Seeing is Believing

Twenty

It was just a week later, the fine mellow evening of September third, when many persons were gathered in that same back drawing room.

Vicky Fane was there, now restored to radiant health. Frank Sharpless was there. Ann Browning was there, with Courtney sitting on the arm of her chair. Dr. Richard Rich occupied a modest corner. Dr. Nithsdale, who had dropped in to see Vicky and pronounced her fit for anything, occupied a less modest corner.

Finally, H.M. was there.

"Y’see," said H.M., assuming his stuffed position with finger at temple because he was proudly conscious of his own importance, and preening it in the chair, "the truest word in this case was spoken by accident." He looked at Ann. "You spoke it."

"I did?"

"Yes. You said it would be pretty awful if somebody we thought figured in one role really figured in exactly the opposite role. Remember?"

"Yes; but-"

H.M. looked at Vicky.

"You, ma'am, thought that Arthur Fane was a murderer and Hubert Fane was a blackmailer. Actually, it was just the other way round. Hubert was the murderer and Arthur the blackmailer. Hubert had killed Polly Allen; and Arthur, who knew it, was makin' a very good thing out of it. That's the whole secret of this case; and as far as I’m concerned, its only novelty." He crossed his knees.

"Y'see, ma'am, your knowledge that your husband was a murderer was the 'admitted' fact. "Sure. But who admitted it?

"If this were all written down and traced back, you'd find that there was only one source for all the details about Arthur: Hubert himself. You found a handkerchief in a chair. You heard Arthur, in his sleep, mumblin' some words about the murder of Polly Allen. It was on his conscience, all right; but not in the way you thought it was. You jumped to the conclusion, as most women would, that he was guilty. You went to Hubert. And Hubert told you as fine a little ghost-story as he ever devised."

Vicky nodded. A shadow was on her face.

H.M. lit one of his offensive cigars without apologizing.

"Unfortunately, we — Masters and I — didn't know what you knew, or thought you knew, until you told us all about it on that Sunday afternoon. If we'd been able to pool our information beforehand, we'd have nabbed Master Hubert even faster than we did. When we heard, that tore it.

"Y'see, most people thought Hubert was a wealthy man. Sharpless thought so. Rich thought so. Masters thought so. And the joker in the pack is that he teas a wealthy man.

"What led you and your husband astray at the be-ginnin' was one little fact. Hubert Fane was mean. Just ordinary, plain, miserly mean. He's the sort of person — we all know 'em — who couldn't put his hand in his pocket to pay for a round of drinks if his life depended on it; and who'd think nothin' of charmingly sponging off relatives by living with 'em all year, when all the time he could buy 'em out ten times over.

"Charming people these are, mostly. But I group 'em with my own late uncle under the general category of lice.

"Now, you thought Hubert was a blackmailer. Whereas Masters and I were all at sea simply because, burn me, we did know the facts!

"Last Sunday afternoon, Masters came round to me with a lot of accumulated facts. With the assistance of the bank, he'd looked up the financial standing of everybody in this case; and, as he said, he found absolutely nothing to surprise or help us in any way. In other words, Hubert was just what he pretended to be: a rich man.

"But I didn't at all like die statement of Arthur's financial position.

"What did we know? Six months ago, Arthur was so flat broke and in debt that he had to cash in on his life insurance. But what happened? He got it back later. And what else? All of a sudden, streams of cash were runnin' into Arthur's account — into the current account, where he could use 'em to pay debts — and by the middle of August his books were all straight again."

Again H.M. peered over his spectacles at Vicky. He chewed at the end of his black cigar.

"We then talked to you. You poured out the details of how Arthur had killed Polly Allen (details supplied by Hubert alone); and you told us how Hubert was a penniless blackmailer who'd been bleedin' Arthur in a mild, gentlemanly way.

"And, I repeat, that tore it. I saw how the whole situation had been put the wrong way round. If Hubert himself was the murderer, and Arthur the blackmailer, that made everything fit together with a wallop. It supplied the thing that had bothered me like blazes: motive."

Vicky had a wrinkle between her brows. She made several false starts before she managed to speak.

"Then Arthur," she said hesitantly, "never…?"

"Played the rip?" said H.M. "No. He was a crook financially. But he was a strictly faithful husband. He said, and believed it himself, that there wasn't a happier couple in England than himself and his wife."

Vicky put her hands over her eyes.

H.M. looked uncomfortable.

