Seeing is Believing

Four

Vicky hesitated in the doorway.

It was as though this were only some guessing-game in which she hesitated about what question to ask first. Her manner indicated this. Yet her tanned, clean-skinned face, the blue eyes more vivid against it, was softened by another underlying emotion. It was fear, and Sharpless knew it.

"Yes?" she said doubtfully.

Rich took her hand. "Come over here, Mrs. Fane, and sit down on the sofa. Make yourself comfortable."

Vicky stopped short.

"I'd rather not sit on the sofa," she said.

Again a brief, vague touch of uneasiness brushed the room.

"Very well, then," agreed Rich, after a slight pause. "We'll try to make you comfortable somewhere else."

He surveyed the room. He walked towards the windows, but there the sharp-squeaking wood of the floor appeared to irritate him. After treading on it experimentally, he turned round and looked at the extreme opposite end of the room. There Arthur Fane was sitting, with the cardboard box on his knees.

"May we have your chair, Mr. Fane?"

Arthur got up.

The bridge lamp had a very long cord. Rich picked it up from beside the sofa, which was pushed back against the long wall opposite the fireplace. He carried the lamp across to the white easy chair where Arthur had been sitting, and tilted its shade to shine down on the chair. He pushed the chair back flat against the

"Will this suit you, Mrs. Fane?"

"Yes, that's all right," said Vicky. She followed him over and sat down.

"That's it. Just relax. The others of you I should like to sit fairly close, but not too close. Draw up your chairs sideways to her, where she can't see you. That's it."

The center of the room was now a cleared space, with Vicky sitting with her back to one wall and facing the windows from some twenty-five feet away. Rich drew the curtains on these windows. In one corner he found a telephone table, round and of polished mahogany. Removing from it the telephone, an address pad, and a cigarette box, he carried this table to the middle of the room, where he set it down.

"Now!" said Rich — and walked back to Vicky.

"Mrs. Fane," he went on, "I want you to put yourself in my hands. I want you to trust me. You do trust me, don't you?"

"Yes, I think I do."

"Very well."

The man's voice was already compelling. It had a musical vibration in its soft bass. Again Rich tilted the shade of the lamp, so that its light shone on his own face. From his pocket he took a coin, a new and polished which shone with bright silver.

"Mrs. Fane, I'm going to hold this a little above the level of your eyes. I just want you to look at it. Look at it steadily. That's all. It will be easy. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"The rest of you, please be quiet. It is very quiet."

Afterwards, Frank Sharpless was never quite sure how the thing happened.

The room seemed to be full of a soft voice, almost whispering. It went on interminably. It seemed to be leading them past a barrier, into another world. Sharpless could never recall what it said, except that it dealt with sleep, drugging sleep, sleep within dreams, sleep muffled beyond life. It affected even those who were not looking past that bright-shining coin into Rich's eyes.

The clock did not tick; no breath of air stirred in the trees outside; no sense of time existed.

''Sleep now," murmured the voice. "Sleep softly. Sleep deep. Sleep."

And Rich stepped back.

Frank Sharpless felt a chill as though he had been touched with ice.

Vicky Fane lay back quietly, every limb at rest, in the white easy chair. As Rich shifted the light on her, they saw that her eyes were closed. She did not move except for the slow rise and fall of her breast, where the light made a hollow in the smooth flesh above the bodice of the violet-colored gown.

The face, framed in brown bobbed hair, was serene and untroubled, the eyelids waxy, the mouth faintly wistful.

Sharpless, Arthur, Hubert, Ann Browning were all still trying to shake themselves loose from the spell, as from clinging veils on a threshold. Ann spoke, instinctively, in a whisper.

"Can she hear us?"

"No," said Rich, in his normal voice. The change sounded startling. He mopped his moist forehead with a handkerchief.

"Is she really-"

"Oh, yes. She's gone."

"Now, Mr. Fane. Will you take the revolver and the dagger, and place them on that round table I put in the middle of the room?"

Arthur hesitated. For the first time he seemed uneasy. Removing the articles from the cardboard box, he examined them. He bent the rubber dagger back and forth. Suddenly he broke open the magazine of the revolver, drew out and scrutinized each dummy bullet before shutting up the magazine again.

Then, as though sneering at himself, he walked across and put the revolver and dagger on the little table.

He was returning to the group by the easy chair, his footfalls clacking loudly, when they suffered an interruption. The door to the hall opened. Daisy the maid, put her head in.

"Please, sir—" she began.

Arthur turned on her.

"What the devil do you mean by coining in here?" he demanded. His normal voice sounded loud, hard, and harsh against the still-clinging quiet. "I told you—"

Daisy shied back, but stuck it out. "I couldn't help it, sir! There's a man outside, asking for Mr. Hubert, and he won't go away. He says his name's Donald Mac-Donald. He says—"

Arthur turned to Hubert.

