With painful effort they roused the dreamers and confronted them with the horrible reality in their midst. Tommy derived a cruel satisfaction from the process, not sorry to see his own recent sensations duplicated; but if he had hoped to witness some betrayal of guilty knowledge, he was doomed to disappointment. As far as one could judge, the entire eleven passed through identical stages of stupefaction, shock and moral collapse, so that when all were fully awake he was not astonished to note covert glances of suspicion dart from one to another.
Dinah’s absence had so far passed unnoticed. Helen had agreed to let them find it out for themselves, though just why Tommy had exacted this promise from her was hard to explain. Perhaps, knowing what these people were like, he had foreseen their avid anxiety to shift blame on to other shoulders. At any rate, their present behaviour justified his most cynical expectations. No grief here, only panic-stricken fear of inconvenience, scandal. Not one, least of all the gigolo, cared anything about the unhappy girl whose hospitality they had enjoyed. They neither loved nor hated her. Casual friends or mere acquaintances, drawn together by curiosity of the most idle sort.
With one exception—Bannister Mowbray. Last evening was nothing novel to him; but then, as Tommy had argued, what could Dorinda’s death profit him? Abject, deflated, he leant now against the mantelpiece, brow clammy with sweat, tongue exploring the surface of his dry lips. Manifestly terrified, his impassivity shaken to the roots; but only, one imagined, because he was envisaging the bad hole he was in as the purveyor of a drug which had rendered murder possible.
The coffee arrived, hot and strong. While it was being drunk, Tommy slipped quietly into the hall and telephoned the local commissariat. He returned to see Rita Falkland rise with an odd look on her face, and run a swift eye over the assembled party. Suddenly she emitted an hysterical shriek.
“Thirteen! Who’s missing? Is it—? Yes, of course! That red-haired American girl. What’s become of her?” She seized on Helen convulsively. “Did you know she was gone?” she demanded accusingly.
Tommy intervened with firm authority.
“Sit down, please,” he commanded. “Yes, we knew it. When Miss Roderick came downstairs she found the door open, so I should think at some time or other Miss Blake decided to go home.”
“You think!” Miss Falkland rounded on him with furious indignation, all her tendresse of the previous evening forgotten. “What right had you to keep back a thing as important as that? Why, if we’d known that girl had left here . . . but it’s absolutely obvious now who did it. No one else had any real reason to—”
“Don’t be a fool, Rita!” muttered Cicely Gault, pulling her into her seat. “Keep your head, for God’s sake.”
“Well, but you all agree with me. That’s certain.”
Miss Falkland subsided angrily, and with revived assurance began to repair her ravaged complexion. Tommy scanned the hostile faces. Human wolves, ready to fall on the one member of the pack who showed weakness. Peter Hummock, who had been shuddering as with palsy, now wore an alert, relieved air. Ronald Cleeves exhaled a long breath and looked towards Mowbray, who with shaking fingers essayed to light a cigarette. No one spoke, but presently the ominous silence was broken by a shuffling movement near the door. Tommy wheeled, caught hold of the Argentine by the shoulders and hauled him back to his place.
“Oh, no, I think not, Mr.—I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”
“Da Costa—Ramon da Costa,” supplied the gigolo with a black expression. “Et pourquoi—”
“Mr. da Costa, your place is here along with the rest of us. Sorry, Miss Falkland, but it’s quite useless to think of leaving. The police are on their way here now, so take it easy.”
“What impertinence!” raged the actress, her thin cheeks fiery red. “How can you dream of keeping us here against our wills? Why, anyone would think—”
“Listen, please!” Tommy stationed himself before the doorway with a stern glint in his eye. “Since some of you appear not to grasp the situation, perhaps I’d better make it clear. Every person present, including Miss Roderick and myself, is a potential suspect. For our own interests we’ve got to face the inquiry in a body. Now! Have I made that entirely plain?”
“The only thing plain to me,” retorted Miss Falkland, quivering with animosity, “is that you’re determined to shield that girl—that murderess. How do we know you didn’t help her get away? You were pally enough with her last night.”
“Oh, do be quiet!” urged Miss Gault wearily. “He’s right, of course. If we go, we’re only asking for trouble.”
Tommy, well aware of the curious glances bestowed upon him, preserved an imperturbable air, though inwardly he was both annoyed and apprehensive. He continued to stand guard, while the women fidgeted and rolled their handkerchiefs into balls. Hummock directed at him a baleful glare, and Mowbray and Cleeves, withdrawn to a corner, conversed in low whispers. Five interminable minutes ticked by, then a thunderous pounding on the outer door set the company trembling anew.