"But maybe," he went on, puffing out a cloud of poisonous smoke, "I'd better take the story from the beginning.

"Now, I had my eye on Uncle Hubert from the start. Maybe he reminded me of a certain blighter I once knew years ago. But never mind that. The closer you looked at him, the fishier everything about him seemed.

"For instance, he liked to play the part of the paternal uncle, the father of his female friends, the 'dear old gentleman' who had only benevolent advice for young ladies. But he wasn't old, unless you're young enough to consider the middle-fifties old. And what did we hear about him from Dr. Rich, the man who'd been his doctor and ought to know?"

H.M. craned his neck round and peered at Rich, who was gloomily regarding the floor.

"Do you remember savin', son, that you could have understood it very well if the charge of hypnotizing a woman in order to seduce her had been made against Hubert Fane?"

"I do," said Rich.

"And you consider that a pretty fair estimate of his character?" "I did and do."

"Uh-huh. Well, everything about Hubert Fane: the way he looked, the way he dressed, the way he acted: all indicated that he was a real sizzler. He liked his women young, the younger the better. He liked 'em delicate and fragile. Like Polly Allen, for instance. Or like-"

"Were you looking at me?" inquired Ann, as H.M. peered so strongly and obviously in her direction that she had to take notice. Ann colored up.

"Yes, my wench, I was. And I'd like to bet you that Hubert Fane had been makin' what we'll call advances to you. And that you were on the point of telling us so, when we kept mistakenly askin' you about Arthur's activities in that direction. Only you couldn't force yourself to do it.

"I remember how you looked at Adams's place, that Thursday afternoon by the clock-golf outfit, when we first talked about Polly Allen. You said with a pointed kind of emphasis that you didn't know Arthur well, but you did know his 'family.' You wouldn't refer to his wife like that. And he hadn't got any family: his father and mother died at a time you were in rompers. Any family, that is, except Hubert. Is that what you were tryin' to convey?"

"Yes," admitted Ann, and nodded her head violently.

Her face was scarlet.

"For some time?" asked H.M.

"Yes, for some time."

"What had he been doing?" inquired Vicky, with considerable interest.

"Now, now!" said H.M. austerely. "None o' that!"

"Well, it'd be interesting to know," Sharpless pointed out, with a broad and open grin. "But never mind. Go on, sir. Dish us out the dirt."

"So our good, harmless Hubert took up with Polly Allen. Whether or not because she reminded him of the girl who wasn't having any, I'll leave you to decide. I think t don't have to emphasize that. But now, my fatheads, I'd like to call your attention to an interestin' parallel. Has any of you ever heard of the Sandyford Place mystery?"

"Hoots!" cried Dr. Nithsdale, with rich scorn. "Whu doesna ken it?"

"I don't, for one," said Sharpless.

The little doctor glared at him. H.M. silenced them both.

"You'll find it in the Notable British Trials series. It happened at Glasgow in the early 'sixties. In Sandyford Place, off Sauchiehall Street—"

"Saw-ee-all Street," corrected Dr. Nithsdale sternly. "Mon, ye're pronunciation of Eenglish wad mak' an Eskimo shuver in a hot-hoose."

"All right. Saw-ee-all Street," said H.M., accepting the correction but unable to manage the proper gulp between the first two syllables. "One night when all the family were away from home except a servant girl named Jessie McPherson and a sanctimonious, holy old gent named James Fleming, the servant girl was murdered. Very nastily, with a chopper.

"I'm not goin' to argue the evidence, which is debated yet. A woman named McLachlan was eventually arrested, and gentle James Fleming released as the Crown's chief witness. At the trial, the judge referred to him as a 'dear old gentleman,' which same term has been applied to Hubert Fane.

"But it always seemed to me that Fleming killed the girl because she wouldn't give in to him, and made a row, and then he wanted to hush it up.To quote McLachlan: 'He just said it couldna be helped now, although he was very sorry.' It's certain that this dear old gentleman was a cantin' humbug—"

"Aye. One of ihe grea'est blackguards," agreed Dr. Nithsdale with pride, "that even Sco'land ever gave us."

"And on the night of July fifteenth, in this room," said H.M., "the same thing happened all over again."

There was a pause.

"Y'see, Hubert made a mistake. He'd been used to success. But he didn't know Polly Allen. As we've heard, she liked 'em young; she laughed at anybody over forty; and she didn't care a curse about money. That's why she was so 'amused,' as her friends said, when she set out for her mysterious date on that night.

