’t you needn’t assume that I couldn’t, Mrs. Morgan. Of course, we’ll have dinner. It’s bad enough to have murders going on around you.” He thrust out his chin and surveyed them all one by one. “And we’ll dress, too. I’ll be damned if the Hayses can’t keep up appearances! I’d have my dinner if I was the only one left!”

He strode out of the room before anyone could reply. Helpless glances were exchanged.

“Nice homecoming!” Simon cried bitterly. “Another murder and a bawling out.”

Dick glared at him. “A hell of a lot of difference a murder makes to you!” He followed George.

“My life,” Eve said in a brittle voice, “is getting caught up on its drama. A murder a day keeps the doctor away.” She walked rather unsteadily out of the door.

Sally began to giggle hysterically. “Everybody m-makes a sp-speech and goes out. It’s too f-f-funny. I could d-die — I could j-just die!”

“I hope,” her husband said flatly, “that you show a little more common sense than you’ve been showing and die quietly in your room.”

Sally’s high giggle splintered into tears. She was escorted forcibly upstairs.

Prye was still in the morning room talking to the inspector in an undertone. Joseph’s body was being removed from the house, and Prye stared as the grim procession filed past the open door.

“This is the way the world ends,

Not with a bang but a whimper.

I have a feeling that one by one we’ll all be going out that door like Joseph, covered with a sheet. It would be quite a parade, wouldn’t it, Inspector? A big bump under the sheet — that would be George. A long, thin object with a pair of feet hanging over the end of the stretcher — that will be me.

Farewell, friends, farewell,

For I’m going to hell.

But don’t weep and don’t moan:

I’m not going alone...”

“That’s enough,” the inspector said uneasily. “If you get hysterical, too—”

Prye lifted his eyebrows. “I’m not hysterical. I’m just scared like the rest of them.”

“Go and have a drink,” the inspector said brusquely.

“Thanks, I will.” Prye turned to the door. “But I’ll rinse the glass — and I’ll drink water from the tap.”

The inspector looked after him thoughtfully. After a while he got up and drove to his office. While the Hays household were dressing for dinner Inspector Bailey was writing out his resignation.

As Christopher Wells brushed his hair Eve’s words rang in his ears. With appalling suddenness he had found himself a disengaged man — and not merely disengaged but insulted into the bargain.

“There are at least ten good reasons why I wouldn’t marry you,” she had said, “but I’ll just mention the more relevant ones. First, you suspect me or my family of doing these murders.” At this point he had spluttered to no avail. “And second, I don’t want a husband with hair that every second woman on the street wants to run her fingers through. And third, you bore me to tears!”

Whereupon she had demonstrated her point nicely by bursting into tears. He had tried to follow her as she ran out but stopped abruptly when he remembered what she had said about his hair. Every second woman! It took a woman, Chris reflected bitterly as he descended the stairs, to think of a crack like that.

Fortunately, Eve was sitting in her mother’s place at one end of the table, and Chris was able to find a seat beside George at the other end. Now that he was no longer engaged to Eve, Chris derived a certain morose satisfaction from contemplating the deficiencies of her father.

Mamie, red eyed and sullen, began to serve the soup. She set each plate down as firmly as she could without breaking it. When Eve suggested a gentler hand Mamie merely tossed her head defiantly.

“Dammit, Eve, you’re too soft with the girl!” George said loudly when Mamie had retired to the kitchen. “She’s getting out of hand. You don’t know how to handle people of that class.”

“People of what class?” Chris demanded belligerently. He was gratified to see George’s face beginning to look like a boiled beet. “This class system is just a lot of bosh invented by a few narrow-minded capitalists to defend themselves.”

George choked with rage. “And you want to marry my daughter!”

“I do not,” Chris replied flatly. “I wouldn’t consider it. Why, she’s got the kind of hair that every second man—”

“You snake!” Eve said hastily. She turned a pleading look to Dr. Prye.

“That reminds me,” said Prye gallantly.

