by Derek Smith
At twenty minutes to twelve, the rain stopped, much to Sergeant Hardinge's satisfaction. As he said to Lawrence later: "It was no joke, waiting around in that downpour. Besides, when the clouds drifted away from the moon I had a much better view of the house."
Inside the building, Algy Lawrence glanced at his wrist-watch, shifted his cramped legs, and stifled a yawn.
Behind him lay the short passage that led from the main hall to the side door which, like every other entrance to the house, was securely locked from the inside. To his right was the broad staircase, to his left the entrance to the corridor, so near he could reach out his fingers and touch the half-drawn curtains.
And facing him was Peter Querrin, slumped in his chair, white-faced and uneasy.
Lawrence eyed him thoughtfully. He hoped that zero hour would bring no sudden attack of hysteria… It was a relief when Peter began to talk, nervously.
Recognizing the anxious chatter was a useful safety-valve, he listened sympathetically and interposed an odd word here and there.
As the hands of his watch crept round towards midnight, Peter's talk swelled up loudly, then suddenly stopped.
He said wretchedly:
"It's no good, Lawrence. I—I can't stand this any more."
Algy murmured a warning and peeped quickly at his wrist-watch. It was four minutes to twelve.
He said quietly:
"It will all be over soon."
Peter said, with a desperate calm:
"It's nearly midnight. We can't stay here... I must be near to Roger."
Algy thought quickly. It would do no harm, at least… With sudden decision, he said:
"All right, then. Light the candles."
Querrin grabbed up the triple branched stand and touched flame to the wicks. Then he flicked away the spent and blackened matchstick, and looked expectantly towards Lawrence.
"Lead the way," said Algy.
He followed Peter into the gloom of the passage and blinked for a second. Then his eyes, like Querrin's, became more accustomed to the blackness, and they moved on cautiously.
The tiny flames licked aside the darkness, but did nothing to dispel the old deadly sense of oppression. Lawrence stared at the blank, panelled walls and shivered.
He glanced around, and upwards. The corridor was deserted.
"Come on," he murmured.
As they came abreast of the shrouded window, his footsteps slackened and stopped.
"We may as well check," he said quietly.
Peter, who was the nearer to the frame, nodded quickly, and placing the candlestick in Algy's grasp, turned his back and put his hands on the curtains. Stepping aside, he held the drapes back for Lawrence's inspection, and the fair haired young man could see that the catch was still in position and the window securely locked.
Algy noticed that the moon was once more riding free in the skies, then was diverted by the nearer vision of his own reflection staring grotesquely from the panes. He turned away hurriedly.
Peter let the curtains fall back into position, then followed Lawrence along the corridor.
Algy turned his head as his companion caught up with him. "What's the matter?" he asked.
"It's twelve o'clock," said Querrin; and his mouth trembled.
Lawrence looked at him thoughtfully. Perhaps it had been a tactless question, but he had wished to break the silence.
They were very near to the room now, and there was no more sound. A few seconds yet—.
Then they heard the scream.
It was high, and formless, and muffled.
There was something very wrong about that evil strangled sound. It came from the darkness like a ghost.
Its echoes rang in their ears.
Then Peter cried, in a high cracked voice:
"Roger…."
He hurled himself forward in a run, smacked wildly against the heavy panels of the door, and reeled back clasping his shoulder.
Lawrence brushed past and twisted hard on the door handle. The lock held firm.
Peter turned a whitely imploring face towards his companion.
"For God's sake, man," he whispered. "Do something… Quickly."
Lawrence jerked the candlestick towards him. As Peter's shaking fingers fumbled for a hold round the stand, the flames danced and flickered wildly.
"Don't let it go out," said Algy, between his teeth. He] pulled out his automatic and hammered with the gun butt on the wooden panels.
"Querrin!"
There was no reply.
"Querrin!" Lawrence cried again. "If you can hear me, man—stand away from the door!"
He thumbed over the safety catch, then levelled his' pistol at the door.
He fired once, twice, three times. As the sound rolled thunderously round the echoing passage, the bullets blasted through the lock and the cartridge cases spattered dully against the carpet.
Then Lawrence crashed his weight against the door and it flew open as he staggered into the room.
There was no light, save that from the dying fire.
Yet as Peter stepped up to the doorway and held the candles high, they saw the horror clearly.
Something was dragging itself, painfully, across the floor. Then it lurched upright, resting on its knees.
Peter gave a strangled cry of recognition.
"Roger…."
Roger Querrin's eyes blinked glassily, reflecting the tiny flame.
Then he choked, rolled over on his face, and lay still.
The haft of the dagger protruded like an evil growth from between his shoulders.
There was nobody else in the room. Lawrence saw that at once.
He said, with deadly quietness:
"Peter. Stay where you are." He added, half to himself: "We need more light."
He crossed to the table, still grasping his automatic, and keeping his eyes on the motionless form near his feet.
He scratched a match—the tiny sound seemed unnaturally loud in the silent room—and turned up the wick of the oil lamp.
As it flared once more into life, every detail of the strange scene stood out with pitiless clarity.
