"Yes."
"Good. Masters, put the rubber dagger on the table."
Masters did so. Courtney saw that the chief inspector was as bewildered as Ann or himself. Masters bent the dagger back and forth, as though to make sure of its being rubber and that it might not be transformed into steel under his eyes.
"We're comin' on. Now, Masters, go and sit in the chair where Arthur Fane was sitting."
Obediently Masters took the chair.
"You, son. Stand where Rich was standing."
Feeling as though he had got into a dreamlike state where anything could happen, Courtney shook his head.
"I don't know where Rich was standing. I wasn't here."
"The gal'll show you. Place him, my wench… So. That's it, hey?.. Good."
H.M. surveyed the position. He was infuriatingly slow about it.
"We'll omit the revolver," he went on, thrusting his hands into the armholes of his waistcoat. "The revolver didn't exactly figure in the scheme: except that, without it, the murderer could never have got away with the trick." He shook his head. "Oh, my eye, how simple it is! How painfully, heartbreakin'ly simple!"
Masters' color deepened. His fingers scratched at the upholstery of the chair-arms.
"Sir," he said, "are you going to get on with this, or do I have to choke it out of you?"
"Now, now. Keep your shirt on, son." He looked at the other two. "This evening I told Masters and Agnew that I was gettin' Adams's chauffeur to knock me together a little article to use in my demonstration. Watch."
He went over to where his oilskin waterproof lay on the couch. He thrust his hand into the pocket. In two more seconds the secret would have been out.
But there was an interruption.
From somewhere upstairs a strangled cry, more like a scream than a cry, brought the blood rushing to their hearts and made them all whirl round. It was followed by a flapping sound, a series of thuds, and a hoarse voice.
"Got the bounder!"
Masters stared at H.M., the apoplectic color leaving his face. Masters' hand was lifted in the air.
"My God," the chief inspector said, "the fool's tried it again,"
Courtney could never afterwards remember which of them reached the door first. He thought it was H.M., but this seemed impossible for so ungainly a bulk. He knew that they all surged round it, and got wedged in the doorway, before they sorted themselves out.
Then, with Masters in the lead, they all ran for the stairs.
The bare hall upstairs, its hardwood floor gleaming, contained three figures. One was Frank Sharpless, standing back against the wall and staring. On the floor, lying sideways, flapping and kicking, lay a figure that cried out with shrill moaning protests as Inspector Agnew bent over it. Courtney looked, and could not believe his eyes.
Masters, hurrying down the hall, joined that fighting group. Masters drew something from his pocket.
He looked back at Ann, with red-faced grimness.
"Excuse the handcuffs, miss," he said, as he snapped the catches round Hubert Fane's wrists. "But Mr. Hubert Fane is a killer by instinct as well as necessity, so we thought we'd better not take any chances."
Twenty
It was just a week later, the fine mellow evening of September third, when many persons were gathered in that same back drawing room.
Vicky Fane was there, now restored to radiant health. Frank Sharpless was there. Ann Browning was there, with Courtney sitting on the arm of her chair. Dr. Richard Rich occupied a modest corner. Dr. Nithsdale, who had dropped in to see Vicky and pronounced her fit for anything, occupied a less modest corner.
Finally, H.M. was there.
"Y’see," said H.M., assuming his stuffed position with finger at temple because he was proudly conscious of his own importance, and preening it in the chair, "the truest word in this case was spoken by accident." He looked at Ann. "You spoke it."
"I did?"
"Yes. You said it would be pretty awful if somebody we thought figured in one role really figured in exactly the opposite role. Remember?"
"Yes; but-"
H.M. looked at Vicky.
"You, ma'am, thought that Arthur Fane was a murderer and Hubert Fane was a blackmailer. Actually, it was just the other way round. Hubert was the murderer and Arthur the blackmailer. Hubert had killed Polly Allen; and Arthur, who knew it, was makin' a very good thing out of it. That's the whole secret of this case; and as far as I’m concerned, its only novelty." He crossed his knees.
"Y'see, ma'am, your knowledge that your husband was a murderer was the 'admitted' fact. "Sure. But who admitted it?