"Hubert thought this was goin' to be easy. He chose a night when all the women were away, and Arthur was supposed to be workin' late at the office. Correct?"

"Yes," said Vicky.

"Of course nobody among Polly's friends had ever heard of any affair with Arthur Fane. There never had been any.

"So Hubert invited his languishin' prey here. And what happened? She laughed at him. You follow that? She laughed at him. And so the dear old gentleman lost his head and strangled her.

"Arthur, returnin' from the office earlier than was expected, found 'em here. The scene must have been pretty riotous. Hubert did just what old James Fleming is supposed to have done: offered money if Arthur would keep his mouth shut. Arthur said: 'Money? You haven't got a bean.' Whereat Hubert, however anguished at havin' to do it, produced evidence that opened Arthur's eyes.

"Arthur Fane needed that money. So he—"

"He helped in the disposal of the body?" interposed Ann.

"That's right, my wench. The little scene you witnessed, of Arthur comin' to the door in his shirtsleeves, didn't suggest an assignation. It suggested work: spade-work.

"What they did with the body we don't know and we're not likely to. The only thing we can be sure of is that it's not buried near Leckhampton Hill, where

Hubert later said it was. But you can't wonder that Arthur Fane talked about murder in his sleep." H.M. looked at Vicky.

"From then on dates Hubert's changed place in the household — which you, ma'am, misinterpreted. Y'see, we tend to forget that there are certain advantages about the position of a person who's bein' blackmailed. He can demand a better room in the house, and the sort of food he wants at table. He can say, 'Burn it all, if I'm being bled to the tune of a couple of thousand pounds, I'm going to get something out of it.' Also, he can make the blackmailer pretty uncomfortable too.

"He can keep remindin' the blackmailer, by sly little digs (as Hubert did), that they're in the same boat together. If Hubert Fane was a murderer, he could make ruddy sure Arthur kept in mind how a respectable solicitor helped dispose of the body and raked in the cash for doin' it. Think back over everything you ever heard Hubert say, and see if it doesn't sound different now.

"But Hubert had already decided that the blackmailer was goin' to die."

A stir went through the group.

"Ah!" murmured Rich. "Now we come to it."

"In a minute, son. Don't hurry me.

"Hubert's original idea, I think, was a straight-out business of shovin' strychnine into a grapefruit. Arthur, as we've heard, was partial to grapefruit."

Courtney interposed here.

"Wait. Where did he get the strychnine? And has this anything to do with your mysterious trips in buying horse liniment from all the chemists in Cheltenham?"

H.M. looked modest.

"Well, y'see, son, it occurred to me that if I ever wanted to poison anybody in a small town or village…" "Heaven help the victim if you ever do!" H.M. glared him down.

"As I said," he continued with dignity, after a suitably withering interval, "I'd never be so fatheaded as to buy poison and sign the register. I wouldn't need to.

"Most small-town chemists, in my experience, are friendly souls who like to talk. They don't mind you loiterin'. If they know you, they don't even mind your hangin' about in the dispensary while they make up prescriptions.

"I've never forgotten — long ago — discoursin' philosophy myself in a dispensary, while the chemist went from room to room, or attended to the shop outside. And I looked round, and there at my elbow was a five-ounce bottle of strychnine.

"Usually it's the most conspicuous thing on the shelves: a clear glass bottle of white powder, with a red label. You can't miss it. I sort of thought then that I could have tipped out a little of that stuff in my hand, and the chemist'd never know the difference unless he came to check over his stock. And by that time it'd be too late to remember who in blazes might have got at the bottle."

Sharpless shook his head.

"You know, sir," Sharpless remarked, "you really are an old son of a so-and-so, and no mistake." H.M. drew himself up.

"I'm the old maestro," he said, tapping his own chest; "and don't let any would-be criminal ever forget it.

"So I sort of wondered whether anybody might 'a' tried that dodge. Hubert Fane was a friendly soul who got on good terms with everybody.

"It might be interesting to do a bit of snoopin', and find out what chemists encouraged loiterin'. I had to have prescriptions filled, of course. I couldn't ask any questions, or the chemist would have shut up like an oyster. The police could do the questioning when I'd weeded out my list of possibles.

"But stop side-trackin' me! I was goin' on about Hubert Fane.

