Original subtitles

The Hollow Man by John Dixon Carr, read

by Peter Noble.

Of course, it's not the whole story,

said Dr. Fel. It's not the whole story,

even if it's true, and that's the worst

part. You talk of evil spirits. I tell

you that in some way I can't fathom

there's a worse evil spirit than Grimo

and that's X.

That's the hollow man. That's brother

Henri.

He pointed out with his stick. Why? Why

does Pierre Fle admit he fears him? It

would be reasonable for Grimu to fear

his enemy. But why does Fle even fear

his brother and his ally against the

common antagonist? Why is a skilled

illusionist

afraid of illusion? Unless this gentle

brother Henri is as rattlerrained as a

criminal lunatic and as clever as Satan.

Hadley put his notebook in his pocket

and buttoned up his coat. You go home if

you like. He said we're finished here.

But I'm going after Fle. Whoever the

other brother is, Fle knows. And he's

going to tell. I can promise you that.

I'll have a look around Draymond's room,

but I don't anticipate much. Fle is the

key to this cipher, and he's going to

lead us to the murderer. Ready?

First coffin.

The problem of the savance study

one, the threat

to the murder of Professor Grimo and

later the equally incredible crime in

Calstro Street. Many fantastic terms

could be applied with reason. Those of

Dr. Fel's friends, who like impossible

situations, will not find in his case

book any puzzle more baffling or more

terrifying.

Thus, two murders were committed in such

fashion that the murderer must not only

have been invisible, but lighter than

air. According to the evidence, this

person killed his first victim and

literally disappeared. Again, according

to the evidence, he killed his second

victim in the middle of an empty street

with watchers at either end. Yet, not a

soul saw him, and no footprint appeared

in the snow.

Naturally, Superintendent Hadley never

for a moment believed in goblins or

wizardry, and he was quite right. unless

you believe in a magic that will be

explained naturally in this narrative at

the proper time.

But several people began to wonder

whether the figure which stalked through

this case might not be a hollow shell.

They began to wonder whether if you took

away the cap and the black coat and the

child's false face, you might not reveal

nothing inside. Like a man in a certain

famous romance by Mr. HG Wells. The

figure was grizzly enough. Anyhow, the

words according to evidence have been

used. We must be very careful about the

evidence when it is not given at

firsthand, and in this case, the

listener must be told at the outset to

avoid useless confusion on whose

evidence he can absolutely rely. That is

to say, it must be assumed that somebody

is telling the truth, else there is no

legitimate mystery and in fact no story

at all. Therefore, it must be stated

that Mr. Stewart Mills at Professor

Grimmo's house was not lying, was not

omitting or adding anything, but telling

the whole business exactly as he saw it

in every case. Also, it must be stated

that the three independent witnesses of

Calstro Street, Messers Short and

Blackwin, and Police Constable Withers

were telling the exact truth. Under

these circumstances, one of the events

which led up to the crime must be

outlined more fully than is possible in

retrospect. It was the keynote, the

whiplash, the challenge, and it is

retold from Dr. Fel's notes in essential

details exactly as Stuart Mills later

told it to Dr. Fel and Superintendent

Hadley. It occurred on the night of

Wednesday, February the 6th, 3 days

before the murder in the back parlor of

the Warrick Tavern in Museum Street.

Dr. Sha Vane Grimo had lived in England

for nearly 30 years and spoke English

without accent except for a few curt

mannerisms when he was excited and his

habit of wearing an old-fashioned square

topped bowler hat and black string tie.

He was even more British than his

friends.

Nobody knew much about his earlier

years. He was of independent means, but

he had chosen to be occupied and made a

good thing of it financially. Professor

Grimmore had been a teacher, a popular

lecturer and writer, but he had done

little of late and occupied some vague

unsalaried post at the British Museum,

which gave him access to what he called

the low magic manuscripts.

Low magic was the hobby of which he had

made capital any form of picturesque

supernatural devilry from vampirism to

the black mass over which he nodded and

chuckled with childlike amusement

and got a bullet through the lungs for

his pains.

A sound common sense fellow Griml with a

quizzical twinkle in his eye. He spoke

in rapid gruff bursts from deep down in

his throat, and he had a trick of

chuckling behind closed teeth. He was of

middle size, but he had a powerful chest

and enormous physical stamina. Everybody

in the neighborhood of the museum knew

his black beard trimmed so closely that

it looked only like graying stubble, his

shells of eyeglasses, his upright walk

as he moved along in quick short steps,

raising his hat curtly or making a

semaphore gesture with his umbrella. He

lived, in fact, just round the corner at

a solid old house on the west side of

Russell Square. The other occupants of

the house were his daughter Rosette, his

housekeeper, Madame Dim, his secretary

Steuart Mills, and a broken down ex-teer

named Draymond, whom he kept as a sort

of hanger on to look after his books.

But his few real cronies were to be

found at a sort of club they had

instituted at the Warick Tavern in

Museum Street. They met four or five

nights in a week, an unofficial conclave

in the snug back room reserved for that

purpose.

Although it was not officially a private

room, few outsiders from the bar ever

blundered in there, or were made welcome

if they did. The most regular attendants

of the club were fussy, bald-headed

little pettis, the authority on ghost

stories, Mangan the newspaperman, and

Burnaby the artist. But Professor Grim

was its undisputed Dr. Johnson. He ruled

nearly every night in the year except

Saturdays and Sundays, which he reserved

for work. He would set out for the war,

accompanied by Steuart Mills. He would

sit in his favorite cane armchair before

a blazing fire with a glass of hot rum

and water and hold forth autocratically

in the fashion he enjoyed. The

discussions, Mills says, were often

brilliant, although nobody except Pettis

or Bernabby ever gave Professor Grie

serious battle.

Despite his affability, he had a violent

temper. As a rule, they were content to

listen to his storehouse of knowledge

about witchcraft and sham witchcraft,

wherein trickery hoaxed the credulus.

His childlike love of mystification and

drama, wherein he would tell a story of

medieval sorcery, and at the end

abruptly explain all the puzzles in the

fashion of a detective story. They were

amusing evenings with something of the

rural inn flavor about them, though they

were tucked away behind the gas lamps of

Bloomsbury.

They were amusing evenings until the

night of February the 6th, when the

premonition of terror entered as

suddenly as the wind blowing open a

door.

The wind was blowing shrewdly that

night, Mills says, with a threat of snow

in the air. Besides himself and

Grimmore, there were present at the

fireside only Pettis and Mangan and

Bernaby. Professor Grimmore had been

speaking with pointed gestures of his

cigar about the legend of vampirism.

Frankly, what puzzles me, said Pettis,

is your attitude towards the whole

business. Now, I study only fiction,

only ghost stories that never happened.

Yet, in a way, I believe in ghosts, but

you're an authority on attested

happenings, things that we are forced to

call facts unless we can refute them.

Yet, you don't believe a word of what

you've made the most important thing in

your life. It's as though Bradshaw wrote

a treaties to prove that steam

locomotion was impossible or the editor

of the encyclopedia Britannica inserted

a preface saying that there wasn't a

reliable article in the whole edition.

Well, and why not? Said Greo, with that

quick, gruff bark of his, wherein he

hardly seemed to open his mouth. You see

the moral, don't you?

Much study hath made him mad, perhaps,"

suggested Burnaby. Grimmo continued to

stare at the fire. Mills says that he

seemed more angry than the casual jbe

would have warranted, he sat with the

cigar exactly in the middle of his

mouth, drawing at it in the manner of a

child sucking a peppermint stick.

"I am the man who knew too much," he

said after a pause. And it is not

recorded that the temple priest was ever

a very devout believer. However, that is

beside the point. I am interested in the

causes behind these superstitions.

How did the superstition start? What

gave it impetus so that the gullible

could believe? For example, we are

speaking of the vampire legend. Now,

that is a belief which prevails in

Savonic lands. Agreed. It got its firm

grip on Europe when it swept in a blast

out of Hungary between 1730 and 1735.

Well, how did Hungary get its proof that

dead men could leave their coffins and

float in the air in the form of straw or

fluff until they took human shape for an

attack? "Was there proof?" asked

Burnaby. Grieo lifted his shoulders in a

broad gesture. They exumed bodies from

the churchyards. They found some corpses

in twisted positions with blood on their

faces and hands and shrouds. That was

their proof. But why not? Those were

plague years. Think of all the poor

devils who were buried alive, though

believed to be dead. Think how they

struggled to get out of the coffin

before they really died.

You see, gentlemen, that's what I mean

by the causes behind superstitions.

That's what I am interested in.

I also, said a new voice, am interested

in it.

Mills says that he had not heard the man

come in, although he thought he felt a

current of air from the opened door.

Possibly they were startled by the mere

intrusion of a stranger in a room where

a stranger seldom intruded and never

spoke. Or it may have been the man's

voice, which was harsh, husky, and

faintly foreign, with a sly triumph

croaking in it. Anyhow, the suddeness of

it made them all switch around.

There was nothing remarkable about him,

Mills says. He stood back from the

firelight with the collar of his shabby

black overcoat turned up and the brim of

his shabby soft hat pulled down and what

little they could see of his face was

shaded by the gloved hand with which he

was stroking his chin.

Beyond the fact that he was tall and

shabby, out of gaunt build, Mills could

tell nothing, but in his voice or

bearing, or maybe a trick of gesture,

there was something vaguely familiar,

while it remained foreign.

He spoke again, and his speech had a

stiff pedantic quality, as though it

were a burlesque of Grimole. You must

forgive me, gentlemen," he said, and the

triumph grew for intruding into your

conversation. "But I should like to ask

the famous Professor Griml a question."

Nobody thought of snubbing him, Mills

says. They were all intent. There was a

kind of wintry power about the man which

disturbed the snug, firelit room. Even

Grimo, who sat dark and solid and ugly

as an Epstein figure, with his cigar

halfway to his mouth and his eyes

glittering behind the thin glasses, was

intent. He only barked, "Well,

you do not believe." Then the other went

on, turning his gloved hand round from

his chin only far enough to point with

one finger that a man can get up out of

his coffin, that he can move anywhere

invisibly, that four walls are nothing

to him, and that he is as dangerous as

anything out of hell.

I do not, Grim answered harshly. Do you?

Yes, I have done it. But more I have a

brother who can do much more than I can

and is very dangerous to you. I don't

want your life. He does. But if he calls

on you.

The climax of this wild talk snapped

like a piece of slate exploding in the

fire. Young Mangan, an ex- footballer,

jumped to his feet. Little Pettis peered

around nervously. "Look here, Grimill,"

said Pettis. "This fellow's stark mad,

shall I?" He made an uneasy gesture in

the direction of the bell, but the

stranger interposed. "Look at Professor

Griml," he said. "Before you decide."

Griml was regarding him with a heavy

graven contempt. "No, no, no. You hear

me? Let him alone. Let him talk about

his brother and his coffins.

Three coffins, interposed the stranger.

Three coffins,

agreed Griml with bristling swavity. If

you like, as many as you like in God's

name. Now perhaps you'll tell us who you

are.

The stranger's left hand came out of his

pocket and laid a grubby card on the

table. Somehow the sight of that prosaic

visiting card seemed to restore sane

values, to whirl the whole delusion up

the chimney as a joke, and to make of

this harshvoiced visitor nothing but a

scarecrow of an actor with a bee under

his shabby hat. For Mills saw that the

card read Pierre Fle, illusionist.

In one corner was printed 2B Calostro

Street WC1

and over it was scribbled or care of

Academy Theater.

Grimmore laughed. Pettis swore and rang

the bell for the waiter. So remarked

Grimaugh and ticked the card against his

thumb. I thought we should come to

something like that. You are a counter

then. Does the card say so? Well, well,

if it's a lower professional grade, I

beg your pardon, nodded Grimmo. A sort

of athmatic mirth whistled in his

nostrils. I don't suppose we might see

one of your illusions. With pleasure,

said Fle unexpectedly.

His movement was so quick that nobody

anticipated it. It looked like an

attack, and was nothing of the kind in a

physical sense.

He bent across the table towards Griml,

his gloved hands twitching down the

collar of his coat and twitching it back

up again before anybody else could get a

glimpse of him.

But Mills had an impression that he was

grinning. Grimor remained motionless and

hard. Only his jaw seemed to jut and

rise, so that the mouth was like a

contemptuous arc in the clipped beard,

and his color was a little darker,

though he continued to tick the card

quietly against his thumb. "And now,

before I go," said Fle curtly, "I have a

last question for the famous professor.

Someone will call on you one evening

soon. I also am in danger when I

associate with my brother. But I am

prepared to run that risk. Someone, I

repeat, will call on you. Would you

rather I did? Or shall I send my

brother?

Send your brother, snarled Griml,

getting up suddenly. And be damned.

The door had closed behind Fle before

anybody moved or spoke, and the door

also closes on the only clear view we

have of the events leading up to the

night of Saturday, February the 9th.

The rest lies in flashes and glimpses to

be interpreted in jigsaw fashion, as Dr.

Fel later fitted together the charred

fragments between the sheets of glass.

The first deadly walking of the hollow

man took place on that last named night

when the side streets of London were

quiet with snow and the three coffins of

the prophecy were filled at last.

Two

the door.

There was roaring good humor that night

round the fire in Dr. Fel's library at

number one Adelfie Terrace. The doctor

sat ruddyfaced and enthroned in his

largest, most comfortable and decrepit

chair, which had sagged and cracked

across the padding, in the only way a

chair can be made comfortable, but which

for some reason makes wives go frantic.

Dr. fell beamed with all his vastness

behind the eyeglasses on the black

ribbon and hammered his cane on the

hearth rug as he chuckled. He was

celebrating.

Dr. Fel likes to celebrate the arrival

of his friends, or in fact anything

else. And tonight there was a double

cause for revalry. For one thing, his

young friends Ted and Dorothy Rampol had

arrived from America in the most

exuberant of good spirits. For another,

his friend Hadley, now Superintendent

Hadley of the C, remember, had just

concluded a brilliant piece of work on

the Bazewater forgery case, and was

relaxing. Ted Rampol sat at one side of

the hearth and Hadley at the other with

the doctor presiding between over a

steaming bowl of punch. Upstairs the

midarms fell. Hadley and Rampole were

conferring about something and down here

the messier fell and Hadley were already

engaged in a violent argument about

something else. So Ted Rampol felt at

home.

Sitting back lazily in the deep chair,

he remembered old days. Across from him,

Superintendent Hadley, with his clipped

mustache, and his hair the color of dull

steel, was smiling and making satiric

remarks to his pipe. Dr. Fel flourished

the punch ladle in thunder.

They seemed to be arguing about

scientific criminology and photography

in particular. Rample remembered hearing

echoes of this which had roused the

ribbled mirth of the C.

During one of his absent-minded

intervals of pottering about after a

hobby, Dr. Fel had been snared by his

friend the bishop of Mapleham into

reading gross jesserich and Mitchell. He

had been bitten. Now Dr. Fell has not,

it may be thankfully stated, what is

called the scientific brain, but his

chemical researchers left the roof on

the house, since fortunately he always

managed to smash the apparatus before

the experiment had begun,

and beyond setting fire to the curtains

with a Bunson burner, he did little

damage. His photographic work, he said,

had been very successful. He had bought

a Davontel microscopic camera with an

acromatic lens and littered the place

with what resembled X-ray prints of a

particularly despic stomach. Also, he

claimed to have perfected Dr. Gross's

method of deciphering the writing on

burnt paper. Listening to Hadley jeer at

this, Rample let his mind drift

drowsily. He could see the fire light

moving on crooked walls of books, and

hear fine snow ticking the window panes

behind drawn curtains. He grinned to

himself in sheer amiability.

He had nothing in the excellent world to

irk him.

Or had he? Shifting, he stared at the

fire. Little things popped up like a

jack in the box to jab you when you were

most comfortable.

criminal cases. Of course, there was

nothing to it. It had been Mangan's

ghoulish eagerness to enrich a good

story. All the same. I don't give a hoot

what Gross says, Hadley was declaring

with a flap of his hand on the chair

arm. You people always seem to think a

man is accurate just because he's

thorough. In most cases, the letters

against burned paper don't show up at

all.

Rample cleared his throat pacifically.

By the way, he said to the words three

coffins mean anything to you?

There was an abrupt silence as he had

hoped there would be. Hadley regarded

him suspiciously.

Dr. Fel blinked over the ladle with a

puzzled air, as though he vaguely

associated the words with a cigarette or

a pub. Then a twinkle appeared in his

eye.

He said and rubbed his hands.

Making peace, eh? Or do you by any

chance mean it? What coffins?

Well, said Rample, I shouldn't exactly

call it a criminal case. Hadley

whistled.

But it's a queer business, unless Mangan

was stretching things. I know Boyd

Mangan quite well. He lived on the other

side for a couple of years. He's a

damned good fellow who's knocked about

the world a lot and has a too Celtic

imagination.

He paused, remembering Mangan's dark,

sllovenly, rather dissipated good looks,

his slowmoving ways, despite his

excitable temperament, his quick

generosity, and homely grin.

Anyhow, he's here in London working for

the evening banner now. I ran into him

this morning in the hay market. He

dragged me into a bar and poured out the

whole story. Then said Rample, laying it

on with a trowel. When he learned, I

knew the great doctor fell.

Rats, said Hadley, looking at him in

that sharp, watchful way of his. Get

down, Kises.

He

said Dr. Fel, highly delighted.

Shut up, will you? This sounds

interesting, my boy. Well,

well, it seems that he's a great admirer

of a lecturer or writer named Grieo.

Also, he has fallen hard for Grieo's

daughter, and that makes him a still

greater admirer of the old man. The old

man and some of his friends have a habit

of visiting a pub near the British

Museum, and a few nights ago something

happened which seems to have shaken up

Mangan more than the antics of a casual

lunatic would warrant.

While the old man was talking about

corpses getting up out of their graves

or some such cheerful subject, in walked

a tall, queerl looking bird who began

babbling some nonsense about himself and

his brother, really being able to leave

their graves and float in the air like

straw.

Hereley made a disgusted noise and

relaxed his attention, but Dr. fell

continued to look curiously at Ramole.

Actually, it seems to have been some

sort of threat against this professor

Grieo.

At the end, this stranger made a threat

that his brother would call on Grimmo

before long. The odd part was that

though Greo didn't turn a hair, Mangan

swears he was actually scared green.

Hadley grunted as Bloomsbury for you.

But what of it? Somebody with a scary

old womanish mind.

That's the point, growled Dr. Fel,

scowlling. He isn't. I know Grimmo quite

well. I say, Hadley, you don't know how

queer it is unless you know Grimmo.

Ah, go on, son. How did it end?

Grieo didn't say anything. In fact, he

turned it into a joke and an antilimax

that punctuated the lunacy pretty well.

Just after this stranger had gone, a

street musician came up against the door

of the pub and struck up the daring

young man on the flying trapze.

The whole crowd of them burst out

laughing and sanity was restored.

Grieo smiled and said, "Well, gentlemen,

our revived corpse will have to be even

nimler than that, if he expects to float

down from my study window." They

dismissed it at that, but Mangan was

curious to find out who this visitor,

this Pierre Fle, was. Fle had given

Grimmo a card with the name of a theater

on it. So the next day, Mangan followed

it up in the guise of getting a

newspaper story. The theater turned out

to be a rather broken down and

disreputable music hall in the East End,

staging nightly variety. Mangan didn't

want to run into Fle. He got in to talk

with the stage doorkeeper who introduced

him to an acrobat in the turn before

Fle. This acrobat calls himself, Lord

knows why, Paliachi the Great, although

he's actually an Irishman and a shrewd

one. He told Mangan what he knew. Fle is

known at the theater as Looney. They

know nothing about him. He speaks to

nobody and ducks out after every show.

But this is the point. He is good. The

acrobat said he didn't understand why

some West End manager hadn't tumbled to

it long before. Unless Fle was simply

unambitious.

He's a sort of super conjuring with a

specialty in vanishing tricks. Hadley

grunted again derisively.

No, insisted Rample. So far as I can

gather, it isn't just the old old stuff.

Mangan says he works without an

assistant and that all his props

together can go into a box the size of a

coffin. If you know anything about

magicians, you'll know what a whale of

an incredible thing that is. In fact,

the man seems tripped on the subject of

cathens. Paliachi the Great once asked

him why, and got a jump he didn't

expect. Fle turned round with a broad

grin and said, "Three of us were once

buried alive. Only one escaped." Piachi

said, "And how did you escape?" to which

Fle answered calmly, "I didn't, you see,

I was one of the two who did not

escape."

Hadley was tugging at the lobe of his

ear. He was serious now. "Look here," he

said rather uneasily. "This may be a

little more important than I'd thought.

The fell's crazy right enough. If he's

got any imaginary grudge, you say he's

an alien. I might give the home office a

call and have him looked up then if he

tries to make trouble for your friend.

Has he tried to make trouble? Asked Dr.

Fel. Rample shifted. Some sort of letter

has come for Professor Grimo in every

post since Wednesday. He has torn him up

without saying anything. But somebody

told his daughter about the affair at

the pub, and she has begun to worry.

Finally, to cap the whole business,

yesterday Grieo himself began to act

queerly.

"How?"

asked Dr. Fel. He took away the hand

with which he had been shading his eyes.

His little eyes blinked at Ramole in

startling sharpness.

He found Mangan yesterday and said, "I

want you to be at the house on Saturday

evening. Somebody threatens to pay me a

visit."

Naturally, Mangan advised warning the

police, which Grimmo wouldn't hear of.

Then Mangan said, "But hang it, sir.

This fellow's stark mad, and he may be

dangerous. Aren't you going to take any

precautions to defend yourself?" To

which the professor answered, "Oh, yes,

by all means. I am going to buy a

painting."

"A what?" demanded Hadley, sitting up.

"A painting to hang on the wall?" No,

I'm not joking. It seems he did buy it.

It was a landscape of some sort. Weird

business showing trees and gravestones

and a devil of a huge landscape that it

took two workmen to carry upstairs. I

say devil of a landscape advisedly. I

haven't seen it. It was painted by an

artist named Burnaby, who's a member of

the club and an amateur criminologist.

Anyhow, that's Grieo's idea of defending

himself.

To Hadley, who was again eyeing him

suspiciously, he repeated his words with

some violence. They both turned to look

at Dr. Fel. The doctor sat wheezing over

his double chins, his big mop of hair

rumpled, and his hands folded on his

cane. He nodded, staring at the fire.

When he spoke, the room seemed to grow

less comfortable.

Have you got the address of the place,

my boy? He asked in a colorless voice.

Good. Better warm up your car, Hadley.

Yes, but look here. When an alleged

lunatic threatens a sane man, said Dr.

Fel, nodding again, then you may or may

not be disturbed.

But when a sane man begins to act

exactly like the lunatic, then I know

I'm jolly well disturbed. It may be

nothing at all, but I don't like it.

Wheezing, he hoisted himself up. Come

on, Hadley. We'll go and have a look at

the place, even if we only cruise past.

A sharp wind bit through the narrow

streets of the Adelfi. The snow had

stopped. It lay white and unreal on the

terrace and in the embankment gardens

below. In the strand, bright and

deserted during the theater hour, it was

churned to dirty ruts. A clock said 5

minutes past 10 as they turned up into

Old Witch. Hadley sat quiet at the

wheel, his collar turned up. At Dr.

Fel's roar for more speed, Hadley looked

first at Ramole and then at the doctor

piled into the rear seat.

This is a lot of nonsense, you know, he

snapped. And it's none of our business.

Besides, if there has been a visitor,

he's probably gone by now. I know, said

Dr. Fel. That's what I'm afraid of.

The car shot into Southampton Row.

Hadley kept hooting the horn as though

to express his own feelings, but they

gathered speed. The street was a bleak

canyon opening into the bleeer canyon of

Russell Square. On the west side ran few

foot tracks and even fewer wheel marks.

If you know the telephone box at the

north end just after you pass Keell

Street, you will have seen the house

opposite, even if you've not noticed it.

Rampole saw a plain broad three-storied

front. The ground floor of stone blocks

painted dun and red brick above. Six

steps led up to a big front door with a

brass-edged letter slot and brass knob,

except for two windows glowing behind

drawn blinds on the ground floor over

the areaway. The whole place was dark.

It seemed the most prosaic house in a

prosaic neighborhood. But it did not

remain so. A blind was torn aside. One

of the lighted windows went up with a

bang just as they idled past. A figure

climbed on the sill, outlined against

the crackling blind, hesitated, and

leaped. The leap carried him far over

beyond the spiked area rails. He struck

the pavement on one leg, slipped in the

snow, and pitched out across the curb

nearly under the wheels of the car.

Hadley jammed on his brakes. He was out

of the car as it skidded against the

curb and had the man by the arm before

the latter had got to his feet. But

Rampol had caught a glimpse of the man's

face in the headlights. "Mang," he said.

"What the devil?" Mangan was without a

hat or overcoat. His eyes glittered in

the light like the glassy bits of snow

streaking his arms and hands. "Who's

that?" he demanded horsely. "No, no, I'm

all right. Let go, damn it." He yanked

loose from Hadley and began to wipe his

hands on his coat. "Who?" Ted, listen.

Get somebody. Come along yourself.

Harry, he locked us in. There was a shot

upstairs. We just heard it. He locked us

in, you see. Looking behind him, Rampol

could see a woman's figure silhouetted

against the window. Hadley cut through

these incoherent words.

Steady on. Who locked you in? He did.

Fle. He's still in there. We heard the

shot and the doors too thick to break.

Well, are you coming on?

He was already running for the front

steps with Hadley and Ramole after him.

Neither of the latter had expected the

front door to be unlocked, but it swung

open when Mangan wrenched the knob. The

high hallway inside was dark except for

a lamp burning on a table far at the

rear. Something seemed to be standing

back there looking at them with a face

more grotesque than any they might have

imagined on Pierre Fle. And then Rampol

saw it was only a suit of Japanese armor

decked out in its devil mask. Mangan

hurried to a door at the right and

turned the key that was in the lock. The

door was opened from inside by the girl

whose silhouette they'd seen at the

window, but Mangan held her back with

his arm extended. From upstairs, they

could hear a heavy banging noise.

It's all right, Boyd, cried Rample,

feeling his heart rise in his throat.

This is Superintendent Hadley. I told

you about him. Where is it? What is it?

Mangan pointed at the staircase. Carry

on. I'll take care of Rosette. He's

still upstairs. He can't get out. For

God's sake, be careful.

He was reaching after a clumsy weapon on

the wall as they went up thick carpeted

stairs. The floor above was dark and

seemed deserted, but a light shone down

from a niche in the staircase to the

next floor, and the banging had changed

to a series of thuds.

"Dr. Grimo!" a voice was crying. Dr.

Greo, answer me, will you?" Rample had

no time to analyze what seemed the

exotic, thick atmosphere of this place.

He hurried after Hadley up the second

staircase, under an open archway at its

top, and into a broad hallway which ran

the breadth of the house instead of the

length. It was panled to the ceiling in

oak with three curtained windows in the

long side of this oblong opposite the

staircase and its thick black carpet

deadened every footstep. There were two

doors facing each other from the narrow

ends of the oblong. The door far down at

their left was open. The door at their

right only about 10 ft from the

staircase remained closed despite the

man who was beating on it with his

fists. This man whirled round at their

approach. Although there was no

illumination in the hallway itself, a

yellow light streamed through the arch

from the niche on the staircase. From

the stomach of a great brass Buddha in

the niche, and they could see everything

clearly. Full in the glow stood a

breathless little man who was gesturing

uncertainly. He had a big goblin-like

shock of hair on his big head and peered

behind big spectacles. Boyd, he cried.

Draymond, I say, is that you? Who's

there? Police, said Hadley, and stroed

past him as he jumped back. You can't

get in there, said the little man,

cracking the joints of his fingers. But

we've got to get in. The door's locked

on the inside. Somebody's in there with

Grimo. A gun went off. He won't answer.

Where's Madame Don? Get Madame Don. That

fell's still in there, I tell you.

Hadley turned round snappishly. Stop

dancing and see if you can find a pair

of pliers. The key is in the lock. We'll

turn it from the outside. I want a pair

of pliers. Have you got them? I I really

don't know where. Hadley looked at

Ramole. Hop down at the toolbox in my

car. It's under the back seat. Get the

smallest pliers you can find, and you

might bring along a couple of heavy

spanners. This fell's armed.

Rample turned round to see Dr. Fel

emerge through the arch wheezing

heavily. The doctor did not speak, but

his face was not so ruddy as before.

Going downstairs three at a time, Rample

blundered for what seemed hours before

he found the pliers. As he returned, he

could hear Mangan's voice behind the

closed door in the downstairs room and

the hysterical tones of a girl.

Hadley, still impassive, eased the

pliers gently into the keyhole, his

powerful hands clamped and began to turn

towards the left. "There's something

moving in there," said the little man.

"Got it," said Hadley. "Stand back." He

drew on a pair of gloves, braced

himself, and threw the door inward. It

flapped back against the wall with a

crash that shook tinglings from the

chandelier inside.

Nothing came out, although something was

trying to come out. Except for that, the

bright room was empty. Something on

which Rample saw a good deal of blood

was painfully trying to drag itself on

hands and knees across the black carpet.

It choked, rolled over on its side, and

lay still.

Three. The false face.

Stay in the door, two of you, Hadley

said curtly. And if anybody's got weak

nerves, don't look. Dr. Fel lumbered in

after him, and Rampol remained in the

doorway with his arm extended across it.

Professor Grimo was heavy, but Hadley

did not dare wrench. In that effort to

crawl to the door, there had been a

hemorrhage which was not altogether

internal. Although Grimo kept his teeth

clenched against the blood. Hadley

raised him up against one knee. His face

had a bluish tinge under the mask of

blackish gray stubble. His eyes were

closed and sunken, and he was still

trying to press a soden handkerchief to

the bullet hole in his chest. They heard

his breath sink thinly.

Despite a draft, there was still a sharp

mist of powder smoke.

"Dad,"

muttered Dr. Fel. "Dying," said Hadley.

"See the color. He got it through the

lung." He whirled round towards the

little man in the doorway. "Phone for an

ambulance quick. There's not a chance,

but he may be able to say something

before." Yes, said Dr. Fel with a kind

of fierce somberness.

That's the thing we're most interested

in, isn't it? If it's the only thing we

can do, Hadley answered coolly. Yes. Get

me some sofa pillows from over there.

Make him as comfortable as we can.

When Grimmo's head lulled on one pillow,

Hadley bent close. Dr. Grimo, Dr.

Grimmo, can you hear me? The waxy

eyelids fluttered. Grimo's eyes, only

half open, moved in a queer, helpless,

puzzled way, like a small child's in a

face that you would have described as

knowing or civilized. He could not seem

to understand what had happened. His

glasses hung down on a cord from the

dressing gown. He made a weak twitching

of his fingers as though he would try to

raise them. His barrel chest still rose

and fell slightly.

I am from the police, Dr. Grimmo. Who

did this? Don't try to answer if you

can't nod your head. Was it the man

Pierre Fle?

A faint look of comprehension was

succeeded by an even more puzzled

expression.

Then distinctly Griml shook his head.

Who was it then? Griml was eager. Too

eager for it defeated him. He spoke for

the first and last time. His lips

stuttered in those words whose

interpretation, and even the exact

wording itself was so puzzling

afterwards.

Then he fainted. The window in the left

hand wall was a few inches up, and a

chill draft blew through. Rample

shivered. What had been a brilliant man

lay inert on a couple of pillows,

spilled and torn like a sack, with

something rattling like clockwork inside

it to show that it lived. But no more.

There was too much blood in the bright,

quiet room. My god, Rampolle said

uncontrollably. Isn't there anything we

can do? Hadley was bitter. Nothing

except get to work. Still in the house.

Find a lot of dummies. Oh, myself

included. He pointed to the partly open

window. Of course, the fellow was out of

there before we were even inside the

house. He certainly isn't here now.

Rample looked round. The sharp tang of

powder smoke was blowing away from his

vision as well as from the room. He saw

the place for the first time in focus.

It was a room some 15 ft square with

walls panled in oak and thick black

carpet on the floor. In the left hand

wall, as you stood at the door, was the

window with its brown velvet draperies

blowing. On either side of the window

stretched high bookshelves with marble

busts along the top. Just out from the

window so as to get the light from the

left stood a great flat topped desk

heavy and claw-footed carving. A padded

chair was pushed back from it. At the

extreme left was a lamp of mosaic glass

and a bronze ashtray over which a dead

cigar had smoldered to long ash. The

blotter on which a closed calfskin book

had been put down was clean except for a

tray of pens and a pile of note slips

held down by a curious little figure, a

buffalo carved in yellow jade.

Rample looked across the room at the

side directly opposite the window. In

that wall was a great stone fireplace

flanked also by shelves and busts. Above

the fireplace, two fencing foils hung

crossed behind a blazed shield of arms

which Rampol did not then examine.

Only on that side of the room had

furniture been disarranged.

Just before the fire, a long brown

leather sofa had been knocked arry and a

leather chair rolled back in a twisted

up half rug. There was blood on the

sofa. And finally towards the rear wall

of the room facing the door, Rampol saw

the painting. Between the bookshelves in

this wall, there was a vast cleared

space where cases had recently been

removed, removed within the last few

days, for the marks of their bases were

still indented in the carpet. A place on

the wall had been made for the painting

which Grimmo would now never hang.

The painting itself lay face upwards on

the floor, not far from where Grimmore

himself lay, and it had been slashed

across twice with a knife. In its frame

it was fully 7 ft broad by 4 ft high, a

thing so big that Hadley had to trundle

it out and switch it round in the

cleared space down the center of the

room before he could prop it up for a

look. And that, said Hadley, propping it

against the back of the sofa, is the

painting he bought to defend himself

with. Is it? Look here, fell. Do you

think Grimmo was just as mad as this

fellow Fle?

Dr. Fel, who had been owlishly

contemplating the window, lumbered

round.

as Pierre Fle, he rumbled

and pushed back his shovel hat. Who

didn't commit the crime?

I say, Hadley, do you see any weapon? I

do not. First, there isn't any gun. A

highcaliber automatic is what we want,

and now there isn't any knife with which

this thing was cut to blazes. Look at

it. It looks like an ordinary landscape

to me. It was not, Rampold thought,

exactly ordinary. There was a sort of

blowing power about it, as though the

artist had painted in a fury, and caught

in oils the wind that whipped those

crooked trees. You felt bleakness and

terror. Its motif was somber, with a

greenish tint underlying grays and

blacks, except for low white mountains.

rising in the background.

In the foreground, through the branches

of a crooked tree, you could see three

headstones in rank grass. Somehow it had

an atmosphere like this room, subtly

foreign, but as hard to identify as a

faint odor. The headstones were

toppling. In one way you looked at it,

there was an illusion that this was

because the grave mounds had begun to

heave and crack across. Even the slashes

did not seem to disfigure it.

Rample started a little as he heard a

trampling of feet up the staircase in

the hall. Boyd Mangan burst in thinner

and more disheveled than Rample

remembered. Even his black hair which

clung to his head in wirelike scrolls,

looked rumpled. He took a quick look at

the man on the floor, the heavy brows

shading his eyes, and then began to rub

a parchment-like cheek. Actually, he was

about Rample's age, but the slanting

lines drawn under his eyes made him look

10 years older. Mills told me, he said,

"Is he?" He nodded quickly at Grimol.

Hadley ignored this. Did you get the

ambulance? Chaps with the stretcher

coming now. The whole neighborhood's

filthy with hospitals, and nobody knew

where to telephone. I remembered a

friend of the professors who's got a

nursing home around the corner there.

He stood aside to admit two uniformed

attendants

and behind them a placid little

cleanshaven man with a bald head. "This

is Dr. Peterson." "Um, the police, and

that's your patient,"

Dr. Peterson sucked in his cheek and

hurried over. "Stretcher, boys," he said

after a brief look. "I won't dig for it

here. Take him easy." He scowlled and

stared curiously round as the stretcher

was carried out. Any chance? asked

Hadley.

He might last a couple of hours, not

more and probably less. If he hadn't the

constitution of a bull, he'd be dead

already. Looks as though he's made a

further lesion in the lung trying to

exert himself. Torn it across. Dr.

Peterson dived into his pocket. You'll

want to send your police surgeon round,

won't you? Here's my card. I'll keep the

bullet when I get it. I should guess a

38 bullet fired from about 10 ft off.

May I ask what happened? Murder, said

Hadley. Keep a nurse with him, and if he

says anything, have it taken down word

for word.

As the doctor hurried out, Hadley

scribbled on a leaf of his notebook and

handed it to Mangan. Got your head about

you? Good. I wish you'd phoned the

Hunter Street Police Station with these

instructions. They'll get in touch with

the yard. Tell them what happened if

they ask. Dr. Watson is to go to the

address of this nursing home, and the

rest are to come on here. Who's that at

the door? The man at the door was the

small, thin, topheavy youth who'd been

pounding there to begin with. In full

light, Rampol saw a big goblin-like

shock of dark red hair. He saw dull

brown eyes magnified behind thick gold

rimmed glasses and a bony face sloping

outwards to a large and loose mouth.

This mouth wriggled with a sonorous

precision of utterance showing wide

spaced teeth with an upward movement of

the lip like a fish. The mouth looked

flexible from much speaking. Every time

he spoke, in fact, he had the appearance

of thinly addressing an audience,

raising and lowering his head as though

from notes, and speaking in a

penetrating singong towards a point over

his listeners heads. You would have

diagnosed a physics BSC with socialist

platform tendencies,

and you would have been right. His

clothes were of a reddish check pattern,

and his fingers were laced together

before him. His earlier terror had

changed to inscrable calm. He bowed a

little and replied without expression.

I am Stuart Mills. I am or or was Dr.

Grimos secretary.

His big eyes moved round. May I ask what

has happened to the culprit? Presumably,

said Hadley. He escaped through the

window while we were all so sure he

couldn't get out. Now, Mr. Mills, pardon

me. The singong voice interposed with a

sort of aerial detachment about it. He

must have been a very extraordinary man

if he did that. Have you examined the

window?

He is right, Hadley, said Dr. Fel,

queasing heavily. Take a look. This

business is beginning to worry me. I

tell you in all sincerity that if our

man didn't leave here by way of the

door. He did not. I I am not announced

Mills and smiled. The only witness to

that. I saw it all from start to finish.

Then he must have been lighter than air

to leave by the window. Open the window

and have a look.

Wait, we'd better search the room first.

There was nobody hidden in the room.

Afterwards, growling under his breath,

Hadley eased the window up. Unbroken

snow stretching flat up to the window

frame itself covered all the wide sill

outside. Rampole bent out and looked

round.

There was a bright moon in the west, and

every detail stood out sharp as a

woodcut. It was a good 50 ft to the

ground. The wall fell away in a drop of

smooth, wet stone. Just below there was

a backyard like that of all the houses

in this row, surrounded by a low wall.

The snow lay unbroken in this courtyard

or any other as far as they could look

and along the tops of the walls. Below

in the whole side of the house there

were no windows whatever.

The only windows were on this top floor

and the nearest one to this room was in

the hallway to the left a good 30 ft

away. To the right the nearest window

would have been in the adjoining house

an equal distance away. Ahead there lay

a vast chessboard of adjoining backyards

from houses lining the square, so that

the nearest house was several hundred

yards away.

Finally, there stretched above this

window a smooth upward run of stone for

some 15 ft to the roof, whose slope

afforded neither hold for the fingers

nor for the attaching of a rope. But

Hadley, craning his neck out, pointed

malevolently. "All the same. That's it,"

he declared. "Look there. Suppose he

first hitched a rope to a chimney or

something and had it dangling outside

the window when he paid his visit. Then

he kills Grimmo, swings out, climbs up

over the edge of the roof, crawls up to

untie the rope from the chimney, and

gets away. There will be plenty of

tracks of that, right enough. So yes,

said Mills's voice. That is why I must

tell you that there aren't any.

Hadley looked round. Mills had been

examining the fireplace, but now he

regarded them with his widespaced teeth

showing in an impassive smile, though

his eyes looked nervous, and there was

sweat on his forehead. "You see," he

continued, lifting his hand with the

forefinger raised. As soon as I

perceived that the man in the false face

had disappeared.

The what? said Hadley. The false face.

Do I make myself clear?

No. We must see whether we can't extract

some sense presently, Mr. Mills. In the

meantime, what is this business about

the roof? There are no tracks or marks

of any nature on it, you see. The other

answered with a bright expression of his

eyes as he opened them wide.

This was another trick of his, smiling

and staring as though with inspiration,

even if it sometimes seemed rather a

half-witted inspiration.

He raised his forefinger again. I

repeat, gentlemen, when I saw that the

man in the false face had evidently

disappeared, I foresaw difficulties for

myself.

Why? because I myself had this door

under observation, and I should have

been compelled to as severate that the

man had not come out. Very well. It was

therefore deducible that he must have

left A, by way of a rope to the roof, or

B by means of climbing up inside the

chimney to the roof. This was a quite

simple mathematical certainty.

If capital PQ equals small PQ, it is

therefore quite obvious that capital PQ

equals small PQ + P beta plus Q A + A

beta, is it indeed, said Hadley with

restraint.

Well, at the end of this hallway, which

you see, that is to say, which you could

see if the door were open, pursued Mills

with unshakable exactitude, I have my

workroom. From there, a door leads to

the attic, and then to a trap door

opening out onto the roof. By raising

the trap door, I could see clearly both

sides of the roof over this room. The

snow was not marked in any fashion. You

didn't go out there, demanded Hadley.

No, I could not have kept my footing if

I had. In fact, I do not at the moment

see how this could be done even in dry

weather.

Dr. Fel turned a radiant face. He seemed

to resist a desire to pick up this

phenomenon and dangle him in the air

like an ingenious toy.

"And what then, my boy?" he inquired

affably. I mean, what did you think when

your equation was shot to blazes?

Mills remained smiling and inflexibly

profound. Ah, that remains to be seen. I

am a mathematician, sir. I never permit

myself to think. He folded his arms. But

I wish to call this to your attention,

gentlemen, in spite of my firm statement

that he did not leave by the door.

Suppose you tell us exactly what did

happen here tonight? Urged Hadley,

passing a hand across his forehead. He

sat down at the desk and took out his

notebook. Easy now. We'll lead up to it

gradually.

How long have you worked for Professor

Grimmo? For 3 years and 8 months, said

Mills, clicking his teeth. Rampol saw

that in the legal atmosphere of the

notebook he was compressing himself to

give brief answers.

What are your duties? Partly

correspondence and general secretarial

duties in greater ratio to assist him in

preparing his new work, the origin and

history of middle European superstitions

together with quite so.

How many people live in this house?

Besides Dr. Grimmo and myself four. Yes.

Yes. Well, ah, I see. You wish their

names. Rosette Griml, his daughter.

Madame Dumour, who is housekeeper, an

elderly friend of Dr. Grimmore named

Draymond, a general maid whose last name

I have never yet been told, but whose

first name is Annie.

How many were here tonight when this

happened?

Mills brought the toe of his shoe

forward, balanced himself, and studied

it. Another trick of his. That obviously

I cannot say with certainty. I will tell

you what I know. He rocked back and

forth. At the conclusion of dinner at

7:30, Dr. Grimo came up here to work.

This is his custom on Saturday evenings.

He told me he did not wish to be

disturbed until 11:00. That is also the

inviable custom, he said. However,

quite suddenly beads of sweat appeared

on the young man's forehead again,

though he remained impassive. He said,

however, that he might have a visitor

about 9. Did he say who this visitor

might be?

He did not.

Hadley leaned forward. Come now, Mr.

Mills. Haven't you heard of any threat

to him? Didn't you hear what happened on

Wednesday evening? I uh I had previous

information of it certainly. In fact, I

was at the Warrick Tavern myself. I

suppose Mangan told you

uneasily, but with startling vividness,

he sketched out the story. Meantime, Dr.

Fell had stumped away and was going

through an examination he several times

made that night. He seemed most

interested in the fireplace.

Since Rampol had already heard an

outline of the tavern incident, he did

not listen to Mills. He watched Dr. Fel.

The doctor inspected the blood stains

splashing the top and right arm of the

disarranged sofa. There were more blood

stains on the hearth, though they were

difficult to follow against the black

carpet. A struggle there. Yet Rampole

saw the fire irons were upright in their

rack, in such a position that a struggle

before the hearth must have sent them

clattering.

A very small coal fire had been nearly

smothered under a drift of charred

papers.

Dr. Fell was muttering to himself. He

reared up to examine the escotchin. To

Rampole, no student of heraldry, this

presented itself as a divided shield in

red and blue and silver, a black eagle

and crescent moon in the upper part, and

in the lower a wedge of what looked like

rooks on a chessboard. Though its colors

were darkened, it glowed with barbaric

richness in a queerly barbaric room.

Dr. Fel grunted,

but he did not speak until he began to

examine the books in the shelves at the

left of the fireplace.

After the fashion of biblophiles, he

pounced. Then he began to yank out book

after book, glance at the title page,

and shoot it back in again. Also, he

seemed to have pounced on the most

disreputable looking volumes in the

shelves. He was raising some dust and

making so much noise that it jarred

across Mills's singong recital.

Then he rose up and waved books at them

in excited intentness. I say Hadley, I

don't want to interrupt, but this is

very rummy and very revealing.

Gabriel Dorene, Yoro S. Eliza Le, two

volumes. Shakespeare Minden Monkai. Nine

volumes in different editions.

And here's a name. He stopped.

Ah. Do you know anything about these,

Mr. Mills? They're the only books in the

lot that haven't been dusted.

Mills was startled out of his recital. I

I don't know. I believe they are from a

batch that Dr. Grimmo meant for the

attic. Mr. Draymond found them put away

behind the others when we removed some

bookcases from the room last night to

make room for the painting to be hung.

Where was I, Mr. Hadley? Ah, yes. Well,

when Dr. Grieo told me that he might

have a visitor tonight, I had no reason

to assume it was the man of the Warrick

Tavern. He did not say so. What exactly

did he say? I You see, after dinner, I

was working in the big library

downstairs. He suggested that I should

come upstairs to my work room at 9, sit

with my door open and uh and keep an eye

on this room in case

in case. Mills cleared his throat. He

was not specific.

He told you all this, snapped Hadley.

And you still did not suspect who might

be coming. I think interposed Dr. Fel

wheezing gently that I might be able to

explain what our young friend means. It

must have been rather a struggle. He

means that in spite of the sternest

convictions of the youngest BSC, in

spite of the stoutest buckler emlazened

with x^2 + 2xy + y 2, he still had

enough imagination to get the wind up

over that scene at the Warrick Tavern,

and he didn't want to know any more than

it was his duty to know. Is that it? Eh,

I do not admit it, sir. Mills returned

with relief. Nevertheless, my motives

have nothing to do with the facts. You

will observe that I carried out my

orders exactly. I came up here at

precisely 9. Where were the others,

then? Steady now, urged Hadley. Don't

say you can't reply with certainty. Just

tell us where you think they were. To

the best of my knowledge, Miss Rosette

Grimo and Mangan were in the drawing

room playing cards. Draymond had told me

that he was going out. I did not see

him.

>> And Madame Dumo,

>> I met her as I came up here. She was

coming out with Dr. Grimo's afterd

coffee, that is to say, with the

remnants of it. I went to my workroom,

left my door open, and drew out the

typewriter desk so that I could face the

hallway while I worked. At exactly, he

shut his eyes, and opened them again. At

exactly 15 minutes to 10, I heard the

front doorbell ring. The electric bell

is on the second floor, and I heard it

plainly. 2 minutes later, Madame Dumour

came up from the staircase. She was

carrying one of those trays on which it

is customary to place visiting cards.

She was about to knock at the door when

I was startled to see the uh the the

tall man come upstairs directly after

her. She turned round and saw him. She

then exclaimed certain words which I am

unable to repeat verbatim, but whose

perport was to ask why he had not waited

downstairs, and she seemed agitated. The

uh tall man made no reply. He walked to

the door and without haste turned down

the collar of his coat and removed his

cap, which he placed in his overcoat

pocket. I think that he laughed and that

Madame Dimon cried out something, shrank

back against the wall and hurried to

open the door. Dr. Grimo appeared on the

threshold in some evident annoyance. His

exact words were, "What the devil is all

this row about?" Then he stood stock

still, looking up at the tall man, and

his exact words were, "In God's name,

who are you?"

Mills's singong voice was hurling the

words faster. His smile had become

rather ghastly, although he tried to

make it merely bright. Steady, Mr.

Mills. Did you get a good look at this

tall man? A fairly good look. As he came

up under the arch from the staircase, he

glanced down in my direction. Well, the

collar of his overcoat was turned up,

and he wore a peaked cap, but I am

endowed with what he's called long

sight, gentleman, and I could distinctly

observe the confirmation and color of

the nose and mouth. He was wearing a

child's false face, a species of mask in

Papiermâché. I have an impression that

it was long, of a pinkish color, and had

a wide open mouth, and so far as my

observation went, he did not remove it.

I think I am safe in asserting. You are

generally right, are you not? asked a

cold voice from the doorway. It was a

false face and unfortunately he did not

remove it.

Four, the impossible.

She stood in the doorway looking from

one to the other of them. Rampol

received the impression of an

extraordinary woman without knowing why

he felt it. There was nothing remarkable

about her except a certain brilliance

and vividness of the black eyes which

had a sanded reddish look as though of

smart without tears. She seemed all

contradiction.

