by Q. Patrick
“But where’s your proof?” I exclaimed.
“Proof! Hell, there’s proof. Remember that ’phone call Baines made to date you up for Sunday morning? Who overheard it? Gerald and—Peter. Now they claimed that they met Roberta in the road and she wheedled the information out of them. But did you or your pal, Bracegirdle, ever check up on what happened? No, you did not. But I did. Roberta claims that Peter mentioned the matter to her of his own accord and, for the first time in her life, she is telling the truth. Don’t you see? Peter was very careful to make it certain that everyone in the valley should know about that eight o’clock appointment before he went out, found Baines, and dragged him behind the car to the Mill Pool.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” I murmured.
“And I’m not through yet. Have you ever told a patient that he has some disease, Doug? Of course you have. Well, what’s the first thing he does? He buys all the books on the subject he can lay his hands on. Why did Peter have all those books on morbid psychology? Why did he research with such ardor into the intricacies of folie à deux this afternoon? I’ll tell you why. It’s because he suffers from just that disease.”
“Nice way to show your gratitude,” remarked Peter placidly.
Throughout these bizarre proceedings, he had preserved an unruffled calm. He seemed almost to be enjoying the situation.
Toni had turned away and was grabbing a book.
“And since our evidence all seems to be coming out of books, Mr. Jury—here’s one that might interest you. Its name is Cannibal Quest, and I borrowed it from Peter just for a little light reading. It’s all about those fascinating East Indies of which our young friend is so fond. There’s a lot of absorbing information in it. In particular, it describes the habits of the native Papuans—an intriguing race. They bury their dead—in trees!”
I gave a gasp of surprise.
“But there’s a difference,” he went on relentlessly, “between those savages and our civilized friend here. They hang their corpses up dead. Peter Foote prefers to have them—alive!” He pressed his face close to Peter’s so that his black, Italian hair almost touched the boy’s cheek. “God, there’s nothing bad enough to do to you. If I—”
“Go on with the evidence, Toni,” I interrupted, fighting back a crowd of insane impulses which were invading my senses. “You’ve only got a quarter of an hour. No time to waste on monkey business.”
“Well, now we come trotting up the last lap, Doug.” Toni laughed triumphantly. “Here’s the confession we got from his very mouth. You heard just now how Peter Foote tried to build up a case against Roberta and the poor little colonel. That was very skilful of him, but he made one bad mistake. He told us that Polly was alive when she was, trussed up in that tree. Well, how did he know?” He swung round to face me. “It was given out in all the newspapers that Polly was shot. Those bullets from Seymour’s guns on the coon-hunt were supposed to have been the shots of the murderer. The real medical evidence was too beastly to publish. You, Bracegirdle, the ballistic expert, Brooks and myself were the only ones to know the truth. The only ones—excepting the murderer!”
“Listen, Toni,” I broke in, “we’ve got to keep our heads. Someone might easily have told him.”
“Told him? Doug, and you’re supposed to be a doctor! Would you tell a layman the secrets of the morgue? Can you imagine Brooks doing it—or Bracegirdle—or me? No, sir. Foote knew that kid wasn’t shot simply because he didn’t shoot her.” He turned back to Peter. “You went a bit too far that time in your zeal for scientific explanations.”
The sweat had broken out on Peter’s forehead.
“Dr. Conti,” he said, and there was a strange dignity in his tone, “will you kindly release me at once? You’re hurting my leg and you’re being libelous. My father will bring suit against you for this. He—”
“Yes,” cut in Toni. “You’re right there. Your father most likely will bring suit. And, what’s more, he’ll most likely win his case. I’ve got evidence to burn, but I realize it’s only circumstantial. Now we’re going to make it positive. That’s where you come in!”
“Toni!” I exclaimed. “We’re both absolutely crazy. We’re forgetting the only two significant things. Peter has a watertight alibi for the burning of the barn. And, he was laid up in hospital at the time of Gerald’s death. If you can get over that, I’m with you.”
