Seeing is Believing shm-12

by John Dickson Carr

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.

  "Drink to me only with thine eyes,

  And I will pledge with mine;

  Or leave a kiss within the cup,

  And I’ll not ask for wine… The thirst—"

  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.

  Five

  Nobody moved. It may be accounted as doubtful whether anybody could have moved. Such a sight as this had first of all to be understood.

  The s
econds ticked by: ten, twenty, thirty. Arthur Fane lay partly on his side and partly on his face, also without moving. The light of the lamp was reflected in patches from the polished hardwood floor.

  Presently, Dr. Rich went down on one knee beside Arthur. He rolled Arthur over on his back. First he felt for a pulse at the wrist; then he took his watch out of his pocket, and held it so that the crystal almost touched Arthur's lips. No breath clouded the glass. After consulting the watch as to the time, Rich replaced it in his pocket.

  "Incredible as it seems, this man is dead."

  "Dead?" echoed Sharpless.

  "Dead. Stabbed through the heart."

  "Oh, no," said Hubert Fane. "No, no, no, no, no!"

  Uncle Hubert's tone, at the moment, was merely one of frightened skepticism. His manner indicated that the world couldn't play him a dirty trick like this.

  "No, really, now!" he said, as though determined to stop such nonsense at once. "This is too much. I must really protest. Get up, my dear boy! Get up and—"

  "He won't hear you," said Rich, as Hubert began to chafe at one of Arthur's wrists. "I tell you he's dead."

  Then Rich reached out and touched the black handle projecting from Arthur's chest. He pressed it between his fingers.

  "And I'll tell you something else," he added, his color going up.

  "That's not the dagger I brought to this house."

  "I shouldn't touch it, if I were you," warned Sharpless. "The police always kick up a row if you mess about with the evidence. At least, they do in the stories. Don't touch it!"

  "But why not?" asked Ann Browning. "After all— we know who stabbed him, don't we?"

  For the first time they felt the full shock.

  Vicky Fane was standing quietly a few feet away from the man she had killed. Her hands hung down at her sides. She was not looking at him, or at anything else. The sight of that witless creature, with intellect removed and eyes as dead as blue china, where formerly there had been a vital, laughing, attractive girl, was almost too much for Frank Sharpless. The grimy marks of tears still streaked her cheeks, though she showed no emotion now.

  "Dr. Rich," said Sharpless, "the celebrated Dr. Frankenstein had nothing on you."

  Rich put his hands to his forehead.

  "Don't wake her up!" snapped Sharpless, misinterpreting the gesture. "For God's sake don't wake her up!"

  "I wasn't going to wake her up, young man."

  "Can she hear us?"

  "No."

  "But even if you don't wake her up" — Sharpless swallowed hard—"can't you do something?"

  "Yes. One moment." Rich turned to Vicky. His voice was slow and heavy. "Victoria Fane, go over to the sofa. Put a pillow under your head. Lie down."

  With instant obedience Vicky went to the sofa. She shuddered violently as she touched it, and Rich was after her in an instant. He put his fingers lightly on her temples; the shuddering died away, and she lay down.

  "Now sleep," murmured Rich, in the voice that could influence them all. "You are yourself again, Victoria Fane. But sleep. You will not awaken until I tell you to. When you wake up, you will have forgotten everything that happened here. Now sleep. Sleep.. "

  Sharpless hurried to her side. And in a moment or two he breathed something like a strangled prayer.

  It was like watching a blurred image come into focus, or cold clay warmed again with humanity. Something (mind? heart? soul?) seemed to flow into her, altering even the lines of the face. Vicky Fane lay where the dummy had lain, the smudged marks of the tears incongruous on her cheeks.

  Her color was back, the faint tan of health, the familiar curve of the lips. Her breathing was slow and easy, and she smiled in sleep.

  "Thank.. God. If anybody ever does that to her again—"

  Rich looked round.

  "Captain Sharpless, has Mrs. Fane any unpleasant mental association with this sofa?" "I'll swear I don't know."

  "Mr. Hubert Fane, has she any unpleasant mental association with this sofa?"

  "My dear doctor, you must not ask me." For all his elegance and poise, Hubert's complexion was muddy gray under the gray-white hair. "I can scarcely imagine that an inanimate piece of furniture could so affect anybody. Does — does the girl know what has happened?"

  "No," snapped Rich. "Do you?"

  "I'm beginning to think I do," said Sharpless.

  "Yes. And I," agreed Rich. "Somebody switched the daggers. Look here."

  Again he knelt beside Arthur's body. With some difficulty, and despite an instinctive protest from everyone, he pulled the weapon out of the wound. Since the heart had stopped pumping, only a little blood followed it.