She was short and of sturdy figure with

a broad face, rather high cheekbones,

and a shiny skin. Yet Rampol had a

curious impression that she could have

been beautiful if she had tried. Her

dark brown hair was coiled loosely over

her ears, and she wore the plainest of

dark dresses slashed with white across

the breast. Yet she did not look dowdy.

Poise, strength, carriage. What? The

word electric is meaningless, yet it

conveys the wave that came with her.

Something of crackle and heat and power

like a blow.

She moved towards them, her shoes

creaking. The prominent dark eyes turned

a little upwards at the outer corner,

sought Hadley. She was rubbing the palms

of her hands together before her, up and

down. Rample was conscious of two

things, that the killing of Professor

Grimour had struck her with a hurt from

which she would never recover, and would

have left her stunned and crying if it

had not been for one other wish. "I am

Anestin Deont," she said as though

interpreting the thought. I have come to

help you find the man who shot.

She spoke almost without accent, but

with a certain slur and deadness. The

palms of her hands continued to brush up

and down. When I heard, I could not come

up at first. Then I wished to go with

him in the ambulance to the nursing

home, but the doctor would not let me.

He said the police would wish to speak

with me. Yes.

I suppose that was wise.

Hadley rose and moved out for her the

chair in which he had been sitting.

Please sit down, madame. We should like

to hear your own statement in a moment.

I must ask you to listen carefully to

what Mr. Mills is saying in case you

should be required to corroborate.

She shivered in the cold from the open

window, and Dr. Fel, who had been

watching her sharply, lumbered over to

close it. Then she glanced at the

fireplace, where the fire had smoldered

nearly out under the mass of burnt

papers, realizing Hadley's words over

the gap. She nodded. She looked at Mills

absent-mindedly with a sort of vacant

affection which showed almost in a

smile. Yes, of course. He is a nice poor

fool boy, and he means well. Do you not,

Stewart? You must go on by all means. I

will look. Mills showed no anger, if he

felt any. His eyelids flickered a few

times, and he folded his arms. "If it

gives the pythoness any pleasure to

think so," he sang imperturbably, "I

have no objection, but perhaps I had

better continue." "Uh, where was I,

Dr. Grim Mo's words when he saw the

visitor you told us were in God's name.

Who are you then? Ah, yes. He was not

wearing his eyeglasses which were

hanging down by their cord. His sight is

not good without them, and I am under

the impression that he mistook the mask

for a real face. But before he could

raise the glasses, the stranger made so

quick a movement that I was rather

confused, and he darted in at the door.

Dr. Grimmo made a movement to get in

front of him, but he was too quick, and

I heard him laughing. When he got

inside,

Mills stopped, apparently puzzled. This

is most extraordinary. I am under the

impression that Madame Dong, although

she was shrinking back against the wall,

closed the door after him. I recall that

she had her hand on the knob.

Ernestine Deon blazed. What do you wish

to be understood by that little boy? She

asked. You fool, be sure you know what

you are saying. Do you think I would

willingly have had that man alone with

Shaolu? He kicked the door shut behind

him. Then he turned the key in the lock.

One moment, madame. Is that true, Mr.

Mills? I wish it clearly understood,

Mills sang. But I am merely trying to

give every fact and even every

impression. I meant nothing. I accept

the correction. He did, as the Pythoness

says, turn the key in the lock. That is

what he calls his little joke. The

Pythoness, Madame Deon said savagely.

Ah.

Mills smiled. To resume, gentlemen, I

can well believe that the pythoness was

agitated. She began to call Dr. Grieo's

Christian name and to shake the knob of

the door. I heard voices inside, but I

was some distance away, and you will

perceive that the door is thick.

>> He pointed. I could distinguish nothing

until, after an interval of about 30

seconds, during which it is deducible

that the tall man removed his mask, Dr.

Grimmo called out to the Pythoness

rather angrily,

"Go away, you fool. I can handle this."

"I see. Did he seem afraid or anything

of the sort?" The secretary reflected.

On the contrary, I should have said that

he sounded in a sense relieved.

And you, madame, you obeyed and went

away without further Yes,

even though, said Hadley swavely, I

presume it is not usual for practical

jokers to call at the house in false

faces and act in such a wild way. You

knew, I suppose, of the threat to your

employer. I have obeyed Charlu for over

20 years, said the woman very quietly.

The word employer had stung her hard.

Her reddish sanded eyes were intent, and

I have never known a situation which he

could not handle. Obey. Of course I did.

I would always obey.

Besides, you do not understand. You have

asked me nothing.

The contempt changed to a half smile.

But this is interesting psychologically

as Shaol would say. You have not asked

Stuart why he obeyed and caused no fuss.

That is merely because you think he

would have been afraid. I thank you for

the implied compliment. Please go on.

Rampol had a sensation of watching a

supple wrist on a swordsman. Hadley

seemed to feel this too, although he

addressed the secretary.

Do you remember, Mr. Mills, the time at

which this tall man went into the room?

It was at 10 minutes to 10. There is a

clock on my typewriter desk, you see.

And when did you hear the shot?

>> At exactly 10 minutes past 10.

You mean to say that you watched the

door all that time? I did, most

assuredly. He cleared his throat. In

spite of what the Pythoness describes as

my timidity, I was the first to reach

the door when the shot was fired. It was

still locked on the inside, as you

gentlemen saw. You yourselves arrived

very shortly afterwards.

During the 20 minutes while these two

were together, did you hear any voices,

movements, or sounds of any kind? At one

point, I was under the impression that I

heard voices raised, and something which

I can only describe as resembling a

bumping sound, but I was some distance

away.

He began to rock again, and stare as he

met Hadley's cold eye. The sweat broke

out again. "Now I am aware, of course,

that I am under the necessity of telling

what must seem an absolutely incredible

story. Yet, gentlemen, I swear."

Quite suddenly, he lifted a plump fist,

and his voice went high. "That is all

right, Steuart," the woman said gently,

"I can confirm you."

Hadley was swavely grim.

That would be just as well, I think. One

last question, Mr. Mills. Can you give

an exact outward description of this

caller you saw? In a moment, madame. He

broke off, turning quickly. In good

time. Well, Mr. Mills, I can state

accurately that he wore a long black

overcoat and a peaked cap of some

brownish material. His trousers were

darkish. I did not observe his shoes.

His hair when he took off the cab.

Mills stopped. This is extraordinary.

I do not wish to be fanciful, but now

that I recall it, his hair had a dark

painted shiny look, if you understand

me, almost as though his whole head were

made of Pakyamashid.

Hadley, who'd been pacing up and down

past the big picture, turned on him in a

way that brought a squeak from Mills.

The gentleman, cried the latter, "You

asked me to tell you what I saw, and

that is what I saw. It is true."

"Go on," said Hadley grimly. "I believe

he was wearing gloves, although he put

his hands in his pockets, and I cannot

be absolutely certain. He was tall, a

good 3 or 4 in taller than Dr. Grimole,

and of a medium

anatomical structure. That is all I can

definitely assert.

Did he look like the man Pierre Fle?

Well, yes.

That is to say, in one way, yes, and

another.

I should have said this man was even

taller than Fle and not quite so thin,

but I would not be prepared to swear it.

During this questioning, Rampol had been

watching Dr. Fell out of the tail of his

eye. The doctor, his big cloak humped

and his shovel hat under one arm, had

been lumbering about the room with

annoyed digs of his cane at the carpet.

He bent down to blink at things until

his eyeglasses tumbled off his nose. He

looked at the painting along the rows of

books, at the jade buffalo on the desk.

He went down wheezingly to look at the

fireplace and hoisted himself up again

to study the coat of arms over it.

Towards the last he seemed to become

blankly amiable, and yet always Rampol

saw he was watching Madame Deon. tree

seemed to fascinate him. There was

something rather terrible in that small,

bright eye, which would swing round the

second he had finished looking at

something, and the woman knew it. Her

hands were clenched in her lap. She

tried to ignore him, but her glance

would come round again. It was as though

they were fighting an intangible battle.

"There are other questions, Mr. Mills,

said Hadley, particularly about this

Warrick Tavern affair and that painting.

But they can wait until we get things in

order. Would you mind going down and

asking Miss Greo and Mr. Mangan to come

up here? Also, Mr. Draymond, if he has

returned. Thanks. Stop a bit. Um, any

questions? Fell.

Dr. Fel shook his head with broad

amiability.

Rampol could see the woman's white

knuckles tighten. Must your friend walk

about in that ve? She cried abruptly,

and in the shrillness of the voice she

pronounced the W as V. It is maddening.

It is Hadley studied her. I understand,

madame. Unfortunately, that is his way.

Who are you, then? You walk into my

house. I'd better explain.

I am the superintendent of the criminal

investigation department. This is Mr.

Rampol and the other man of whom you may

have heard is Dr. Gideon Fel. Yes. Yes,

I thought so. She nodded and then

slapped the desk beside her. Well, well,

well, even so, must you forget your

manners? Must you make the room freezing

with your open windows even? May we not

at least have a fire to warm us?

I don't advise it, you know, said Dr.

Fel, that is until we see what papers

have already been burnt there. It must

have been rather a bonfire.

Ernestine Deon said wearily, "Oh, why

must you be such fools? Why do you sit

here? You know quite well who did this.

It was the fellow fle and you know it."

Well, well, well. Why don't you go after

him? Why do you sit here when I tell you

he did it?

There was a look about her, a translike

and gypsyish look of hatred. She seemed

to see Fle go down a trap on a gallows.

Do you know Fle? Hadley snapped.

>> No, no, I never saw him. I mean, before

this. But I know what Sha told me.

>> Which was what? Ah, zit. This fle is a

lunatic. Sh never knew him, but the man

had some insane idea that he made fun of

the occult. You understand? He has a

brother who is, she gestured, the same,

you understand? Well, Charl told me that

he might call here tonight at 9. If he

did, I was to admit him. But when I took

down Charl's coffee tray at half 9,

Charl laughed and said that if the man

had not arrived by then, he would not

come at all. Charles said, "People with

a grudge are prompt."

She sat back, squaring her shoulders.

"Well, he was wrong." The doorbell rang

at a quart to 10. I answered it. There

was a man standing on the step. He held

out a visiting card and said, "Will you

take this to Professor Grieo and ask if

he will see me?"

Hadley leaned against the edge of the

leather sofa and studied her.

"What about the false face, Madame?

Didn't you think that a little odd?" "I

did not see the false face. Have you

noticed there is only one light in the

downstairs hall? Well, there was a

street lamp behind him, and all I could

see was his shape. He spoke so

courteously, you understand, and handed

in the card that for a second I did not

realize. One moment, please.

Would you recognize that voice if you

heard it again? She moved her shoulders

as though she was shifting a weight on

her back. Yes. I I don't know. Yes. Yes.

But it did not sound right, you see.

muffled up in that mask, I think now.

Ah, why are men such? She leaned back in

the chair, and for no apparent reason,

tears brimmed over her eyes. I do not

see such things. I am real. I am honest.

If someone does you a hurt good, you lie

in wait for him and kill him. Then your

friends go into court and swear you are

somewhere else. I do not put on a

painted mask like old Draymond with the

children on Guyforks night. You do not

hand in visiting cards like this horror

of a man and go upstairs and kill a man

and then vanish out of a window. It is

like the legends they told us when I was

a girl.

Her cynical poise cracked across in

hysteria. Oh my god, Charlotte. My poor

Charlotte.

Hadley waited very quietly. She had

herself in hand in a moment. She also

was as still and as foreign and

inexplicable as the big painting which

faced her in tortured somberness across

the room. The gust of emotion left her

relieved and watchful, though she

breathed hard. They could hear the

scraping noise of her fingernails on the

chair arms. The man said, Hadley

prompted, "Will you take this to

Professor Grieo and ask if he will see

me?" Very well. Now, at this time, we

understand Miss Grimmo and Mr. Mangan

were downstairs in the drawing room near

the front door.

She looked at him curiously. "Now, that

is a strange thing to ask. I wonder why

you ask it." "Yes, yes, I suppose they

were. I did not notice." "Do you

remember whether the drawing room door

was open or shut?"

I don't know, but I should think it was

shut, or I should have seen more light

in the hall. Go on, please. Well, when

the man gave me the card, I was going to

say, "Step in, please, and I will see."

When I did see, I could not be faced

with him alone, a lunatic. I wish to go

up and get Sha to come down. So, I said,

"Wait there, and I will see." and I very

quickly slammed the door in his face so

that the spring lock caught and he could

not get in. Then I went back to the lamp

and looked at the card. I still have it.

I had no chance to deliver it and it was

blank.

Blank.

There was no writing or printing on it

at all. I went up to show it to

Charlotte and plead with him to come

down, but the poor little Mills has told

you what happened. I was going to knock

at the door when I heard somebody come

upstairs behind me. I looked round and

there he was coming big and thin behind

me, but I will swear I will swear on the

cross that I had locked that door

downstairs.

Well, I was not afraid of him. No, I

asked him what he meant by coming

upstairs. And still you understand I

could not see the false face because his

back was to that bright light on the

stairs which shows up all this end of

the hall and Sha's door. But he said in

French, "Madame, you cannot keep me out

like that and turned down his collar and

put his cap in his pocket." I opened the

door because I knew he would not dare

face Shaol just as Shah opened it from

inside. Then I saw the mask, which was a

pinkish color, like flesh, and before I

could do anything, he made a horrible

jump inside and kicked the door shut and

turned the key in the lock."

She paused as though she had got through

the worst part of the recital and could

breathe more easily now,

and then she said dullly, "I went away,

as Shaol ordered me to do. I made no

first or scene, but I did not go far. I

went a little way down the stairs, where

I could still see the door to this room,

and I did not leave my post any more

than poor Stuart did. It was horrible. I

am not a young girl, you understand. I

was there when the shot was fired. I was

there when Stuart ran forward and began

to pound the door. I was even there when

you people began to come upstairs. But I

could not stand it. I knew what had

happened when I felt myself going faint.

I just had time to get to my room at the

foot of that flight when I was ill.

Women sometimes are. The pale lips

cracked across her oily face in a smile

shakily. But Stuart was right. Nobody

left that room. God help us both. We are

telling the truth. However else that

horror left the room, he did not leave

by the door.

And now, please, please, will you let me

go to the nursing home to see Shaoler?

Five. The jigsaw words.

It was Dr. Fel who answered. He was

standing with his back to the fireplace,

a vast black caped figure under the

fencing foils and shield of arms. He

seemed to fit there, like a baron out of

feudalism, with the bookshelves and

white busts towering on either side of

him, but he did not look like a very

terrible fond.

His eyeglasses were coming a skew on his

nose as he bit off the end of a cigar,

turned andated it neatly into the

fireplace.

Ma'am,

he said, turning back with a long

challenging sound in his nose, like a

battle cry, "We shall not detain you

very long, and it is only fair to say

that I don't in the least doubt your

story any more than I doubt Mills is."

Before getting down to business, I will

prove that I believe you. Ma'am, do you

remember what time tonight it stopped

snowing? She was looking at him with

hard, bright, defensive eyes. She had

evidently heard of Dr. Fel. Does it

matter? I think it was about 9. Yes, I

remember because when I came up to

collect Sha's coffee tray, I looked out

of the window and I noticed that it had

stopped. Does it matter? Oh, very much,

ma'am. Otherwise, we have only half an

impossible situation. And you are quite

right.

Remember, Hadley, half 9 is about the

time it stopped. You're right, Hadley.

Yes, admitted the superintendent.

He also looked at Dr. Fel suspiciously.

He had learned to distrust that blank

stare over the several chins.

Granting that it was 9. What then? Not

only had it stopped snowing a full 40

minutes before the visitor made his

escape from this room, pursued the

doctor with a meditative air, but he had

stopped 15 minutes before the visitor

even arrived at this house. That's true,

Mom. He rang the doorbell at a/4 to 10.

Good. Now, Hadley, do you remember when

we arrived at this house? Did you notice

that before you and Rampol and young

Mangan went charging in, there wasn't a

single footprint on the flight of steps

leading up to the front door, or even

the pavement leading up to the steps?

You see, I did. I remained behind to

make sure.

Hadley straightened up with a kind of

muffled roar. By God, that's right. The

whole pavement was clean. It He stopped

and swung slowly round to Madame Deon.

So this, you say, is your evidence of

why you believe Madame's story? Fell,

have you gone mad, too? We hear a story

of how a man rang the doorbell and

walked through a locked door 15 minutes

after the snow had stopped. And yet

Dr. Fel opened his eyes. Then a series

of chuckles ran up the ridges of his

westcut. I say, son, why are you so

flabbergasted?

Apparently he sailed out of here without

leaving a footprint. Why should it upset

you to learn that he also sailed in?

I don't know, the other admitted

stubbornly. But hang it it does. In my

experience with locked room murders,

getting in and getting out are two very

different things. It would throw my

universe off balance if I found an

impossible situation that worked

sensibly both ways. Never mind. You say,

"Please listen, I say." Madame Dimore

interposed, pale but with the bunched

muscles standing out at the corners of

her jaws. That I am telling the absolute

truth, so help me God.

And I believe you, said Dr. Fel, you

mustn't let Hadley's stern scotch common

sense overall you. He will believe it

too before I'm through with him. But my

point is this. I have shown you, haven't

I, that I have strong faith in you. If I

can credit what you have said. Very

well. I only want to warn you not to

upset that faith. I should not dream of

doubting what you have already told me,

but I fancy I shall very strongly doubt

what you are going to tell me in a

moment."

Hadley half closed one eye. "I was

afraid of that. I always dread the time

when you begin to trot out your damned

paradoxes. Seriously, now please go on,

the woman said solidly.

Thanks. Now, ma'am, how long have you

been Grimmo's housekeeper? No, I'll

change that. How long have you been with

him? For over 25 years, she answered.

I was more than his housekeeper. Once

she had been looking at her interlocked

fingers, which she moved in and out, but

now she lifted her head. Her eyes had a

fierce, steady glaze, as though she

wondered how much she dared tell. It was

the expression of one peering round a

corner at an enemy, ready for instant

flight. I tell you that," she went on

quietly, "in the hope that you will give

me your word to keep silent. You will

find it in your alien records at Bow

Street, and you may make unnecessary

trouble that has nothing to do with this

matter. It is not for myself, you

understand? Rosett is my daughter. She

was born here, and there had to be a

record, but she does not know it. Nobody

knows it. Please, please, can I trust

you to keep silent?

The glaze over her eyes was changing to

a different one. She had not raised her

voice, but there was a terrible urgency

in it. Why, m, said Dr. Fel, a wrinkle

in his forehead. I can't see that it's

any of our business, can you? We shall

certainly say nothing about it.

You mean that, ma'am? the doctor said

gently.

I don't know the young lady, but I'll

bet you a Tanner you're worrying

yourself unnecessarily and that you've

both been worrying yourselves

unnecessarily for years. She probably

knows already.

Children do and she's trying to keep it

from you. And the whole world goes skew

whiff because we like to pretend that

people under 20 will never have any

emotions and people over 40 never had.

Humph. Let's forget it, shall we? He

beamed.

What I wanted to ask you. Where did you

first meet Grimmo before you came to

England?

She breathed hard. She answered, but

vacantly as though she were thinking of

something else. Yes, in Paris. You are a

Parisian. Uh, what? No, no, not by

birth. I am of the provinces, but I

worked there when I met him. I was a

costumeier. Hadley looked up from

jotting in his notebook.

Costumeier,

he repeated. Do you mean a dress maker

or what? No, no, I mean what I say. I

was one of the women who made costumes

for the opera and the ballet. We worked

in the opera itself. You can find record

of that. And if it will save you time, I

will tell you that I was never married

and my maiden name was Elnistine Dim.

>> And Greo? Dr. Fel asked sharply.

Where was he from? From the south of

France, I think, but he studied at

Paris. His family are all dead, so that

will not help you. He inherited their

money.

There was an air of tension which these

casual questions did not seem to

warrant.

Dr. Fel's next three questions were so

extraordinary that Hadley stared up from

his notebook and Ernestine Deon, who had

recovered herself, shifted uneasily with

a weary brilliance in her eyes. What is

your religious faith, ma'am? I'm a

Unitarian. Why? M years. Did Grimmo ever

visit the United States or has he any

friends there? Never. And he has no

friends that I know of there.

Do the words Seven Towers

mean anything to you, ma'am? No,

>> cried Ernestine De and went oily white.

Dr. Fell, who had finished lighting his

cigar, blinked at her out of the smoke.

He lumbered out from the hearth and

round the sofa so that she shrank back,

but he only indicated the big painting

with his cane, tracing out the line of

the white mountains in the background of

the picture.

I won't ask you whether you know what

this represents, he continued. But I

will ask you whether Grimo told you why

he bought it. What sort of charm was it

supposed to contain anyhow? What power

did it have to ward off the bullet or

the evil eye? What sort of weight could

its influence? He stopped as though

recalling something rather startling.

Then he reached out wheezing to lift the

picture off the floor with one hand and

turn it curiously from side to side.

"Oh my hat," said Dr. Fel with explosive

absent-mindedness.

"Oh Lord, oh back."

"Wow."

"What is it?" demanded Hadley, jumping

forward. "Do you see anything?"

No, I don't see anything, said Dr. Fel

argumentatively.

That's just the point. Well, madame, I

think, said the woman in a shaky voice,

but you are the strangest man I ever

met. No, I do not know what that thing

is. Charl would not tell me. He only

grunted and laughed in his throat. Why

don't you ask the artist? Burnaby

painted it. He should know. But you

people will never do anything sensible.

It looks like a picture of a country

that does not exist.

Dr. Fel nodded somberly.

I'm afraid you are right, ma'am. I don't

think it does exist. And if three people

were buried there, it might be difficult

to find them. Mightn't it? Will you stop

talking this gibberish?

Shouted Hadley. And then Hadley was

taken aback by the fact that this

gibberish had struck Ernestine Dumour

like a blow. She got to her feet to

conceal the effect of those meaningless

words. I am going, she said, you cannot

stop me. You are all crazy. You sit here

raving while while you let Pierre Fle

escape. Why don't you go after him? Why

don't you do something?

Because you see, ma'am, Grimmo himself

said that Pierre Fle did not do this

thing. While she was still staring at

him, he let the painting fall back with

a thump against the sofa. The scene out

of a country which did not exist, and

yet where three gravestones stood among

crooked trees, brought Rampol's mind to

an edge of terror. He was still looking

at the painting when they heard

footsteps on the stairs. It was a

heartening thing to see the prosaic

earnest hatcheted face of Sergeant

Betts, whom Rampol remembered from the

Tower of London case. Behind him came

two cheerful plainclo men carrying the

photographic and fingerprint apparatus.

A uniformed policeman stood behind Mills

Boyd Mangan and the girl who had been in

the drawing room. She pushed through

this group into the room.

"Boyd told me you wanted me," she said

in a quiet but very unsteady voice. "But

I insisted on going over with the

ambulance. You see, you'd better get

over there as quick as you can, Aunt

Ernestine. They say he's going."

She tried to be efficient and perempary,

even in the way she drew off her gloves,

but she could not manage it. She had

those decided manners which come in the

early 20s from lack of experience and

lack of opposition. Rample was rather

startled to see that her hair was a

heavy blond color, bobbed and drawn

behind the ears. Her face was squarish

with somewhat high cheekbones, not

beautiful, but disturbing and vivid in

the way that makes you think of old

times, even when you do not know what

times. Her rather broad mouth was

painted dark red, but in contrast to

this, and to the firm shape of the whole

face, the long hazel eyes were of uneasy

gentleness.

She looked round quickly and shrank back

towards Mangan with her fur coat drawn

tightly round. She was not far from

sheer hysteria.

"Will you please hurry and tell me what

you want," she cried. Don't you realize

he's dying, Aunt Ernestine?

If these gentlemen are through with me,

the woman said stoalidly, I will go. I

meant to go, as you know.

She was dosile all of a sudden, but it

was a heavy dility with a half challenge

in it, as though there were limits.

Something bristled between these two

women, something like the uneasiness in

Rosette Grimmo's eyes. They looked at

each other quickly without a direct

glance. They seemed to burlesque each

other's movements, to become abruptly

conscious of it, and stop. Hadley

prolonged the silence as though he were

confronting two suspects with each other

at Scotland Yard. "Then, Mr. Maggan," he

said briskly, "will you take Miss Grimmo

down to Mr. Mills's room at the end of

the hall. Thank you. We shall be with

you in a moment. Mr. Mills, just a

second. Wait, Bet. Sir, I want you to do

some important work. Did Mangan tell you

to bring ropes and a flashlight? Good. I

want you to go up on the roof of this

place and search every inch of it for a

footprint or a mark of any kind,

especially over this room. Then go down

to the yard behind this place and both

adjoining yards and see if you can find

any marks there. Mr. Mills will show you

how to get to the roof. Preston?

Is Preston here? A sharpnosed young man

bustled in from the hall. The sergeant

Preston, whose business it was to poke

for secret places, and who had

discovered the evidence behind the panel

in the death watch case.

Go over this room for any secret

entrance, whatever. Understand? Tear the

place to bits if you like. See if

anybody could get up the chimney. You

fellas carry on with the prints and

pictures. Mark out every blood stain in

chalk before you photograph, but don't

disturb that burnt paper in the

fireplace. Constable. Where the hell's

that constable?

Yes, sir. Did Bow Street phone through

the address of a man named Fle Pierre

Fle? Right. Go to wherever he lives and

pick him up. Bring him here. If he's not

there, wait. Have they sent a man to the

theater where he works? All right,

that's all. Hop to it, everybody.

He stroed out into the hall, muttering

to himself. Doctor fell, lumbering after

him, was for the first time imbued with

a ghoulish eagerness. He poked at the

superintendent's arm with his shovel

hat.

Look here, Hadley. He urged, you go down

and attend to the questioning, eh? I

think I can be of much more service if I

stay behind and assist those duffers

with their photographs. No, I'm hanged

if you spoil any more plates, said the

other with heat. Those film packs cost

money, and besides, we need the

evidence. Now, I want to talk to you

privately and plainly. What's all this

wild mumbo jumbo about? Seven towers and

people buried in countries that never

existed. I've seen you in these fits of

mystification before, but never quite so

bad. Let's compare notes. What did you

Yes. Yes. What is it?

He turned irrassibly as Stuart Mills

plucked at his arm. Uh before I conduct

the sergeant up to the roof, said Mills

imperturbably. I think I'd better tell

you that in case you wish to see Mr.

Draymond. He is here in the house.

>> Draymond? Oh, yes. When did he get back?

Mills frowned. So far as I am able to

deduce, he did not get back. I should

say he had never left. A short time ago

I had occasion to look into his room.

Why? Inquired Dr. Fel with sudden

interest. The secretary blinked

impassively. I was curious, sir. I

discovered him asleep there, and it will

be difficult to rouse him. I believe he

has taken a sleeping draft. Mr. Draymond

is fond of taking them. I do not mean

that he is an inebriate or a drug user,

but quite literally that he is very fond

of taking sleeping drafts.

Rumiest household I ever heard of,

declared Hadley, after a pause to nobody

in particular. Anything else? Yes, sir.

There is a friend of Dr. Grimose

downstairs. He has just arrived and he

would like to see you. I do not think it

is anything of immediate importance, but

he is a member of the circle at the

Warrick Tavern. His name is Pettis, Mr.

Anthony Pettis.

Pettis? Eh, repeated Dr. Fel, rubbing

his chin.

I wonder if that's the Pettis who

collects the ghost stories and writes

those excellent prefaces. H. Yes, I dare

say. Now, how would he fit into this?

I'm asking you how anything fits into

it, insisted Hadley. Look here. I can't

see this fellow now, unless he's got

something important to tell. Get his

address, will you, and say I'll call on

him in the morning. Thanks. He turned to

Dr. Fel. Now carry on about the seven

towers and the country that never

existed.

The doctor waited until Mills had led

Sergeant Betts down the big hall to the

door at the opposite end. A subdued

mutter of voices from Grimmo's room was

the only noise. The bright yellow light

still streamed from the great arch of

the staircase, illuminating the whole

hall. Dr. Fell took a few lumbering

steps round the hall, looking up and

down and then across at the three brown

draped windows. He pulled back the

drapes and made certain that these three

windows were all firmly locked on the

inside. Then he beckoned Hadley and

Ramole towards the staircase.

scrum. He said, "A little comparing of

notes, I admit, will be advisable before

we tackle the next witnesses, but not

for a second about the seven towers.

I'll lead up to those gradually, like

child Roland."

Hadly a few disjointed words, the only

real evidence we have, because it comes

from the victim, may be the most

important clue of all. I mean those few

mutterings from Grimode just before he

fainted. I hope to heaven we all heard

him. Remember you asked him whether Fle

had shot him. He shook his head. Then

you asked him who had done it. What did

he say? I want to ask each of you in

turn what you thought you heard.

He looked at Rampole. The Americans wits

were muddled. He had a strong

recollection of certain words, but the

whole was confused by a too vivid

picture of a blood soaked chest and a

writhing neck. He hesitated.

The first thing he said, Rample

answered, sounded to me like harbor.

Nonsense, interrupted Hadley. I jotted

it all down right away. The first thing

he said was bath or the bath though I'm

hanged if I say steady now your own

gibberish said Dr. fell is a little

worse than mine. Go on, Ted. Well, I

wouldn't swear to any of it, but then I

did hear the words, "Not suicide, and he

couldn't use rope." Next, there was some

reference to a roof and to snow and to a

fox. The last thing I heard sounded like

too much light. Again, I wouldn't swear

it was all in consecutive order.

Hadley was indulgent. You've got it all

twisted, even if you have got one or two

of the points. He seemed uneasy.

Nevertheless, all the same, I'm bound to

admit that my notes don't make much

better sense. After the word bath, he

said salt and wine. You're right about

the rope, although I heard nothing about

suicide.

Roof and snow are correct. Too much

light came afterwards. Then got gun.

Finally, he did say something about a

fox. And the last thing I barely heard

it because of that blood was something

like don't blame poor.

And that's all.

Oh lord,

groaned Dr. Fel. He stared from one to

the other. This is terrible. But I was

going to be very triumphant over you. I

was going to explain what he said, but I

am beaten by the staggering size of your

respective ears. I never heard all that

out of the gabble, although I dare say

you're within some distance of the

truth.

Wow.

Well, what's your version? Demanded

Hadley. The doctor stumped up and down,

rumbling.

I heard only the first few words. They

make tolerably good sense if I'm right.

If I'm right. But the rest is a

nightmare. I have visions of foxes

running across roofs in the snow or like

anthropy

suggested Ramole. Did anybody mention

werewolves?

No. And nobody's going to roared Hadley.

He struck his notebook to put everything

in order. Rampole, I'll write down what

you thought you heard for comparison.

So, we now have your list. Hover. Not

suicide.

He couldn't use rope roof snow. Too much

light. Got gun. Don't blame poor.

There we are. And as usual with your own

brand of cussidness fell, you're most

confident about the most senseless part.

I might rig up an explanation that could

fit together all the latter part, but

how the devil does a dying man give us a

clue by talking about baths and salt and

wine.

Dr. Fel stared at his cigar which had

gone out. M.

Yes.

We'd better clear up a little of that.

There are puzzles enough as it is. Let's

go gently along the road. First, my lad.

What happened in that room after Grimmo

was shot. How the hell should I know?

That's what I'm asking you. If there's

no secret entrance. No, no, I don't mean

how the vanishing trick was worked.

You're obsessed with that business,

Hadley. So obsessed that you don't stop

to ask yourself what else happened.

First, let's get clear the obvious

things for which we can find an

explanation and go on from there. Humph.

And now then, what clearly did happen in

that room after the man was shot? First,

all the marks centered around the

fireplace.

You mean the fella climbed up the

chimney? I'm absolutely certain he

didn't said Dr. Fel testy. That flu is

so narrow that you can barely get your

fist through. Control yourself and

think. First, a heavy sofa was pushed

away from in front of the fireplace.

There was a good deal of blood on the

top as though Griml had slipped or

leaned against it. The hearth rug was

pulled or kicked away. There was blood

on that and a fireside chair was shoved

away. Finally, I found spots of blood on

the hearth and even in the fireplace.

They led us to a huge mass of burnt

papers that had nearly smothered the

fire. Now consider the behavior of the

faithful Madame Deon. As soon as she

came into that room, she was very

terribly concerned about that fireplace.

She kept looking at it all the time, and

nearly grew hysterical when she saw I

was doing so, too. She even, you recall,

made the foolish blunder of asking us to

light a fire, even though she must have

known that the police wouldn't go

fooling about with coals and kindling to

make witnesses comfortable on the very

scene of a crime. No, no, my boy.

Somebody had tried to burn letters or

documents there. She wanted to be

certain they had been destroyed.

Hadley said heavily.

So she knew about it then. And yet you

said you believed her story. Yes, I did

and do believe her story about the

visitor and the crime. What I don't

believe is the information she gave us

about herself and Grimmo.

Now think again what happened. The

intruder shot Grimmo. Yet Grim Mo,

although he is still conscious, does not

shout for help, try to stop the killer,

make a row of any kind, or even open the

door when Mills is pounding there. But

he does do something. He does do

something with such a violent exertion

that he tears wide open the wound in his

lung, as you heard the doctor say.

And I'll tell you what he did do. He

knew he was a goner and that the police

would be in. He had in his possession a

mass of things that must be destroyed.

It was more vital to destroy them than

to catch the man who shot him or even

save his own life. He lurched back and

forth from that fireplace, burning this

evidence, hence the sofa knocked away,

the hearth rug, the stains of blood.

You understand now?

There was a silence in the bright bleak

hall.

And the deont woman?

Hadley asked heavily. She knew it. Of

course, it was their joint secret, and

she happens to love him.

"If this is true, it must have been

something pretty damned important that

he destroyed," said Hadley, staring.

"How the devil do you know all this?

What secret could they have had anyway?

And what makes you think they had any

dangerous secret at all?" Dr. Fell

pressed his hands to his temples and

ruffled his big mop of hair. He spoke

argumentatively.

"I may be able to tell you a little of

it," he said, although there are parts

that puzzle me beyond hope. "You see,

neither Grimmo nor Dim is any more

French than I am. A woman with those

cheekbones, a woman who pronounces the

silent H in honest, never came from a

Latin race.

But that's not important. They're both

Maguar. To be precise, Grimmo came

originally from Hungary. His real name

is Caroli or Charles Grimmo Horvath.

He probably had a French mother. He came

from the principality of Transylvania,

formerly a part of the Hungarian

Kingdom, but annexed by Romania since

the war. In the late 90s or early 1900s,

Caroli Grimo Horvath and his two

brothers were all sent to prison. Did I

tell you he had two brothers? One we

haven't seen, but the other now calls

himself Pierre Fle.

I don't know what crime the three

brothers Horbath had committed, but they

were sent to the prison of Zeban Tourmen

to work in the salt mines near Traj in

the Carpathian Mountains. Charles

probably escaped.

Now, the rather deadly secret in his

life can't concern the fact that he was

sent to prison, or even that he escaped

before finishing the sentence. The

Hungarian kingdom is broken up and its

authority no longer exists.

More probably, he did some black devilry

that concerned the other two brothers.

Something pretty horrible concerning

those three coffins and people buried

alive that would hang him even now if it

were discovered. That's all I can hazard

at the moment. Has anybody got a match?

Six. The seven towers.

In the long pause after this recital,

Hadley tossed a matchbox to the doctor

and eyed him malevolently.

"Are you joking?" he asked. "Or is this

black magic?"

"Not about a thing like this. I wish I

could. those three coffins. "Damn it,"

Hadley, muttered Dr. Fel, knocking his

fists against his temples. "I wish I

could see a glimmer, something. You seem

to have done pretty well. Have you been

holding out information, or how do you

know all that? Stop a bit." He looked at

his notebook. "Hover,

bath, salt, wine.

In other words, you're trying to tell us

that what Greo really said was Horvath

and salt mine. Take it easy now. If

that's your basis, we're going to have a

lot of stargazing on our hands to twist

round the rest of those words.

This assumption of rage, said Dr. Fel,

shows that you agree with me. Thank you.

As you yourself shrewdely pointed out,

dying men do not commonly mention bath

salts. If your version is correct, we

might as well retire to a padded cell.

He really said it, Hadley. I heard him.

You asked him for a name, didn't you?

Was it Fle? No. Who was it then? And he

answered, Horvath.

which you say is his own name.

Yes, look here, said Dr. Fel. If it will

salve your wounds, I will cheerfully

admit that it wasn't fair detective work

and that I didn't show you the sources

of my information from that room. I'll

show them to you presently, although

Lord knows I tried to show them to you

at the time. It's like this. We hear

from Ted Ramole about a queer customer

who threatens Grimo and significantly

talks about people buried alive. Grieo

takes this seriously. He has known that

man before and knows what he is talking

about since for some reason he buys a

picture depicting three graves. When you

ask Grimmo who shot him, he answers with

the name Horvath and says something

about salt mines. Whether or not you

think that's odd of a French professor,

it is rather odd to find up over his

mantlepiece the device of a shield.

Graven thus

coupe a demi eagle issuant sable in

chief Amoon Argent. I think we may emit

the heraldry, said Hadley with a sort of

evil dignity.

What is it?

It's the arms of Transylvania.

A dead since the war, of course, and

hardly very well known in England or

France, even before that. First, a

Slavic name and then Slavic arms. Next,

those books I showed you. Know what they

were? They were English books translated

into the Maguar. I couldn't pretend to

read them. Thank God. But I could at

least recognize the complete works of

Shakespeare and Stern's letters from

Yoro to Eliza and Pope's essay on man.

That was so startling that I examined

them all.

Why startling? asked Rample.

There are all sorts of funny books in

anybody's library. There are in your

own.

Certainly. But suppose a scholarly

Frenchman wants to read English. Well,

he reads it in English or he gets it

translated into French, but he very

seldom insists on getting its full

flavor by first having it translated

into Hungarian.

In other words, they weren't Hungarian

books. They weren't even French books on

which a Frenchman might have been

practicing his magar. They were English.

It meant that whoever owned those books,

his native language was Hungarian.

I went through all of them hoping to

find a name. When I found Caroli Grimo

Horvath,

1898

faded out on one fly leaf. It seemed to

put the tin hat on it.

If Horvath was his real name, why had he

kept up this pretense for so long? Think

of the words buried alive and salt

mines. And there is a gleam.

But when you asked him who shot him, he

said Horvath. A moment like that is

probably the only time when a man isn't

willing to talk about himself. He didn't

mean himself,

but somebody else named Horov.

While I was thinking of that, our

excellent Mills was telling you about

the man called Fle at the public house.

Mills said that there seemed something

very familiar about Fle, although he had

never seen him before, and that his

speech sounded like a burlesque of

Grimos. Was it Grimmo? He suggested.

Brother, brother, brother. You see,

there were three coffins, but Fle

mentioned only two brothers. It sounded

like a third. While I was thinking about

this, there entered the obviously Slavic

Madame Dim. If I could establish

Grimmo's coming from Transylvania, it

would narrow down our search when we

tried to find out his history. But it

had to be done delicately.

Notice that carved figure of a buffalo

on Grimmo's desk. What does that suggest

to you?

It doesn't suggest Transylvania. I can

tell you that. The superintendent

growled. It's more like the Wild West

Buffalo Bill Indians.

Old Dawn. Was that why you asked her

whether Grimmo had ever been in the

United States?

Dr. Fel nodded guilty.

It seemed an innocent question, and she

answered, "You see, if he'd got that

figure in an American curio shop,

Hadley, I've been in Hungary. I went in

my younger and lither days when I'd just

read Dracula. Transylvania was the only

European country where buffaloos were

bred. They used them like oxen.

Hungary was full of mixed religious

beliefs, but Transylvania was unitarian.

I asked Madame Anastin, and she

qualified. Then I threw my hand grenade.

If Grimmo had been innocently associated

with salt mines, it wouldn't matter. But

I named the only prison in Transylvania

where convicts were used to work the

salt mines. I named the Zeban Turmen or

the Seven Towers without even saying it

was a prison. It almost finished her.

Now perhaps you will understand my

remark about the Seven Towers and the

country that does not now exist. And for

God's sake, will somebody give me a

match? You've got them, said Hadley. He

took a few strides round the hall,

accepted a cigar from the now bland and

beaming Dr. Fel, and muttered to

himself, "Yes, so far as it goes, it

seems reasonable enough. Your long shot

about the prison worked, but the whole

basis of your case that these three

people are brothers is pure surmise. In

fact, I think it's the weakest part of

the case."

Oh, admitted.

But what then? Only that it's the

crucial point. Suppose Grimmo didn't

mean that a person named Horvath had

shot him, but was only referring to

himself in some way, then the murderer

might be anybody. But if there are three

brothers and he did mean that, the thing

is simple. We come back to the belief

that Pierre Fle did shoot him after all,

or Fle's brother did. We can put our

hands on Fle at any time.

And as for the brother,

are you sure you'd recognize the

brother? Asked Dr. Fel reflectively.

If you met him,

"I was thinking of Grimmo. He spoke

English perfectly and also passed

perfectly for a Frenchman. I don't doubt

he did study at Paris, and that the

Donour woman did make costumes at the

opera.

Anyhow, there he went, stumping around

Bloomsbury for nearly 30 years, gruff,

good-natured, harmless, with his clipped

beard and his square bowler, keeping a

check on a savage temper, and placidly

lecturing in public. Nobody ever saw a

devil in him, though somehow I fancy it

must have been a wy brilliant devil.

Nobody ever suspected he could have

shaved, cultivated tweeds and a port

wine complexion and passed for a British

squire or anything else he liked.

Then what about his third brother? He's

the one who intrigues me. Suppose he's

right here somewhere in our midst in

some guys or other and nobody knows him

for what he really is.

Possibly, but we don't know anything

about the brother. Dr. Fel, struggling

to light his cigar, peered up with

extraordinary intentness.

I know that's what bothers me, Hadley.

He rumbled for a moment and then blew

out the match with a vast puff.

We have two theoretical brothers who

have taken French names, Shaol and

Pierre. Then there's a third. For the

sake of clearness and argument, let's

call him Henri. Look here, you're not

going to tell me you know something

about him also. On the contrary,

returned Dr. Fel with a sort of

ferocity. I'm going to emphasize just

how little we know about him. We know

about Shal and Pierre, but we haven't

even the me hint about Enri, although

Pierre appears to be forever talking

about him and using him as a threat. It

is my brother who can do much more than

I can. My brother who wants your life. I

am in danger when I associate with him

and so on. But no shape comes out of the

smoke, neither man nor goblin. Son, it

worries me. I think that ugly presence

is behind the whole business,

controlling it, using poor half crazy

Pierre for his own ends, and probably as

dangerous to Pierre as to Sha. I can't

help feeling that this presence staged

the whole scene at the Warrick Tavern,

that his somewhere close at hand and

watchful.

That

Dr. Fel stared round as though he

expected to see something move or speak

in the empty hall. Then he added, "You

know, I hope your constable gets hold of

Pierre and keeps hold of him.

Maybe his usefulness is over.

Hadley made a vague gesture. He bit at

the end of his clipped mustache.

Yes, I know, he said. But let's stick to

the facts. The facts will be difficult

enough to dig out. I warn you. I'll

cable the Romanian police tonight. But

if Transylvania has been annexed in the

fuss and uproar, there may be few

official records left. The Bolshes were

storming through there just after the

war, weren't they? Um, anyhow, we want

facts. Come on and let's get after

Mangan and Grimo's daughter. I'm not

entirely satisfied with their behavior,

by the way. Eh, why? I mean, always,

provided the Deont woman is telling the

truth. Hadley amended. You seem to think

she is. But as I've heard the thing,

wasn't Mangan here tonight at Grimmo's

request in case the visitor should drop

in? Yes. Then he seems to have been

rather a tame watchdog. He was sitting

in a room near the front door. The

doorbell rings, if Dont's not lying, and

enter the mysterious visitor. All this

time, Mangan doesn't show any curiosity.

He sits in the room with the door shut,

pays no attention to the visitor, and

only kicks up a row when he hears a shot

and suddenly finds that the door has

been locked. Is that logical?

Nothing is logical, said Dr. Fel. Not

even.

But that can wait. They went down the

long hall, and Hadley assumed his most

tactful and impassive manner when he

opened the door. It was a room somewhat

smaller than the other, lined with

orderly books and wooden filing

cabinets. It had a plain rag carpet on

the floor, hard business-like chairs,

and a sickly fire. Under a green shaded

hanging lamp, Mills's typewriter desk

was drawn up directly facing the door.

On one side of the machine, neat

manuscript sheets lay clipped in a wire

basket. On the other side stood a glass

of milk, a dish of dried prunes, and a

copy of Williamson's differential and

integral calculus.

I'll bet he drinks mineral water, too,

said Dr. Fel in some agitation.

I'll swear by all my gods he drinks

mineral water and reads that sort of

thing for fun. I'll bet he stopped at a

violent nudge from Hadley who was

speaking to Rosette Grimo across the

room. Hadley introduced the three of

them.

Naturally, Miss Grimmo, I don't wish to

distress you at this time. Please don't

say anything, she said. She was sitting

before the fire, so tense that she

jumped a little. I mean, just don't say

anything about that. You see, I'm fond

of him, but not so fond that it hurts

terribly unless somebody begins to talk

about it. Then I begin to think.

She pressed her hands against her

temples. In the fire light, with her fur

coat thrown back, there was again a

contrast between eyes and face, but it

was a changing contrast. She had her

mother's intense personality shaped into

blonde, squarefaced, rather barbaric

Slavic beauty. Yet in one moment the

face would be hard, and the long hazel

eyes gentle and uneasy like the curit's

daughter, and in the next moment the

face would be softened, and the eyes

brilliantly hard like the devil's

daughter. Her thin eyebrows turned a

little upwards at the outer corners, but

she had a broad, humorous mouth. She was

restless, sleek, and puzzling. Behind

her stood Mangan in gloomy helplessness.

One thing though, she went on, pounding

her fist slowly on the arm of the chair.

One thing I've got to know, though,

before you start your third degree, she

nodded towards a little door across the

room and spoke breathlessly. Still, it's

showing that detective of yours up to

the roof. Is it true? Is it true what we

hear about a man getting in and out and

killing my father without

wi-i without

better let me handle this Hadley said

Dr. fell very quietly. The doctor,

Rampol knew, was firmly under the

impression that he was a model of tact.

Very often this tact resembled a load of

bricks coming through a skylight, but

his utter conviction that he was doing

the thing handsomely, his vast good

nature and complete naivity, had an

effect that the most skilled tact could

never have produced.

It was as though he had slid down on the

bricks himself to offer sympathy or

shake hands, and people instantly began

to tell him all about themselves.

"Ah, Rump," he snorted. "Of course it's

not true, Miss Grimmo. We know all about

how the blighter worked his trick, even

if it was done by somebody you never

heard of."

She looked up quickly. Furthermore,

there'll be no third degree, and your

father has a fighting chance to pull

through. Look here, Miss Grimmo.

Haven't I met you somewhere before? Oh,

I know you're trying to make me feel

better, she said with a faint smile.

Boyd has told me about you, but no, I

mean it, wheezed Dr. Fel seriously. He

squinted at memory.

Yes, got it. You're at London

University, aren't you? Of course. And

you're in a debating circle or

something. It seems to me I officiated

as chairman when your team debated

women's rights in the world, wasn't it?

That's Rosette

ascented Mangan gloomily.

She's a strong feminist. She says,

said Dr. Fel. I remember now. He was

radiant and pointed with a vast flipper.

She may be a feminist, my boy, but she

has startling lapses. In fact, I

remember that debate as ending in the

most beautiful and appalling row I ever

heard outside a pacifist meeting. You

were on the side for women's rights,

Miss Grimmo, and against the tyranny of

man. Yes. Yes. You entered very pale and

serious and solemn and stayed like that

until your own side began to present

their case. They went on something

awful, but you didn't look pleased. Then

one lean female carried on for 20

minutes about what woman needed for an

ideal state of existence. But you only

seemed to get madder and madder. So when

your turn came, all you did was rise to

proclaim in silvery ringing tones that

what woman needed for an ideal existence

was less talking and more culation.

Good God, said Mangan, and jumped. Well,

I felt like it then, said Rosette hotly.

But you don't need to think. Or perhaps

you didn't say culation,

ruminated Dr. Fel. Anyway, the effect of

that terrible word was beyond

description. It was as though you had

whispered asbestos to a gang of

pyromaniacs.

Unfortunately, I tried to keep a

straight face by swallowing water. This,

my friends, is a practice to which I am

unaccustomed.

The result had the general aspect to eye

and ear of a bomb exploding in an

aquarium.

But I was wondering whether you and Mr.

Mangan often discussed these subjects.

They must be enlightening talks. What

was the argument about this evening, for

instance? Both of them began to speak at

once. Chaotically, Dr. fell beamed, and

they both stopped with a startled

expression. "Yes,"

nodded the doctor. "You understand now,

don't you, that there's nothing to be

afraid of in talking to the police, and

that you can speak as freely as you

like. It'll be better, you know, let's

face the thing and clear it up sensibly

now among ourselves." Eh,

right, said Rosette. Has somebody got a

cigarette? Hadley looked at Rampole.

The old blighter's done it, he said. The

old blighter was again lighting his

cigar while Mangan fumbled in his haste

to produce cigarettes.

Then Dr. Fel pointed. "Now I want to

know about a very rummy thing." he

continued. Were you two kids so

engrossed in each other that you didn't

notice anything tonight until the rumpus

started? As I understand it, Mangan,

Professor Grimo asked you here tonight

to be on the lookout for possible

trouble. Why didn't you? Didn't you hear

the doorbell?

