“I must warn yer not ta resist, Mr. Peel.”
The girl emitted a wail that verged on another scream.
“See here,” Peel snapped irritably, “who the deuce are you? What right do you’ have to break into a private home and prance around making arrests?”
The policeman waved his hand indignantly. “Name of Jenkins, sir. Sutton Township Force. And I ain’t prancin’, sir.”
“Then you’re serious?”
The policeman pointed a majestic finger up the corridor. “Come along, sir.”
“Answer me, you blithering idiot! Are you serious?”
“You oughter, know, sir,” replied the policeman with considerable dignity. “Now come along.”
Peel gave it up helplessly and went. He had learned long ago that when one is faced with an incomprehensible situation it is folly to take any action until sufficient data comes to hand. He preceded the policeman up the winding stairs and heard the whimpering scullery maid come after them. So far he still only knew two things. One: Something, somewhere, had happened. Two: The police had taken over.
All this was upsetting to say the least, but he would keep his head. He prided himself that no situation ever took him at a loss.
When they emerged from the cellars, Peel received his second surprise. It was broad daylight outside—bright daylight. He glanced at his watch. It read exactly twelve forty. He dropped his wrist and blinked. The unexpected sunlight made him a little ill. The policeman touched his arm and directed him toward the Iibrary. Peel immediately marched to the high, sliding doors and pulled them open.
The library was, high, long and narrow, with a small balcony running around it just under the ceiling.
There was a long trestle table filling the length of the room, and at the far end three figures were seated, silhouetted against the light that streamed through the narrow window. Peel stepped in, vaguely conscious of a
second policeman on guard beside the door. His eyes narrowed as he tried to distinguish faces.
While he peered, he listened carefully to the tremendous hubbub of surprise and exclamations that greeted him. He judged that: One: People had been looking for him. Two: He had been missing for some time. Three: No one had ever expected to find him here in Sutton Castle. Four: How did he get back in, anyway? All this from the astonished voices. Then his eyes accommodated to the light.
One of the three was a lanky, angular man with a narrow, graying head and deep-furrowed features.
He looked familiar to Peel. The second was short and stout with ridiculously fragile glasses perched on a bulbous nose. The third was a woman, and again Peel was shocked to see that it was his wife. She wore a plaid suit and held a crumpled green felt hat in her lap.
Before he could analyze the data further, the angular man quieted the others and then turned. He said:
“Mr. Peel?”
Peel advanced quietly and said: “Yes?”
‘‘I’m Inspector Hoss.”
“I thought I recognized you, inspector. We’ve met before, I believe?”
“We have.” Hoss nodded curtly, then indicated the fat man. “This is Dr. Richards.”
“How d’you do, doctor—” Peel turned toward Sidra and bowed with a faint air of irony. “Sidra?”
In flat tones she said: “Hello, Robert.”
“I’m afraid I’m a little confused by all this,” Peel went on amiably. “Things seem to be happening—”
This, he knew, was the right talk. Be cautious. Commit yourself to nothing.
“They are,” Hoss said grimly.
“Before we go any further, might I inquire the time?”
Hoss was a little taken aback. He said: “It’s two o’clock.”
“Thank you.” Peel held his watch to his ear, then adjusted the hands. “My watch seems to be running, but somewhere it’s lost a little time—” While he apparently devoted himself to his wrist watch he examined their expressions minutely. He would have to navigate with exquisite care purely by the light of their countenances until he learned much more.
Then, quite abruptly, Peel forgot his watch and stared at the desk calendar before Hoss. This was like a punch in the ribs. He swallowed and said: “Is that date quite right, inspector?”
Hoss glanced at the calendar, then back at Peel, his eyes widening. “It is, Mr. Peel. Sunday the twenty-third.”
His mind screamed: Three days! Impossible.
Easy—Easy—Peel stiffened and controlled himself. Very well. Somewhere he had lost three days—for he had entered the veil Thursday just past midnight. He felt himself beginning to perspire and reached out blindly for a chair. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said faintly, and sat down.