  It was a knife made of very light, very thin steel, with a blade perhaps four inches long. When Rich cleaned it on a handkerchief, they saw that the blade had been painted over a dirty silver-gray. A covering of soft black rubber had been gummed round and over what was presumably a very thin handle.

  Moved a little away from the light, it looked very much like the rubber dagger they had seen.

  "I thought so," said Rich. "Thick rubber round the handle. And it's pretty dark by that little table. When Mrs. Fane picked it up, she felt the rubber and even her subconscious mind told her it was the same toy dagger she expected it to be. So she didn't hesitate to obey the order." He balanced the knife in his palm. "Even the weight wouldn't tell her any different. Somebody's got a lot to answer for."

  "You mean-"

  "I mean," said Rich, putting the knife on the floor and getting up, "that I can't be held responsible. Not this time. Someone exchanged a harmless dagger for a real one, and got Mrs. Fane to kill her husband without knowing what she was doing." He pressed a hand to his pink forehead. "It's odd. It's devilish odd. We know the murderer. But we don't know the guilty person."

  There was a silence.

  "But how could anybody have exchanged the daggers?" wondered Ann Browning. "Eh?"

  "I said," repeated Ann in a small but clear voice, "how could anybody have exchanged the daggers?"

  They all turned to look at her.

  For the first time they became conscious of her as a personality, because in these events she had (they remembered) not cried out, or whimpered, or fainted, or done anything they might have expected.

  She was rather pale, and she had pushed her chair farther back from Arthur's body: no more. Her slim fingers plucked at the arms of the chair.

  "You see—" She stopped as though confused, but presently went on. "The last person to touch the dagger was Mr. Fane himself. Wasn't it?"

  Again there was a silence.

  "It was," Sharpless said abruptly.

  "He was sitting there," pursued Ann, puckering up her face, "with the revolver and the dagger in his hands. It was a rubber dagger then. Because I remember him twisting it back and forth."

  The memory of everyone present moved back into the past, recalling images.

  "That's true," admitted Rich, with the same abruptness. "I saw him do it myself."

  "Then you—" Ann looked at Rich—"told him to put the revolver and the dagger on that little table. He got up, and went to the table, and put them down, and came back here.

  But not one of the rest of us has been anywhere near that table since."

  The recollection was so clear, the fact so undeniable, that no one spoke. They all turned to look at the table, which was in the middle of the room at least twelve feet away from the huddled group round the easy chair.

  Ann hesitated, moistening her pink lips. "Please. I don't want you to think I'm intruding, or speaking up when I shouldn't. But look.

  "None of us left this semi-circle where we were standing or sitting. We stayed where we were, even when Vicky was out of the circle herself and going to the other end of the room. Dr. Rich didn't follow her: he stayed here too. We could all see each other all of the time. Nobody went near that table. None of us could have exchanged the daggers."

  Once more the long pause stretched out….

  "That's t
rue!" Sharpless exploded. "It's as true as gospel!"

  Rich managed a smile, a heavy, uneasy twist of a smile.

  "You're quite a detective, Miss Browning," he observed, and the color rose in her face. "I can't help agreeing. It is true. And in that case…"

  Ann frowned.

  "Well, you see, in that case it means that somebody who wasn't in the room must have sneaked in and—"

  She paused. As her eyes moved round, they rested on Hubert Fane; and her expression became frightened.

  "So," observed Dr. Rich thoughtfully.

  Hubert Fane had one hand on the back of a chair. He looked like a man on whom the fates are playing dirty tricks much faster and more unreasonably than any human being ever deserved.

  "Please don't think—!" began Ann.

  Hubert cleared his throat.

  "Your delicacy, Miss Browning," he said, "fills me with ecstasy. At the same time, I. am capable of taking a bint. Madam, I did not kill my nephew. I think I can give you my solemn assurance that he was the last person in the world I wished to see dead. It is true that I was obliged to leave the room. But, apart from the fact that I was talking to a grasping bookmaker named—"

  "Wait!" urged Ann.

  She put her finger-tips to her forehead.

  "You don't mind?" she asked Hubert.

  Hubert gestured the courteous assent of a man who, privately, would like to put her across his knee and wallop her.

  "You couldn't have exchanged those daggers before you went out of the room," said Ann. "Because the same thing applies to you as applies to the rest of us. You never went near that table at any time. When you were called out of the room, I remember watching you. You never left the semi-circle before you walked straight out of the room after Daisy."

  "That also," agreed Sharpless, "is true."

  "Sir. Madam. I thank you. But—"

  "But," said Ann, "I don't see how you — oh, please! — you or anybody else could have got in here to do it afterwards. Or to do it at any time, if it comes to that."

  Dr. Richard Rich appeared to be considerably taken aback by the rush with which this quiet girl had gathered up the proceedings in her own hands.

  "Nobody could have got in at any time? I don't follow that."