"His original plan, I think, was a straight-out murder with strychnine. But two things happened. First: he ran into his old friend Richard Rich. And, second: Mrs. Fane came in and tackled him about the murder of Potty Allen.

"Now this last thing put him in one awful awkward position. When she asked him if Arthur had killed the girl, he couldn't say: 'No; I did it myself.' And he couldn't deny the whole thing altogether, or she'd only investigate further and then there might be the devil to pay.

"So he shut her up by agreein' with what she thought, supplying such extra details as his fancy thought up, and pretendin' to be the harmless blackmailer she believed he was. The dear old gentleman again.

H.M. pointed a raw-burning cigar at Vicky, and raised his eyebrows.

"I'd just like to bet, ma'am, that the first words he said to you, in a good deal of a nervous and apologetic way, was something like this: 'Why don't you talk the matter over with Arthur?"

Vicky nodded.

"Yes, he did," she cried. "But I couldn't! I couldn't have mentioned it to Arthur. At least, not then. Not yet. Not till I'd had time to think."

"Right," said H.M., "and very well he knew it. And by the time you might have screwed up your courage, it'd be too late. For this ingenious feller, who knows the names of Sergeant Cuff and Hamilton Qeek in a day when most people have unhappily forgotten 'em, had now planned Arthur's murder down to the last detail.

"Hubert invited Rich to this house. He knew the conversation was bound sooner or later to get round to hypnotism. If it didn't, he could always drag it there. But he got his opportunity in the persistence of an argumentative young chap like Sharpless. Then Rich-"

H.M. paused, sniffed, and stirred uncomfortably.

"Scenting another good dinner," supplied Rich curtly. "Go on. Don't be afraid. Say it"

"Rich offered to do his parlor trick. It was Hubert (remember?) who insisted that you should all get together for dinner again on the followin' night. And so the scheme was ready.

"The important thing to remember about this 'experiment,' as Rich told me himself, was that it never varied and it could be timed to a second. Correct, son?"

Rich nodded. "Yes. Any entertainer will tell you the same. It becomes automatic. If possible, I always began at nine o'clock."

"Now, ladies and gents, where Hubert learned about the trick we don't know and your guess is as good as mine. But he must have seen it, probably more than once. He had it taped and he had it timed.

"To plan his details wasn't difficult. If you tell a Scottish-Jew bookie—"

"There are na' any Jews in Sco'land," interrupted Dr. Nithsdale. "They canna mak' a living there."

"Shut up. If you tell a Scottish-Jew bookie, whom you owe five pounds, to be at your house at a certain time to collect it, the one thing in this good green world you can be sure of is that he'll be on time to the tick. Donald MacDonald was timed to arrive durin' the pause, or breather, after Mrs. Fane had been put to sleep. And out went Hubert."

The summer dusk was deepening outside the windows. The ceiling lights were on in the back drawing room, making a brilliant glow where formerly there had been only the bridge lamp. All H.M.'s listeners were bending forward with gratifying absorption in what he said.

"Next," pursued H.M., "lenune ask you a question. What was the one time in the whole 'experiment' when you could be certain — absolutely certain — that every witness would have his eyes glued on either Mrs. Fane or Arthur Fane, and wouldn't have looked round if a bomb had gone off?

"I'll tell you. It was the time when Mrs. Fane was asked to pick up the revolver, walk over while Rich gave her a little lecture, and shoot her husband. Now wasn't it?"

"Yes," admitted Ann.

The others nodded.

"Hubert Fane went out into the hall, and to the front door. There he stood talkm' to the bookie, with one eye on his wrist-watch. When he judged the time was approaching, he sent Donald MacDonald away.

Daisy was in the hall, hoverin' round the drawing-room door with all her attention concentrated there, as he knew she'd be. What did Hubert do then? As we know, he walked back to the dining room. Now I want you to think back. You!" He pointed at Courtney. "The first time you ever set eyes on Hubert Fane, or I ever set eyes on him, what was he doing?"

Courtney reflected.

"He was standing in the dining room," Courtney responded, "by the sideboard. Taking a nip out of a bottle of brandy. In the dark."

H.M. nodded.

"Uh-huh. Sneaking a drink in the dark, as his habit was. As Daisy in the hall knew and expected.

"But this time he didn't do it. On Sunday I noticed somethin' else about that dining room. I noticed it after a nasty accident when I slipped on a rug and caused myself a serious injury that's mebbe goin' to leave me lame. Those rugs are arranged like islands. They're arranged so a man can walk quickly from the sideboard to the kitchen door without his foot makin' a noise on the hardwood.