“Everything reminds you of something,” Chris interrupted. “Either you’ve got a damned good memory or you’re an awful liar.”

“Both. Of necessity. As I was saying, it reminds me of the time I was hunting up in Muskoka. It was—”

“What were you hunting — bodies?” Sally Morgan said sweetly.

“It was just the right sort of night for tracking copperheads. Very dark, you know, so the copperheads can’t see you.”

“I don’t suppose it matters whether you see the copperheads?” Morgan said heavily.

“I thought it was porcupines you hunted at night,” Eve prompted.

Prye beamed. “Of course. It was a porcupine hunt, now that I think of it. I clipped one with my first shot. It was very large and full of prickles, like — Miss Bellinger. But I couldn’t see if it had an apron on — it was too dark.” He looked helplessly around the table. “Do I continue?”

“I don’t see why,” Sally Morgan said.

They relapsed into silence. Mamie came in for the soup plates. She was sniffling audibly.

“My dear girl, haven’t you got a handkerchief?” cried George. “Use a table napkin, then, by all means. But don’t sniffle in my ear.”

Mamie turned a mottled red and dropped two plates onto the floor. Standing amid the debris, she faced George defiantly.

“I’d much rather spit in your ear, Mr. Hays.” She walked out of the room and she walked as if she meant it.

“Hm, that’s nice,” Prye observed. “Good work, George. You’ve won a tactical victory.”

Eve rose to her feet and tapped her knife on a glass until they were silent.

“I move that we adjourn to the drawing room and have sandwiches and coffee sent in. I’ll tell Miss Bellinger.” She went into the kitchen.

“You see?” Chris remarked to George. “That’s just another reason I wouldn’t marry your daughter. She moves that we move, and we move. We could be starving—”

“Shut up, you puppy,” George said, getting to his feet. He remained behind the others until Eve emerged from the kitchen.

“I don’t want sandwiches!” he said sulkily. “I want my dinner.”

Eve gave him a firm push toward the door.

Peter Morgan was standing in the center of the drawing room. “I have never,” he remarked in conversational tones, “seen or heard of or even imagined such a disagreeable lot of people.”

Eve sat behind the coffee urn and began to pour. Dick was pressed into service to pass the coffee, Dr. Prye the sandwiches, and Simon the cake.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Morgan shouted.

Prye calmly pushed a sandwich into his open mouth and continued his circuit of the room.

Everyone began to relax a little.

Prye sat down and sipped his coffee meditatively. It had a slightly bitter taste. He took another sip, frowning. He was on his feet in an instant.

“Listen, listen, all of you! This coffee—” He broke off abruptly.

Eve had slid quietly to the floor. Her limbs jerked convulsively for a moment and then were still. Chris ran to her side, sobbing. He fell before he reached her body.

“My God!” George cried. “What is happening? The coffee — was it the coffee?” His voice became faint. “The coffee,” he said thickly. He stretched out on the floor.

Prye, still standing, began to shake. He steadied himself, with his hand on a chair.

On the chesterfield Sally Morgan’s head had fallen forward on her breast. Peter and Simon looked as if they had fallen asleep in their chairs.

Prye gasped. “Got the wrong — ones. Wrong ones, Vanstone. I’m the one you want.”

His eyes glaring, his face gleaming white, Richard Vanstone stared back at him without blinking. “You’re the one, Prye,” he said. “I want you, Prye. You’re the one. And you’re dying.”

His voice became petulant.

“Damn it, you’re dying, Prye. You can’t stop it!” He made a sudden lunge. Prye’s fist came out and caught him on the jaw, and he fell to the floor, sobbing.

17

“He has signed a confession,” Prye announced. “Although he is going to plead insanity, I believe he will get the death penalty. If I’m asked to take the stand I intend to testify that he is perfectly sane.”

Barbara began to cry quietly.

“And before you waste any more tears remember that he did his utmost to hang you all.” Prye, standing in the center of the drawing room, with his head nearly touching the crystal chandelier, surveyed them with challenge.

