Every drop of blood in Tommy’s veins froze. He stared fixedly at the girl’s abnormally brilliant eyes, and in the few seconds which elapsed before either he or his companion could recover sufficiently to speak, his opinions boxed the entire compass to return to their starting point.
It was Hallie who first broke the silence. With a stifled wail she flung protecting arms round her cousin’s taut body, whispering, “Hush, hush! Oh, Mr. Rostetter, Dinah’s hysterical, that’s all. I tell you, I saw her with Le Soir in her hands! She didn’t know till then. I swear it!”
Tommy had regained his self-possession.
“All right,” he said briskly, taking Dinah’s icy hand and drawing her to a sofa. “Now, just sit down quietly and let us know all about it. You say you stabbed Dorinda with the Algerian knife—the one we used for the grapes. Is that the idea?”
“Yes,” answered the girl with a shudder. “You must have noticed how it fascinated me. When I felt its sharp point I kept thinking how easy it would be just to stick it into any one who was sound asleep. Well, when the chance came, I did it.”
“Exactly,” he pattered, nodding his head. “And the knife itself? Did you take it away with you? Perhaps you’ve got it now?”
As he said this he drew out his own copy of Le Soir and quickly scanned the front page. No, the weapon was not mentioned.
“I—I can’t remember,” she faltered, looking a little blank.
“I must have thrown it into the river when I crossed the bridge. Yes, I feel sure that’s what I did.”
“I see.” Very casually he took her right hand, and studied the pink, manicured nails. Though not over-clean, they showed no trace of darkening round the cuticle. “By the way,” he asked, “have you had a wash since you woke up?”
“I was just going to. Why?” in dull surprise.
“Oh, nothing. Now about this knife; would it astonish you to hear that since this paper went to press the police experts have decided the murder was committed with some other quite different weapon?”
“Not that knife? But I don’t understand. I thought—”
“Don’t think,” ordered Tommy, exultant over the success of his simple bluff. “Only you mustn’t expect us to be taken in by this confession of yours. You don’t really remember anything, now do you? Ah, I thought not! Well, then, if that’s your story, stick to it. Don’t go drawing on your imagination, please. Surely,” he went on with deliberate brusqueness, “you’re not fool enough to confess to a crime you can’t remember?”
She turned her aquamarine eyes on him slowly.
“Hallie,” she said to her bewildered cousin, “leave us alone a minute, will you?” She waited till the door closed behind Miss Pemberton, then grasping Tommy’s arm spoke with terrifying conviction: “You see, I wanted to kill her. Never mind why. All through that awful meal there was murder in my heart. Now do you understand why I know I did it?” Tommy laughed light-heartedly. “My dear child, what rubbish! Every human being at one time or another feels like that about someone. Why, supposing I’d killed half the people I’ve wanted to kill? I’d be a second Landru. But I don’t go around pretending to deeds I’ve merely wanted to commit.” She shook her head obstinately. “What about the dreams I’ve had? They’ve gone from me now, but they were wonderful—satisfying. Why, when I woke up, did I feel that everything in life was perfect?”
“Precisely. Would you have felt that if you’d known yourself guilty of murder? What you experienced was the result of that drug. Didn’t that Mowbray fellow tell us we’d dream of accomplishing some secret desire?”
“And to think that my cherished desire was—murder! Me, a murderess!” She examined her slender hands with a sort of numb horror. “I don’t pretend,” she said in a more reasonable tone, “that I’d have done it in my right senses. I’d have seen too clearly the consequences—and I can’t say I’d really choose to have any one’s death on my conscience; but all the same, I must have done it. Who else in that crowd had any reason to?”
“Ah, that’s what we’d all like to know!” He pinioned her wrists in a grip that made her wince. “Look at me, Dinah! May I call you that? I want you to grasp that your safety in this matter depends almost entirely on yourself. Whatever happens, you’ll be hauled up before the juge d’instruction and asked a lot of troublesome questions. You can tell a straight story without adding anything to it, can’t you?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“But you need not give away your private feelings towards Dorinda. Your thoughts are your own. Now, what about that suggestion of mine which you seem to have overheard?”
“That?” She gave a little, scornful laugh. “It’s good of you to want to sacrifice yourself for me, but really, you must see how useless such a pretence would be. Me, engaged to you!”
“Why that tone?” he demanded, ruffled. “Is there anything so fantastic about it? Women like you have made worse selections, let me inform you.”
“I—I didn’t mean that!” she stammered, reddening. “But who’ll believe us?”
“Why shouldn’t everyone believe us? I take it none of those people the other night were in your confidence?”
“I should say not!” she replied with slight hauteur. “I despise the whole lot of them! If ever I’d guessed that horrible trick was going to be played—”
“That’s another point.” He spoke very casually. “When you were talking to Dorinda and Mowbray in the Baroness Waldheim’s cloakroom, was anything said on the subject of this so-called joke?”
She stared at him, puzzled. “Who told you about that? No, of course there wasn’t. They stopped talking when I went in to ask if it really was the coming Friday we were asked to dinner. I went out and left them together. I don’t know what they were discussing.”
“But you realised, I suppose, that Mowbray’s drugs had a morbid fascination for Dorinda?”
“She’d been chattering about them that afternoon, but from what she said I never imagined the stuff was something to eat, still less that she would dare hand it round at a dinner-party. Why, you must have seen how upset I was to find I’d swallowed a drug without knowing it! I’ve a perfect horror of such things.”
He believed her.
