Seeing is Believing shm-12

by John Dickson Carr

  "The idea," breathed Ann, "is horrid and fascinating at the same time. It would be rather awful, wouldn't it, if somebody we thought figured in one role really figured in exactly the opposite role?"

  Though H.M. showed a passing gleam of interest in this, turning round to look at her, he addressed Masters again.

  "Ah the evidence shouts belief. Oh, my eye, doesn't it? The plot is perfect. The motive is there. The evidence is strong. There's only just one little difficulty about it."

  "What's that?"

  "It ain't true," said H.M.

  Masters was commencing to lose his temper.

  "What's the good of saying that, sir? When you yourself will admit—"

  "This feller," interrupted H.M., pointing at Courtney, "was out on the balcony of Mrs. Fane's bedroom between the time Frank Sharpless carried her up there almost to the time she was waked up out of her sleep. Now listen to what he has to say; and then go and eat worms."

  Phil Courtney was hotly uncomfortable. Ann's eyes flashed round to his, startled: he avoided them, but he retained the memory of them while he told his story.

  He remembered how H.M. had dragged the facts out of him last night, standing in the moonlight in front of Fane's house, with the shadows of the elms against the sky. It sounded, he thought (or at least it must sound to Ann) like the tale of a prowler and a spy. Yet for Vicky Fane's sake he was glad to tell it, and very quick to tell it.

  Masters stared at him.

  "There's no joke about this, sir?" the chief inspector demanded.

  "No. I can swear to every word of it."

  Masters was incredulous. "Mr. Fane, that respectable chap, killed this girl Polly Allen because— hurrum?"

  "It's been done before, y'know," H.M. pointed out. "In fact, you and I can both remember a few names in that way. If you're quotin' cases to me, do you remember who used the atropine in the Haye business?"*

  "Just a minute, sir!" urged Masters. "But what did he do with the girl afterwards, Mr. Courtney? There's no murder ever been reported. At least, as far as Agnew mentioned to me."

  *See Death in Five Boxes, William Morrow & Company, 1938.

  Courtney could not help him.

  "All I can tell you," he replied, "is Mrs. Fane's answers to Rich's questions."

  "Under hypnosis? Or at least so she pretended?"

  "If you insist on that, yes. Arthur Fane strangled this girl on the sofa in the back drawing room. That's as far as Rich got with his questioning before he was interrupted. He had just asked, 'Does anybody else know about this?' and she said, 'Yes,' and was going to tell him who, when they knocked at the door and he had to stop."

  "Mrs. Fane didn't say who else knew about it?"

  "No."

  "Now think it over," interposed H.M., himself making a mesmeric pass. "Our good Fane, who was undoubtedly rather a lad as a skirt-chaser—"

  (Here, Courtney noticed, Ann shivered.)

  "Our good Fane has committed a crime for which the punishment is fairly well known. His wife knows it. All right. Suppose she hates it. Suppose she hates him like hell. Suppose she wants another man. Is she deliberately goin' to kill him like that, when all she's got to do is tip off the police?"

  Silence.

  And checkmate.

  Westwards over Cheltenham, the low-lying sun made a dazzle among white and red roofs. It also lighted the broad and fishily skeptical expression on Masters' face.

  "All very well," he conceded. "If it's true, if Mrs. Fane didn't make up the story herself."

  "Well, son, it ought to be easy enough to prove. That's your job. Go to Agnew. Trace Polly Allen. Find out. But if it does turn out to be true, as I'm bettin' it will — Masters, you've got no more case against Mrs. Fane than Paddy's goat."

  Masters jumped to his feet.

  "Look out!" howled H.M. "You'll step on your hat!"

  Masters seemed to meditate giving the hat a swift kick. Instead, with powerful dignity, he corked himself; but the ruddiness of his countenance was not caused by the heat.

  H.M. turned to Ann.

  "What do you say?" he asked softly. "You knew Fane pretty well. Would you say he was capable of an act like that?"

  Ann looked away from him, down at the grass. Again Courtney saw the clear profile: the mouth wide and full-lipped, the nose a little broad for complete beauty. He had an impression that she wanted to tell them something, and was almost on the point of telling it, yet checked herself.

  "I didn't know him well," she defended herself, scuffing the toe of her shoe in the grass.

  "Who is, or was, this Polly Allen? Did you know her?"

  Ann shook her head emphatically. "I've never even heard the name. She was probably — well!"

  "But you haven't answered my question. Would you say Arthur Fane might do a thing like that?" She faced him.

  "Yes, I think he might. Judging from what I know of his family. And certain things.'' She hesitated. Her eyes revealed themselves as penetrating and intelligent. "But when was this girl killed?" Her voice quickened. "Was it about the middle of July? The fourteenth or the fifteenth?"

  "I can't say," returned Courtney. "Mrs. Fane didn't say anything about that."

  "Wait!" snapped H.M. "Why that date?"

  "Because I went to the house that night," answered Ann.

  There was a stir in the group. Even Masters whirled round from looking at the clock-golf outfit.

  "It probably doesn't mean anything! Please! I only-"

  "All the same," said H.M., "what about it?" She moistened her lips.

  "Nothing. I went over to Vicky's to see whether I could borrow some wool. I live only a stone's throw away from here anyway. It was well past ten o'clock, but in those days the light held until nearly ten. It was the fourteenth… no, the fifteenth of July! I remember, because some French friends of mine gave a party the day before; and that was Bastille Day, the fourteenth."

  "Yes?"

  "I rang the front doorbell, but there was no answer and I couldn't see any lights in the house. I didn't think they could all be away — even servants. But I rang again, and still there was no answer. I was just going away when Arthur opened the door."

  "Go on."

  "He was in his shirt-sleeves. That's how I remember. It was the first time I'd ever seen him in his shirtsleeves. He just said Vicky wasn't at home, and closed the door in my face. Rather rudely, I thought. I went away."

  The account was unadorned and even commonplace, but her listeners found it anything but commonplace.

  Courtney felt again the sense of evil, whose origin he could not trace, but which had touched him the night before. Ann's story conjured up visions of unexpected things behind starched window-curtains: of a dark house, and something lying on a sofa. It is not always wise to explore too far the possibilities of a summer night.

  "And that's all you know?"

  "That's everything, I swear!"

  Masters was uneasy. "And not very much either, miss, if you don't mind my saying so. However, we'll go into this! I can promise you that. But—"

  "But what, son?" asked H.M. quietly.

  "Somebody killed Mr. Fane! First you show me a great big beautiful case against Mrs. Fane. Then you try to tear it down by saying she hadn't got a motive, just because she hated her husband so much. What's up your sleeve, sir? Because I'm smacking well certain there is something."

  H.M. twiddled his thumbs.

  "Well… now. I wouldn't go so far as to say that. But I do think, Masters, you may not be payin' enough attention to motive. That's what bothers me like blazes: motive."

  "I'll argue it with pleasure," returned Masters, whipping out his notebook again with the air of a duelist, "if you think it'll get us anywhere. Which it won't. Let's look at the list of people, and see what we have.

  "First, Mrs. Fane herself. We've talked about that.

  "Second, Captain Sharpless. H'm. Might have had a motive. It strikes me he's pretty far gone on Mrs. Fane, that young gentleman. But he can't have don
e it, because every witness is willing to swear he couldn't have changed the daggers.

  "Third, Mr. Hubert Fane. No motive that I can see. He's a wealthy old gent, they tell me; and even if he wasn't, he doesn't inherit a penny under Arthur Fane's will. (Mr. Fane's money, by the way, is all left to his wife, and to charity if she dies; think that over about her ladyship.) Finally, Mr. Hubert Fane's got as good an alibi as anybody else.

  "Fourth, Dr. Rich. No motive whatever. Not a ghost of one. And the same applies to him as to Captain Sharpless: he couldn't have done it.

  "Fifth and last, Miss Browning."

  Masters broke off, with his deceptive air of heartiness, and grinned at Ann.

  "I hope you don't mind being included, miss?"

  "No, no, of course not!"

  "No motive," said Masters. "At least, none we've heard." He winked at her apologetically. "And the same thing for the practical side: she couldn't have changed the daggers."

  Masters shut up his notebook and shook it in the air.

  "Now, sir! That's the lot. Unless you want to drag in Daisy Fenton, the maid, or Mrs. Propper, the cook-"

  "I say, Masters." Again H.M. ruffled his fingers across his forehead. "This cook, now. You got a statement from the maid. Could the cook add anything: to it?"

  "Mrs. Propper? No. She always goes to bed at nine sharp on the top floor of the house. She didn't even hear the rumpus last night.

  "But as I say, that's the lot. That's a list of both motive and opportunity. Will you just tell me where in lum's name you can find either a motive or an opportunity?"

  Courtney, who was facing Major Adams's house, saw khaki and gilt buttons swing round the side of it. Frank Sharpless, the declining sun picking out the expression of his eyes even at that distance, hurried across towards them.

  There was, Courtney remembered, a grassy elm-shaded lane or alley which ran at the back of all these houses parallel with the street in front. Sharpless had evidently taken a short cut from the Fanes' house. Courtney thought with uneasiness that it was damned indiscreet of him to go there today. Gossip would be wagging a long enough tongue already.

  But this idea was swept away as Sharpless approached.

  "Sir Henry," he began without preliminary, "you said last night you remembered me. Anyway, you know my father. Colonel Sharpless?"

  "Yes, son?"

  "Is it true that you've got a medical degree as well as a legal one?" "Yes. That's right."

  "Then," said Sharpless, running a finger round inside his khaki shirt-collar, "will you for God's sake come down and have a look at Vicky? Now?"

  The summer evening was very still.

  "What's wrong with her?"

  "I don't know. I've phoned for her own doctor, but he lives at the other side of town. And she's worrying me more every minute. First she complained of stiffness in the back of the neck. Then a funny feeling in her jaws, painful. Then — she wouldn't let me send for a doctor; but I insisted — then—"

  All expression was smoothed out of H.M.'s face. He adjusted his spectacles, and looked steadily through them. Yet Courtney caught the wave of emotion in the air, as palpably as the body gives out heat; and that emotion was fear.

  H.M.'s tone was wooden. "How long has this been goin' on, son?"

  "About an hour."

  "Lookin' a bit seedy all day, has she?"

  "Yes, she has."

  "So. Any difficulty in swallowing?"

  Sharpless thought back. "Yes! I remember, she complained about it at tea, and wouldn't drink much."

  Sharpless's quick intuition caught the atmosphere about him. H.M.'s eyes moved briefly, too briefly, towards Courtney's hands. Courtney was still holding, and absent-mindedly bending, the pin he had tried to thrust painlessly into his arm.

  Then H.M. took out his watch, consulted it, and moved his finger round the dial as though he were counting hours.

  "What is it?" demanded Sharpless, in a high voice. "You know something. What is it?"

  "Steady, son!"

  "You know something you won't tell me," cried the other. He strode forward and seized H.M.'s shoulder. "You're keeping something back; but by God you're going to tell me. What is it? What is it?"

  H.M. shook off the hand.

  "If I tell you what I think it may be, can you be steady enough to help and not hinder?" "Yes. Well?"

  H.M. gave it to him straight between the eyes. "Blood-poisoning," he said. "Tetanus. Lockjaw nasty way to die."

  Eleven

  Distantly, a church clock in the town struck the half hour after ten.

  In the front garden of Arthur Fane's house, a warm-looking and misty moon penetrated the elms to illumine two figures who were standing on the lawn, glancing up at intervals towards the left-hand bedroom windows. These windows were closed and their curtains drawn, since in tetanus cases no breath of wind must touch the victim lest it bring on convulsions.

  Outside in the street stood Dr. Nithsdale's car, and the hospital car which had brought the antitoxic serum.

  Ann Browning and Phil Courtney, together on the lawn, spoke in whispers.

  "But is there any chance?" Ann muttered. "That's what I want to know. Is there any chance?"

  "I can't tell you. I seem to remember reading that if the symptoms come on very quickly, you're a goner."

  She put her hand, a warm soft hand, on his arm. She tightened her fingers, and shook the arm fiercely. He had never felt closer to her than in this darkness, where her face looked pallid, her lips dark, and her eyes larger.

  "But a little pin?" she insisted. "A little thing like a pin, to do all that?"

  i "It can and has. And it was pressed in to the head, remember."