Lawrence glanced quickly under the table and behind the door.
Then he dropped on one knee beside the fallen man, touched his cheek gently, and felt without hope for the beating of his heart.
He stood up.
He said dully:
"I'm sorry, Peter. Your brother is dead."
Querrin's lips parted, and he cried out shrilly.
Lawrence stepped up to him and smacked heavily at his face.
Peter's head jerked wildly. Then his eyes cleared, and he nodded sanely. The marks of Algy's fingers stood out redly on his cheek.
"I'm all right now."
Lawrence nodded. His gaze travelled quickly round the room. Nothing had been disturbed, everything was in its place. "Except," he murmured softly, "the knife. Of course." The sheath over the mantel was empty.
He stepped across to the windows, and pulled aside the musty drapes.
The bolts were still shot, and the windows locked.
He stared at them hopelessly. The thin blade of fear stabbed through his heart and mind.
He mumbled:
"It's incredible…."
Struck by a sudden thought, he turned back to Roger's lifeless body. Kneeling beside him, he pulled gently at the chain that came out from under the dead man's coat and into his trouser pocket.
The door was locked, he thought. But if the key is missing—.
Bright new metal still glinted at the end of the chain.
Lawrence stared at the key with something like despair. He stood up once more and turned to Peter.
Querrin had not moved from the doorway. When he spoke, his voice shook badly.
"Shouldn't we—call a doctor?"
Lawrence said, as kindly as he could:
"Roger's beyond all help. But—yes someone should see him. You can telephone, if you wish."
Then he realized, with a shock, that the wh
ole affair was now the business of the police.
Taking the oil lamp from the table, he strode across to the french windows and pulled back the drapes as far as they would go. Then, holding the light close to his face, he signalled urgently with his free hand.
From under the trees came the answering flare of; Hardinge's hand lamp. Then the Sergeant himself stepped out from the shadows and into the moonlight.
Lawrence pantomimed an instruction, then glanced towards Peter Querrin.
"Hardinge's going round to the side door."
Peter said tonelessly:
"It's locked and bolted. I'll go and let him in."
He hurried down the passage.
Lawrence was left alone.
John Hardinge stood under the trees, his keen gaze fixed upon the house. His breath soughed gustily, and his body was tense. The sound of the shots seemed to echo in his ears….
What was happening now, in that locked and guarded room?
He plunged one hand nervously into the pocket of his tunic. The other rested on the lamp at his belt.
He kept his eyes on the house, staring across the unmarked stretch of bare brown earth.
Suddenly the curtains, which had already been partially drawn, were swept fully aside and the figure of Algy Lawrence appeared behind the glass panes of the french windows.
He waved urgently and blindly. The Sergeant signalled an answer with his flashlight, then stepped out from the cover of the trees and on to the flagged path.
Lawrence pantomimed. His meaning was clear enough: the Sergeant was to follow the path to the side door.
Hardinge lifted his hand in salute, then strode briskly along, brushing heedlessly against the wet glistening leaves of the bushes that encroached across the way.
When he reached the side door, he found it standing open. This surprised him for a moment, then he heard Peter's voice from the hall and understood.
Querrin was hunched over the telephone, his voice strained and shaking. "D-doctor? Doctor Tyssen? Please come quickly…."
Doctor Tyssen also acted as police surgeon, so the call was grimly appropriate.
Somebody stumbled on the stairs.
Hardinge jerked his head upwards.
Audrey Craig, a dressing-gown over her pyjamas, gazed down with frightened eyes. She whispered:
"W-what's happened?"
John Hardinge was a man who prided himself on a calm efficiency and lack of emotion. Yet as he saw the distress on the girl's pretty face, he warmed to her with instinctive sympathy.
He said:
"I don't know, miss, exactly." He hesitated. "But I'm afraid—it's something nasty."
He looked towards Peter Querrin.
Audrey's lips trembled. Then her gaze followed his. They stood listening together.
Peter, unaware or heedless of his audience, went on spilling his urgency into the 'phone.
"My brother is dead…."
The four words seemed to swell and grow and distort like shadows across the brightness of the hall.
The girl's eyes darkened and the colour sponged suddenly out of her cheeks.
Hardinge thought, with alarm, she was going to faint.
Then she clutched hard on the balustrade, steadied herself, and ran lightly down the stairs.
She swept past him with desperate haste and vanished into the darkness of the passage.
"My God!" cried the Sergeant, genuinely shocked. "She mustn't see—."
He hurried after her into the corridor.
The darkness blinded him for a moment before he switched on his lamp and picked out the girl with its powerful beam.
"Miss Craig! Stop, please!"
He stumbled and the light jumped wildly.
Before Audrey could reach the room Lawrence appeared in the doorway and caught her in his arms.
She gasped and struggled. "Let me go… Roger! Roger!"
Her voice spiralled up dangerously. Lawrence was torn with an angry pity. He could feel her body shudder with panic.
He cried, brutally:
"Audrey… Be quiet!"
The harshness he had forced into the words quietened her like a slap in the face.