"And something else. Has any of you noticed that the swing-door to the kitchen is absolutely noiseless and don't creak at all?"

"Yes," returned Courtney, thinking back. "I remember noticing it myself."

"So Hubert walked into the dining room, partly closing the door. He thumped over and made a bottle clink. Then he slipped as quiet as a ghost to the kitchen door, through the kitchen, and out the back door.

"He knew he wouldn't meet anybody, because (don't we know?) Mrs. Propper always goes to bed at nine o'clock every night of her life. Now. Outside the kitchen door, Hubert has left… well, what? You tell me. You used the same article yourself, fast enough, on Sunday night, and for the same purpose as Hubert used it."

Courtney spoke into a vast silence.

"A short ladder," he said.

"Right. A short ladder.

"Y'see, my fatheads, all this guff and hoo-ha about a four-foot unmarked flower-bed, and dust on the window-sills, doesn't mean a curse. Why should either trouble you — if all you've got to do is prop up the ladder on a concrete drive, across the flower-bed, and rest it on the outer edge of the window-sill?

"All your assumptions, you understand, were based on the belief that somebody must have climbed through the window and into the room. But, of course, nobody ever did get into the room at all. It wasn't necessary."

Again there was a silence.

"But the time taken to do all this!" protested Sharpless.

H.M. emitted a ghoulish chuckle. "I sort of thought somebody would mention that. I got here—" he held it up—"a stop-watch. You, son, go out into the dining room now. When you hear somebody shout 'Go!' run through the same motions as Hubert. You'll find the ladder outside. Prop it up, and stick your head through the window."

H.M. handed the stop-watch to Courtney as Sharpless strode out of the room.

"Clock him," H.M. instructed.

Sharpless called out, unseen, that he was ready.

"Go!" shouted Courtney, and pressed the pin of the watch.

The steady little hand traveled. In the dusk, the edge of a ladder presently appeared on the window-sill, clearly to be seen when die curtains were open. As Sharpless's head reared up, Courtney stopped the watch.

"There must be something wrong with this thing!" he said. "It's only thirteen seconds."

"No, son. That's about right. Now clear the center of the room, and put the little table there."

They all moved back as Ann and Courtney set out the table. H.M. gravely laid a rubber dagger on the table.

"Now watch," he instructed.

From his inside pocket he took out an object which made them blink. It was made of very light, thin wood, painted white. It was folded together in a series of strips, with handles at one end.

"But what is it?" inquired Ann.

"It's a lazy-tongs," said H.M. "You've probably seen 'em. Woolworth's used to sell toy ones; I expect they still do."

He pressed the handles. What had seemed a flattened fine of wooden strips suddenly began to elongate. They now saw that it was composed of a series of lightly jointed pieces of wood, diamond-shaped.

When the handles were pressed, the joinings stretched out into diamonds and then flattened again as the contraption stretched out farther and farther— a foot, two feet, six feet, eight — like a rigid snake. H.M. pressed the handles the other way, and it drew back again into its small, compact shape.

"I first thought o' this little joker," he went on, "on Thursday, when we were talkin' about the trick of driving a pin into the arm without pain.

"The lazy-tongs is used by conjurers; and, of course, fake spiritualists. While they're in one place, they can stretch it out in the dark and make things move across any part of the room. Thus a ghostly luminous hand floats in the air, and so on.

"I deliberately mentioned a lazy-tongs in front of Masters on Sunday, in connection with those two roarin' fake spiritualists the Davenport brothers, to see if he'd tumble to it. But he didn't.

"And then — oh, love a duck! — I began to be pursued by lazy-tongs. They haunted me. The rose-trellises in your garden here are shaped like lazy-tongs. Hubert stood in a forest of 'em, and talked to us. Then I sat down at the telephone in Agnew's office; and there, starin' back at me, was a telephone on a foldin' steel framework, to push out or push back, with exactly the same principle.

"I'm haunted, I am.

"Hubert made one of 'em for himself. On the end of it (see) is a little spring that'll fit over any object it touches and hold it tight.

"He stood outside the window, peepin' through a chink in the curtains. When Mrs. Fane was told to shoot her husband, and every eye in this room was burnin'ly concentrated on that spectacle, the lazy-tongs slid in through the curtains.