Keep cool, you confounded idiot. There’s more at stake than three lost days. He lectured to himself in swift silence to give his nerves time to calm. You know you’re a match for anyone. People don’t know how to think. A man with a logical mind can cope with anything. Wait for more data.
After a moment of silence, Hoss said: “The fact is, Mr. Peel, we’ve been looking for you these past three days. You disappeared quite suddenly and we thought we knew why. We’re rather surprised to find you in the castle. Rather surprised, indeed—”
“Ah? Why?” Careful now. Be careful!
“I should have thought you’d stay as far away from Sutton Castle as possible.”
“Again why?” What’s happened? Why the police—the suspicion—the guarded tone? What’s Sidra doing here sitting like an avenging fury?
“Because, Mr. Peel, you’re charged with the willful and intended murder of Lady Sutton.”
Shock! Shock! Shock! They piled on one after the other, and still Peel kept hold of himself. The data was coming in a little too explicitly now. He had hesitated in the veil for a few seconds, and those seconds amounted to three days. Lady Sutton was found dead—evidently. He was charged with murder.
Still he needed more facts before he spoke. Now, more than ever, he had to steer carefully.
Peel said: “I don’t understand. You had better explain.”
“Early Friday morning,” Hoss began without preamble, “the death of Lady Sutton was reported.
Immediate medical examination proved she died of shock. Witnesses’ evidence revealed that you had deliberately frightened her with full knowledge of her weak heart and with the express intent so to kill her.
That is murder, Mr. Peel.”
‘It certainly is,” Peel answered coldly, “if you can prove it. May I ask whom your witnesses are?”
“Digby Finchley. Christian Braugh. Theone Dubedat, and—” Hoss broke off, coughed and laid the paper aside.
“And Sidra Peel,” Peel finished dryly. Again he met his wife’s eye and read the venomous expression clearly. “How very choice!”
But the light broke and he understood at last. They had lost their nerve, those quaking swine, and selected him for the scapegoat. Perhaps because of the golden opportunity of his disappearance.
Perhaps—and this was more likely—under the malicious aegis of his wife. This would be Sidra’s move to get rid of him, humiliate him, drag him through the courts and up to the executioner’s dock. This would be Sidra’s perfect revenge.
He got to his feet and before Hoss or Richards could interfere, he grasped Sidra by the arm and dragged her to a corner of the library. Over his shoulder he said:
“Don’t be alarmed, inspector, I only want a word with my wife.”
Hoss coughed and called: “It’s all right, officer—” and the menacing blue shadow retreated from Peel’s elbow and returned to its post at the door.
Sidra tore her arm free and glared up at Peel, her face suffused with passion; her lips drawn back slightly, showing the sharp white edges of her teeth.
Peel snapped: “You arranged this.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t stall, Sidra. This was your idea.”
“It was your murder,” she countered.
<
br /> “It was. We saw you do it. We tried to stop you, but we couldn’t. We’ve sworn to it—the four of us.”
“And it was all your idea?” Her eyes flashed: “Yes!” “Hoss will be interested to hear that.” “He won’t.”
“What if! tell him—”
“He won’t believe you. We’re four to one.” “I can pick holes in your story.” “Try!’’
“You’re well prepared, eh?”
“Braugh is a good writer,” she said. “You won’t find any flaws in our story.’’
“So you’re getting rid of me, eh? I hang for the murder on your trumped-up evidence. You get the house, my fortune and, best of all, you get rid of me.”
She smiled like a cat. “You catch on fast, Robert.”
“And this is the reality you asked for? This is what you planned when you went through the veil?”
“What veil?”
“You know what I mean.”
“You’re mad.” She was confused.
“You’re lying.”
She smashed her knuckles into his face.
“Never mind,” Peel said quite loudly, a plan taking shape in his mind, “never mind, Sidra. But if you think you’re going to turn me into a scapegoat you’re quite mistaken. Yes—quite mistaken.”