Mangan's sworthy face was clouded. He

made a fierce gesture. Oh, I admit it's

my fault, but at the time I never gave

it a thought. How was I going to know?

Of course, I heard the doorbell. In

fact, we both spoke to the fellow. You

what? Interrupted Hadley, striding past

Dr. Fel. Certainly, otherwise, you don't

think I'd have let him get past me and

upstairs, do you? But he said he was old

Pettis. Anthony Pettis, you know.

Seven. The guy forks visitor.

Of course, we know now that it wasn't

Pettis. Mangan pursued, lighting the

girl's cigarette with an angry snap of

his lighter. Pettis must be all of 5'4

in tall. Besides, now that I think back

on it, it wasn't even a very exact

imitation of his voice. But he sang out

and spoke in words Pettis always uses.

Dr. Fel scowlled.

But didn't it strike you as queer? That

even a collector of ghost stories should

walk about dressed up like a Fifth of

November guy? Is he addicted to pranks?

Rosette Griml looked up with a startled

expression. She held out her cigarette,

level and motionless, as though she were

pointing, and then twitched round to

look at Mangan. When she turned back

again, there was a narrow flash of those

long eyes, a deepness of breathing like

anger or cruelty or enlightenment.

They had shared a thought, and Mangan

was much the more disturbed by it. He

had the air of one who is trying to be a

good fellow and at peace with the world,

if the world would only let him. The

rampole had a feeling that this secret

thought did not concern Pettis at all,

for Mangan stumbled before he could

recapture Dr. Fel's question.

"Pranks,"

he repeated, and passed a hand nervously

over his wiry black hair. "Oh, Pettis,

good lord, no. He's as correct and fussy

as they make him. But you understand, we

didn't see his face. It was like this.

We'd been sitting in that front room

since just after dinner. Stop a bit,

interrupted Headley. Was the door to the

hall open? No. Hang it all, said Mangan

in a defensive tone, and shifted. You

don't sit in a drafty room on a snowy

night with the door standing open. Not

without central heating, you don't. I

knew we could hear the bell ring if it

did ring. Besides, well, honestly, I

didn't expect anything to happen. The

professor gave us the impression at

dinner that it was a hoax or that it had

been adjusted somehow. Anyway, that he'd

been inclined to get the wind up over

nothing. Hadley was looking at him with

hard, bright eyes. You got that

impression, too, Miss Grimo?

Yes, in a way. I don't know. It's It's

always hard to tell," she answered with

a faint anger or rebellion. Whether he's

annoyed or amused or just pretending

both. My father has a queer sense of

humor, and he loves dramatic effects. He

treats me as a child. I don't think I

ever in my life saw him frightened, so I

don't know. But for the past 3 days,

he's been acting so dashed queerly that

when Boyd told me about the man in that

pub, she lifted her shoulders.

In what way was he acting queerly? Well,

muttering to himself, for instance, and

suddenly roaring out over trifles, which

he seldom does, and then again he would

laugh too much. But most of all, it was

those letters. He began to get them in

every post. Don't ask me what was in

them. He burnt all of them. They were in

plain penny envelopes. I shouldn't have

noticed at all if it hadn't been for a

habit of his. She hesitated. Maybe

you'll understand. My father is one of

those people who can never get a letter

in your presence without your instantly

knowing what it's about or even who it's

from. He'll explode. Damned swindler. Or

now there's impedance for you. or

genially well well here's a letter from

old so and so in a rather surprised tone

as though he expected somebody in

Liverpool or Birmingham to be at the

other side of the moon. I I don't know

if you understand. We understand. Please

go on. But when he got these notes or

whatever they were, he didn't say

anything at all. He didn't move a muscle

yet. You see, he never openly destroyed

one, except yesterday morning at the

breakfast table. After he'd glanced at

it, he crumpled it up, got up from his

chair, and went over in a thoughtful

sort of way, and threw it in the fire.

Just at that second

Rosette glanced quickly at Hadley,

seemed to discover her own hesitation,

and blundered into confusion. Mrs.

Madame. Oh, I mean Aunt Ernestine.

Just at that second, she asked him if he

would have some more bacon. Suddenly, he

whirled round from the fire and yelled,

"Go to hell." It was so unexpected that

before we had recovered our wits, he'd

stamped out of the room, muttering that

a man couldn't have any peace. He looked

devilish. That was the day he came back

with that painting. He was good human

again. He banged about, chuckling, and

helped the cabman and somebody else

carted upstairs.

I I don't want you to think. Evidently,

the memories were crowding back again to

this complex rosette.

She began to think, and that was bad,

she added shakily,

"I I don't want you to think I don't

like him." Hadley ignored the personal.

Did he ever mention this man at the

public house?

>> Off-handedly, when I asked him, he said

it was one of the quacks who often

threatened him for jeering at the

history of magic. Of course, I knew it

wasn't merely that.

Why, Miss Greo?

During a pause, she looked at him

unwinkingly.

because I felt that this was the real

thing and because I've often wondered

whether there was anything in my

father's past life which might bring

something like that on him.

It was a direct challenge. During a long

silence they could hear muffled creings

and flat heavy footsteps shaking on the

roof. Some change moved and played like

fire light on her face. fear or hatred

or pain or doubt. That illusion of the

barbaric had resumed as though the mink

coat should have been a leopard skin

coat. Crossing her legs, she leaned back

voluuptuously, wriggling into the chair.

She tilted her head against the back of

the chair so that the fire light gleamed

on her throat, and in her half shut

eyes, she regarded them with a faint

fixed smile. The cheekbones were

outlined in shadow. All the same, Rampol

saw that she was trembling. Why,

incidentally, should her face seem

broader than it was long. Well, she

prompted. Hadley appeared mildly

surprised. Bring something on him? I

don't quite understand. Had you any

reason to think so? Oh, no reason. I

don't think so, really. Just these

fancies.

The denial was quick, but the sharp rise

and fall of her breast had quietened.

Probably it's living with my father's

hobby. And then my mother, she's dead,

you know, died when I was quite a kid.

My mother was supposed to have second

sight. Rosette raised her cigarette

again. But you were asking me about

tonight. First of all, if you think it

would be helpful to go into your

father's past, the yard will certainly

act on your suggestion.

She jerked the cigarette away from her

lips. But pursued Hadley in the same

colorless voice, "Let's get on with the

story Mr. Mangan was telling. You two

went to the drawing room after dinner,

and the door to the hall was shut. Now,

did Professor Grimmo tell you what time

he expected a dangerous visitor?

"Uh,

yes," said Mangan. He had taken out a

handkerchief and was mopping his

forehead, seen sideways in the

firelight. There were many small

wrinkles across the forehead of the

thin, hollowed, sharp, angled face.

That was another reason why I didn't

tumble to who it might be. He was too

early. The professor said 10:00 and this

fellow arrived at a quarter 2.

10:00. I see. You're sure he said that?

Well, yes. At least I think so. About

10:00, wasn't it, Rosette? I don't know.

He didn't say anything to me.

I see. Go on, Mr. Mang.

We had the radio on. That was bad

because the music was loud and we were

playing cards in front of the fire. All

the same, I heard the doorbell. I looked

up at the clock on the mantle and it

said a4 to 10. I was getting up when I

heard the front door open. Then I heard

Mrs. Donour's voice saying something

like, "Wait, I'll see." And a sound as

though the door slammed. I called out,

"Ohoy there. Who is it?" But the radio

was making such a row that I naturally

stepped over and shut it off. And just

afterwards, we heard Pettis. Naturally,

we both thought it was Pettis call out,

"Hello, children. It's Pettis. What's

all this formality about seeing the

governor? I'm going up and break in on

him." Those were his exact words. Yes,

he always called Dr. Grimmo the

governor. Nobody else had the nerve to

except Bernabby, and he calls him Pop.

So we said right as you do and didn't

bother anymore about it. We both sat

down again but I noticed that it was

getting near 10:00 and I began to be

watchful and jumpy now that it was

coming towards 10:00.

Hadley drew a design on the margin of

his notebook.

So the man who called himself Pettis, he

mused, spoke to you through the door

without seeing you. How did he know you

two were there, do you think? Mangan

frowned. He saw us through the window, I

suppose. As you come up the front steps,

you can see straight into the front room

through the nearest window. I always

notice it myself. In fact, if I see

anybody in the front room, I usually

lean across and tap on the window

instead of ringing the bell.

The superintendent was still drawing

designs meditatively. He seemed about to

ask a question but checked himself.

Rosette regarded him with a sharp

unwinking gaze. Hadley merely said, "Go

on. You were waiting for 10:00."

And nothing happened. Mangan insisted.

But a funny thing, every minute past

10:00, I got more nervous instead of

more relieved. I told you I didn't

really expect the man would come or that

there would be any trouble, but I kept

picturing that dark hall and the queer

suit of armor with the mask out there.

And the more I thought of it, the less I

liked it. I know exactly what you mean,

said Rosette. She looked at him in a

strange, rather startled manner. I was

thinking the same thing, but I didn't

want to talk about it in case you called

me a fool. Oh, I have these psychic

fits, too. That, Mangan said bitterly,

is why I get the sack so often and why I

shall probably get the sack for not

phoning in this story tonight. News Zedi

to be damned. I'm no Judas. He shifted.

Anyway, it was nearly 10. When I felt I

couldn't stand it any longer, I slammed

down the cards and said to Rosette,

"Look here, let's get a drink and turn

on all the lights in the hall or do

something." I was going to ring for

Annie when I remembered it was Saturday

and her night out. Annie?

That's the maid?

Yes. I'd forgotten her. Well, so I went

over to open the door and it was locked

on the outside. It was like like this.

You have some conspicuous object in your

bedroom like a picture or an ornament

that's so common you never fully notice

it. Then one day you walk in and have a

vague feeling that there's something

wrong with the room. It irritates you

and disturbs you because you can't

imagine why. Then all of a sudden a gap

jumps up and you see with a shock that

the object has been removed. Understand?

I felt just like that. I knew something

was wrong. I felt it ever since that

fellow had sung out from the hall. But

it never hit me with a smash until I

found that door locked. Just as I began

idiotically yanking at the knob, we

heard the shot.

A firearm indoors makes a devil of a

noise. And we heard it even up at the

top of the house. Rosette screamed. I

did not. Then she pointed at me and said

what I'd been thinking, too. She said,

"That wasn't Pettis at all. He's got

in."

Can you fix the time of that? Yes. It

was just 10 minutes past 10.

Well, I tried to break the door down. In

spite of staring at that memory, a ry

and mocking gleam of mirth twinkled in

Mangan's eyes. It was as though he hated

to speak, but could not help commenting.

I say, have you ever noticed how easy it

is to break down doors in the stories?

Those stories are a carpenter's

paradise. They're an endless trail of

doors smashed down on the slightest

pretext. even when somebody inside won't

answer a casual question. But try it on

one of these doors. That's about all. I

banged my shoulder bone against it for a

while, and then I thought about getting

out through the window and in again

through the front door, or the area

door. I ran into you, and you know what

happened.

Hadley tapped the notebook with his

pencil. Was it customary for the front

door to be unlocked, Mr. Mangan? Oh

Lord, I don't know. But it was the only

thing I could think of. Anyway, it was

unlocked. Yes, it was unlocked. Have you

anything to add to that, Miss Grimmo?

Her eyelids drooped. Nothing. That is

not exactly. Boyd has told you

everything that happened just as it

happened. But you people always want all

kinds of queer things, don't you? Even

if they don't seem to bear on the

matter. This probably has nothing to do

with the matter at all, but I'll tell

you. A little while before the doorbell

rang, I was going over to get some

cigarettes from a table between the

windows. The radio was on, as Boyd says,

but I heard from somewhere out in the

street or on the pavement in front of

the door, a loud sound like like a thud,

as though a heavy object had fallen from

a big height. It wasn't an ordinary

street noise, you see, like a man

falling.

Rampol felt himself stirring uneasily.

Hadley asked, "A thud, you say?

Did you look out to see what it was?"

"Yes, but I couldn't see anything." Of

course, I only pulled the blind back and

peeped around the side of it, but I can

swear the street was empty. She stopped

in full flight. Her lips fell open a

little, and her eyes were suddenly

fixed. Oh my god, she said.

Yes, Miss Greo, said Hadley without

inflection. The blinds were all down, as

you say. I especially noticed that

because Mr. Mangan got entangled with

one when he jumped out. That was why I

wondered how the visitor could have seen

you through any window in that room, but

possibly they weren't drawn down all the

time.

There was a silence except for faint

noises on the roof. Rampol glanced at

Dr. Fel who was propped back against one

of the unbreakable doors with his chin

in his hand and his shovel hat tilted

over his eyes.

Then Rampol looked at the impassive

Hadley and back to the girl. He thinks

we're lying, Boyd, said Rosette Grimmo

coolly. I don't think we'd better say

anything more. And then Hadley smiled. I

don't think anything of the kind, Miss

Grimmo. I'm going to tell you why.

Because you're the only person who can

help us. I'm even going to tell you what

did happen. Fell? Eh? BMED Dr. Fel,

looking up with a start.

I want you to listen to this. The

superintendent pursued grimly.

A while ago you were having a lot of

pleasure and mystification out of saying

that you believed the stories apparently

incredible told by Mills and Mrs.

Dumont.

Without giving any reasons why you

believed them, I'll return the

compliment. I'll say that I believe not

only their story but the story told by

these two also. And in explaining why,

I'll also explain the impossible

situation.

This time Dr. Fel did come out of his

abstraction with a jerk. He puffed out

his cheeks and peered at Hadley as

though prepared to leap into battle. Not

all of it, I admit, pursued Hadley, but

enough to narrow down the field of

suspects to a few people, and to explain

why there were no footprints in the

snow.

"Oh, that," said Dr. Fel contemptuously.

He relaxed with a grunt.

You know, for a second I hoped you had

something, but that part is obvious.

Hadley kept his temper with a violent

effort. The man we want, he went on,

made no footprints on the pavement or up

the steps, because he never walked on

the pavement or up the steps after the

snow had stopped. He was in the house

all the time. He'd been in the house for

some time. He was either a an inmate or

b more probably somebody who'd concealed

himself there using a key to the front

door earlier in the evening. This would

explain all the inconsistencies in

everybody's story. At the proper time,

he put on his fancy rig, stepped outside

the front door on the swept doorstep,

and rang the doorbell. It explains how

he knew Miss Grimmo and Mr. Mangan were

in the front room when the blinds were

drawn. He had seen them go in.

It explains how when the door was

slammed in his face and he was told to

wait outside, he could simply walk in.

He had a key.

Dr. Fel was slowly shaking his head and

rumbling to himself. He folded his arms

argumentatively.

Yes,

but why should even a slightly cracked

person indulge in all that elaborate

hocus pocus? If he lived in the house,

the argument isn't bad. He wanted to

make the visitor seem an outsider. But

if he really came from outside, why take

the dangerous risk of hanging about

inside long before he was ready to act?

Why not march straight up at the right

time? First, said the methodical Hadley,

checking it off on his fingers, he had

to know where people were, so as to have

no interference. Second, and more

important, he wanted to put the

finishing touches on his vanishing trick

by having no footprints, whatever,

anywhere in the snow. The vanishing

trick would be everything to the crazy

mind of brother Henri, let's say. So he

got in while it was snowing heavily and

waited until it had stopped. Who?

Rosette asked in a sharp voice. His

brother Henri.

He's a name, my dear. Dr. Fel returned

affably. I told you that you didn't know

him. Now, Hadley, here's where I enter a

mild, firm objection to this whole rummy

affair. We've talked glibly about snow

starting and stopping as though you

could regulate it like a tap. But I want

to know how in blazes a man can tell

when snow is going to start or stop.

That is, a man seldom says to himself,

"Aha, on Saturday night, I will commit a

crime. On that night, I think it will

commence to snow at exactly 900 p.m. and

leave off at exactly 9:30 p.m. This will

afford me ample time to get into the

house and be prepared with my trick when

the snowfall ends.

Tat tat, your explanation is rather more

staggering than your problem. It's much

easier to believe that a man walked on

snow without leaving a footprint than to

believe he knew precisely when he would

have it to walk on.

The superintendent was irritable. I'm

trying, he said, to get to the main

point of all this. But if you must fight

about that, don't you see it explains

away the last problem?

What problem? Our friend Mangan here

says that the visitor threatened to pay

his visit at 10:00. Mrs. Dumont and

Mills say 9:30.

Wait. He checked Mangan's outburst was a

lying or b. First, what sane reason

could either have for lying afterwards

about the time he threatened to come?

Second, if A says 10:00 and B says 9:30,

then innocent or guilty, one of the two

should have learned beforehand the time

at which the visitor really would

arrive. And which was right about the

time he did arrive.

Neither, said Mangan, staring. It was

between them at 9:45.

Yes, that's a sign that neither lied.

It's a sign that the visitor's threat to

Grieo was not definite. It was 9:30 or

10:00 or thereabouts, and Grimmo, who

was trying pretty desperately to act as

though the threat hadn't scared him,

nevertheless, took very good care to

mention both times in order to make sure

everybody was there. My wife does the

same thing with invitations to bridge

parties. Well, but why couldn't brother

Henri be definite? Because, as Fel says,

he couldn't turn off the snow like a

tap. He could risk a long gamble on

there being snow tonight, as there's

been for several nights. But he had to

wait until it stopped, even if he waited

until midnight. He didn't have to wait

so long. It stopped at 9, and then he

acted exactly as such a lunatic would.

He waited 15 minutes so that there could

be no argument afterwards, and rang the

bell.

Dr. Fel opened his mouth to speak,

looked shrewdly at the intent faces of

Rosette and Mangan, and stopped. Now

then," said Hadley, squaring his

shoulders, "I've shown you too that I

believe everything you say, because I

want your help on the most important

thing this tells us. The man we want is

no casual acquaintance. He knows this

house inside out, the rooms, the

routine, the habits of the occupants. He

knows your phrases and nicknames. He

knows how this Mr. Pettis is accustomed

to address not only Dr. agreo, but you

hence he's no casual business friend of

the professor whom you haven't seen. So

I want to know all about everybody who's

a frequent enough visitor to this house.

Everybody who is close enough to Dr.

Grimmo to answer the description.

She moved uneasily, startled. You think

somebody like that? Oh, it's impossible.

No, no, no.

It was a queer echo of her mother's

voice. Not anybody like that anyhow.

Why do you say that? Hadley asked

sharply. Do you know who shot your

father? The sudden crack of the words

made her jump. No, of course not. Or

have any suspicion? No, except her teeth

gleamed. I don't see why you should keep

looking outside the house. That was a

very nice little lesson in deduction you

gave, and thanks awfully. But if the

person had come from inside the house

and acted as you said, then it would

really be reasonable, wouldn't it? It

would apply much better. To whom? Let's

see. Well, that's your business, isn't

it?

He had somehow stirred a sleek tiger

cat, and she was enjoying it. Of course,

you haven't met the whole household. You

haven't met Annie or Mr. Draymond, come

to think of it. But your other idea is

utterly ridiculous. In the first place,

my father has very few friends. Outside

of the people in this house, there are

only two who fit the qualifications, and

neither of them could possibly be the

man you want. They couldn't be in the

mere matter of their physical

characteristics. One is Anthony Pettis

himself. He's no taller than I am, and

I'm no Amazon. The other is Jerome

Burnaby, the artist who did that queer

picture. He has a deformity, a slight

one, but it couldn't be disguised, and

anybody could spot it a mile away. Aunt

Ernestine or Steuart would have known

him instantly.

All the same, what do you know about

them? She lifted her shoulders. Both are

middle-aged, wellto-do, and potter after

their hobbies. Pettis is bald-headed and

fidious. I don't mean he's oldwomanish.

He's what the men call a good fellow and

he's clever as sin. But why won't they

do something with themselves?

She clenched her hands. Then she glanced

up at Mangan and a slow calculating

drowsily pleasant expression came into

her look.

Burnaby.

Yes, Jerome has done something with

himself in a way. He's fairly well known

as an artist, although he'd rather be

known as a criminologist.

He's big and bluff. He likes to talk

about crime and brag about his athletic

prowess of old.

Jerome is attractive in his way. He's

very fond of me, and Boyd is horribly

jealous."

Her smile widened. "I don't like the

fellow," said Mangan quietly. In fact, I

hate him like poison, and we both know

it. But at least Rosett's right about

one thing. He'd never do a thing like

that.

Hadley scribbled again. What is this

deformity of his

ub? You can see how he couldn't possibly

conceal it. Thank you. For the moment,

said Hadley, shutting up his notebook.

That would be all. I should suggest that

you go along to the nursing home unless

uh any questions fell. The doctor

stumped forward.

He towered over the girl, peering down

at her with his head a little on one

side.

Just one last question, he said,

brushing aside the black ribbon of his

eyeglasses as he would a fly.

Ha. Now, Miss Grimmo,

why are you so certain that the guilty

person is this Mr. Draymond?

Eight. The bullet.

He never received any answer to that

question, although he received some

illumination.

It was all over before Rampol realized

what had happened.

Since the doctor had spoken with the

greatest casualness, the name Draymond

had made no impression on Rample, and he

was not even looking at Rosette.

Uneasily, he'd been wondering for some

time what had happened to change the

gusty, gillus, beaming Mangan he used to

know into this shuffling figure who

backed and deprecated and talked like a

fool. In the past, Mangan had never

talked like a fool, even when he talked

like an idiot. But now, you devil, cried

Rosette Grimo.

It was like a screech of chalk on a

blackboard. Rample whirled round to see

high cheekbones gone still higher as her

mouth widened, and a blaze that seemed

to take the color from her eyes. It was

only a glimpse. She had flung herself

past Dr. Fel, the mink coat flying and

out into the hall with Mangan after her.

The door slammed. Mangan reappeared for

a moment, said to them, "Uh, sorry," and

quickly closed the door once more. He

looked almost grotesque in the doorway,

his back bent and his head lowered so

that it seemed all wrinkled forehead and

nervous dark eyes shining intensely. His

hands were extended with palms turned

down as though he were trying to quiet

an audience. "Ah, sorry," he said, and

closed the door. The doctor fell,

remained blinking at it. "She's her

father's daughter," Hadley. He wheezed,

and shook his head slowly. "Yes,

she goes just so far under hard

emotional pressure. Very quiet powder

packed into a cartridge. Then some

little thing jars the hair trigger. And

I'm afraid she's morbid in the real

sense. But maybe she thinks she has

reason to be. I wonder how much she

knows.

Oh, well, she's a foreigner, but that's

not the point, it seems to me, said

Hadley with some asperity, that you're

always making a wild shot like a trick

rifleman and knocking the cigarette out

of somebody's mouth. What was that

business about Draymond anyhow?

Dr. Fel seemed bothered. In a minute, in

a minute. What did you think of her,

Hadley and Mangan? He turned to Rample.

My ideas are a little mixed. I'd got the

impression from what you said that

Mangan was a wild Irishman of the type I

know and like.

He was, said Rampolle.

Understand?

As to what I think of her, Hadley said,

I think she could sit here as cool as

you please, analyzing her father's life.

She's got a damned good head on her, by

the way. And yet at this moment I'll bet

she's in tears and hysterics rushing

across there because she didn't show him

enough consideration.

I think she's fundamentally sound but

she's got the old Nick in her fell. She

wants a master in both senses. She and

Mangan will never hit it off until he

has sense enough to punch her head or

take her own advice at the London

University debate.

Ever since you have become

superintendent of the CD,

declared Dr. Fel squinting at him, I

have detected in you a certain rish air,

which pains and surprises me. Listen,

you old sat.

Did you honestly believe all that

rubbish you talked about the murderer

sneaking into this house to wait until

the snowstorm had stopped? Hadley

permitted himself a broad grin. It's as

good an explanation as any, he said,

until I can think of a better. And it

keeps their minds occupied. Always keep

witnesses minds occupied. At least I

believe their story.

We're going to find something in the way

of footprints on that roof. Don't you

worry. But we'll talk about that later.

What about Draymond?

To begin with, I'd stuck in my mind an

odd remark made by Madame Deon.

It was so odd that it jumped out of the

sentence, not a calculated remark, she

cried it out at the time she was most

hysterical, when she could not

understand why even murderers acted out

so silly a sherade.

She said, "If you wish to kill somebody,

you do not put on a painted mask like

old Draymond with the children on

Guyforks night." I filed away the

suggestion of this Guyforks spectre,

wondering what it meant. Then, all

unintentionally, I phrased a question

about Pettis when speaking to Rosette

with the words, "Dressed up like a fifth

of November guy." "Did you notice her

expression, Hadley? Just my suggestion

that the visitor was dressed like that

gave her the hint, but it startled her

as much as it pleased her.

She didn't say anything. She was

thinking. She hated the person she was

thinking of. What person?

Hadley stared across the room.

Yes, I remember. I could see she was

hinting at somebody she suspected or

wanted us to suspect. That was why I

asked her flat out. She practically made

me see it was somebody in this house.

But to tell you the truth, he rubbed his

hand across his forehead.

This is such a rum crowd that for a

second I thought she was hinting at her

own mother.

Not by the way she dragged in Draymond.

You haven't met Annie or Mr. Draymond.

Come to think of it, the important news

was in the postcript.

Dr. fell stumped round the typewriter

desk, peering malevolently at the glass

of milk. We must route him out. He

interests me. Who is this Draymond? This

old friend and hangar on of Grimo who

takes sleeping drafts and wears 5th of

November masks. What's his place in the

household? What's he doing here anyway?

You mean blackmail? rubbish. My boy, did

you ever hear of a school master being a

blackmailer? No. No. They're much too

worried about what people might find out

about them. The academic profession has

its faults, as I know, for my sins. But

it doesn't produce blackmailers.

No, it was probably only a kindly

impulse of Grimmo to take him in. But

he paused as a rush of cold air blew his

cloak. A door across the room, evidently

communicating with the staircase to the

attic and the roof, opened and shut.

Mills popped in. His mouth was bluish,

and a large wool muffler was wound

around his neck, but he looked warm with

satisfaction.

After refreshing himself with a pull at

the glass of milk, impassively, with

head thrown back in a way which somehow

suggested a sword swallower,

he put out his hands to the fire. he

chatted.

I have been watching your detective,

gentleman, from a point of vantage at

the top of the trap door. He's caused a

few landslides, but excuse me. Didn't

you have a commission of some

description for me to execute? Ah, yes.

I'm anxious to lend assistance, but I

fear I forgot.

Wake up, Mr. Draymond, the

superintendent said. If you have to

slosh him with water and hello, Pettis.

If Mr. Pettis is still here, tell him I

want to see him. What did Sergeant Betts

discover up there? Betts answered for

himself. He looked as though he'd taken

a header in a ski jump. He breathed

hard, stamped, and slapped the snow from

his clothes as he shook his way towards

the fire. Sir, he announced, "You can

take my word for it that not even a

bird's lit on that roof anywhere.

There's no mark of any kind in any

place. I've covered every foot of it."

He stripped off his soden gloves. I had

myself tied on a rope to each of the

chimneys so I could get down and crawl

straight along the gutters. Nothing

around the edges, nothing around the

chimneys, nothing anywhere. If anybody

got up on that roof tonight, he must

have been lighter than air. Now I'll go

down and have a look at the back garden.

But cried Hadley.

Quite so, said Dr. Fel. Look here. We'd

better go down and see what your blood

hounds are doing in the other room. If

the good Preston, Sergeant Preston,

fuming a little, pulled open the door to

the hall as though he had been summoned.

He looked at Betts and back to Hadley.

It's taken me a little time, sir, he

reported. Because we had to pull out all

those bookcases and shove them back

again. The answer is nothing. No secret

entrance of any kind. Chimney solid. No

funny business about it. Flu's only

about 2 or 3 in wide and goes up at an

angle at that. Is that all, sir? The

boys are finished.

Fingerprints. Plenty of prints. Except

you raised and lowered that window

yourself, didn't you, sir? With your

fingers on the glass up near the top of

the frame, I recognized your prince.

I am generally careful about things like

that. Snapped Hadley. Well, nothing else

on the glass, and all the woodwork of

that window, frame, and sill is high

gloss varnish that take a glove smudge

as clear as a print. There's nothing,

not even a smudge. If anybody went out

there, he must have stood back and dived

out head first without touching

anything.

That's enough, thanks, said Hadley. Wait

downstairs.

Get after that back garden, Bets.

No, wait, Mr. Mills. Preston will fetch

Mr. Pettis if he's still there. I should

like to speak to you. It would seem,

said Mills rather shrillly when the

other two had gone, that we returned to

doubts about my own story. I assure you

I am telling the truth. Here is where I

sat. See for yourself.

Hadley opened the door. Ahead of them,

the high somber hallway ran 30 ft to the

door opposite, a door brilliantly

illuminated by the glow from under the

archway.

I don't suppose there's any possibility

of a mistake, muttered the

superintendent.

That he really didn't go in or something

like that. A lot of funny business might

go on in a shuffle at the doorway. I've

heard of it being done. I don't suppose

the woman was up to any funny business

dressing up in a mask herself or No, you

saw them together. And anyway, hell,

there was absolutely none of what you

describe as funny business, said Mills.

Even in his persspiring earnestness, he

handled the last two words with

distaste. I saw all three of them

clearly and wide apart. Madame Dimon was

in front of the door, yes, but towards

the right. The tall man was towards the

left, and Dr. Grimmo separating them.

The tall man really did go in. He closed

the door behind him, and he did not come

out. It is not as though the occurrence

took place in halflight. There was no

possibility of ever mistaking that man's

gigantic stature.

I don't see how we can doubt it, Hadley,

said Dr. fell after a pause. We've got

to eliminate the door also. He wheeled

round. What do you know about this man,

Draymond?

Mills's eyes narrowed. His singong voice

had a guarded quality.

It is true, sir, that he offers a

subject for intelligent curiosity,

but I know very little. He's been here

some years, I am informed. In any event,

before I arrived, he was forced to give

up his academic work because he had gone

almost blind. He is still almost blind

in spite of treatment, although you

would not deduce this from the uh aspect

of his eyes. He appealed to Dr. Grimo

for help.

Had some sort of claim on Dr. Grimmo.

The secretary frowned. I cannot say.

I've heard it mentioned that Dr. Dr.

Grimmo knew him at Paris where he

studied. That is the only bit of

information I have except one remark

which Dr. Grimmo made when he had, let

us say, embibed a convivial glass.

A superior kind of smile curved round

Mills's mouth without opening it. His

eyes narrowed and gleamed in drowsy

satire. H.

He stated that Mr. Draymond had once

saved his life and described him as the

best damned good fellow in the world. Of

course, under the circumstances.

Mills had a jerky trick of putting one

foot before the other, rocking and

tapping the toe of one shoe with the

heel of the other. With his jerky

movements, tiny figure and big shock of

hair. He was like a caricature of

Swinburn. Dr. Fel looked at him

curiously,

but Dr. Fel only said, "So,

and why don't you like him?" "I neither

like nor dislike him, but he does

nothing."

"Is that why Miss Grimmo doesn't like

him either?"

"Miss Grimmo does not like him," said

Mills, opening his eyes and then

narrowing them. Yes, I had fancied that.

I watched, but I could not be certain.

H.

And why is he so interested in Guyfork's

night? Guy? Ah.

Mills broke off in his surprise and

uttered a flat bleet of laughter. I see.

I did not follow. You see, he's very

fond of children. He had two children of

his own who were killed by the falling

of a roof, I believe, some years ago. It

was one of those foolish, petty

tragedies which we shall eliminate when

we build the bigger, greater, more

spacious world of the future.

At this point in the recital, Dr. Fel's

face was murderous, but Mills went on.

His wife did not survive long. Then he

began to lose his sight. He likes to

help the children in all their games,

and has himself a somewhat childish mind

in spite of certain mental qualities.

The fish lip lifted a little. His

favorite occasion seems to be the 5th of

November, which was the birthday of one

of his unfortunate progeny. He saves up

throughout the year to buy illuminations

and trappings and builds a guy for a

procession to a sharp knocking at the

door was followed by the appearance of

Sergeant Preston.

There's nobody downstairs, sir, he

reported. That gentleman you wanted to

see must have left. A chap from the

nursing home just brought this over for

you. He handed over an envelope and a

square cardboard box like a jeweler's

box. Hadley ripped open the letter,

glanced down it, and swore.

He's gone, snapped Hadley. And not a

word. Here, read this.

Rample looked over Dr. Fel's shoulder as

the latter read.

for Superintendent Hadley. Poor Grimo

died at 11:30.

I am sending you the bullet. It's a 38.

As I thought, I tried to get in touch

with your police surgeon, but he was out

in another case, and so I'm sending it

to you. He was conscious just before the

end. He said certain things which can be

attested by two of my nurses and myself,

but he might have been wandering, and I

should be careful of them. I knew him

pretty well, but I certainly never knew

he had a brother. First he said he

wished to tell me about it. Then he

spoke exactly as follows. It was my

brother who did it. I never thought he

would shoot. God knows how he got out of

that room. One second he was there and

the next he wasn't. Get a pencil and

paper quick. I want to tell you who my

brother is so that you won't think I'm

raving. His shouting brought on the

final hemorrhage, and he died without

saying anything else. I'm holding the

body subject to your orders. If there is

any help I can give, let me know. Eh

Peterson, MD.

They all looked at each other. The

puzzle stood rounded and complete. The

facts stood confirmed and the witnesses

vindicated.

But the terror of the hollow man

remained.

After a pause, the superintendent spoke

in a heavy voice.

"God knows," repeated Hadley, "how he

got out of that room."

"Son coffin, the problem of Calstro

Street.

Nine, the breaking grave.

Dr. Fel walked over aimlessly, sighed,

and settled himself down in the largest

chair.

"Brother Henri,"

he rumbled.

"Yes,

I was afraid we should get back to

Brother Henry."

"Damn, Brother Henry,"

said Hadley in a flat voice. We're going

after brother Pierre first. He knows.

Why haven't I had any message from that

constable? Where's the man who was to

pick him up at that theater? Have the

whole blasted lot of them gone to sleep?

And we mustn't get the wind up about

this thing, interposed the other, as

Hadley began to stamp and declim rather

wildly.

That's exactly what brother Henri would

want us to do.

Now that we've got Grimmo's last

statement, we've at least got one clue.

To what? To the words he spoke to us.

The ones we couldn't make any sense of.

The unfortunate point is that they may

not help us now that we can hazard a

theory as to what they mean. With this

new evidence, I'm afraid we were

listening to Grimmo running up a blind

alley. He wasn't telling us anything. He

was only trying to ask us a question.

What's all this?

Don't you see? That's exactly what he

must have been doing. Last statement.

God knows how he got out of that room.

One second he was there and the next he

wasn't. Now, let's try to sort out the

words from that invaluable notebook of

yours.

You and friend Ted have slightly

different versions, but we'll begin with

the words on which you both agree and

which we must assume to be correct. Put

aside the first puzzlers. I think we can

now feel safe in saying that the words

were Horvath and salt mine.

Put aside also the terms on which you do

not agree.

What words are found in both lists?

Hadley snapped his fingers. I begin to

Yes. The words are he couldn't use rope,

roof, snow, fox, too much light. Well,

then if we try to make a composite

statement fix together the words and the

sense of both statements, we have his

meaning as something like this. God

knows how he got out. He couldn't use a

rope. Either up to the roof or down in

the snow. One second he was there and

the next he wasn't. There was too much

light for me to miss any move he made.

Stop a bit, though. What about And now,

said Dr. fell with a disgusted grunt.

You can begin to fit in the differences.

Ted heard not suicide. That goes into

the picture as an assurance to accord

with the other expressions.

This isn't suicide. I didn't kill

myself. You heard got gun, which isn't

difficult to tie up with the sentence

out of the other statement. I never

thought he would shoot.

Ah, all the clues whirl straight round

in a circle and become questions.

It's the first case I ever heard of in

which the murdered man was just as

inquisitive as everybody else.

But what about the word fox? That

doesn't fit anywhere.

Dr. Fel regarded him with a sour twinkle

in his eye. Oh, yes it does. is the

easiest part of all, though it may be

the trickiest, and we mustn't jump to

conclusions about applying it. It's a

matter of how words strike the ear when

they're not spelled out. If I'm using

the word association test, that damned

thing, on various people, and I suddenly

whisper fox to a horseman, he will

probably answer hounds. But if I use the

same words on a historian, he is likely

to yell, "Quick, what guy?" said Hadley,

and swore. After a lurid interval, he

demanded, "Do you mean that we come back

to some babbling about a Guyfork's mask

or the resemblance to a Guyfork's mask?"

Well, everybody else has been doing a

tall amount of babbling about it," the

doctor pointed out, scratching his

forehead, and I'm not surprised it

struck the eye of somebody who saw it at

somewhat closer quarters. "Does that

tell you anything?"

"It tells me to have a little talk with

Mr. Draymond,"

said the superintendent grimly. He

stroed towards the door and was startled

to find the bony face of Mills poked out

in eager listening against the thick

glasses.

Steady Hadley. Dr. Fel interosed as the

superintendent gave indications of an

explosion.

It's a queer thing about you. You can be

steady as the guards when riddles are

flying, but you never seem to be able to

keep your shirt on. When we get within

sight of the truth, let our young friend

stop. He should hear all this, if only

to hear the end of it. He chuckled.

Does that make you suspicious of

Draymond?

On the contrary, it should be just the

opposite. Remember, we haven't quite

finished putting the pieces in our

jigsaw.

There's one last bit we haven't

accounted for, and it was a bit you

heard yourself. That pink mask suggested

Draymond to Grimmo just as he seems to

have been suggested to several others.

But Grimmo knew whose face was behind

the mask.

Therefore, we have a fairly sensible

explanation of those final words you

noted down. Don't blame poor.

He seems to have had a great liking for

Draymond, you know. After a silence, Dr.

Fel turned to Mills. Now go and fetch

him up here, son.

When the door had closed, Hadley sat

down wearily and took from his breast

pocket the frayed cigar he had not yet

lighted. Then he ran a finger round

under his collar with that malevolent

brokennecked expression which people

have when worry makes them think the

collar is too tight.

More trick marksmanship. I he suggested

more deductive tightroppe work and the

daring young man on the

he stared at the floor and then grunted

with annoyance. I must be losing my

grip. It's no good getting fantastic

notions like the one I just had. Have

you got any concrete suggestions?

Yes. Later, if you will permit it, I'm

going to apply Gross's test. Apply what?

Gross's test. Don't you remember? We

were arguing about it tonight. I'm going

to collect very carefully all the mass

of burnt and half burnt paper in that

fireplace to see whether Gross's test

will bring out the writing.

Be quiet, will you? He roared as Hadley

made scornful noises. I don't say all of

it, or even half of it will come out,

but I should get a line here and there

to give me a hint about what was more

important to Grimo than saving his own

life. Puff.

Yes.

And how do you work this trick?

You'll see. Mind. I don't say that

thoroughly burnt paper will come out

satisfactorily.

But there'll be something, especially in

the charred parts, sandwiched in, and

only scorched black that will come out.

Aside from that, I haven't a suggestion,

unless we ask. Yeah. Yes. What is it?

Sergeant Betts, not quite so plastered

with snow this time, made his report

woodenly. He looked out the door behind

him before he closed it. I've been all

over that back garden, sir, and the two

are joining once, and the tops of all

the walls. There's no footprint or any

kind of mark, but I believe we've caught

a fish, Preston and I. As I was coming

back through the house, down the stairs

comes running a Talish old bloke

plunging away with his hand on the

banister rail. He ran over to a clothes

closet and banged about as though he

wasn't familiar with the place until he

got on his overcoat and hat and then

made for the door. He says his name's

Draymond and that he lives here, but we

thought I think you'll find that his

sight isn't any too good, said Dr. Fel.

who send him in.

The man who entered was in his own way

an impressive figure. His long, quiet

face was hollowed at the temples. His

gray hair grew far back on the skull,

giving him a great height of narrow and

wrinkled forehead.

His bright blue eyes, which did not seem

at all dimmed despite the wrinkles

around them, looked gentle and puzzled.

He had a hooked nose and deep furrows

running down to a kindly uncertain

mouth. And his trick of wrinkling the

forehead so that one eyebrow was

slightly raised made him look more

uncertain still. Despite his stoop, he

was still tall. Despite his bony

frailty, he was still powerful. He

looked like a military man gone scenile,

a well-brushed man gone sllovenly. There

was nothing of humor in the face, but a

great deal of muddled and apologetic

good nature. He wore a dark overcoat

buttoned up to the chin. Standing in the

doorway, peering hard at them from under

tangled eyebrows, he held a bowler hat

pressed against his chest and hesitated.

"I am sorry, gentlemen. I am honestly

very sorry," he said. His deep voice had

a curious quality as though the man were

unused to speech.

I know I should have come to see you

before going over there, but young

Mangan woke me up to tell me what had

happened. I felt I had to go over and

see Grimo to see whether there might be

anything I could do.

Rample had a feeling that he was still

dull-witted and uncertain from sleep or

sleeping drugs, that the bright stare of

his eyes might have been so much glass.

He moved over and one hand found the

back of a chair, but he did not sit down

until Hadley asked him to do so.

Mr. Mangan told me. He said, "Dr.

Grimmo,

Dr. Grim Mo is dead," said Hadley.

Draymond remained sitting as bolt

upright as his stoop would allow. His

hands folded across his hat. There was a

heavy silence in the room, while

Draymond shut his eyes and opened them

again. Then he seemed to stare a long

way off, and to breathe with heavy

whistling sluggishness.

God rest his soul. Draymond said very

quietly.

Shall Grimo

was a good friend.

Do you know how he died?

Yes, Mr. Mangan told me.

Hadley studied him. Then you will

understand that to tell everything

everything you might happen to know will

be the only way to help catch the

murderer of your friend. I

Yes, of course. Be very certain of that,

Mr. Draymond. More certain than you are.

We wish to know something of his past

life. You knew him very well. Where did

you first know him?

The others long face looked muddled, an

illusion as though the features had got

out of line.

in Paris. He took his doctorate at the

university in 1905,

the same year I the same year I knew

him. Facts seemed to elude Draymond. He

shaded his eyes with his hand, and his

voice had a quarrelless note like a man

asking where somebody has hidden his

collar studs.

Grimo was very brilliant. He obtained an

associate professorship at Djong the

year afterwards, but a relative died or

something of the sort and left him well

provided for. He gave up his work and

came to England shortly afterwards. Or

so I understand. I did not see him until

years afterwards. Was that what you

wished to know?

Did you ever know him before 1905?

No.

Hadley leaned forward.

Where did you save his life? He asked

sharply.

Save his life. I I don't understand.

Ever visit Hungary, Mr. Draymond? I I

have traveled on the continent and I may

have been in Hungary, but that was years

ago when I was young. I don't remember.

And now it was Hadley's turn to pull the

trigger in trick marksmanship.

You saved his life, he stated, near the

prison of Zeban Turman in the Carpathian

Mountains when he was escaping, didn't

you? The other sat upright, his bony

hands clenched across the bowler. Rample

had a feeling that there was more dogged

strength in him now than there had been

for a dozen years.

Did Did I? He said, "There's no use

going on with this. We know everything,

even to dates, now that you've supplied

them." Caroli Horvath, as a free man,

wrote the date in a book in 1898.

With full academic preparation behind,

it would have taken him four years at

least to get his doctorate at Paris. We

can narrow down the time of his

conviction and escape to 3 years. With

that information,

said Hadley coolly, I can cable to book

arrest and get the full details within

12 hours. You had better tell the truth,

you see. I want to know all you know of

Carolu Horovath and his two brothers.

One of those two brothers killed him.

Finally, I'll remind you that

withholding information of this kind is

a serious offense.

Well,

Draymond remained for a little time with

his hand shading his eyes, his foot

tapping the carpet.

Then he looked up. They were startled to

see that though his puckered eyes kept

their blue glassiness, the man was

gently smiling.

A a serious offense, he repeated and

nodded. Is it indeed? No. Frankly, sir,

I don't give a damn for your threat.

There are very few things which can move

or anger or terrify a man who can see

you only in outline as he sees a poached

egg on his plate. Nearly all the fears

of the world and its ambitions too are

caused by shapes, eyes, and gestures and

figures. Young people can't understand

this, but I had hoped you would. You

see, I am not precisely blind. I can see

faces in the morning sky, and all those

objects which the poets insist blind men

should rave about, but I cannot read.

And the faces I cared most to see have

been for 8 years blinder than mine.

Wait until your whole life is built on

those two things, and you will learn

that not much can move you when they go.

He nodded again, staring across the

room, his forehead wrinkled.

Sir,

I am perfectly willing to give you any

information you wish if it will help

Shall Greo, but I don't see the sense of

raking up old scandal.

Not even to find the brother who killed

him.

Draymond made a slight gesture,

frowning.

Look here. If it will help you, I can

honestly tell you to forget such an

idea. I don't know how you learned it.

He did have two brothers, and they were

imprisoned.

He smiled again.

There was nothing terrible about it.

They were imprisoned for a political

offense. I imagine half the young fire

eaters of the time must have been

concerned in it. For forget the two

brothers. They have both been dead a

good many years.

It was so quiet in the room that Rampol

heard the last collapsing rattle of the

fire and the wheezing breaths of Dr.

Fel. Hadley glanced at Dr. Fel, whose

eyes were closed. Then Hadley regarded

Draymond as impassively as though the

latter's sight had been sharp. "How do

you know that?" Grimmo told me," said

the other, accentuating the name.

"Besides, all the newspapers from

Budapest to Braso were shouting about it

at the time. You can easily verify all

this." He spoke simply, "They died of

bubonic plague."

Hadley was suave.

"If, of course, you could prove this

beyond any doubt.

You promised that there would be no old

scandal rad up. That bright blue stare

was difficult to meet. Draymond twisted

and untwisted his bony hands. If I tell

you exactly, and you receive the proof.

You will let the dead arrest. It depends

on your information.

Very well. I will tell you what I saw

myself.

he reflected rather uneasily. Rample

thought

it was in its own way. A horrible

business. Grimmo and I never spoke of it

afterwards. That was agreed, but I don't

intend to lie to you and say I've

forgotten it, any detail of it. He was

silent for so long a time, tapping his

fingers at his temple that even the

patient Hadley was about to prompt him.

Then he went on,

"Excuse me, gentlemen. I was trying to

remember the exact date so that you can

verify everything. The best I can do is

to say it was in August or September of

1900.

Or was it 191?"

Anyhow, it occurs to me that I might

begin with perfect truth exactly in the

style of the contemporary French

romances. I might begin towards dusk of

a cool September day in the year 19

dash. A solitary horseman might have

been seen hurrying along a road. And

what a devil of a road in a rugged

valley below the southeastern

Carpathians. Then then I should launch

into a description of the wild scenery

and so on. I was the horseman. It was

coming on to rain and I was trying to

reach TJ before dark.

He smiled. Hadley stirred in some

impatience, though Dr. Fel opened his

eyes, and Draymond was quick to take it

up.

I must insist on that sort of novelesque

atmosphere because it fitted into my

mood and explained so much. I was at the

romantic byonic age, fired with ideas of

political liberty. I rode horseback

instead of walking because I thought I

cut a good figure. I even took pleasure

in carrying a pistol against mythical

briggins, and a rosary is a charm

against ghosts. But if they weren't,

either ghosts or briggins, there should

have been. I know that I several times

got the wind up about both. There was a

sort of fairy tale wildness and darkness

about those cold forests and gorgees.

Even about the cultivated parts there

was something queer. A Transylvania, you

see, is shadowed in on three sides by

mountains. It startles an English eye to

see a ry field or a vineyard going

straight up the side of a steep hill.

the red and yellow costumes, the

garlicky ins, and even in the bleeaker

parts, hills made of pure salt.

Anyhow, there I was, going along a snaky

road in the bleakest part, with a storm

blowing up and no inn for miles. People

saw the devil lurking behind every hedge

in a way that gave me the creeps. But I

had a worse cause for the creeps. plague

had broken out after a hot summer and

was over the whole area like a cloud of

gnats, even in the chilly weather. In

the last village I passed through, I've

forgotten its name. They told me it was

raging at the salt mines in the

mountains ahead.

But I was hoping to meet an English

friend of mine, also a tourist at

Trudge. Also, I wanted a look at the

prison, which got its name after seven

white hills, like a low range of

mountains just behind. So, I said I

meant to go on. I knew I must be getting

near the prison, for I could see the

white hills ahead, but just as it was

getting too dark to see at all, and the

wind seemed to be tearing the trees to

pieces, I came down into a hollow past

the three graves. They had been freshly

dug, for there were still footmarks

around them, but no living person was in

sight.

Hadley broke across the queer atmosphere

which that dreaming voice was beginning

to create.

A place, he said, just like the one in

the painting Dr. Grimmo bought from Mr.

Burnaby.

I I don't know, answered Draymond,

evidently startled. Is it? I didn't

notice. Didn't notice. Didn't you see

the picture? Not very well. Just a a

general outline of trees, ordinary

landscape, and three headsteines.

I I don't know where Burnaby got his

inspiration.

The other said dullly and rubbed his

forehead. God knows I never told him.