She whispered:
"Let me see him."
Algy shook his head. He said quietly:
"I'd rather—you didn't."
She searched his grave face fearfully. Then as he released her arms she stepped to one side and her gaze went past him through the open door.
He tried, too late, to blot out the sight with his body.
Then her eyes became strangely unfocussed and she swayed forward dizzily. Lawrence caught her once more and found she was crying, softly.
He patted her shoulders helplessly.
Somebody coughed. Hardinge was standing in front of him, formless behind the hard glare of the policeman's lamp.
Lawrence blinked. He said:
"Put that out, please."
The Sergeant obeyed. Lawrence and the girl became black silhouettes against the soft glow of light from the room at their backs.
Algy said gently:
"Audrey, my dear. There's nothing you can do. Please go up to your room."
She replied with a sob.
The Sergeant stirred restively. The girl deserved pity, but he couldn't forget he was a policeman. He had his duties, and must risk no accusation of slackness from his superior officers.
Lawrence was still soothing the crying girl when another form loomed up out of the blackness. It was Peter.
Algy turned to him with relief.
"Peter. Take Audrey away, there's a good chap."
Something that might have been assent rasped in Querrin's throat.
He said, tonelessly:
"The doctor's coming soon. I—I—."
He broke off, then led the girl down the corridor. Lawrence thought, with relief, that Peter at least had regained his self-control.
Hardinge said with a frown:
"That girl needs someone to help her. A relative, perhaps… Where's her uncle?"
"Still wrapped in his drunken slumbers," replied Lawrence with an uneasy flippancy, "I expect." He shrugged away Russell Craig's existence indifferently. He turned: back to the room.
Hardinge followed him through the doorway.
He looked at the body with blank, professional, policeman's eyes.
He said, with unintentional callousness:
"He's dead, of course?"
"I'm afraid so."
The Sergeant said:
"I heard a scream, and then shots—."
Lawrence pointed towards the door.
"The room was sealed. I had to force an entrance."
Hardinge peered at the shattered lock. The bullets had torn through the door obliquely and embedded themselves in the wall.
The Sergeant's eyes went from the lock to the key chain spilled on the carpet, then up to Lawrence, standing by; the drawn curtains of the french windows.
Hardinge said severely:
"You shouldn't have touched anything, sir. This is a police matter now."
Lawrence was conscious once more of his status as an amateur. He apologized.
"But," he added in defence, "I've hardly tampered with the evidence."
The Sergeant smiled. "No matter, sir. Anyway," he admitted, "you had to draw the curtains to signal me."
He crossed to the windows and inspected the bolts.
"No tampering here," he murmured. "That's evident… What happened, sir? How did the killer get past you?"
Algy laughed without humour.
He said dryly:
"He didn't."
The Sergeant stared.
"You mean—you have him?"
"I mean," said Lawrence quietly, "he seems not to have existed."
Hardinge said patiently:
"You know that's nonsense, don't you?"
"Oh, yes." The young man laughed again. "I know it. Yet there are only two exits to this room, and no man passed through either."
"Nobody came through these windows, anyway. I had 'em under constant observation. Besides, there's not a mark on the ground outside."
"I believe you, Sergeant." Algy Lawrence grinned bitterly. "Will you believe me, when I tell you Peter and I stood unbroken guard inside, and no one came past us into the house?"
There was a silence, then Hardinge said flatly:
"That's impossible."
Lawrence said again:
"Oh, yes… It's impossible. But it happened."
The Sergeant said abruptly:
"I'll have to inform my Inspector."
"I'd say," returned Lawrence, "it was a matter for the Chief Constable."
"Perhaps. But it's not for me to say."
"Before you go," cried Algy suddenly. "May I borrow your lamp?"
"If you like." Hardinge detached the flashlight from his belt, then watched curiously as the young man took it from his hand and walked over to the fire, which had burned itself through to redly glowing embers.
Lawrence squatted on his heels. He said, over his shoulder: "A last chance," and directed the rays of the lamp upward, into the chimney.
Then he stood up, and said grimly:
"A cat couldn't climb up there."
Hardinge stared round the room. "There must be another way out." He added, protestingly: "There has to be."
"A secret panel, perhaps?" Lawrence shook his head. "No, Sergeant. It isn't going to be so easy."
"Then—." Hardinge racked his brains for a feasible suggestion. "A booby trap—."
"No." Lawrence was positive. "I've already looked. Though with your permission, I'll continue the search."
The Sergeant nodded. He left to 'phone.
Alone once more, Lawrence prowled restlessly round the room.
He touched nothing more. The fingerprint men would be here soon….
He was obsessed with a sense of angry inadequacy. Try as he might, he could detect no flaw in his defences. Unless—.
The fear closed round him.
Unless the crime was not a man's.
He straightened, then grabbed up his gun from the table, where he had dropped it while lighting the oil lamp. The hard butt gave no comfort to his hand.
He whispered aloud:
"I don't believe in you, Tom Querrin…."
The silence was its own reply.
4
Doctor Tyssen straightened up.
He said gruffly: