"This," Lady Brayle conceded with grace and dignity, "somewhat alters the complexion of matters." She allowed a space of silence. "I accept"
"Here you are, then."
"I am not mercenary," said Lady Brayle, taking the cheque carelessly, scrutinizing it with great care, and then hastily putting it in her handbag. "I do not think," again she brought out the cheque for examination before shutting it up, "I do not think that my worst enemy could call me mercenary. But one has one's rights."
"Definitely, Sophie. Nobody's denying it"
Whereupon Lady Brayle gave him a peculiar smile.
"Another point, Henry. Those photographs of me outside the gates, which by the way are not bad," she adjusted her shoulders, "were no doubt the work of Mr. MacDougall. But this strange popularity of mine, which I had never noticed before: 1 can guess it might be some of your work. Was it, Henry?" "Uh-huh."
"And why, pray, do you take such trouble on my part?" H.M. looked embarrassed. "Well, Sophie, there were a lot of reasons."
"As, for instance?"
"You used to be an A-l sport. You'd still be a human being if you'd only for the love of Esau stop thinking what's vulgar and what ain't. Most of all, I realized — only last night, it was! — why you stole the skeleton out of that clock."
Chief Inspector Masters started to speak, but checked himself.
Against the dark sky outside, the walls of this little octagonal room appeared starkly white. One of the leaded window lights, propped open, rattled at its catch in the rising wind. Masters, heretofore, had been paying small attention to the conversation; he was looking out of the window, on edge, waiting for a signal. Now, as H.M. mentioned the skeleton and the clock, it was as though someone had flung down a coiling snake.
"Ah!" said Lady Brayle, and grew rigid. "I thought we should come to some bargaining-point about your precious skeleton. Well you won't get it"
"I'm sorry about that, Sophie. Then I got to take it"
"The law, my dear man…"
"Didn't you hear what I said?" H.M.'s big voice rose sharply in the little room. "I said I knew why you stole the skeleton. That means I know why it's such vital evidence. And I can take it"
Lady Brayle, with both hands on the arms of the chair, pushed herself up.
"If you think I'm bluffing," H.M. added, "I'U give you a 'little tip. Masters here has applied to the Home Office for an exhumation-order."
"And what precisely, does that mean?"
"It means they're goin' to dig up the body of George Fleet."
"Henry, are you entirely mad? The skeleton I have here is not that of Sir George Fleet!"
"I know it Sophie," said H.M. "It's not Sir George Fleet's," he added, "except for a little bit"
"A little bit…"
"Which you can't see," snapped H.M, "until you take it out of the clock." Lady's Brayle's whole manner and tone altered again.
"For God's sake," she pleaded, "and for the sake of old friendship, let the dead rest! You don't know how horrible it is!"
You dont…" -
"MacDougall's signalling," Masters reported, stolidly but with quicker breathing. "It's the left arm for X? Oh, ah!" He lifted his left arm and waved it A pause. "Card's up. It's number 7." From the window-seat Masters picked up a typewritten sheet of paper. "It's the Mirror Maze, all right Nobody made any mistake. X is the Mirror Maze."
"So!" grunted H.M., throwing his cigar out of the window. "And pretty near on time, too. Looky here: where's young Drake? He ought to be with us."
"How should I know where he is?" demanded Masters "I told you he went charging out of here, looking for you, not two minutes before you got here! I dont know where. The young lady just pointed to some number on the list and out he went"
"But it was there!" exclaimed Jenny. "The Mirror Maze!"
"Oh, lord love a duck." H.M.'s mouth fell open. "This is bad, Masters. This is bad."
"Eh? What's up?"
"You know what might happen," said H.M. cryptically, "if our dewy-eyed innocent meets the wrong man in that ruddy maze. Masters, come on!"
They paid no attention to protests or entreaties. In a very short time, under the dark sky and with the crowd milling towards shelter against possible rain, they saw the maze ahead. H.M., at a curious pigeon-toed run which made children stare, was able to keep up with Masters.
The circular structure, dull silver with its red letters, loomed up. Out from a fringe of the crowd hastened a lean youngish man, in a grey-and-Mack checked suit and with a beret on his brilliantined black hair. To a man in overalls he handed a bundle of big numbered placards. The young man had a shrewd, shiny, razorish kind of face, now one focus of eager interest in the eyes.