“Here,’’ Hoss called sharply, ‘‘What’s all this?”
“He wanted me to bribe the witnesses,” Sidra said in a clear voice, walking back to her seat. “I was to offer them ten thousand pounds each.”
The doctor grunted: “Cad!”
loss said: “Now see here, Peel, we’ve been—”
“Please, inspector,” Peel interrupted. He sauntered up to the desk, his mind clicking rapidly. The best defense was a startling offensive. The best time to begin was now. “My wife has just told you a fantastic lie.”
‘‘Ha?”
“More than that, inspector, your other witnesses have lied, too. I wish to charge Braugh, Finchley, Miss Dubedat and my wife with the willful murder of Lady Sutton!”
Hoss gasped and started forward, slapping the papers off the table. As the doctor bent to pick them up, Hoss stuttered: “My-my d-dear Peel! Really . . you know!”
“Don’t believe him!” Sidra screamed. “He’s lying. He’s trying to lie out of He let her scream, grateful for more time to whip his story into shape. It must be convincing—flawless. The truth was impossible. And who would believe the truth, anyway? What was truth for him was plainly unknown to the others.
“The murder of Lady Sutton,” Peel went on smoothly, “was planned and executed by those four persons. I was the only member of the party to demur. You will grant me, inspector, that it sounds far more logical for four persons to commit a murder against the will of one, than one against four. Four could stop one. One could not possibly stand in the way of four.”
Hoss nodded, fascinated by Peel’s cold logic.
“Moreover, it is far easier for four persons to trump up a false account and swear to it, than for one to outweigh the evidence of four.”
Again Hoss nodded.
Sidra beat at Hoss’ shoulder and cried shrilly: “He’s lying, inspector. If he’s telling the truth ask him why he ran away! Ask him where he’s been these last three days! Ask him—”
“Unfortunately there’s little love lost between my wife and myself,” Peel commented dryly. “Her evidence is entirely wishful thinking.”
Hoss freed himself and said: “Please ... Mrs. Peel. I beg you—”
With a graceful gesture, Peel ran sensitive fingers across his crisp beard and mustache. “My story is this, “ he continued, “the four whom I accuse desired to murder Lady Sutton. Motive? A craving for the ultimate in emotional sensation. They were utterly depraved and degenerate. The only reason I was part of their devilish clique was to protect my wife as much as possible. On Thursday night I learned of their plans for the first time. I refused to permit them to continue and threatened to reveal all to Lady Sutton.
Evidently they were prepared for this. My wine was drugged and I was rendered unconscious. I have a faint recollection of being lifted and carried somewhere by the two men and—that’s all I know of the murder.”
“My word!” Hoss gasped. The doctor leaned over to him and whispered. Hoss nodded and murmured: “Yes, yes—the tests can come later.” He turned to Peel and said: “Please, go on.”
So far, Peel thought, so good. Add a little truth to a lie and it makes the whole seem truthful. Now for the rest, he would have to add just enough cølor to gloss over the rough edges.
“I came to in pitch darkness. I was lying on a stone floor. I heard no sounds, nothing but the ticking of my watch. These dungeon walls are fifteen and twenty feet thick in places so I could not possibly hear anything. When I got to my feet I found I was in a small cavity about ten feet square.
“I realized that I was in some secret cell that was as yet unknown to any but the members of the clique. After an hour’s shouting vainly for help and pounding on the wall, an accidental blow of my fist must have touched the proper spring or
lever. One section, vastly thick, swung open quite abruptly and I found myself in the passage were I was picked up—”
“He’s lying!” Sidra screamed again.
While Hoss calmed her, Peel coolly considered his position. His story was excellent so far. The evidence at hand was sufficiently strong. Sutton Castle was known for its secret passages. His clothes were still rumpled from the framework he had worn to frighten Lady Sutton. There was no known saliva or blood test to show that he had been drugged seventy-two hours previous. His beard and mustache would eliminate the shaving line of attack. So far his logic was excellent.