"It caught the dagger, twelve feet away, and snaked back with it. Good old Hubert put the real dagger, which is hardly heavier than the rubber one, lightly attached to the end so that a touch on the table would release it.

"When Rich cried to Mrs. Fane, 'One — two — three— fire,' and nobody in here would have seen a herd of elephants, the lazy-tongs whisked out again. A touch released the dagger on the table. Any small noise it might have made was deadened by the rubber handle, and your own preoccupation. And there you are. To change the daggers, Masters and I found, takes about ten seconds."

He swung round to Sharpless.

"Now, son. Climb down. Shove the ladder in the shed, and hurry back in here.. Clock him as he does it."

The clicking little hand of the watch moved steadily, while nobody spoke.

Then Sharpless opened the door to the hall, and Courtney pressed the stem of the watch.

"Longer," he said. "Seventeen seconds."

''Thirteen plus ten plus seventeen," said H.M. dreamily. "Forty seconds. Less than a minute. But allow a little leeway for judgin', and studyin' on Hubert's part, and say one minute.

"Does that strike you as bein' very long? Do you wonder that Daisy was willing to swear Hubert only walked into the dining room and took a drink?

"So Hubert, as you remember, came back briskly just in time to open the door and see Arthur Fane stabbed to death in the chair."

H.M. grumpily folded up the lazy-tongs and replaced it in his breast pocket.

"That's the whole sad story, my children. He had the tongs on him then, and the rubber dagger. All he had to do afterwards was shove the rubber dagger down out of sight in the sofa. Whether he had the wild, starin', brass-bound cheek to nail up the joints of his lazy-tongs, so that it became rigid at half its extended length, and then get rid of it by stickin' it in the garden as a rose-trellis in plain sight… well, I dunno. But I've got a hazy idea that it'd be like Hubert. It'd appeal to his sense of humor." They all sat down again.

"It's a part of the story," prompted Ann, "but not all. What happened afterwards?"

"The rest," said H.M., settling back, "is plain sailing for us. But not for him. On that same night, after his trick was over, he got one hell of a shock.

"For Rich's curiosity had been roused by the rummy emotional undercurrents in this place. Rich wanted to know what ailed Mrs. Fane. While she was under hypnosis, up in that bedroom, Rich asked questions. And, in front of Rich and another witness, she told about the murder of Polly Allen."

"But how could Hubert have known that?" demanded Courtney.

"Because he heard you and me talkin', that's how!" snapped H.M. "Think back, son. Where were we when you first told me all about what you'd heard eavesdroppin' on that balcony?"

Courtney reflected.

"We were standing just outside the front door of this house," he answered, "in the dark."

"Yes. And who occupies the other front bedroom: across the hall from Mrs. Fane's, and also with a balcony facing the front lawn?"

"Hubert," replied Ann instantly.

"We — we moved him to it after the fifteenth of July," Vicky gritted.

"And," said Ann, "Phil and I saw his shadow pass the window there the night you were so ill."

"That's right," agreed H.M. "I sort of thought at the time there was a ghosty kind of shadow up over our heads. But I paid no attention. Hubert, pokin' his big nose out to get a breath of air, heard Courtney tellin' me all about Polly Allen.

"To say that Hubert must have got the breeze up would be puttin' it mildly. The coppers mustn't even hear about Polly. But they had. Under pressure, Mrs. Fane was almost certain to speak out. Why shouldn't she? Her husband, who she thought was the murderer, was dead. The police would get to pryin'. They'd connect Hubert with it. They'd find out that instead of being a 'penniless blackmailer—'

"Well, what Hubert had to do was to shut her mouth before she told the police that he knew anything about Polly Allen. Up to that time (remember?) we didn't know Hubert had any connection with it at all.

"/ gave him his bright idea, curse him. I got rather a phobia about sterilizin' things, and raised a rumpus with Courtney about Rich using a pin on the lady's arm without sterilizing it.

'That gave Hubert to think. If Mrs. Fane died an accidental death, poor gal, of tetanus…

"He went down to the library and looked up tetanus in the encyclopedia. There, starin' back at him in the article (as you can verify by reading it) was the information that the symptoms of tetanus are just the same as those of strychnine poisoning.

"So he had a use for his strychnine after all."

H.M. paused, and pulled at a dead cigar.