"Is that…" Arthur swallowed, but was compelled to complete the sentence. "Is that your bookmaker again?"

"I regret, my dear boy," Hubert conceded, "that such appears to be the fact. Doubtless Mr. MacDonald will be forgiven his sins in a better world (including, let us hope, his avarice), but at the moment I fear he is vulgar enough to want money. A slight miscalculation on my part, despite information straight from the stable-"

"Then go and pay him off. I won't have such people seen at my house, do you hear?"

"Unfortunately, my boy, I have just remembered that I failed to go to the bank today. The sum is trifling: five pounds. If you would be kind enough to advance it to me until tomorrow morning?"

Arthur breathed through his nostrils, heavily. After a pause he reached into his pocket, drew out a notecase, counted out five pound notes, and handed them to Hubert.

"Until tomorrow, my boy," promised Hubert. "I shall be back in a moment. Pray continue the experiment."

The door closed after him.

The spell, which should have been broken, was not broken at all. It may be doubted whether anybody except Arthur had even noticed this byplay. Sharpless, Ann Browning, even Rich himself were gathered round Vicky, regarding her with emotions which need not be described. Arthur Fane spoke quietly.

"And now what?"

"Now," said Rich, mopping his forehead again before putting away the handkerchief, "comes the most difficult part. You have had your breather. Now sit down again, and don't move or speak again until I give you leave. It may be dangerous. Is that clear?"

"But-"

"Please do as I ask."

Two chairs were drawn up on either side of Vicky, ahead and a little in front of her. Sharpless and Ann Browning sat at one side. Arthur sat at the other side, near the empty chair which had been Hubert's. Dr. Rich stood in the midst of this semi-circle, facing Vicky. He allowed the silence to lengthen again before he spoke.

"Victoria Fane," he said softly. The same eerie voice froze them again. "You hear me. You hear me, but you will not yet awake." He paused.

"Victoria Fane, I am your master. My will is your law. Now speak. Repeat after me: 'You are my master, and your will is my law.' "

It was as though the voice had. to travel a long way. After perhaps three seconds, the dummy figure in the chair stirred. A shiver went through Vicky's body. Her head rolled a little to one side. Her lips moved.

" 'You are—' " Everyone jumped when she spoke. It was a whisper; it was not even Vicky's voice; it was like a grotesque echo of the voice which had begun to cut away her soul. " 'You are my master,' " it whispered, " 'and your will is my law.' "

" 'Whatever I am asked to do, that I will do without question. For this is for my own good.' "

The figure in the chair struggled, and became limp.

" 'Whatever I am asked to do,' " it replied colorlessly, " 'that I will do. For this is for my own good.' "

" 'Without question!' "

" 'Without-question.' "

Rich drew a deep breath.

"Now you will awaken," he said. "Open your eyes. Sit up. Gently now."

"God!" cried Sharpless involuntarily.

Rich's fierce gesture silenced him; the brief glance Rich gave over his shoulder kept him silent.

The person looking back at them from the chair was not Vicky Fane. At least, it was not any Vicky Fane they had ever known. From her eyes, even from her whole face, all those qualities which render a face recognizable as human — intelligence, will, character — had all been drained away. It breathed, and it was warm; but it remained clay. In that utter lack of intelligence, even her good looks seemed to have disappeared.

Vicky sat up quietly, without curiosity. She did not blink in the light.

"I warned you," muttered Rich, moistening his lips. "Now watch."

He spoke to his victim.

"On the floor over there by the window, where I put them when I moved the telephone table," he said, "you will find a cigarette box and a box of matches. Bring me a cigarette and a match."

Arthur Fane began, "There's no match b—" But again Rich's glance imposed silence.

The animal in the chair got to her feet.

She walked straight ahead of her. Without looking at it, she passed the little round table which held the revolver and the dagger.

It was darkish at the other end of the room. Reaching the windows, she bent down. She seemed to peer and grope, searching. She pounced on the silver cigarette box, took a cigarette out of it, and pushed it aside. Then she searched for the box of matches; the high heels of her slippers creaked and cracked on the bad flooring as she searched. The seconds lengthened. From Vicky Fane came suddenly a little moaning cry.

"She can't find it, you see," said Rich.

"This is plain cruelty," said Sharpless, who was white to his lips. "I won't have it any longer."

"You won't have it, Captain Sharpless?" inquired Arthur.

"Never mind the matches. You needn't bring me a match," said Rich. His voice was soothing. It reached out softly across the room. It seemed to draw a blanket of warmth round her shoulders as she stood trembling. "Bring me the cigarette instead."

Vicky did so.

Rich looked at the grand piano in the corner by the windows.

