Except For One Thing

by John Russell Fearn

  “Liquid air, eh?” Winters shook his head doubtfully. “You’re setting me a mighty tough problem. Liquid air, depending of course on the period of immersion, should have destroyed both bone and flesh and powdered the blood as well, and the pulverising process would complete it. Our only chance is that perhaps the time was not long enough and that parts of the bone, the most resistant of all human material, will have survived. Anyway, I’ll go to work and probably have a report by tomorrow.”

  “Not before?” Garth asked disappointedly.

  “Can’t be done, sorry. There’s the steeping and filtering to be gone through, and then I’ve got to sort out the genuine powder from bone traces — if any. Not a thing before tomorrow!”

  “Okay,” Garth sighed. “And it seems to me, Whitty, that we’ve about earned some lunch. Come on.”

  *

  So neatly had Garth concealed his hand so far, Richard felt almost happy as during the day he worked on the completion of the doors for his garage. Now it was purely a matter of finishing off the job for appearances’ sake — and besides it gave him a chance to think.

  As he worked he began to realise the empty futility of everything he was doing — and had done. His whole sinister plot, magnificently successful though it had apparently been, had failed in its objective in that he had not got Joyce.

  Now, after a night during which he had actually managed to sleep for three consecutive hours, he realised what he had got to do. He must exert his authority and force Joyce back to his side. Only by accomplishing it could he consummate his masterpiece.

  By five o’clock, as the light was commencing to wane and the doors were finished and on their hinges, he had his plan worked out.

  Without bothering with evening dinner in the usual way, making do with a few sandwiches, he went upstairs to shave, changed into a lounge suit, then left the house in his very latest style of overcoat, his dark hair shining smoothly groomed

  As usual it was the impassive-faced housekeeper who opened the door to him at the Prescott home.

  “I know,” Richard commented, raising a hand. “Miss Prescott won’t see me!”

  “Those are my instructions, Mr. Harvey — and from the master, too.”

  “I refuse to go without seeing either Miss Prescott or her father,” Richard said briefly.

  The woman turned away from the doorway, and Richard deliberately walked into the hall and stood waiting, grimly expectant. After a moment or two the housekeeper reappeared from the study, glanced towards him, then went on to her own quarters. The door opened again and Dr. Prescott himself came out, adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses.

  “What do you want?” Howard Prescott asked, stopping a couple of feet away.

  “To see Joyce, of course. What else? And you’re the only one who can fix it for me.”

  “We’ve been over all this before. I made it perfectly clear to you when we last met how you stand with Joyce — and me. Will you please go?”

  Richard measured him. “You told me you were not responsible for Joyce’s actions. That being so, suppose you let her speak? I want to see her. If she refuses, I’ll go, but at least give her and me a chance.”

  Howard Prescott hesitated, then glanced towards the door of the drawing room under which a light showed.

  “Joyce!” he called. “Come here a moment, will you please?”

  The door opened and the girl appeared, simply dressed, vague surprise on her face. Catching sight of Richard she backed into the room again.

  “Just a minute!” Richard snapped, striding across the hall. “I’m putting an end to this tomfoolery once and for all!”

  He strode after her into the drawing room. Prescott followed him and stood watching expectantly. Joyce was near to the fire, her back to it, studying Richard with nervous dark eyes.

  “How much longer is your crazy delusion about me going to stand between us, Joyce?” he demanded, standing by the divan and resting his palms flat on the back of it. “Can’t you and your father here get it through your heads how unjust you’re being?”

  “Do we have to go through all this again?” Joyce asked, her voice quivering. “I haven’t forgotten what you called me when you left here last time.”

  “I’m sorry,” Richard said quietly. “I was furious — just as you’d be if accused of something you haven’t done. Things have happened since I was here last. Chief Inspector Garth has given up the case of Valerie Hadfield completely because he can’t find the person who killed her, or else made her disappear. My alibi is absolutely watertight. If it satisfies Scotland Yard surely it ought to satisfy you?” The girl’s eyes remained fixed on him for a while and he saw them undergo a slight change. She looked away from him suddenly to her father. Dr. Prescott had his lips compressed and a tiny frown of doubt puckering his forehead.

