"Let me make it plain that I know this because it has been independently checked. A newspaperman actually found the original bride and groom, and interviewed them. He came to me, quite puzzled. Just this evening. I appeared to be puzzled, too, and begged for time, but I was enlightened, you see? Now that you understand how much I know and guess, proceed, Mr. Howard."
Francis thought of his past life. He said, "My name is Shields." I wasn't. He hoped it would pass.
Grandy said, "Thank you. Now, about that witness."
"No witness," said Francis dully. "You can do this forever. I can't stop you." He closed his eyes and waited for the pain. He thought how futile torture really was. There was nothing certain about the results you got, after all. Innocent people would swear to guilt to escape it, as readily as guilty people would give up the truth. There is nothing solid in fear. Nothing a torturer can rely on. Bad evidence, in fact. It ought to be suspect. It almost could not be true. "Can't rely on it," he muttered.
He heard Mrs. Press breathing.
"That will do," said Grandy severely.
Francis felt the moisture form drops on his forehead and begin to roll away.
"I doubt if it matters," said Grandy thoughtfully. "You may have been bluffing. I think we've had enough of this sort of thing." He spoke as if it had all been in rather bad taste.
Mrs. Press said, "A couple of times more—"
"No more," said Grandy.
She obeyed.
Francis opened his eyes and looked curiously at Grandy. "Next?" he inquired.
"My dear boy," said Grandy, as if to say, "Really, need you ask?"
"Am I going to commit suicide? I warn you. I don't think that's altogether a good idea."
“Oh, I agree," said Grandy pleasantly. "It isn't a good idea at all. Jane gave me a thought, you know."
Francis absorbed the shock of her name, prayed it hadn't been noticed.
"Jane suggested to me this evening that perhaps, after your little failure this morning, you had given up your schemes. She wondered if you hadn't simply run away."
Francis tried to look flabbergasted. He thought, Jane's all right. He's not onto her yet. He tried to let his battered mouth form a sneer. "That's stupid," he said.
"Not at all," said Grandy brightly. "I think it's perfectly logical.
You see, first the scheme to get Mathilda's fortune was spoiled by the fact that Mathilda wasn't dead. The little will, all that careful preparation, wasted. Well, Althea's suicide, so soon after another death of the same kind in my house—of course, it suggested foul play. You would begin to wonder how you could turn that to account. Althea is dead. She can't deny whatever you choose to say she said." Grandy interrupted himself, so abruptly did he change the smooth spinning of a story into accusation. "You found that picture in the paper—the photograph of the clock?"
"Yes," said Francis.
"You pointed it out to Gahagen?"
"Yes."
"Well," said Grandy. "Well, well. Then, even before Althea died, you were scheming. Ah-ha! Perhaps you killed Althea."
Francis said, "I don't have the advantages of two bathrooms."
Grandy said, "Perhaps you put more powerful pills— Dear me, what an alliteration!"
"Planted them?" said Francis helpfully.
"Yes, indeed. You see, it's going to be quite an interesting story."
"I can see that it will be," conceded Francis.
"You have already disappeared. It did look so queer that you weren't at the funeral. It only remains—"
"To dispose of me?"
"Exactly."
Press spoke for the first time. "Look," he said. "Not here."
Francis wanted to whoop with laughter. Was the fellow aroused at last, thinking of his cellar floor?
"Oh, dear me, no. Certainly not here," Grandy reassured him. “My dear fellow, I shouldn't think of it"
"Whatever you say," said Press. He had a bitter, harsh voice. His eyes were without hope and yet smoldering. Francis thought, He might help me. He's being compelled None of this is his idea.
But Press said, "I suppose I've got to do it for you. Only not here," and the flat resignation in his voice was not encouraging.
The woman made a movement. It was as clear as if she'd said it aloud. As if she'd said, "Let me. HI enjoy it."
"Ah, well, in the eyes of the law we shall be equally responsible," said Grandy cheerfully. "And that, my dear Press, will be pleasant for you. We shall both be of the unsuspected, eh?" he chuckled. Press simply waited. "Is he perfectly secure here?" asked Grandy. They nodded. "Then I don't think we'll be in any hurry. I must get back. We must think it over, you know. Doubtless, something ingenious will occur to one of us." He turned to leave. His eyes went mockingly to Francis. "You don't ask for your bride?"
Press was putting the gag back into Francis' mouth. It obscured any expression there might have been on Francis' face and prevented him from making an answer.
"I'll take care of Mathilda," said Grandy smoothly, "when the time comes. Let me see—" He had no feeling, no sorrow. The soft regret that purred in his voice was only a habit, a trick in his throat. "You disappear. There will be Jane's story of what you said in my study. Then, of course, Mathilda's story of what you tried to do to her. The marriage hoax. She must tell that to everyone. She will tell it with great indignation. She will tell it so well. Oh, the wickedness of it! What a wicked, wicked fellow you are," crooned Grandy.
"But you did not prevail. You were defeated. You ran away." Grandy nodded. "The girls will support me."
Then the wooden door opened, closed. The light went out. Feet traveled toward the steps. Francis listened, hoping it was three pairs of feet. He didn't like the woman.
Yes, he thought, the girls. Mathilda. What Mathilda would tell the police would be only the truth, all the truth she knew. And if Jane tried to tell the truth behind the truth, it would never prevail. Jane tried to tell the truth behind the truth, it would never prevail.
Who was Jane to pull down Luther Grandison? She couldn't fight alone. There was no one to help her now.
Mathilda would help destroy herself. She didn't know any better. He understood. She couldn't believe. It was too much to ask of her. Grandy had her in his web, had always had her, and he would keep her and do what he wanted to do, whatever it might be. Spider and fly. Poor courageous little fly. She had courage. She could fight. On the wrong side, but still one could admire. Eyes closed in the dark, he could see her face.
He said under his breath, "Rosaleen, I tried. Listen, little one, I know what he did to you. I tried to punish him"
It seemed to him that Rosaleen forgave him, because he couldn't see her face. It seemed to him that, graciously, her little ghost moved on. He might himself be with her soon, wherever she was. He hoped Grandy's ingenious way would be quick, at least. His hand throbbed and throbbed. The pain was monstrous. It loomed so large in the silent dark.
And leave Mathilda to the mercy of Grandy who had no mercy. Francis thought what he would do if he were loose. And then tried not to think of such matters. Because he couldn't see any way to get loose. The ropes were still tight and firm. He couldn't move
his wrists to speak of. The wounded arm was very weak. The muscles weren't responding. His ankles were numb. Trying to move would rub his skin off, accomplish nothing. The gag was in as firmly as before. He couldn't make a sound. The pounding of his heels on the cement was only a dull thud, could never be heard by the world, if there still was a world up there beyond that black oblong in the wall. Still night. No dawn.