When exchanges were complete, ultimate proof—or the hope of it—still seemed unobtainable. Even granting a reprieve could be secured, the path might remain blocked. Bream, nevertheless, went with Colin to the hospital to hear the analyst’s report on the cigarettes. Colin scanned it with triumph.
“It’s what I expected. You see, don’t you, how the trick was played?”
Bream did see; but the past was past. As he pointed out, it would still be putting forward what was hardest to believe in—that Blundell hoodwinked a woman into willing money not to him, but away from him.
“Not but what I can think of a reason for his doing that identical thing. It’s simply that I see no chance of bringing it home to him—none. I doubt if the Yard itself . . . and yet, that’s an idea. . . .”
“You mean get the Yard to take an interest?”
“I don’t know if I can. This dope might work it. Yes, Headcorn would see how it might affect the alibi in the Fairlamb case. You’ll let me borrow this report? Thanks. And will you speak to Miss Lake at once about our plan for catching Blundell red-handed over the smokes? I think I’ll do well to keep behind scenes.”
When Bream had gone Pilcher made a communication which sent Colin whirling excitedly on him.
“What! You’ll swear to that?”
“No. It’s my impression; but we may be able to turn up the bill. Leave it to me,” and shouldering on a disreputable overcoat he prepared to seek a well-earned rest.
“It would provide us with a strong link in the chain,” thought Colin. “And God knows we need strong links.” About to leave the building, he remembered his promise to Diana, but wondered if he ought to disturb her as late as this for news which might only lead to more disappointment. Then he recalled that she had been deprived to-night of her usual soporific, and drunk additional coffee. Quite likely she was waiting now, on tenterhooks, for his call. He turned to the telephone and gave her number.
Five whole minutes passed before he hung up, and during that time he had heard her bell ringing steadily. It seemed extraordinary that with an extension beside her bed she could sleep through the noise. He stood debating with himself, vaguely uneasy. Then he strode firmly out. There could be no danger. She would not dream of letting Blundell know about the will she had found, while she herself remained ignorant of having been doped. He would stop worrying, and push off to bed.
A sensible decision, considering it was just two o’clock, and he must be breakfasting at eight; yet in the street his steps lagged and halted, as though an invisible leash were straining in the opposite direction. Twice he stopped, twice went on again in the direction of his flat in Gordon Square. A lone taxi prowled past him. He let it go, and then, as its red tail-light rounded the corner, he sprinted after it, shouting like a lunatic.
“Queen’s Close, Kensington,” he panted. “Drive like hell. . . .”
Number Six was dark from basement to mansard. Now he stood on the stone steps listening intently and hearing no sound he felt so foolish he was of half a mind to go away again. Nothing could be wrong. The bedroom window was open, the curtains behind it fluttering in the cold breeze. Diana was sleeping very soundly, that was all. It would be cruel to wake her; but he pressed his finger on the button still marked “Somervell” and kept it there.
Each moment he expected Diana’s face to appear at the window above, but all remained as before. Suddenly his heart began to thump. He rang the caretakers’ bell, and after long waiting saw a muffled form at the area door. A man’s voice, clogged with sleep and resentment, demanded his business. He explained—and even to his own ears the words sounded asinine. The man grunted with disapproval, disappeared, and was replaced by his wife, who, shivering in a raincoat, seemed to share his view.
“I can’t see any call to disturb the young lady, sir—except it’s important. Why, it’s gone two! I couldn’t, if I was a mind to, not having no key. Not any more I haven’t.”
“It is important!” urged Colin. “If she can’t hear a telephone that rings in her ear, don’t you see what it may mean? Look here!” He leant over the railings. “If anything’s happened, I’ll hold you responsible. Does that move you, or must I fetch a policeman?”
The woman stared, shuffled reluctantly up the steps.
“I suppose we’ll have to wake poor Mr. Blundell,” she grumbled. “But you must deal with him, for I won’t. His cook’s got a spare key. There!” she pushed the Blundell button. “Now, sir, I’ll leave you to it.” And she scuttled back to her basement.
It was the last thing Colin had wanted, yet now the bell was rung his worst fear was that no one was in to answer it. He rang again—long, persistent peals, keeping his eye glued to the upper windows. It seemed to him that the entire house was untenanted—and a sickness attacked the pit of his stomach; but suddenly, without warning sound, a puff of warm air blew against his legs. He started, lowered his eyes, and saw that the big door had opened on darkness so dense that it took him a second to discern the thick-set figure, clad in trousers and dressing-gown, blocking the gap.
“Who’s there?” It was the gruff, kindly drawl once heard in the witness-stand, and again at the close of the trial. “Doctor Ladbroke? Why, so it is!”
Colin stepped quickly inside, but before he could explain, the solicitor switched on fights and apologised for seeming rather fuddled. His man was away, and the fact was he himself had just waked up.
“It took me a bit of time to get on some clothes. I trust you’ve not had the deuce of a wait? Come along in,”—and he led the way hospitably towards the door of his flat, where no light showed.
“I was worried about Miss Lake,” said Colin, “or I shouldn’t have knocked you up at this time of night. We both know the state of mind she’s in. When I rang up and got no answer—”
“Mind the step up,” interrupted Blundell, turning on his own hall lights. “That’s quite all right, it’s no hardship, not in the least. Now, then, what’s this you’re telling me? You rang up and . . . In here, doctor, where it’s warmer.”
Against his will, Colin found himself being shepherded into a lofty, book-lined room stale with tobacco smoke. A few coals still glowed red. Blundell stirred them fussily, keeping up a garrulous patter.