It's probably a coincidence. There were

no headstones over these graves. they

wouldn't have bothered. There were

simply three crosses made of sticks. But

I was telling you, I sat there on my

horse, looking at those graves, and with

a not very pleasant feeling. They looked

wild enough with the greenish black

landscape around and the white hills

beyond. But it wasn't that. If they were

prison graves, I wondered why they'd

been dug so far away. The next thing I

knew, my horse reared and nearly threw

me. I slewed round against a tree, and

when I looked back, I saw what was wrong

with the horse. The mound of one grave

was upheaving and sliding. There was a

cracking noise. Something began to twist

and wrigle, and a dark colored thing

came groping up out of the mound. It was

only a hand moving the fingers, but I

don't think I have ever seen anything

more horrible.

10. The blood on the coat.

By that time,

Draymond went on.

There was something wrong with me as

well. I didn't dare dismount for fear

the horse would bolt, and I was ashamed

to bolt myself. I thought of vampires

and all the legends of hell coming up

out of the twilight. Frankly, the thing

scared me silly. I remember battering

round on that horse like a tea totem and

trying to curb it with one hand while I

got out my revolver.

When I looked back again, the thing had

climbed clear out of the grave and was

coming towards me. That gentleman was

how I met one of my best friends. The

man reached down and seized a spade

which somebody who dug the grave must

have left there and forgotten. And still

he came on. I yelled in English, "What

do you want?" Because I was so fuddled

that I couldn't remember a word in any

other language.

The man stopped. After a second, he

answered in English, but with an

outlandish accent. Help, he said. Help

me, Lord. Don't be afraid.

Or something of the sort, and threw down

the spade. The horse was quieter.

But I wasn't. The man was not tall, but

very powerful. His face was dark and

swollen with little scaly spots which

gave it a pinkish look in the twilight.

And down came the rain while he was

still standing there waving his arms.

He stood in the rain crying out to me. I

won't try to reproduce it, but he said

something like, "Look, Mil, I am not

dead of plague like those two poor

devils." and pointed at the graves. I am

not infected at all. See how the rain

washes it off. It is my own blood which

I have pricricked out of my skin. He

even stuck out his tongue to show how it

was blackened with soot and the rain

made it clean.

It was as mad a sight as the figure and

the place. Then he went on to say that

he was not a criminal, but a political

offender and was making his escape from

the prison.

Draymond's forehead wrinkled. He smiled

again. Help him. Naturally, I did. I was

fired by the idea. He explained things

to me while we laid plans.

He was one of three brothers, students

at the University of Clausenberg, who

had been arrested in an insurrection for

an independent Transennylvania under the

protection of Austria, as it was before

1860.

The three of them were in the same cell,

and two had died of the pestilence.

with the help of the prison doctor, also

a convict. He had faked the same

symptoms, and died. It wasn't likely

that anybody would go very close to test

the doctor's judgment. The whole prison

was mad with fear. Even the people who

buried those three would keep their

heads turned away when they threw the

bodies into pine coffins and nailed on

the lids.

They would bury the bodies at some

distance from the prison. Most of all,

they would do a quick job of nailing the

lids. The doctor had smuggled in a pair

of nail cutters, which my resurrected

friend showed me.

A powerful man, if he kept his nerve and

didn't use up too much air after he had

been buried, could force up the lid with

his head enough to wedge the nail

cutters into the loose space.

Afterwards, a powerful man could dig up

through loose ground.

Very well. When he found I was a student

at Paris, conversation became easy. His

mother had been French and he spoke the

language perfectly. We decided that he

had better make for France where he

could set up a new identity without

suspicion. He had a little money hidden

away. And there was a girl in his native

town who Draymond stopped abruptly like

one who remembers that he has gone too

far. Hadley merely nodded.

I think we know who the girl was, he

said. For the moment, we can leave

Madame Deont out of this. What then? She

could be trusted to bring the money and

follow him to Paris. It wasn't likely

that there would be a hu cry. In fact,

there wasn't any. He passed as dead,

even if Grimmo was frightened enough to

tear away from that neighborhood before

he would even shave or put on a suit of

my clothes. We excited no suspicion.

There were no passports in those days,

and he posed on the way out of Hungary

as the English friend of mine I had been

expecting to meet at Traj once into

France.

You know all the rest now, gentlemen.

Draymond drew a curiously shuddering

breath, stiffened, and faced them with

his hard, blank eyes.

You can't verify everything I have said.

What about that cracking sound?

interjected Dr. Fel in an argumentative

tone. The question was so quiet and yet

so startling that Hadley whirled round.

Even Draymond's gaze groped towards him.

Dr. Fel's red face was screwed up

absently, and he wheezed as he poked at

the carpet with his stick. "I think it's

very important,"

he announced to the fire as though

somebody had contradicted him. "Very

important indeed."

Ha. Look here, Mr. Draymond. I've got

only two questions to ask you. You heard

a cracking sound of the lid wrenching on

the coffin. Yes. Then uh that would mean

it was a fairly shallow grave Grimo

climbed out of.

Quite shallow, yes. Or he might never

have got out.

Second question. that prison now. Was it

a well or badly managed place?

Draymond was puzzled, but his jaw set

grimly.

I do not know, sir, but I do know it was

under fire at that time from a number of

officials. I think they were bitter

against the prison authorities for

letting the disease get started. It

interfered with the usefulness of the

workmen at the mines. By the way, the

dead men's names were published. I saw

them. And I ask you again, what's the

good of raking up old scandals? It can't

help you. You can see that it's not any

particular discredit to Grimmo, but yes,

that's the point,

rumbled Dr. Fel, peering at him

curiously.

That's the thing I want to emphasize.

It's not discreditable at all. Is it

anything to make a man bury all traces

of his past life?

But it might become a discredit to

Ernestine Dong,

said Draymond, raising his voice on a

fiercer note. Can't you see what I'm

implying? What about Grimo's daughter?

And all this digging into the mess rests

on some wild guess that one or both of

his brothers might be alive. They're

dead, and the dead don't get out of

their graves. May I ask where you got

such a notion as that one of Greo's

brothers killed him.

From Greo himself,

said Hadley.

For a second, Rampol thought Draymond

had not understood. Then the man shakily

got up from his chair as though he could

not breathe. He fumbled to open his

coat, felt at his throat, and sat down

again. Only the glassy look of his eyes

did not alter. "Are you lying to me?" he

asked, and it was with a shaky,

quarrelless, childish tone coming

through his gravity. "Why do you lie to

me?" It happens to be the truth. Read

this. Very quickly, he thrust out the

note from Dr. Peterson.

Draymond made a movement to take it.

Then he drew back and shook his head.

It would tell me nothing, sir. I I You

mean he said something before he he said

that the murderer was his brother? Did

he say anything else? asked Draymond,

hesitating. Hadley let the man's

imagination work and did not reply.

Presently Draymond went on. But I tell

you, it's fantastic. Are you implying

that this mountain who threatened him,

this fellow he had never seen before in

his life, was one of his brothers?

I suppose you are. I still don't

understand. From the first moment I

learned he had been stabbed. Stabbed?

Yes, as I say. I He was shot, said

Hadley. What gave you the idea he'd been

stabbed?

Draymond lifted his shoulders.

A ry, sardonic, rather desparing

expression crept over his wrinkled face.

"I seem to be a very bad witness,

gentleman," he said in an even tone. I

persist with the best intentions in

telling you things you don't believe.

Possibly I jumped to conclusions. Mr.

Mangan said that Grimo had been attacked

and was dying, that the murderer had

disappeared after slashing that painting

to pieces. So I assumed

he rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Was there anything else you wished to

ask me? How did you spend the evening? I

was asleep. I

You see, there are pains here behind the

eyeballs. I had them so badly at dinner

that instead of going out, I was to go

to a concert at the Albert Hall. I took

a sleeping tablet and lay down.

Unfortunately, I don't remember anything

from about 7 to the time Mr. Mangan woke

me.

Hadley was studying his open overcoat,

keeping himself very quiet, but with a

dangerous expression like a man about to

pounce.

I see. Did you undress when you went to

bed, Mr. Draymond? I beg you.

Undress?

No, I took off my shoes. That's all.

Why? Did you leave your room at any

time? No.

Then how did you get that blood on your

jacket?

Yes, that's it. Get up. Don't run away

now. Stand where you are now. Take off

your overcoat.

Rample saw it. When Draymond, standing

uncertainly beside his chair, and

pulling off the overcoat, moved his hand

across his own chest with the motions of

a man groping on a floor. He was wearing

a light gray suit against which the

stain splashed vividly. It was a darkish

smear running from the side of the coat

down across the right pocket. Draymond's

fingers found it and stopped. The

fingers rubbed it then brushed together.

"It can't be blood," he muttered with

the same quarrelless noise rising in his

voice. I don't know what it is, but it

can't be blood, I tell you. We shall

have to see about that. Take off the

coat, please. I'm afraid I must ask you

to leave it with us. Is there anything

in the pockets you want to take out?

But where did you get that stain? I

don't know. I swear to God, I don't

know. And I can't imagine. It isn't

blood. What makes you think it is? Give

me the coat, please. Good.

He watched sharply while Draymond, with

unsteady fingers, removed from the

pockets a few coppers, a concert ticket,

a handkerchief, a paper of Woodbine

cigarettes, and a box of matches.

Then Hadley took the coat and spread it

across his knees. Do you have any

objection to your room being searched?

It's only fair to tell you I have no

authority to do it if you refuse.

No objection at all, said the other

dullly. He was rubbing his forehead. If

you'd only tell me how it happened,

inspector.

I don't know. I've tried to do the right

thing. Yes, the right thing. I didn't

have anything to do with this business.

He stopped and smiled with such sardonic

bitterness that Rampol felt more puzzled

than suspicious.

Am I under arrest? I have no objection

to that either. You know

now there was something wrong here and

yet not wrong in the proper way. Rampol

saw that Hadley shared his own

irrational doubts. Here was a man who

had made several erratic misstatements.

He had told a lurid tale which might or

might not be true, but which had a

vaguely theatrical pasteboard flimsiness

about it.

Finally, there was blood on his coat.

And yet, for a reason he could not

determine, Rampol was inclined to

believe his story,

or at least the man's own belief in his

story. It might have been his complete

apparent lack of shrewdness, his utter

simplicity.

There he stood, looking taller, more

shrunken and bony in his shirt sleeves,

the blue shirt itself faded to a dingy

white, the sleeves tucked up on corded

arms, his tire skew and the overcoat

trailing from one hand, and he was

smiling.

Hadley swore under his breath. Bets, he

called. Bets, Preston, and tapped his

heel impatiently on the floor until they

answered. Bets, get this coat to the

pathologist for analysis of this stain.

See it? Report in the morning. That's

all for tonight. Preston, go down with

Mr. Draymond and have a look around his

room. You have a good idea what to look

for. Also, keep an eye out for something

in the mask line.

I'll join you in a moment. Think it

over, Mr. Draymond. I'm going to ask you

to come down to the yard in the morning.

That's all.

Draymond paid no attention. He blundered

out in his bat-like way, shaking his

head and trailing the overcoat behind

him. He even plucked Preston by the

sleeve.

"Where could I have got that blood?" he

asked eagerly. It's a queer thing, you

know, but where could I have got that

blood?

Don't know, sir, said Preston. Mine at

doorpost.

Presently the bleak room was quiet.

Hadley shook his head slowly.

It's got me, fell, he admitted. I don't

know whether I'm coming or going. What

do you make of the fell? He seems gentle

and pliable and easy enough, but you can

keep pounding him like a punching bag.

And at the end of it, he's still

swinging gently in the same old place.

He doesn't seem to care a rap what you

think of him or what you do to him for

that matter.

Maybe that's why the young people don't

like him.

Yes.

When I gather up those papers from the

fireplace,

granted Dr. Fel, I'm going home to think

because what I think now, yes,

is plain horrible.

With a gust of energy, Dr. Fel surged up

out of the chair, jammed his shovel hat

down over his eyes, and flourished his

stick. I don't want to go jumping at

theories. You'll have to cable for the

real truth. Ha. Yes. But it's the story

about the three coffins. I don't

believe.

Although Draymond may believe it. God

knows. Unless our whole theory is blown

to blazes, we've got to assume that the

two Horvath brothers aren't dead.

The question being, what happened to

them?

Yes.

What I think might have happened is

based on the assumption that Draymond

believes he's telling the truth. First

point, I don't believe for a second that

those brothers were sent to prison for a

political offense.

Greo, with his little money saved,

escapes from prison. He lies low for 5

years or more and then suddenly inherits

a substantial fortune under an entirely

different name from somebody we haven't

heard of. But he slides out of France to

enjoy it without comment.

Second point supporting. Where's the

dangerous secret in Grimmo's life? If

all this is true, most people would

consider that Monte Cristo escape as

merely exciting and romantic. And as for

his offense, it would sound to English

ears about as hideous and blasting an

infamy as pinching a balia beacon or

pasting a policeman in the eye on boat

race night. Damn it, Hadley. It won't

do.

You mean I mean said Dr. Fel in a very

quiet voice.

Grimo was alive when he was nailed up in

his coffin. Suppose the other two were

alive too. Suppose all three deaths were

faked exactly as Grieo's was faked.

Suppose there were two living people in

those other coffins when Grie climbed

out of his,

but they couldn't come out because he

had the nail cutters and didn't choose

to use them. It wasn't likely that there

would be more than one pair of cutters.

Grieo had them because he was the

strongest.

Once he got out, it would have been easy

for him to let the others out as they

had arranged. But he prudently

decided to let them lie buried, because

then there would be nobody to share the

money that all three had stolen. A

brilliant crime, you see. A brilliant

crime.

Nobody spoke. Hadley muttered something

under his breath. His face was

incredulous and rather wild as he got

up. Oh, I know. It's a black business.

Rumbled Dr. Fel. A black unholy business

that would turn a man's dreams sick if

he'd done it. But it's the only thing

that will explain this unholy case, and

why a man would be hounded if those

brothers ever climbed up out of their

graves.

Why was Greo so desperately anxious to

rush Draymond away from that spot

without getting rid of his convict garb

as soon as he could? Why would he run

the risk of being seen from the road

when a hideway near a plague grave would

be the last place any native would

venture?

Well, those graves were very shallow.

If, as time went on, the brothers found

themselves choking to death, and still

nobody had come to let them out, they

might begin to shriek and batter and

pound in their coffins. It was just

possible Draymond might have seen the

loose earth trembling, or heard the last

scream from inside.

"Hadley got out a handkerchief and

mopped his face."

Would any swine, he said in an

incredulous voice which trailed away.

No, we're running off the rails, Fel.

It's all imagination. It can't be.

Besides, in that case, they wouldn't

have climbed up out of their graves.

They'd be dead. Or would they? Said Dr.

Fel vacantly.

You're forgetting the spade. What spade?

the spade that some poor devil in his

fear or hurry left behind when he'd dug

the grave. Prisons, even the worst

prisons don't permit that sort of

negligence.

They would send back after it. Man, I

can see that business in every detail,

even if I haven't one shred of proof to

support it. Think of every word that

crazy Pierre Fle said to Grimo at the

Warrick Tavern and see if it doesn't

fit.

Back come a couple of armed, hard-headed

warders looking for that discarded

spade. They see or hear what Grimmo was

afraid Draymond would see or hear. They

either tumble to the trick or else they

act in common humanity. The coffins are

smashed open. The two brothers are ruled

out, fainting and bloody but alive.

And no human cry after Grieo. Why,

they'd have torn Hungary apart looking

for the man who had escaped. And yes,

I thought of that, too, and asked about

it. The prison authorities would have

done just that if they weren't being so

bitterly attacked that their heads were

in danger at the time. What do you think

the attackers would have said if it

became known that through carelessness

they allowed a thing like that to

happen? Much better to keep quiet about

it, eh? Much better to shove those two

brothers into close confinement and keep

quiet about the third.

It's all theory, said Hadley after a

pause.

But if it's true, I could come close to

believing in evil spirits. God knows

Grimmo got exactly what he deserved and

we've got to go on trying to find his

murderer just the same. If that's the

whole story, of course it's not the

whole story, said Dr. Fel. It's not the

whole story, even if it's true. And

that's the worst part. You talk of evil

spirits. I tell you that in some way I

can't fathom there's a worse evil spirit

than Grimmo.

And that's X. That's the hollow man.

That's brother Henri.

He pointed out with his stick. Why? Why

does Pierre Fle admit he fears him? It

would be reasonable for Grimo to fear

his enemy, but why does Fle even fear

his brother and his ally against the

common antagonist? Why is a skilled

illusionist afraid of illusion? Unless

this gentle brother Henry is as

rattlerrained as a criminal lunatic and

as clever as Satan.

Hadley put his notebook in his pocket

and buttoned up his coat.

"You go home if you like," he said.

"We've finished here, but I'm going

after Fle. Whoever the other brother is,

Fle knows, and he's going to tell. I can

promise you that. I'll have a look

around Draymond's room, but I don't

anticipate much.

Fle is the key to this cipher, and he's

going to lead us to the murderer. Ready?

They did not learn it until the next

morning, but Fle, as a matter of fact,

was already dead. He had been shot down

with the same pistol that killed Grimo,

and the murderer was invisible before

the eyes of witnesses,

and still he had left no footprint in

the snow.

11. The murder by magic.

When Dr. fell hammered on the door at

9:00 next morning. Both his guests were

in a drowsy state. Rampol had got very

little sleep the night before. When he

and the doctor returned at 1, Dorothy

had been hopping with eagerness to hear

all the details, and her husband was not

at all unwilling to tell them. They

equipped themselves with cigarettes and

beer and retired to their room where

Dorothy piled a heap of sofa pillows on

the floor like Sherlock Holmes and sat

there with a glass of beer and a

sinister expression of wisdom while her

husband stalked about the room

declaiming

her views were vigorous but hazy. She

rather liked the descriptions of Madame

Dim and Draymond, but took a violent

dislike to Rosette Grim.

Even when Rampol quoted Rosett's remarks

to the debating society, a motto of

which they both approved, she was not

mllified.

"All the same, you mark my words," said

Dorothy, pointing her cigarette at him

wisely. That funny-faced blonde is mixed

up in it somehow. She's a wrongan old

boy. I mean, she wants blood.

I'll bet she wouldn't even make a good

um cortisan

to use her own terms. And if I had ever

treated you the way she treats Boyd

Mangan, and you hadn't landed me a sock

under the jaw, I'd never have spoken to

either of us again. If you see my

meaning,

>> let's admit the personal, said Rample.

Besides, what's she done to Mangan?

Nothing that I can see. And you don't

seriously think she would kill her

father, even if she hadn't been locked

in the front room.

No, because I don't see how she could

have put on that fancy costume and

fooled Mrs. do not said Dorothy with an

expression of great profoundity in her

bright dark eyes.

But I'll tell you how it is. Mrs. Dumont

and Draymond are both innocent. As for

Mills, well, Mills does sound rather a

pri. But then your view is highly

colored because you don't like science

or the vision of the future. And you'll

admit he does sound as though he's

telling the truth.

Yes, she smoked reflectively.

I'm getting tremendous ideas. The people

I'm most suspicious of and the ones

against whom it would be easiest to make

out a case or the two you haven't seen.

Pettis and Burnaby. What? Like this? The

objection to Pettis is that he's too

small, isn't it? I should have thought

Dr. Fel's audition would have got it

like a shod. I was thinking of a story.

I can't remember where I've read it, but

it comes in one shape or another into

several medieval tales. Do you remember?

There's always an enormous figure in

armor with its visor down who rides in a

tournament and smacks everybody flat.

Then along comes ye mightiest knight to

joust against it. Down he rides with a

bang, hits the tall champion's helmet

squarely in the middle of the visor, and

to everybody's horror, knocks the head

clean off. Then up pipes a voice from

inside the shell, and they discover it

belongs to a handsome young lad who's

not tall enough to fill up the suit of

armor.

Rample looked at her.

"Beloved," said he, with dignity, "this

is pure driling. This is beyond all

question the looneyest idea which Look

here. Are you seriously trying to tell

me Pettis might walk about with a dummy

head and shoulders rigged up on him?

You're too conservative, she said,

wrinkling her nose. I think it's a jolly

good idea. And do you want confirmation?

Right. Didn't Mills himself comment on

the shiny look about the back of the

head and say it looked as though the

whole head were made of papier mâe? What

have you got to say to that?

I say it's a nightmare. Haven't you any

more practical idea? Yes, said Dorothy

wriggling. She had obviously just been

struck with the inspiration, but she

passed it off as an old one. It's about

the impossible situation. Why didn't the

murderer want to leave any footprints?

You're all going after the most horribly

complicated reasons. And anyway, they

generally end in your thinking that the

murderer just wants to have some fun

with the police. Rats, darling. What's

the only reason, the first reason

anybody would think of outside a murder

case, why a man mightn't want to leave

any footprints? Why? Because the

footprints would be so distinctive that

they'd lead straight to him. Because he

had a deformity or something which would

hang him if he left a footprint.

And and you tell me, she said, "This

chap Bernaby has a club foot."

when towards daylight Rampol at last

fell asleep. He was haunted by images in

which Bernaby's club foot seemed even

more sinister than the man who wore a

dummy head. It was all nonsense, but it

was a disturbing kind of nonsense to

mingle in a dream with the puzzle of the

three graves.

He struggled out of bed when Dr. Fel

knocked at the door towards 9:00 on

Sunday morning. He shaved and dressed

hastily and stumbled down through a

silent house. It was an unearly hour for

Dr. Fel or anybody else to be stirring,

and Rampol knew some fresh devilry had

broken overnight. The hallways were

chilly. Even the great library, where a

roaring fire had been lighted, had that

unreal look which all things assume when

you get up at daybreak to catch a train.

Breakfast for three was set out in the

embraasier of the bay window overlooking

the terrors. It was a leen day, the sky

already moving with snow. Dr. Fel, fully

dressed, sat at the table with his head

in his hands and stared at a newspaper.

Brother Henry, he rumbled and struck the

paper. Oh yes, he's at it again. Hadley

just phoned with more details and he'll

be here any minute. Look at this for a

starter. If we thought we'd got a hard

problem on our hands last night. Oh,

backers. Look at this one. I'm like

Draymond. I can't believe it. It's

crowded Grimmo's murder clean off the

front page.

Fortunately, they haven't spotted the

connection between them. or else

Hadley's given him the word to keep off.

Here,

Rample, as coffee was poured out for

him, saw the headlines.

Magician murdered by magic, said one

which must have given great pleasure to

the writer. Riddle of Calstro Street.

The second bullet is for you.

Calastro Street, the American repeated.

Where in the name of sanity is Calstro

Street? I thought I'd heard of some

funny street names, but this one. You'd

never hear of it ordinarily,

grunted Dr. Fel. It's one of those

streets hidden behind streets that you

only stumble on by accident when you're

looking for a shortcut, and you're

startled to find a whole community lost

in the middle of London.

Anyway, Caliostro Street is not more

than 3 minutes walk from Grimmo's house.

It's a little culde-sac behind Guilford

Street on the other side of Russell

Square.

So far as I remember, it has a lot of

tradesman's shops overflowing from

Lamb's Conduit Street and the rest

lodging houses. Brother Henri left

Grimmo's place after the shooting,

walked over there, hung about for a

little time, and then completed his

work.

Rample ran his eye down the story.

The body of the man found murdered last

night in Calstro Street WC1 has been

identified as that of Pierre Fle, a

French conjurer and illusionist.

Although he had been performing for some

months at a music hall in Commercial

Road, EC, he took lodgings two weeks ago

in Calastro Street. About half 10 last

night, he was found shot to death under

circumstances which seemed to indicate

that a magician was murdered by magic.

Nothing was seen and no trace left.

Three witnesses testify, although they

all distinctly heard a voice say, "The

second bullet is for you." Calostro

Street is 200 yards long and ends in a

blank brick wall. There are a few shops

at the beginning of the street closed at

that time, although a few nightlights

were burning, and the pavements were

swept in front of them. But beginning

some 20 yards on, there was unbroken

snow on the pavement and the street. Mr.

Jesse Short and Mr. RG Blackwin,

Birmingham visitors to London, were on

their way to visit a friend with

lodgings near the end of the street.

They were walking on the right-hand

pavement and had their backs to the

mouth of the street. Mr. Blackwin, who

was turning round to make sure of the

numbers on the doors, noticed a man

walking some distance behind them. This

man was walking slowly and rather

nervously, looking around him as though

he expected to see someone near. He was

walking in the middle of the street, but

the light was dim, and aside from seeing

that he was tall and wore a slouch hat.

Neither Mr. Short nor Mr. Blackwin

noticed anything else. At the same time,

PC Henry Withers, whose beat was along

Lamb's Conduit Street, reached the

entrance to Caliastro Street. He saw the

man walking in the snow, but glanced

back again without noticing him, and in

the space of three or four seconds the

thing happened. Mr. Short and Mr.

Blackwin heard behind them a cry that

was nearer a scream. They then heard

someone distinctly say the words, "The

second bullet is for you." And a laugh

followed by a muffled pistol shot. As

they whirled round, the man behind

staggered, screamed again, and pitched

forward on his face. The street they

could see was absolutely empty from end

to end. Moreover, the man was walking in

the middle of it, and both state that

there were no footprints in the snow but

his own. This is confirmed by PC

Withers, who came running from the mouth

of the street. In the light from a

jeweler's window, they could see the

victim lying face downward, his arms

spread out, and blood jettting from a

bullet hole under his left shoulder

blade. The weapon, a longbarreled 38

cult revolver of a pattern 30 years out

of date, had been thrown away some 10 ft

behind. Despite the words they had all

heard, and the gun lying at some

distance, the witnesses thought because

of the empty street that he must have

shot himself. They saw that the man was

still breathing and carried him to the

office of Dr. Mr. Jenkins near the end

of the street, while the constable made

sure there were no footprints anywhere.

The victim, however, died without

speaking not long afterwards.

Then occurred the most startling

disclosures. The man's overcoat round

the wound was burnt and singed black,

showing that the weapon must have been

pressed against his back or held only a

few inches away.

But Dr. Jenkins gave it as his opinion,

later confirmed by the police, that

suicide was not possible. No man, he

stated, could have held any pistol in

such a way as to shoot himself through

the back at that angle, and more

especially with the longbarreled weapon

which was used. It was murder, but an

incredible murder. If the man had been

shot from some distance away, from a

window or door, the absence of a

murderer, and even the absence of

footprints would mean nothing. But he

was shot by someone who stood beside

him, spoke to him, and vanished.

No papers or marks of identification

could be found in the man's clothes, and

nobody seemed to know him. After some

delay, he was sent to the morttery.

But what about the officer Hadley sent

round to pick him up? Rampol asked.

Couldn't he identify the man?

He did identify him later. Growled Dr.

Fel, but the whole was over by the time

he got there. He ran into the policeman,

Hadley says, when Withers was still

making inquiries from door to door.

Then he put two and two together.

Meanwhile, the man Hadley had sent to

the music hall, also in quest of Fle,

had phoned through that Fle wasn't

there. Fle had coolly told the theater

manager he had no intention of doing his

turn that night and walked out with some

sort of cryptic remark.

Well, to identify the body at the

morttery, they got hold of Fle's

landlord in Calstro Street. And to make

sure it was the same person, they asked

for somebody from the music hall to come

along, an Irishman with an Italian name,

who was also on the bill, but couldn't

do his turn that night because of some

sort of injury, volunteered.

Yes, it was Fle and he's dead. And we're

in a hell of a mess. B.

And this story, cried Rampolle, is

actually true.

He was answered by Hadley, whose ring at

the bell was belligerent. Hadley stamped

in carrying his briefcase like a

tomahawk, and released some of his

grievances before he would even touch

bacon and eggs. "Is true, right enough,"

he said grimly, stamping his feet before

the fire.

I let the papers splash it out so we

could broadcast an appeal for

information from anybody who knew Pierre

Fle or his

brother Henry.

By God, Fel, I'm losing my mind. That

damned nickname of yours sticks in my

head and I can't get rid of it. I find

myself referring to Brother Henri as

though I knew that was his real name. I

find myself getting imaginary pictures

of Brother Andre. At least we soon ought

to know what his real name is. I've

cabled to Bookucharest. Brother Henry.

Brother Henry.

We've picked up his trail again and lost

it again. Brook. For Lord's sake, go

easy, urged Dr. Fel, puffing uneasily.

Don't rave. It's bad enough now. I

suppose you've been at it nearly all

night and got some more information. H

yes. Now sit down and console the inner

man. Then we can approach in

a philosophic spirit. Eh

Hadley said he wanted nothing to eat,

but after he had finished two helpings,

drunk several cups of coffee, and

lighted a cigar, he mellowed into a more

normal mood. "Now then, let's begin," he

said, squaring himself determinedly as

he took papers from the briefcase.

"By checking over this newspaper account

point by point, as well as what it

doesn't say." Um, first, as to these

chaps, Blackwin and Short. They're

reliable. Besides, it's certain neither

of them is Brother Henri.

We wired Birmingham and found they've

been well known in their district all

their lives. They're prosperous, sound

people who wouldn't go off the handle as

witnesses in a thing like this. The

constable Withers is a thoroughly

reliable man. In fact, he's painstaking

to the extent of a vice.

If those people say they didn't see

anybody, they may have been deceived.

But at least they were telling the truth

as they knew it.

Deceived. How?

I don't know, growled Hadley, drawing a

deep breath and shaking his head grimly.

Except that they must have been. I had a

brief look at the street, although I

didn't go through Flea's room. It's no

pickilly circus for illumination, but at

least it's not dark enough for any man

in his five wits to be mistaken about

what he saw.

Shadows, I don't know. As to footprints,

if Withers swears there weren't any,

I'll take his word for it. And there we

are. The doctor fell only grunted and

Hadley went on. Now about the weapon.

Fle was shot with a bullet from that

cult 38 and so was Grimmo. There were

two exploded cartridge cases in the

magazine. Only two bullets and broke.

And the murderer scored with each.

The modern revolver, you see, ejects its

shells like an automatic. But this gun

is so old that we haven't a ghost of a

chance of being able to trace it. It's

in good working order. It fires modern

steel jacket ammunition, but somebody

has kept it hidden away for years.

He didn't forget anything. Harry didn't.

Well, did you trace Fle's movements?

Yes, he was going to call on Henry.

Dr. Fel's eyes snapped open.

Hey, look here. You mean you've got a

lead about?

It's the only lead we have got. And

said Hadley with bitter satisfaction.

If it doesn't produce results within a

couple of hours, I'll eat that

briefcase. You remember I told you over

the phone that Fle had refused to

perform and walked out of the theater

last night. Yes.

My plain clothes officer got the story

both from the theater manager fellow

named Isaacstein

and from an acrobat named O who was

friendlier with Fle than anybody else

and identified the body later. Saturday

naturally is the big night down

Limehouse Way. The theater runs

continuous variety from 1:00 in the

afternoon until 11 at night. Business

was booming in the evening, and Fle's

first night turn was to begin at 8:15.

About 5 minutes before then, O, who'd

broken his wrist and couldn't go on that

night, sneaked down into the cellar for

a smoke. They have a coal furnace for

hot water pipes there. Hadley unfolded a

closely written sheet. Here's what I

rock said, just as Summers took it down,

and I rock later initial.

The minute I got through the asbestos

door and downstairs, I heard a noise

like somebody smashing up kindling wood.

Then I did get a jump. The furnace door

was open, and there was old Looney with

a hatchet in his hand, busting hell out

of the few properties he owned, and

shoving them all in the fire. I said,

"For cat's sake, Looney, what are you

doing?" He said in that queer way of

his, "I am destroying my equipment,

Senor Palei." I used the name of Palei

the Great, you understand? But then he

always talked like that, so help me.

Well, he said, "My work is finished. I

shall not need them any longer." And

zingo, in went his faked ropes and the

hollow bamboo rods for his cabinet. I

said, "Looney, great God Almighty, pull

yourself together." I said, "You go on

in a few minutes and you're not even

dressed." He said, "Didn't I tell you I

am going to see my brother? He will do

something that will settle an old affair

for both of us."

Well, he walked over to the stairs and

then turned around sharp. Looney's got a

face like a white horse. Lord, pity me

for saying it. And it had a queer,

creepy look with the fire from the

furnace shining on it. He said, "In case

anything happens to me after he has done

the business, you will find my brother

in the same street where I myself live."

That is not where he really resides, but

he has taken a room there. Just then,

down comes old Isaacstein looking for

him. He couldn't believe his ears when

he heard Looney refused to go on. There

was a row. Isaacstein bowled. You know

what'll happen if you don't go on. And

Looney says as pleasant as a threecard

man, "Yes, I know what will happen."

Then he lifts his hat very courteously

and says, "Good night, gentlemen. I'm

going back to my grave."

and up the stairs this lunatic walks

without another word.

Hadley folded up the sheet and replaced

it in his briefcase.

"Yes, he was a good showman,"

said Dr. Fel, struggling to light his

pipe. "It seems a pity brother Henry had

to

what then?"

Now, it may or may not mean anything to

track Henry down in Calstro Street, but

we're sure to get his temporary hideout,

Hadley went on.

The question occurred to me, where was

Fle going when he was shot? Where was he

walking to? Not to his own room. He

lived at number 2B at the beginning of

the street, and he was going in the

other direction. When he was shot, he

was a little over halfway down, between

number 18 on his right and number 21 on

his left, but in the middle of the

street, of course. That's a good trail,

and I've sent Summers out on it. He's to

turn out every house past the middle,

looking for any new or suspicious or

otherwise noticeable lodger. Landladies

being what they are, we shall probably

get dozens. But that doesn't matter.

Dr. Fel, who was slouched as far down in

the big chair as the bulk of his weight

would allow, ruffled his hair.

Yes, but I shouldn't concentrate too

much on any end of the street. Rip them

all up, say I. You see, suppose Fle was

running from somebody, trying to get

away from somebody when he was shot.

running away into a blind alley. It's

wrong. I tell you it's all wrong, roared

the doctor, hoisting himself up in the

chair. Not merely because I can't see

anywhere a or glimmer of reason,

which I freely admit, but because the

simplicity of the thing is so maddening.

It's no matter of hocus pocus within

four walls. There's a street. There's a

man walking along it in the snow.

Scream. Whispered words. Bang. Witnesses

turn and murderer gone. Where

did the pistol come flying through the

air like a thrown knife? Explode against

Flay's back and spin away. Rubbish. I

know it's rubbish, but I still ask the

question.

Nodded Dr. Fel. He let his eyeglasses

drop and pressed his hands over his

eyes.

I say, how does this new development

affect the Russell Square group? I mean,

considering that everybody is officially

under suspicion, can't we eliminate a

few of those? Even if they were telling

us lies at Grimmo's house, they still

weren't out hurling cult revolvers in

the middle of Calstro Street.

The superintendent's face was ugly with

sarcasm.

Now there's another bit of luck for us,

kindly notice. I forgot that we could

eliminate one or two if the Calstro

Street business had occurred a little

later or even a little earlier. It

didn't. Fle was shot at just 10:25.

In other words, about 15 minutes after

Grimmo. Brother Henri took no chances.

He anticipated exactly what we would do.

send out a man to pick up fle as soon as

the alarm was given.

Only brother Henri or somebody

anticipated us in both ways. He was

there with his little vanishing trick.

Or somebody

repeated Dr. Fel.

Your mental processes are interesting.

Why or somebody?

That's what I'm getting at. The

unfortunate, unobserved 15 minutes just

after Grimmo's murder. I'm learning new

wrinkles in crime fell. If you want to

commit a couple of shrewd murders, don't

commit one and then hang about waiting

for the dramatic moment to pull off the

other.

hit once and then hit again instantly

while the watchers are still so muddled

by the first that nobody including the

police can definitely remember who was

where at a given time can we now

grow Dr. fell to conceal the fact that

he couldn't.

It ought to be easy to work out a timet.

Let's see. We arrived at Grimos.

When Hadley was jotting on a slip of

paper just as Mangan jumped out the

window, which couldn't have been more

than 2 minutes after the shot, say 1012.

We ran upstairs, found the door locked,

got the pliers, and opened the door. Say

3 minutes more.

Isn't that allowing a small margin of

time? Rample interposed.

That seemed to me we were doing a lot of

tearing around.

The people often think so. In fact, said

Hadley, I thought so myself until I

handled that kind knifing case.

Remember, fell where a damned clever

killer depended for his alibi on the

tendency of witnesses always to

overestimate time.

That's because we think in minutes

rather than seconds. Try it yourself.

Put a watch on the table, shut your

eyes, and look again when you think a

minute is up. You'll probably look 30

seconds too soon.

No, say 3 minutes here. He scowlled.

Mangan phoned and the ambulance was

round very quickly. Did you notice the

address of that nursing home fell? No. I

leave these sorted details to you, said

Dr. Fel with dignity. Somebody said it

was just round the corner. I remember

ah

in Guilford Street next to the

children's hospital. In fact, said

Hadley, backed up against Calstro Street

so closely that the back gardens must be

in line. Well, say 5 minutes to get the

ambulance to Russell Square. That's

10:20.

And what about the next 5 minutes, the

time just before the second murder, and

the equally important 5 or 10 minutes

afterwards?

Rosette Grimmo alone rode over in the

ambulance with her father and didn't

return for some time. Mangan alone was

downstairs doing some teleoning for me

and didn't come upstairs until Rosette

returned. I don't seriously consider

either of them. But take it all for the

sake of argument. Draymond. Nobody saw

Draymond all this time and for a long

while afterwards as to Mills and the

Duont woman. H well yes I'm afraid it

does clear them. Mills was talking to us

all the earlier part of the time until

at least 10:30 anyhow and Madame Dumont

joined him very shortly. They both

stayed with us for a while. That tears

it.

Dr. fell, chuckled. In fact, he said

reflectively.

We know exactly what we did before, no

more and no less. The only people it

clears are the ones we were sure were

innocent, and who had to be telling the

truth if we made any sanity of the

story. Hadley, it's the cassidness of

things in general, which makes me raise

my hat. By the way, did you get anything

last night out of searching Draymond's

room? And what about that blood? Oh,

it's human blood, right? But there was

nothing in Draymond's room that gave a

clue to it or to anything else. There

were several of these pasteboard masks,

yes, but they were all elaborate affairs

with whiskers and goggle eyes, more the

sort of thing that would appeal to a

kid. Nothing, anyway, in the uh the

plain pink style.

There was a lot of stuff for kids,

amateur theatricals, some old sparklers

and pinw wheels and the like, and a toy

theater,

penny plane and tuppens colored, said

Dr. Fel with a weeze of reminiscent

pleasure.

Gone forever the glory of childhood.

Wow, the grandeur of a toy theater. In

my innocent childhood days, Hadley, when

I came trailing clouds of glory to the

viewer, asis, by the way, which might

have been open to considerable debate on

the part of my parents.

In my childhood days, I say I owned a

toy theater with 16 changes of scenery.

Half of them, I'm pleased to say, were

jail scenes.

Why does the young imagination run so

strongly to jail scenes, I wonder? Why?

What the hell's the matter with you?

demanded Hadley, staring. Why the

sentimentality?

Because I have suddenly got an idea,

said Dr. Fel gently. And oh my sacred

hat, what an idea.

He remained blinking at Hadley.

What about Draymond? Are you going to

arrest him? No.

In the first place, I don't see how he

could have done it, and I couldn't even

get a warrant. In the second place, you

don't believe he's guilty. H grunted

Hadley with an innate caution about

doubting somebody's innocence.

I don't say that, but I think he's

likely to be less culpable than anybody

else. Anyhow, we've got to get a move on

Caliostro Street first, then to

interview several people. Finally,

they heard the doorbell ring, and a

sleepy maid servant tumbled down to

answer it. There's a gentleman

downstairs, sir, said Va, poking her

head into the room, who says he wants to

see either you or the superintendent.

A Mr. Anthony Pettis, sir.

12. The picture

fell, rumbling and chuckling and

spilling ashes from his pipe like the

spirit of the volcano,

surged up to greet the visitor with a

cordiality which seemed to put Mr.

Anthony Pettis much more at his ease.

Mr. Pettis bowed slightly to each of

them.

You must excuse me, gentlemen, for

intruding so early, he said, but I had

to get it off my mind and couldn't feel

easy until I did. I understand you were

looking for me last night, and I had an

unpleasant night of it, I can tell you.

He smiled.

My one criminal adventure was when I

forgot to renew a dog license, and my

guilty conscience was all over me. Every

time I went out with that confounded

dog, I thought every policeman in London

was eyeing me in a sinister way. I began

to slink. So, in this case, I thought

I'd better hunt you out. They gave me

this address at Scotland Yard.

Dr. Fell was already stripping off his

guest's overcoat with a gesture that

nearly upset Mr. Pettis and hurling him

into a chair. Mr. Pettis grinned. He was

a small, neat, starched man with a

shiny, bold head and a startlingly

booming voice. He had prominent eyes

looking more shrewd with a wrinkle of

concentration between them, a humorous

mouth and a square cleft chin. It was a

bony face, imaginative, acetic, rather

nervous. When he spoke, he had a trick

of sitting forward in his chair,

clasping his hands, and frowning at the

floor. It's a bad business about Greo,

he said and hesitated.

Naturally, I'll follow the formula of

saying I wish to do everything I can to

help. In this case, it happens to be

true. He smiled again.

Do you want me sitting with my face to

the light or what? Outside novels, this

is my first experience with the police.

Nonsense,

said Dr. fell introducing everybody.

I've been wanting to meet you for some

time. We've written a few things on the

same lines. What will you drink?

Whiskey, brandy, and soda. It's rather

early, said Pettis doubtfully. Still, if

you insist. Thanks. I'm very familiar

with your book on the supernatural in

English fiction, doctor. You're a great

deal more popular than I shall ever be.

And it's sound.

He frowned. It's very sound. But I don't

entirely agree with you or Dr. James

that a ghost in a story should always be

malignant.

Of course it should always be malignant.

The more malignant, thundered Dr. fell,

screwing his own face up into a

tolerably hideous lear. Then the better.

I want no sighing of gentle airs around

my couch. I want no sweet whispers or

Eden. I want blood.

He looked at Pettis in a way which

seemed to give the latter an

uncomfortable idea that it was his

blood.

Ha. I will give you rules, sir. The

ghost should be malignant. It should

never speak. It should never be

transparent, but solid. It should never

hold the stage for long, but appear in

brief, vivid flashes like the poking of

a face round a corner. It should never

appear in too much light. It should have

an old an academic or ecclesiastical

background, a flavor of closters or

Latin manuscripts.

There is an unfortunate tendency

nowadays to sneer at old libraries or

ancient ruins, to say that the really

horrible phantom would appear in a

confectioner's shop or at a lemonade

stand. This is what they call applying

the modern test. Very well. Apply the

test of real life. Now, people in real

life honestly have been frightened out

of their five wits in old ruins or

churchyards.

Nobody would deny that. But until

somebody in actual life really does

scream out and faint at the sight of

something at a lemonade stand, other of

course then that beverage itself, then

there is nothing to be said for this

theory except that it is rubbish.

Some people would say, observed Pettis,

cocking one eyebrow, that the old ruins

were rubbish. Don't you believe that

good ghost stories can be written

nowadays? Of course they can be written

nowadays and there are more brilliant

people to write them if they would. The

point is they're afraid of the thing

called melodrama.

So if they can't eliminate the

melodrama,

they try to hide it by writing in such

an oblique upside down way that nobody

under heaven can understand what they're

talking about. Instead of saying flat

out that the character saw or heard,

they try to give impressions. It's as

though a butler in announcing guests at

a ball were to throw open the drawing

room doors and cry flicker of a top hat

vacantly seen. Or is it my complex fixed

on the umbrella stand faintly gleaming?

Now his employer might not find this

satisfactory. He might want to know who

in blazes was calling on him.

Terror ceases to be terror if it has to

be worked out like an algebra problem.

It may be deplorable if a man is told a

joke on Saturday night and suddenly

bursts out laughing in church next

morning, but it is much more deplorable

if a man reads a terrifying ghost story

on Saturday night and two weeks later

suddenly snaps his fingers and realizes

that he ought to have been scared. Sir,

I say now for some time an irritated

superintendent of the C had been fuming

and clearing his throat in the

background.

Now Hadley sealed matters by slamming

his fist down on the table.

"Easy on, will you?" he demanded. "We

don't want to hear any lecture now, and

it's Mr. Pettis who wants to do the

talking, so

When he saw Dr. Fel's puffings subside

into a grin, he went on smoothly.

As a matter of fact, it is a Saturday

night I want to talk about. Last night,

about a ghost, Pettis inquired

whimsically.

Dr. Fel's outburst had put him entirely

at his ease. The ghost who called on

poor Grimmo.

Yes. First, just as a matter of form, I

must ask you to give an account of your

movements last night, especially

between, say, 9:30 and 10:30.

Pettis put down his glass. His face had

grown troubled again. Then you mean, Mr.

Hadley, after all, I am under suspicion.

The ghost said he was you. Didn't you

know that?

Said he was. Good God, no! Cried Pettis,

springing up like a bald-headed Jack in

the Box. Said he was me. I mean, uh,

said he was hanged the grammar. I want

to know what you're talking about. What

do you mean? He sat down quietly and

stared as Hadley explained, but he

fussed with his cuffs, fussed with his

tie, and several times nearly

interrupted. Therefore, if you'll

disprove it by giving an account of your

movements last night. Hadley took out

his notebook.

Nobody told me about this last night. I

was at Grimos after he was shot, but

nobody told me, said Pettis, troubled.

As for last night, I went to the

theater, to his majesty's theater. You

can establish that, of course. Pettis

frowned. I don't know. I sincerely hope

so. I can tell you about the play,

although I don't suppose that's much

good. Oh, yes. And I I think I've still

got my ticket stub somewhere or my

program, but you'll want to know if I

met anybody I knew. Eh, no, I'm afraid

not. Unless I could find somebody who

remembered me. I went alone. You see,

every one of the few friends I have runs

in a set groove. We know exactly where

he is at most times, especially Saturday

evenings, and we don't try to change the

orbit. There was a ride twinkle in his

eye. It's It's a kind of respectable

bohemianism, not to say stodgy

bohemianism.

That said, Hadley would interest the

murderer. What are these orbeo

always works? Excuse me, I can't get

used to the idea that he's dead.

always works until 11. Afterwards, you

could disturb him as much as you liked.

He's a night owl, but not before.

Burnaby always plays poker at his club.

Mangan, who's a sort of acolyte, is with

Grimmo's daughter. He's with her most

evenings for that matter. I go to the

theater or the films, but not always.

I'm the exception.

I see.

And after the theater last night, what

time did you get out? Near enough to 11

or a little past? I was restless. I

thought I might drop in on Grimmo and

have a drink with him. And well,

you know what happened? Mills told me. I

asked to see you or whoever was in

charge after I'd waited downstairs for a

long time without anybody paying

attention to me. He spoke rather

snappishly.

I went across to the nursing home to see

how Grimmo was getting on. I got there

just as he died.

Now, Mr. Hadley, I know this is a

terrible business, but I will swear to

you.

Why did you ask to see me? I was at the

public house when this man Fle uttered

his threat, and I thought I might be of

some help. Oh, of course. I suppose at

the time it was Fle who had shot him.

But this morning I see in the paper just

a minute before we go on to that. I

understand that whoever imitated you

used all your tricks of address and so

on correctly. Good. Then who in your

circle or out of it would you suspect of

being able to do that or wanting to do

it? The other said sharply.

He sat back, being careful about the

knife crease of his trousers. His

nervousness was clearly giving way

before the twistings of a dry, curious,

insatiable brain. An abstract problem

intrigued him.

Putting his fingertips together, he

stared out of the long windows.

"Don't think I'm trying to evade your

question, Mr. Hadley," he said with an

abrupt little cough. "Frankly, I can't

think of anybody, but this puzzle

bothers me apart from the danger in a

way to myself. If you think my ideas

suffer from too much subtlety or from

too much plain damned nonsense, I'll put

it up to Dr. Fel. Let let's suppose for

the sake of argument that I am the

murderer. He looked mockingly at Hadley,

who had straightened up. Hold on. I'm

not the murderer, but let's suppose it.

I go to kill Grimo in some outlandish

disguise,

which by the way, I would rather commit

a murder than be seen wearing. Come, I

indulge in all the rest of the tom

foolery. Is it likely after all those

things I would blatantly sing out my

real name to those young people?

He paused, tapping his fingers. That's

the first view, the short-sighted view,

but the very shrewd investigator would

answer. Yes, a clever murderer might do

just that. it would be the most

effective way of bamboozling all the

people who had jumped to the first

conclusion.

He changed his voice a very little, just

enough so that people would remember it

afterwards. He spoke as Pettis because

he wanted people to think it wasn't

Pettis. Had you thought of that.

Oh yes, said Dr. Fel, beaming broadly.

It was the first thing I did think of.

Pettis nodded. then you will have

thought of the answer to that which

clears me either way. If I were to do a

thing like that, it isn't my voice I

should have altered slightly. If the

hearers accepted it to begin with, they

might not later have the doubts I wanted

them to have. But, he said, pointing,

"What I should have done was to make one

slip in my speech. I should have said

something unusual, something wrong, and

obviously not like myself, which later

they would have remembered, and this the

visitor didn't do. His imitation was too

thorough. Which seems to excuse me,

whether you take the forthright view or

the subtle one, I can plead not guilty,

either because I'm not a fool, or

because I am.

Hadley laughed.

His amused gaze

traveled from Pettis to Dr. Fel, and he

could keep his worried expression no

longer. "You two are birds of a

feather," he said. "I like these

girrations, but I'll tell you from

practical experience, Mr. Pettis, that a

criminal who tried anything like that

would find himself in the soup." The

police wouldn't stop to consider whether

he was a fool or whether he wasn't. The

police would take the forthright view

and hang him

as you would hang me, said Pettis, if

you could find contributo evidence.