"'Owzit, cock?" he asked H.M. affectionately. "Did I do it right?"
H.M. began to rave.
"But you was in there," protested Mr. MacDougall "even if you only looked round. And I wasn't to signal when you come out, was I?" he broke off. "Oi! Charley.'"
A well-dressed young man, in the ticket seller's cage, rose up over the top of the booth.
"I was to drive them out" Charley answered in dubiously refined tones, "at twelve-thirty. I was to come back at a quarter to one. If anybody wanted tickets, I was to tell 'em the maze was full and would they come back later. Except the right one. I was to give the right one a ticket, or tickets—"
''Your friend's inside," said Mr. MacDougaU. "In we go!" Though they writhed through the thick felt curtain in a cursing wedge, nevertheless H.M., Masters, and their companion stood still and said nothing on the other side. They were all listening.
The great black box, like a camera with a faintly illuminated door of looking-glasses, stood silent inside its circular wooden shell Softly the eager MacDougall led the way into the maze. Its soft-gleaming corridors led them on at first one angle, then another.
"Looky here, son," muttered H.M. "We can talk now, can't we?"
"We can talk," said Mr. MacDougall, "until I give you the sign we're near you-know-where. Meantime, we're buried." He looked round at all his reflections. "I don't envy your friend, cock. No fooling: this maze is a bastard. No fooling: it's the best there is. No fooling: ninety per cent of 'em don't get out 'less they take directions from the loud-speaker inside."
"Which loudspeaker?" demanded Masters.
The other, hunching up padded shoulders, regarded Masters with exaggerated expression of pity and hopelessness. Evidently he did not like coppers.
"This maze is a square within a circle. See?"
"Well? What about it?"
Mr. MacDougall pointed to the ceiling.
"There's a loud-speaker in every corridor. Only you can't see it (see?) less you look close. There's a microphone out in the circle, where it's open space. Bill Eraser keeps talking to the people in 'ere. Bill can't see 'em. ‘E can't 'ear 'em But Bill talks to ‘em as if he could, things that'd apply to anybody. And they jump and laugh nervous and Christ how they enjoy it!'’Careful, lady; that's a dead-end.' 'Mind, the gentleman with the bowler hat: you're taking a wrong turn.'"
Still there was no sound in the maze except MacDougall’s voice.
"About every ten minutes Bill will say, 'If you can't get out, follow the black arrow.' Them black arrows are painted high up on the glass, see? You can't find 'em 'less you're told about 'em. That leads to…"
"You know me, don't you?" whispered a thin, faintly husky voice from empty space.
Mr. MacDougall, despite his knowledge, jumped as though stung, He adjusted his beret over to shrewd shiny face.
That's not Bill Praser," he said to HLM. That's your murder-party starting now. Come on!"
They gave only one glance towards the fretted circle in the ceiling, which showed the source of the voice. Following MacDougall, they hastened and stumbled forward among their own images. They took another right-angled turn — and came face to face with Martin Drake.
Chief Inspector Masters, who expected to meet his own reflection, was even more startled to see somebo
dy else. Martin had just put down on the floor a piece of white paper torn in a thin strip from an envelope. A wave of relief went over his face, and something else as- well.
"It's the pipes at Lucknow," Martin said, and flung down the shredded envelope.
"This your friend?" hoarsely inquired Mr. MacDougall. "Good!" He eyed the strip on the floor. "Beg-pardon-I'm-sure; but what the 'ell are you doing?"
Martin looked at him. "For some minutes, now," he said, "I've been putting, these down to block up what I KNOW are dead-ends."
"Never mind that," snapped a glowering HM "Son, I've been worried. Have you met anybody?"
"Not met," said Martin. "I saw somebody with a damned brown coat and blue trousers, walking away from me. Then I ran into a sheet of plate glass. Then a voice; I found afterwards it was a loudspeaker; advised me to get to blazes out of here. That was when I started putting down papers. I wonder if Houdini ever tried this blasted place?"
Mr. MacDougall, immensely pleased, did a little tap-dance; and then nervousness smote him.