"The next day, Thursday, Mrs. Fane would be feel-in' awful ill and upset after what she'd been through. When she felt like that, she ate nothin' but grapefruit. All he had to do was hang about with a little heap of poison in his hand until he saw his opportunity."

Sharpless interposed.

"But what opportunity, sir? I carried the damned grapefruit up to her, and I can swear—"

"Oh, no, you can't, son. Lemme ask you a question. You carried a tray. What was on that tray?"

"The grapefruit, in a glass dish, and a spoon."

"Yes. What else?"

"Nothing but the sugar-bowl."

"That's right. As you were walkin' through the hall, Hubert passed you and stepped up in front of you. Didn't he?"

"Only for a fraction of a second. I didn't stop. I—" "All right. And what did Hubert say? He said,

'Grapefruit, eh?' Didn't he? And what else did he do?

He stretched out his hand and pointed to it, didn't he?"

"Yes, but he didn't touch the grapefruit."

"He didn't need to. While you automatically looked where his finger was pointin', his other hand did the trick. It dropped strychnine into white sugar in the sugar-bowl.

"Mrs. Propper, d'ye see, had put only a very little sugar on. Mrs. Fane likes the stuff sweet. She added sugar mixed with strychnine to it; and saved her own life by puttin' an overdose on the fruit. That's all. Hubert, who was popular in the kitchen, had a dozen opportunities to clean out the sugar-bowl later.

"He didn't even bother to be subtle about it. For he never even expected strychnine to be thought of, once he'd planted that rusty pin in the bedroom. The one thing that realty surprised him, later, was when we told him it wasn't tetanus but strychnine.

"An ass, Hubert, in a way. For it was suspected. And his victim didn't die.

"I'll pass over his state of mind that same Thursday night, when you saw him walkin' past the window and slapping his hands together like a wild man. He had to let himself go in some way. I'll pass over, to save embarrassment, the other thing he did that night. I mean the play he made at a certain gal, in the lane behind here: the thing he'd been burnin' to do for so long. The thing he wanted to do so much that it had got him involved in murder to begin with."

Courtney, on the arm of Ann's chair, glanced down at her. Her hands were clasped together, and she regarded them without expression.

'That was Hubert, then?" she asked.

"It was, my wench," said H.M., "and I think you knew it. Courtney scared him away, or there might have been real trouble. Pleasant gentleman, Hubert. Dear old gentleman."

H.M. sniffed.

"So we come to the last act.

"On Sunday afternoon Masters came round to me with his bunch of reports. I was dead certain our man was Hubert by that time, if we could only find a motive.

"Hubert, if you remember, begged us not to ask Mrs. Fane too many questions when we went over to question her. I promised we wouldn't. But—" he studied Vicky—"we did ask you questions. And you gave us the whole story of Arthur and Hubert and Polly Allen. The case was complete at last.

"But, oh, my eye, was it worryin'! For the first time since your illness you were, to all intents and purposes, alone in that house with a murderer. And the nurse, who'd slept in your room, had been dismissed that day."

Vicky shivered.

And Courtney remembered H.M.'s expression as H.M. had come out to them as they sat under the fruit trees, after his interview with Vicky.

"Masters and I felt the blighter might have another go at you." He craned round towards the others. "We persuaded this gal to ask Ann Browning to come and stay the night with her. With somebody in the same room, we didn't think even Hubert would be loony enough to try anything.

"We also jumped for joy when a little informal search of Hubert's room revealed a cache of strychnine powder, an alcohol solution ready for it, and a hypodermic. For the strychnine we sort of substituted salts, and went our way.

"The case wasn't complete. We didn't dare let Hubert know we twigged him yet, in case he claimed the stuff had been planted on him. We warned Mrs. Fane not to let on she'd told us anything, in case he questioned her—"

"As he did," muttered Vicky.

"But that very evening the case had the tin hat put on it when Agnew reported that Hubert could be identified by an iron-monger in Gloucester as the man who bought the knife. Meantime, Hubert had his last fling.

"Even in his vanity he had the sense to realize he might, just might, be suspected. So he created a phantom outsider by obviously knockin' on a drain-pipe under Mrs. Propper’s windows, and fiddlin' about with the window to create his burglar.

"Next he made noises downstairs to attract Ann Browning and draw her down. If she hadn't gone… well, I get a bit of gooseflesh to think what might have happened. Hubert nipped up the stairs, administered a hypodermic to a sleeping woman, and ducked down again after she'd returned.