“I can get over that,” remarked Toni grimly, “for the simple reason that I know (a) who burnt the barn, and (b) who killed Gerald Alstone. But you must trust me for that. Now, the time is ripe for a little persuasion.”
My room-mate’s voice was quiet, but the strange wildness, which had been in him all day, seemed to be increasing steadily as the clock ticked on toward ten. Now, it was surging up in him like a great wave. He sprang on Peter and gripped him by the arm.
As he did so, a curious thing happened—a thing which, to this day, I regret with all my heart. I do not want to excuse myself, but I had been drinking pretty heavily, and the whole crazy affair had played havoc with my reason. As I watched Toni bending over the boy, I felt some of his frenzy become communicated to me. A few moments ago I had laughed at the idea of folie à deux as a clinical entity, but now—gradually, imperceptibly—I began to understand the sensations of the secondary patient …
I cannot remember exactly what happened in those brief, fierce moments before the arrival of Bracegirdle. I was caught up in a spasm of wild, almost insane fury against the boy whom I, as well as Toni, now believed guilty. Things happened which should never have happened. But, dazed and half delirious as I was, I recall nothing but Peter’s final-shriek of agony and his eyes gleaming mad and evil when he shouted:
“You fools, you fools! It wasn’t me—it was Gerald!”
That brought me back to my senses. Even Toni quieted down. We stood off from Peter Foote, staring into his eyes.
“Yes,” the boy babbled, his face grey with hatred, “it was Gerald, and I tried to stop him. You can’t prove a thing against me—and, even if you could, you wouldn’t dare. And I’ll tell you why you wouldn’t dare, Dr. Conti. You killed Gerald Alstone yourself!”
At that moment a car drew up outside, and there were steps on the gravel. Throwing a warning look at Toni, I hurried out into the hall. As I opened the door, something pushed past me, but I was still too bemused to notice it. Valerie was standing on the porch, her eyes dark and worried.
“Listen, Doug,” she whispered, gripping my arm, “I’ve just passed Bracegirdle down the lane. Is he coming here?”
I nodded. “Yes, he’s bringing the warrant!”
“My God! we must be quick. You’ve got to tell me what to say. I’ll do anything, say anything you want me to.” She smiled valiantly. “You know I’m all with you, Doùg, don’t you?”
I patted her shoulder and led her into the hall, closing the door behind her.
“Doug! what on earth’s the matter with you?” I suppose it had been too dark on the porch for her to notice my disarray. “You look simply ghastly. Are you—”
She broke off at the sound of angry snarling issuing from the living-room. We both made a move toward the door to see Sancho Panza creeping out, his hair bristling, his teeth gleaming white. He was followed by Toni, whose appearance was even more grotesque than my own.
“Final proof!” he was shouting. “Proof of the growling dog! Sancho, you’re a regular sleuth.”
At the sight of Valerie, he pushed a hand through his hair and approached her with an admirable show of composure.
“Hello, my dear,” he said, grinning. “I’m afraid we’re in no fit state to entertain a respectable female friend at the moment. Pardon the hair!”
As he spoke, another car swung up the drive. Valerie glanced at me, her face deathly pale.
“Bracegirdle!” she whispered.
Then, from behind us, came a faint whirring followed by a sharp click. The whole air was suddenly vibrant with sound. It was ten o’clock,
“C
uckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo …”
Chapter XVII
Half an hour later Bracegirdle, Toni, Valerie and myself were seated around the dining-room table. The only illumination came from a great three-forked candlestick which stood gaunt and medieval on the highly polished oak. We must have made rather a strange group, haggard and hollow-eyed like phantom guests at a phantom dinner party. We had been listening to Toni, who, restored to his sober, scientific self, was trying to convince Bracegirdle of the truth of his theory.
In the living-room waited Peter Foote with two policemen. I think he was uppermost in all. our thoughts as we sat there—adding a final touch of horror to the strange fantasy of the evening.
“Quite apart from anything else, Bracegirdle,” Toni was saying, “we have his confession. Dr. Swanson heard it, too.”