"Now look!" he urged. "I'm leading the way. Three more turnings, and we're there. When I give the sign," he made gestures like a temple-dancer, to illustrate, "don't start to speak or mess about. For gossakes don't! Well be too near 'em!"
"Near them?" repeated Martin. "Near whom?"
"Go on!" urged the insistent voice from the ceiling, as though it were eerily feeling its way along the mirror walls. "Come a little closer! It's not so dark you can't make me out!"
"Son," H.M. said to Martin, "do you know who's speakin' now?"
"No!"
"It's Arthur Puckston. Puckston was the feller in the brown coat"
"You don't mean Puckston fa the… ‘
"Puckston's talking to somebody. That somebody killed George Fleet, killed and mutilated Enid Puckston, and almost murdered you: all the same somebody. We're ready, Mac-Dougall"
Though it took them three turnings and one fairly long corridor, it was only a matter of seconds until MacDougall gave the signal. Then Martin tried to straighten out his thoughts.
They all now stood facing down a short passage, not more than six or eight feet deep, with no other passage turning out of it. They stared at a dead-end of looking-glass.
"I don't say much," sounded Puckston's voice from the ceiling. "I was never one to say much, was I? Would I make trouble?"
Only a bumbling murmur answered with something like. ‘What do you want, then?" Whoever somebody was, Puckston was crowding the voice away from the microphone. Whoever somebody was…
Then Martin realized the presence of something impossible.
Straight ahead, reflected in that glimmering dead-end, he saw H.M.'s bulk and impassive eyes, Masters in down-pulled at and with pencil moving on a notebook, himself like a irate, MacDougall in beret peering round the angle of the passage. Crowding images of them sprang up wherever you looked. But…
"I know you killed Enid." Puckston's breathing was now audible. "A wanted you to hear that, like. That I know you killed 'er."
"You can't prove that" (Whose voice?)
MacDougall had told them almost with tears that they must at utter a whisper, not make a shoe-scrape, or the slightest sound would betray them. But on the floor lay a piece of paper which Martin had dropped there.
He had explored that passage. It was made of solid looking glasses. If the microphone were outside this mirror maze in the circular shell, you could clump about or talk without being heard.
Then where were Puckston and his companion? Standing there invisibly, by some optical trick?' "I tell you again, I don't want to prove it. If I did, I'd gone to the police."
"With what evidence?' (Come closer) Come closer!) "I dunno. I didn't think." Puckston's breathing grew shorter and heavier. "You kitted my little girl That's all I know." No reply at all, now. Masters was silently raving. "You killed my little girl. Why did you do it?" ‘I had to. It was a kind of — expression." "What’s that?’
"I said a kind of expression. Don't sob. You—’’
"But you did kill 'er?"
"Yes! What’s so bad about it?"
Clearly, not loudly, but with smooth and articulate viciousness, somebody's voice moved straight on microphone Martin Drake realized, with horror, whose voice it was.
"We mustn't worry over these things. They happen," said somebody's voice. "You seem sensible. I'll take care of you."
"No, by God!" said Puckston. And every effect was shattered; his voice, with the sound known as blasting, pierce the ear but smothered clearness. "No, by God! I'll take care of you!' And through that bubbling blatter there came a faint noise as of a hammer thudded down on meat
"Stop it!’’ shouted Masters. "Stop it! The confession is—"
It was too late. And the maze gave up its last secret
Before Martin's eyes what seemed a solid mirror at the end of the short passage rippled like water, soundlessly, distorting the staring reflections. Then it curled and disappeared. Somebody, back to the watchers, staggered into the passage reeling out of nowhere, piercing a dead-end, straight into the watchers' faces.
Arthur Puckston, forcing back that reeling figure, no long stooped. His narrow bald head, his staring blue eyes, loomed like an image of mania. He was hitting for the face with countryman's blows: unskilled, straight, murderous. Then the group collided, and flew apart.
Martin, flung backwards, tripped and caught himself as he went down. Master's yellow pencil rolled underneath him as he got up, among reeling reflections less like a mirror maze than like a kaleidoscope. Puckston, still shouting, had driven his adversary into a short passage at right-angles to the other.
But it was all over.
