The Skeleton in the Clock shm-18

by John Dickson Carr

  "I don't think, though, he slept very well the rest of the night And then you two," H.M.'s finger indicated Martin and Jenny, "had to go yellin' under the windows at going on for five in the morning, and give him his heaven-gilded opportunity to shove Drake off the roof." "But why didn't you warn me?"

  H.M. drew himself together. He stuck out towards Martin a face of such utter loathing, such indescribable contempt, that the other felt his scalp stir with hostility.

  "Look here, you something-something'd thus-and-so," he said. "There's a feller here in London," he mentioned a famous painter, "you think is a friend of yours. I bein' the old man, happen to know he hates your guts."

  "That," Martin said quietly, but with buzzing ears, "is a very bloody lie."

  "Darling!" cried Jenny.

  "You think so, hey?" inquired H.M., with a contempt which was one vast sneer. "He was in Spain with another feller he hated, and he shot that feller in the back without givin' him a chance. What, do you say to that, you credulous so-and-so this-and-that”

  "I say," returned Martin, sticking out his own neck, "that I will prove you a thus-and-so this-and-that liar. I will take him to any lonely place you name, with a loaded revolver in my pocket I will hand him the revolver, and—" Even with badly buzzing head, Martin stopped short

  "Y’see what I mean?" inquired H.M., with a sort of malignant apology.

  "I deny that! I. ’

  "Your feelings, son, ring up as plain as l.s.d. on a cash register. Even when," H.M. glanced towards Lady Brayle, "it was half the world to you that they shouldn't. Ricky Fleet would have had to shut you up even quicker than he tried to do.”

  "And didn't he try! It was a matter of seconds for him to nip up, get the field-glasses out of his father's study where his mother kept 'em, rearrange, the chairs on the roof, and…

  "Are you askin' why? Listen. What's the impulse of anybody who finds a pair of field-glasses on a roof? It's to try 'em, ain't it? People in general (we all did it ourselves on Saturday evening) walk straight to the centre-front of a square roof. You'd have done it on Sunday, with your attention distracted, if you hadn't got suspicious of the glasses. Your bravado took you there instead. The chairs were arranged like a series of rocks for hiding places, while somebody in bare feet crept up behind you.”

  To wind it up, on Sunday night I tumbled to the trick of the murder on the root And that opened every other door: the skeleton in the clock too. Puckston, nobody else but Puckston, was our salvation if we could get him to help.

  "He'd written the postcards, probably with the help of his daughter. It seemed to me the poor devil would be over at the Dragon, writhin' in agony with the fear Enid might 'a' been killed because of that Mind you, I didn't know then he suspected something between Enid and Ricky. And at that time I didn't know old Dr. Laurier, with one too many brandies in his bar, had once given him a hint about what the skeleton-clock meant

  "But—if I could show him he wasn't in any way responsible for his girl's death — it seemed to me he'd help us yank a confession out of Ricky. I even took Drake along, as one nearly killed by a maniac. But Puckston didn't even notice Drake's honor-film forehead; and he wasn't necessary.

  "The crowds at MacDougall's show were just what we needed. Puckston 'phoned Ricky early in the morning. Ricky arranged to meet him — just as he was willing to meet Drake, with somethin' goading his mind — in the darkish outer-shell of the Mirror Maze.

  "But young Richard had plans laid too. He'd arranged a quite genuine meeting between his mother and Susan Harwood, timed for one o'clock. You see why? That was his time to meet Puckston. So he told everybody about it even Dr. Laurier, with this addition, 'If you see me motion to keep away, keep away.'

  "Neat idea. He could then go where he liked, to meet Puckston, and he could keep-any of his friends from followin' him if he waved. All the same, even when we were discussing who was goin' to the fair, he couldn't keep away from his own reflection in the hall mirror. Just as, on Saturday night and of all places and times, he'd taken a look at himself in the mirror of the condemned cell"

  "And about his emotional state Monday morning. Did you notice, there in the hall, he had tears in his eyes?"

  "But H.M.!" protested Ruth. "If what Cicely told me was true, he was laughing. You'd been telling some perfectly outrageous anecdotes about your ancestor. Including one about reciting limericks to Charles the First"

  "Well… now!" said H.M., with a cough and a deprecating wave of his hand. "I didn't really think, y’know, the lofty muse of Curtius Merrivale would ever descend to limericks, even if they'd been invented. It was Masters put the idea in my head by savin’ so the night before."

  Then what—?"

  ‘I was always careful to be very comfortin' and cloth-headed in front of Ricky Fleet He didn't think he'd got to worry about the old man." Then H.M.'s voice changed, sharply. "He wasn't amused then, my wench. He'd been listenin' with all his ears to Drake's end of a do-you-love-me telephone conversation, with that gal there, which didn't amuse him at all.

  "When four of you went out there in the car, I heard later, he nearly lost control of himself. He was rigid, nearly ready to burst, hardly keepin' back the tears. That was after Drake had said he meant to elope with Jenny if he had to.”