The deputy shook his head. “Doesn’t mean a thing, Dr. Conti. A clever lawyer could tear that down in a minute. Extortion—threats—violence. It might be very bad for you and Dr. Swanson.”
“Toni, may I ask something?” For the first time since Bracegirdle’s arrival, Valerie spoke. She leaned forward, and her movement was curiously echoed by her shadowy reflection in the table. “Maybe I haven’t followed you properly, but, are you suggesting that Peter Foote killed Gerald, too?”
My room-mate did not answer.
“Exactly, sir,” Bracegirdle’s honest blue eyes looked searchingly into his. “Miss Middleton has put her finger on the weak spot in your argument, Dr. Conti. Young Foote had a perfect alibi for the time of Gerald Alstone’s death—don’t you see how the defense could break your case down completely on that? You see, I’m willing to believe that someone quite different might have killed the boy, but you’d never convince a jury that it wasn’t the same madman who did the other killings. The circumstances were so similar—the dragging behind the car—”
He paused, and for a few moments the room was absolutely silent. We were all staring abstractedly into the yellow light of the candles.
“I know who killed Gerald Alstone,” broke in Toni suddenly.
I felt Valerie start and I saw her eyes, wide and anxious, staring into mine.
“Dr. Conti, are you serious?” Bracegirdle’s voice was stern.
“Yes, I’ve known since this morning, but I wasn’t able to piece it all together until I was sure about Peter Foote.”
Why, oh why, were Valerie’s eyes staring so frightenedly into mine?
“May I begin at the beginning?” asked Toni politely.
Bracegirdle nodded.
“Well, it really started the night of the fire—or rather, just a little earlier in the evening when Miss Middleton’s dog was hurt. You see, I’ve never been quite frank about what happened that night because—well, I didn’t want to get someone into trouble.”
Bracegirdle stirred uneasily. “You needn’t name names if you don’t want to, Dr. Conti. We aren’t so dumb.as you sometimes think, us policemen, and we can shut our eyes to thing as often as not.”
“Thanks, Bracegirdle. Well, I’ll go back to that night when we were all at the Middletons. There was a face at the window, if you remember, which scared the ladies quite badly. It didn’t scare me because I recognized it at once as belonging to Mr—er—Nameless. I went outside by myself to investigate and found I was right. He was holding the dog in his arms and the story he told was about as horrible as anything I’ve heard. He had just stopped his Ford by the roadside when he saw a car moving toward him—a car without lights. From behind it came a series of cries such as are best left to the imagination. Luckily, our friend had a knife and a great deal of courage. He ran forward, threw himself down on the road and hacked the rope which held the dog.”
So that, I reflected, explained the abrasions about which Mark had been so noncommittal.
“The car sped on,” continued Toni, “but our friend had heard—or thought he heard—a voice coming from it. It was, so he claimed, the voice of—Gerald Alstone.”
Whether or not we had expected this, I do not know, but we all started and stared at Toni incredulously.
“You may well stare,” he continued, “and that’s just what I did when I took the dog from the arms of Mr—Nameless. I must admit that there was murder in his eye. I argued with him and implored him not to be impulsive, but I was talking to deaf ears. He jumped in his car and rode off in a fury. I strongly suspect that he rode in the direction of Mr. Alstone’s barn ….”
Bracegirdle closed one eye at me. “I’m only listening with half an ear, Doctor,” he said.
“Well,” Toni continued, “you see the awkwardness of my situation. Our friend was not very strong mentally and I had no reason to believe his word. At the same time, Bracegirdle, I couldn’t come to you, because, if I’d been wrong, it would have meant the hoosegow for Mr. Nameless. Arson is a serious business. Besides, he was a hero—not only for saving the life of Miss Middleton’s dog, but also—”
Bracegirdle winked again. “I imagine he felt pretty badly when he found the horses were in the barn,” he said mildly. I think that was punishment enough.”
