Seeing is Believing shm-12

by John Dickson Carr

  "How long were you out of the room?"

  "About two minutes."

  Twenty minutes ago. Twenty minutes ago. Twenty minutes ago. Vicky's lips twitched. The clock ticked loudly.

  Courtney went across to the bed. His mackintosh and shoes were soaking the carpet, but he paid no attention. He picked up the hypodermic needle. Fishing in his pocket after a handkerchief, he pressed the plunger of the needle gently. He had pressed it entirely down before a drop of water, or what looked like clear water, touched the fabric.

  Gingerly he touched his tongue to it. Even in an alcohol solution and in such small quantity, the intensely bitter sting of it burnt his tongue. He swabbed out his mouth with haste and fierceness.

  "Strychnine again," he said.

  "Are you sure?"

  "I'm no doctor. But you can't very well mistake this stuff. If it is strychnine, injected straight into the bloodstream with a hypodermic, they may not be able to save her this time. Steady, now!"

  A violent shudder, as though it were she herself who felt the symptoms, went through Ann's body. Time seemed to rush on while they tried to arrest it.

  "I'm all right," she said steadily, and drew the dressing robe closer about her with a hard, bright look in her eyes. "What do we do?"

  "Do you know Dr. Nithsdale's telephone number?"

  "Nine-seven-o-one. He's our doctor."

  "I'll go down and phone him. You run up and rout out Mrs. Propper and Daisy. Tell them to prepare… no, blast it, an emetic's no good if the poison wasn't taken through the mouth!" His head was whirling. "I wish to heaven I knew what to do in the meantime. I don't know what we ought to do. Anyway, rout them out. Hurry!"

  "I'll do it," said Ann calmly. "And I'll never speak to you again as long as I live."

  There was no time to argue over this. Muttering

  "nine-seven-o-one, nine-seven-o-one," convinced that he would forget it by the time he reached the phone, he raced downstairs.

  Where was the telephone anyway? Stop they always spoke of it as being in the back drawing room. He was not anxious to face that gruesome object sitting so comfortably, with the Tatler across its lap and the bloodstain down its ear to the collar. But it had to be done.

  The telephone was on a little round table by the windows, almost within touching-distance of Hubert. With an unsteady finger Courtney dialed the number and got it right. The ringing-tone buzzed interminably in his head while he perched on the edge of a little chair, staring at the phone. It had rung for a full minute, which to Courtney seemed interminable, before Dr. Nithsdale's voice answered.

  When he had explained, Dr. Nithsdale's language was sulphurous.

  "And also," Courtney added, "come prepared to deal with somebody who's got a bash over the back of the head, probably—"

  "Lad, are you clean daft?"

  "No, no, no! There's a lunatic in the house tonight. Just do what I ask. But, Doctor!" "Aye?"

  "If the strychnine was administered with a hypodermic, what can I do about it in the meantime?"

  "Naething. And it isna likely I can either. Guid-by."

  The receiver went up with a bang.

  Courtney pressed his hands to a throbbing head. 'Beside him the rain was spattering in from the open window, so that bright needles stung the floor and drenched the curtains. No other sound disturbed the house.

  He swung round to face Hubert, and got what was perhaps his worst shock of the night — at least, so far. Hubert, still in the same position, had not stirred. But his eyes were wide open, and they were looking straight into Courtney's from not six feet away.

  "Good evening," Hubert said in an agreeable if slightly furred and wandering voice. "I seem to have fallen asleep. Most extraordinary. Most extraordinary."

  Nineteen

  Yet it was not Hubert Fane in his right senses. Courtney realized this when he noted the expression of the eyes.

  He remembered a friend of his who had Buffered concussion of the brain from being struck by the door of a railway carriage. After being knocked out, this friend had got up assuring everyone that nothing was wrong with him, and had gone about his business until he collapsed many hours later.

  Hubert, grotesquely neat except for the stain of dried blood down his face, blinked and touched a hand to his forehead.

  "Extraordinary," he continued in the same buzzy, benevolent voice. The Tatler slid off his knees to the floor. "Do you know I cannot remember—"

  "Steady, sir!"