A second later Benedetto ushered in two officers in uniform—an inspector, small, sallow and hawk-eyed, followed by a heavier-built subordinate. The couple swept the scene with incredulous eyes. Swiftly their gaze passed over the littered room and its occupants, coming to rest on the couch. The inspector’s nostrils dilated.
“Mesdames—messieurs!” he rapped out sharply. “What have we here? A suicide?”
Suicide! No one had thought of this as a possible explanation. Several drew in their breath, but before any one could speak Tommy stepped forward with businesslike gravity.
“That, monsieur l’inspecteur, is for you to decide. What you see is what we ourselves saw when we woke up a short time ago. Shall I tell you what we know?”
Miss Falkland and Hummock sought to interrupt, but were peremptorily silenced.
“One at a time, please. I will hear what this gentleman has to say first. Now then, monsieur?”
In fluent French Tommy gave a terse outline of events. At the mention of the drug the listener compressed his lips, but although he made no comment he was evidently in some confusion as to how to proceed in an affair which had no parallel in his experience. He took refuge in summary brusqueness.
“Yes, yes, that will do for the present. You say that one of the guests, a lady, is missing. Her name? Address? Good!” He wrote rapidly in a note-book. “Did any one see her go?”
Eager denials came with a rush. The inspector raised his hand to stem the torrent of protestations.
“The entire party, then, was under the influence of this drug. You came here for the purpose of trying its effects?”
Another negative chorus. The inspector’s lip curled with disbelief, and Tommy, recalling the knowing expectancy of several faces when the drug was passed, shared the other’s silent contempt. All very well to swear, as they now did, that each and all of them, Mowbray and Cleeves excepted, were taken in by the jest. To his thinking Miss Blake and he were the only innocent persons.
“And you, madame?” The inspector turned brusquely to Helen. “Did you likewise partake of this drug?”
“Certainly not!” she retorted with asperity. “I was in my room, asleep in the ordinary way. I was not well, but if I had even faintly suspected such a thing would happen—”
“Why did you come downstairs?”
“I woke up and wanted to know the time. My watch had stopped. I found the door open, and then, when I looked in here I—oh, what is that?” she broke off, trembling anew, as the sound of a bell drew attention away from her.
The inquiry was suspended while Benedetto showed in a tall, bony Englishman with a drooping moustache. The newcomer fitted a monocle into his eye and cast a disapproving glance at the debauched gathering, several of whom he appeared to recognise. Helen, relieved to find the focus shifting from herself, introduced Dr. Walter Bramson, the dead girl’s physician. The inspector gave a curt bow.
“I see. Then before going further we may as well secure his opinion—but you, ladies and gentlemen—” He jerked a dictatorial thumb in their direction—“will remain seated and hold no communication with each other. Now, doctor, perhaps you will examine the body.”
The physician, moving very deliberately, cleared a space on the table for his bag of instruments, and with sundry clicking noises of the tongue bent over the corpse. Soon grunts and disjointed words were heard: “Clean incision . . . left ventricle deeply penetrated . . . death almost instantaneous.” In reply to a suggestion offered by the inspector he shook his head decidedly. No, self-destruction was an utter impossibility. The victim, whom he knew to be left-handed, could never have aimed a blow which slanted at this angle. Besides, an act of this sort required the full sweep of the arm. It was dealt from above, by someone standing close beside the couch.
“And the time?”
The doctor studied with distaste the clots of dark blood adhering to the wound, and before he spoke wiped his hands carefully on an immaculate handkerchief.
“Six to seven hours ago,” he answered slowly. “Though we can make only a rough guess. Very little rigidity . . . room is warm. But on the whole, we’re safe in assuming the murder to have been perpetrated in the neighbourhood of midnight.”
Astonished eyes questioned each other. No one save Tommy had the least idea that the drug had taken its full effect at such an early hour. To be sure, Mowbray had said something about time expanding, but midnight—! Why, that was only the edge of the evening!
The physician and the officer conferred in undertones. The former elevated his brows and gazed with profound repugnance at each of the wan faces in turn.
“Have you found out what particular narcotic was used?” he inquired coldly.
“Not yet—but rest assured we shall do so,” snapped the inspector with venom.
Rita could contain herself no longer.