  "I didn't know this at the time; but cor! I was worried. When I gathered that crowd round the race-track booth, and yelled and bellowed the odds, it was only partly to make Sophie popular. I wanted the jostle of a big crowd so I could make sure Ricky Fleet wasn't carryin' a weapon. He wasn't But when I heard Drake was in the maze..”

  "You know the rest Puckston and the dewy-eyed innocent were near a microphone (it was darkish, so the feller didn't see it) outside what looked like a solid mirror. It was only the silver paint usually used over plate glass, for what's known to gamblers as a two-way mirror, but in this case on cardboard and curtain.”

  "Puckston… so! I should 'a' realized, the night before, he was powder packed into a cartridge. He exploded. Ricky Fleet was a first-rate athlete and as strong-built as you'd find; but against that man he hadn't the chance of a celluloid cat in hell. He collapsed in the pieces of smashed looking-glass. And that's all."

  There was long silence, extending almost to discomfort. All of them, except Lady Brayle at the window, looked everywhere except at each other. Finally Ruth, smoothing her skirt over her knees and looking steadily down at it, managed to speak.

  "There is one thing." Her face was flushed. "Jenny, dear!"

  "Yes, dear?" answered Jenny, without looking at her.

  "I was in the prison that night You know what I mean. I made a suggestion to Martin."

  "Ruth darling," said Jenny sincerely, "I don't mind. At least—"

  "I don't mean that kind of suggestion!"

  Martin felt like dropping through the floor. Jenny was so surprised she almost looked round.

  "About Ricky's — unbalanced state of mind," said Ruth tensely. "I apologize. It was horrible of me. I honestly thought there might be something — well odd about your side of the family."

  Lady Brayle, outraged, turned round majestically. Jenny, with an exclamation of pleasure, put her hand across towards Ruth.

  "And that's the only reason you went there?" Jenny did not stop for an answer, which was just as well. "Ruth, everybody thinks that very same thing when your parents are estranged, and everything seems mixed up, and you have a grandmother as reserved and reticent as mine!"

  "Ruth," Stannard said softly.

  All through H.M.'s recital his strong personality had been repressed, buckled in, to the steady gleam of attention in his eyes. Now, sitting on the arm of the sofa, his husky chuckle seemed to dominate the room. He put his hand under Ruth's chin and tilted it up so that he could look at her eyes.

  "What has been," he smiled, "is no longer. What is," he smiled again, "shall continue."

  "Always," said Ruth. Her look left no doubt of that

  "By God," Stannard said suddenly, looking up radiant
ly and lifting his fist, "I can conquer the world!"

  He checked himself. His' hand dropped, and he looked whimsically at H.M.

  "Sir Henry," he said, "it seems an "extraordinary thing that only a fortnight ago, in this room, I said I mustn't keep late hours. What is it now? Close on four." He glanced towards Martin and Jenny. "Exactly when, my dear fellow, are you getting married?"

  "Tomorrow," Martin answered, "at Westminister registry office. We take the afternoon plane for Paris."

  "My new car," chuckled Stannard, "is downstairs. Just as it was a fortnight ago. There's no petrol for long distances. But suppose the four of us drive out to Virginia Water and see the sun come up?"

  There was almost a scramble to get up. Much attention from Jenny and Ruth was bestowed on H.M, who endured this with a stuffed and stoical look; like a world-weary Curtius Merrivale. Then it was broken.

  "Captain Drake," said Lady Brayle, getting up from her chair beside the window and adjusting her shoulders.

  Dead silence.

  Martin instantly left the group and went over towards the window so that he could look her in the eye. "Yes, Lady Brayle?"

  "With regard to your proposed marriage with my granddaughter."

  "Yes."

  They looked at each other for a full minute, which can be a very long space if you time it The reason was that Lady Brayle could not speak. She was shaken; emotion tore her, but the lips would not move. Her large, rather flabby hands were folded in front of her. Her shoulders were back. Her eyes wandered in search of determination. Then came firm resolve, and clearly she spoke.

  "The Gloucesters, I am informed, are a very honourable regiment." There was a short silence.

  "Very," agreed Martin. He reflected for a moment. "But in my opinion the Brigade of Guards, particularly the Grenadier Guards, must always rank highest of all."

  Then, startlingly, tears came into the woman's eyes.

  "Thank you, Captain Drake."

  "Not at all, Lady Brayle."

  They did not even shake hands. They understood.

  And so, as the clock of St. Jude's rang out the hour of four, and white dawn showed faintly behind Kensington, the policeman was on his way back through Moreston Square. The car which had been standing at the kerb was gone. But the windows of Miss Callice's flat were still lighted.

  A rumbling voice floated down clearly from those open windows.

  "So they framed him, Sophie," the voice said. "And the only reason they framed him was because he killed one of 'em in a duel outside the War Office. But they indicted that fine character on a charge of promotin' fake companies to get Aztec gold out of Mexico, and three times they chucked him into the can. I tell you, Sophie, it was a cry in' scandal against the law!"

  The policeman looked up at those windows thoughtfully. But, after all, duels outside the War Office are comparatively rare. And it was Miss Ruth Callice's flat. The policeman smiled and sauntered on.

  The End.

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