Exactly.

Well, ah, that's Frank anyhow, said

Pettis, though he seemed acutely uneasy

and startled at the reply.

Shall I go on? You've rather taken the

wind out of my sails. Go on, certainly

urged the superintendent with an affable

gesture. We can get ideas even from a

clever man. What else have you to

suggest?

Whether or not that was a deliberate

sting, it had a result nobody had

expected.

Pettis smiled, but his eyes had a fixed

quality, and his face seemed to become

more bony.

Yes, I think you can, he agreed. Even

ideas you should have had yourselves.

Let me take one instance. You or

somebody got himself quoted at some

length in all the papers this morning

about Grimmo's murder. You showed how

the murderer was careful to ensure

unbroken snow for his vanishing trick,

whatever it was. He could be sure that

it would snow last night, lay all his

plans accordingly, and gamble on waiting

until the snow stopped for the working

of his scheme.

In any event, he could reasonably depend

on there being some snow. Is that

correct?

>> I said something of the sort. Yes.

What of it?

Then I think you should have

remembered," Pettis answered evenly.

That the weather forecast said he could

do nothing of the kind. Yesterday's

weather forecast announced that there

would be no snow at all. "Oh, Bakus,"

boomed Dr. fell and brought his fist

down on the table after a pause in which

he blinked at Pettis. Well done. I never

thought of it. Hadly this changes things

altogether. This

Pettis relaxed.

He took out a cigarette case and opened

it. Of course, there is an objection. I

mean, you can make the obvious retort

that the murderer knew it was bound to

snow because the weather forecast said

it wouldn't, but in that case, you'd be

the one who took subtlety to the edge of

comedy. I can't follow it so far. Fact

is, I think the weather forecast comes

in for as many untrue jers as the

telephone service. It dropped a brick in

this instance. Yes, but that doesn't

matter. Don't you believe me? Look up

last night's papers and see.

Hadley swore and then grinned.

Sorry, he said.

I didn't mean to touch you on the rule,

but I'm glad I did.

Yes, it does seem to alter matters.

Blasted. If a man intended to commit a

crime that depended on snow, he'd

certainly treat the forecast with some

sort of consideration.

Hadley drumed on the table. Never mind.

We'll come back to that. I seriously ask

for ideas now. That is all, I'm afraid.

Criminology is more in Barnaby's line

than in mine. I only happen to notice.

Pettis admitted with a jeering look at

his own clothes. So as to decide whether

I ought to wear overshoos, habit. As to

the person who imitated my voice, why

try to implicate me? I'm a harmless

enough old codger. I assure you, I don't

fit into the role of gigantic nemesis.

The only reason I can think of is that

I'm the only one of the group who has no

definite orbit on Saturday night, and

might not be able to prove an alibi.

But as to who could have done it, any

good mimic could have pulled it off.

Still, who knew just how I addressed

those people?

What about the circle at the Warrick

Tavern? There were others besides the

ones we've heard about, weren't there?

Oh, yes. There were two other

irregulars, but I can't see either as a

candidate. There's old Morningington,

who's had a post at the museum for over

50 years. He's got a cracked tenor that

would never pass for me.

There's Swale, but I believe he was

speaking on the wireless last night

about ant life or something and should

have an alibi.

Speaking at what time?

>> 9:45 or thereabouts, I believe, although

I wouldn't swear to it. Besides, neither

of them ever visited Grimmo's house. and

casual drifters at the pub. Well, some

may have listened or sat down at the

back of the room, although nobody ever

joined the conversation. I suppose

that's your best lead, even if it's a

very thin one.

Pettis took out a cigarette and closed

the case with a snap. Yes, we'd better

decide it was an unknown quantity, or we

shall be in all kinds of quicksand, eh?

Bernaby and I were Grimmo's only close

friends, but I didn't do it, and Burnaby

was playing cards.

Hadley looked at him.

I suppose Mr. Burnaby really was playing

cards. I don't know, the other admitted

with flat cander.

But I'll give you odds he was all the

same. Bernaby's no fool, and a man would

have to be rather an outstanding fathead

to commit a murder on the one night when

his absence from a certain group would

be certain to be noticed.

Clearly, this impressed the

superintendent more than anything Pettis

had yet said. He continued to drum on

the table, scowlling.

Dr. Fel was occupied with some obscure

crosseyed meditation of his own.

Pettis looked curiously from one to the

other of them. If I have given you food

for thought, gentlemen, he suggested,

and Hadley became brisk.

Yes. Yes. No end. Now, about Bernabby,

you know, he painted the picture which

Dr. Grimmo bought to defend himself.

To defend himself. How? From what? We

don't know. I was hoping you might be

able to explain it. Hadley studied him.

The taste for making cryptic remarks

seems to run in his family. Do you know

anything about his family, by the way?

Pettis was evidently puzzled.

Well, Rosette is a very charming girl,

though I shouldn't say she had a taste

for making cryptic remarks. Quite the

contrary, she's a little too modern for

my taste.

his forehead wrinkled.

I never knew Grimo's wife. She's been

dead some years, but I still don't see.

Never mind.

What do you think of Draymond?

Pettis chuckled. Old Hubert Draymond is

the most unsuspicious man I ever met. So

unsuspicious that some people think it

hides a deep and devilish cunning.

Excuse me, but have you got him on the

carpet? If you have, I should forget it.

We'll go back to Bernabby then. Do you

know how he came to paint that picture

or when he did it or anything about it?

I think he did it a year or two ago. I

remember it particularly because it was

the biggest canvas at his studio. He

used it as a screen or a partition,

turned up endways whenever he needed

one.

I asked him once what it was intended to

represent. He said, "An imaginative

conception of something I never saw. It

had some French name

deontel or something of the sort."

He stopped, tapping the still unlighted

cigarette on the case. His curious,

restless brain was probing again.

"Hello."

Now that I remember it, Burnaby said,

"Don't you like it?" It gave Grimmo a

hell of a turn when he saw it.

Why, I paid no attention. I naturally

supposeded it was some joke or piece of

bragging. He laughed when he said it,

and Bernaby's liked that, but the thing

had been lying about the studio,

collecting dust for such a long time

that I was surprised when Grimmo came

charging in on Friday morning and asked

for it.

Hadley leaned forward sharply. You were

there then? At the studio? Yes. I

dropped in early for some reason or

other. I forget what. Grimmo came

stumping in. Upset.

Yes. No. No. Say excited.

Pettis reflected, studying Hadley

covertly. Grimmo said with that machine

gun snap of his, "Bernaby, where's your

salt mountain picture? I want it. What's

your price?"

Burnaby looked at him in a queer way. He

came hobbling over and pointed to the

picture and said, "The thing's yours,

man. If you want it, take it." Grimmo

said, "No, I have a use for it, and I

insist on buying it." Well, when Burnaby

named some fool price like 10 shillings,

Grimmo quite solemnly got out a

checkbook and wrote a check for 10

shillings.

He would say nothing except that he had

a place on the wall where it ought to go

in his study. That's all. He took the

picture downstairs and I got him a cab

to take it away in. Was it wrapped up?

asked Dr. Fel sharply.

So sharply that Pettis jumped a little.

Dr. Fell had been showing more interest,

not to say fierce concentration in this

recital than in anything Pettis had yet

said. The doctor was bending forward

with his hands clasped over his stick,

and Pettis regarded him curiously. "I

wonder why you asked that," he said.

"It's what I was just going to mention,

the fuss Grimmo made about wrapping it."

He asked for paper and Burnaby said,

"Where do you think I'd get a sheet of

paper big enough to go around that? Why

be ashamed of it? Take it as it is." But

Grimmo insisted on going downstairs and

getting yards of brown paper off one of

those rolls in somebody's shop. It

seemed to annoy Burnaby a good deal.

>> You don't know whether Grimmo went

straight home with it?

>> No, I think he was going to have it

framed, but I'm not sure.

Dr. Fel sat back with a grunt and let

the subject go without more questions,

in spite of Pettis's hints. Although

Hadley kept on questioning for some

time, nothing of importance was elicited

so far as Rampol could see.

On the personal side, Pettis spoke

guardedly, but there was, he said,

little to conceal.

There had been no friction in Grimmo's

household and none in the immediate

circle except an antagonism between

Mangan and Bernaby.

Burnaby, although nearly 30 years older,

had a strong interest in Rosette Grimo,

at once lazy and jealous. Dr. Grimmore

had said nothing about this. If

anything, he encouraged it, although so

far as Pettis could observe, he made no

objection to Mangan.

But I think you'll find, gentlemen,

concluded Pettis, as he rose to go when

Big Ben was striking 10, that all these

are side issues. It would be difficult

to associate the Kim Pionel with any of

our group. As to the financial side of

affairs, I can't tell you much either.

Grimmo was fairly well to do, I should

think. His solisters, I happen to know,

are Tenant and Williams of Gray's Inn.

By the way, I wonder if you'd all have

lunch with me on a dreary Sunday. I'm

just at the other side of Russell

Square, you know. I have had a suite of

rooms at the Imperial for 15 years.

You're investigating in that

neighborhood, and it might be handy.

Besides, if Dr. Fel feels inclined to

discuss ghost stories.

He smiled. The doctor cut in to accept

before Hadley could refuse, and Pettis

left with a much more jaunty air than he

had worn at his entrance.

Afterwards, they all looked at each

other. "Well," growled Hadley,

"Straightforward enough, it seemed to

me. Of course, we'll check it out. The

point, the impressive point is, why

should any of them commit a crime on the

one night when absence would be bound to

be noticed? We'll go after this chap

Bernabby, but he sounds out of it, too,

if only for that reason.

And the weather forecast said it

wouldn't snow, said Dr. Fel with a kind

of obstinacy. Hadley, that shoots

everything to blazes. It turns the whole

case upside down somehow, but I don't

see you.

Calostro Street. Let's go on to Calstro

Street. Anywhere is better than this

darkness.

Fuming, he stumped over after his cloak

and shovel hat.

13. The secret flat.

London on the morning of a gray winter

Sunday was deserted to the point of

ghostliness along miles of streets

and Calstro Street into which Hadley's

car presently turned looked as though it

would never wake up. Calostro Street, as

Dr. Fel had said, contained a thin,

dingy overflow of both shops and rooming

houses. It was a backwater of Lamb's

Conduit Street, which itself is a long

and narrow thoroughare, a shopping

center of its own, stretching north to

the barrack windowed quiet of Guilford

Street, and south to the main artery of

traffic along The Bold's Road.

Towards the Guilford Street end, on the

west side, the entrance to Kalystro

Street is tucked between a stationers

and a butchers. It looks so much like an

alley that you would miss it altogether

if you were not watching for the sign.

Past these two buildings, it suddenly

widens into an unexpected breadth and

runs straight for 200 yards to a blank

brick wall at the end.

This eerie feeling of streets in hiding

or whole rows of houses created by

illusory magic to trick you had never

deserted Rampole in his prowlings

through London. It was like wondering

whether if you walked out your own front

door you might not find the whole street

mysteriously changed overnight and

strange faces grinning out of houses you

had never seen before.

He stood with Hadley and Dr. Fel at the

entrance, staring down. The overflow of

shops stretched only a little way on

either side. They were all shuttered or

had their windows covered with a folding

steel fretwork with an air of defying

customers as a fort would defy

attackers.

Even the guilt signs had an air of

defiance. The windows were at all stages

of cleanliness, from the bright gloss of

a jeweler's farthest down on the right

to the gray murkiness of a tobaconists

nearest on the right. A tobaconists that

seemed to have dried up worse than

ancient tobacco shrunk together and

hidden itself behind news placards

headlining news you never remembered

having heard of.

Beyond there were two rows of flat

three-story houses in dark red brick

with window frames in white or yellow

and drawn curtains of which a few on the

ground floor showed a sportive bit of

lace.

They darkened to the same hue with soot.

They looked like one house except where

iron railings went to the front doors

from the lone line of area rails. They

sprouted with hopeful signs announcing

furnished rooms. Over them the chimney

pots stood up dark against a heavy gray

sky. The snow had melted to patches of

gray slush despite a sharp wind that was

swooping through the entrance and

chasing a discarded newspaper with flaps

and rustlings round a lamp post.

Cheerful,

grunted Dr. Fel. He lumbered forward and

there were echoes of his footsteps.

Now, let's get all this straight before

we attract attention.

Show me where Fle was when he was hit.

Stop a bit. Where did he live, by the

way?

Hadley pointed at the tobaconists near

which they were standing.

up over that place just at the beginning

of the street as I told you. We'll go up

presently, although Summers has been

there and says there's nothing at all.

Now come along and get roughly the

middle point of the street." He went

ahead, pacing off a yard at a stride.

The swept pavements and the marked

street ended somewhere about here, say

more or less 150 ft, then unmarked snow,

a good distance beyond that, nearer to

another 150 here. He stopped and turned

round slowly, halfway up center of the

roadway. You can see how broad the road

is. Walking there, he was a good 30 ft

from any house on either side. If he'd

been walking on the pavement, we might

have constructed some wild theory of a

person leaning out of a window or an

areaway with the gun fastened to the end

of a pole or something. And nonsense.

All right, nonsense. But what else can

we think, demanded Hadley with some

violence, and made a broad gesture with

his briefcase. As you said yourself,

here's the street. It's plain, simple,

and impossible. I know there was no

hanky panky like that, but what was

there? Also, the witnesses didn't see

anything, and if there had been

anything, they must have seen it. Look

here. Stay where you are now, and keep

facing the same direction.

He paced again to a point some distance

farther on, and turned after inspecting

the numbers. Then he moved over to the

right hand pavement. Here's where

Blackwin and Short were when they heard

the scream. You're walking along there

in the middle of the street. I'm ahead

of you. I whirl around. So, how far am I

from you now?

Rample, who had drawn off from both of

them, saw Dr. Fel standing big and alone

in the middle of an empty rectangle.

Shorter distance this time. Those two

chaps, said the doctor, pushing back his

shovel hat, were not much more than 30

ft ahead. Hadly this is even rummier

than I thought. He was in the middle of

a snow desert. Yet they whirl round when

they hear the shot.

Exactly. Next. has to lights. You're

taking the part of fle on your right. A

little distance ahead and just beyond

the door of number 18. You see a street

lamp. A little distance behind. Also on

the right, you see that jeweler's

window. Right. There was a light burning

in that. Not a bright one, but still it

was there. Now, can you explain to me

how two people standing where I'm

standing now could possibly be mistaken

about whether they saw anybody near fle?

His voice rose, and the street gave it a

satiric echo. The discarded newspaper,

caught again by an eddy of the wind,

scuttled along with a sudden rush, and

the wind tore with a hollow roar among

chimney pots as though it blew through a

tunnel. Dr. Fel's black cloak flapped

about him, and the ribbon on his

eyeglasses danced wildly.

Jewelers, he repeated and stared.

Jewelers and a light in it. Was there

anybody there?

No. Withers thought of that and went to

see. It was a show light. The wire fret

work was stretched across both the

window and the door just as it is now.

Nobody could have got in or out of

there. Besides, it's much too far away

from Fle. Dr. Fel, craned his neck

round, and then went over to look

owlishly into the protected window.

Inside were displayed velvet trays of

cheap rings and watches, an array of

candlesticks, and in the middle a big

round hooded German clock with moving

eyes in its son of a face which began to

tinkle 11.

Dr. Fel stared at the moving eyes, which

had an unpleasant effect of seeming to

watch with idiot amusement the place

where a man had been killed. It lent a

touch of the horrible to Caliro Street.

Then Dr. Fel stumped back to the middle

of the street. But that he said

obstinately as though he were continuing

an argument. That is on the right hand

side of the street.

And Dr. Fle was shot through the back

from the left side. If we assume, as

apparently we must assume, that the

attacker approached from the left, or at

least the flying pistol traveled over

from the left, I don't know, even

granting that the murderer could walk on

snow without leaving a footprint. Can we

at least decide where he came from?

He came from here, said a voice. The

rising of the wind seemed to whirl the

words about them as though they came

from empty air. For one second in that

gusty half light, Rample experienced a

worse shock than he had known even in

the days of the Chatter and Prison case.

He had a mad vision of flying things and

of hearing words from an invisible man

exactly as the two witnesses had heard

the hollow murderer whisper the night

before.

for one second. Then something took him

by the throat before he turned and with

a drop of anticlimax saw the

explanation. A thick set young man with

a reddish face and a bowler pulled down

on his forehead which gave him a

somewhat sinister air was coming down

the steps from the open door of number

18. The young man grinned broadly as he

saluted Hadley.

A came from here, sir. I'm Summer, sir.

You remember you asked me to find out

where the dead one, the French, she was

going when he was killed. And to find

out what land lady had any sort of rum

lodger that might be the man we're

looking for. Well, I found out about the

rum lodger, and it oughtn't to be

difficult to find him. He came from

here. Excuse my interrupting you.

Hadley, trying not to show that the

interruption had been unpleasantly

startling, growled a pleased word. His

eyes traveled up to the doorway where

another figure stood hesitating.

Summers followed the glance. "Oh no,

sir, that's not the lodger," he said,

and grinned again. "That's Mr. O, chap

from the music hall. You know who

identified the Frenchie last night. He's

been giving me a bit of help this

morning." The figure detached itself

from the gloom and came down the steps.

He looked thin despite his heavy

overcoat. Thin and powerful with the

quick smooth steps carried on the ball

of the foot which mark the trapze or

highwire man. He was affable, easy, and

bent slightly backwards as he spoke like

a man who wants room for his gestures.

In looks he was rather sworthyly

reminiscent of the Italian. In effect,

that was heightened by a luxurant black

mustache with waxed ends which curled

under his hooked nose. Beneath this, a

large curved pipe hung from one corner

of his mouth, and he was puffing with

evident enjoyment.

His wrinkled eyes had a humorous blue

gleam, and he pushed back an elaborate

thorncoled hat as he introduced himself.

This was the Irishman with the Italian

pseudonym. He spoke like an American and

in point of fact was, he explained, a

Canadian.

Oor's the name. Yes, he said. John L.

Sullivan Oor. Does anybody know what my

middle name is? You know the name of the

He squared back and took a hard

right-hander at the empty air. The

greatest of them all. I don't. My old

man didn't when he named me L is all I

know. I hope you don't mind my betting

in. You see, I knew old Looney. He

paused, grinned, and twisted his

mustache.

I see, gents, you're all looking at this

soup strainer of mine. Everybody does.

It's on account of that goddamn song.

You know, the management thought it'd be

a good idea if I got myself up like the

fellow in the song. Oh, it's real. Look,

he pulled. Nothing phony about it. See,

but I was telling you, excuse my butting

in. I'm damn sorry for old looney.

His face clouded. That's all right, said

Hadley. Thanks for all the help as it

is. It saves me seeing you at the

theater. I'm not working anyway, said

Oor gloomily. He thrust his left hand

out of a long overcoat sleeve. The wrist

was wound into a cast and bandaged. "If

I had had any sense, I'd have followed

Looney last night. But here, don't let

me interrupt." "Yes, if you'll come

along, sir." Summers interposed grimly.

"I've got something pretty important to

show you, as well as tell you. The

landlady's downstairs getting dressed

up, and she'll tell you about the

lodger.

There's no doubt he's the man you want,

but first I'd like it to see his rooms.

What's in his rooms? Well, sir, there's

blood for one thing, replied Summers,

and also a very queer sort of rope. He

assumed an expression of satisfaction as

he saw Hadley's face. You'll be

interested in that rope and in other

things. The fella's a burglar, at least

a crook of some sort by the look of his

outfit. They put a special lock on the

door so that Miss Hake, that's the land

lady, couldn't get in. But I used one of

my keys. There's nothing illegal about

that, sir. The fella's evidently cleared

out. Miss Hake says he's had the rooms

for some time, but he's only used them

one or two times since. Come on, said

Hadley.

Summers, closing the door behind, led

them into a gloomy hallway and up three

flights of stairs. The house was narrow

and had on each floor one furnished flat

which ran the whole depth from back to

front. The door of the top floor close

up near a ladder which led to the roof

stood open, its extra lock gleaming

above the ordinary keyhole. Summers took

them into a darkish passage with three

doors. "In here first, sir," he said,

indicating the first on the left. "It's

the bathroom. I had to put a shilling in

the electric meter to get any light. Now

he pressed a switch. The bathroom was a

dingy converted box room with glazed

paper on the wall in imitation of tile,

worn oil cloth on the floor, a topheavy

geyser bath whose tank had gone to rust,

and a wavy mirror hung over a wash stand

with bowl and pitcher on the floor.

Effort made to clean the place up, you

see, sir. Summers went on. But you'll

still see reddish traces in the bath

where the water was poured out. This was

where he washed his hands. And over

behind this clothes hamper now. With

dramatic satisfaction, he swung the

hamper to one side, reached into the

dust behind, and produced a still damp

facecloth with soden patches that had

turned to dull pink. He sponged his

clothes. With that, said Summers,

nodding. Well done, said Hadley softly.

He juggled the facecloth, glanced at Dr.

Fel, smiled, and put down the find. The

other rooms now I'm curious about that

rope.

Somebody's personality permeated those

rooms like the sickly yellow of the

electric lights, like the chilly

chemical smell which was not quite

obliterated by the strong tobacco od.

It was a den in more senses than one.

Heavy curtains were drawn across the

windows in a fairly large front room.

Under a powerful light on a broad table

lay an assortment of little steel or

wire tools with rounded heads and curved

ends. Hadley said, "Lockpicks, eh?" and

whistled.

An assortment of detached locks and a

sheath of notes. There was a powerful

microscope, a box fitted with glass

slides, a bench of chemicals on which

six labeled test tubes were arranged in

a rack, a wall of books, and in one

corner a small iron safe, at the sight

of which Hadley uttered an exclamation.

If he's a burglar, said the

superintendent, he's the most modern and

scientific burglar I've seen in a long

time. I didn't know this trick was known

in England. You've been dipping into

this fell. Recognize it. There's a big

hole cut right out of the iron in the

top, sir, put in Summers. If he used a

blowpipe, it's the neatest settling

cutting job I ever saw.

He didn't use a blowpipe,

said Hadley. It's neater and easier than

that. This is the crop preparation. I'm

not strong on chemistry, but I think

this is powdered aluminium and ferrris

oxide. You mix the powder on top of the

safe. You add, what is it? Powdered

magnesium and set a match to it. It

doesn't explode. It simply generates a

heat of several thousand° and melts a

hole straight through the metal. See

that metal tube on the table? We have

one at the Black Museum. It's a detector

scope or what they call a fisheye lens

with a refraction over half a sphere

like the eye of a fish. You can put it

to a hole in the wall and see everything

that's going on in the next room. What

do you think of this, Fell? Yes. Yes,

said the doctor with a vacant stare as

though all this were of no importance.

I hope you see what it suggests. The

mystery. The But where's that rope? I'm

very much interested in that rope.

Other room, sir. Back room, said

Summers. It's got up in rather grand

style, like an eastern, you know.

Presumably he meant Dean or even Haram.

There was a speurious Turkish flidity

and mysteriousness about the rich

colored couches and hangings, the

tassels, gym cracks and weapon groups.

Yet your eye was almost startled into

belief by finding such things in such a

place. Hadley flung back the curtains.

Bloomsbury intruded with winter

daylight, making sickly the illusion.

They looked out on the backs of the

houses along Guilford Street, on paved

yards below, and an alley winding up

towards the back of the children's

hospital. But Hadley did not consider

that for long. He pounced on the coil of

rope that lay across a dean.

It was thin, but very strong, knotted at

intervals of 2 feet apart. An ordinary

rope except for the curious device

hooked to one end. This looked like a

black rubber cup, something larger than

a coffee cup of great toughness and with

a grip edge like a car tire.

Wow, said Dr. Fel. Look here. Is that

Hadley nodded. I've heard of them, but I

never saw one before, and I didn't

believe they existed. See here, it's an

air suction cup. You've probably seen

the same sort of thing in a child's toy.

A spring toy pistol fires at a smooth

card, a little rod with a miniature

suction cup in soft rubber on the end.

It strikes the card, and the suction of

the air holds it. You mean, said Rample,

that a burglar could force that thing

against the side of a wall, and its

pressure would hold him on the rope.

Hadley hesitated.

That's how they say it works. Of course

I don't. But how would he get it loose

again? That is, would he just walk away

and leave it hanging there? He'd need a

confederate naturally. If you pressed

the edges of this thing at the bottom,

they would let the air in and destroy

the grip. Even so, I don't see how the

devil it could have been used for. Oork,

who'd been eyeing the rope in a bothered

way, cleared his throat. He took the

pipe out of his mouth and cleared his

throat again for attention. "Look,

Chance," he said in his horse

confidential voice. "I don't want to

butt in, but I think that's all bunk."

Hadley swung round. "How so? Do you know

anything about it?" "I'll make you a

little bet," nodded the other, and poked

at the air with his pipe stem for

emphasis. That this thing belonged to

Looney Fle. Give it to me for a second

and I'll see. Mind I don't swear it

belonged to Looney. There are plenty of

queer things in this joint. But He took

the rope and ran his fingers gently

along it until he reached the middle.

Then he winked and nodded with

satisfaction.

He twirled his fingers and then suddenly

held his hands apart with the air of a

conjurer.

The rope came in two pieces. Uh-huh.

Yes. I thought it was one of Looney's

trick ropes. See this? The rope's

tapped. It's fitted with a screw in one

side and a thread in the other. And you

can twist it together just like a screw

in wood. You can't see the joint. You

can examine the rope all you like. And

yet it won't come apart under any

pressure. Get the idea. Members of the

audience tie the illusionist, or what do

you call him? Tie him up tight in his

cabinet. This joint of the rope goes

across his hands. The watchers outside

can hold the ends of the rope tied to

make sure he don't try to get out of it.

See? But hey, unscrews the thing with

his teeth, holds the rope taut with his

knees, and all kinds of hell start to

pop inside the cabinet. Wonder,

mystification, greatest show on earth,

said a rock horsely. He regarded them

amiably, put the pipe back in his mouth,

and inhaled deeply. Yes, that was one of

Looney's ropes. a bad hand.

I don't doubt that, said Hadley. But

what about the suction cup?

Again, O'or bent slightly backwards to

give room for his gestures.

Well, Looney was as secretive as they

make him, of course.

But I haven't been around with magic

acts and the rest of that stuff without

keeping my eyes peeled. Wait a minute.

Don't get me wrong, Looney had tricks

that were good. And I mean good. This

was just routine stuff that everybody

knew about. Well, he was working on one.

You've heard of the Indian rope trick,

haven't you? Fake here throws a rope up

in the air. It stands upright. Boy

climbs up. Whoosh. He disappears. Eh, a

cloud of smoke whirled up and vanished

before his broad gesture.

I've also heard, said Dr. fell blinking

at him that nobody has ever yet seen it

performed. Sure, exactly. That's just

it. A rook returned with a sort of

pounce. That's why Looney was trying to

dope out a means of doing it. God knows

whether he did. I think that suction cup

was to catch the rope somewhere when it

was thrown up, but don't ask me how.

And somebody was to climb up, said

Hadley in a heavy voice. climb up and

disappear. Well, a kid. A rock brushed

the idea away. But I'll tell you this

much. That thing you've got won't

support a fullg grown man's weight.

Look, gents, I try it for you and swing

out the window. Only I don't want to

break my goddamn neck. And besides, my

wrist is out of kilter.

I think we've got enough evidence just

the same, said Hadley. You say this

fell's bolted Summers. Any description

of him? Summers nodded with great

satisfaction.

Well, you shouldn't have any difficulty

in pulling him in, sir. It goes under

the name of Jerome Burnaby, which is

probably a fake, but he's got a pretty

distinctive appearance, and he has a

club foot.

14. The clue of the church bells.

The next sound was the vast dustshaking

noise of Dr. Fel's mirth.

The doctor did not only chuckle, he

roared.

Sitting down on a red and yellow dean,

which sagged and creaked alarmingly, he

chroled away and pounded his stick on

the floor. "Stun,"

said Dr. Fel.

St me bonnet boys.

Bang goes the ghost. Bang goes the

evidence. Oh my.

What do you mean, stung? demanded

Hadley. I don't see anything funny in

getting our man dead to rights. Doesn't

this pretty well convince you that

Bernaby's guilty? It convinces me

absolutely that he's innocent,

said Dr. fell. He got out a red bandana

and wiped his eyes as the amusement

subsided.

I was afraid we should find just this

sort of thing when we saw the other

room. It was a little too good to be

true. Burnaby is the Sphinx without a

secret, the criminal without a crime, or

at least this particular sort of crime.

If you would mind explaining. Not at

all, said the doctor affably. Hadley,

take a look around and tell me what this

place reminds you of. Did you ever know

of any burglar, any criminal at all?

Whoever had his secret hideway arranged

with such atmospheric effect, with such

romantic setting, with the lockpicks

arranged on the table, the brooding

microscope, the sinister chemicals, and

so on, the real burglar, the real

criminal of any kind, takes care to have

his haunt looking a little more

respectable than a church wardens. This

display doesn't even remind me of

somebody playing at being a burglar.

But if you'll think for a second, you'll

see what it does remind you of out of a

hundred stories and films. I know that

the doctor explained because I'm so fond

of the atmosphere, even the theatrical

atmosphere myself. It sounds like

somebody playing detective.

Hadley stopped, rubbing his chin

thoughtfully. He peered round. When you

were a kid, pursued Dr. Fel with relish.

Didn't you ever wish for a secret

passage in your house and pretend that

some hole in the attic was a secret

passage and go crawling through it with

a candle and nearly burn the place down?

Didn't you ever play the great detective

and wish for a secret lair in some

secret street where you could pursue

your deadly studies under an assumed

name?

Didn't somebody say Bernaby was a fierce

amateur criminologist?

Maybe he's writing a book. Anyhow, he

has the time and the money to do in

rather a sophisticated way. Just what a

lot of other grownup children have

wished to do. He's created an alter ego.

He's done it on the quiet because his

circle would have roared with laughter

if they had known. Relentlessly the

blood hounds of Scotland Yard have

tracked down his deadliest secret, and

his deadly secret is a joke.

But sir, protested Summers in a kind of

yelp. Stop a bit, said Hadley

meditatively, and gestured him to

silence. The superintendent again

examined the place with a half angry

doubt. I admit there's an unconvincing

look about the place. Yes, I admit it

has a movieish appearance. But what

about that blood and this rope? This

rope is flaz, remember? And the blood?

Dr. Fel nodded.

Yes.

Don't misunderstand.

I don't say these rooms mightn't play a

part in the business. I'm only warning

you not to believe too much in Bernaby's

evil double life.

We'll soon find out about that. And

growled Hadley, if the fella's a

murderer, I don't care how innocent his

double life as a burglar may be.

Summers, sir,

go over to Mr. Jerome Bernaby's flat.

Yes, I know you don't understand, but I

mean his other flat. I've got the

address. Uh, 13A Bloomsbury Square,

second floor. Got it? Bring him here.

Use any pretext you like, but see that

he comes. Don't answer any questions

about this place or ask any. Got that?

And when you go downstairs, see if you

can hurry up that land lady.

He stalked about the room, kicking at

the edges of the furniture as a

bewildered and crestfallen summers,

hurried out. A rock, who had sat down

and was regarding them with amiable

interest, waved his pipe. "Well, J," he

said, "I like to see the blood hounds on

the trail at that. I don't know who this

Bernaby is, but he seems to be somebody

you already know. Is there anything

you'd like to ask me?" I told what I

know about Looney to Sergeant or

whatever he is Summers, but if there's

anything else. Hadley drew a deep breath

and set his shoulder back to work again.

He went through the papers in his

briefcase.

This is your statement, right? The

superintendent read it briefly. Have you

anything to add to that? I mean, are you

positive he said his brother had taken

lodgings in this street? That's what he

said. Yes, sir. He said he'd seen him

hanging around here. Hadley glanced up

sharply. That's not the same thing, is

it? Which did he say?

Oo seemed to think this, a quibble. He

shifted. Oh, well, he said that just

afterwards. He said he's got a room

there. I've seen him hanging around or

something. That's the honest truth now.

But not very definite, is it? demanded

Hadley. Think again. Well, hell's bells,

I am thinking, protested O in an

agrieved tone. Take it easy. Somebody

reels off a lot of stuff like that, and

then afterwards they ask you questions

about it and seem to think you're lying

if you can't repeat every word. Sorry,

partner, but that's the best I can do.

What do you know about this brother of

his? Since you've known Fle, what has he

told you? Not a thing. Not one word. I

don't want you to get the wrong idea.

When I say I knew Looney better than

most people, that don't mean I know

anything about him. Nobody did. If you

ever saw him, you'd know he was the last

person you could get confidential with

over a few drinks and tell about

yourself. It would be like treating

Dracula to a couple of beers.

Wait a minute. I mean, somebody who

looked like Dracula, that's all. Looney

was a pretty good sport in his own way.

Hadley reflected and then decided on a

course.

The biggest problem we have now, you'll

have guessed that, is an impossible

situation. I suppose you've seen the

newspapers. Yes. Oo's eyes narrowed. Why

ask me about that?

Some sort of illusion or stage trick

must have been used to kill both those

men. You say you've known magicians and

escape artists. Can you think of any

trick that would explain how it was

done?

A laughed, showing gleaming teeth under

the elaborate mustache. The wrinkles of

amusement deepened round his eyes. Oh

well, that's different. That's a lot

different. Look, I'll tell you straight.

When I offered to swing out the window

on that rope, I noticed you. I was

afraid you were getting ideas. Get me? I

mean, about me. He chuckled. Forget it.

It would take a miracle man to work any

stunt like that with a rope, even if he

had a rope and could walk without

leaving any tracks. But as for the other

business.

frowningly, a rock brushed up his

mustache with the stem of his pipe. He

stared across the room. "It's this way.

I'm no authority. I don't know very much

about it, and what I do know, I

generally keep mom about. Kind of uh" He

gestured. Kind of professional

etiquette, if you get me. Also, for

things like escapes from locked boxes

and disappearances and the rest of it,

well, I've given up even talking about

him.

Why? Because, said Oro with great

emphasis. Most people are so damn

disappointed when they know the secret.

Either in the first place the thing is

so smart and simple. So simple it's

funny. That they won't believe they

could have been fooled by it. They'll

say, "Oh, hell, don't tell us that

stuff. I'd have seen it in a second." Or

in the second place, it's a trick worked

with a Confederate. That disappoints

them even more. They say, "Oh, well, if

you're going to have somebody to help,

as though anything was possible, then

he smirked reflectively."

It's a funny thing about people. They go

to see an illusion. You tell them it's

an illusion. They pay their money to see

an illusion. And yet, for some funny

reason, they get sore because it isn't

real magic.

Something that nobody on God's earth

could ever do. Now, no man who ever

lived can make himself as thin as a

postcard and slide out through a crack.

No man ever crawled out through a

keyhole or pushed himself through a

piece of wood. Want me to give you an

example?

Go on, said Hadley, who was looking at

him curiously. All right, take the sack

and sort first. Take the roped and

sealed sack trick. One way of doing it.

Oor was enjoying himself.

Out comes the performer in the middle of

a group of people if you want him to

with a light sack made out of black

muslin or satine and big enough for him

to stand up in. He gets inside. His

assistant draws it up, holds the sack

about 6 in below the mouth, and ties it

round tightly with a long handkerchie.

Then the people watching can add more

knots if they want to and seal his knots

and theirs with wax and stamp them with

signets, anything at all. Bang! Up goes

a screen round the performer. 30 seconds

later out he walks with the knots still

tied and sealed and stamped and the sack

over his arm. Heyi ho.

Well

grinned, made the usual play with his

mustache. She could not seem to leave

off twisting it and rolled on the dean.

Now gents, here's where you take a poke

at me. There's duplicate sacks exactly

alike. One oven the performers got all

folded up and stuck inside his vest.

When he gets into the sack and he's

moving and jerking it around, and the

assistant is pulling it up over his

head, why out comes the duplicate. The

mouth of the other black sack is pushed

up through the mouth of the first 6 in

or so. It looks like the mouth of the

first. The assistant crafts it round and

what he honest to god ties is the mouth

of the duplicate sack. With such a thin

edge of the real one included that you

can't see the joining. Bang. On go the

knots and seals. When the performer gets

behind his screen, all he does is shove

loose the tied sack, drop the one he's

standing in, stick the loose sack under

his vest, and walk out holding the

duplicate sack roped and sealed. Get it?

See, it's simple. It's easy. And yet,

people go nuts trying to figure out how

it was done. But when they hear how it

was done, they say, "Oh, well, with a

confederate,"

he gestured.

Hadley was interested in spite of his

professional manner, and Dr. Fel was

listening with a childlike gaping.

"Yes, I know," said the superintendent,

as though urging an argument. "But the

man we're after, the man who committed

these two murders, couldn't have had a

confederate. Besides, that's not a

vanishing trick." "All right," said Oor,

and pushed his hat to one side of his

head. I'll give you an example of a

whopping big vanishing trick. This is a

stage illusion mind. All very fancy, but

you can work it in an outdoor theater if

you want to, where there's no trap

doors, no wires from the flies, no props

or funny business at all. Just a stretch

of ground. Out rides the illusionist in

a grand blue uniform on a grand white

horse. Out come his gang of attendants

in white uniforms with the usual hoopla

like a circus. They go round in a circle

once and then two attendants whisk up a

great big fan which just for a moment

see hides the man on the horse. Down

comes the fan which is tossed out in the

audience to show it's okay. But the man

on the horse has vanished. He's vanished

straight from the middle of a 10acre

field. Heyi ho.

And how do you get out of that one?

demanded Dr. Fel. Easy. The man's never

left the field. But you don't see him.

You don't see him because that grand

blue uniform is made of paper over a

real white one. As soon as the fan goes

up, he tears off the blue one and stuffs

it under the white. He jumps down off

the horse and just joins in the gang of

white uniformed attendants. Point is,

nobody ever takes the trouble to count

them attendants beforehand, and they all

exit without anybody ever seeing.

That's the basis of most tricks. You're

looking at something you don't see, or

you'll swear you've seen something

that's not there. Hey, presto, bang.

Greatest show on earth.

The stuffy, gordily colored room was

quiet. Wind rattled at the windows.

Distantly, there was a noise of church

bells and the honking of a taxi that

passed and died.

Hadley shook his notebook. We're getting

off the track, he said. It's clever

enough, yes, but how does it apply to

this problem? It don't, admitted O, who

seemed convulsed by a noless mirth. I'm

telling you. Well, because you asked,

and to show you what you're up against.

I'm giving you the straight dope, Mr.

Superintendent. I don't want to

discourage you, but if you're up against

a smart illusionist, you haven't got the

chance of a snowball in hell. You

haven't got the chance of that.

He snapped his fingers. They're trained

to it. It's their business, and there

ain't a prison on earth that can hold

them.

Hadley's jaw tightened. We'll see about

that when the time comes. What bothers

me and what's been bothering me for some

time is why Fle sent his brother to do

the killing. Fle was the illusionist.

Fle would have been the man to do it,

but he didn't. Was his brother in the

same line?

Don't know. At least I never saw his

name build anywhere. But Dr. Fel

interrupted

with a heavy weeze. He lumbered up from

the couch and spoke sharply. "Clear the

decks for action, Hadley. We're going to

have visitors in about 2 minutes. Look

out there, but keep back from the

window."

He was pointing with his stick. Below

them, where the alley curved out between

the blank windows of houses, two figures

shouldered against the wind. They had

turned in from Guilford Street and

fortunately had their heads down. One

Rampole recognized as that of Rosette

Grimmo. The other was a tall man whose

shoulder lunged and swung as he walked

with the aid of a cane.

A man whose leg had a crooked twist and

whose right boot was of abnormal

thickness. "Get the lights out in those

other rooms," said Hadley swiftly.

He turned to a rock. I'll ask you a big

favor. Get downstairs as quickly as you

can. Stop that land lady from coming up

and saying anything. Keep her there

until you hear from me. Pull the door

shut after you.

He was already out into the narrow

passage, snapping off the lights. Dr.

Fel looked mildly harassed. "Look here.

You don't mean we're going to hide and

over here terrible secrets, do you?" he

demanded. I've not got what Mills would

call the anatomical structure for such

tom foolery. Besides, they'll spot us in

a second. This place is full of smoke. A

rock shag. Hadley muttered profanities.

He drew the curtains so that only a

pencil of light slanted into the room.

Can't be helped. We've got to chance it.

We'll sit here quietly. If they've got

anything on their minds, they may blurt

it out as soon as they get inside the

flat and the door is shut. The people

do. What do you think of O Rock, by the

way? I think, stated Dr. Fel with

energy, that O is the most stimulating,

enlightening, and suggestive witness we

have heard so far in this nightmare. He

has saved my intellectual self-respect.

He is in fact almost as entertaining as

the church bells.

Hadley, who was peering through the

crack between the curtains, turned his

head round.

The line of light across his eyes showed

a certain wildness. Church bells? What

church bells? Any church bells, said Dr.

Fel's voice out of the gloom. I tell you

that to me in my heathen blindness the

thought of those bells has brought light

and balm. It may save me from making an

awful mistake. Yes, I'm quite sane. The

fial of a stick wrapped the floor and

his voice became tense. Light Hadley

light at last and glorious messages in

the belfry.

Are you sure it's not something else in

the belfry? Yes. Then for God's sake,

will you stop this mystification and

tell me what you mean? I suppose the

church bells tell you how the vanishing

trick was worked. Oh no, said Dr. Fel.

Unfortunately not. They only tell me the

name of the murderer.

There was a palpable stillness in the

room of physical heaviness as of breath

restrained to bursting.

Dr. Fell spoke in a blank almost an

incredulous voice which carried

conviction in its mere incredul.

Downstairs a back door closed. Faintly

through the quiet house they heard

footsteps on the staircase. One set of

footsteps was sharp, light, and

impatient. The other had a drag and then

a heavy stamp. There was the noise of a

cane knocking the banisters.

The noises grew louder, but no word was

spoken. A key scraped into the lock of

the outer door, which opened and closed

again with the click of the spring lock.

There was another click as the light in

the hallway was snapped on. Then,

evidently, when they could see each

other, the two burst out as though they

had been the ones who held in breath to

suffocation.

So, you've lost the key I gave you? A

man's thin, harsh, quiet voice spoke. It

was mocking and yet repressed. And you

say you didn't come here last night

after all? Not last night, said Rosette

Grimo's voice, which had a flat and yet

furious tone. Not last night or any

other night. She laughed. I never had

any intention of coming at all. You

frightened me a little. Well, what of

it? And now that I am here, I don't

think so much of your hideout. Did you

have a pleasant time waiting last night?

There was a movement as though she had

stepped forward and been restrained. The

man's voice rose. Now, you little devil,

said the man with equal quietness. I'm

going to tell you something for the good

of your soul. I wasn't here. I had no

intention of coming. If you think all

you have to do is crack the whip to send

people through hoops, well, I wasn't

here. Do you see? You can go through the

hoops yourself. I wasn't here. That's a

lie, Jerome, said Rosette calmly. You

think so, eh? Why?

Two figures appeared against the light

of the partly opened door. Hadley

reached out and drew back the curtains

with a rattle of rings.

We also would like to know the answer to

that, Mr. Burnaby,"

he said. The flood of murky daylight in

their faces caught them off guard, so

much offg guard that expressions were

hollowed out as though snapped by a

camera. Rosette Grimmo cried out, making

a movement of her raised arm as though

she would dodge under it. But the flash

of the previous look had been bitter,

watchful, dangerously triumphant.

Jerome Bernabby stood motionless, his

chest rising and falling.

Silhouetted against the sickly electric

light behind and wearing an

old-fashioned broad-brimmed black hat,

he bore a curious resemblance to the

lean Sanderman figure in the

advertisement.

But he was more than a silhouette. He

had a strong furrowed face that

ordinarily might have been bluff and

amiable like his gestures, an underhung

jaw, and eyes which seemed to have lost

their color with anger. Taking off his

hat, he tossed it on a dean with a

swashbuckling air that struck Rampole as

rather theatrical.

his wiry brown hair patched with gray

round the temples stood up as though

released from pressure like a jack in

the box. "Well," he said with a sort of

thin bluff jocularity and took a

lurching step forward on the club foot.

"Is this a hold up or what?" "3 to one,

I see." "I happen to have a sword stick,

though." "It won't be needed, Jerome,"

said the girl. "They're the police.

Burnaby stopped. Stopped and rubbed his

mouth with a big hand. He seemed

nervous, though he went on with ironical

jcularity.

Oh, the police, eh? I'm honored.

Breaking and entering, I see.

You are the tenant of this flat, said

Hadley, returning an equal suavity,

not the owner or landlord of the house,

if suspicious behavior is seen.

I don't know about suspicious, Mr.

Burnaby, but I think your friends would

be amused at these oriental

surroundings, wouldn't they?

That smile, that tone of voice, struck

through to a raw place. Burnaby's face

became a muddy color. "Damn you," he

said, and half raised the cane. "What do

you want here?"

First of all, before we forget it, about

what you were saying when you came in

here, you overheard it eh? Yes. It's

unfortunate, said Hadley composedly,

that we couldn't have overheard more.

Miss Grieo said that you were in this

flat last night. Were you? I was not.

You were not. Was he, Miss Grimmo? Her

color had come back, come back strongly,

for she was angry with a quiet, smiling

poise.

She spoke in a breathless way, and her

long hazel eyes had that fixity, that

luminous, strained expression of one who

determines to show no emotion.

She was pressing her gloves between the

fingers, and in the jerkiness of her

breathing, there was less anger than

fear. since you overheard it," she

answered after a speculative pause while

she glanced from one to the other. "It's

no good my denying it, is there? I don't

see why you're interested. It can't have

anything to do with my father's death,

that's certain. Whatever else Jerome

is," she showed her teeth in an unsteady

smile. "He's not a murderer. But since

for some reason you are interested, I

have a good mind to have the whole thing

thrashed out now. Some version of this I

can see is going to get back to Boyd. It

might as well be the true one. I'll

begin by saying yes. Jerome was in this

flat last night. How do you know that,

Miss Grimmo? Were you here? No, but I

saw a light in this room at 10.

15. The lighted window.

Burnaby, still rubbing his chin, looked

down at her in dull blankness.

Rample could have sworn that the man was

genuinely startled.

So startled that he could not quite

understand her words, and peered at her

as though he'd never seen her before.

Then he spoke in a quiet, common sense

tone, which contrasted with his earlier

one.

I say rosette. He observed.

Be careful now. Are you sure you know

what you're talking about? Yes, quite

sure. Hadley cut in briskly. At 10. How

did you happen to see this light, Miss

Grimmo? When you were at your own home

with us. Oh, no, I wasn't. If you

remember, not at that time. I was at the

nursing home with the doctor in the room

where my father was dying. I don't know

whether you know it, but the back of the

nursing home faces the back of this

house. I happened to be near a window

and I noticed there was a light in this

room and I think the bathroom too,

though I'm not positive of that.

How do you know the rooms? said Hadley

sharply. If you've never been here

before, I took jolly good care to

observe when we came in just now.

she answered with a serene and

imperturbable smile, which somehow

reminded Rumpole of Mills.

I didn't know the rooms last night. I

only knew he had this flat and where the

windows were. The curtains weren't quite

drawn. That's how I came to notice the

light.

Burnaby was still contemplating her with

the same heavy curiosity.

Just a moment, Mr. Inspector. Uh he

humped his shoulder. Are you sure you

couldn't have been mistaken about the

rooms? Rosette. Positive, my dear. This

is the house on the left hand side at

the corner of the alley, and you have

the top floor. And you say you saw me?

No, I say I saw a light. But you and I

are the only ones who know about this

flat. And since you'd invited me here

and said you would be here.

My god, said Bernaby.

I'm curious to see how far you'll go. He

hobbled over with a trick of pulling

down the corner of his mouth each time

he lunged on the cane. He sat down

heavily in a chair and continued to

study her out of his pale eyes.

That upstanding hair gave him somehow a

queerly alert look. Please go on. You

interest me? Yes, I'm curious to see how

far you have the nerve to go.

Are you really? said Rosette in a flat

voice. She whirled round, but her

resolution seemed to crack, and she

succeeded in looking only miserable to

the point of tears.

I wish I knew myself.

I I wish I knew about you. I said we'd

have this out, she appealed to Hadley.

But now I don't know whether I want to

have it out. If I could decide about

him, whether he's really sympathetic and

just a nice bluff old

don't say friend of the family. Snapped

Bernabby. For Lord's sake, don't say

friend of the family. Personally, I wish

I could decide about you. I wish I could

decide whether you think you're telling

the truth or whether you're Excuse me

for forgetting my chivalry for a moment.

a lying little vixen.

She went on steadily. Or whether he's a

sort of polite blackmailer. Oh, not for

money, she blazed again. Vixen. Yes,

if you like. I admitted I've been

both. But why? Because you've poisoned

everything with all the hints you've

dropped. If I could be sure they were

hints and not just my imagination. If I

could even be sure you were an honest

blackmailer.

Hadley intervened. Hints about what? Oh,

about my father's past life, if you must

know. She clenched her hands. About my

birth, for one thing, and whether we

mightn't add another nice term to

But that's not important. That doesn't

bother me at all. It's this business

about some horrible thing about my

father. I don't know. Maybe they're not

even hints, but I've got it in my head

somehow. that old Draymond is a

blackmailer.