It was Saturday after lunch, and the Hays family and their guests had gathered in the drawing room. Inspector Bailey, after a harrowing hour with Amanda, had brought her along, too.

“But I don’t understand what happened last night,” Amanda said plaintively.

“It was simple enough,” Prye said. “The phials that Dick stole from my bag did not contain hyoscine. When the inspector cautioned me to keep an eye on my drugs on Tuesday I removed the hyoscine and substituted codeine in its place. The tablets look similar, and codeine, too, is poisonous in large quantities but, whereas hyoscine is tasteless, codeine is distinctly bitter. It was quite easy to detect it in my coffee last night. Then I simply gave the others the signal I had arranged, and they cooperated very nicely. I think both Eve and George deserve an Academy Award for their acting.”

“When did you arrange all this?” the inspector asked.

“Last night before dinner I went to each of them and told them what to do. I said that I expected an attempt on my life. I was afraid to tell anyone it was Dick because he might have suspected that something was up. I had to let Eve know, however, so that she could arrange for Dick to pass the coffee, to give him an opportunity to poison me.”

Eve shivered. “But suppose he had actually used real hyoscine?”

“I thought of that, too,” Prye said dryly. “If I couldn’t taste codeine in my coffee I wouldn’t have continued drinking it. I was quite certain he’d try to kill me, you see.”

“Why?” said Barbara.

“I asked him to,” Prye replied with a laugh. “I let him know that I knew where he had hidden the necklace. In fact, I kept looking at it.”

“Where is it?” Sally cried.

“Later I’ll let you find it for yourself. To go back to last night, when everyone began to fall over, one after another, he thought he’d poisoned you all by mistake. He was in a panic even before that, and his nerves suddenly snapped. He was almost insane for a while.”

“How did you find out it was Dick?” Chris asked.

Prye smiled. “By the laborious method of elimination. There were clues, of course, but they seemed to point in different directions until after I had eliminated everyone but Dick. Then the answer was so plain that I didn’t see how I could have missed it. If I had known more about Dick and Angela on Tuesday at lunchtime I would have paid more attention to Angela’s account of a dream she had on Monday night. I won’t go into the mechanism of dreams, but the content of hers was so manifest that I don’t have to. She dreamed that Dick had hit her over the head with his tennis racket. However, I did not remember it until yesterday, and it was no help at all.

“Having eliminated myself, I had left fourteen people in the house, all of whom had the opportunity to murder Philips. I was able to eliminate some of them right at the beginning. Eve was the first. While I considered her psychologically capable of murder, I could not believe that she was so stupid that she would have telephoned the inspector if she had murdered Philips, nor would she have attempted to implicate the other members of her family. Eve is essentially a direct person — she has not the tortuous kind of mind that would lead her to frame herself with a phial of hyoscine.

“George came next. He, too, is capable of drastic action, given a powerful enough motive. Three things eliminated George: so far as I knew, his motive could have been only dislike for Philips; he would not have tried to involve his family in the murder and he certainly would not have killed Philips in his own house. As George has reiterated all too frequently, Philips had no business to be killed in his house.

“I never seriously considered Simon or Mrs. Hays as suspects. The murder of Philips demanded something that neither of them has — a cool head. They might possibly be capable of an unpremeditated murder, but neither of them has the temperament to deliberate and carry out a murder, let alone a series of murders. Forced into a corner, they would not fight — they would try to escape, either by running away or by self-destruction.

“I eliminated Mrs. Horner and Jacobs, the chauffeur, immediately. It was unlikely that either of them would be acquainted with hyoscine and still more unlikely that they could have obtained any. Then, too, Mrs. Horner is very deaf. She would not have taken the risk of committing a murder under such circumstances. Anyone could have walked in on the murder, and she couldn’t have heard him. Miss Breton’s death cleared Jacobs definitely. He wasn’t even in the house during the time that the liqueur must have been poisoned.

“Mamie, with her genius for eavesdropping, was a suspect if one assumed that she was merely acting the part of a stupid, garrulous maid. No one who read her diary could fail to be convinced that Mamie is just what she seems. Besides, an entry of two weeks ago said that she had been given five dollars by Philips ‘not to clean the hall mirrors while he was in the house.’ It seemed improbable, then, that she was a confederate of Philips.

“After Eve told her story I eliminated Chris Wells. If Eve was telling the truth, as I believed she was, Chris had an alibi for the first murder. Besides, he had no motive.

“Before Miss Breton’s death I had six suspects left: of the servants, Joseph and Miss Bellinger, both of whom had the necessary character and brains and might have had a hidden motive; of the guests, Miss Breton, Mr. and Mrs. Morgan and Dick Vanstone. Miss Breton’s death eliminated three of these — Miss Breton herself and Miss Bellinger and Joseph. I was positive that Miss Breton’s dying words were addressed to someone in that room, and neither Joseph nor Miss Bellinger was present.

“On Friday morning Mrs. Morgan informed the inspector that she had given Philips her diamond necklace on Monday night. This complicated the situation considerably at first. There was a possibility that Sally had fabricated the whole thing to provide an alibi for her husband. But if she was telling the truth both the Morgans were eliminated, and that left Richard Vanstone.

“Until I heard about the necklace Dick had no motive, as far as I could judge. But I knew that he was capable of murder; I knew he was in love with Miss Breton and I had considered the possibility of collusion between the two. Once his motive was established, I was fairly sure he was guilty. To prove his guilt seemed impossible, but he might be tricked into a confession. I knew that he was losing his nerve. The murders of Miss Breton and Joseph had been exceptionally risky. In Miss Breton’s case his plans had gone wrong. He had figured on her drinking the liqueur sometime during the afternoon. You can imagine that it was a tense moment when Miss Breton went over to the table for a drink — with a whole roomful of people looking on! It was too late to stop her. When she finally did die without giving him away he almost broke under the strain. He couldn’t even trust himself to speak. To hide his face he stood staring out of the window. And the next day he had to kill Joseph in the pantry, with Mamie and Miss Bellinger washing dishes a few feet away. It’s no wonder that he was ready to crack last night. And crack, he did,” Prye added grimly. “He cried on my shoulder all the way to the jail.”

Prye turned to Simon. “It was lucky for you that he did give way.”

Simon paled. “Why me?”

“Because you were to be the burnt offering. I rather admire the infinite pains he took to frame you. According to his confession, he even provided you with a motive by persuading you to sign George’s name to a check while you were drunk. He hadn’t planned the murder at that time but he thought it might be useful to have a hold over you. It was very useful. The inspector found out about your quarrel with Philips on Monday afternoon. I suppose Dick engineered that, too?”

Simon gulped. “Yes. He told me Philips was a coward and said that if I went over there and threatened him he’d probably give me back my check.”

“It was, of course, for Simon’s benefit that Dick left Philips’ body on the stairs. But he didn’t stop there. On Tuesday night he went to Simon’s room to persuade Simon to slip out of the house and try and recover his check before the inspector found it. It was a lucky chance that I stopped that plan. But his best attempt to implicate Simon was his confession that he was in love with Miss Breton. It was Dick who had hammered it into Simon’s head that Miss Breton was a worthless woman. Simon had learned his lesson well. He swallowed the bait neatly and sat down and wrote Miss Breton a violent letter. He left it under her door and then went down to the liquor cabinet, as Dick knew he would, to drown his sorrows. It was a piece of luck for Dick that Mrs. Morgan saw Simon at the cabinet.

“By that time Simon was pretty well framed for a murder that had not yet taken place. After the murder Dick showed a spark of genius. He insisted to the inspector that he was to blame for the letter Simon wrote and he freely confessed the details of his interview with Simon. Even Simon was properly fooled. He thought Dick was trying to defend him by taking the blame on himself. Actually Dick was providing Simon — in the presence of witnesses — with a good motive for killing Miss Breton. Simon, he said plainly, thought that Miss Breton had double-crossed him by playing up to Dick. And Simon, it was implied, had killed her because she had. Just like the rest of you, I swallowed the Damon and Pythias act without a murmur.”

Simon was trembling. “Why did he pick on me?”

Prye shrugged. “The basic reason, I suppose, was that you had a fortune and he had not. Then, too, you were ideal for the purpose. You were young and impressionable, and he could persuade you to do what he asked. He made a halfhearted and rather stupid attempt to implicate Eve by hiding hyoscine in her shoe, hoping that it would suggest a conspiracy between Simon and Eve. Such a possibility didn’t occur to me.”

“Nor to me,” the inspector added. “I told Vanstone that this morning, and he said it was merely another example of the prejudices of the police.”

“But I can’t understand it!” George said wrathfully. “It was Dick who insisted that I put an end to the friendship between Simon and Philips!”

“Poor George!” Prye said. “You’re so transparent it pains me. The one sure way Dick could get your patronage for the friendship was to tell you that it had to be stopped. Someday, George, I hope you will resist the impulse to yell, ‘Black!’ when someone says, ‘White.’”

George blushed and said nothing.

“These little points are all very interesting,” Eve said with a frown. “But how did it all start?”

“It started,” Prye said gravely, “three years ago when Vanstone became the lover of a rather dubious woman called Dolly Devore.”

“There was nothing dubious about her,” Sally said grimly. “She was quite plainly a hellcat.”

“She was,” the inspector agreed. “Go on, Prye. It’s your show. I’ve done enough talking in the past week.”

“Not to me, William!” Amanda said tartly.

“Even after Dick came to live here,” Prye went on, “he and Dolly used to meet in Chicago. They both knew Philips well, since Dolly danced and sang at his club. Six months ago Dolly decided to make a more or less honest woman of herself and she married Philips. So far Dick had been getting along all right by living here and hanging on to his mother’s insurance money. But fifteen thousand dollars is not enough for a young man with a penchant for expensive ladies. He tried to increase his capital, but Eve hindered him.”

“I did!” Eve cried.

“You did,” Prye assured her. “You refused to marry him. He wasn’t in love with you, he told me, but you had a number of good qualities. Anyway, you very wisely refused him, and he took his troubles to Dolly. Dolly had a solution all ready. If Dick needed money, why didn’t he work with her husband? The work was easy and profitable, she said. Dick was not hard to persuade.”

“What was the work?” George asked.

Barbara’s face turned white. Her hands were clenched, her eyes fixed on Prye.

Prye turned to the inspector. “Do you know what work Vanstone did for Philips, Inspector?”

“No, I don’t,” the inspector said without a blush.

“Nor do I,” Prye said blandly.

Barbara sat back in her chair, and the color flowed back to her face.

“It was dirty work, and that’s all we need to know. A couple of months later Angela Breton arrived on the scene. Miss Breton had her own cards to play but she was not averse to looking at somebody else’s. She and Dick soon had each other neatly classified. An interesting duel took place. Dick was stringing Angela along to find out how much she knew, and Angela was stringing him along until she found out what her chances were of marrying Simon. They both got their just rewards. They fell in love. If they hadn’t, four people would be alive today, and a fifth would not be on his way to the electric chair.

“Because the instant Dick fell in love with Angela he wanted to take her as far away from here as possible. His work with Philips was not as profitable as he thought it would be, and Dolly was becoming tiresome.”

“Well, why didn’t they just go away then?” demanded the practical Amanda. “Why did they have to kill Philips?”

“That,” Prye said, “is where Mrs. Morgan comes in.”

“Don’t mind me,” Sally said quietly. “I’ve told Peter everything. He said — he didn’t care.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t care,” Morgan said, flushing. “I said I would endeavor not to think of it or bring the subject up. I only wish you’d told me sooner — it would have saved us a number of quarrels. I knew you were hiding something from me.”

“And you thought it was a man, I suppose?” Sally’s voice was full of gentle reproach.

Morgan looked very uncomfortable. “I’m sorry. I was a jealous idiot.”

“You certainly were,” Prye agreed graciously. “To continue, Dolly Philips had a picture of Mrs. Morgan. She knew Sally had married and would probably be willing to buy the picture back. It was Dick who told the Philips that Sally was visiting here and that she had a valuable necklace. Philips was planning to retire, anyway, and he thought the necklace would make a nice final coup. Dolly wanted to cut Dick in on the profits, but Philips refused. He had Dolly type the letter to Mrs. Morgan, arranging for the transfer on Monday night. She told Dick about it.

“Dick went home, and he and Angela had a conference. The result of it was that on Monday Angela drove into Chicago, wrote out some prescriptions and came back laden with hyoscine.”

“You mean,” Simon gasped, “she helped him kill Philips?”

“She killed him herself. Dick was there to stifle him if he made a sound, but it was Angela who drove the needle in. She knew how to do it quickly and efficiently. She was a doctor, you see, and the hyoscine had been her idea, as I’ve suspected from the beginning. Dick emptied Philips’ pockets and carried him to the stairs, and at that moment they heard Eve walking up the driveway. They went into the drawing room and spent a very bad ten minutes while Eve was telephoning the inspector’s house. They had two big breaks then: Miss Bailey didn’t take Eve’s calls seriously, and Eve suspected her mother of killing Philips.”

“Eve, you didn’t!” Barbara exclaimed.

“Couldn’t help it,” Eve said cheerfully.

“Eve, as usual, was full of ideas. She decided that they’d have to get rid of Philips’ body, so she drove him down to the lake.”

“You didn’t have to use my car, did you?” George demanded of his daughter.

“Must you split hairs, George?” Prye said sadly. “The pertinent fact is that the body was moved, and while Eve and Mrs. Hays were gone Angela and Dick had an opportunity to go back to their rooms unobserved. Angela was particularly pleased. Philips’ body was gone, and, even if it were found, she was confident that the police surgeon wouldn’t be able to discover the cause of death. Hyoscine absorbed into the tissues is difficult to detect, but Doctor Munro, the police surgeon, is a man of skill and as soon as he found the pinprick on Philips’ neck he tested for poisons.

“On Tuesday morning Mamie upset Miss Breton by giving her a vivid and garbled account of the progress the inspector was making in the case. Miss Breton packed her bags. I told Dick that she was leaving, and his reaction to the news convinced me that he was in love with her. That they were actually lovers I didn’t find out until I knew Dick was guilty.

“Well, on Tuesday morning, long before the police arrived, Dick went down to the lake as usual for his early swim, and underneath his bathrobe was most of the stuff he’d taken from Philips’ pockets. He swam out into the lake and got rid of it. While the inspector was interviewing Eve downstairs he planted the hyoscine in her shoe.”

“Where did he keep the stuff?” Eve asked. “The house was searched, and we were searched, and nothing was found.”

“I can think of at least twenty places to hide an object two inches long and one fifth of an inch in diameter. Actually Dick kept it in his own bathroom. The ceiling light has a large frosted shade which screws off and on. He kept it inside the shade. In some ways he was rather shrewd, especially at calculating human frailties. He figured that a policeman searching the place would look around and down but not up. And even if he did look up, Dick says, he would probably have been too lazy to go to the trouble of unscrewing that shade.

“Around eleven o’clock on Tuesday morning Dolly Philips did something which might have hanged her friend Dick. She phoned this house for him. By the sheerest chance, it was Dick himself who took the call. Dolly demanded an interview. She said that he was to go out, ostensibly to play tennis, and that she’d be waiting in her car beside the courts. He went.