One last blow Puckston landed before Masters locked both his arms from behind. Puckston's adversary, flung back again a mirror at the end of the passage, struck it with too great a weight With a crunching noise, opening in slow cracks, great shards slid down and splintered on the floor as the figure sat down and lay motionless.
"Y’know," said H.M. in a calm and meditative tone, "it’s interestin' to nab this feller in a house of mirrors. He may be the most vicious, he's certainly the most conceited murderer, I've ever met"
And all of them, panting, looked down amid smashed glass-shreds at the unconscious figure and bloodstained face of Richard. Fleet.
Chapter 20
The policeman, pacing his beat through Moreston Square, South Kensington, glanced up to see the lighted windows on the top floor of number 16. It was the Thursday night — or, to be exact, the Friday morning — exactly a fortnight after he had seen lights burning so late in Miss Callice's flat
From St Jude's tower the chimes rang and rippled with the hour of three. The policeman smiled and sauntered on.
If he had looked into the comfortable living-room on the top floor, he would have seen in its easiest chair a large, stout, barrel-shaped gentleman in a white linen suit, with a cigar in one hand and a strong whisky-and-soda in the other.
Ruth was there, and Stannard, and Jenny, and Martin, and, as it happened, Lady Brayle. The light of the silver-shaded wall-lamps touched unquiet faces. It had taken a long time, and a very fair amount of whisky, to work themselves toward hearing what H.M. had begun to say.
H.M. drew deeply at the cigar, scowled, and put down the glass on the table beside him.
"Y'see," he said, "the boy-murderer is not at all uncommon, I don't have to tell you that Usually he's psychopathic, as Ricky Fleet is. But as a rule, he's nabbed straightway and shoved into confinement where he can't do any more harm.
"What's interesting here is to watch the boy-murderer who's grown up into a man-murderer. Still protected and cosseted by his mother! Still not believin' a soul now alive has suspected him! To watch his reaction to grown-up life; watch him squirm, watch him wriggle, watch him blurt out things, watch him smile and smile, until he's told his last lie. All that y'know, you saw unroll in front of your eyes.
"Now if we're goin'.into the grisly details,"
continued H.M., "there are some things we got to understand about Ricky Fleet.
"He really is a charmin' and likeable bloke. His good-nature is absolutely genuine. His generosity and free-handedness are genuine. His bravery, where he could be crazy-reckless but cool-headed at the same time, was genuine too. If you think those qualities can’t belong to a murderer just balanced between sanity and insanity, think of Ronald True. Or Patrick Mahon. Or — my eye, how recent this is! — Neville Heath." H.M. grunted.
At the end of the sofa opposite sat Jenny, her eyes fixed intently on him, and Martin with his arm round Jenny. Ruth sat at the other end of the sofa, with Stannard perched on its arm. He was an effulgent Stannard, beaming.
"To start at the beginning," continued H.M., eyeing a pile of papers on the table beside his glass, "Masters sent me a heap of testimony about the death of George Fleet. Together with three apparently scatty postcards about 'examine the skeleton in the clock' and 'what was the pink flash' and 'the evidence is still there.'
"I'd decided, before we went to Berkshire, that Fleet's death was murder. I argued the salient points with Masters at the Dragon's Rest on Saturday. You people haven't seen these typed sheets, maybe…"
Martin intervened.
"I've heard some of it," he said. "I heard you prove to Puckston, out of his own testimony, that he couldn't have swung that telescope round when he said he did. Did that make you suspect it was murder?"
"Oh, my son!" groaned H.M.
"It didn't?"
"Not so's you could notice it All it showed was that Puckston had been lying, and there might be a lot of hokey-pokey in his statement But what hokey-pokey? No, son. The glarin' give-away is in the testimony of an honest witness, Simon Frew with the binoculars, supported by others. Frew was lookin' straight at Fleet from the middle gable. I'll read what he said, just as Masters read it to me."
H.M. fished among the papers at his side, drew out a blue-bound folder, and grubbed through it until he found what he wanted.
Sir George was there. I could see all round him. He bad his glasses to his eyes in one hand, and was waving with the other. Then it looked like somebody gave him a hard shove in the back. He stood there for a second. He shouted. He fell head-first.
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