“Exactly—and you do see my position, don’t you? I couldn’t believe then that a weak, puny individual like Gerald could be responsible for such acts of violence. Of course, I knew that there was insanity in his mother’s family. I knew that was why Seymour arranged the divorce, and brought the boy up in cotton padding. But, the folie à deux theory didn’t come to me until this morning. Gerald, as a solitary maniac, I could not credit, I didn’t realize then what a perfect secondary patient he would make—how ripe he was for the influence of a person like Peter Foote.”
“But what happened next?” broke in Valerie quickly. “What did you do after the barn burned down?”
“I decided to tax Gerald with Sancho’s mutilation as soon as possible. But I was pretty busy at the hospital and didn’t have a chance to see him until the night of the coon-hunt. I believe my behavior that evening has been criticized by a lot of you.” He smiled at Bracegirdle. “I must have seemed queer, but I had no alternative. I didn’t want to make a scene about Gerald in public in case I was wrong. I didn’t want to accept any Alstone hospitality—in case I was right. At the reception, Gerald kept close to his friends and I couldn’t get him alone. He was, also, one of the first off on the hunt. After the others had gone, I pottered around for a while, waiting, and then I went home at about quarter past eleven.”
He paused a moment, straightening one of the candles which had crooked over sideways.
“After I’d put the car away in our garage,” he continued slowly, “I remembered with, I’m afraid, rather belated gallantry, that I was responsible for Miss Middleton—” he bowed and smiled at Valerie—“so I got it out again and drove back. At about eleven-thirty, as I was going down the Alstones’ drive, I saw Gerald. He was running like mad toward the house. I put my car behind the stables next to Doug’s, where it had been before. Then I went into the house by the back door. Gerald was in the gun-room. I heard him give the number of the hospital and ask for Peter Foote—”
“So that clears up the ’phone call,” remarked Bracegirdle to himself. “Go right ahead, Doctor.”
“Then he must have realized I was there, because he hung up all at once. He was in a terribly nervous state, but he told me nothing about the discovery of Polly Baines’ body. Well, I accused him point blank of mutilating Sancho. You must remember that then I knew nothing of Peter Foote and had no real reason to connect Gerald with anything so—er—boisterous as the death of Baines. He stood with his back to the wall like a frightened animal, but he didn’t say a word. Then, suddenly, he reached up to the gun-rack and pulled a revolver on me. Luckily, I had enough sense to realize that Mr. Alstone is far too efficient a man to leave his guns loaded in their racks, so I took it away from him—” Toni paused and looked round a trifle apologetically—“and then I gave the little bas—beast the soundest thrashing he’s ever had in his life. I knocked him down in every way I could think
of and made his nose bleed until the room looked like the retreat from Mons.”
“The trail of blood across the floor!” I cried. “That was made by Gerald’s nose bleeding!”
“Exactly, Doug. But I didn’t hurt him badly, because, when I was through, he made for the door and gave me a look which would have curdled all the milk in Cotuit County. ‘I’ll get even with you, Dr. Conti,’ he said, and I can still hear him saying. ‘I’ll get even with you if it’s the last thing I do!”’
“You never saw him again, Dr. Conti?” asked Bracegirdle.
“No until—until—” for some unknown reason Toni was smiling broadly at me—“until yesterday morning when they dug him up in our backyard.”
“Well, why didn’t you come to me with your story as soon as Gerald was reported missing?”
“I intended to, Bracegirdle. After Gerald left the gunroom, I walked round to call on Mr. Nameless to see if I could get him to come forward and give evidence. While I was there, someone came in to tell him about the discovery of Polly’s body. I left immediately because I was keen to get in on that autopsy. After taking Miss Middleton home, I drove into Rhodes, as you know, and worked all night with Brooks.”
“But you said just now that you knew who killed Gerald Alstone,” said Bracegirdle with an impatient glance at his watch.
“Yes, I thought I knew that night. In fact, I was pretty sure. But I had reasons for keeping it to myself.”
“It strikes me you’ve kept a good deal to yourself.” Bracegirdle’s tone was sharp.
“Exactly.” Toni smiled. “But it turns out to be just as well that I did. Otherwise an innocent man would certainly have been put to a—er—great deal of inconvenience.”
“But you know now—”
