‘Hello,’ she said vaguely, ‘I must have fallen asleep.’
‘We’ve all been asleep,’ returned Jeffery. He sat down and lit a cigarette with cobwebby fingers. ‘Tell me, Beth. When you ran to that door after Sally’s scream, was it difficult to open?’
Mrs Blackburn frowned. ‘Yes -’ then quickly, ‘yes, it was, Jeff! Somehow, it seemed much heavier.’
‘Naturally,’ agreed Jeffery, ‘You see, Sally was inside that door.’ He hesitated a moment, savouring the expression on his wife’s face. ‘I’ve solved the secret of the vanishing trick, darling. That door is literally a hollow cupboard – the inside opens like a panel. Sally and Wilkins waited until we had left the room, raised the alarm then stepped inside that door and closed the panel behind them. Just like that!’
Incredulity raised Elizabeth ’s voice a tone. ‘Then how did they get out again?’
‘In both cases, the door was left unbolted after the discovery. They stepped out, pushed open the door and just walked out of the room.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Mrs Blackburn.
‘Why not?’
‘But you men sounded every inch of that room for cavities.’
‘Except the door,’ her husband pointed out. ‘One doesn’t expect cavities in doors. That was where Rutland was so clever.’
‘Jim?’
‘He knew the panel was concealed in that door. That was why, when we sounded those walls, he chose the one with the door – to stop us discovering the trick for ourselves.’
‘But why?’
Jeffery crossed to the ashtray on the mantel and crushed out his cigarette. Then he turned. ‘Let’s start at the beginning. The Rutlands knew of this trick door and saw an excellent opportunity for one of their crazy jokes. That’s why we were asked down here. I have some small reputation as a solver of riddles – Lambert has a big name as a detective novelist. Can’t you,’ asked Mr Blackburn, ‘see the Rutlands gloating over this opportunity – presenting us both with a first-class mystery, then chuckling up their sleeves at our attempts to solve it?’
But his wife shook a stubborn head. ‘I still can’t believe it.’
Jeffery said austerely, ‘The type of mind that would sit me down on a squeaking cushion is capable of anything.’
‘John Wilkins hasn’t that type of mind.’
‘Know anything more about him?’
‘Only,’ returned Elizabeth, ‘what Sally told me. He’s the merest acquaintance – a comparative stranger. Jim met him casually in the city and he came down a few days ago with his chauffeur – a tough looking gent named Tucker.’ And here Mrs Blackburn ran off at a tangent. ‘Besides, who cut the telephone wire?’
‘Why not,’ suggested Mr Blackburn, ‘think something out for yourself?’
Elizabeth said sweetly, ‘Meaning you haven’t the faintest idea, darling?’
‘Frankly, no! But I know this much. As I said, the Rutlands planned this as the joke of the season. But someone,’ continued Jeffery, ‘took it right smack out of their hands, someone who wanted Wilkins out of the way – and who cut the telephone wire to stop police interference.’
‘But why John Wilkins?’
‘Wilkins is a financier, darling. Financiers deal in large sums of money. And money, as the copybooks used to tell us, is the root of all evil. Everyone wants money. Even Miss Rountree, living in her cloud, cuckoo-land of metaphysics, couldn’t exist without -’, and suddenly Jeffery stopped, his mouth open on the word, staring at his wife as though she was some complete and surprising stranger.
‘Darling,’ cried Mrs Blackburn in sudden alarm.
Then Jeffery grinned. A wide grin in which enlightenment, relief and admiration were somehow blended. He walked across and bending, kissed Elizabeth on the tip of her pretty nose. It was a charming scene of domestic felicity, only slightly marred by the expression of complete bewilderment on Mrs Blackburn’s face. Then a voice spoke harshly from the entrance.
‘ Blackburn!’
They turned. Evan Lambert stood there, his thin figure hunched and suggestive of a spring tightly coiled. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. They saw him swallow before he spoke again.
‘Can I use your car?’
‘Of course! But -?’
‘I’ve got to get Doctor Preston,’ Lambert cut in, ‘and I’ll bring back the police myself. There’s been some more monkey business – some of the servants are carrying him inside -’
Elizabeth said sharply, ‘Who?’
‘ Rutland! They found him unconscious in the grounds near the garage, bleeding from a nasty wound.’ The novelist took a step forward into the room.
‘You see, Blackburn, somebody round here coshed him over the head with the proverbial blunt instrument. Don’t ask me who – because Rutland just isn’t talking!’
3
Eleven-thirty p.m. at Kettering Old House.
Benson eased the traymobile, with its silver and snowy napery through the entrance to the reception room and brought it to rest opposite Mr and Mrs Blackburn.
He spoke apologetically. ‘I trust tea and toast is sufficient, madam?’ He whisked the lid from a salver. ‘With the exception of William Darby, the servants are all in bed.’
‘So they should be,’ replied Jeffery. ‘Er – this William Darby – he was the man who struggled with Mr Rutland’s attacker?’
The butler nodded. From beneath the traymobile, he brought up a black leather bag. ‘This, sir, was found on the ground near Mr Rutland. It’s the property of Mr Wilkins, sir.’
As Jeffery took the bag and turned it over in his hands, Benson added, ‘The master, sir – is he all right?’
‘He will be,’ Jeffery assured him. ‘Miss Rountree is with him now. There’s nothing much we can do except wait for Mr Lambert to return with the doctor.’
Sensing dismissal, Benson started for the door. But Jeffery’s voice halted him. ‘Oh, Benson -’
‘Yes sir?’
‘What’s this story you told about a servant who was supposed to have disappeared from that room downstairs when the last people owned this place?’
On features less wooden, the expression that crossed Benson’s face might have been termed pained surprise. His pale eyes blinked.
‘Some mistake, sir, surely? Nothing like that happened while I was in service with the Lattimer family.’ He inclined his head as Jeffery dismissed him.
Blackburn turned to his wife. ‘Just as I said – a pack of naughty fibs on Sally’s part. And stop wolfing that toast. You’ll put on pounds overnight!’
Mrs Blackburn’s glance was withering. She reached for another buttered finger. ‘What actually happened out there in the garden?’
‘As far as we can make out, Rutland was walking toward the garage,’ Jeffery explained. ‘The Dark Invader leapt out of the shadows. William Darby, in the garage, came out just in time to see his employer tapped smartly on the head and the unknown disappearing into the darkness, leaving behind that bag.’
Elizabeth picked it up, and weighed it in her hand. ‘It’s locked,’ she announced.
‘Brilliant,’ observed Mr Blackburn. ‘For that you may have the last piece of toast.’
‘It’s burnt.’
‘Don’t cavil. Now, how the devil does one open a locked bag?’
‘I can lend you a bobby-pin -’
‘Darling,’ said Mr Blackburn with restraint, ‘outside of a B-class quickie, have you ever seen a man open a lock with a bobby-pin? No – hand me that butterknife!’
‘Jeff – now be careful!’
‘Leave it to me.’ He inserted the thin blade between the metal clasps and strained. Two things happened almost simultaneously. The blade broke and Mrs Blackburn gave a cry of alarm.
‘Clumsy ass!’
‘The hell with it,’ snarled Mr Blackburn, sucking an outraged finger. ‘I’m wounded, and it’s hurting like mad!’
‘Oh, don’t be a great boob,’ snapped Elizabeth. ‘Anyhow, according to Miss Rountree, there’s just no such thing as physical pain!’