"He was now nicely placed. He'd disconnected the bell and discouraged intrusion. You'll have guessed what he did. He went into the drawin' room here, turned off the light, and sat down. He took an extremely heavy stonework jar, whose surface wouldn't take fingerprints, held it at full arms' length over his own head, and let it go. That was where he made the last, silliest mistake of his life."

Dr. Rich interrupted.

"Just a moment, Sir Henry! I don't quite understand this. All along you've been referring to him in the past tense. Now you say 'of his life.' Why?"

H.M. peered round. '

"Oh, son! Haven't they told you? Didn't you know?"

"Know what?"

"Hubert died from concussion of the brain early on Monday morning."

Rich whistled. "As bad as that?"

"It wouldn't have been for an ordinary person, no. But haven't you, as a medical man, seen his head? Those hollows at the temples? The bone formation? He's one of those blokes who have almost eggshell skulls. A blow which would only knock out you or me would kill him. But he didn't know it. And in all innocence, to prove the phantom outsider knocked him out, he held that lump of stone high over his head, and — killed him-self. Incidentally, for all of you, it's die best thing that could have happened."

"You mean," muttered Sharpless, and looked at the floor, "scandal."

"Yes. Scandal. I suppose you and madam still are goin' to get married?"

"Are we!" roared Sharpless, and took the hand of a beaming Vicky. "Are we?"

"Well, son, if Hubert Fane had come to trial, the amount of scandal that'd have been poured out would have kept the newspapers (and your old man, and the War Office) interested for some time. Hubert would’ve seen to that. As it is—"

"As it is?"

"They've already given it out that Arthur Fane was murdered by his late uncle, who was believed to be a good deal of a loony. And that's not far out either. So don't be too precipitate, and you'll be all right."

The corners of H.M.'s mouth turned down. He flung his cigar across into the fireplace. An expression of all the world in collusion against him weighed him down and pained him.

"That's the bleedin' trouble, all the tune," he complained. "Look at me. I'm supposed to be dictatin' a book, an important social and political document. But have I finished it? No! Am I likely to finish it?"

"Yes," said Courtney.

"No!" said H.M. fiercely. "And why? I'll tell you. Because all this week, a whole long week, the feller who's supposed to be taking it down has done nothin' but hang about and canoodle with that gal in the chair there. They haven't been apart, either in the figurative or the literal sense, for—"

Again Phil Courtney was utterly at peace with all the world. He reached down and put his arm around Ann, who pressed against him.

"That's a wicked lie!" protested Ann, coloring up.

"So?"

"Yes. But he's' free tomorrow evening, provided you let me come along and listen to the memoirs."

"Well," grinned Sharpless, "the very best of luck, old boy. And you too_? Ann."

"And lots of it," said Vicky.

"May I too," said Dr. Rich, "add my congratulations? I am feeling that this is rather a better world than I believed a fortnight ago, despite Hubert Fane and all his works. With the assistance of Sir Henry, I hope before many months—"

"Thanks," said Courtney.

"Loads of thanks," said Ann.

"Hoots!" said Dr. Nithsdale, sternly and implacably.

And so, had you been in the pleasant town of Cheltenham on the mellow September evening following, you might have seen three persons walking abreast in Fitzherbert Avenue, taking the air in the cool of dusk.

On the inside was a fair-haired girl. Next to her walked a preoccupied young man who was holding a note pad in one hand and trying to write shorthand with the other.

On the outside marched a magnificent figure in flannels and a high-crowned hat of loose-woven straw. The curious voice of this figure carried and reverberated under the elms.

"One day towards the close of my fifteenth year, chancing to be in the auditorium at St. Just's, I can recall climbing up to the scene-shifters' platform over the stage. This chanced to be at a time when the Rev. Doctor Septimus Worcester was delivering a lecture on Palestine to the boys, otherwise assembled.

"I also recall that over the proscenium-arch, facing the auditorium, were two small and invisible doors like the doors of a cupboard. As Dr. Worcester spoke of Palestine, some impulse — I know not what — prompted me to fling these doors open, and, popping out my head, cry, 'Cuckoo! Cuckoo!' before instantly closing the doors again.

"Nor could this fail to remind me of the occasion when I contrived to get an uncle of mine, George Byron Merrivale, chucked into the local clink for poaching. I will now tell my readers how I did this."

Peace and drowsy airs lay on the world. The voice passed and faded away up the road.