Then last night Jerome asked me to come

over here. Why? Why? I thought well is

it because that's the night Boyd always

sees me and it will tickle Jerome's

vanity no end to choose just that night.

But I don't I didn't please understand

me want to think Jerome was trying a

little blackmail himself. I do like him.

I can't help it, and that's what makes

it so awful.

We might clear it up, then, said Hadley.

Were you hinting, Mr. Burnaby?

There was a long silence while Bernabby

examined his hands. Something in the

posture of his bent head, in his slow,

heavy breathing, as though he were

bewilderedly trying to make up his mind,

kept Hadley from prompting him until he

raised his head.

"I never thought," he said, hinting.

"Yes, yes, in strict accuracy, I suppose

I was, but never intentionally. I'll

swear. I never thought he stared at

Rosette.

those things slip out. Maybe you mean

only what you think is a subtle

question.

He puffed out his breath in a sort of

desparing hiss and shrugged his

shoulders.

To me, it was an interesting deductive

game, that's all. I didn't even think of

it as prying. I swear I never thought

anybody noticed, let alone taking it to

heart. Rosette, if that's the only

reason for your interest in me, thinking

I was a blackmailer and afraid of me,

then I'm sorry I learned.

Or am I? He looked down at his hands

again, opened and shut them, and then

looked slowly around the room. Take a

look at this place, gentlemen. The front

room especially. But you'll have seen

that. Then you know the answer. The

great detective, the poor ass with the

deformed foot, are dreaming. For a

second, Hadley hesitated.

And did the great detective find out

anything about Dr. Grimo's past?

No. If I had, do you think I'd be apt to

tell you? We'll see if we can't persuade

you. Do you know that there are blood

stains in that bathroom of yours where

Miss Grimo says she saw a light last

night? Do you know that Pierre Fle was

murdered outside your door not long

before 10?

Rosette Grimo cried out and Burnaby

jerked up his head. Fle m blood stains?

No. Where man? What do you mean? Fle had

a room in this street. We think he was

coming here when he died. Anyway, he was

shot in the street outside here by the

same man who killed Dr. Grimmo. Can you

prove who you are, Mr. Burnaby?

Can you prove, for instance, that you

are not actually Dr. Grimo's and Fle's

brother?

The others stared at him. He hoisted

himself up shakily from the chair. "Good

God, man, are you mad?" he asked in a

quiet voice. Brother, now I see. No, I'm

not his brother. Do you think if I were

his brother, I should be interested in?

He checked himself, glanced at Rosette,

and his expression became rather wild.

Certainly, I can prove it. I ought to

have a birth certificate somewhere. I I

can produce people who've known me all

my life, brother. Hadley reached round

to the dean and held up the coil of

rope. What about this rope? Is it a part

of your great detective scheme, too?

That thing? No. What is it? I never saw

it before. Brother

Rample glanced at Rosette Grimo and saw

that she was crying. She stood

motionless, her hands at her sides and

her face set, but the tears brimmed over

her eyes.

And can you prove? Hadley continued that

you were not in this flat last night.

Bernabby drew a deep breath. Relief

lightened his heavy face. Yes,

fortunately I can. I was at my club last

night from 8:00 or thereabouts, maybe a

little earlier. Until past 11. Dozens of

people will tell you that. If you want

me to be specific, ask the three I

played poker with the whole of that

time. Do you want an alibi? Right.

There's as strong an alibi as you're

ever likely to get. I wasn't here. I

didn't leave any blood stains wherever

the devil you say you found some. I

didn't kill Fle or Grimmo or anybody

else. His heavy jaw came out. Now then,

what do you think of that?

The superintendent swung his battery so

quickly that Burnaby had hardly finished

speaking before Hadley had turned to

Rosette.

You still insist that you saw a light

here at 10? Yes, but Jerome, truly I

never meant Even though when my man

arrived here this morning, the electric

meter was cut off and the lights would

not work. I

Yes, it's still true. But what I wanted

to say, let's suppose Mr. Burnaby is

telling the truth about last night. You

say he invited you here. Is it likely

that he invited you here when he

intended to be at his club?

Bernabby lurched forward and put a hand

on Hadley's arm. Steady. Let's get this

straightened out, Inspector. That's what

I did. It was a swine's trick, but I did

it. Look here. Have I got to explain?

No, no, no.

Struck in the quiet, rumbling,

deprecating tones of Dr. Fel.

He took out the red bandana and blew his

nose with a loud honking noise to

attract attention.

Then he blinked at them, mildly

disturbed.

Hadley, we're confused enough as it is.

Let me put in a soothing word. Mr.

Burnaby did that, as he expressed it

himself, to make her jump through a

hoop.

Excuse my bluntness, Mom, but then it's

all right because that particular

leopard wouldn't jump. Eh, about the

question of the light not working.

That's not nearly so ominous as it

sounds. It's a shilling meter, you see.

Somebody was here. Somebody left the

lights burning possibly all night. Well,

the meter used up a bob's worth of

electricity and then the lights went

out. We don't know which way the

switches were turned because Summers got

here first. Blasted Hadley. We've got

ample proof that there was somebody here

last night. The question is, uh, who?

He looked at the others.

You say that nobody else knew of this

place. But assuming your story to be

straight, Mr. Burnaby, and you'd be a

first class fathead to lie about a thing

so easily checked up as that story,

then somebody else must have known of

it.

I can only tell you that I wasn't likely

to speak of it," insisted Burnaby,

rubbing his chin. "Unless somebody

noticed me coming here, unless

Unless, in other words, I told somebody

about it." Rosette flared again. Her

sharp teeth bit at her under lip. But I

didn't. I I don't know why I didn't. She

seemed fiercely puzzled, but I never

mentioned it to anybody there. Do you

have a key to the place? asked Dr. Fel.

I had a key to the place. I lost it.

When? Oh, how should I know? I never

noticed. She had folded her arms and was

walking around the room with excited

little movements of her head. I kept it

in my bag, and I only noticed this

morning when we were coming over here

that it was gone. But one thing I insist

on knowing.

She stopped, facing Bernabby. I don't

know whether I'm fond of you or whether

I hate you. If it was only a nasty

little fondness for detective work. If

that's all it really was and you didn't

mean anything, then speak up. What do

you know about my father? Tell me. I

don't mind. They're the police and

they'll find out anyway. Now, now don't

act. I hate your acting. Tell me. What's

this about, brothers?

That's good advice, Mr. Burnaby. You

painted a picture, said Hadley, that I

was going to ask about next. What did

you know about Dr. Grimmo?

Burnaby, leaning back against the window

with an unconsciously swaggering

gesture, shrugged his shoulders. His

pale gray eyes with their pinpoint black

pupils shifted and gleamed sardonically.

He said, "Rossette, if I had ever known,

if I had ever suspected that my

detective efforts were being interpreted

as

Very well, I'll tell you in a few words

what I'd have told you long ago if I'd

known it worried you at all. Your father

was once imprisoned at the salt mines in

Hungary, and he escaped. Not very

terrible, is it?" In prison? What for?

For trying to start a revolution, I was

told. My own guess is for theft. You

see, I'm being frank.

Hadley cut in quickly. Where did you

learn that? From Draymond. So Draymond

knows, does he? Burnaby stiffened and

his eyes narrowed.

Yes, I rather thought he did. Ah, yes.

That was another thing I tried to find

out, and it seems to have been construed

into uh and come to think of it, what do

you fellas know about it anyhow? Then he

burst out. Look here, I'm no busy body.

I'd better tell you, if only to prove

it. I was dragged into the thing. Grimmo

wouldn't let me alone. You talk about

that picture. That picture was the cause

rather than the effect.

It was all accident

though. I had a bad time persuading

Grimmo of that. It was all on account of

a damned magic lantern lecture.

A what fact? A magic lantern lecture. I

ducked into the thing to get out of the

rain one night. I was out in North

London somewhere, Parish Hall about 18

months ago.

Riley Burnaby twiddled his thumbs. For

the first time, there was an honest and

homely expression on his face. I'd like

to make a romantic story out of this,

but you asked for the truth. Right. Chap

was lecturing on Hungary. Lantern slides

and plenty of ghostly atmosphere to

thrill the churchgoers, but it caught my

imagination.

By George, it did. His eyes gleamed.

There was one slide, something like what

I painted. Nothing effective about it,

but the story that went with it, about

the three lonely graves in an unhallowed

place gave me a good idea for a

nightmare. The lecturer inferred that

they were vampires graves, you see. I

came home and worked like fury on the

idea. Well, I frankly told everybody it

was an imaginative conception of

something I never saw. But for some

reason nobody believed me. Then Grimose

saw it. Mr. Pettis told us. Hadley

remarked woodenly. But it gave him a

turn. Or that you said it did. Gave him

a turn. I should say it did. He hunched

his head down into his shoulders and

stood as quiet as a mummy. Looking at

it. I took it as a tribute. And then in

my sinister innocence,

said Bernaby with a kind of lear out I

came with the remark, you'll notice how

the earth is cracking on one grave. He's

just getting out. My mind was still

running on vampires, of course, but he

didn't know that. For a second, I

thought he was coming at me with a

pallet knife. It was a straightforward

story Bernaby told. Grim, he said, had

questioned him about the picture,

questioned, watched, questioned again

until even a less imaginative man would

have been suspicious. The uneasy tension

of being always under surveillance had

set him to solve the puzzle in ordinary

self-defense.

A few pieces of handwriting in books in

Grimmo's library, the shield of arms

over the mantlepiece, a casual word

dropped. Bernaby looked at Rosette with

a grim smile.

Then he continued, "About 3 months

before the murder, Grimo had collared

him and under an oath of secrecy told

him the truth. The truth was exactly the

story Draymond had told Hadley and Dr.

Fel last night. The plague, the two

brothers, the escape.

During this time, the rosette had been

staring out of the window with an

incredulous, half-witted blankness,

which ended in something like a

tearfulness of relief. "And that's all,"

she cried, breathing hard. "That's all

there is to it. That's what I've been

worrying about all this time." "That's

all, my dear," Bernabby answered,

folding his arms. I told you it wasn't

very terrible, but I didn't want to tell

it to the police. Now, however, that

you've insisted.

Be careful, Hadley,

grunted doctor in a low voice and

knocked against the superintendent's

arm. He cleared his throat. Um, yes, we

have some reason to believe the story,

too, Miss Grimo.

Hadley took a new line. Supposing all

this to be true, Mr. Bernabby, you were

at the Warick Tavern the night fle came

in first.

Yes. Well, then, knowing what you did,

didn't you connect him with that

business in the past, especially after

his remarks about the three coffins?

Bernabby hesitated and then gestured.

Frankly, yes. I walked home with Grimmo

on that night, the Wednesday night. I

didn't say anything, but I thought he

was going to tell me something. We sat

down on either side of the fire in his

study, and he took an extra-l large

whiskey, a thing he seldom does. I

noticed he seemed to be looking very

hard at the fireplace.

By the way, Dr. Fel put in with such

casualness that Rampole jumped.

Where did he keep his private and

personal papers? Do you know? The other

darted a sharp glance at him. Mills

would be better able to tell you that

than I, he resumed. Something veiled.

Something guarded. Some cloud of dust

here. He may have had a safe. So far as

I know, he kept them in a locked drawer

at the side of that big desk. Go on. For

a long time, neither of us said

anything. There was one of those

uncomfortable strains when each person

wants to introduce a subject, but

wonders whether the other is thinking

about it, too. Well, I took the plunge

and said, "Who was it?" He made one of

those noises of his, like a dog just

before it barks and shifted round in the

chair. Finally, he said, "I don't know.

It's been a long time. It may have been

the doctor. It looked like the doctor.

Doctor? You mean the one who certified

him as dead of plague at the prison?

Asked Hadley. Rosette Grimo shivered and

suddenly sat down with her face in her

hands. Bernabby grew uncomfortable.

"Yes, look here. Must I go on with it?"

"All right. All right. Back for a little

blackmail," he said.

You know the look of the stoutish opera

stars who sing Mephostophles in fast. He

looked just like that when he turned

round towards me with his hands on the

arms of the chair and his elbows hooked

as though he were going to get up. A

face reddish with the fire light clipped

beard raised eyebrows everything. I

said, "Yes, but actually what can he

do?" You see, I was trying to draw him

out. I thought it must be more serious

than a political offense or it wouldn't

carry any weight after so long.

He said, "Oh, he won't do anything. He

never had the nerve. He won't do

anything." "Now," snapped Burnaby,

looking round. "You asked for

everything." "And here it is. I don't

mind. Everybody knows it," Grimos said

with that barking directness of his.

"You want to marry Rosette, don't you?"

I admitted it. He said, "Very well, you

shall."

and began nodding and drumming on the

arm of the chair. I laughed and said,

"Well," I said something about Rosett's

having a preference in another

direction. He said, "Bath a young one.

I'll fix that."

Rosette was looking at him with a hard,

luminous, inscrable stare. Her eyes

nearly closed. She spoke in a tone too

puzzling to identify. She said, "So, you

had it all arranged, did you?" "Oh,

Lord, don't fly off the handle. You know

better than that. I was asked what

happened, and here it is. The last thing

he said was that whatever happened to

him, I was to keep my mouth shut about

what I knew." Which you didn't. At your

express orders? No. He turned back to

the others. Well, gentlemen, that's all

I can tell you. When he came hurrying in

on Friday morning to get that picture, I

was a good deal puzzled, but I'd been

told to keep out of it entirely, and I

did.

Hadley, who had been writing in his

notebook, went on without speaking until

he came to the end of the page. Then he

looked at Rosette, who was sitting back

on the dean with a pillow under her

elbow.

Under the fur coat, she wore a dark

dress, but her head was bare as usual,

so that the heavy blonde hair and square

face seemed to fit with the gaudy red

and yellow dean. She turned her hand

outward from the wrist shakily.

I know you're going to ask me what I

think of all this, about my father and

all. She stared at the ceiling. I don't

know. It takes such a load off my mind.

It's so much too good to be true that

I'm afraid somebody's not telling the

truth. Why, I'd have admired the old boy

for a thing like that. It's It's awful

and terrible, and I'm glad he had so

much of the devil in him. Of course, if

it was because he was a thief, she

smiled in some pleasure at the idea. You

can't blame him for keeping it quiet,

can you?

That was not what I was going to ask,

said Hadley, who seemed a good deal

takenback by this frankly broad-minded

attitude.

I do want to know why, if you always

refused to come over here with Mr.

Bernaby, you suddenly decided on coming

this morning

to have it out with him, of course. And

I I wanted to get drunk or something.

Then things were so unpleasant, you see,

when we found that coat with the blood

on it hanging in the closet.

She stopped as she saw faces change and

jerked back a little. When you found

what?

said Hadley in the midst of a heavy

silence.

"The coat with the blood inside it, all

stained down the inside of the front."

She answered with something of a gulp.

I

I didn't mention it, did I? Well, you

didn't give me any chance. The minute we

walked in here, you leaped out at us

like like Yes, that's it. The coat was

hanging up in the coat closet in the

hall. Jerome found it when he was

hanging up his own. Whose coat?

Nobody's. That's the odd part. I never

saw it before. It wouldn't have fitted

anybody in our house. It was too big for

father, and it's a flashy tweed overcoat

of the kind he'd have shuddered at

anyway. It would have swallowed Steuart

Mills, and yet it isn't quite big enough

for old Draymond.

It's a new coat. It looks as though it

had never been worn before. I see, said

Dr. Fel, and puffed out his cheeks. You

see what? Snapped Hadley. This is a fine

state of affairs now. You told Pettis

you wanted blood. Well, you're getting

blood. Too infernally much blood and all

in the wrong places. What's on your mind

now?

I see,

replied Dr. Fel, pointing with his

stick.

Where Draymond got the blood on him last

night? You mean he wore the coat? No,

no, think back. Remember what your

sergeant said. He said the Draymond,

half blind,

came blundering and rushing downstairs.

Blundered round in the clothes closet,

getting his hat and coat. Hadley, he

brushed close up against that coat when

the blood was fresh.

And it's no wonder he couldn't

understand afterwards how it got there.

Doesn't that clear up a good deal? No,

I'm damned if it does. It clears up one

point by substituting another twice as

bad. An extra coat. Come along. We're

going over there at once. If you will go

with us, Miss Grimmo, and you, Mr. Dr.

Fel, shook his head.

You go along, Hadley. There's something

I must see now. Something that changes

the whole twist of the case. something

that has become the most vitally

important thing in it. What pier fle's

lodgings

said Dr. Fel and shouldered out with his

cape whirling behind him.

Third coffin, the problem of seven

towers.

16. the chameleon overcoat.

Between that discovery and the time they

were to meet Pettis for lunch, Dr. Fel's

spirits sank to a depth of gloom Rampole

would not have believed possible, and

which he certainly could not understand.

To begin with, the doctor refused to go

straight back to Russell Square with

Hadley, although he insisted Hadley

should go. He said the essential clue

must be at Fle's room. He said he would

keep Rample behind for some dirty work

of a strenuous pattern.

Finally he swore at himself with such

heartfelt violence that even Hadley

sometimes sharing the views he expressed

was moved to remmonstrate.

But what do you expect to find there?

Insisted Hadley. Summers has already

been through the place.

I don't expect anything. I can only say

I hope, grumbled the doctor to find

certain traces of brother Henry. His

trademark, so to speak, his whiskers,

his oh my hat, brother Andre, damn you.

Hadley said that they could forego the

saliloquy in a Spanish cloister

and could not understand why his friends

rage at the elusive enri seemed to have

grown to the status of a mania. There

appeared nothing fresh to inspire it.

Besides, the doctor before leaving

Bernaby's lodging house held up

everybody for some time with a searching

examination of Miss Hake, the land lady.

Oor had been gallantly keeping her

downstairs with reminiscences of his

trooping days, but both of them were

tall talkers, and it is to be doubted

whether he reminisced any more than Miss

Hake did.

The questioning of Miss Hake, Dr. Fel

admitted, was not productive. Miss Hake

was a faded, agreeable spinster with

good intentions, but somewhat wandering

wits, and a tendency to confuse erratic

lodgers with burglars or murderers.

When she was at last persuaded out of

her belief that Burnaby was a burglar,

she could give little information. She

had not been at home last night. She'd

been at the moving pictures from 8:00

until 11:00 and at a friend's house in

Grey's Inn Road until nearly midnight.

She could not tell who might have used

Bernaby's room. She had not even known

of the murder until that morning. As to

her other lodgers, there were three, an

American student and his wife on the

ground floor, and a veterinary surgeon

on the floor above. All three had been

out on the night before.

Summers, who had returned from his

futile errands to Bloomsbury Square, was

put to work on this lead. Hadley set out

for Grimo's house with Rosette and

Burnaby, and Dr. Fel, who was doggedly

intent on tackling another communicative

landlady,

found instead an uncommunicative land

lord.

The premises over and under the

tobaconist shop at number two looked as

flimsy as one of those halfhouses which

stand out from the side of the stage in

a musical comedy, but they were bleak,

dark painted and filled with the

mustiness of the shop itself.

Energy at a clanking bell at last

brought James Dolberman, tobaconist and

news agent, materializing slowly from

the shadows at the back of his shop. He

was a small, tight-lipped old man with

large knuckles and a black muslin coat

that shone like armor in a cave of

flyblown novelletes and mummified

peppermints. His view of the whole

matter was that it was no business of

his.

Staring past them at the shop window as

though he were waiting for someone to

come and give him an excuse to leave off

talking, he bit off a few grudging

answers. Yes, he had a lodger. Yes, it

was a man named Fle. A foreigner. Fle

occupied a bed sitting room on the top

floor. He had been there 2 weeks paying

in advance. No, the landlord didn't know

anything about him and didn't want to

except that he gave no trouble. He had a

habit of talking to himself in a foreign

language. That was all. The landlord

didn't know anything about him because

he hardly ever saw him. There were no

other lodgers. He, James Dolberman,

wasn't carrying hot water upstairs for

anybody. Why did Fle choose the top

floor? How should he know? They had

better ask Fle. Didn't he know Fle was

dead? Yes, he did. There had been a

policeman here asking full questions

already and taking him to identify the

body, but it wasn't any business of his.

What about the shooting at 25 minutes

past 10 last night?

James Dolberman looked as though he

might say something, but snapped his

jaws shut and stared even harder at the

window. He'd been below stairs in his

kitchen with the radio on. He knew

nothing about it and wouldn't have come

out to see if he had. Had Fle ever had

any visitors? No. Were there ever any

suspiciousl looking strangers? Any

people associated with Fle hereabouts?

This had an unexpected result. The

landlord's jaws still moved in a

somnambistic way, but he grew almost

valuable. Yes, there was something the

police ought to see, too, instead of

wasting taxpayers money. He had seen

somebody dodging round this place,

watching it, once even speaking to Fle

and then darting up the street. Nasty

looking customer, criminal, most likely.

He didn't like people who dodged.

No, he couldn't give any description of

him. That was the police's business.

Besides, it was always at night.

But isn't there anything?

said Dr. Fel, who was nearly at the

limit of his affability, and was wiping

his face with the bandana. You can give

as a description, any clothes, anything

of that sort, eh?

They might, Dolberman conceded after a

tight-lipped struggle with the window.

They might have been wearing a kind of

fancy overcoat or the like of a light

yellow tweed with red spots in it maybe.

That's your business. You wish to go

upstairs. Here is the key. The door is

outside.

as they were stamping up a dark and

narrow stairway through a house

surprisingly solid despite its flimsy

appearance. Rample fumed.

You're right, sir, he said, in saying

that the whole case has been turned

upside down. It has been on a matter of

overcoat, and it makes less sense than

anything else.

We've been looking for the sinister

figure in the long black overcoat. And

now along comes another figure in a

blood stained tweed coat that you can at

least call gay in color. Which is which

and does the whole business. Turn on a

matter of overcoats.

Dr. Fel puffed as he hauled himself up.

Well, I wasn't thinking of that, he said

doubtfully. When I said that the case

had been turned upside down, or perhaps

I should say wrong way round, but in a

way it may depend on overcoats. H the

man with two overcoats.

Yes, I think it's the same murderer,

even if he doesn't happen to be

satorally consistent.

You said you had an idea as to who the

murderer might be. I know who he is,"

roared Dr. Fel. "And you know why I feel

an urge to kick myself? Not only because

he's been right under my nose all the

time, but because he's been practically

telling me the truth the whole time, and

yet I've never had the sense to see it.

He's been so truthful that it hurts me

to think of how I disbelieved him and

thought he was innocent."

But the vanishing trick, no, I don't

know how it was done. Here we are. There

was only one room on the top floor to

which a grimy skylight admitted a faint

glow on the landing. The room had a door

of plain boards painted green. It stood

a jar and opened on a low cave of a room

whose window had evidently not been

opened in some time. After fumbling

round in the gloom, Dr. The fell found a

gas mantle in a tipsy globe. The ragged

light showed a neat but very grimy room

with blue cabbages on the wallpaper and

a white iron bed. On the bureau lay a

folded note under a bottle of ink. Only

one touch remained of Pierre Fle's weird

and twisted brain. It was as though they

saw Fle himself in his rusty evening

clothes and top hat standing by the

bureau for a performance. Over the

mirror hung framed an old-fashioned

motto in curly script of guilt and black

and red.

The spidery scrollwork read, "Vengeance

is mine, saith the Lord. I will repay."

But it was hung upside down.

Wheeasing in the quiet, Dr. Fel lumbered

over to the bureau and picked up the

folded note. The handwriting was

flowery. Rampol saw, and the short

message had almost the heir of a

proclamation.

James Dolberman, Esquire.

I am leaving you my few belongings, such

as they are in lie of a week's notice. I

shall not need them again. I am going

back to my grave.

Pierre Fle.

Why? said Rample.

This insistent harping on I am going

back to my grave. It sounds as though it

ought to have a meaning even if it

doesn't. I suppose there really was such

a person as Fle. He existed. He wasn't

somebody else pretending to be Fle or

the like.

Dr. Fel did not answer that. He was at

the beginning of a mood of gloom which

sank lower and lower as he inspected the

tattered gray carpet on the floor.

Not a trace, he groaned. Not a trace or

a bus ticket or anything. Serene and

unswept and traceless.

His possessions.

No, I don't want to see his possessions.

I suppose Summers had a look through

those. Come on, we'll go back and join

Hadley.

They walked to Russell Square through a

gloom of mind as well as overcast sky.

As they went up the steps, Hadley saw

them through the drawing room window and

came to open the front door, making sure

the drawing room door was closed, there

was a mutter of voices beyond. Hadley

faced them in the dimness of the ornate

hallway. Behind him, the devil mask on

the suit of Japanese armor gave a fair

caricature of his face. "More trouble, I

perceive," said Dr. fell almost

genially. Well, out with it. I have

nothing to report. I was afraid my

expedition would be a failure, but I

have no consolation merely from being a

good prophet. What's up? They overcoat.

Hadley stopped. He was in such a state

that wrath would go no further. He

touched the other side and ended with a

sour grin. Come and listen to it, Fel.

Maybe it'll make sense to you. If Mangan

is lying, I don't see any good reason

why he should be lying. But that

overcoat, we've got it right enough. A

new coat, brand new. Nothing in the

pockets. Not even the usual grit and

fluff and tobacco ash that you get when

you've worn a coat a little while.

But first, we were faced with the

problem of two overcoats. Now we have

what you would probably call the mystery

of the chameleon overcoat.

What's the matter with the overcoat?

It's changed color,

said Hadley.

Dr. Fel, blinked. He examined the

superintendent with an air of refreshed

interest. I don't imagine by any chance.

He said that this business has turned

your brain. Has it changed color? Eh,

are you about to tell me that the

overcoat is now a bright emerald green?

I may it's changed color since came.

Tension was thick in the air when he

threw open the door on a drawing room

furnished in heavy old-fashioned luxury

with bronze groups holding lights guilt

cornes and curtains stiff with such an

overdose of lace that they looked like

frozen waterfalls.

All the lights were on. Burnaby lounged

on a sofa. Rosette was walking about

with quick angry steps. In the corner by

the radio stood Ernestine Dumour, her

hands on her hips and her lower lip

folded across the upper, amused or

satiric or both.

Finally, Boyd Mangan stood with his back

to the fire, hopping a little and moving

from one side to the other as though it

burnt him. But it was excitement or

something else that burnt him. I know

the damn thing fits me, he was saying

with an air of fierce repetition. I know

it. I admit it. The overcoat fits me,

but it's not my coat. In the first

place, I always wear a waterproof. It's

hanging up in the hall now. In the

second place, I could never afford a

coat like that. The thing must have cost

20 guineies if it cost a penny. In the

third place, Hadley figuratively wrapped

for attention. The entrance of Dr. fell

and rample seemed to soothe Mangan.

"Would you mind repeating?" said Hadley,

"what you've just been telling us."

Mangan lit a cigarette. The match flame

gleamed in dark eyes that were a little

bloodshot. He twitched out the match,

inhaled, and expelled smoke with the air

of one who is determined to be convicted

in a good cause.

Personally, I don't see why everybody

should want to jump all over me, he

said. It may have been another overcoat,

although I don't see why anybody should

want to strew his wardrobe all over the

place. Look here, Ted. I'll put it up to

you. He seized Rampaul's arm and dragged

him over in front of the fire as though

he was setting up an exhibit. When I got

here for dinner last night, I went to

hang up my coat, my waterproof, mind

you, in the clothes closet in the hall.

Generally, you don't bother to turn on

the light in there. You just grope

around and stick your coat on the first

convenient hook. I wouldn't have

bothered then, but I was carrying a

parcel of books I wanted to put on the

shelf. So, I switched on the light and I

saw an overcoat, an extra coat hanging

by itself over in the far corner. It was

about the same size as the yellow tweed

one you've got. Just the same, I would

have said, only it was black.

An extra coat, repeated Dr. Fel. He drew

in his chins and looked curiously at

Mangan. Why do you say an extra coat, my

boy? If you see a line of coats in

somebody's house, does the idea of an

extra one ever enter your head? My

experience is that the least noticed

things in a house are coats hanging on a

peg. You have a vague idea that one of

them must be your own, but you're not

even sure which it is. Eh,

I knew the codes people have here all

the same. And replied Mangan, I

particularly noticed this one because I

thought it must be Bernaby's. They

hadn't told me he was here, and I

wondered if he was.

Burnaby had adopted a very bluff,

indulgent heir towards Mangan. He was

not now the thin skinned figure they'd

seen sitting on the dean in Calstro

Street. He was an elder, chiding youth

with a theatrical wave of his hand.

"Mang,"

he said, "is observant, Dr. fell. A very

observant young man,

especially where I am concerned.

Got any objections?

Asked Mangan, lowering his voice to a

calm note. But let him tell you the

story. Rosette, my dear, may I offer you

a cigarette? And by the way, I may say

that it wasn't my coat.

Mangan's anger grew without his seeming

to know exactly why, but he turned back

to Dr. Fel.

Anyway,

I noticed it then when Bernabby came

here this morning and found that coat

with the blood inside it. Well, the

light one was hanging in the same place.

Of course, the only explanation is that

there were two overcoats, but what kind

of crazy business is it? I'll swear that

coat last night didn't belong to anybody

here. You can see for yourself that the

tweed one doesn't. Did the murderer wear

one coat or both? Or neither? Besides,

that black coat had a queer look about

it. A queer,

interrupted Dr. Fel so sharply that

Mangan turned round.

How do you mean queer?

Ernestine Dour came forward from beside

the radio. her flat heeed shoes creaking

a little. She looked more withered this

morning, the high cheekbones more

accentuated, the nose more flat, the

eyes so puffed round the lids that they

gave her a hooded fertive appearance.

Yet despite the gritty look, her black

eyes still had their glitter. "Ah, ba,"

she said, and made a sharp, somehow

wooden gesture. What is the reason to go

on with all this foolishness?

Why do you not ask me? I would know more

about such things than he, would I not?

She looked at Mangan and her forehead

wrinkled. No, no, I think you are trying

to tell the truth. You understand? But I

think you have mixed it up a little.

That is easy as the Dr. Fel says. The

yellow coat was there last night. Yes.

Early in the evening before dinner. It

was hanging on the hook where he says he

saw the black one. I saw it myself.

But cried Mangan, now

boomed Dr. Fel soothingly.

Let's see if we can't straighten this

out. If you saw the coat there, ma'am,

didn't it strike you as unusual? A

little queer? Eh, if you knew it didn't

belong to anybody here. No, not at all.

She nodded towards Mangan. I did not see

him arrive. I supposed it was his.

Who let you in, by the way? Dr. Fel

asked Mangan sleepily. Annie. But I hung

up my things myself, I swear.

Better ring the bell and have Annie up

if she's here. Hadley, said Dr. Fel.

This problem of the chameleon overcoat

intrigues me. Oh, backers, it intrigues

me. Now, ma'am, I'm not saying you're

not telling the truth any more than you

say it of our friend Mangan. I was

telling Ted Rampol a while ago how

unfortunately truthful a certain person

has been.

Incidentally, have you spoken to Annie?

Oh yes, Hadley answered as Rosette Grimo

stroed past him and rang a bell.

She tells a straight story. She was out

last night and didn't get back until

past 12. But I haven't asked her about

this. I don't see what all the fuss is

about, cried Rosette. What difference

does it make? Haven't you better things

to do than go fooling about trying to

decide whether an overcoat was yellow or

black? Mangan turned on her. It makes a

lot of difference and you know it. I

wasn't seeing things. No, and I don't

think she was either, but somebody's got

to be right. Though I admit Annie

probably won't know. God, I don't know

anything. Quite right, said Bernaby. Go

to hell, said Mangard. Do you mind?

Hadley stroed over between them and

spoke quietly but to the point. Burnaby,

who looked rather white, sat down on the

couch again. The fray and strain of

nerves showed roar in that room.

Everybody seemed eager to be quiet when

Annie answered the bell. Annie was a

quiet, long-nosed, seriousminded girl

who showed none of that quality which is

called nonsense.

She looked capable. She also looked

hardworked,

standing rather bent at the doorway, her

cap so precise on her head that it

seemed to have been stamped there. She

regarded Hadley with level brown eyes.

She was a little upset, but not in the

least nervous.

"One thing I neglected to ask you about

last night," uh said the superintendent,

not too easy himself. Um you let Mr.

Mangan in. Did you? Yes, sir. About what

time was that? Couldn't say, sir. She

seemed puzzled. Might have been half an

hour before dinner. Couldn't say

exactly.

Did you see him hang up hat and coat?

Yes, sir. He never gives them to me. Or

of course, I'd have. But did you look

into the clothes closet? Oh, I see. Yes,

sir, I did. You see, when I'd let him

in, I went straight back to the dining

room. But then I discovered I had to go

downstairs to the kitchen. So, I went

back through the front hall, and I

noticed he'd gone away and left the

light on in the clothes closet. So, I

went down and turned it out. Hadley

leaned forward. Now, be careful. You

know, the light tweed overcoat that was

found in that closet this morning. You

knew about that, did you? Good. Do you

remember the hook it was hanging from?

Yes, sir, I do. Her lips closed tightly.

I was in the front hall this morning

when Mr. Burnaby found it and the rest

came round. Mr. Mills said we must leave

it where it was. With that blood on it

and all because the police exactly the

question, Annie, is about the color of

that coat. When you looked into that

closet last night, was the coat a light

brown or a black? Can you remember? She

stared at him. Yes, sir. I can light

brown or black, sir. Do you mean it?

Well, sir, strictly speaking, it wasn't

either because there was no coat hanging

from that hook at all.

A babble of voices crossed and clashed.

Mangan furious rosette almost

hysterically mocking. Burnaby amused.

Only Ernestine Dum remained wearily and

contemptuously silent.

For a full minute, Hadley studied the

set, now fighting, earnest face of the

witness.

Annie had her hands clenched and her

neck thrust out. Hadley moved over

towards the window, saying nothing in a

markedly violent fashion.

Then Dr. Fel, chuckled. "Well,

cheer up," he urged. "At least it hasn't

turned another color on us." And I must

insist it's a very revealing fact.

Although I shall be in some danger of

having that chair chucked at my head.

Yes. Come along, Hadley. Lunch is what

we want. Lunch.

17. The locked room lecture.

The coffee was on the table. The wine

bottles were empty, cigars lighted.

Hadley, Pettis, Rampole, and Dr. Fel sat

round the glow of a red shaded table

lamp in the vast dusky dining room at

Pettis's hotel.

They had stayed on beyond most, and only

a few people remained at other tables in

that lazy, replete hour of a winter

afternoon, when the fire is most

comfortable, and snowflakes begin to

sift past the windows.

Under the dark gleam of armor and

armorial bearings,

Dr. Fel looked more than ever like a

feudal baron. He glanced with contempt

at the demitas which he seemed in danger

of swallowing cup and all. He made an

expansive settling gesture with his

cigar. He cleared his throat.

I will now lecture, announced the doctor

with amiable firmness, on the general

mechanics and development of that

situation which is known in detective

fiction as the hermetically sealed

chamber.

Hadley groaned. Some other time, he

suggested. We don't want to hear any

lecture after this excellent lunch, and

especially when there's work to be done.

Now, as I was saying a moment ago, I

will now lecture, said Dr. fell

inexorably

on the general mechanics and development

of the situation which is known in

detective fiction as the hermetically

sealed chamber.

All those opposing can skip this

chapter.

To begin with, gentlemen, having been

improving my mind with sensational

fiction for the last 40 years,

I can say.

But if you're going to analyze

impossible situations,

interrupted petties, why discuss

detective fiction? Because, said the

doctor, frankly, we're in a detective

story, and we don't fool the reader by

pretending we're not. Let's not invent

elaborate excuses to drag in a

discussion of detective stories. Let's

candidly glory in the noblest pursuits

possible, two characters in a book. But

to continue in discussing them,

gentlemen, I'm not going to start an

argument by attempting to lay down

rules. I mean to speak solely of

personal tastes and preferences.

We can tamper with Kipling. Thus, there

are nine and 60 ways to construct a

murder maze, and every single one of

them is right. Now, if I said that to me

every single one of them was equally

interesting,

then

I should be to put the matter as civily

as possible, a cockeyed liar. But that

is not the point. When I say that a

story about a hermetically sealed

chamber is more interesting than

anything else in detective fiction,

that's merely a prejudice. I like my

murders to be frequent, gory, and

grotesque. I like some vividness of

color and imagination flashing out of my

plot. Since I cannot find a story

enthralling solely on the grounds that

it sounds as though it might really have

happened.

All these things, I admit, are happy,

cheerful, rational prejudices that

entail no criticism of more tepid or

more able work.

But this point must be made because a

few people who do not like the slightly

lurid insist on treating their

preferences as rules. They use as a

stamp of condemnation the word

improbable

and thereby they gull the unwary into

their own belief that improbable

simply means bad.

Now, it seems reasonable to point out

that the word improbable is the very

last which should ever be used to curse

detective fiction. In any case, a great

part of our liking for detective fiction

is based on a liking for improbability.

When A is murdered and B and C are under

strong suspicion, it is improbable that

the innocent looking D can be guilty.

But he is. If G has a perfect alibi,

sworn to at every point by every other

letter in the alphabet, it is improbable

that G can have committed the crime. But

he has. When the detective picks up a

fleck of cold dust at the seashore, it

is improbable that such an insignificant

thing can have any importance, party, it

will. In short, you come to a point

where the word improbable grows

meaningless as a jer. There can be no

such thing as any probability

until the end of the story. And then if

you wish the murder to be fastened on an

unlikely person, as some of us old

fogies do, you can hardly complain

because he acted from motives less

likely or necessarily less apparent than

those of the person first suspected.

When the cry of this sort of thing

wouldn't happen goes up, when you

complain about half-faced fiends and

hooded phantoms and blonde hypnotic

sirens,

you are merely saying, "I don't like

this sort of story." That's fair enough.

If you do not like it, you are howlingly

right to say so. But when you twist this

matter of taste into a rule for judging

the merit or even the probability of the

story, you are merely saying this series

of events couldn't happen because I

shouldn't enjoy it if it did. What would

seem to be the truth of the matter? We

might test it out by taking the

hermetically sealed chamber as an

example, because this situation has been

under a hotter fire than any other on

the grounds of being unconvincing.

Most people, I am delighted to say, are

fond of the locked room. But here's the

damned rub. Even its friends are often

dubious. I cheerfully admit that I

frequently am.

So, for the moment, we'll all side

together on this score and see what we

can discover. Why are we dubious when we

hear the explanation of the locked room,

not in the least because we are

incredulous, but simply because in some

vague way we are disappointed.

And from that feeling, it is only

natural to take an unfair step farmer

and call the whole business incredible

or impossible or flatly ridiculous.

Precisely, in short, boomed Dr. Fel,

pointing his cigar. What O was telling

us today about illusions that are

performed in real life. Lord gents, what

chance has a story got when we even jer

at real occurrences? The very fact that

they do happen and that the illusionist

gets away with it seems to make the

deception worse. When it occurs in a

detective story, we call it incredible.

When it happens in real life and we are

forced to credit it, we merely call the

explanation disappointing. And the

secret of both disappointments is the

same. We expect too much. You see, the

effect is so magical that we somehow

expect the cause to be magical also.

When we see that it isn't wizardry, we

call it tom foolery, which is hardly

fair play. The last thing we should

complain about with regard to the

murderer is his erratic conduct. The

whole test is can the thing be done? If

so, the question of whether it would be

done does not enter into it. A man

escapes from a locked room. Well, since

apparently he has violated the laws of

nature for our entertainment, then

heaven knows he is entitled to violate

the laws of probable behavior. If a man

offers to stand on his head, we can

hardly make the stipulation that he must

keep his feet on the ground while he

does it. Bear that in mind, gents, when

you judge. Call the result uninteresting

if you like, or anything else that is a

matter of personal taste, but be very

careful about making the nonsensical

statement that it is improbable or

far-fetched.

All right, all right, said Hadley,

shifting in his chair. I don't feel very

strongly on the matter myself, but if

you insist on lecturing, apparently with

some application to this case.

Yes. Then why take the hermetically

sealed room? You yourself said that

Grimmo's murder wasn't our biggest

problem. The main puzzle is the business

of a man shot in the middle of an empty

street.

Oh, that said Dr. Fel with such a

contemptuous wave of his hand that

Hadley stared at him. That part of it. I

knew the explanation of that as soon as

I heard the church bells. Tutt such

language.

I'm quite serious. is the escape from

the room that bothers me. And to see if

we can't get a lead, I'm going to

outline roughly some of the various

means of committing murders in locked

rooms under separate classifications.

This crime belongs under one of them.

It's got to, no matter how wide the

variation may be, it's only a variation

of a few central methods.

Now, now here is your box with one door,

one window, and solid walls. In

discussing ways of escaping when both

door and window are sealed, I shall not

mention the low and nowadays very rare

trick of having a secret passage to a

locked room. This so puts a story beyond

the pale that a self-respecting author

scarcely needs even to mention that

there is no such thing. We don't need to

discuss minor variations of this

outrage. The panel which is only large

enough to admit a hand or the plugged

hole in the ceiling through which a

knife is dropped. The plug replaced

undetectably and the floor of the attic

above sprayed with dust so that no one

seems to have walked there. This is only

the same fowl in miniature.

The principle remains the same. Whether

the secret opening is as small as a

thimble or as big as a barn door. As to

legitimate classification, you might jot

some of these down, Mr. Pettis. Right,

said Pettis, who was grinning. Go on

first.

There is the crime committed in a

hermetically sealed room which really is

hermetically sealed and from which no

murderer has escaped

because no murderer was actually in the

room.

Explanations.

One, it is not murder but a series of

coincidences ending in an accident which

looks like murder. At an earlier time

before the room was locked, there has

been a robbery, an attack, a wound, or a

breaking of furniture, which suggests a

murder struggle.

Later, the victim is either accidentally

killed or stunned in a locked room, and

all these incidents are assumed to have

taken place at the same time. In this

case, the means of death is usually a

crack on the head, presumably by a

bludgeon, but really from some piece of

furniture. It may be from the corner of

a table or the sharp edge of a chair,

but the most popular object is an iron

fender. The murderous fender, by the

way, has been killing people in a way

that looks like murder ever since

Sherlock Holmes's adventure with the

crooked man.

The most thoroughly satisfying solution

of this type of plot, which includes a

murderer, is in Gaston Laru's The

Mystery of the Yellow Room, the best

detective tale ever written.

Two,

it is murder, but the victim is impelled

to kill himself or crash into accidental

death. This may be the effect of a

haunted room by suggestion or more

usually by a gas introduced from outside

the room. This gas or poison makes the

victim go berserk, smash up the room as

though there had been a struggle and die

of a knife slash inflicted on himself.

In other variations, he drives the spike

of the chandelier through his head, is

hanged on a loop of wire, or even

strangles himself with his own hands.

Three, it is murder by a mechanical

device already planted in the room and

hidden undetectably in some innocent

looking piece of furniture. It may be a

trap set by somebody long dead and work

either automatically or be set a new by

the modern killer. It may be some fresh

quirk of devilry from presentday

science.

We have for instance the gun mechanism

concealed in the telephone receiver

which fires a bullet into the victim's

head as he lifts the receiver.

We have the pistol with a string to the

trigger, which is pulled by the

expansion of water as it freezes. We

have the clock that fires a bullet when

you wind it. And clocks being popular,

we have the ingenious grandfather clock,

which sets ringing a hideously clanging

bell on its top, so that when you reach

up to shut off the den, your own touch

releases a blade that slashes open your

stomach. We have the weight that swings

down from the ceiling and the weight

that crashes out on your skull from the

high back of a chair.

There is the bed that exhales a deadly

gas when your body warms it. The

poisoned needle that leaves no trace.

The ear.

You see,

said Dr. fell stabbing out with his

cigar at each point. When we become

involved with these mechanical devices,

we are rather in the sphere of the

general impossible situation than the

narrower one of the locked room. It

would be possible to go on forever, even

on mechanical devices for electrocuting

people. A cord in front of a row of

pictures is electrified. A chessboard is

electrified. Even a glove is

electrified.

There is death in every article of

furniture, including a tea earn. But

these things seem to have no present

explanation.

So we go on to a four.

It is suicide which is intended to look

like murder. A man stabs himself with an

icicle. The icicle melts and no weapon

being found in the locked room. Murder

is presumed. A man shoots himself with a

gun fastened in the end of an elastic.

The gun as he releases it being carried

up out of sight into the chimney.

Variations of this trick, not locked

room affairs, have been the pistol with

a string attached to a weight, which is

whisked over the parapit of a bridge

into the water after the shot, and in

the same style, the pistol jerked out of

a window into a snow drift.

Five.

It is a murder which deres its problem

from illusion and impersonation.

Thus, the victim, still thought to be

alive, is already lying murdered inside

a room of which the door is under

observation.

The murderer, either dressed as his

victim or mistaken from behind for the

victim, hurries in at the door. He

whirls round, gets rid of his disguise,

and instantly comes out of the room as

himself. The illusion is that he has

merely passed the other man in coming

out. In any event, he has an alibi since

when the body is discovered later, the

murder is presumed to have taken place

sometime after the impersonated victim

entered the room.

Six. It is a murder which although

committed by somebody outside the room

at the time, nevertheless seems to have

been committed by somebody who must have

been inside.

In explaining this, said Dr. fell

breaking off. I will classify this type

of murder under the general name of the

longd distanceance or icicle crime since

it is usually a variation of that

principle. I've spoken of icicles. You

understand what I mean? The door is

locked, the window too small to admit a

murderer. Yet the victim has apparently

been stabbed from inside the room and

the weapon is missing. Well, the icicle

has been fired as a bullet from outside.

We will not discuss whether this is

practical any more than we have

discussed the mysterious gases

previously mentioned, and it melts

without a trace. I believe Anna

Catherine Green was the first to use

this trick in detective fiction in a

novel called Initials Only.

By the way, she was responsible for

starting a number of traditions. In her

first detective novel over 50 years ago,

she founded the legend of the murderous

secretary killing his employer. And I

think present day statistics would prove

that the secretary is still the

communist murderer in fiction. Butlers

have long gone out of fashion. The

invalid in the wheelchair is too

suspect, and the placid middle-aged

spinster has long ago given up homicidal

mania in order to become a detective.

Doctors too are better behaved nowadays,

unless of course they grow eminent and

turn into mad scientists.

Lawyers, while they remain persistently

crooked, are only in some cases actively

dangerous. But cycles return. Edgar

Allan Poe 80 years ago blew the gaff by

calling his murderer Good Fellow. And

the most popular modern mystery writer

does precisely the same thing by calling

his arch villain Goodman.

Meanwhile, those secretaries are still

the most dangerous people to have about

the house.

But to continue with regard to the

icicle, its actual use has been

attributed to the Medici, and in one of

the admirable Fleming Stone stories, an

epig of Marshall is quoted to show that

it had its deadly origin in Rome in the

first century AD. Well, it has been

fired, thrown, or shot from a crossbow.

As in one adventure of Hamilton Cle,

that magnificent character of the 40

faces.

Varants of the same theme, a soluble

missile have been rock salt bullets

and even bullets made of frozen blood.

But it illustrates what I mean in crimes

committed inside a room by somebody who

was outside.

There are other methods. The victim may

be stabbed by a thin swordstick blade

passed between the twinings of a summer

house and withdrawn. Or he may be

stabbed with a blade so thin that he

does not know he is hurt at all and

walks into another room before he

suddenly collapses in death. Or he is

lured into looking out of a window

inaccessible from below.

Yet from above, our old friend ice

smashes down on his head, leaving him

with a smashed skull, but no weapon

because the weapon has melted.

Under this heading, although it might

equally well go under head number three,

we might list murders committed by means

of poisonous snakes or insects. Snakes

can be concealed not only in trests and

safes, but also deafly hidden in flower

pots, books, chandeliers, and walking

sticks. I even remember one cheerful

little item in which the amber stem of a

pipe grotesqually car as a scorpion

comes to life a real scorpion as the

victim is about to put it into his

mouth. But for the greatest long- range

murder ever committed in a locked room,

gents, I commend you to one of the most

brilliant short detective stories in the

history of detective fiction.

In fact, it shares the honors for

supreme, untouchable, topnotch

excellence with Thomas Burks, the hands

of Mr. Ottoal Chesterton's the man in

the passage and Jacqu Futrell's the

problem of cell 13.

This is Melville Davidson posts the

doomorf mystery and the long range

assassin

is the sun. The sun strikes through the

window of the locked room, makes a

burning glass of a bottle of Doomed's

own raw white wood alcohol liquor on the

table, and ignites through it the

percussion cap of a gun hanging on the

wall, so that the breast of the hated

one is blown open as he lies in his bed.

Then again, we have

a steady

Har. Ah, I'd better not meander.

I'll round off this classification

with the final heading.

A seven. This is a murder depending on

an effect exactly the reverse of number

five. That is the victim is presumed to

be dead long before he actually is. The

victim lies asleep, drugged but unharmed

in a locked room. Knockings on the door

fail to rouse him. The murderer starts a

foul play scare, forces the door, gets

in ahead, and kills by stabbing or

throat cutting while suggesting to other

watchers that they have seen something

they have not seen. The honor of

inventing this device belongs to Israel

Zanguel, and it has since been used in

many forms. It has been done usually by

stabbing on a ship, in a ruined house,

in a conservatory, in an attic, and even

in the open air where the victim has

first stumbled and stunned himself

before the assassin bends over him. Aho,

steady. Wait a minute, interposed

Hadley, pounding on the table for

attention. Dr. Fel, the muscles of whose

eloquence were oiling up in a

satisfactory way, turned agreeably, and

beamed on him. Hadley went on. This may

all be very well. You've dealt with all

the locked room situations. All of them?

