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A deep voice said from behind: “Who is it, Sanders?”

Sandra pushed in. “You’re Mr Delaunay?”

“I’m John Delaunay, yes.”

He was an old man, as thin as a grasshopper, leaning on a thick blackthorn cane. His mild and benignant face was filled with wrinkles like transparent wax paper that has been crumpled and then flattened out.

“I’m Sandra Grey. I run the welfare office for St. Luke’s charities. Something terrible has happened, and if I could speak to you a moment-”

“Of course. Of course.”

He guided her into the paneled entrance of a library. The first thing Sandra saw as she came in the room was a man on a sofa with his arms around a girl trying to kiss her. They both sprang up; Sandra backed out; the old man gently impelled her in again and snapped on the wall switch.

“Well, bless me,” he said mildly, “I didn’t know you two were in here Miss Grey, this is my daughter Marceline.”

Marceline was a flashily pretty brunette with brilliant black eyes. The brilliant eyes glared at Sandra. She did not say anything. She sat down at the extreme end of the sofa and gave her whole attention to a bowl of goldfish. The man was sitting in an armchair leafing through the pages of a book. He was hawk-faced, olive-cheeked, with a Vandyke beard cupping his chin like a spearhead. It was a ridiculous and awkward second for Sandra. She turned to speak to Mr Delaunay, but the old man was puttering forward to take the Vandyked man by the arm.

“This is Miss Grey. Miss Grey, this is Rupert de Saules, a long-lost distant relative.”

De Saules rose, bowed with the greatest aplomb.

“Delighted.”

He had cool, sly eyes, that traveled over Sandra with insolent appreciation. Sandra hardly looked at him. She sat down, burst at once into an account of what had happened. The old man sat down, looked at her agape. De Saules’ hawklike head came forward sharply. Even Marceline turned from her preoccupation with the goldfish.

The old man gasped: “Acid! To the Chinese maid! How frightful!” He tugged a bell pull. “We’ll have her in here.” The butler put in his lank head. “Send the Chinese maid in at once.”

Sandra was taking the rice-paper envelope from her bag. “The Chinese, Dow, gave me this surreptitiously. It’s for you, Mr Delaunay.”

“For me!” The astounded old man took it with a blue-veined hand.” ‘Give this to her employer’ – you’re right.” He set it in his lap, unsnapped a spectacles case, set his glasses on his nose.

A Chinese girl stood in the door.

“You sent for me, sir?”

“Ah… oh… yes.”

Sandra sprang up.

“You’re Helen Ying?” she asked.

The girl turned her oval face to her. She was comely, with jetblack, long-lashed, modest eyes. She curtseyed. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you know who would try to send acid to you?”

“Acid!” The girl’s eyes went wide. “To me! No, ma’am!”

“A Chinese man just came to my office and tried to get me to bring you a bamboo tube filled with sulphuric acid. It was fixed so that if you held it toward you, the natural way to open it, the acid would have spurted all over your face and throat.”

The girl clutched at herself, aghast. Her eyes were like saucers.

“He said his name was Dow. He claimed to be your cousin. Do you know him?”

The girl shook her head dumbly. Sandra searched the wide jet-black eyes. They were as candid as her own.

“A young, flashily dressed man, very well educated, smoked gold-tipped cigarettes. Have you any idea who he was?”

“No, ma’am. None… none at all.”

The Vandyked De Saules asked with a sly smile: “No love affairs, or anything like that?”

“No, sir.” The girl did not raise her eyes. “I do not know any men here in the city at all.”

“My dear girl, don’t lie.” De Saules fingered his point of beard. “You must know him, otherwise there’d be no point-”

“Suppose we hear what this says,” said old Mr Delaunay, ripping open the rice-paper envelope. He took out a typed sheet of paper, read in a slow, loud voice:

Mr John Delaunay:

You are about to die.

The acid sent to the maid is merely a subordinate matter.

Do not stay alone by yourself.

Do not eat or drink anything.

This is the only way to show that your death is not suicide, but murder.

No human agency can prevent your death.

“What’s this?” For an instant the old man’s tongue moved speechlessly in his open mouth. “Me! My death! What infernal madness is this?”

His daughter Marceline gasped: “It’s a death threat!”

De Saules cried to Sandra: “This Chinaman, this Dow, gave that to you?”

“Yes! Yes!” Sandra was stunned, bewildered. “Dow – Dow, the same one that gave me the acid tube!”

“Who would dare do such a thing!” With the quick irascibility of age the old man flew into a rage. His mild eyes flashed, he banged his cane on the floor, he ground his teeth, flung the note down and stamped on it. “Call the police! I’ll have that scoundrel if it’s the last thing-”

He lurched suddenly sideways. It was not a step; it was as though he had been struck from the side. The blackthorn cane flew from him. He screamed out:

“My tongue! My throat!”

Sandra could only see his face, twisted, demoniac. He was tearing at his mouth in a frenzy. Then he fell backward in a frightful spasm, struck a floor lamp, plunged like a senseless blind hammer to the floor.

II

It was so horrible and swift it left them riveted. Sandra felt only a jar in both shoulder blades, as though she had been driven back in her chair. Then De Saules was plunging at the body.

“Mr Delaunay! Mr Delaunay!”

He had one arm beneath the old man’s neck, lifting his head. He froze. It was when the head came into the glare of the overturned lamp. The multitudinously wrinkled face lolled at them, eyeballs bulging, staring, glazed. It was not that which cut the breath in their throats; not the hideous grimace on his face – not even the fact of his death.

The old man’s tongue protruded from his lips. It was the color of paper. It had a coarse, pitted texture; it looked like a spongy head of swollen fungus, plugged like a stopper between his lips.

The butler was there. The maid was rocking back and forth like someone on the edge of a precipice. The bell was ringing its triple musical chime. Nobody paid any attention to it.

Marceline reeled against Sandra, clutched her arm with hands that almost tore the muscle out.

“Poisoned!” the girl gasped. “He’s poisoned!”

“Poisoned!” De Saules whipped to her. “You’re mad! How could he be?”

“The note!” Marceline screamed the words. “The note! It said he would die!”

Sandra grabbed the butler by the arm. It was like shaking a wooden image.

“Call the police! The police!”

“They’re” – the butler waved one arm wildly; he was trying, to indicate the door – “coming up-”

Sandra flashed by him, darted down the hall. Men were hammering at the door. She saw two detectives, behind them the gold bulk of Gawdy’s topcoat, his florid handsome face. She snatched open the door; the hard-eyed man in the lead touched his hat.

“Hullo, Miss Grey. We’re following up that acid business-”

Sandra caught him by the arm. “Captain Corrigan! There’s a dead man in here! Come on!”

The hard-eyed detective captain went by her in two strides. He turned long enough to snap to his companion: “Get the M.E. He’s in the car.”

Gawdy got Sandra by the arm. His bright-blue eyes were wide.

“What’s the matter? What’s happened?”

“Mr Delaunay’s dead! Murdered! That note Dow gave me – it said he would die!”

Gawdy’s high-colored features blanched. He said only one word: “Marceline!” He plunged by Sandra into the library.