  "May I ask, Mr. Courtney, how you came here? And would you do me the esthetic favor of removing that extremely disreputable coat and hat?"

  "Look here-"

  "My head does indeed feel excessively odd. Not painful, but odd. I surely cannot have taken that much brandy after dinner."

  Courtney felt his throat grow dry. "Who," he said, "was last in this room with you, Mr. Fane?" A look of mild wonder overspread Hubert's face. ~ "Now there," he replied, running his fingers lightly over his forehead, "is another remarkable thing. I cannot recall how I came here. The last thing I distinctly remember is sitting in the library reading the evening paper. This room has not associations so pleasant that I should sit in it by choice. I think it would soothe me to go and bathe my eyes. Yes, I must go and bathe my eyes."

  "Hold on, Mr. Fane!" cried Courtney, as Hubert got to his feet and stood swaying on his spidery legs. "Don't get up! Stay there! You've been hurt."

  "I have been what?"

  "You've been hurt."

  "My dear sir, what nonsense you talk," said Hubert mildly, and went over flat on his face on the floor.

  Courtney looked round in desperation, wondering what to do here. He was in time to see another person looking at him.

  Through the open window and the blowing curtains, stung with rain, projected the head and shoulders of Sir Henry Merrivale. H.M. was swathed round in a transparent oilskin with a hood, which covered everything including his hat, and was not a sight for weak nerves. Out of this he glared through misted spectacles.

  "What's goin' on here?" he demanded. "Who put this ladder up to the window?"

  "I did. I had to get in somehow." Courtney could have yelled with relief. "Come on in and tell us what's to be done."

  "Oh. I thought…" H.M. broke off, and sniffed. He pointed a malignant forefinger. "What's wrong with him?"

  "You tell me."

  Though it was a near thing. H.M. did manage to squeeze through the window. He flapped among the curtains and almost tore them down from their rods. He landed on the floor with a thud that shook the ceiling. But he did manage to get in. Trailing water and oilskin, he waddled across to the prone figure and bent over it.

  "Concussion," he said, after examination. "And a bad one. Lord love a duck!"

  "Never mind him," urged Courtney, not very sympathetically for Hubert. "Go upstairs. Mrs. Fane's been attacked again. The murderer gave her another dose of strychnine in a hypodermic, and Dr. Nithsdale says—"

  There was more bumping behind him. First Masters, and then Inspector Agnew, pushed through the window and dropped inside. A mist arose as they shook themselves. Bright puddles of rainwater ran and glistened on the hardwood.

  "Don't anybody ever answer the door at this place?" questioned an exasperated chief inspector. "We've been hammering at the front door for the past ten minutes. The bell won't work."

  "Don't you hear what I'm saying?" shouted Courtney. "It's Mrs. Fane. Strychnine again! I've phoned the doctor. But somebody sneaked in while Ann was out of the room, and gave her a hypodermic full of it. She's in bad shape."

  ''Is she, now?" said H.M. tonelessly.

  It took a little while for this to penetrate into Courtney's mind. It took a little while for him to understand the implications of H.M.'s casual, uninterested tone. And even then he did not understand it.

  "H.M., are you crazy? Are you all crazy? Why don't you do something? She must have got the whole hypodermic full of it. When I pressed the handle of the thing, there was only a drop left. I touch
ed it to my tongue, and it was bitter—"

  "So," said H.M., peering round over his shoulder out of the dripping oilskin. "You touched it to your tongue, did you?"

  "Yes."

  "Uh-huh. Did it make the tip of your tongue feel numb afterwards?" "No."

  "Sure of that, son?" "Yes, quite sure."

  "Then," said H.M., turning back again, "it wasn't strychnine."

  There was a silence, except for the sluicing rain. Masters and Agnew stood motionless, a stuffed expression on their faces.

  Courtney stared at them wildly.

  "Would someone," requested a courteous voice from the floor, "would someone be good enough to assist me to my feet? I am quite well, but my — er — motor reflexes appear not to motor in the accepted sense of the term. It is most annoying."

  "Agnew!"

  "Sir?"

  "Get this feller up to his room," said H.M. "He's hurt bad. Come on." As Agnew hurried over, he scowled at Courtney and went on. "I'll have a look at Mrs. Fane, just in case."