  “I can quite understand how both of you arrived at your conclusions, and I don’t blame you for it. Circumstantial evidence has ruined many a life before now. I’ve admitted that I know Valerie Hadfield — or that I did know her, if she is now dead — but there the story ends as far as I’m concerned. Garth is satisfied about everything else, even to my visits away from home unfortunately coinciding with Valerie’s mysterious love affair with Rixton Williams. As for the name of “Ricky” that is purely coincidence again — but naturally I wanted to keep things dark when I saw how all these coincidences were going to add up and make things look bad for me…”

  Joyce stirred restlessly.

  “You know how impulsive I am. If I’ve been wrong about you I’ll never be able to make it up to you…”

  “But of course you will,” Richard said, smiling and coming round the divan to her. “I was determined I’d make one last effort to save our lives from being shattered. If any trace of doubt remains let me tell you that I was out all day yesterday with Inspector Garth — socially, not officially, that is. In the evening he came up to dinner at my place. Do you think a Scotland Yard official would do that to a suspected man?”

  There was silence., almost of shame.

  “If you doubt it — though I’d rather hoped you’d take my word for it — ring him up,” Richard added. “It was when I realised that the case was closed and marked uncompleted, and that I had therefore become free of suspicion, that I resolved to come here. Please, Joyce, for the love of Heaven, don’t still nurse your delusion about me.”

  “I don’t want to, Ricky,” she muttered, and he noticed there were real tears in her dark eyes. “In spite of everything, I still love you. If all that you’ve said is true — ”

  “It is true! Don’t I keep telling you? The whole thing’s done with! My name never got into the paper to start a scandal, and it certainly won’t now. We’re right back where we were on the Saturday morning when I told you I’d freed myself.”

  Richard waited — then suddenly Joyce’s arms were about him tightly. He stooped and kissed her forehead gently, stroked back the gleaming hair with a faintly trembling hand.

  “That’s better,” he whispered, and raised his eyes to meet those of Howard Prescott across the room.

  “Why don’t you say something, Dad?” the girl asked, as her father remained silent. “Don’t you see how wrong we’ve been…?”

  Dr. Prescott shrugged. “I can only offer my apologies, Richard. As for Joyce, she really is desperately in love with you: I’ve known that from the start. I — er — perhaps you’d prefer to be alone? This is no moment for a third party.”

  As he left the room, unsmiling, Richard looked after him with a puzzled frown.

  “I’m so glad…Dick,” Joyce whispered, looking up at him. “Here take off your coat. Sit down. We’ve such a lot of time to make up.”

  Richard let her help him off with his overcoat, and at the same moment Dr. Prescott was sitting down at his desk in the study and picking up the telephone.

  “Whitehall, one two one two,” he requested; then when he was connected, “C.I.D., please — Chief Inspector Garth, if he’s still there. If
not let me know where I can contact him.”

  After an interval Garth’s voice came over the wire. “Hello? Garth speaking. Who’s that?”

  “This is Dr. Prescott, Inspector — It’s about Richard Harvey. He’s here now, having patched things up with my daughter. He insists that he is a free man and that you’ve given up the Valerie Hadfield case. He also says that you had dinner with him last night, glorying in the fact that you and he are on the best of terms. Is that — the truth? Have you given up the case?”

  There was silence from the other end of the wire.

  “You see my position, Inspector?” Prescott insisted. “Joyce is my daughter. I am responsible for her. Because she loves young Harvey so deeply she is willing to listen to the first plausible excuse that gives him back to her. But I’m trying to look further, as a father should…If Richard be still suspect there may be danger. You understand?”

  “Yes, Doctor, I see the awkwardness of your position,” Garth admitted. “But I did have dinner with Dick last night. As for your daughter being in love with him there is no actual harm or danger in that. Two people in love don’t hurt each other as a general rule.”

  “What exactly do you mean by that, Inspector? It sounds as though you’re saying Richard won’t hurt Joyce because he’s in love with her. If that be so it means — ”

  “I realise your position, Dr. Prescott, but I must ask you to realise mine! I am unable for obvious reasons to talk upon everything I do. All I can say is that your daughter won’t by all ordinary standards, come to any harm through being in love with Richard Harvey all over again. In fact, maybe it is better that way. Jealousy and hatred have vicious reactions sometimes.”

  “Answer me one question: have you given up the Valerie Hadfield case or not?” Prescott asked deliberately.

  “Unofficially, yes. But a case is never really given up. It is simply a matter of putting it in abeyance until some new development occurs.”

  “Well, I suppose I’ll have to let things stay as they are, then,” Prescott sighed. “I don’t want to influence Joyce in any way — unless it be for her own good. Going to be difficult to reconcile myself to the situation as far as Richard is concerned. I told him the other night that his only chance to save himself was by confession — ”

  “You what?” Garth interrupted sharply. “Why? Did he admit something?”

  “On the contrary, he denied everything. But he asked me, if he had committed the crime of murder — which he swore he hadn’t — what he should do about it, and I told him his only chance lay in confession. He looked so ill, so haunted, his guilt so self-evident — to me, anyway.”

  “Hmmm…Sound advice,” Garth said slowly. “And instead he reclaimed your daughter?”

  “Obviously. Meeting you the day after and hearing that you had given the case up seems to have given him fresh hope.”

  “I am afraid,” Garth said carefully, “that there is nothing you can do in this situation. Don’t take back what you told him if it hurts your ethics. Let the thing slide. Simply treat him as you treated him before the trouble arose, and leave it at that. You may hear from me again before very long. Goodbye.”

  “Bye,” Prescott sighed, and put the instrument down.

  At this moment Garth was in Whitehall, ready to depart for home, his hand gripping the telephone he had only just replaced. Sergeant Whittaker was by the door, also ready for off.

  “That was Prescott. He just told me, inter alia, that he met Richard the other night and told him to confess…And that gives me an idea! Get the file out and get the name of Valerie Hadfield’s manager, will you?”

  Wondering, Whittaker came back to the steel cabinets and began a search. Presently he handed over the memo containing the information.

  “Good!” Garth got to his feet. “I’m going to take a long chance on stirring up a guilty conscience into following Dr. Prescott’s advice. Nothing but a confession will do the trick now. Come with me and we’ll see this manager of Valerie’s. If we can get what we want out of him we’re liable to be busy during the night.”

  “Oh?” Whittaker said resignedly. “Where, sir?”

  “In Richard Harvey’s laboratory — and God help us if he sees or hears us.”

  “Do you think it was good advice to let Miss Prescott fall in love with Mr. Harvey again?”

  “It was the only advice I could give. I can’t betray my hand at the moment and I firmly believe that Joyce Prescott is safe enough as long as she and Richard Harvey remain in love. He really does have an affection for her…” Garth reflected then nodded firmly. “She’ll be all right. Come on.”

  CHAPTER XIX

  Eleven o’clock was just striking from the drawing room clock when Richard insisted on leaving. He was smiling; the lines of anxiety had gone from his mouth and eyes. The evening had gone perfectly. Dr. Prescott had not interfered, and the only interruption had been when the housekeeper had brought in light refreshment.

  “All forgiven?” Richard rose, stretching his arms.

  Joyce held up her hand upon which the engagement ring gleamed, and stood up beside him.

  “Proof!” she smiled.

  “You mean so much to me, dearest,” he murmured, stooping to kiss her hair.

  “A fresh start,” she said. “Tomorrow we begin all over again. And soon…We’ll be married.”

  “Time’s getting on, Joyce, and I want to catch up on some more sleep. I’ve been having unholy nights since you turned me down.”

  She smiled ruefully at the thought and helped him into his overcoat. They went out of the room and across the hall just as Dr. Prescott emerged from his study — or else he had been listening for the pair coming.