  She shuddered. "Thank heaven I didn't use it; Poor Vicky!"

  He pressed the hand on his arm. "I didn't even notice," she said, "that the pin was— rusty."

  "It wasn't rusty." He recalled the picture. "I remember how it shone when the light touched it. But then this germ's in the air, in dust; it comes from dust. From anything."

  Again she shuddered. A light sprang up in the long windows of the front bedroom across the hall from Vicky's. A long shadow, that of Hubert Fane, crossed and recrossed the windows, beating its hands together. From the house they heard no noise or voice.

  "Look here," Courtney said sharply. "You're worrying yourself to death. You can't do any good out here, just watching a closed window. Go in and sit down. H.M. will tell us when there's any news."

  "You-you think I'd better?"

  "Definitely."

  "The trouble is," she burst out, "that Vicky's such a decent person. Always trying to do the right thing, always putting herself out for someone else. It just seems as though there's been nothing but trouble, trouble, trouble for her ever since two nights ago, when we first saw…"

  The front gate clicked.

  Dr. Richard Rich, in a somewhat theatrical-looking soft black hat and a dark blue suit, closed the gate behind him and came hesitantly up the path.

  "Miss Browning, isn't it?" he inquired, peering in the gloom. "And Mr.-?"

  "Courtney."

  "Ah, yes! Courtney. Sir Henry's secretary." Rich rubbed his cheek. "I hope you'll excuse this intrusion. I came to see whether there were any developments."

  "Developments!" breathed Ann.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Dr. Rich," said Ann with cruel clearness, "I don't know how many people you've killed, through carelessness, in the course of your professional career. But you killed Vicky Fane last night. She's dying, do you hear? Dying."

  Rich appeared to be staring back at them through the distorting moonlight.

  "What in the name of sanity are you talking about?"

  "Steady, Ann!" said Courtney. He put his arm round her shoulders tightly. All her body seemed to droop. "Doctor, do you remember showing Mrs. Fane was really hypnotized by driving a pin into her arm?"

  "Yes? Well?"

  "Tetanus. The doctors are upstairs with her now."

  The
re was a pause, while they heard him draw in his breath. Then Rich's bass voice hit back like a blow of commonsense directness, with fear behind it.

  "That's impossible!"

  "Don't take my word for it. Go in and see."

  "I tell you it's impossible! The pin was perfectly clean. Besides—"

  Rich pulled the brim of his hat still further down. After a pause, during which his mouth seemed to be working, he turned round and started for die house. They followed him. The front door was on the latch, and a light burned in the hall. Rich's mottled pallor was still further revealed as he removed his hat.

  "May I go upstairs?"

  "I doubt if they'd let you in. The doctors are there, and a man from Scotland Yard."

  Rich hesitated. There was a light in the library, at the front and to their left. Motioning to the others to precede him, Rich went in and closed the door.

  This library, you felt, was seldom used. It had a correct air of weightiness: a claw-footed desk, a globe-map, and an overmantel of heavy carved wood. The books, clearly bought by the yard and unread, occupied two walls: in their contrasts of brown, red, blue, and black leather or cloth among the sets, even in an occasional artistic gap along the shelves, they showed the hand of the decorator. A bronze lamp burned on the desk.

  "Now," Rich said through his teeth. "Please tell me the symptoms."

  Courtney told him.

  "And these symptoms came on when?"

  "Just before tea-time, I understand."

  "God in heaven!" muttered Rich, as though unable to believe his ears. He massaged his forehead, and then hastily consulted his watch. "Sixteen hours! Only sixteen hours! I can't believe it would have got as bad as that in only…"

  His voice grew bewildered, almost piteous.

  "I forget," he added. "I have not practiced medicine for eight years. Your knowledge grows scrambled. You…" His eyes wandered round the bookshelves. "I don't suppose they'd have any medical works here? Stop. There's a Britannica, at least. It might help to jog my memory."

  The set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, fourteenth edition, was on a rather high shelf. Rich stood on tiptoe and plucked down the twenty-first volume, "SORD to TEXT." He carried it to the desk under the lamp. His hands shook. But it was unnecessary for him to leaf through in order to find the article on tetanus.