"She plays?" Rich asked Arthur.

"Yes, but-"

"Sit down at the piano;" Rich instructed softly. "You are happy, my dear. Very happy. Play something. Sing or hum it as you do, to show us you are happy."

Something was wrong again. Vicky's fingers rested on the keys of the piano. The piano was in gloom; Vicky's back was turned to them some distance away. Yet she seemed to be struggling with herself.

"I command you, my dear. Play anything. Any—"

The piano tinkled, and its keys ran softly.

The voice, which had been trying to hum raggedly, broke off in a sob.

"That will be enough," Rich said quickly.

His expression changed. It was now very grave. Rich's eyes, now grown sharp and shrewd and suspicious, moved round the group. He ran a hand across his bald skull, down to die roll of gray-streaked hair over his collar. He was human again, and very much troubled.

"Gentlemen," he said, "gentlemen, I think I've been in danger of making a grave mistake. I should not have consented to do this until I — investigated. Has Mrs. Fane any association with that particular song?"

"Not that I know of," replied Arthur, with dreary surprise. "Unless, of course, Captain Sharpless can tell us?"

Rich glanced at Sharpless's face. "I think we had better end this." "And I think not," said Arthur Fane. "You insist on that, sir?"

"You, sir, promised to show us something. You have not yet done so."

"As you like," breathed Rich. "Sit down again, then." He waited until the three spectators had done so. "Victoria Fane, walk up to the table in the middle of the room. On that table you will find a loaded revolver. Pick it up."

In the group, it was as though nobody dared to draw his breath. Ann Browning, who had not uttered a word, was bending forward with her knees crossed and her slim hands gripped round them. Her gold hair caught the light. The color in her cheeks, the brilliant shining of her pale blue eyes, made a contrast to the shabby, tear-streaked face of the automaton.

"Walk forward until I tell you to.. there! Stop! Now turn to your right a little more — facing your husband."

Arthur Fane moistened his lips.

"Stand back a few steps… that's it.

Captain Sharpless, if you touch Mrs. Fane in any way, you may do her a serious injury."

Sharpless jerked back.

"Victoria Fane, you hate the man sitting in front of you. He has done something which you consider unforgivable. You hate him from the bottom of your heart. You wish him dead."

Vicky did not move.

"You hold a loaded revolver. From where you stand, it would be easy to shoot him through the heart. Look."

From his inside pocket Rich took out a pencil of soft, dark, rather smeary lead. He went up to Arthur, and, before the latter could protest, he drew a cross on the left breast of his host's soft shirt.

"There is his heart. Higher up than you thought it was. You wish him dead. I order you to kill him. I will count three, and then you will fire. One.. two…"

If the hammer fell on even a dud cartridge, it would make a sharp click. Every ear strained for that click.

Vicky's finger, shaking like the whole movement of her arm and shoulder and body, did not tighten. It loosened and uncurled from the trigger. The revolver dropped with a crash and clatter on the hardwood floor.

She could not do it.

Dr. Richard Rich, expelling his breath slowly, closed up his eyes with relief. It was a second or two before he could smile again.

Though he remained impassive, Arthur Fane could not help the flicker of a complacent smirk which crossed his face. He tried to look cool and unconcerned, yet the other expression intruded, welling up from deep in vanity.

"Ah!" smiled Rich. "You refuse to use the revolver, then. But perhaps it isn't suited to you. Perhaps you can force yourself to use a dagger. A dagger is a woman's weapon. There is a dagger on the table. Get it."

Rather unsteadily, Vicky moved towards the table.

"Good. Pick it up. Grasp the handle firmly. Now return here, and.. stop."

He shaded his eyes with his hand.

"Your hate for the man in front of you is increased. The weapon you hold is just as deadly as the revolver. There is his heart. Strike."

Without hesitation Vicky lifted her arm and struck like a snake.

Grandly, like a satisfied showman, Dr. Richard Rich turned round on his heel to look at Sharpless and Ann Browning. He was smiling. His hand was extended, palm upwards, like one who says, "Well?"

But he did not say it.

Behind him, the door to the hall opened. Hubert Fane, effulgent and self-satisfied, opened the door; and then stopped short. Rich saw the expression on his face as Hubert stared from behind Sharpless and Ann Browning, beyond them to Arthur.

And Rich himself whirled round.

Arthur Fane coughed only once. A black handle, which looked like rubber but could not have been rubber, was protruding from Arthur's white shirt just over the cross Rich had drawn there. But the shirt was no longer white. A moving stain, dull red, widened and deepened round the handle as its edges soaked through the thin fabric.

Arthur, his elbows dug into the arms of the chair, tried to push himself forward. His knees shook. His lips drew back, writhing, for what must have been a second of intense agony. Then he pitched forward on his face.