  "Now then," said Masters, "what's all this? What's been going on, Mr. Courtney?"

  When Courtney started to tell him, Masters walked across to the sofa. He went round it, studying. From the floor behind the sofa he picked up a heavy rough-stonework jar, whose surface would have held no fingerprints but which must have weighed ten or twelve pounds and would have made a murderous weapon. Masters weighed it in his hand.

  Courtney, however, did not waste much time in telling his story. He raced upstairs after H.M.

  There was a babble of voices in the upstairs hall. Mrs. Propper and Daisy, muffled up in extra clothing as though they would have to leave a house on fire, were excitedly pouring out to Ann a story which was far from clear.

  "Here's the big doctor!" howled Mrs. Propper, clutching at H.M. as he passed. "You go in there, sir. You go and see Mrs. Fane!"

  "Now, now, lemme alone! For cat's sake lemme alone. I…"

  H.M. went into the front bedroom. Stripping off the waterproof, he bent over Vicky Fane. He picked up one limp wrist and took her pulse. He ran his fingers lightly from under the ears down along the line of the jaws, and round the neck. He lifted one eyelid and looked at the iris. Though his manner seemed more malevolent than ever, yet Courtney felt that a shadow had passed from his face, and that he breathed more easily.

  "Wen?" Courtney demanded. "What is it? What's wrong with her?" "Nothing."

  "Nothing?" cried Ann.

  They were crowded in the doorway, peering, like a cluster of people in a Hogarth sketch.

  "You mean she hasn't had anything at all?"

  "Nothing," responded H.M., "except the chloral in her sleeping-tablets. Oh, my eye, what a fine lot of scare-mongers you are. Now see here. What's all this rumpus about a burglar? We went down to Adams's place, and he was all hoppin' about sending you—" he blinked at Courtney—"out with a rifle to pot a burglar. What burglar?"

  Mrs. Propper, who wore a lace cap over her curlpapers, drew the layers of dressing gowns and shawls and comforters closer round her.

  "As the Lord is my judge," she declared with passion, "there was a burglar. Just you ask Daisy." "How'd he get in?" "Through the winder." "What winder?" "I'll show you."

  "That's more like it. We may as well let this gal sleep."

  H.M. switched off the bedside lamp. He came out of the room, shooing them before him, into the bright light of the hall. And they met a frightened-looking Frank Sharpless, in a sodden cap and rubber raincoat, coming up the stairs at long strides.

  "Come on in," sneered H.M., making an expansive but malignant gesture. "The more the merrier. Keep the party goin'. I say, son: why don't you move your bed in and live here?"

  It would not be a literal fact to say that Mrs. Propper stiffened audibly, but such was the general effect.

  "I had to see Vicky," breathed Sharpless, wiping the moisture from his face. "Is she all right?"

  "Perfectly all right."

  "I rang up Major Adams's to speak to Phil. The major said—"

  "Uh-huh. We can guess what he said. No, you don't! Keep away from that door, and let the gal sleep." He turned to Mrs. Propper. "Now, ma'am. Where's this window that the burglar got in by?"

  Mrs. Propper was rapidly approaching a state that bordered on the frantic. "Sir, you're not going to let that murderer…?"

  "What murderer?" demanded Sharpless.

  "It was him," said Mrs. Propper, pointing her finger at Sharpless. "I take my oath on it. It was him that got in through the winder."

  Sharpless had removed his cap, so that rain-drops splashed her and made her run behind H.M. for protectum. Shaking his cap, Sharpless turned a face of incredulous astonishment, hollowed by the lights.

  Holding to H.M.'s arm and dragging him with her, Mrs. Propper hurried to a door a little way down the hall. She made him reach inside and switch on the light.

  It revealed an empty bedroom, unused and chilly-looking, whose two windows were on the side of the house facing south. One window stood wide open. Drenched curtains of flowered cretonne belled out in the draught when the door was opened.

  "That's it," cried Mrs. Propper, pointing again. "There's an iron pipe by that winder outside. And Daisy said to me — upstairs we were — up over it — Daisy said to me, 'Auntie, there's somebody tapping on that pipe.' And I said, 'No,' I said, 'there's somebody climbing that pipe.' And we tried to look out of
  "Then how do you know it was Captain Sharpless?"