"If this were all written down and traced back, you'd find that there was only one source for all the details about Arthur: Hubert himself. You found a handkerchief in a chair. You heard Arthur, in his sleep, mumblin' some words about the murder of Polly Allen. It was on his conscience, all right; but not in the way you thought it was. You jumped to the conclusion, as most women would, that he was guilty. You went to Hubert. And Hubert told you as fine a little ghost-story as he ever devised."
Vicky nodded. A shadow was on her face.
H.M. lit one of his offensive cigars without apologizing.
"Unfortunately, we — Masters and I — didn't know what you knew, or thought you knew, until you told us all about it on that Sunday afternoon. If we'd been able to pool our information beforehand, we'd have nabbed Master Hubert even faster than we did. When we heard, that tore it.
"Y'see, most people thought Hubert was a wealthy man. Sharpless thought so. Rich thought so. Masters thought so. And the joker in the pack is that he teas a wealthy man.
"What led you and your husband astray at the be-ginnin' was one little fact. Hubert Fane was mean. Just ordinary, plain, miserly mean. He's the sort of person — we all know 'em — who couldn't put his hand in his pocket to pay for a round of drinks if his life depended on it; and who'd think nothin' of charmingly sponging off relatives by living with 'em all year, when all the time he could buy 'em out ten times over.
"Charming people these are, mostly. But I group 'em with my own late uncle under the general category of lice.
"Now, you thought Hubert was a blackmailer. Whereas Masters and I were all at sea simply because, burn me, we did know the facts!
"Last Sunday afternoon, Masters came round to me with a lot of accumulated facts. With the assistance of the bank, he'd looked up the financial standing of everybody in this case; and, as he said, he found absolutely nothing to surprise or help us in any way. In other words, Hubert was just what he pretended to be: a rich man.
"But I didn't at all like die statement of Arthur's financial position.
"What did we know? Six months ago, Arthur was so flat broke and in debt that he had to cash in on his life insurance. But what happened? He got it back later. And what else? All of a sudden, streams of cash were runnin' into Arthur's account — into the current account, where he could use 'em to pay debts — and by the middle of August his books were all straight again."
Again H.M. peered over his spectacles at Vicky. He chewed at the end of his black cigar.
"We then talked to you. You poured out the details of how Arthur had killed Polly Allen (details supplied by Hubert alone); and you told us how Hubert was a penniless blackmailer who'd been bleedin' Arthur in a mild, gentlemanly way.
"And, I repeat, that tore it. I saw how the whole situation had been put the wrong way round. If Hubert himself was the murderer, and Arthur the blackmailer, that made everything fit together with a wallop. It supplied the thing that had bothered me like blazes: motive."
Vicky had a wrinkle between her brows. She made several false starts before she managed to speak.
"Then Arthur," she said hesitantly, "never…?"
"Played the rip?" said H.M. "No. He was a crook financially. But he was a strictly faithful husband. He said, and believed it himself, that there wasn't a happier couple in England than himself and his wife."
Vicky put her hands over
her eyes.
H.M. looked uncomfortable.
"But maybe," he went on, puffing out a cloud of poisonous smoke, "I'd better take the story from the beginning.
"Now, I had my eye on Uncle Hubert from the start. Maybe he reminded me of a certain blighter I once knew years ago. But never mind that. The closer you looked at him, the fishier everything about him seemed.
"For instance, he liked to play the part of the paternal uncle, the father of his female friends, the 'dear old gentleman' who had only benevolent advice for young ladies. But he wasn't old, unless you're young enough to consider the middle-fifties old. And what did we hear about him from Dr. Rich, the man who'd been his doctor and ought to know?"
H.M. craned his neck round and peered at Rich, who was gloomily regarding the floor.
"Do you remember savin', son, that you could have understood it very well if the charge of hypnotizing a woman in order to seduce her had been made against Hubert Fane?"
"I do," said Rich.
"And you consider that a pretty fair estimate of his character?" "I did and do."