“They drove to her house. The servants had been dismissed so that they wouldn’t hear or see what was going on. Dolly had no intention of giving Dick away, providing he met her terms. She was in a position to dictate terms, and when she said ‘Marry me, or else—’ Dick agreed instantly. He could afford to agree. He had gone there, he said, ‘prepared for her to be unreasonable,’ with some hyoscine in his pocket. He sent her upstairs to the third floor to get a view of the Hayses’ house and see if there were any policemen stationed on the grounds. When she left the room he worked fast. He put the poison in a bottle of gin that was nearly empty. Dolly threw the bottle out, and it was not found, so the police thought that he had put the poison in the cocktail shaker. He pointed out to me this morning that he wasn’t stupid enough to take the risk of her washing the shaker before using it. He cut the telephone wires and placed the ends together so that they wouldn’t be noticed.

“Dolly was an inexpert typist. On the table beside the typewriter was the first copy she had made of the letter to Mrs. Morgan. Without any idea of how he was going to use it, he put it in his pocket. Then he wiped his prints off the bottle of gin. It all took less than five minutes. When Dolly came downstairs again she said there were no policemen visible and that it was safe to leave. He told her that if she would stay in the house he would try to slip over later in the day.

“When Dolly first found out that her husband had been killed with poison she suspected that Miss Breton had a hand in the murder. But Dick’s ready promise to marry her lulled her suspicions. All afternoon she waited in her house for him to come and toward four o’clock she drank a cocktail and died.

“Sometime after lunch on Tuesday Dick planted Mrs. Philips’ note in my instrument bag. I couldn’t understand why, if he intended to steal the hyoscine and cut my stethoscope, he didn’t do it then. The explanation was simple enough: he heard Mamie go into the room beside his to clean and he didn’t have time to do anything more than put the note in my bag.

“After dinner on Tuesday he made his most foolish move. He waited until Mrs. Hays and I had gone downstairs and then broke into my room and stole my instrument bag. First he went into his own room to get his penknife — Mrs. Morgan actually heard him close his door, and he missed Miss Bellinger, he says, by a hair’s breadth. And he took these unnecessary risks, not because he wanted or needed some extra hyoscine, but because he had to destroy my stethoscope.

“He was motivated by ignorance, superstition and panic. The idea occurred to him that perhaps I could use my stethoscope as a kind of lie detector and it grew until it became a compulsion. Well, he took my bag down to the kitchen and cut my stethoscope. He stole what he thought was hyoscine as an after-thought — he still had some left. The theft of the hyoscine would obscure the issue, he thought. The inspector would consider that the important point, and the destruction of the stethoscope would be interpreted as an act of spite. It was another little pointer in Simon’s direction. At this time Mrs. Morgan and Miss Bailey come back into the story.”

The two ladies exchanged cold glances.

“Mrs. Morgan was looking for her negative, and Miss Bailey was looking for clues, and they found each other instead. The ensuing fight ended in a draw.”

Sally began to giggle, and after a halfhearted attempt to look dignified Amanda giggled also.

“Inspector Bailey arrived in time to prevent any grave damage to either of them. To cut it short, Sally escaped and spent the night in a coal mine.”

“In the boathouse,” Sally corrected. “It was the worst night I’ve ever lived through. There were bugs and sand and rats—”

“Rats in my boathouse!” George bellowed.

“Rats and bats,” Sally added firmly. “I was dreadfully hungry and I couldn’t come back because I was afraid they’d put me in jail. And then Wednesday morning Peter found me, and I was so wretched and angry and scared that we had a terrible fight and accused each other of awful things. But we’ve stopped fighting now, haven’t we, Peter?”

Morgan nodded and began to polish his glasses.

“This moves me deeply.” Prye sighed. “On Wednesday nothing in particular happened except that Miss Breton got a little more nervous and Eve got another idea. With touching naiveté she asked Dick to play up to Angela so that she would confess to the murders.”

“I don’t think it was such a bad idea!” Chris said belligerently.

“Well, it wasn’t good,” Eve admitted.

