“That’s strange,” she said. “You knocked hard?”
“Did you try the door?” asked Otisse, quickly.
“No, sir,” said the maid. “I just knocked.”
“I don’t like this,” said Lady Groombridge, and a note of anxiety crept into her voice as she looked about her.
A swift feeling of apprehension swept suddenly over everyone. A woman put the general thought into words.
“Sir George was a friend of Lilian Hope. Suppose—”
The men were on their feet now, and Steele’s chair overturned with a crash.
“I’ll have a look,” he cried, and, in his quick, impetuous fashion, he was out of the room and dashing up the broad staircase before the others. Loreto and Otisse were a yard behind the Australian; Silk, Lady Groombridge, and the other women brought up the rear.
In five seconds Steel was at the baronet’s bedroom door, and was rattling the handle and calling loudly.
“Sir George!” he shouted. “Sir George!”
But there was no answer, and the Australian threw himself against the door.
“It’s locked,” he panted. “I can’t move it.”
“Knock a panel in,” said Otisse, quietly. “Here, use this.”
Accustomed to alarms, the little French explorer had all his wits about him. Now he snatched from the wall a Crusader’s mace, which, with other weapons and armor, decorated the passage.
“That’s right,” boomed Lady Groombridge, “beat in the panels, Mr. Steele. Don’t hesitate.”
Thus encouraged, Adam Steele acted swiftly. Calling for elbow space, he swung his heavy weapon, and in three blows had one of the door panels in splinters. Through the jagged hole his arm went to the shoulder, and there was the click of a turning key.
“There’s a bolt at the top and bottom, Mr. Steele,” called Lady Groombridge. “Can you reach them?”
“I think so,” said Steele, straining, and red in the face.
Loreto felt a hand clutch his arm, and looked round at the pale face of Cleta.
“What do you think has happened, Loreto?” asked the girl, but before he could answer there was a metallic snapping of bolts, and the door was pushed open.
“Mon Dieu!” said Otisse, softly, and a woman suddenly screamed, for now the horrified party could see directly into the room.
And there, in the middle of the apartment, some way from his bed, lay Sir George Frame. He lay flat upon his face, one arm doubled under him, the other outstretched. One thin white hand showed upon the dark blue carpet, the fingers spread, and flattened out like a starfish.
Otisse was first beside the body, and made a quick examination.
“I’m afraid he’s dead,” said the explorer. “Stabbed with a knife in the back. Keep the women away.”
The women, in fact, after one terrified look, withdrew slowly and returned downstairs to await further news. Lady Groombridge alone remained in the room, and she was looking about her in bewilderment.
“How was this dreadful thing done?” she asked. “The windows are bolted on the inside, the chimney is impassable. Who can have done it?”
“The ‘Diary Murderer,’ ” said Santos, and pointed to a crumpled scrap of paper with one jagged edge that lay beside the body. Stooping, he picked up the diary page covered with its scrawling handwriting, and exclaimed aloud. On the paper was printed a date, the seventeenth of September.
“To-day’s date!” he cried. “This murderer certainly has method.”
“But who can have done it, and where is he?” wailed Lady Groombridge. “This room is practically sealed at all points.”
“That’s true,” cried Steele. “By Jove! The man may be hidden here now!”
He, Otisse, Silk, and the lady began to search the apartment, looking in cupboards, behind curtains, under the bed, and in the bed itself. They began with likely hiding-places, and ended by searching fantastically.
Otisse clicked his tongue in the impatient manner of a clever man who is baffled.
“But this is extraordinary,” he exclaimed. “It was humanly impossible to enter this room unless there is a secret passage.”
He turned questioningly to Lady Groombridge, but she shook her head.
“This is a modern house, built by my late husband,” she said. “I know the place thoroughly, and I can assure you there is no secret passage, and the walls are not thick enough for such trickiness.”
“But how on earth was the murder committed, then?” said Steele. “There is no sign of a weapon, and this poor old man has been stabbed with a knife.”
Lionel Silk, meanwhile, was walking about the room, tapping the walls, while Lady Groombridge glared at him.
“I tell you, Mr. Silk, there is nothing of that sort here,” she said. “If you wish, I can show you the architect’s plan of the house.”
Loreto, meanwhile, stared down at the dead man with thoughtful eyes. The body was clad in pajamas and a dressing-gown, which was open as though the garment had been put on hurriedly. A small electric reading lamp still burned beside the bed upon an occasional table, and on the bed itself was a book on Brazil by Henri Otisse. A pair of gold-rimmed spectacles were folded in the book.
Otisse came to Loreto’s side, and the Frenchman’s face was pale beneath its tan.
“This is awful, Santos,” he whispered. “How was the thing done?”
“He was reading your book,” Loreto pointed out. “Did you take it to him last night?”
“No. I met one of the maids going to bed, and I sent the book by her.” The Frenchman laughed a trifle uneasily. “You don’t suspect me of murder, Santos?”
“No,” said Loreto, quietly. “I only want to establish some definite facts. When, for example, was Frame last seen alive? Later I will interview that maid you sent with the book. I suppose you can remember her?”
“Certainly,” said Otisse. “I’ll get her now, if you like.”
“No, later will do,” replied Santos, and raised his voice. “Lady Groombridge,” he said, “I think we had better telephone the police at once. We are not likely to discover anything by looking about in this room. It is police work, anyway. Meanwhile, leave everything exactly as it is.”
“Very well, Mr. Santos,” said the lady, with surprising meekness. “This is a terribly mysterious thing! Why, a mouse couldn’t get into this room, let alone a man with a knife.”
“Perhaps it was the ghost of Lilian Hope,” said Silk, in a deep, melancholy tone. “Perhaps she still walks the earth, and avenges herself upon those who betrayed her.”
“With a knife in one hand and a diary in the other,” sneered Otisse. “It took more than a ghost to kill this poor man.”
They all left the room, and Loreto shut the broken door behind him. The local police were telephoned for, and had not been in the house long before Inspector Comfort, of the Criminal Investigation Department, arrived in a car from headquarters.
The Inspector was in charge of the “Death Diary” cases, a fact that had already added one or two grey hairs to his large round head.
He greeted Loreto as an old friend, and then began to carry out the usual police examination.
Later, as he paced a deserted croquet lawn in Lady Groombridge’s grounds, Loreto saw his sister coming towards him.
“Isn’t this awful?” asked Cleta. “That dear old man! And how was it done? The door was locked and bolted, the windows were latched, and yet Sir George was stabbed to death. Inspector Comfort can make nothing of it.”
Loreto nodded. His eyes were fixed upon a far-off pear tree, and there was an expression in them of thought and concentration that Cleta had seen before. It was a curious, detached gaze, and she had seen it in Loreto’s eyes when he was playing chess, or studying a problem.
“It is a curious business altogether,” he said, slowly, and then his tone changed. “Cleta, I am going to run up to London for a week,” he said, more briskly. “You will be all right down here, won’t you? I’m going now to make excuses to Lady Groombridge.”