  "I tell you, I know! Don't you tell me who it was! I know. It was that Captain Sharpless, there. Wasn't it, Daisy?"

  "Oh, Auntie, don't be silly," said Daisy. Her eyes overflowed. "I'm sure Captain Sharpless would never do a thing like that."

  "The old girl's scatty," announced Sharpless.

  It was Ann who smoothly intervened here.

  "I'll tell you what, Mrs. Propper," she suggested, putting a kindly arm round the cook's shoulder. "Why don't you and Daisy go down and make us all some tea? You're perfectly safe now: the big doctor's here. And we could all do with it. I'll put on some clothes and make myself decent and come down and help you."

  "That," glared H.M., after a look out of the window which misted his spectacles again, "is the first sensible idea anybody's suggested in this gibberin' household. Come on. Hop it, all of you."

  Though Sharpless lingered behind in the hall, evidently for a look at Vicky after Ann had finished dressing, Mrs. Propper and Daisy were impelled downstairs in front of Courtney and H.M. In the back drawing room the last two found Masters, very grim of face, waiting for them.

  "Well, sir?"

  H.M. expelled his breath. "She's all right. No harm done. Our friend did try it on, though." Masters changed color. "With the hypodermic?" "Yes."

  Masters had removed his raincoat and his bowler hat. Belatedly Phil Courtney followed suit, throwing his wet outer apparel on the hearth.

  "But do you see how this last little bit fits in?"

  "Oh, Masters, my son! Of course it fits in. It's inevitable. And it may have saved us a lot of trouble."

  "Maybe. All the same, I'm bound to admit you were right after all. We don't dare take any more chances. That being the case, don't you think you'd better get on with it and give this demonstration of yours?"

  "What demonstration?" asked Courtney wearily.

  "Sir Henry's going to show us," answered Masters grimly, "how Arthur Fane was murdered."

  There was a pause, filled with the endless splashing of the rain.

  "You know?" Courtney asked.

  "Oh, yes, son. We know who, and how, and why. Just watch me."

  He could not believe that this was the end. He felt a chill of dread, yet his mind was still befogged and he could not register the remotest guess as to who, or how, or why.

  H.M.'s preparations were very businesslike. After putting down the oilskin on the sofa, he again pushed the sofa back against the wall, so th
at the center of the room was clear. He carried the bridge lamp on its long cord over to the easy chair where Vicky Fane had been sitting on the night of the murder.

  Clearing the mahogany telephone table, he brought this to the center of the room.

  "We'd better make sure this is exactly as it was," he grunted. "Get somebody."

  Ann Browning, who had again put on her white sports dress, was coming down the stairs on her way to the kitchen. Courtney went out and stopped her.

  "They want you in there. They're going to show how Arthur Fane was killed."

  "I told you," retorted Ann through stiff lips, "that I never wanted to speak to you again as long as.." She paused. "They're going to do what?"

  "Reconstruct the murder, I suppose you'd call it. Look here, Ann, I swear I didn't mean anything!"

  "You thought I did it. You know you did."

  "I never did! I only-"

  "Come in here, both of you," roared H.M.

  The faces of H.M. and of Masters were so grave that instinctively the others walked softly, almost on tiptoe.

  "We want somebody who was here when it happened," said H.M. "Now. Shut the door. This is how the furniture was arranged, hey?"

  "Y-yes," said Ann.

  "Was the lampshade like it is now? If not, show us."

  After a hesitation, Ann walked forward and lowered the shade an inch or two. It threw bright light round the chair, and almost as far as the little table, but left the rest of the room in semi-darkness.

  "Now. The other chairs."

  While Ann gave directions, Courtney rolled an easy chair and a light chair to one side of Vicky's place — a little ahead of it, and facing sideways — to represent the positions of Arthur and Hubert Fane on one side. He rolled another easy chair and another light chair — to represent the positions of Ann Browning and Frank Sharpless — facing these on the opposite side, completing the semi-circle.

  "So," grunted H.M., his fists on his hips. His eye measured distances. You could not tell what he was thinking. "That's just exactly the position? You're sure?"