“I think it was swell,” Chris said. “All your ideas are swell, darling!”

“Do you really think so, Chris?”

“I might,” Prye said, “let this inanity continue if I weren’t in the middle of a story. We come now to Thursday and to a grim piece of irony. It was for Angela’s sake that Dick planned the murder of Philips, and it is Angela who has to die next. By Thursday Angela had more than a few misgivings. Mrs. Philips’ death and the theft of my bag were both accomplished without her knowledge, and she began to fear that her partner was becoming too foolhardy and would send them both to the chair. In his confession Dick says that she was quite ready to turn state’s evidence and that she would have accused him of committing both the murders. I can believe it. Neither Dick nor Angela was the type to die for love.

“At any rate, it took Angela too long to decide. She died after dinner on Thursday, and her dying words were heard by everyone in the room.”

“Why didn’t she name him as the murderer?” Amanda asked rather acidly.

“Do you really suppose that a dying person is concerned with helping the police? No, the emotions at death, as at birth, are instinctive and primitive. At first she was amazed at what was happening to her. She said in an incredulous, terrified voice: ‘You killed me!’ She didn’t think or care about the rest of us — she was talking to him, to the man who had been her lover, to the man who had poisoned her before she had a chance to send him to the chair. She was filled with overwhelming anger. ‘You dirty rat!’ I never did think that she meant Simon. Her eyes were closed — how could she have known that Simon was holding her?”

“Why did she say ‘Anna’?” Eve asked.

“‘Anna’ was herself,” Prye said quietly. “Some psychologists believe that a dying person relives his life in the moments before death. I won’t go that far but I do believe that Miss Breton was thinking of some incident in her past when she was still called Anna.”

“And I thought she meant Miss Bellinger!” Barbara said.

Prye smiled. “It was very unlikely that Miss Breton even knew Miss Bellinger’s name was Anna. And if she had been accusing her Miss Breton would scarcely have smiled.”

“Yes, she did smile,” Simon said in a choked whisper.

“On Friday Joseph was strangled to prevent him from giving the inspector some information which would have led to Vanstone’s arrest. I have told you now what happened during the week, but it wasn’t until yesterday, after Joseph’s body had been removed, that I actually thought it all out. If my eliminations were sound it could be no one but Vanstone, and his motive was, of course, Mrs. Morgan’s necklace.”

Prye turned to the inspector with a grin. “And then I thought of a quotation from Blake. I promise you it’s the last.

“O Rose, thou art sick!

The invisible worm,

That flies in the night

In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed

Of crimson joy;

And his dark secret love

Does thy life destroy!”

“The invisible worm and the sick rose,” Simon said with artistic sorrow. “She was just that — a sick rose.”

“She certainly was,” Prye agreed. “The worm himself is feeling none too well at the moment. Are there any more questions?”

Sally rose hastily to her feet. “Where is my necklace?”

“About six feet away from you. Remember where he hid the hyoscine? Look up.”

They all stared blankly up.

“There’s no frosted shade on this light,” Sally said flatly.

“I know. But there’s a crystal chandelier which at the moment is worth a fortune. Not all of those crystal drops are what they seem.”

Sally stared at him incredulously as he took the necklace down.

“Dick put it there on Monday night while he and Miss Breton were hiding in this room.”

“Doctor Prye, you’re marvelous!” Sally said fervently.

“Not marvelous, simply tall,” Prye said. “I automatically duck under chandeliers and I pay them special attention.”

“Marvelous!” Amanda echoed. She caught William’s eye and blushed.

“At your age!” William said reproachfully.

“And what,” Amanda said hastily, “will happen to Mr. Vanstone’s money?”

The inspector spoke in a solemn voice. “Doctor Prye was in top form this morning. He persuaded Mr. Vanstone to leave his money to a psychological research laboratory which specializes in the study of the criminal mind.”

Dr. Prye grinned.

Content

Margaret Millar
The Invisible Worm

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