“That,” Peel said quietly, “is my story.”
“We note that you plead not guilty, Mr. Peel,” Hoss said, “and we note your story and accusation. I confess that your three-day disappearance seemed to incriminate you, but now—” He shrugged. “All we need do is locate this mysterious cell in which you were confined.”
Peel was even prepared for this. He said: “You may, and then again you may not. ‘I’m an engineer, you know. I warn you that the only way we may be able to locate the cell is by blasting through the stone, which may only serve to wipe out all traces.’’
“We’ll take that chance.”
“That chance may not have to be taken,” the little round doctor said.
Hoss turned slowly and gave the doctor a curious glance. Sidra exclaimed. Peel shot a sharp look toward the man. Experience warned him that fat men were always dangerous.
“It was a perfect story, Mr. Peel,” the fat doctor said pleasantly, “quite a perfect story. Most entertaining. But really, my dear sir, for an engineer you slipped up quite badly.”
“I beg your pardon?” Peel said stiffly, every nerve on guard.
“When you awoke in your cell,” the doctor went on with a childish smile, “you mentioned that you were in complete darkness and silence. The walls were so thick all you heard was the ticking of your watch. Very colorful. But, alas, proof of a lie. You awoke seventy hours later—No watch will run seventy hours without rewinding!”
He was right. Peel realized that at once. He had made a mistake, and there was no going back for alterations. The entire story depended on the wholeness of the fabric. Tear away one threat and the whole thing would ravel. The fat doctor was right—and he was trapped.
One glance at Sidra’s malevolent, triumphant face was enough for him. He decided that now was the time for action, and very quick action indeed. He arose from his chair, laughing in obvious defeat. Hoss was gaping again; the doctor chuckling like a pleased puzzle-solver; Sidra gloating. Peel sprinted to the window like a shot, crossed arms before his face, and smashed through the glass pane.
The shattering of the glass and the excited shouts behind him were only vague sounds. Peel limbered his legs as the soft earth came up at him and landed with a jarring shock. It was a fifteen-foot drop, but he took it well. He was on his feet in a
trice and running toward the rear of the castle where the cars were parked. Five seconds later he was vaulting into Sidra’s roadster. Ten seconds later he was speeding past the high iron gates to the highway outside.
Even in this crisis, Peel thought swiftly and with precision. He had driven out of the grounds too quickly for anyone to note which direction he would take. He turned toward London and sent the car roaring down the road until he came to an abrupt curve. Here he stopped and snatched a hammer from the tool kit.
He smashed every window in the car and the windshield, too. The broken glass he spread evenly across the road. It might not cause a puncture, and then again it might. The loss of time was worth the gamble. He leaped back into the car and started off again toward London. A man could lose himself in a metropolis.
But he was not a man to flee blindly, nor was there panic in his heart. Even as his eyes mechanically followed the road, his mind was sorting through facts, accurately and methodically, and inevitably drawing closer to a stern conclusion. He knew that he could never prove his innocence. The three-day hiatus was the bar to that. He knew he would be pursued as Lady Sutton’s murderer.
In war time it would be impossible to get out of the country. It would even be impossible to hide very long. What remained then was an outlaw living in miserable hiding for a few brief months only to be taken and brought to trial. Peel had no intention of giving his wife the satisfaction of watching him dragged through a murder trial.
Still cool, still in full possession of himself, Peel planned as he drove. The audacious thing would be to go straight to his home. They would never think of looking for him there—for a while. At home he would have time enough to do what had to be done. He set his mouth in a thin, straight line.
Rapidly he drove deep into London toward Chelsea Square, a frigid, bearded, bald man at the wheel of the car looking like some icy buccaneer from the past.
He approached the square from the rear, watching for the police. There were none about and the house looked quite calm and inauspicious. But, as he drove into the square and saw the front façade of his home, he was grimly amused to see that an entire wing had been demolished in a bombardment.
Selected Stories of Alfred Bester Page 27
