"Yes, yes, I went out there! In a square patch of grass there was a scuffed space where the travelling-rug may have been placed. That was the way Hessler must have gone."
"Who's this 'Hessler' you keep mentioning?"
"A mutilating murderer."
"What about him?"
"He poisoned his guards in the condemned cell. Logic, Inspector! He ran to the execution shed, opened the trap that would receive him, and jumped down. He reached the mortuary by way of the passage and the stairs. They shot him in the shoulder as he was climbing the spiked wall, and he fell back into a flower-bed. All this I saw too: in the mist."
With some effort Stannard got up. All his vitality had gone; his jaw sagged. He caught a brief flash of it when he addressed Ruth and the others.
"My dear," he said formally, and took Ruth's hand again as though she were made of china, "Lady Fleet has asked us to stay on tomorrow. I can rearrange my engagements to suit it, if you can?"
"Yes! I can arrange itl Of course!"
Thank you. And now, gentlemen," added Stannard, quite convinced they would believe every word he said, "this country air has a tendency to make me sleepy. Yes. It's past eleven, and I think m turn in. We have had — ah — a most interesting discussion. We must continue it soon. Yes. Good night."
And the shortish, stocky barrister, his dark hair gleaming, sauntered to the door while he firmly put down his bad ankle to keep from limping: facing the world with defiance, as though he carried a sword.
There was a long silence, even after they faintly heard his footsteps slacken and slow down on the stairs.
"I didn't think," Martin said slowly, "there were any knights-errant left in this world. But, by God and all honour to him! — there goes one of them!"
Ruth, who was standing and looking anxiously at the door, immediately showed her state of mind by attacking Martin.
"'Knights-errant,'" she scoffed in her quiet voice. "Don't you see all he needs is somebody to look after him?"
The Great Defender?"
"Oh, rats!'' said Ruth. "All he needs is someone to — to let him be a little idiotic but keep him solid and distinguished, which you've got to admit he is. And take you, Martin!"
Again he recognized, as he had recognized last night, that long-lingering if tender note of satire: which, like an arrow on a string, must be drawn to full arc before it is fired. Mentally, he shied back.
"Hold on, now! This is no time for discussing my imperfections!"
"You loathe being taken care of. For instance: are you hungry? You know you haven't had a bite to eat since last night?"
For some reason Martin's gorge rose sickeningly at the very thought of eating.
"Woman," he said, "if there's one thing on this earth I WILL NOT stand, it's being pestered with admonitions to eat something. Especially when I'm working. Food!" He was about to say, 'to hell with food,' when the mocking imp at the back of his brain reminded him that he also was shaky, from a fall off a roof, and not quite rational.
"You see?" smiled Ruth, turning up her palm.
"See what?"
"You like the clinging-vine," said Ruth, "who undoubtedly would manage your house so inefficiently, Martin dear, that you'd get furious and run it yourself." Ruth hesitated, and tears came into her eyes. "I don't know what I'm doing here," she said, "I must see poor Stan gets safely upstairs."
And, her green dress flashing, she ran out of the room.
During these remarks, which he had not heard. Chief Inspector Humphrey Masters was for once off his official dignity. He leaned back in his chair, his boiled blue eye contemplating a comer of the ceiling. On his face was a trace of reluctant admiration.
"Now if I might ask you, Mr. Drake," he mused, after ruminating for a while, "what did you make of that little "statement?"'
"With Stannard, you mean?"
"Clever!" said Masters, shaking his head. "Oh, ah! Just as wide as they make 'em; and I've met a few in my time. Did you notice he never once mentioned the alibi?"
"What alibi?"
"Come, now! You found that dagger at close on midnight Even allow a mix-up with watches: 't isn't much one way or the other. Dr. Laurier testified (and testifies) the blood was fresh within half an hour. Say half-past eleven or a bit later. The police surgeon says Enid Puckston might certainly have been killed round about half-past, though he's like all doctors about allowing much leeway."
"Half-past eleven! But that means—!"
"Now, was she killed with that dagger?" Masters mused.
"Inspector Drake tells me old Sir George Fleet gave away his rapier-collection about November of 1925. Sir George never did like steel; he preferred guns; and after there'd been a knife-murder at Priory Hill he gave the stuff away to Major Colwell, the Governor of Pentecost But was the Puckston girl killed with that dagger?
"There's very strong evidence she was. You can't identify a knife-wound certain-sure like a bullet-wound. But unusual blade; unusual wounds corresponding; fits exactly. Blood-group type's same. Yes; there you are."
Whereupon Masters sat up straight '
"Sir, that girl was killed in the garden between the two prison-wings. There's evidence: I tell you straight. She was carried down under the gallows-trap in a travelling-robe. After (mind you) being brought to the garden alive. And that took time. Lots of time. What's the result?
"It's this. Every one of you five people who went to the prison, and were together even before then, has got an alibi as big as a house. Eh?" "I hadn't thought about it So that's the perfect alibi, is it?" "We-el!" said Masters, regarding him with broad and fishy skepticism. "No. I don't say perfect. I could pick a flaw in it
But it’d go down with a jury like peaches and cream. You'd want strong evidence to upset it?"
"And you think you can upset it?" "If you ask me whether I want to upset It" Masters said i violently, "the answer is: yes. I smacking well do! If you ask me whether I can upset it, the answer is: probably. I'll know tomorrow. There's a little camera-trick, Mr. Drake, that might
interest you."
Sir Henry Merrivale, at this point lumbered very slowly into I the room and passed them without appearing to see them.] H.M.'s big face wore a mottled pallor, and there were beads of sweat on his forehead. It struck Martin Drake with a chill of dread. And Masters — who had sworn at the time of the Bronze Lamp case he would never again be worried by the old man's carryings-on — uttered a roaring oath and jumped up. "Have you been on that roof?" Masters demanded.
H.M. did not reply. He went over and stood with his back to the fireplace, his feet wide apart Fumbling for a handkerchief in his hip pocket, he mopped his forehead slowly and returned the handkerchief. His eyes were blank. After a long time he spoke.
"Masters," he said, "we're not finished yet But if we play the cards light we'll finish soon. Masters, we've got the swine good and proper."
And the tone of his voice stung Martin Drake like a red-hot wire.
"We've got a beauty," said H.M., envisaging the murderer. "What sticks in my gorge," he tugged-at his collar, "is that Puckston gal being killed just merely for the reason she was killed. Masters, we've got a real vicious ‘un. And, oh, so innocent!"
"Sir Henry! Listen!"
"Hey?"
"I knew you'd twigged it" Masters said with satisfaction, "as soon as you shouted out to let you think, and then rushed off to the roof. But what have you got?"