"Uh-huh. Well, everything about Hubert Fane: the way he looked, the way he dressed, the way he acted: all indicated that he was a real sizzler. He liked his women young, the younger the better. He liked 'em delicate and fragile. Like Polly Allen, for instance. Or like-"
"Were you looking at me?" inquired Ann, as H.M. peered so strongly and obviously in her direction that she had to take notice. Ann colored up.
"Yes, my wench, I was. And I'd like to bet you that Hubert Fane had been makin' what we'll call advances to you. And that you were on the point of telling us so, when we kept mistakenly askin' you about Arthur's activities in that direction. Only you couldn't force yourself to do it.
"I remember how you looked at Adams's place, that Thursday afternoon by the clock-golf outfit, when we first talked about Polly Allen. You said with a pointed kind of emphasis that you didn't know Arthur well, but you did know his 'family.' You wouldn't refer to his wife like that. And he hadn't got any family: his father and mother died at a time you were in rompers. Any family, that is, except Hubert. Is that what you were tryin' to convey?"
"Yes," admitted Ann, and nodded her head violently.
Her face was scarlet.
"For some time?" asked H.M.
"Yes, for some time."
"What had he been doing?" inquired Vicky, with considerable interest.
"Now, now!" said H.M. austerely. "None o' that!"
"Well, it'd be interesting to know," Sharpless pointed out, with a broad and open grin. "But never mind. Go on, sir. Dish us out the dirt."
"So our good, harmless Hubert took up with Polly Allen. Whether or not because she reminded him of the girl who wasn't having any, I'll leave you to decide. I think t don't have to emphasize that. But now, my fatheads, I'd like to call your attention to an interestin' parallel. Has any of you ever heard of the Sandyford Place mystery?"
"Hoots!" cried Dr. Nithsdale, with rich scorn. "Whu doesna ken it?"
"I don't, for one," said Sharpless.
The little doctor glared at him. H.M. silenced them both.
"You'll find it in the Notable British Trials series. It happened at Glasgow in the early 'sixties. In Sandyford Place, off Sauchiehall Street—"
"Saw-ee-all Street," corrected Dr. Nithsdale sternly. "Mon, ye're pronunciation of Eenglish wad mak' an Eskimo shuver in a hot-hoose."
"All right. Saw-ee-all Street," said H.M., accepting the correction but unable to manage the proper gulp between the first two syllables. "One night when all the family were away from home except a servant girl named Jessie McPherson and a sanctimonious, holy old gent named James Fleming, the servant girl was murdered. Very nastily, with a chopper.
"I'm not goin' to argue the evidence, which is debated yet. A woman named McLachlan was eventually arrested, and gentle James Fleming released as the Crown's chief witness. At the trial, the judge referred to him as a 'dear old gentleman,' which same term has been applied to Hubert Fane.
"But it always seemed to me that Fleming killed the girl because she wouldn't give in to him, and made a row, and then he wanted to hush it up.To quote McLachlan: 'He just said it couldna be helped now, although he was very sorry.' It's certain that this dear old gentleman was a cantin' humbug—"
"Aye. One of ihe grea'est blackguards," agreed Dr. Nithsdale with pride, "that even Sco'land ever gave us."
"And on the night of July fifteenth, in this room," said H.M., "the same thing happened all over again."
There was a pause.
"Y'see, Hubert made a mistake. He'd been used to success. But he didn't know Polly Allen. As we've heard, she liked 'em young; she laughed at anybody over forty; and she didn't care a curse about money. That's why she was so 'amused,' as her friends said, when she set out for her mysterious date on that night.
"Hubert thought this was goin' to be easy. He chose a night when all the women were away, and Arthur was supposed to be workin' late at the office. Correct?"
"Yes," said Vicky.
"Of course nobody among Polly's friends had ever heard of any affair with Arthur Fane. There never had been any.
"So Hubert invited his languishin' prey here. And what happened? She laughed at him. You follow that? She laughed at him. And so the dear old gentleman lost his head and strangled her.
"Arthur, returnin' from the office earlier than was expected, found 'em here. The scene must have been pretty riotous. Hubert did just what old James Fleming is supposed to have done: offered money if Arthur would keep his mouth shut. Arthur said: 'Money? You haven't got a bean.' Whereat Hubert, however anguished at havin' to do it, produced evidence that opened Arthur's eyes.
