Cy didn't know. He could call only on his imagination. And that gave him a wild vision of . Frederick Manning—completely invisible-climbing out of the swimming pool while wearing nothing but a wrist watch and socks.
"Y'see," resumed H.M., "our friend Gil Byles is under the happy hallucination that to catch Manning is goin' to be easy." Traces of a ghoulish mirth appeared in his face. "Cor! When Gil was giving all those fancy statistics to the young people..."
"He sounded pretty convincing, H.M."
"In a way, yes. That trick of watchin' secondhand book-shops is a beauty. But statistics, which are mostly hoo-haa anyway, try to find the
average man. And if Fred Manning is the average man, then I'm Harry Houdini."
"Look here! What's the crafty game now?"
"Well," rumbled H.M. drowsily studying the four champagne bottles, "you take that crumpled and discarded envelope, with the figure and town names on it, which Fred sort of discarded..."
Cy jumped. "Are you saying that was a trick too?"
"Oh, my son! If you were a clever man ready to do a bunk, would you write every bit of it down in the dining room of your club, and so very obviously leave it there in front of a District Attorney who hates you?"
"It was—more misdirection?"
H.M. sniffed. "Sure it was. And Gil grabbed it."
"But Manning's real line of flight...?"
"However much of the rhino he pinched," said H.M., "it wasn't a hundred thousand dollars. And, wherever he's really goin', it's not Florida or California."
"Now that you're in a garrulous mood, can you tell me anything else?"
H.M. reflected.
Studying the champage bottles, he bent forward with some effort He touched one of the bottles, moved it forward, and then drew it back again like an informal chess player.
"You ought to guess by this time"—and H.M. sent at Cy an odd glance which ought to have had significance for Cy—"we can't trust a word that*s been said from the beginning. But bein' the old man, I will tell you something I heard from Jean this afternoon. The gal don't even know she told me."
"All right, what is it?"
"Fred Manning's got a phenomenally acute sense of hearing. In a radio play, d'ye see, he could hear background effects that nobody else could. They gave him that hummin'-fork test, and he was miles ahead of anybody else.
"But"— H.M. was now fiercely arguing to himself—"that wouldn't help him much in this case. Lord love a duck! He couldn't possibly..."
"Couldn't possibly what?"
H.M. looked up.
"I'm stiflin' to death," he said in accents of tragedy. "I got claustrophobia. How long have I got to stay shut up here like the Man in the Iron Mask? Haven't those press blighters cleared out?"
"Ye-es." Cy was hesitant. "Yes, I think so. But it'd be better if we could get to the woods."
"What woods?"
"Since you've noticed every microscopic detail, you may not have noticed there are woods behind the bathing cabins. Let's try it, anyway."
Creeping upstairs like a couple of burglars, they made their exit by way of the screened porch on the south-eastern terrace and a deserted lawn round the swimming pool.
"It's all right," Cy said.
H.M., hitching up his trousers after an evil glance round, waddled out. Then two things happened at once.
Bob Manning walked out of the kitchen door on the northeastern side, letting the screen door bang after him. Bob wore an old baseball uniform with the entwined letters M.T. In one hand he carried a fungo bat, in the other he juggled with three baseballs.
And, at the same time, a photographer with camera and flash gun came prowling round the northern side of the house as though stalking prey.
Sir Henry Merrivale, with astounding celerity, was suddenly trying to flatten himself behind the projection of a chimney. In this he succeeded. The photographer, after casting a slow and crafty glance over the landscape, melted away towards the front.
"Look!" said Bob, trotting over towards the other two. "What goes on here?"
"I don't suppose," said H.M. with dignity, "you got a tribe of Indians that could come whoopin' after me with tomahawks? Cor! That feller looked more like Hawkeye than anybody I ever did see. I got to hide!"
"Hide?" demanded Bob, catching the atmosphere. "Then come down to the field with me!"
"What field?"
"The ball field! Behind those trees over there! My team's out practising now. And"—Bob lowered his voice impressively—"Moose Wilson is there. Last night you practically promised you'd come out and try some batting."
"I know, son. I'd like to go. But I've got a lot on my mind, and..."
"Look, Sir Henry, there's nothing for you to be afraid of!"
H.M., who had opened his mouth for more explanation, stopped and looked at him.
"So there's nothin' for me to be afraid of, hey?" he asked.
"Not a thing! Moose Wilson will take it easy. If I tell him to, he'll serve them up so anybody could hit 'em."
H.M. gave Bob a long, slow look. Though it had been staved off last night, the purple colour was coming into his face like that of a man being strangled.
"Now that's uncommon handsome of him, son," said H.M. in a soft, cooing voice. "That's a fine sportin' proposition, that is."
"Where," H.M. asked with deceptive casualness, "did you say this field is?"
They hurried across the terrace, past the lawn of the swimming pool, and past the rhododendron bushes and the bathing cabins which lay in parallel lines with the pool. The woods beyond, cool as an old-time spring house, drooped with heavy leaves and shadow. Against a beech tree, and wearing black slacks with a chaste white blouse, leaned Crystal Manning.
"Are you taking them out to see the baseball?" she greeted her brother sweetly, without looking at Cy. "Would you mind terribly if I went too?"
Bob stared at her. "Would I..." he began, and stopped. He turned to his companions as though the end of the world had come.
"Last night," Bob declared patiently, "this woman thought a bunt was about the same as a three-bagger or a home run. And now she wants to watch."
"Have you any objections, Bob dear?"
"No, of course not! And, come to think of it"— Bob flushed slightly as he turned to his companions—"I'd better tear along ahead. The cover's started to rip on the only ball they have, and I've got three new ones here. Excuse me."
What he really wanted to do was tell his team, modestly styling itself the Maralarch Terrors, to treat the poor old duck like spun glass. Instead of using the broad path, Bob plunged off into the underbrush.
So the other three, with Crystal in the middle, walked down the path.
As soon as she was away from any member of her family, Crystal dropped all her airs and became the all-too-human being Cy knew. She gave him only one glance, of passionate reproachfulness, which said, "Why didn't you come and look for me this afternoon?" Then she turned away.
"Sir Henry," said Crystal.
"Uh-huh?" said the scion of ancient lineage.
"Why did you tell the District Attorney that awful lie this morning?"
(So she spotted it too, thought Cy.)
"Which particular lie, my wench?"
"When he was asking about this woman," said Crystal, with a wicked smile. "This popsy of Dad's. You deliberately gave Mr. Byles the address and telephone number of some woman called Flossie Peters, who isn't Irene Stanley at all."
"So? What makes you think I did?"
"Because I was watching Jean's face! I don't know where Irene Stanley lives, and I'm sure Bob doesn't But I'm quite certain Jean does know, and if s not at the address you gave. Isn't that so, now?"
"That's so, my wench " admitted H.M.