Ann Browning, who had again put on her white sports dress, was coming down the stairs on her way to the kitchen. Courtney went out and stopped her.
"They want you in there. They're going to show how Arthur Fane was killed."
"I told you," retorted Ann through stiff lips, "that I never wanted to speak to you again as long as.." She paused. "They're going to do what?"
"Reconstruct the murder, I suppose you'd call it. Look here, Ann, I swear I didn't mean anything!"
"You thought I did it. You know you did."
"I never did! I only-"
"Come in here, both of you," roared H.M.
The faces of H.M. and of Masters were so grave that instinctively the others walked softly, almost on tiptoe.
"We want somebody who was here when it happened," said H.M. "Now. Shut the door. This is how the furniture was arranged, hey?"
"Y-yes," said Ann.
"Was the lampshade like it is now? If not, show us."
After a hesitation, Ann walked forward and lowered the shade an inch or two. It threw bright light round the chair, and almost as far as the little table, but left the rest of the room in semi-darkness.
"Now. The other chairs."
While Ann gave directions, Courtney rolled an easy chair and a light chair to one side of Vicky's place — a little ahead of it, and facing sideways — to represent the positions of Arthur and Hubert Fane on one side. He rolled another easy chair and another light chair — to represent the positions of Ann Browning and Frank Sharpless — facing these on the opposite side, completing the semi-circle.
"So," grunted H.M., his fists on his hips. His eye measured distances. You could not tell what he was thinking. "That's just exactly the position? You're sure?"
"Yes."
"Good. Masters, put the rubber dagger on the table."
Masters did so. Courtney saw that the chief inspector was as bewildered as Ann or himself. Masters bent the dagger back and forth, as though to make sure of its being rubber and that it might not be transformed into steel under his eyes.
"We're comin' on. Now, Masters, go and sit in the chair where Arthur Fane was sitting."
Obediently Masters took the chair.
"You, son. Stand where Rich was standing."
Feeling as though he had got into a dreamlike state where anything could happen, Courtney shook his head.
"I don't know where Rich was standing. I wasn't here."
"The gal'll show you. Place him, my wench… So. That's it, hey?.. Good."
H.M. surveyed the position. He was infuriatingly slow about it.
"We'll omit the revolver," he went on, thrusting his hands into the armholes of his waistcoat. "The revolver didn't exactly figure in the scheme: except that, without it, the murderer could never have got away with the trick." He shook his head. "Oh, my eye, how simple it is! How painfully, heartbreakin'ly simple!"
Masters' color deepened. His fingers scratched at the upholstery of the chair-arms.
"Sir," he said, "are you going to get on with this, or do I have to choke it out of you?"
"Now, now. Keep your shirt on, son." He looked at the other two. "This evening I told Masters and Agnew that I was gettin' Adams's chauffeur to knock me together a little article to use in my demonstration. Watch."
He went over to where his oilskin waterproof lay on the couch. He thrust his hand into the pocket. In two more seconds the secret would have been out.
But there was an interruption.
From somewhere upstairs a strangled cry, more like a scream than a cry, brought the blood rushing to their hearts and made them all whirl round. It was followed by a flapping sound, a series of thuds, and a hoarse voice.
"Got the bounder!"
Masters stared at H.M., the apoplectic color leaving his face. Masters' hand was lifted in the air.
"My God," the chief inspector said, "the fool's tried it again,"
Courtney could never afterwards remember which of them reached the door first. He thought it was H.M., but this seemed impossible for so ungainly a bulk. He knew that they all surged round it, and got wedged in the doorway, before they sorted themselves out.
Then, with Masters in the lead, they all ran for the stairs.
The bare hall upstairs, its hardwood floor gleaming, contained three figures. One was Frank Sharpless, standing back against the wall and staring. On the floor, lying sideways, flapping and kicking, lay a figure that cried out with shrill moaning protests as Inspector Agnew bent over it. Courtney looked, and could not believe his eyes.
Masters, hurrying down the hall, joined that fighting group. Masters drew something from his pocket.
He looked back at Ann, with red-faced grimness.
"Excuse the handcuffs, miss," he said, as he snapped the catches round Hubert Fane's wrists. "But Mr. Hubert Fane is a killer by instinct as well as necessity, so we thought we'd better not take any chances."
Twenty
It was just a week later, the fine mellow evening of September third, when many persons were gathered in that same back drawing room.
Vicky Fane was there, now restored to radiant health. Frank Sharpless was there. Ann Browning was there, with Courtney sitting on the arm of her chair. Dr. Richard Rich occupied a modest corner. Dr. Nithsdale, who had dropped in to see Vicky and pronounced her fit for anything, occupied a less modest corner.
Finally, H.M. was there.
"Y’see," said H.M., assuming his stuffed position with finger at temple because he was proudly conscious of his own importance, and preening it in the chair, "the truest word in this case was spoken by accident." He looked at Ann. "You spoke it."
"I did?"
"Yes. You said it would be pretty awful if somebody we thought figured in one role really figured in exactly the opposite role. Remember?"
"Yes; but-"
H.M. looked at Vicky.
"You, ma'am, thought that Arthur Fane was a murderer and Hubert Fane was a blackmailer. Actually, it was just the other way round. Hubert was the murderer and Arthur the blackmailer. Hubert had killed Polly Allen; and Arthur, who knew it, was makin' a very good thing out of it. That's the whole secret of this case; and as far as I’m concerned, its only novelty." He crossed his knees.
"Y'see, ma'am, your knowledge that your husband was a murderer was the 'admitted' fact. "Sure. But who admitted it?
"If this were all written down and traced back, you'd find that there was only one source for all the details about Arthur: Hubert himself. You found a handkerchief in a chair. You heard Arthur, in his sleep, mumblin' some words about the murder of Polly Allen. It was on his conscience, all right; but not in the way you thought it was. You jumped to the conclusion, as most women would, that he was guilty. You went to Hubert. And Hubert told you as fine a little ghost-story as he ever devised."
Vicky nodded. A shadow was on her face.
H.M. lit one of his offensive cigars without apologizing.
"Unfortunately, we — Masters and I — didn't know what you knew, or thought you knew, until you told us all about it on that Sunday afternoon. If we'd been able to pool our information beforehand, we'd have nabbed Master Hubert even faster than we did. When we heard, that tore it.
"Y'see, most people thought Hubert was a wealthy man. Sharpless thought so. Rich thought so. Masters thought so. And the joker in the pack is that he teas a wealthy man.
"What led you and your husband astray at the be-ginnin' was one little fact. Hubert Fane was mean. Just ordinary, plain, miserly mean. He's the sort of person — we all know 'em — who couldn't put his hand in his pocket to pay for a round of drinks if his life depended on it; and who'd think nothin' of charmingly sponging off relatives by living with 'em all year, when all the time he could buy 'em out ten times over.