"Arthur Fane needed that money. So he—"
"He helped in the disposal of the body?" interposed Ann.
"That's right, my wench. The little scene you witnessed, of Arthur comin' to the door in his shirtsleeves, didn't suggest an assignation. It suggested work: spade-work.
"What they did with the body we don't know and we're not likely to. The only thing we can be sure of is that it's not buried near Leckhampton Hill, where
Hubert later said it was. But you can't wonder that Arthur Fane talked about murder in his sleep." H.M. looked at Vicky.
"From then on dates Hubert's changed place in the household — which you, ma'am, misinterpreted. Y'see, we tend to forget that there are certain advantages about the position of a person who's bein' blackmailed. He can demand a better room in the house, and the sort of food he wants at table. He can say, 'Burn it all, if I'm being bled to the tune of a couple of thousand pounds, I'm going to get something out of it.' Also, he can make the blackmailer pretty uncomfortable too.
"He can keep remindin' the blackmailer, by sly little digs (as Hubert did), that they're in the same boat together. If Hubert Fane was a murderer, he could make ruddy sure Arthur kept in mind how a respectable solicitor helped dispose of the body and raked in the cash for doin' it. Think back over everything you ever heard Hubert say, and see if it doesn't sound different now.
"But Hubert had already decided that the blackmailer was goin' to die."
A stir went through the group.
"Ah!" murmured Rich. "Now we come to it."
"In a minute, son. Don't hurry me.
"Hubert's original idea, I think, was a straight-out business of shovin' strychnine into a grapefruit. Arthur, as we've heard, was partial to grapefruit."
Courtney interposed here.
"Wait. Where did he get the strychnine? And has this anything to do with your mysterious trips in buying horse liniment from all the chemists in Cheltenham?"
H.M. looked modest.
"Well, y'see, son, it occurred to me that if I ever wanted to poison anybody in a small town or village…" "Heaven help the victim if you ever do!" H.M. glared him down.
"As I said," he continued with dignity, after a suitably withering interval, "I'd never be so fatheaded as to buy poison and sign the register. I
wouldn't need to.
"Most small-town chemists, in my experience, are friendly souls who like to talk. They don't mind you loiterin'. If they know you, they don't even mind your hangin' about in the dispensary while they make up prescriptions.
"I've never forgotten — long ago — discoursin' philosophy myself in a dispensary, while the chemist went from room to room, or attended to the shop outside. And I looked round, and there at my elbow was a five-ounce bottle of strychnine.
"Usually it's the most conspicuous thing on the shelves: a clear glass bottle of white powder, with a red label. You can't miss it. I sort of thought then that I could have tipped out a little of that stuff in my hand, and the chemist'd never know the difference unless he came to check over his stock. And by that time it'd be too late to remember who in blazes might have got at the bottle."
Sharpless shook his head.
"You know, sir," Sharpless remarked, "you really are an old son of a so-and-so, and no mistake." H.M. drew himself up.
"I'm the old maestro," he said, tapping his own chest; "and don't let any would-be criminal ever forget it.
"So I sort of wondered whether anybody might 'a' tried that dodge. Hubert Fane was a friendly soul who got on good terms with everybody.
"It might be interesting to do a bit of snoopin', and find out what chemists encouraged loiterin'. I had to have prescriptions filled, of course. I couldn't ask any questions, or the chemist would have shut up like an oyster. The police could do the questioning when I'd weeded out my list of possibles.
"But stop side-trackin' me! I was goin' on about Hubert Fane.
"His original plan, I think, was a straight-out murder with strychnine. But two things happened. First: he ran into his old friend Richard Rich. And, second: Mrs. Fane came in and tackled him about the murder of Potty Allen.
"Now this last thing put him in one awful awkward position. When she asked him if Arthur had killed the girl, he couldn't say: 'No; I did it myself.' And he couldn't deny the whole thing altogether, or she'd only investigate further and then there might be the devil to pay.
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