“Doctor,” she appealed hysterically, “why should innocent people like ourselves be subjected to this indignity? We all know who’s responsible. Yes, I will speak!” she cried defiantly. “Ask Miss Roderick who left the room while we were asleep. Ask her about the open door.”
The plea produced an unexpected result. Before Dr. Bramson could do more than stare, the inspector issued rapid orders to his assistant to secure the finger-prints from the door-knob. There would probably be several sets, but one set would belong to the absent guest.
Tommy’s heart stood still. Directly afterwards, however, he realised how meaningless it would be to find Dinah’s prints on the door she must certainly have opened in order to get out. If it was the knife now . . . But here he felt safe. With a grim spirit of mischief, he called the officer’s attention to the knife buried in the cinders, and watched in amusement while the other stooped and gave a start.
“Comment! And whose is that?”
Tommy explained the ownership, and described how all the members of the party had handled the dirk, which at the end of the dinner had been left lying in the dish of fruit. Again the suspicious glances darted to and fro, with the journalist as the main target. The watchers held mute communion while the weapon was drawn forth with the fire-tongs and held out for the doctor’s inspection.
“Probably the weapon used,” assented the Englishman cautiously. “You’ll take proper measurements, of course, but it looks likely enough. Anything to be got from it?”
“From this?” grunted the inspector with scorn. “No! Every mark has been burnt off. The handle is charred to a crisp.”
He laid the knife down with disgust, and proceeded to view the carpet between the hearth and the couch. As Tommy had previously observed, not a drop of blood could be seen. The explanation of this appeared when the searcher picked up a fold of the victim’s chiffon skirt and pointed triumphantly to a long, double smear.
“You see, monsieur? The blade was wiped. Wiped clean, then thrown into the fire. Careful work.”
Tommy registered this fact for future consideration. It might, he felt, have a deep significance, though at present he was incapable of following any line of thought to its logical conclusion. He saw the doctor speak to Helen, who with visible reluctance approached the body, took a close survey, and shook her head.
“Her jewellery is all there,” she whispered. “I fastened her gown for her last night, and I know she wore only that string of pearls, one brooch and the fire-opal ring. You’re not thinking of Benedetto, are you? As you know, he’s been in service here for nineteen years. Besides, there was no need to commit murder. He or any one else could have taken what they wanted without that.”
The inspector now retired to the dining-room, into which, one after another, the guests were shown to be privately interrogated. Mowbray was detained for ten minutes, da Costa, cringing, green to the gills with fright, for seven, the others for shorter periods. The finger-prints of all were taken, and when the proceedings were completed the whole group, reassembled, were subjected to a final harangue.
“None of you,” wound up the inspector in a menacing tone, “will be free to leave the city until permission is granted you. You will each be summoned before the juge d’instruction for further examination, for which you must hold yourselves in readiness.” He paused, looked about and suddenly remembered his subordinate’s task. “Laugier! Have you finished? What is your result?”
The other officer creaked towards him with a puzzled air.
“Can’t make it out,” he mumbled. “Knob, smooth brass, was polished yesterday morning, since which time at least five persons have touched it. That is to say, the deceased, this lady—” he motioned towards Helen—“a manicure woman, the deceased’s father, who came here last evening, and the butler. The missing lady would bring the list up to six, but all I have got hold of is three sets of prints. Two, actually, because the third set is a duplicate of the second.”
The superior officer knit his brows and suggested that some of the persons mentioned might have worn gloves. Helen, on reflection, declared that as she had been in a hurry the previous morning she had gone out carrying her gloves in her hand, while she was inclined to think Miss Quarles had done likewise. For the manicure woman and Mr. Jethro she could not answer, as she had seen neither of them leave the apartment. Tommy, as it happened, remembered noticing that Jethro’s hands were bare.
“Hein! In that case, we should certainly have not less than five sets of prints, with several repetitions of the butler’s. Laugier, show me your three.”
Necks craned as he compared the specimens taken from the brass knob with the sheaf of smudges obtained from the company.
“Here we are!” he exclaimed, indicating the ones which corresponded. “They are yours, mademoiselle, and those of the servant. It is quite plain they represent the occasion when you closed the door this morning, and the time when the doctor and ourselves were admitted. But—” in a sharp tone to his assistant, “are you certain there are no others?”
“None.”
Then why was it Dinah’s fingers had left no mark? Here was a new problem to be thrashed out, but like the business of the knife it paled to insignificance beside the one really momentous question: where was Dinah herself?