  “Good night, Richard,” he said quietly, and turned away to the staircase.

  “I have an idea he still doesn’t believe me,” Richard sighed. “Well, have to leave it to you to soften him up.”

  “I will,” the girl promised, smiling.

  Richard kissed her again and then went off down the front path. “Tomorrow morning,” he called back. “I’ll be here for ten o-clock. See that you’re ready!”

  Humming to himself Richard turned out into the road. He had achieved his final victory — beaten Scotland Yard and brought Joyce back to his side. Nothing whatever to worry about any more, except perhaps Dr. Prescott who seemed vaguely uncertain. But he didn’t matter.

  Completely enveloped in his own thoughts, Richard failed to see that he was being watched as he walked home. He had not used the Jaguar for so short a journey.

  On the opposite side of the road two pairs of eyes were fixed on him.

  “Looks cheerful, sir,” murmured Sergeant Whittaker. “Tied up with his girl again, I suppose.”

  “He shouldn’t be long going up to bed,” Garth said. “That’s his room over the front there…Wish I’d known he had been out. We might have fixed things before he got back. My feet are about frozen.”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t decide to spend the night doing laboratory work,” Whittaker said.

  “A man in love for the second time doesn’t spend his night doing that,” Garth answered.

  Garth’s guess was right. As he entered the house Richard’s only desire was to get to bed and dream of Joyce, crush into the background those vile visions that had haunted him since he had rid the world of Valerie Hadfield and her chauffeur.

  He went upstairs to bed, and it was not long before he dozed off. Then he stirred in his sleep at the consciousness of a distant, far-off ringing. Opening his eyes he gazed into the darkness of the room. The noise was louder now — piercing — Trrrrring…Trrrrring…

  He turned over and switched on the bedside lamp, felt out lazily for the extension telephone. As he raised it he peered with one eye at the clock. It said quarter-past one.

  “Yes…?” he mumbled.

  “Is that you, Ricky?”

  He gripped the telephone rigidly, suddenly fully awake. Or was he awake? Perhaps he was dreaming. It was a woman’s v
oice, intensely distinct in the quiet of the night…

  “Ye-es,” he whispered, staring fascinatedly in front of him. “Who’s speaking?”

  “Good Lord, Ricky, don’t you recognise the voice of Valerie?”

  All of a sudden Richard’s pulses were leaping and bounding. “Who did you say?” he yelled.

  “Hello? I can’t hear you…The line’s awful. This is Valerie, Ricky — Valerie Hadfield. You ought to remember me! Even if we have been apart for a few weeks. I stepped out of town without telling anybody…Answer, can’t you?”

  “You can’t be Valerie!” Richard shouted, drenched in perspiration.

  “I can’t hear what you say, not properly,” the girl said. “I’ll try from another kiosk somewhere later on. Probably when I get into town. Can you hear me?”

  Richard fancied he heard an impatient sigh, then the line went dead. The telephone dropped from his hand back on to the cradle with a hollow rattle.

  Suddenly, devastatingly, the horrors were queuing up to enter his mind, the ghouls of dreadful uncertainty, the thundering conviction that he was going insane. Valerie! But he had choked her to death in that house in Twickenham. With his own two hands. He had brought her here in his Jaguar to this very residence. Then he had…God! Had it not been Valerie after all, but somebody else? So like her that he had been completely fooled?

  Shaking, he clambered out of bed, pushed his feet in slippers. In the dim glow of the bed lamp he lighted a cigarette and sat trying to reconcile the impossible. Had he made a mistake? After all this was Valerie alive? But surely she must have seen the papers? Or had she? She had said she had stepped out of town without telling anybody. Maybe to some remote part of the country where papers were behind time…

  “You damned idiot!” Richard breathed. “She’s dead! It’s a trick! It was Valerie you killed.

  He got up and began pacing up and down the shadowy room restlessly, smoking cigarette after cigarette. Then, viciously — Trrrrring…Trrrrring…Trrr —