Snorted Dr. fell, opening his eyes wide.

Of course, I haven't. That doesn't even

deal comprehensively with the methods

under that particular classification.

It's only a rough offhand outline, but

I'll let it stand. I was going to speak

of the other classification, the various

means of hocusing doors and windows so

that they can be locked on the inside.

So, gentlemen, I continue.

Not yet, you don't, said the

superintendent doggedly.

I'll argue the thing on your own

grounds. You say we can get a lead from

stating the various ways in which the

stunt has been worked. You've stated

seven points, but applied to this case,

each one must be ruled out according to

your own classification head. You head

the whole list. No murderer escaped from

the room because no murderer was ever

actually in it at the time of the crime.

Out goes everything. The one thing we

definitely do know, unless we presume

Mills and Dant to be liars, is that the

murderer really was in the room. What

about that?

Pettis was sitting forward, his bold

head gleaming by the glow of the red

shaded lamp as he bent over an envelope.

He was making neat notes with a neat

gold pencil. Now he raised his prominent

eyes, which seemed more prominent and

rather froglike as he studied Dr. Fel.

"Ah, yes," he said with a short cough.

But that point number five is

suggestive. I should think illusion.

What if Mills and Mrs. Dong really

didn't see somebody go in that door?

That they were hoaxed somehow or that

the whole thing was an illusion like a

magic lantern. Illusion me foot, said

Hadley. Sorry, I thought of that too. I

hammered Mills about it last night, and

I had another word or two with him this

morning.

Whatever else the murderer was, he

wasn't an illusion. And he did go in

that door. He was solid enough to cast a

shadow and make the hall vibrate when he

walked. He was solid enough to talk and

slam a door. You agree with that, fell?

The doctor nodded discconulately.

He drew in absent puffs on his dead

cigar.

Ah, yes, I agree to that. He was solid

enough, and he did go in.

And even Hadley pursued while Pettis

summoned the waiter to get more coffee.

Granting what we know is untrue. Even

granting a magic lantern show did all

that. A magic lantern show didn't kill

Greo. It was a solid pistol in a solid

hand. And for the rest of the points,

Lord knows Grimmo didn't get shot by a

mechanical device. What's more, he

didn't shoot himself and have the gun

whisk up the chimney like the one in

your example.

In the first place, a man can't shoot

himself from some feet away. And in the

second place, the gun can't whisk up the

chimney and sail across the roofs to

Calstro Street, shoot, fle, and tumble

down with its work finished. Blast it

fell. My conversation is getting like

yours. It's too much exposure to your

habits of thought. I'm expecting a call

from the office any minute, and I want

to get back to sanity.

What's the matter with you? Doctor Fel,

his little eyes opened wide, was staring

at the lamp, and his fist came down

slowly on the table.

Chimney, he said.

Chimney.

Wow.

I wonder if Lord Hadley, what an ass

I've been.

What about the chimney? asked the

superintendent. We've proved the

murderer couldn't have got out like that

getting up the chimney.

Yes, of course, but I didn't mean that.

I begin to get a glimmer, even if it may

be a glimmer of moonshine.

I must have another look at that

chimney.

Pettis chuckled, tapping the gold pencil

on his notes. Anyhow, he suggested, "You

may as well round out this discussion. I

agree with the superintendent about one

thing. You might do better to outline

ways of tampering with doors, windows,

or chimneys.

Chimneys? I regret to say," Dr. Fel

pursued. His gusto resuming as his

abstraction left him. "The chimneys, I

regret to say, are not favored as a

means of escape in detective fiction,

except, of course, for secret passages.

There they are, supreme. There is the

hollow chimney with the secret room

behind, the back of the fireplace

opening like a curtain, the fireplace

that swings out, even the room under the

hearthstone.

Moreover, all kinds of things can be

dropped down chimneys, chiefly poisonous

things. But the murderer who makes his

escape by climbing up is very rare.

Besides being next to impossible, it is

a much griier business than monkeying

with doors or windows. Of the two chief

classifications,

doors and windows, the door is by far

the more popular, and we may list thus a

few means of tampering with it, so that

it seems to be locked on the inside.

One, a tampering with the key which is

still in the lock. This was the favorite

old-fashioned method, but its variations

are too wellnown nowadays for anybody to

use it seriously. The stem of the key

can be gripped and turned with pliers

from outside. We did this ourselves to

open the door of Grimmo's study. One

practical little mechanism consists of a

thin metal bar about 2 in long, to which

is attached a length of stout string.

Before leaving the room, this bar is

thrust into the hole at the head of the

key. One end under and one end over so

that it acts as a lever. The string is

dropped down and run under the door to

the outside. The door is closed from

outside. You have only to pull on the

string and the lever turns the lock. You

then shake or pull out the loose bar by

means of the string. and when it drops,

draw it under the door to you. There are

various applications of this same

principle, all entailing, the use of

string.

Two, simply removing the hinges of the

door without disturbing lock or bolt.

This is a neat trick known to most

school boys when they want to burgle a

locked cupboard. But of course the

hinges must be on the outside of the

door.

A three. A tampering with the bolt

string again this time with a mechanism

of pins and darning needles by which the

bolt is shot from the outside by

leverage of a pin stuck on the inside of

the door and the string is worked

through the keyhole. A phoilo Vance, to

whom my hat is lifted, has shown us this

best application of the stunt. There are

simpler but not so effective variations

using one piece of string. A tom fool

knot, which a sharp jerk will straighten

out, is looped in one end of a long

piece of cord. This loop is passed round

the knob of the bolt down and under the

door. The door is then closed, and by

drawing the string along to the left or

right, the bolt is shot. A jerk releases

the knot from the knob, and the string

drawn out. Ellery Queen has shown us

still another method, entailing the use

of the dead man himself.

But a bold statement of this taken out

of its context, would sound so wild as

to be unfair to that brilliant

gentleman.

Four, tampering with a falling bar or

latch. This usually consists in propping

something under the latch, which can be

pulled away after the door is closed

from the outside, and let the bar drop.

The best method by far is by the use of

the ever helpful ice, a cube of which is

propped under the latch, and when it

melts, the latch falls. There is one

case in which the mere slam of the door

suffices to drop the bar inside.

Five.

An illusion. A simple but effective. The

murderer after committing his crime has

locked the door from the outside and

kept the key. It is assumed, however,

that the key is still in the lock on the

outside. The murderer, who is first to

raise a scare and find the body, smashes

the upper glass panel of the door, puts

his hand through with the key concealed

in it, and finds the key in the lock

inside,

by which he opens the door. This device

has also been used with the breaking of

a panel out of an ordinary wooden door.

There are

miscellaneous methods such as locking a

door from the outside and returning the

key to the room by means of string

again, but you can see for yourselves

that in this case none of them can have

any application.

We found the door locked on the inside.

Well, there are many ways by which it

could have been done, but it was not

done because Mills was watching the door

the whole time. This room was only

locked in a technical sense. It was

watched, and that shoots us all to

blazes.

"I don't like to drag in famous

platitudes,"

said Pettis, his forehead wrinkled.

But it would seem pretty sound to say,

"Exclude the impossible, and whatever

remains, however improbable, must be the

truth. You have excluded the door. I

presume you also exclude the chimney."

"I do," grunted Dr. Fel. "Then we come

back in a circle to the window, don't

we?" demanded Hadley. You've gone on and

on about ways that obviously couldn't

have been used, but in this catalog of

sensationalism,

you've emitted all mention of the only

means of exit the murderer could have

used.

Because it wasn't a locked window, don't

you see,

cried Dr. Fel, I can tell you several

brands of funny business with windows if

they're only locked. It can be traced

down from the earliest dummy nail heads

to the latest hocus pocus with steel

shutters. You can smash a window,

carefully turn its catch to lock it, and

then when you leave, simply replace the

whole pane with a new pane of glass and

patty it round so that the new pane

looks like the original and the window

is locked inside.

But this window wasn't locked or even

closed. It was only inaccessible.

I seem to have read somewhere of human

flies. Pettis suggested.

Dr. Fel shook his head.

We won't debate whether a human fly can

walk on a sheer smooth wall. Since I've

cheerfully accepted so much, I might

believe that if the fly had any place to

light, that is, he would have to start

from somewhere and end somewhere.

But he didn't. Not on the roof, not on

the ground below.

Dr. Fel hammered his fists against his

temples.

However, if you want a suggestion or two

in that respect, I will tell you.

He stopped, raising his head. At the end

of the quiet, now deserted dining room,

a line of windows showed pale light now

flickering with snow. A figure had

darted in silhouette against them,

hesitating, peering from side to side,

and then hurrying down towards them.

Hadley uttered a muffled exclamation as

they saw it was Mangan. Mangan was pale.

"Not something else?" asked Hadley as

coolly as he could. He pushed back his

chair. "Not something else about coats

changing color." "No,"

said Mangan. He stood by the table,

drawing his breath in gasps. "But you'd

better get over there. Something's

happened to Draymond. Apoplelectic

stroke or something like that. No, he's

not dead or anything, but he's in a bad

way. He was trying to get in touch with

you when he had the stroke. He keeps

talking wildly about somebody in his

room and fireworks and chimneys.

18.

the chimney.

Again, there were three people. Three

people strained and with frayed nerves

waiting in the drawing room. Even Stuart

Mills, who stood with his back to the

fireplace, kept clearing his throat in a

way that seemed to drive Rosette half

frantic. Ernestine Dumour sat quietly by

the fire when Mangan led in Dr. Fel

Hadley Pettis and Ramole.

The lights had been turned off. Only the

bleakness of the snowshadowed afternoon

penetrated through heavy lace curtains

and Mills shadow blocked the tired gleam

of the fire. Burnaby had gone.

You cannot see him, said the woman, with

her eyes fixed on that shadow. The

doctor is with him now. The things all

come at once. Probably he is mad.

Rosette, her arms folded, had been

pacing about with her own feline grace.

She faced the newcomers and spoke with

harsh suddenness.

I can't stand this, you know. It can go

on just so long and then have you any

idea of what happened? Do you know how

my father was killed or who killed him?

For God's sake, say something. Even if

you only accuse me.

Suppose you tell us exactly what

happened to Mr. Draymond.

Hadley said quietly.

And when it happened, is he in any grave

danger?

Madame Dimour shrugged.

That is possible. His heart, I do not

know. He collapsed. He is unconscious

now. As to whether he will ever come

alive again, that I do not know either.

About what happened to him, we have no

idea what caused it. Again, Mills

cleared his throat. His head was in the

air, and his fixed smile looked rather

ghastly. He said, "If, sir, you have any

idea of uh foul play or any suspicion

that he was murderously set upon, you

may dismiss it."

And strangely enough, you will receive

confirmation of it from us in, what

shall I say, pairs, I mean that the same

people were together this afternoon who

were together last night. The Pythoness

and I, he bowed gravely towards

Ernestine Dumour. We're together

upstairs in my little work room. I'm

given to understand that Miss Grimo and

our friend Mangan were down here.

Rosette jerked her head. You'd better

hear it from the beginning. Did Boyd

tell you about Draymond coming down here

first?

No, I didn't tell him anything. Mangan

answered with some bitterness. After

that business of the overcoat, I wanted

somebody to give me a little

confirmation.

He swung round, the muscles tightening

in his temples. It was about half an

hour ago, you see. Rosette and I were

here alone. I'd had a row with Burnaby.

Well, the usual thing. Everybody was

yelling and fighting about that overcoat

affair, and we'd all separated.

Bernabby had gone. I hadn't seen

Draymond at all. He had kept to his room

this morning. Anyhow, Draymond walked in

here and asked me how he could get in

touch with you.

They he had discovered something.

Rosette sniffed or wanted us to think he

had very mysterious. He came in with

that dotering way of his and as Boyd

says asked where he could find you. Boyd

asked him what was up. Did he act as

though he might have well found

something important?

Yes, he did. We both nearly jumped out

of our shoes. Why, so would you, said

Rosette coolly. If you were innocent,

she twitched her shoulders, her arms

still folded as though she were cold. So

he said, "What is it anyhow?" He dodged

a little and said, "I found something

missing from my room, and it makes me

remember something I'd forgotten about

last night." was all a lot of nonsense

about some subconscious memory. Though

he wasn't very clear on the point, it

came down to some hallucination that

while he was lying down last night after

he'd taken the sleeping powder, somebody

had come into his room

before the crime. Yes. Who came into his

room? That's it. He either didn't know

or wouldn't say, or else the whole thing

was a plain dream. Of course, that's

probably what it was. I won't suggest,

said Rosette still coolly. The other

alternative. When we asked him, he

simply tapped his head and hedged and

said, I really can't say in that

infuriating way of his. Lord, how I hate

these people who won't come out and say

what they mean. We both got rather

annoyed.

Oh, he's all right, said Mangan, whose

discomfort appeared to be growing. Only

damn it all if I hadn't said what I did.

I said, "What?" said Hadley quickly.

Mangan hunched his shoulders and looked

moodily at the fire. I said, "Well, if

you've discovered so much, why don't you

go up to the scene of the orid murder

and see if you can't discover some

more?" "Yes," I was sore. He took me

seriously. He looked at me for a minute

and said, "Yes, I believe I will. I had

better make sure." And with that, out he

went. It was maybe 20 minutes later that

we heard a noise like somebody banging

downstairs. You see, we hadn't left the

room. Although,

he checked himself suddenly. You might

as well go on and say it, Rosette told

him with an air of surprised

indifference.

I don't mind who knows it. I wanted to

sneak up after him and watch him, but we

didn't. After that 20 minutes, we heard

him blundering downstairs.

Then apparently when he just got to the

last step, we heard a choking sound and

a thud flap like that. Boyd opened the

door and there he was lying doubled up.

His face was all congested and the veins

up around the forehead was standing out

in a blue color. Horrible business. Of

course, we sent for the doctor. He

hasn't said anything except to rave

about chimneys and fireworks.

Ernestine Dumour still remained stalled,

her eyes not moving from the fire. Mills

took a little hopping step forward.

If you will allow me to take up the

story, he said, inclining his head. I

think it probable that I can fill the

gap. That is, of course, with the

Pythoness's permission.

Aba,

the woman cried. Her face was in shadow

as she looked up. There was about her a

rigidity as of whale bone, but Rampol

was startled to see that her eyes

blazed. You must always act the fool,

must you not? The python is this, the

pythonist that. Very well, I must tell

you, I am Python enough to know that you

did not like poor Draymond, and that my

little rosette does not like him either.

God, what do you know of human men or

sympathy? Or a Draymond is a good man,

even if he may be a little mad. He may

be mistaken. He may be full of drugs,

but he is a good man at the heart. And

if he dies, I shall pray for his soul.

Shall I? Uh, go on, observed Mills

imperturably.

Yes, you shall go on. The woman mimicked

and was silent. The Pythoness and I were

in my workroom on the top floor opposite

the studies as you know and again the

door was open. I was shifting some

papers and I noticed Mr. Draymond come

up and go into the study.

Do you know what he did there? Asked

Hadley. Unfortunately, no. He closed the

door. I could not even venture a

deduction as to what he might be doing

since I could hear nothing. After some

time he came out in what I can only

describe as a panting and unsteady

condition.

What do you mean by that? Mills frowned.

I regret, sir, that it is impossible to

be more precise. I can only say that I

received an impression as though he had

been indulging in violent exercise.

This, I have no doubt, caused or

hastened the collapse, since there were

clear evidences of an apoplelectic

stroke, if I may correct the pythoness,

it had nothing to do with his heart. Ah,

I might add something which has not yet

been mentioned. When he was picked up

after the stroke, I observed that his

hands and sleeves were covered with

soot.

the chimney again," Pettis murmured very

softly, and Hadley looked round towards

Dr. Fell. It gave Ramole a shock to see

that the doctor was no longer in the

room. A person of his weight and girth

can, as a rule, make small success of an

effort to fade mysteriously away, but he

was gone, and Rampol thought he knew

where. Follow him up there, Hadley said

quickly to the American, and see that he

doesn't work any of his blasted

mystification.

Now, Mr. Mills

Rample heard Hadley's questions probing

and crackling as he went out into the

somber hall. The house was very quiet.

So quiet that as he mounted the stairs,

the sudden shrilling of the telephone

bell in the lower hall made him jump a

little. Passing Draymond's door

upstairs, he heard horse breathing

inside,

and quiet footballs tiptoeing about the

room.

Through the door, he could see the

doctor's medicine case and hat on a

chair. No lights burned on the top

floor. again such a stillness that he

could distinctly hear Annie's voice

answering the telephone far below.

The study was dusky. Despite the few

snowflakes, some faint lurid light,

dull, red and orange with sunset

glimmered through the window. It made a

stormy glow across the room. It kindled

the colors of the shield of arms,

glittered on the crossed fencing foils

above the fireplace, and made vast and

shadowy the white busts on the

bookshelves.

The shape of Sha Grimo, half studious,

half barbaric like the room, seemed to

move and chuckle here after Sha Grimmo

was dead.

That vast blank space in the panled wall

where the picture was to have hung,

faced Ramole in mockery, and standing

motionless in his black cloak before the

window.

Doctor fell, leaned on his cane, and

stared out into the sunset.

The creaking of the door did not rouse

him. Rample. His voice seeming to make

echoes said, "Did you?" Dr. Fel blinked

round. His breath when he puffed it out

with a sort of weary explosiveness

turned to smoke in the sharp air. Ah.

Huh? Did I what? Find anything?

Well, I think I know the truth. I think

I know the truth. he answered with a

sort of reflective stubbornness.

And tonight I shall probably be able to

prove it.

Ah, yes. You see, I've been standing

here wondering what to do about it. It's

the old problem, son, and it becomes

more difficult each year I live. When

the sky grows nobler and the old chair

more comfortable and maybe the human

hard.

He brushed his hand across his forehead.

What is justice? I've asked it at the

end of nearly every case I ever handled.

I see faces rise and sick souls and bad

dreams.

No matter.

Shall we go downstairs?

But what about the fireplace? Insisted

Ramole. He went over, peered at it,

hammered it, and still he could see

nothing out of the way. A little soot

had been scattered on the hearth, and

there was a crooked streak in the

coating of soot on the back of the

fireplace.

What's wrong with it? Is there a secret

passage after all? Oh, no. There's

nothing wrong with it in the way you

mean. Nobody got up there. No, he added

as Rample put his hand into the long

opening of the flu and groped around.

I'm afraid you're wasting your time.

There's nothing up there to find.

But said Rample desperately, if this

brother Henry

Yes, said a heavy voice from the

doorway.

Brother Henri.

The voice was so unlike Hadley's

that at the moment they did not

recognize it. Hadley stood in the

doorway. A sheet of paper crumpled in

his hand. His face was in shadow, but

there was such a dull quietness in his

tones that Rampol recognized something

like despair.

Closing the door softly behind him,

Hadley stood in the darkening and went

on calmly.

It was our own fault, I know, for being

hypnotized by a theory. It ran away with

us, and now we've got to start the whole

case. A fresh fell, when you said this

morning that the case had been turned

upside down, I don't believe you knew

just how true it was.

It's not only upside down, it's

non-existent. Our chief prop is knocked

to blazes. Damn the rotten. Impossible.

He stared at the sheet of paper as

though he meant to crush it into a ball.

A phone call just came through from the

yard. They've heard from Bookucharest.

I'm afraid I know what you're going to

say. Dr. Fel nodded.

You're going to say that brother Henry

there is no brother Henry

said Hadley the third of the three

Horvath brothers died over 30 years ago.

The faint reddish light had grown muddy

in the cold quiet study they could hear

from far away the mutter of London

awaking towards nightfall.

Walking over to the broad desk, Hadley

spread out the crumpled sheet on the

desk so that the others could read. The

shadow of the yellow jade buffalo lay

across it sardonically.

Across the room they could see the

slashes gaping in the picture of the

three graves.

There's no possibility of a mistake.

Hadley went on. The case is a very

well-known one, it seems. The whole

cablegram gram they sent was very long,

but I've copied the important parts

verbatim from what they read over the

phone. Take a look. No difficulty about

information desired. It ran. Two men now

in my personal service were at Zeban

Turmen as warders in 1900 and confirm

record.

Facts. Caroli Grimo Horvath, Pierre Fle

Horvath and Nicholas Re Horvath were

sons of Professor Caroli Horvath of

Clausenborg University and Cecile Fle

Horvath, French, his wife,

for robbery of Kunar Bank at Braso,

November 1898. The three brothers were

sentenced January 1899

to 20 years penal servitude.

Bank watchmen died of injuries inflicted

and loot never recovered believed to

have been hidden.

All three with aid of prison doctor

during plague scare of August 1900 made

daring attempt at escape by being

certified as dead and buried in plague

ground. A J L and R G warders returning

to graves an hour later with wooden

crosses for marking noticed disturbance

had taken place on earth at grave of

Karoli Horvath. Investigation showed

coffin open and empty. Digging into

other two graves, warders found Pierre

Horvath, bloody and insensible but still

alive. Nicholas Horvath had already

suffocated to death. Nicholas reeried

after absolute certainty made the man

was dead. Pierre returned to prison. A

scandal hushed up. No chase of fugitive

and story never discovered until end of

war. Pierre Fle Horbath never mentally

responsible afterwards. Released January

1919, having served full term, assure

you no doubt whatever. A third brother

dead. Alexander Kuza, police director,

Bucharest.

Oh yes, said Hadley when they'd finished

reading. It confirms the reconstruction

right enough, except for the little

point that we've been chasing a ghost as

the murderer. Brother Henri or brother

Nicholas to be exact never did leave his

grave. He's there yet and the whole

case.

Dr. Fel wrapped his knuckles slowly on

the paper.

It's my fault, Hadley. He admitted I

told you this morning that I'd come

close to making the biggest mistake of

my life. I was hypnotized by brother

Henri. I couldn't think of anything

else. You see now why we knew so

remarkably little about that third

brother. So little that with my cursed

cockshuredness, I put all kinds of

fantastic interpretations on it. Well,

it won't do us any good just to admit

the mistake. How the devil are we going

to explain all those crazy remarks of

Flaze now? Private vendetta. Vengeance.

Now that that's swept away, we have a

lead to work on. Not one lead. And if

you exclude the motive of vengeance on

Grimmo and Fle, what is there left?

Dr. Fel pointed rather malevolently with

his stick. Don't you see what's left? He

roared. Don't you see the explanation of

those two murders that we've got to

accept now or retire to the mad house?

You mean that somebody cooked up the

whole thing to make it look like the

work of an avenger?

I'm at the state now, explained the

superintendent,

where I could believe nearly anything.

But that strikes me as being a good bit

too subtle. How would the real murderer

ever know we could dig so far into the

past? We'd never have done it if it

hadn't been saving your presence for a

few lucky shots. How would the real

murderer know we should ever connect

Professor Grieo with a Hungarian

criminal or connect him with Fle or any

of the rest of it? It strikes me as a

false trail far too well concealed.

He paced up and down, driving his fist

into his palm. Besides, the more I think

of it, the more confusing it gets. We

had damned good reason to think it was

the third brother who killed those two.

And the more I think of that

possibility, the more I'm inclined to

doubt that Nicholas is dead. Grieo said

his third brother shot him. And when a

man's dying and knows he's dying, what

earthly reason would he have for lying?

Or

stop a bit.

Do you suppose he might have meant Fle?

Do you suppose Fle came here, shot Greo,

and then afterwards somebody else shot

Fle?

It would explain a lot of the puzzles,

but said Rample, excuse the

interruption. I mean, but it wouldn't

explain why Fle kept talking about a

third brother as well. Either brother

Henri is dead or he isn't. Still, if he

is dead, what reason have both victims

got to lie about him all the time? If

he's really dead, he must be one hell of

a live ghost.

Hadley shook the briefcase. I know.

That's exactly what I'm kicking about.

We've got to take somebody's word for

it, and it seems more reasonable to take

the word of two people who were shot by

him rather than this cable gram, which

might be influenced or mistaken for

several reasons, or

suppose he really is dead, but the

murderers pretending to be that dead

brother come to life.

He stopped, nodded, and stared out of

the window.

Now, I think we're getting warm. That

would explain all the inconsistencies,

wouldn't it? The real murderer assumes

the role of a man neither of the other

brothers has seen for nearly 30 years.

Well, when the murders are committed and

we get on his track, if we do get on his

track, we put it all down to vengeance.

How's that, fell?

Doctor fell, scowlling heavily, stumped

round the table.

Not bad.

No, not bad as a disguise.

But what about the motive for which

Grimo and Fle were really killed?

How do you mean? There has to be a

connecting thread, hasn't there? There

might be any number of motives, plain or

obscure. Why a person would kill Greo

Mills or Dimon or Burnaby or Yes,

anybody might have killed Greo. Also,

anybody might have killed Fle, but not,

I must point out, anybody in the same

circle or group of people. Why should

Fle be killed by a member of Crimo's

group, none of whom had presumably ever

seen him before? If these murders are

the work of one person, where is the

connecting link? A respected professor

in Bloomsbury and a actor with a

prison record. Where's the human motive

that ties those two together in the

murderer's mind? Unless it is a link

that goes back into the past.

I can think of one person who is

associated with both from the past.

Hadley pointed out. Who? You mean the

demon woman?

Yes. Then what becomes of somebody

impersonating Brother Henri?

Whatever else you decide on, you must

decide that she's not doing that. No, my

lad. Dim is not only a bad suspect.

She's an impossible subject. I don't see

that. Look here, you're basing your

whole belief that Dour didn't kill

Grimmo on the grounds that you think she

loved Grimmo. No defense, Fel. No

defense at all. Remember that she told

the whole fantastic story to begin with

in cooperation

with Mills?

Boomed Doctor fell with a sardonic lear.

He was puffing again. Can you think of

any two less likely conspirators to band

together at the dark of the moon and

hoodwink the police with their

imaginative fairy tales? She might wear

a mask. I mean a figurative mask in

life. Mills might wear a mask, but the

combination of those two masks and their

activities is too much. I prefer the one

literal false face. Besides, bear in

mind that as the double killer,

Ernestine D is absolutely O T. Why?

Because at the time of Fle's death,

sworn to by three good men and true, she

was here in this room talking to us.

He pondered, and a twinkle began to

appear in his eye. Or will you drag in

the second generation? Rosette is

Grimmo's daughter. Suppose the

mysterious Steuart Mills is really the

son of the dead brother Henry.

About to reply, Hadley checked himself

and studied Dr. Fel. He sat down on the

edge of the desk.

I know this mood. I know it very well,

he asserted with the air of one who

confirms a sinister suspicion.

It's the beginning of some more blasted

mystification, and there's no use

arguing with you now. Why are you so

anxious for me to believe the story?

But first, said Dr. Fel, because I wish

to force it into your head that Mills

told the truth. You mean as a point in

the mystification in order to prove

later that he didn't? A sort of low

trick you played me in that death watch

case.

The doctor ignored this with a testy

grunt. And second, because I know the

real murderer,

who is somebody we've seen and talked

to? Oh, yes, very much so. And have we

got a chance of

Dr. fell. An absent, fierce, almost

pitying expression on his red face,

stared for some time at the desk.

Yes, Lord help us all,

he said in a curious tone.

I suppose you've got to. In the

meantime, I'm going home.

Home? To apply Gross's test?

said Dr. fell.

He turned away, but he did not

immediately go. As the muddy light

deepened to purple and dust colored

shadows swallowed up the room,

he remained for a long time staring at

the slashed picture, which caught the

last glow with its turbulent power,

and the three coffins

that were filled at last.

19. The Hollow Man.

That night, Dr. Fel shut himself up in

the small cubby hole of the library,

which was reserved for what he called

his scientific experiments,

and what Mrs. Fel called that horrible

messing about. Now, a liking for messing

about is one of the best of human

trades, and Rampol and Dorothy both

offered to assist. But the doctor was so

serious, and so unwantedly troubled that

they left off with an uncomfortable

feeling that to make a joke would be bad

taste. The tireless Hadley had already

gone off to check also

left that matter with only one question.

I know you're going to try to read those

burnt letters, he said. And I know you

think they're important, but what do you

expect to find? The worst possible

thing, replied Dr. Fel, the thing that

last night could have made a fool of me.

And with a sleepy shake of his head, he

closed the door. Rampol and Dorothy sat

on opposite sides of the fireplace

looking at each other. The snow was

swirling outside, and it was not a night

to venture far.

Rampol at first had an idea that he

ought to invite Mangan out to dinner to

renew old times, but Mangan, when he

telephoned, said that obviously Rosette

could not go, and he had better remain

with her. So the other two, Mrs. Fel

being at church, had the library to

themselves for argument.

Ever since last night, commented her

husband. I've been hearing about Gross's

method for reading burnt letters, but

nobody seems to know what it is. I

suppose you mix chemicals or something.

I know what it is, she told him with an

air of triumph. I looked it up while you

people were dashing about this

afternoon. And what's more, I bet you it

won't work. Even if it is simple, I bet

you anything it won't work. You read

gross.

>> Well, I read it in English. It's simple

enough. It says something like this. It

says that anybody who has thrown letters

on the fire will have noticed that the

writing on the charred fragments stands

out quite clearly. Usually white or gray

against a black background, but

sometimes with the colors reversed.

Did you ever notice that? Can't say I

have, but then I've seen very few open

fires before I came to England. Is it

true?

She frowned. It works with cardboard

boxes that have printing on them. Boxes

of soap flakes or things like that, but

regular writing. Anyway, here's what

you're supposed to do. You get a lot of

transparent tracing paper and pin it to

a board with drawing pins. As you pick

up each of the charred pieces of paper,

you cover a place on the tracing paper

with gum. Press the charred paper down

on it. When it's all crumpled up like

that, it'll break, won't it? Uh-huh.

That's the trick. Gross says, "You have

to soften the fragments. You arrange

over and around the tracing paper, a

frame two or three in high with all the

bits under it. Then you stretch across a

damp cloth folded several times. That

puts the papers in a damp atmosphere,

and they straighten out. When they're

all flattened out and fixed, you cut out

the tracing paper around each separate

fragment. Then you reconstruct them on a

sheet of glass like a jigsaw puzzle.

Afterwards, you press a second sheet of

glass over the first and bind the edges

and look through both against the light.

But I'll bet you anything you like.

We'll try it, said Rample, impressed and

a fire with the idea.

The experiments at Burning Paper were

not a complete success.

First he got an old letter out of his

pocket and touched a match to it.

Despite his frantic maneuvering, it

soared up into flame, twitched round,

sailed out of his hand, and shrank to

rest on the hearth, as not more than 2

in of shriveled blackness rolled up like

an umbrella.

Though they got down on their knees and

scrutinized it from every angle, no

writing was visible.

Rample burnt several more pieces which

sailed apart like gentle skyrockets and

powdered the hearth. Then he began to

get mad and burn everything within

reach. And the madder he got, the more

convinced he grew that the trick could

be worked somehow if he did it properly.

Typewriting was tried. He tapped out,

"Now is the time for all good men to

come to the aid of the party." a number

of times on Dr. Fel's machine, and

presently, the carpet was littered with

floating fragments.

"Besides,"

he argued with his cheek against the

floor, and one eye closed as he studied

them, "these aren't charred. They're

burnt to hell. They're too far gone to

fulfill the conditions." Aha!

Got it. I can see party is plain as day.

It's much smaller than the actual

typing. It seems to be indented on the

black, but here it is. Have you got

anything out of that handwritten letter?

Her own excitement was growing as she

made a discovery. The words East 11th

Street stood out in dirty gray letters.

With some care, but much powdering of

the brittle pieces, they at last

deciphered plainly the words Saturday

night, ginch, hangover, and jin. Rample

got up with satisfaction. If those

pieces can be straightened out by

dampness, then it works, he declared.

The only thing is whether you could get

enough words out of any letter to make

sense of it. Besides, we're only

amateurs.

Gross could get the whole thing. But

what does Dr. Fel expect to find.

This was the subject of an argument

which was carried on far into the night.

And with the case turned upside down,

Rample pointed out, "Where do we go now

for a motive? That's the crux of the

whole business. There's no motive that

could connect both Grieo and Fle with

the murderer." By the way, what's become

of your wild theories last night that

the guilty person must be either Pettis

or Burnaby or the funny-faced blonde?

She corrected with a certain emphasis on

the term.

I say, you know, what bothers me most is

that overcoat changing color and

disappearing and all the rest of it. It

seems to lead straight back to that

house. Or does it? She brooded.

No, I've changed my mind altogether. I

don't think Pettis or Burnaby can be

implicated. I don't even think the

blonde is the possible murderer. I'm

certain now can be narrowed down to two

other people.

Well, it's either Draymond or Oor, she

said firmly and nodded. You marked my

words.

Rampol stifled a strong protest.

Yes, I'd thought of Oor, he admitted.

But you're picking him for just two

reasons. First, because he's a trapeze

man, and you associate a flying escape

of some sort with the way this thing was

done. But so far as I can see, it's

impossible. Second, and more important,

you're picking him for the reason that

he doesn't seem to have any connection

with this case at all. That he's

standing around for no good reason.

And that's always a suspicious sign,

isn't that so? Maybe. Then Draymond.

Yes, Draymond might have been the only

one who could now be associated with

both Grimmo and Fle in the past. That's

a point. H also, nobody saw him during

the whole evening from dinner time until

a much later hour, 11:00 anyhow. But I

don't believe he's guilty. And tell you

what, let's make a rough timetable of

last night's events to get this thing

straightened out. We'll put in

everything from before dinner on. It'll

have to be a very rough timetable with a

lot of guessing on smaller points. We

don't know how much definitely except

the time of the actual murders and a few

statements leading up to them, but we

can make a stab at it. Our times before

dinner are vague, too. But let's say he

took out an envelope and wrote rapidly.

About 6:45, Mangan arrives, hangs his

coat in the hall closet, and sees a

black overcoat hanging there. About

6:48, give her 3 minutes. Annie comes

from the dining room, switches off the

light in the hall closet left burning by

Mangan, and sees no overcoat at all.

About 6:55, this is not specified, but

we know it was before dinner. Madame

Dumal looks into the hall closet and

sees a yellow overcoat.

I arranged it like that, said Rample,

because presumably in the very brief

time between Mangans hanging up his own

coat and going away with the light left

on, Dumont didn't rush out to look in

there before Annie came to turn the

light off.

The girl's eyes narrowed. "Oh, wait. How

do you know that? I mean, if the light

wasn't on, how did she see a yellow coat

at all?"

There was a pause while they looked at

each other. Rample said, "This is

getting interesting. And if it comes to

that, why did she look in there anyhow?

The point is this. If the sequence of

times can be established at what I've

written, that's reasonable. First,

there's a black coat which Mangan sees.

Well, then somebody swipes the black

coat just after Mangan goes. For what

reason, we don't know. And Annie sees

nothing. Later, the coat is replaced

with a light tweed one. That sounds all

right. But, he cried, stabbing out with

his pencil.

If it worked the other way around, then

either somebody is lying or the whole

thing is impossible. In that case, it

doesn't matter what time Mangan arrived

because the whole business must have

taken place in a matter of minutes or

even seconds. See it. Boyd gets there,

hangs his coat up, and walks away. Out

comes Dumont, looks in, and walks away.

Along comes Annie immediately

afterwards, turns out the light, and she

goes. In that short flash, a black

overcoat has first turned yellow and

then disappeared.

Which is impossible.

Well done, said the other, beaming. Then

which one was lying? I suppose you'll

insist it wasn't your friend. I

certainly will. It's the Dant woman.

I'll bet you anything you like. But

she's not guilty. That's been proved.

Besides, I like her. Don't mix me up

now. Rample urged. Let's go on with this

timetable and see if we can discover

anything else. Now, where were we?

Yes, dinner we'll put at 7:00 because we

know it was over at 7:30.

Hence, 7:30 Rosette G and Mangan go to

drawing room. 7:30 Draymond goes

upstairs to his room. 7:30 E. Du.

Where she goes is not known except that

she remains in the house. 7:30, Mills

goes to downstairs library.

7:30, Grieo joins Mills in downstairs

library, tells him to come upstairs

about 9:30 since he expects a visitor

then. Whoa, here's a snag. I was just

going to write that then Grimmo goes on

to the drawing room and tells Mangan the

visitor is expected at 10:00, but that

won't do because Rosette knew nothing

about it and yet she was with Mangan.

The trouble is Boyd didn't say exactly

when he was told that. But it isn't

important. Grieo might have taken him

aside or something like that. Similarly,

we don't know when Madame Dumont was

told to expect the visitor at 9:30.

Probably earlier. That amounts to the

same thing.

Are you sure it does? Inquired Dorothy,

searching off to cigarettes. H well,

carry on.

About 7:35, Grimmo goes up to his study.

7:35 to 9:30, no developments, nobody

moves. Heavy snow. About 9:30, snow

stops.

About 9:30, E. Dumont collects coffee

tray from Grimmo's study. Grieo remarks

that visitor will probably not come that

night. E Dumont leaves study just as

9:30 Mills comes upstairs.

I don't think anything noticeable

happened in the next interval. Mills was

upstairs, Draymond in his room, and

Rosette and Boyd in the front room with

the radio on. Wait, I'm forgetting

something. A little while before the

doorbell rang, Rosette heard a thud from

somewhere out in the street as though

somebody had fallen off a high place.

How did she hear that if they had the

radio on? Apparently, it wasn't playing

loudly enough to

Yes, it was, though. It made such a

racket they could hardly hear the fake

Pettis's voice.

But put that in order. 9:45 doorbell

rings. 9:45 to 9:50 E Dumont goes to

answer door speaks to visitor failing to

recognize voice she receives card shuts

the door on him examines card and finds

it blank hesitates and starts upstairs

9:45 to 9:50 visitor after ED has

started upstairs gets inside somehow

locks Rosette G and Boyd M in front room

answers their hail by imitating the

voice of Pettis. I don't like to keep on

interrupting you. Cut in Dorothy, but

doesn't it seem to have taken them a

terribly long time to sing out and ask

who the caller was? I mean, would

anybody wait so long? If I were

expecting a visitor like that, I know I

should have piped up a hello, who is it?

As soon as I heard the door open.

What are you trying to prove? Nothing.

sure of that. Don't be so hard on the

blonde. It was some time before they

expected anybody, remember? And that

sniff of yours indicates prejudice.

Let's continue with the still inclusive

times of 9:45 to 9:50. The interval

between the moment X entered the house

and the moment he entered Grimmo's

study.

9:45 to 9:50. Visitor follows E. Dumont

upstairs overtakes her in upper hall. He

takes off cap and pulls down coat collar

but does not remove mask. Grimmo comes

to the door but does not recognize

visitor. Visitor leaps inside and door

is slammed.

This is attested by both E. Dumont and

S. Mills. 95210

Mills watches door from end of hall.

Dumont watches same door from staircase

landing.

1010 shot is fired. 10 10 to 1012.

Mangan in front room finds door to hall

locked on the inside.

10 to 1012. Eumont faints or is sick and

gets to her room. NB Draymond asleep in

his room does not hear shot.

10:10 to 10:12. Mangan in front room

finds door to hall locked attempts to

break it and fails. He then jumps out

window just as 1012 we arrive outside

front door unlocked. We go up to study.

1012 to 10:15 door is opened with

pliers. Greo found shot. 10:15 to 10:20

investigation. Ambulance sent for 10:20

ambulance arrives. Greo removed. Rosette

goes with him an ambulance. Boyd M at

orders from Hadley goes downstairs to

telephone police

which Rample pointed out with some

satisfaction.

Absolutely clears both Rosette and Boyd.

I don't even need to set down minute

times there. The ambulance men coming

upstairs, the doctor's examination, the

body taken down to the ambulance. All

that in itself would have taken at least

5 minutes if they'd moved fast enough to

slide down the banisters with that

stretcher.

By God, it's as plain as print when you

ride it out. It would have taken a good

deal longer before they could get to the

nursing home. And yet Fle was shot in

Calstro Street at just 10:25.

Now, Rosette did ride over with the

ambulance. Boyd was in the house when

the ambulance men arrived because he

came upstairs with them and went down

after them. There's a fairly perfect

alibi.

Oh, you don't need to think I'm so

anxious to convict them. Especially

Boyd, who's rather nice what little I've

seen of him. She frowned. That's always

granting your guess that the ambulance

didn't arrive at Grimos before 10:20.

Rampol shrugged. If it did, he pointed

out, then it flew over from Guilford

Street. It wasn't sent for before 10:15,

and even so, it's something like a

miracle that they had it at Grimos in 5

minutes. Now, Boyd and Rosad are out of

it. Besides, now that I remember, she

was at the nursing home in the presence

of witnesses when she saw the light in

the window of Bernaby's flat at 10:30.

Let's put the rest into the record and

exonerate anyone else we can. A 10:20 to

10:25 arrival and departure of ambulance

with Griml. 10:25 Fle shot in Calastro

Street.

10:20 to at least 10:30 Stuart Mills

remains with us in study answering

questions. 10:25 Madame Dumont comes in

to study. 10:30, Rosette at nursing home

sees a light in the window of Bernaby's

flat. At 10:25 to 10:40, Madame Dumont

remains with us in the study. 10:40,

Rosette returns from nursing home.

10:40, arrival of police at Hadley's

call.

Rample, sitting back to run his eye down

the scroll, drew a long flourish under

the last item.

That not only completes our timetable as

far as we need to go, he said, but it

unquestionably adds two more to our list

of innocents. Mills and Dant are out.

Rosette and Boyd are out, which accounts

for everybody in the house except

Draymond.

But, protested Dorothy after a pause,

it's getting even worse tangled up. What

happens to your brilliant inspiration

about the overcoat? You suggested

somebody was lying. It could only have

been either Boyd Mangan or Ernestine

Dumont, and both are exonerated. Unless

that girl, Annie, but that won't do,

will it? Or it shouldn't. Again, they

looked at each other. Riley, he folded

up his list and put it into his pocket.

Outside the night wind whirled by in a

long blast, and they could hear Dr. Fel

blundering round his cubbyhole behind

the closed door.

Rample overslept the next morning,

partly from exhaustion, and partly

because the following day was so

overcast that he did not open his eyes

until past 10:00.

It was not only so dark that the lights

were on, but a day of numbing cold. He

had not seen Dr. fell again last night,

and when he went downstairs to breakfast

in the little back dining room, the maid

was indignant as she set out bacon and

eggs. "The doctor's just gone up to have

a wash, sir," Va informed him. "He was

up all night on them scientific things,

and I found him asleep in the chair in

there at 8:00 this morning. I don't know

what Mrs. Fel will say." Indeed, I

don't. Superintendent Hadley's just got

here, too. He's in the library.

Hadley, who was impatiently knocking his

heels against the fender as though he

were pouring the floor, asked the news

with some eagerness.

"Have you seen fell?" he demanded. "Did

he go after those letters? And if so,"

Rample explained. "Any news from you?"

"Yes, and important news. Both Pettis

and Bernaby are out. They've got cast

iron alibis."

Wind whooped past Adelflie Terrace and

the long window frames rattled. Hadley

continued to pour the hearth rug. He

went on, "I saw Bernaby's three card

playing friends last night. One, by the

way, is an old Bailey judge. It would be

pretty difficult to drag a man into

court when the judge on the bench can

testify to his innocence."

Bernabby was playing poker on Saturday

night from 8:00 to nearly 11. And this

morning, Betts has been round to the

theater where Pettis said he saw the

play that night. Well, he did. One of

the bar attendants at the theater knows

him quite well by sight. It seems that

the second act of the show ends at 5

minutes 10. A few minutes afterwards

during the interval, this attendant is

willing to swear he served Pettis with a

whiskey and soda in the bar. In other

words, he was having a drink at just

about the exact moment Grimmo was shot

nearly a mile away.

I expected something like that, said

Rample after a silence.

And yet to hear it confirmed.

I wish you'd look at this. He handed

over the timetable he had made last

night. Hadley glanced over it. Ah, yes.

I sketched out one of my own. This is

fairly sound, especially the point about

the girl and Mangan, although we can't

swear too closely to time in that

respect, but I think it would hold.

He tapped the envelope against his palm.

Narrows it down, I admit. We'll have

another go at Draymond. I foamed the

house this morning. Everybody was a bit

hysterical because they've brought the

old man's body back to the house and I

couldn't get much out of Rosette except

that Draymond was still only half

conscious and under morphia.

We

He stopped as they heard the familiar

lumbering step with the tap of the cane,

which seemed to have hesitated just

outside the door as though it had

Hadley's words.

Then Dr. Fell pushed open the door.

There was no twinkle in his eye when he

wheezed in. He seemed a part of the

heavy mourning and a sense of doom

pervading that leen air. "Well,"

prompted Hadley, "did you find out what

you wanted to know from those papers?"

Dr. Fel, fumbled after, found, and lit

his black pipe.

Before he answered, he waddled over to

toss the match into the fire.

Then he chuckled at last. But very

Riley, "Yes, I found out what I wanted

to know," Hadly twice in my theories on

Saturday night. I unintentionally led

you wrong. So wrong with such a

monstrous and dizzying stupidity that if

I hadn't saved my self-respect by seeing

the truth of this thing yesterday, I

should have deserved the last punishment

reserved for fools. But still, mine

wasn't the only blunder. Chance and

circumstance made an even worse blunder.

And they've combined to make a

terrifying, inexplicable puzzle out of

what is really only a commonplace and

ugly and petty murder case. Oh, there

was shrewdness to the murderer. I admit

that. But yes, I've found out what I

wanted to know.

Well, what about the writing on those

papers? What was on those papers?

Nothing, said Dr. Fel. There was

something eerie in the slow, heavy way

he spoke the word.

You mean, cried Hadley, that the

experiment didn't work? No,

I mean that the experiment did work. I

mean that there was nothing on those

papers. Boomed to Dr. Fel. Not so much

as a single line or scrap or shred of

handwriting.

Not so much as a whisper or pot hook of

the deadly secrets I told you on

Saturday night we might find. That's

what I mean.

Except,

well, yes, there were a few bits of

heavier paper rather like thick

cardboard with one or two letters

printed there.

But why burn letters unless because they

weren't letters? That's just it. That's

where we went wrong. Don't you see even

yet what they were?

Well, Hadley, we'd better finish this up

and get the whole mess off our minds.

You want to meet the invisible murderer,

do you? You want to meet the damned

ghoul and hollow man who's been walking

through our dreams? Uh, very well. I'll

introduce you. Got your car? Then come

along.

I'm going to see if I can't extract a

confession

from from somebody at Grimmo's house.

Come on.

Rample saw the end looming and was

afraid of it without an idea in his

whirling head as to what it might be.

Hadley had to spin a half frozen engine

before the car would start. They were

caught in several traffic blocks on the

way up, but Hadley did not even curse.

And the quietest of all was Dr. Fel.

All the blinds were drawn on the house

in Russell Square. It looked even more

dead than yesterday because death had

come inside

and it was so quiet that even from

outside they could hear the ringing of

the bell when Dr. Fel pressed it.

After a long interval, Annie, without

her cap or apron, answered it. She

looked pale and strained, but still

calm.

We should like to see Madame Dumont,

said Dr. Fel.

Hadley jerked his head around to look,

even though he remained impassive. Annie

seemed to speak out of the darkness in

the hall as she moved back. She's in

with the she's in there. The girl

answered and pointed towards the drawing

room door. I'll call. She swallowed.

Dr. Fel shook his head. He moved over

with surprising quietness and softly

opened the drawing room door.

The dull brown blinds were drawn, and

the thick lace curtains muffled what

little light filtered through.

Although the room looked vaster, its

furniture was lost in shadow, except for

one piece of furniture of gleaming black

metal lined with white satin.

It was an open coffin. Thin candles were

burning around it. Of the dead face

Rampole afterwards remembered that from

where he stood he could see only the tip

of a nose.

But those candles alone, or the faint

thickness of flowers and incense in the

air, moved the scene weirdly from Dun

London to some place of crags and blasts

among the Hungarian mountains, where the

gold cross loomed guard against devils,

and garlic wreaths kept off the prowling

vampire.

Yet this was not the first thing they

noticed.

Ernestine Dumour stood beside the

coffin, one hand gripping its edge. The

high, thin candle light above turned her

graying hair to gold. It softened and

subdued even the crumpled posture of her

bent shoulders.

When she turned her head slowly round,

they saw that her eyes were sunken and

smeared, though she still could not

weep. Her breast heaved jerkily, yet

round her shoulders she had wound a gay

heavy long fringed yellow shawl with red

bcade and bead embroidery that burnt

with a shifting glitter under the light.

It was the last touch of the barbaric.

And then she saw them. Both hands

suddenly gripped the edge of the coffin

as though she would shield the dead. She

remained a silhouette. one hand

outspread on either side under the

unsteady candles.

It will do you good, madame, to confess,

said Dr. Fel very gently.

Believe me, it will do you good.

For a second Rample thought she had

stopped breathing, so easy was every

motion to follow in the unearliness of

that light.

Then she made a sound as though she were

half coughing, which is only grief

before it becomes hysterical mirth.

Confess, she said. So that is what you

think all you fools. Well, I do not

care. Confess. Confess to murder.

No, said Dr. Fel.

His voice in that one quiet mono

syllable had a heavy note across the

room. And now she stared at him. And now

for the first time she began to stare

with fright as he moved across towards

her.

No,

said Dr. Fel. You are not the murderer.

Let me tell you what you are.

Now he towered over her, black against

the candle light,

but he still spoke gently.

Yesterday, you see, a man named O Rock

told us several things. Among them was

the fact that most illusions, either on

or off the stage, are worked with the

aid of a Confederate. This was no

exception.

You were the Confederate of the

illusionist and murderer.

The hollow man, said Ernestine Dumour,

and suddenly began to laugh

hysterically.

The hollow man, said Dr. Fel, and turned

quietly to Hadley in a real sense. the

hollow man whose naming was a terrible

and an ironic gest even if we did not

know it because it was the exact truth.

This is the horror and in a way the

shame. Do you want to see the murderer

you have been hunting all through this

case?

The murderer lies there,

said Dr. Fel.

But God forbid that we should judge him

now.

And with a slow gesture, he pointed to

the white dead tight lipped face of Dr.

Shal Grimo.

20. The two bullets.

Dr. Fell continued to look steadily at

the woman who had again shrunk against

the side of the coffin as though to

defend it. "Ma'am," he went on, "the man

you loved is dead. He is beyond the

reach of the law now, and whatever he

has done, he has paid for it." Our

immediate problem, yours and mine, is to

hush this thing up so that the living

may not be heard. But you see, you are

implicated even though you took no

actual hand in the murder. Believe me,

Mom, if I could have explained the whole

thing without bringing you into it at

all, I should have done so. I know you

have suffered, but you will see for

yourself that such a course was

impossible if I were to explain the

entire problem. So, we must persuade

Superintendent Hadley that this affair

must be hushed up.

Something in his voice, something of the

unweary, unchanging, limitless

compassion that was Gideon fell, seemed

to touch her as gently as sleep after

tears. Her hysteria had gone. "Do you

know?" she asked him after a pause and

almost eagerly, "do not fool me. Do you

really know?" Yes, I really know.

Go upstairs. Go to his room, she said in

a dull voice, and I will join you

presently. I

I cannot face you just now. I must think

and but please do not speak to anybody

until I come. Please, no, I will not run

away."

Dr. Fell's fierce gesture silenced

Hadley as they went out. Still in

silence they tramped up the gloomy

stairs to the top floor. They passed no

one. They saw no one. Once more they

came into the study where it was so dark

that Hadley switched on the mosaic lamp

at the desk. After he'd made sure the

door was closed, Hadley turned round

rather wildly.

Are you trying to tell me that Grimmo

killed Fle? He demanded.

Yes. While he was lying unconscious and

dying under the eyes of witnesses in a

nursing home, he went to Calstro Street.

And I

not then,

said Dr. Fel quietly.

You see, that's what you don't

understand. That's what led you wrong.

That's what I meant by saying that the

case had been turned not upside down,

but the wrong way round.

Fle was killed before Grimmo. And worst

of all, Grimmo was trying to tell us the

exact literal truth. He did tell us the

exact truth when he knew he was dying

beyond hope. It's one of the good gleams

in him. But we chose to misinterpret it.

Sit down and I'll see if I can explain

it. Once you have grasped the three

essential points, you will need no

deduction and very little elucidation

from me. The thing will explain itself.

He lowered himself, wheezing into the

chair behind the desk. For a little time

he remained staring vacantly at the

lamp. Then he went on. The three

essential points then are these. One,

there is no brother Henri. There are

only two brothers. Two, both these

brothers were speaking the truth. Three,

a question of time has turned the case

wrong way round. Many things in this

case have turned on a matter of brief

spaces of time and how brief they are.

It's a part of the same irony which

described our murderer as the hollow man

that the crux of the case should be a

matter of mistaken time. You can easily

spot it if you think back. Now remember

yesterday morning I already had some

occasion to believe there was something

queer about that business in Galostro

Street. The shooting there we were told

by three truthful witnesses who agreed

precisely and to a second took place at

just 10:25.

I wondered in an idle sort of way why

they corroborated each other with such

startling exactitude.

In the case of the usual street

accident, even the most cool witnesses

don't usually take such notice or are

careful to consult their watches, or

even if they do, agree about the time

with such uncanny precision.

But they were truthful people, and there

must have been some reason for their

exactitude. The time must have been

thrust on them. Of course, there was a

reason. Just across from where the

murdered man fell, there was a lighted

show window, the only lighted window

thereabouts, of a jeweler's shop. It was

the most noticeable thing in the

foreground. It illuminated the murdered

man. It was the first place to which the

constable rushed in search of the

murderer. It quite naturally focused

their attention, and facing them from

that window there was an enormous clock

of such unusual design that it

immediately took the eye. It was

inevitable that the constable should

look for the time, and natural that the

others should do so, hence their

agreement. But one thing not apparently

important at that time bothered me a

little. After Grimmo was shot, Hadley

summoned his men to this house and

instantly dispatched one of them to pick

up Fle as a suspect.

Now then, those men arrived here. About

what time?

About 10:40

said Rample according to a rough

calculation I've got it in my timetable

and said Dr. Fel a man was sent

immediately to get Fle

this man must have arrived in Calstro

Street when between 15 and 20 minutes

after Fle was presumed to have been

killed. But in the space of that brief

time, what has happened? An incredible

number of things. Fle has been carried

down to the doctor's house. He has died.

An examination has been made. A

fruitless effort undertaken to identify

Fle. And then, after some delay, in the

words of the newspaper account, the van

is sent for and fle removed to the

morttery. All this for when Hadley's

detective arrived in Calstro Street to

pick up Fle, he found the whole business

finished, and the constable back making

inquiries from door to door. The entire

excitement had died down, which seemed

incredible. Unfortunately, I was so

dense that I didn't see the significance

of this even yesterday morning when I

saw the clock in the jeweler's window. A

think back once more. Yesterday morning

we had breakfast at my house. Pettis

dropped in and we talked to him until

what time?

There was a pause. Until exactly 10:00.

Hadley answered suddenly and snapped his

fingers. Yes, I remember because Big Ben

was striking just as he got up to go.

Quite right, he left us, and afterwards

we put on our hats and coats and drove

straight to Calstro Street. Now allow

any reasonable margin of time you like

for our putting on our hats, going

downstairs, driving a short distance on

deserted roads Sunday morning, a drive

that took us only 10 minutes when there

was Saturday night traffic. I think

you'll say the whole process can hardly

have taken 20 minutes in all. But in

Calstro Street, you showed me the

jeweler's shop, and that fancy clock was

just striking.

11.

Even then, in my musing density, it

never occurred to me to look at that

clock and wonder, just as in their

excitement, it never occurred to the

three witnesses last night.

Just afterwards, you recall, Summers and

O summoned us up to Bernaby's flat. We

made quite a long investigation and then

had a talk with Oor. And while Oor was

speaking, I noticed that the earlier

dead quiet of the day, the quiet when in

the street we heard only the wind

had a new sound. I heard church bells.

Well, what time do church bells begin to

ring? Not after 11:00 the service has

begun. Usually before 11 for a

preparatory bell, but if I accepted the

evidence of that German clock, it must

then be a very long time past 11:00.

Then my dull mind woke up. I remembered

Big Ben and our drive to Calstro Street.

The combination of those bells and Big

Ben against

a trumpery foreign clock, a church

and state, so to speak. Couldn't both be

wrong. In other words, the clock in that

jeweler's window was more than 40

minutes fast. Hence the shooting in

Caliostra Street the night before could

not have taken place at 25 minutes 10.

Actually it must have taken place a

short time previous to a4 to 10. So

roughly at 9:40.

Now sooner or later somebody would have

noticed this. Maybe somebody has noticed

it already. A thing like that would be

bound to come out in a coroner's court.

Somebody would come forward to dispute

the right time. Whether you would have

instantly seen the truth then, as I

hope, or whether it would have confused

you even more, I don't know. But the

solid fact remains that the affair in

Galostto Street took place some minutes

before the man in the false face rang

the bell of this house at 9:45.

But I still don't see, protested Hadley,

the impossible situation.

No, but I have a clear course now to

tell you the whole story from the

beginning. Yes, but let me get this

straightened out. If Grimmo, as you say,

shot Fle in Calostro Street just before

9:45.

I didn't say that, said Dr. Fel. What?

You'll understand if you follow my

patient elucidation from the beginning.

On Wednesday night of last week, when

Fle first appeared out of the past,

apparently out of his grave to confront

his brother with rather a terrible

threat at the Warrick Tavern, Grimmo

resolved to kill him. In the whole case,

you see, Grimmo was the only person with

a motive for killing Fle and my god

Hadley. But he did have a motive. He was

safe. He was rich. He was respected. The

past was buried. And then all of a

sudden, a door blows open to admit this

thin, grinning stranger, who is his

brother. Pierre Grimo, in escaping from

prison, had murdered one of his brothers

by leaving him buried alive. He would

have murdered the other except for an

accident. He could still be extradited

and hanged, and Pierre Fle had traced

him. Now, bear in mind exactly what Fle

said when he suddenly flew in to

confront Grimmo that night at the

tavern. Study why he said and did

certain things, and you will see that

even shaky-minded Fle was very far from

being as mad as he liked to pretend.

Why, if he were intent merely on private

vengeance, did he choose to confront

Greo in the presence of a circle of

friends and speak in just the innuendos

he used? He used his dead brother as a

threat, and it was the only time he did

speak of that dead brother. Why did he

say he can be much more dangerous to you

than I can? Because the dead brother

could hang Grimmo. Why did he say, "I

don't want your life he does." Why did

he say, "Shall I have him call on you?"

And then why, just afterwards, did he

hand Grimmo his card on which his own

address was carefully written? The

giving of that card, combined with his

words and later actions, is significant.

What Fle really meant, veiled so that he

could throw a scare into Grimmo before

witnesses was just this. You, my

brother, are fat and rich on the

proceeds of a robbery we both committed

when we were young. I am poor and I hate

my work. Now, will you come and call on

me at my address so that we can arrange

this matter? Or shall I set the police

on you?

Blackmail,

said Hadley softly.

Yes, Fle had a bee in his bonnet, but

Fle was far from being a fool. Now mark

how he twisted round his meaning in his

last threatening words to Grimo. I also

am in danger when I associate with my

brother, but I am prepared to run that

risk. And in that case, as always,

afterwards he was referring in strict

truth to Grimmo.

You, my brother, might also kill me as

you killed the other, but I will risk

it. So shall I call on you amiably, or

will my other dead brother come to hang

you? for think of his behavior

afterwards on the night of his murder.

Remember the glee he had of smashing up

and getting rid of his illusion

properties. And what words did he use to

OC? Words which, if you look at them

squarely in the light of what we now

know, can have only one explanation. He

said, "I shall not need them again. My

work is finished." Didn't I tell you I

am going to see my brother? He will do

something that will settle an old affair

for both of us. Meaning, of course, that

Grimo had agreed to come to terms. Fle

meant that he was leaving his old life

for good, going back to his grave as a

dead man with plenty of money, but he

couldn't be more specific without

blowing the gaff. But still he knew that

his brother was tricky. He'd had good

reason in the past to know it. He

couldn't leave behind him a big warning

when he spoke with O in case Grimo

really meant to pay. But he threw out a

hint.

In case anything happens to me, you will

find my brother in the same street where

I myself live. That is not where he

really resides, but he has a room there.

I'll explain that last statement in just

a moment. But go back to Grimmo. Now,

Grimmo never had any intention of coming

to terms with Fle. Fle was going to die.

That wily, shrewd, theatrical mind of

Grimose,

who, as you know, was more interested in

magical illusions, than anybody else we

have met, was determined not to suffer

any nonsense from this inconvenient

brother of his. Fle must die.

But this was more difficult than it

looked. If Fle had come to him in

private without anybody in the world

ever being able to associate Fle's name

with his, it would have been simple.

But Fle had been too shrewd for that. He

had blazed forth his own name and

address and hinted at mysterious secrets

concerning Grimmo before a group of

Grimmo's friends.

Awkward. Now, if Fle is found obviously

murdered, somebody is likely to say,

"Hello, isn't that the same chap who?"

And then presently there may be

dangerous inquiries because Lord knows

what Fle may have told other people

about Grimmo. The only thing he isn't

likely to have confided to somebody else

is his last deadly hold over Grimmo. And

that is the thing about which he must be

silenced. Whatever happens to Fle,

however he dies, there are likely to be

inquiries concerning Grimmo. The only

thing to do is, frankly, to pretend that

Fle is after his life, to send himself

threatening letters, not too obviously,

to stir up the household in an ingenious

way. finally to inform everybody that

Fle has threatened to call on him on the

night he himself intends to call on Fle.

You will see very shortly just how he

planned to work out a very brilliant

murder.

The effect he intended to produce was

this. The murderous fle should be seen

calling on him on Saturday night. There

should be witnesses to this. The two

should be together alone when Fle goes

into his study. A row is heard, the

sound of a fight, a shot and a fall. The

door being opened, Grimo should be found

alone, a nasty looking but superficial

wound from a bullet scratched along his

side.

No weapon is there. Out of the window

hangs a rope belonging to Fle by which

Fle is assumed to have escaped.

Remember, it had been predicted that

there would be no snow that night, so it

would have been impossible to trace

footprints.

Grimmo says he thought he killed me. I

pretended to be dead and he escaped. No,

don't set the police on him, poor devil.

I'm not hurt. And the next morning, Fle

would have been found dead in his own

room. He would have been found a

suicide, having pressed his own gun

against his chest and pulled the

trigger. The gun is beside him. A

suicide note lies on the table. In

despair at thinking he has killed Grimo,

he has shot himself. That, gentlemen,

was the illusion Greo intended to

produce.

But how did he do it? Demanded Hadley.

And anyway, it didn't turn out like

that. No, you see, the plan miscarried

badly. The latter part of the illusion

of Fle calling on him in his study, when

actually Fle would already have been

dead in the Calstro Street house. I'll

deal with in its proper place. Grimmo

with the aid of Madame Dumong had

already made certain preparations. He

had told Fle to meet him at Fle's room

on the top floor over the tobaconists.

He had told Fle to meet him there at

9:00 on the Saturday night for a cash

settlement.

You recall that Fle gleefully throwing

up his job and burning his properties

left the theater in Limehouse at about

8:15.

Grimmo had chosen Saturday night because

that night by inviable custom he

remained alone all evening in his study

without anyone being able to disturb him

for any reason whatsoever.

He chose that night because he needed to

use the areaway door and go and come by

way of the basement. And Saturday night

was the night out for Annie, who had her

quarters there. You'll remember that

after he went up to his study at 7:30,

nobody did see him until, according to

the evidence, he opened the study door

to admit the visitor at 9:50.

Madame Duong claimed to have spoken to

him in the study at 9:30 when she

gathered up the coffee things. I'll tell

you shortly why I disbelieved that

statement.

The fact is he was not in the study at

all. He was in Calostro Street. Madame

Dum had been told to lurk around the

study door at 9:30 and to come out for

some excuse. Why? Because Grimo had

ordered Mills to come upstairs at 9:30,

you see, and watch the study door from

the room down the hall. Mills was to be

the dupe of the illusion Grimmo meant to

work. But if, as he came upstairs near

the study door, Mills had, for any

reason, taken it into his head to try to

speak with Grimo or see him. Dumont was

there to head him off. Dong was to wait

in the archway and keep Mills away from

that door if he showed any curiosity.

Mills was chosen as the dupe of the

illusion.

Why? Because, although he was so

meticulously conscientious that he would

carry out his instructions to the tick,

he was so afraid of fle that he would

not interfere when the hollow man came

stalking up those stairs.

It was not only that he must not attack

the man in the false face in those

dangerous few moments before the man got

into the study as for instance Mangan or

even Draymond might have done but also

that he must not even venture out of his

room. He had been told to stay in that

room,

and he would. Finally, he had been

chosen because he was a very short man,

a fact which will presently become

clear. Now, he was told to go upstairs

and watch at 9:30. This was because the

hollow man was timed to make his

appearance only a little afterwards.

Although in fact the hollow man was late

mark one discrepancy. Mills was told

9:30 but Mangan was told at 10:00 the

reason is obvious. There was to be

somebody downstairs to testify that a

visitor had really arrived by the front

door confirming Timour. But Mangan might

be inclined towards curiosity about this

visitor. he might be inclined to

challenge the hollow man, unless he had

first been jokingly told by Grimmo that

the visitor would probably not arrive at

all, or if he did arrive, it could not

possibly be before 10:00. All that was

necessary was to throw his mind off and

make him hesitate long enough for the

hollow man to get upstairs past that

dangerous door. And if the worst came to

the worst, Mangan and Rosette could

always be locked in.

For everybody else, Annie was out.

Draymond had been supplied with a ticket

to a concert. Barnaby was unquestionably

playing cards, and Pettis at the

theater. The field was clear. At some

time before 9:00, probably about 10

minutes, Grimmo slipped out of the

house, using the area door up to the

street. Trouble had already started. It

had been snowing heavily for some time,

contrary to rules,

but Grimmo did not regard it as serious

trouble. He believed he could do the

business and return by 9, and that it

would still be snowing heavily enough to

gloss over any footprints that he would

make, and cause no comment on the

absence of any footprints the visitor

later should have made, when the visitor

would be supposed to have swung down

from his window. In any case, his plans

had been carried too far for him to back

out.

When he left the house, he was carrying

an old and untraceable cult revolver

loaded with just two bullets. The sort

of hat he wore, I don't know, but his

overcoat was a light yellow, glaring

tweed with chickenpox spots. He bought

this coat, several sizes too large. He

bought it because it was the sort of

coat he had never been known to wear,

and because nobody would recognize him

in it if he were to be seen. He

Hadley intervened.

Stop a bit. What about that business of

the overcoats changing color? That would

come earlier in the evening. What had

happened there? Again, I've got to ask

you to wait until we get to the last

illusion he worked. That's a part of it.

Well, Grimmo's purpose was to call on

Fle. There he would speak with Fle

amiably for a time. He would say

something like, "You must leave this

hvel, brother. You will be comfortably

off now. I will see to that. Why not

leave these useless possessions behind

and come to my house? Let your landlord

have the damned things in place of

notice." Any sort of speech, you see,

the purpose being to make Fle write one

of his ambiguous notes for the landlord.

I am leaving for good. I am going back

to my grave. Anything that could be

understood as a suicide note when Fle

was found dead with a gun in his hand.

Dr. Fel leaned forward

and then Grimo would take out his coat,

jam it against Fle's chest and smilingly

pull the trigger.

It was the top floor of an empty house.

As you have seen, the walls are

astonishingly thick and solid. The

landlord lived far down in the basement

and was the most incurious man in

Calstro Street. No shot, especially a

muffled shot with the gun held against

Fle could have been heard. It might be

some time before the body was

discovered. It would certainly not be

before morning. And in the meantime,

what will Grimmo do? After killing Fle,

he will turn the same gun on himself to

give himself a slight wound, even if he

has to embed the bullet. He had, as we

know from that little episode of the

Three Coffins years before, the

constitution of an ox and the nerve of

hell.

Then he would leave the gun lying beside

Fle. He would quite coolly clap a

handkerchief or cotton wool across this

wound which must be inside the coat and

across the shirt. bind it with adhesive

tape until the time came to rip it open

and go back home to work his illusion,

which should prove that Fle came to see

him, that Fle shot him, and then

returned to Calstro Street and used the

same gun for suicide. No coroner's jury

would afterwards doubt, do I make it

clear, so far? It was crime turned the

wrong way round.

That, as I say, was what Grimmo intended

to do. Had he performed it as he

intended, it would have been an

ingenious murder, and I doubt whether we

should ever have questioned Fle's

suicide.

Now, there was only one difficulty about

accomplishing this plan. If anybody, not

anybody recognizable as himself, but

anybody at all, were seen visiting Fle's

house, the fat would be in the fire. It

might not appear so easily as suicide.

There was only one entrance from the

street, the door beside the tobaconists,

and he was wearing a conspicuous coat in

which he had reconoited the ground

before.

By the way, Dolberman, the tobaconist,

had seen him hanging about previously.

He found the solution of this difficulty

in Bernaby's secret flat. You see, of

course, that Grimo was the likeliest

person of all to have known of Bernaby's

flat in Calstro Street.

Burnaby himself told us that some months

before, when Grimmo suspected him of

having an ulterior motive in painting

that picture, Grimo had not only

questioned him, he had watched him. From

a man who was in such fancied danger, it

would have been real watching. He knew

of the flat. He knew from spying that

Rosette had a key. And so when the time

came and the idea occurred to him, he

stole Rosett's key. The house in which

Burnaby had his flat was on the same

side of the street as the house where

Fle lived. All those houses are built

side by side with flat roofs, so that

you have only to step over a low

dividing wall to walk on the roofs from

one end of the street to the other. Both

men, remember, lived on the top floor.

You recall what we saw when we went up

to look at Burnaby's flat just beside

the door to the flat.

Hadley nodded. Yes, of course. A short

ladder going to a trap door in the roof.

Exactly.

And on the landing just outside Fle's

room, there is a low skylight also

communicating with the roof. Grimmo had

only to go to Kalystro Street by the

back way, never appearing in the street

itself, but going up the alley which we

saw from Bernaby's window. He came in

the back door as we saw Burnaby and

Rosette do later. He went up to the top

floor and then to the roof. Then he

followed the roofs to flee lodgings,

descended from the skylight to the

landing, and could both enter and leave

the place without a soul seeing him.

Moreover, he knew absolutely that that

night Burnaby would be playing cards

elsewhere,

and then everything went wrong.

He must have got to Fle's lodgings

before Fle arrived there himself. It

wouldn't do to make Fle suspicious by

being seen coming from the roof. But we

know that Fle had some suspicions

already.

This may have been caused by Grimmo's

request for Fle to bring along one of

his long conjuring ropes. Grimmo wanted

that rope as a piece of evidence to use

later against Fle. Or it may have been

caused by Fle's knowledge that Grimmore

had been hanging about in Calostro

Street for the past couple of days,

possibly seeing him duck across the

roofs towards Bernabies after one

reconoitering and thereby making Fle

believe he had taken a room in the

street. The two brothers met in that

gaslit room at 9. What they talked

about, we don't know. We may never know.

But evidently Grimmo lulled Fle's

suspicions. They became pleasant and

amiable and forgot old scores.

Grimmo jocularly persuaded him to write

that note for the landlord.

Then

I'm not disputing all this, said Hadley

quietly. But how do you happen to know

it?

A Grimo told us, said Dr. fell.

Hadley stared. Oh, yes. Once I had

tumbled to that terrible mistake in

times, I could understand.

You'll see. But to continue. Fle had

written his note. He'd got into his hat

and coat for departure because Grimmo

wished it to be assumed that he had

killed himself just after having

returned from a journey outdoors.

His return from the phantom visit to

Grimmo. In other words, they were all

ready to go. And then Grimmo leaped.

Whether Fle was subconsciously on his

guard, whether he twitched round to run

for the door, since he was no match for

the powerful Grimmo, whether it happened

in the twisting and scaffold, this we do

not know. But Grimmo with the gun

against Fle's coat as Fle wrenched round

from him, made a hellish mistake. He

fired and he put the bullet in the wrong

place. Instead of getting his victim

through the heart, he got him under the

left shoulder blade. A wound of almost

the same sort, although at the back as

the one from which Grimo later died

himself. It was a fatal wound, but far

from instantly fatal. The poetic ironies

were working to kill these brothers with

interchangeable methods

in precisely the same way. Of course,

Fle went down. He could do nothing else,

and it was the wisest course, or Grimo

might have finished him, but Grimmo for

a second must have lost his nerve in

sheer terror. This might have wrecked

his whole plan. Could a man shoot

himself in that spot? If not, God helped

the murderer. And worse, Fle, not caught

quickly enough, had screamed out before

the bullet went home, and Greo thought

he heard pursuers. He had sense enough

and guts enough, even in that hellish

moment to keep his head. He jammed the

pistol into the hand of the motionless

play, lying on his face. He picked up

the coil of rope. Somehow, in spite of

crash and fuddlement, the plan must go

on. But he had more sense than to risk

the noise of another shot, to be heard

by people possibly listening, or to

waste more time. He darted out of the

room. The roof, do you see? The roof was

his only chance. He heard imaginary

pursuers everywhere. Maybe some grizzly

recollection came back to him of three

graves in a storm below the Hungarian

mountains. He imagined that they would

hear him and track him across those

roofs. So he dashed for the trapoor at

Bernaby's and down into the dark of

Bernaby's flat. It was only then that

his wits began to recover themselves.

And meantime, what has happened? Pierre

Fle is fatally hurt, but he still has

the ribs of that iron frame which once

enabled him to survive being buried

alive.

The murderer has gone, and Fle will not

give in. He must get help. He must get

to

to a doctor. Hadley, you asked yesterday

why Fle was walking towards the other

end of the street, towards the end of a

blind alley.

Because, as you saw in the newspaper, a

doctor lived there, a doctor to whose

office he later was carried. He is

mortally hurt, and he knows it, but he

will not be beaten. He gets up, still in

his hat and overcoat. The gun has been

put into his hand. He rams it in his

pocket, for it may be useful. Down he

goes downstairs as steadily as he can to

a silent street where no alarm has been

raised. He walks on.

Have you asked yourself why he was

walking in the middle of the street and

kept looking so sharply round? The most

reasonable explanation is not that he

was going to visit anybody, but that he

knew the murderer to be lurking

somewhere and he expected another

attack. He thinks he is safe. Ahead of

him, two men are walking rapidly. He

passes a lighted jewelers. He sees a

street lamp ahead on the right.

But what has happened to Grimmo? Grimmo

has heard no pursuit, but he is half

insane with wondering. He does not dare

go back to the roof and risk

investigation.

But stop a moment. If there has been any

discovery, he will be able to know by

looking for a second out into the

street. He can go down to the front

door, look out, and peer up the street,

can't he? No danger in that since the

house where Burnaby lives is deserted.

He goes softly downstairs. He opens the

door softly, having unbuttoned his coat

to wind the coil of rope around him

inside that overcoat. He opens the door

full in the glow of a street lamp just

beyond the door. And facing him, walking

slowly in the middle of the street, is

the man he left for dead in the other

house less than 10 minutes ago. And for

the last time, those brothers come face

to face. Grimmo's shirt is a target

under that street lamp. And Fle, driven

mad with pain and hysteria, does not

hesitate. He screams, he cries the

words, "The second bullet is for you."

Just before he whips up the same pistol

and fires. That last effort is too much.

The hemorrhage has got him, and he knows

it. He screams again, lets go of the gun

as he tries to throw it now empty at

Grimo, and then he pitches forward onto

his face. That, my lads, is the shot

which the three witnesses heard in

Calstro Street. It was the shot which

struck Grimmo in the chest just before

he had time to close the door.

21. The unraveling

and then prompted Hadley as Dr. Fel

paused and lowered his head.

The three witnesses did not see Grimmo.

Of course, said Dr. fell wheezing after

a long pause because he was never

outside the door, never on the steps at

all, never within 20 ft of the man who

seemed to have been murdered in the

middle of a snow desert. Of course, Fle

already had the wound which jetted blood

from the last convulsion. Of course, any

deduction from the direction of the

wound was useless. Of course, there were

no fingerprints on the gun since it

landed in snow, and in a literal sense

had been washed clean.

"By God,"

said Hadley so quietly that he seemed to

be making a statement.

"It fulfills every condition of the

facts, and yet I never thought of it."

"But go on, Grimmo." Grimo is inside the

door. He knows he's got it in his chest,

but he doesn't think it's very serious.

He's survived worse things than bullets,

and other things he thinks are more

serious. After all, he's only got what

he was going to give himself, a wound.

He could bark out that chuckle of his at

such a thing, but his plan has crashed

to hell. How is he to know, by the way,

that the clock at the jewelers will be

fast? He doesn't even know that Fle is

dead, for there is Fle walking in the

street with fire and sting still in him.

Luck by reason of the jeweler's clock is

with him when he thought he had deserted

him. But how is he to know it? All he is

sure of is that Fle will never now be

found a suicide up in that little room.

A fle probably dangerously wounded, yes,

but still able to talk, is out in that

street with a policeman running towards

him. Grimo is undone

unless he can use his wits. He's on his

way to the hangman for fle

silent now.

All this comes in an instant after the

shot. The rush of fancies crowding in.

He can't stay here in this dark hall.

He'd better have a look at that wound

though and make sure he doesn't leave a

trail of blood.

Where Bernaby's flat upstairs, of

course. Up he goes, gets the door open

and switches on the lights. Here's the

rope wound round him. No use for that

thing now. He can't pretend Fle came to

call on him when Fle may now be talking

with the police.

He flings the rope off and leaves it. I

look at the wound next. There's blood

all over the inside of that light tweed

overcoat and blood on his inner clothes.

But the wound is of small consequence.

He's got his handkerchief and his

adhesive tape, and he can plug himself

up like a horse gored in the bull ring.

Garly Horvath, whom nothing can kill,

can afford to chuckle at this. He feels

as steady and fresh as ever. But he

patches himself up, hence the blood in

the bathroom of Bernaby's flat and tries

to collect his wits. What time is it?

Good God, he's late. It's just on a4 to

10. Got to get out of here and hurry

home before they catch him. and he

leaves the lights on when they burnt up

a Schillingsworth and went out in the

later course of the night. We don't

know.

They were on 3/4 of an hour afterwards

anyhow when Rosette saw them. But I

think that his sanity returns as he

hurries home. Is he caught? It seems

inevitable

yet. Is there any loophole, any ghost of

a fighting chance? however thin. You

see, whatever else Grimmo is, he's a

fighter. He's a shrewd, theatrical,

imaginative, sneering, common sense

blard.

But don't forget that he's also a

fighter. He wasn't all of a black color.

You know, he would murder a brother, but

I question whether he would murder a

friend or a woman who loved him. In any

case, is there some way out? There's one

chance. So thin that it's almost

useless, but the only one. That's to

carry through his original scheme and

pretend that Fle has called on him and

given him that wound in his own house.

Fle still has the gun. It will be

Grimmo's word and his witness's word

that he never left the house all

evening. Whereas they can swear that Fle

did come to see him and then let the

damned police try to prove anything. Why

not the snow?

It's stopped snowing and Fle won't have

left a track. Grimo has thrown away the

rope Fle was supposed to have used, but

it's a tossup. A last daring of the

devil. the only course in an extremity.

A fl shot him at about 20 minutes to 10.

He gets back here at a/4 to 10 or a

little after. Getting into the house

without leaving a footprint. Easy for a

man with a constitution like an ox and

only slightly wounded.

By the way, I believe he was really

wounded only slightly, and that he'd

live now to hang if he hadn't done

certain things.

You'll see. He'll return by way of the

steps down to the area way and the area

door as arranged. How? Well, there is a

coating of snow on the areaway steps, of

course, but the entrance to the areaway

steps is beside the next house, isn't

it? Yes. And at the foot of the area

steps, the basement door is protected

from snow by a projection. The

projection of the main front steps

overhanging so that there is no snow

exactly in front of the area door. If he

can get down there without leaving a

mark, he can. He can approach from the

other direction as though he were going

to the house next door and then simply

jump down the area steps to the cleared

patch below. Don't I seem to remember a

thud as of someone falling which someone

heard just before the front doorbell

rang.

But he didn't ring the front doorbell.

Oh, yes he did, but from inside

after he'd gone into the house by way of

the area door and up to where Ernestine

Dong was waiting for him. Then they were

ready to perform their illusion.

Yes, said Hadley. Now we come to the

illusion. How was it done, and how do

you know how it was done?

Dr. fell, sat back, and tapped his

fingertips together as though he were

marshalling facts. How do I know? Well,

I think my first suggestion was the

weight of that picture. He pointed

sleepily at the big slashed canvas

leaning against the wall. Yes, it was

the weight of the picture. That wasn't

very helpful until I remembered

something else.

weight of the picture. Yes, the picture,

growled Hadley. I'd forgotten that. How

does it figure in the blasted business

anyhow? What did Grieo mean to do with

that? H.

Yes, that's what I wondered. You see,

but the weight of the picture, man, it

doesn't weigh very much. You yourself

picked it up with one hand and turned it

round in the air.

Dr. fell, sat up with an air of some

excitement.

Exactly. You've hit it. I picked it up

with one hand and swung it round.

Then why should it take two husky men,

the cabman and one extra to carry it

upstairs?

What it did? You know that was twice

pointed out to us. Grieo, when he took

it from Bernaby's studio, easily carried

it downstairs, yet when he returned here

with that same painting late in the

afternoon, the two people had a job

guarding it up. Where had it picked up

so much weight all of a sudden? He

didn't have glass put in. You can see

that for yourself. Where was Grimmo all

that time? The morning when he bought

the picture, and the afternoon when he

returned with it. It's much too big a

thing to carry about with you for

pleasure. Why was Grimmo so insistent on

having the picture all wrapped up? It

wasn't a very far-fetched deduction to

think that he used that picture as a

blind to hide something that the men

were carrying up unintentionally along

with it. Something in the same parcel,

something very big, 7 ft by 4.

H.

But there couldn't have been anything,

objected Hadley, or we'd have found it

in this room, wouldn't we? Besides, in

any case, the thing must have been

almost absolutely flat, or it would have

been noticed in the wrappings of the

picture. What sort of object is it

that's as big as 7 ft by 4, and yet thin

enough not to be noticed inside the

wrappings of a picture? What's as huge a

business as that picture which can

nevertheless be spirited out of sight

whenever you wish?

A mirror,

said Dr. Fel.

After a sort of thunderous silence,

while Hadley rose from his chair, Dr.

Fel went on sleepily.

And it can be spirited out of sight, as

you put it, merely by being pushed up

the flu of that very broad chimney,

where we've all tried to get our fists,

by the way, and propped up on the ledge

inside where the chimney turns. You

don't need magic. You only need to be

damnably strong in the arms and

shoulders.

Eain cried Hadley. That damned stage

trick. A new version of the stage trick,

said Dr. Fel, and a very good one which

is practical if you care to try it. Now

look round the room. You see the door.

What do you see in the wall directly

opposite the door? Nothing, said Hadley.

I mean, he's had the bookcases cleared

away in a big space on either side.

There's blank panled wool, that's all.

Exactly.

And do you see any furniture in a line

between the door and that wall? No, it's

cleared. So if you were out in that hall

looking in, you would see only black

carpet, no furniture, and to the rear an

expanse of blank oak panled wall. Yes.

Now, Ted, open the door and look out

into the hall, said Dr. Fel. What about

the walls and carpet out there?

Rample made a faint of looking, although

he knew.

They're just the same, he said. The

floor is one solid carpet running to the

baseboards like this one, and the

paneling is the same.

Right. By the way, Hadley, pursued Dr.

Fel, still drowsily.

You might drag out that mirror from

behind the bookcase over there. It's

been behind the bookcase since yesterday

afternoon when Draymond found it in the

chimney. It was lifting it down that

brought on his stroke. We'll try a

little experiment. I don't think any of

the household will interrupt us up here,

but we can head off anybody who does.

I want you to take that mirror. Hadley

and set it up just inside the door, so

that when you open the door, it opens

inwards and to the right. You see, as

you come in from the hall, the edge of

the door at its outermost swing is a few

inches away from the mirror.

The superintendent, with some

difficulty, trundled out the object he

found behind the bookcase. It was bigger

than a tor's swinging mirror, several

inches, in fact, higher and wider than

the door. Its base rested flat on the

carpet, and it was supported upright by

a heavy swing base on the right hand

side as you faced it. Hadley regarded it

curiously.

Set it up inside the door. Yes. The door

will only swing open a short distance.

You'll see an aperture only a couple of

feet wide at the most. Try it. I know,

but if you do that, well, somebody

sitting in the room down at the end of

the hall where Mills was would see his

own reflection smack in the middle of

the mirror. Not at all. Not at the

angle. A slight angle, but enough. A

poor thing, but mine own. Not at the

angle to which I'm going to tilt it.

You'll see. The two of you go down there

where Mills was while I adjusted. Keep

your eyes off until I sing out.

Hadley muttering that it was damned

foolishness but highly interested in

spite of that. Tramped down after

Rampole, they kept their eyes off until

they heard the doctor's hail and then

turned round. The hallway was gloomy and

high enough. its black carpeted length

ran down to a closed door. Dr. Fel stood

outside that door like an overfat master

of ceremonies about to unveil a statue.

He stood a little to the right of the

door, well back from it against the

wall, and had his hand stretched out

across to the knob.

"Here she goes," he grunted, and quickly

opened the door, hesitated, and closed

it. Well, what did you see?

I saw the room inside, returned Hadley.

Or at least I thought I did. I saw the

carpet and the rear wall. It seemed a

very big room. You didn't see that, said

Dr. Fel. As a matter of fact, you saw

the reflection of the panled wall

immediately to the right of the door

where you're standing, and the carpet

going up to it. That's why it seemed so

big a room. You were looking at a double

length of reflection. This mirror is

bigger than the door, you know. And you

didn't see a reflection of the door

itself because it opens inwards to the

right. If you looked carefully, you

might have seen a line of what looks

like shadow just along the top edge of

the door. That's where the top edge of

the mirror inevitably reflects being

taller an inch or so of the inner top

edge of the door. But your attention

would be concentrated on any figures you

saw. Did you see me by the way? No, you

were too far over. You had your arm

across the door to the knob and kept

back. Yes, as Dumong was standing. Now

try a last experiment before I explain

how the whole mechanism worked. Ted, you

sit down in that chair behind that desk

where Mills was sitting. You're very

much taller than he is, but it will

illustrate the idea. I'm going to stand

outside with this door open and look at

myself in the mirror. Now, you can't

mistake me either from the front or the

rear, but then I'm more distinguishable

than some people. Just tell me what you

see.

In the ghostly light, with the door

partly open, the effect was rather

eerie. A figure of Dr. Fel stood inside

the door, peering out at another figure

of Dr. fell standing on the threshold

and confronting himself

fixed and motionless with a startled

look.

I don't touch the door, you see. A voice

boomed at them. By the illusion of the

moving lips, Rampol would have sworn

that the doctor fell inside the door was

speaking. The mirror threw the voice

back like a sounding board.

Somebody obligingly opens and closes the

door for me. Somebody standing at my

right. I don't touch the door or my

reflection would have to do likewise.

Quick, what do you notice?

Why? One of you is very much taller,

said Rample, studying the images. Which

one?

You yourself. The figure in the hall.

Exactly. first because you're seeing it

at a distance. But the most important

thing is that you're sitting down to a

man the size of Mills. I should look

like a giant. Eh,

yes. Now, if I make a quick move to

dodge in at that door, supposing me to

be capable of such a maneuver, and at

the same time my confederate at the

right makes a quick, confusing move with

me, and slams the door in the muddled

delusion, the figure inside seems to be,

jumping in front of you to keep you out.

Yes. Now, come and read the evidence. if

Hadley has it.

When they were again in the room, past

the tilted mirror which Hadley moved

back, Dr. Fel sank into a chair, sighing

wheezily.

I'm sorry, J. I should have realized the

truth long before, from the careful,

methodical, exact Mr. Mills's evidence.

Let me see if I can repeat from memory

his exact words. Check me up, Hadley. H.

He wrapped his knuckles against his head

and scowlled

like this. She demon was about to knock

at the door when I was startled to see

the tall man who come upstairs directly

after us. She turned round and saw him.

She exclaimed certain words. The tall

man made no reply. He walked to the door

and without haste turned down the collar

of his coat and removed his cap, which

he placed in his overcoat pocket. You

see, Drench, he had to do that because

the reflection couldn't show a cap and

couldn't show a collar turned up when

the figure inside must appear to be

wearing a dressing gun. But I wondered

why he was so methodical about that

since apparently he didn't remove the

mask.

Yes. What about that mask? Mills says he

didn't. Mills didn't see him take it

off. I'll show you why as soon as we go

on with Mills.

Madame Dumong cried out something,

shrank back against the wall and hurried

to open the door. Dr. Grimo appeared on

the threshold. Appeared.

That's precisely what he did do. Our

methodical witness is uncomfortably

exact.

But do more.

There was the first floor. A frightened

woman looking up at a terrifying figure

while she's standing before the door of

a room in which there's a man who will

protect her. Doesn't shrink back. She

rushes towards the door to get

protection.

Anyhow, follow Mills's testimony. He

says Grimmo was not wearing his

eyeglasses. They wouldn't have fitted

behind that mask. But the natural

movement of a man inside, I thought,

would have been to raise his glasses.

Grimo, according to Mills, stands stock

still the whole time, like the stranger

with his hands in his pockets. Now, for

the damning part, Mills says,

"I am under the impression that Madame

Duour, although she was shrinking back

against the wall, closed the door after

him. I recall that she had her hand on

the knob. not a natural action for her

either. She contradicted him, but Mills

was right. Dr. Fel gestured.

No use going on with all this, but here

was my difficulty. If Grimmo was alone

in that room, if he simply walked in on

his own reflection, what became of his

clothes? What about that long black

overcoat, the brown peaked gap, even the

false face? They weren't in the room.

Then I remembered that Ernestine

Dumour's profession had been the making

of costumes for the opera and ballet. I

remembered a story a rock had told us,

and I knew

well that Grimmo had burnt them, said

Dr. Fel. He had burnt them because they

were made of paper, like the uniform of

the vanishing horsemen described by Oor.

He couldn't risk the long and dangerous

business of burning real clothes in that

fire. He had to work too fast. They had

to be torn up and burnt. And bundles of

loose blank sheets of writing paper,

perfectly blank, had to be burned on top

of them to hide the fact that some of it

was colored paper.

Dangerous letters. Oh, backers. I could

murder myself for thinking such a thing.

He shook his fist

when there was no blood trail, no blood

stain at all going to the drawer in his

desk where he did keep his important

papers. And there was another reason for

burning papers. They had to conceal the

fragments of the shot.

Sh shot. Don't forget that a pistol was

supposed to have been fired in that

room. Of course, what the witnesses

really heard was the noise of a heavy

firecracker pinched from the horde

Draymond always keeps, as you know, for

Guyfork's night. Draymond discovered the

missing thunderbolt. I think that's how

he tumbled to the scheme and why he kept

muttering about fireworks.

Well, the fragments of an exploding

firecracker fly wide. Their heavy

reinforced cardboard, hard to burn, and

they had to be destroyed in the fire or

hidden in that drift of papers. I found

some of them. Of course, we should have

realized no bullet had really been

fired. Modern cartridges such as you

informed me were used in that Colt

revolver have smokeless powder. You can

smell it, but you can't see it. And yet

there was a haze in this room left by

the firecracker even after the window

was up. Ah well, let's recapitulate.

Grimo's heavy crepe paper uniform

consisted of a black coat, black like a

dressing gown, long like a dressing

gown, and having at the front shiny

lapels which would show like a dressing

gown when you turned down the collar to

face your own image. It consisted of a

paper cap to which the false face was

attached, so that in sweeping off the

cap, you simply folded both together and

shoved them into your pocket. The real

dressing gown, by the way, was already

in this room while Grimo was out, and

the black uniform early last evening had

been incautiously hung up in the closet

downstairs.

Mangan unfortunately

spotted it. The watchful Don knew that

he had spotted it and whisked it out of

that cupboard to a safer place as soon

as he went away. She naturally never saw

a yellow tweed coat hanging there at

all. Grimmo had it upstairs here with

him, ready for his expedition, but it

was found in the closet yesterday

afternoon, and she had to pretend it had

been there all the time. Hence the

chameleon overcoat.

You can now

make a reconstruction of just what

happened when Grimo, after killing Fle

and getting a bullet himself, returned

to the house on Saturday night. Right at

the start of the illusion, he and his

confederate were in dangerous trouble.

You see, Grimo was late. He expected to

be back by 9:30, and he didn't get there

until a quart to 10. The longer he

delayed, the nearer it got to the time

he had told Mangan to expect a visitor,

and now Mangan would be expecting the

visitor he had been told to watch. It

was touch and go, and I rather imagine

the cool Grimmo was fairly close to

insane. He got up, through the basement

entrance, where his confederate was

waiting. The tweed coat, with the blood

inside it, went into the hall closet to

be disposed of presently, and it never

was, because he died.

Dimal eased open the door, rang the bell

by putting her hand out, and then went

to answer it while Grimmo was getting

ready with his uniform.

But they delayed too long. Mangan called

out. Grimo, with his wits still not

functioning well, grew a little panicky

and made a blunder to ward off immediate

detection. He had got so far he didn't

want to fail then from the nosiness of a

damned penniles kid.

So he said that he was Pettis and locked

them in.

You notice that Pettis is the only one

with a voice of the same base quality as

Grimos. Yes, it was a spur-ofthe- moment

error, but his only wish was to writhe

like a footballer down a field and

somehow escape those hands for the

moment.

The illusion was performed.

He was alone in his room. His jacket,

probably with blood on that, had been

taken in charge by Dumong. He wore the

uniform over his shirt sleeves, open

shirt, and bandaged wound. He had only

to lock the door behind him, put on his

real dressing gown, destroy the paper

uniform, and get that mirror up into the

chimney.

That, I say again, was the finish.

The blood had begun to flow again. You

see, no ordinary man wounded could have

stood the strain under which he had

already been.

He wasn't killed by Fle's bullet. He

ripped his own lung like a rotted piece

of rubber when he tried to and

superhumanly did lift that mirror into

its hiding place.

That was when he knew. Then was when he

began to bleed from the mouth like a

slashed artery, when he staggered

against the couch, knocked away the

chair, and reeled forward in his last

successful effort to ignite the

firecracker.

After all the hates and dodgings and

plans,

the world was not spinning in front of

him. It was only slowly going black. He

tried to scream out and he could not,

for the blood was welling in his throat.

And at that moment, Sha Grimo suddenly

knew what he would never have believed

possible. the breaking of the last and

most shattering mirror illusion in his

bitter life.

Well,

he knew that he was dying, said Dr. Fel,

and stranger than any of his dreams.

He was glad.

The heavy lead and light had begun to

darken again with snow.

Dr. The Fel's voice sounded weirdly in

the chill room. Then they saw that the

door was opening and that in it stood

the figure of a woman with a damned

face, a damned face and a black dress,

but round her shoulders was still drawn

a red and yellow shawl for love of the

dead.

Missy,

he confessed.

Dr. Fel said in the same low monotonous

tone,

"He tried to tell us the truth about his

killing of Fle and Fle's killing of him.

Only we did not choose to understand,

and I didn't understand until I knew

from the clock what must have happened

in Calstro Street." "Man,

man, don't you see?" to take first his

final statement. The statement made just

before he died. It was my brother who

did it. I never thought he would shoot.

God knows how he got out of that room.

You fle's room in Calstro Street after

Fle had been left for dead demanded

Hadley. Yes. and the horrible shock of

coming on him suddenly as Grimmo opened

the door under the street light. You

see, one second he was there and the

next he wasn't. I want to tell you who

my brother is so you won't think I'm

raving,

but of course he did not think anybody

knew about Fle. Now, in the light of

that, examine the tangled, muddled, half

choked words with which, when he heard

the statement that he was sinking, he

tried to explain the whole puzzle to us.

At first, he tried to tell us about the

Horvath and the salt mine, but he went

on to the killing of Fle and what Fle

had done to him, not suicide.

When he had seen Fle in the street, he

couldn't make Fle's death the suicide he

pretended. He couldn't use rope. Fle

couldn't after that be supposed to use

the rope that Grimmo had discarded as

useless.

Roof. Grimmo did not mean this roof, but

the other roof which he crossed when he

left Fle's room. Snow.

The snow had stopped and wrecked his

plans. Too much light. There's the crux

Hadley. When he looked out into the

street, there was too much light from

the street lamp. Fle recognized him and

fired. Got gun.

Naturally, Fle had got the gun then. Fox

the mask. The guy forks sherad. He tried

to work but finally don't blame poor.

Not Draymond. He didn't mean Draymond.

But it was a last apology for the one

thing I think of which he was ashamed.

The one piece of imposture he would

never have done. Don't blame poor

Pettis. I didn't mean to implicate him.

For a long time, nobody spoke.

"Yes," Hadley agreed dullly. "Yes, all

except one thing. What about the

slashing of that picture? And where did

the knife go?" The slashing of the

picture, I think, was an extra touch of

the picturesque to help the illusion.

Grimmo did it, or so I imagine.

As for the knife, I frankly don't know.

Grimmo probably had it here and put it

up the chimney beside the mirror so that

the invisible man should seem to be

doubly armed,

but it isn't on the chimney ledge now. I

should suppose that Draymond found it

yesterday and took it away. That is the

one point, said a voice on which you are

wrong.

Ernestine Dumour remained in the

doorway, her hands folded across the

shawl at her breast, but she was

smiling.

"I have heard everything you said," she

went on. "Perhaps you can hang me, or

perhaps not. That is not important. I do

know that after so many years, it is not

quite worthwhile going on without

Shaol." I took the knife, my friend. I

had another use for it.

She was still smiling and there was a

blaze of pride in her eyes.

Rample saw what her hands were hiding.

He saw her totter suddenly, but he was

too late to catch her when she pitched

forward on her face.

Dr. Fel, lumbered out of his chair, and

remained staring at her with a face as

white as her own.

I have committed another crime. Hadley,

he said,

I have guessed the truth again.

You've been listening to an Orion audio

book, The Hollow Man by John Dixon Carr,

read by Peter Noble, produced by the

audio book producers. The text is

copyright John Dixon car 1935 1957.

The recording is copyright 2019 by the

Orion Publishing Group. For information

about other Orion audio books, visit the

website at orionbooks.co.uk.