“Don’t mind if I seem a bit slow on the up-take. Fact is, I hadn’t very long dropped off, after a visitation from some clients who stayed till all hours. Beastly cold you must be. Let me offer you something to thaw you. Ah, here’s the whisky—and a clean glass, by luck. Don’t jump, now,” he chuckled as a tinkling tune played a few bars. “Scotch, you see—very appropriate, eh? Say when.”
“It’s the key to her flat I’m after,” said Colin, declining the drink. “You’ve got one, I understand. If I could just run up and make sure—”
“Key? Oh, to be sure, Diana’s spare key!” Blundell scratched his head. “Certainly, there’s an idea . . . if I can lay hands on it. Yes, my servants keep one. Unfortunately, they’re both off duty to-night, and I don’t quite know . . . Think there’s any need? What I mean is, if the poor child’s sleeping, is it a good thing to wake her, maybe give her a fright into the bargain?”
“My fear is she’s not there at all,” said Colin distinctly. “It seemed to me impossible she could sleep through all that ringing.”
It struck him that Blundell’s denseness was slightly exaggerated. This long pause, the vague alarm in his face, first irritated then roused his suspicions. Was he being put off for some definite purpose?
“Not there? Surely you don’t think that!” The solicitor tinkered again with the fire, laid aside the poker, and squinted up at his visitor in troubled fashion. “See here, doctor,” he demanded bluntly, “I’ve not seen her since this morning. She was all right then. Have you talked with her since?”
“Yes, and I felt uneasy,” lied Colin. “That’s why I’m here now. If you could just get me that key?”
“Good Lord! You don’t imagine—?”
“I don’t want to imagine, Mr. Blundell. Suppose we look it up there, that’s all.”
For the first time the solicitor’s face turned full towards him. One hairy hand fondled a chin on which Colin now noticed a fiery red scratch. Razor cut? Too jagged. With a shiver, Colin wondered if the owner was trying to conceal it. That dressing-gown too, so closely bundled about the neck. . . .
“By jove, yes! That would set both our minds at rest, wouldn’t it? You’ll think me doddering—but the fact is, what you say is rather upsetting. You’re the doctor, though. Ha, ha! Obviously we must make certain, or we’ll both go on stewing, eh? I’ll have a hunt now for that key. It can’t be far.” Blundell reached a carved box from the far end of the big table and flung it open carelessly. “Smoke, doctor?”
There was a similar box under Colin’s eye. Inwardly alert, Colin noted the two compartments exhibited for his choice—fat Turkish, common Virginias like his own—and selected one of the latter. Blundell tendered a match, watched solicitously till the tip glowed, and with a cheery, “I’ll not be two ticks,” bustled from the room.
Instantly Colin started to extinguish his gasper; but in the act he paused, examining the moist end narrowly. His breath came short and sharp, his eyes roamed the room from the hideous carpet to the bookshelves and back in a circle. At the same time an odour which all along he had absently noticed caused him to sniff the air.
So faint, scarcely perceptible through the heavy cigar smoke—yet, God, how familiar! He studied the cigarette again, stuck it in his pocket and stole very softly out.
On tiptoe he followed a short passage to a doorway brightly illuminated from within, halted, and gazed in upon a white-tiled kitchen. Two yards distant, his broad back turned, Blundell was standing, motionless. Waiting—for what?
“Shall I help you hunt, Mr. Blundell?”
The solicitor wheeled suddenly and with a brief flash of startled annoyance quickly suppressed. The fronts of his dressing-gown fell apart disclosing two inches of stiff shirt front and a black bow tie.
“What’s that? Oh, I’ve found it!” Covered to the chin again, Blundell displayed a Yale key. “It was hanging on the dresser; but I keep asking myself if we aren’t being idiots. Tell me, doctor, what gave you this notion? Was it something she—”
“Thank you.”
Colin snatched the key and tore from the flat. At the top of the stairs he unlocked Diana’s door, clicked on the lights, and the next moment was peering in on a bed tumbled but empty. Wasting not a second, he dashed to the dressing-room, then on to the bath. Empty again—and likewise the clothes cupboard. As he plunged back into the drawing-room Blundell met him.
“What’s up? You don’t mean she’s not in her room?” Without answering Colin pushed past him to the dining-room, and on to the small kitchen, the pantry, the passage cupboards, all alike deserted, with not the slightest trace of disorder. Vague thoughts surged in his mind. He would call a policeman, have Blundell’s flat searched; but as he formed this tentative resolution his eye fell on one door yet unopened. The maid’s room, unused since Petty’s departure. Blundell appeared, anxiously prowling. With one accord the two sniffed at an odour totally unlike the one Colin had scented below. It crept nauseously, to the nostrils—coming from this room?—
“Gas!”
Colin scarcely heard the dry whisper, “Is it locked?” But the same thought sickened him as he tried the knob. It yielded—and into reeking gloom he hurled himself towards a form lying prone before an unlit gas fixture. Two seconds more and out he staggered, heavily laden, lungs bursting.
“Air!” he coughed. “Throw open every window! Wide!”
He laid Diana on her own bed, swept the curtains apart to let in a draught, and without pause began frantic efforts at artificial respiration. The face upturned was paper-white under the tousled blackness of hair, every inch of the body clammily cold. He worked with sweat pouring into his eyes, cursing under his breath.
“Unconscious?” a voice beside him muttered quaveringly.
“Dead,” snapped Colin, but suspended his labours long enough to note a swift contraction in the other’s pupils.
“Oh, my God!”
To the worker’s ears the cry held an infinitude of relief and—triumph.