“Good! Now let’s return to the main subject. I propose to furnish you with a brief outline of what might have happened after our one and only meeting in the Champs Elysées. You recall it, don’t you?” Retaining her wrists in a close hold he drove home his points with a series of squeezes. “You may remember we walked as far as the Madeleine together. Didn’t we?”
“And separated.”
“Wrong! We lunched together and went to see a film called ‘Love’s Wings.’ We were much attracted to each other, you see; and after a week of daily meetings, I laid my heart at your feet and was accepted. Why, God knows; but that’s your affair. Are you listening? Then I’ll go on. Owing to the suddenness of it all,” he continued, warming to his subject, “we agreed not to make our engagement public just yet. Your cousin knew, of course, but no one else. You didn’t tell me you were going to dine with Dorinda, because you knew I disapproved of her, and you also kept quiet about having a studio lent you, for the simple reason that . . .” Here he drew up. What in Hell’s name was the simple reason for this unlikely occurrence? “Oh, yes! You knew I considered you over-tired, and had made you promise me to take a complete rest from painting. There!”—in triumph. “That’s the skeleton. We can pad it out later. Not bad, what?”
“How can you explain never coming here to the flat? They’ll find that out from our servant.”
“She sleeps out, doesn’t she? Then she can’t possibly know how often I was here in the evenings, and certainly she can’t prove we didn’t meet outside, sit in the Luxembourg Gardens, drive into the country. So long as we agree on the essential fact they won’t enquire too closely into the details. The point is, have I your sanction to go ahead?”
The spell exerted over her unwilling fancy was broken. Too distraught to bear more she huddled her white peignoir about her with a shiver of desperation.
“No! No! I can’t act a lie like that. They’d see in a minute there was no truth in it. Why, I know nothing about you except that you’re a friend of Helen Roderick’s and write for the papers. Who, what, is Thomas Rostetter?” she demanded, toying with his card.
“Tommy, to you,” he murmured in a pained voice. “And I’ll have you know I’m no such inconsiderable trifle as you appear to think. But why advertise my qualities if you’re dead set against this idea? If you won’t, you won’t. However, while there’s time, it’s my duty to mention one thing. It’s fairly certain the police have searched this entire flat. Were there any letters here from your former fiancé?”
“Not one. I burned the lot,” she whispered, a hard look in her eyes.
“Good girl! And it’s no use urging you to fall in with my plan?”
“Please don’t ask anything so impossible. I appreciate your taking all this trouble, but—I must just fight through this by myself as best I can.”
He heaved a despondent sigh. How could she guess what lay in store for her? In her present state of mind argument would do no good, and unless she consented at once, it would be too late.
A diversion was caused by the cyclonic entry of Irene with a tray. The dishevelled girl gave a dramatic start, and the thought in her mind lay open for all to read. What, the returned wanderer, suspected of murder, sitting with her hair down and her hand held in a lover’s clasp? Mon Dieu! And it was scarcely yesterday that the other one, tall, white to the lips, had stalked down the stairs to come no more! Sacré! To think there were fools who called the English phlegmatic and cold! She could tell them a thing or two. . . .
“Food!” cried Tommy, one eye on the maid, the other lured by the succulence of an omelette garnie. “Do you think there’s enough for three?”
“It doesn’t matter. I can’t eat anything.”
“After two days’ fast? Nonsense, my dear girl! And as I shan’t eat unless you do and you are the cause of my recent starvation, you can’t in common decency refuse.”
For the first time a faint interest stirred in her eyes.
“I’ll try, then—though I can’t quite see why my disappearance should have put you off your feed.”
“Nor I,” he agreed frankly. “Weakness of intellect, Birdie, I cried—but there it is. Come in, Miss Pemberton!” He jumped up to pull forward a chair. “We’ve said our say, and the decision is No. It’s a sad blow to my pride. May I comfort myself with a cup of tea?”
Though he continued to prattle, fear gripped him hard. He saw Dinah exposed to every shaft of suspicion, discredited, without defence. Something must be done to bring her to reason. When her nerves had calmed down a bit, he would tackle her again; but alas! the opportunity was denied him. The omelette was hardly finished before a thunderous knock brought the three of them to their feet in consternation.
“The inspector!” cried Hallie, trembling like a leaf. “Oh, what are we to say to him?”
“The truth—no more, no less,” ordered Tommy grimly. “Here, take this,”—and he thrust a cigarette into Dinah’s hand and pushed her back among the sofa-cushions. “Now! Let him in.”
He was in the act of tendering his lighter when the inspector entered, stopped dead on the threshold, and darted a nonplussed glance at the little group. Tommy looked up in glad welcome.
“Oh, it’s you!” he exclaimed. “We thought you’d turn up before long. Yes, as you see, here’s the young lady you’re looking for, safe and sound, though a bit under the weather from that drug. In fact, we’ve sent for the doctor; but I dare say she’s quite equal to being interviewed. Aren’t you, Dinah?”
The officer eyed Tommy with sharp distrust. He appeared to suspect that some trick was being played upon him.
“You, monsieur, are the gentleman who was with this lady at the dinner on Friday evening, and afterwards furnished us with the specimen of the drug?”
“Right on both counts. I was fortunate enough to arrive here immediately after her return, and—”
“Please!”
It was Dinah who spoke, her manner cool and collected. Shaking back her long red hair, she addressed the inspector in clear, incisive French.
“Monsieur, in case you are wondering a little at Mr. Rostetter’s solicitude on my account, I’d better explain that he is my fiancé. He and I are engaged to be married.”