“No,” Arnold answered feebly.
“Face pretty bad?”
“Yes. What of it?” I caught the quick, brief glance he sent in Gail’s direction.
“It might have something to do with this case.” Gavigan, watching Arnold narrowly, took one step to the left, exposing the two bottles on the table behind him.
Arnold saw them; I was sure of that. But he gave no outward sign.
The Inspector’s hand fussed idly with the stopper of the cyanide bottle, twisting it back and forth. His eyes remained on Arnold’s face. “Yesterday afternoon,” he said gravely, “when Linda Skelton was poisoned, you were one of three persons on this island and the only one with Miss Skelton in this house. You had the opportunity. The sodium cyanide in your darkroom was not in its usual place, but locked up. You had the means.” He paused, glanced at the bottles under his hand for the first time, and went on remorselessly. “Your silver nitrate was found in the same locked cupboard, in an unlabeled bottle. The silver-nitrate bottle is filled with rock salt. The discoloration of your skin is due to silver nitrate. You had opportunity, means, and motive.”
“I see.” Arnold returned Gavigan’s stare steadily. “Why, if I killed Linda, would I carry her body over to the old house where I knew she’d never have gone herself? And then fix it to look like suicide? Or do I impress you as a half-wit?”
“On the contrary. You’re altogether too clever. That’s your alibi. But it won’t wash. Not with me.”
“You’re charging me then?”
“I’ll give you a chance to talk first. Got anything to say?”
Arnold considered that; then, all at once his tense, careful attitude wilted visibly. “Yes,” he said hopelessly, “I do. You know a lot. But not enough. And you’ve got it wrong.”
He turned and took a step toward the darkroom door. Gavigan moved quickly to intercept him.
“It’s all right, Inspector. I’m not after the poisons.”
Gavigan went with him just the same. Arnold brought back a towel and the jar of cold cream. He placed them on the ping-pong table and unscrewed the jar’s top. He began applying the cream to his face. He said nothing and the rest of us were silent, watching.
Then he wiped his face with the towel. The effect was odd, as if he had used the trick soap novelty shops sell that dirties you as you use it, or as if, under cover of the towel, he had applied burnt cork. His face, with the makeup gone, was a cold, dirty gray-blue like his arms, a dead queer color that killed all the good looks of his clean-cut, neatly proportioned features. The matinee idol was suddenly a freak.
“Pretty sight, isn’t it?” he said bitterly, flinging the towel to the floor. He took a cigarette from his pocket, placed it in his mouth, and lighted it with slow deliberation. “The handcuffs, Inspector,” he added with a feeble attempt at lightness, “bring them on. I know when I’m licked.”
“Let’s hear about it,” Gavigan asked.
Arnold nodded faintly. “If I don’t talk, I’m on the spot. If I do, you won’t believe it. But here goes. Linda had it coming to her. If anyone ever deserved to die, she did. And I intended that she should, slowly and painfully. But — someone else beat me to it. And I do hate to take the rap for him. I’d hoped to have some evidence for you before you caught up with me, but you’ve worked too fast. I congratulate you.” He inhaled deeply on his cigarette, and then went on, the smoke issuing from his nose and mouth as he talked. “Linda died yesterday at exactly ten minutes past three. I know because I saw her die. I meant to kill her, and she died of a poison from my darkroom. And I moved the body. Only — I didn’t kill her.”
He paused again, a hopeless look in his eyes, seeing the disbelief he had expected on the Inspector’s face.
“Go on,” Gavigan said tonelessly.
“Linda was mad,” Arnold said, “more so than any of us guessed — even you, Dr. Gail. She had been dosing me with silver nitrate from my own lab for nearly a year now. She hoped to kill my acting career. She did. I do have a doctor, Felix Graf, skin specialist. He couldn’t diagnose the condition when it first appeared, and I don’t blame him. The fact that I’d been assimilating silver nitrate regularly seemed too fantastic to consider seriously. But as the condition became worse and didn’t respond to treatment, he finally told me he was forced to believe it must be argyria. He knew I was using-silver nitrate, but neither of us could understand how I could be getting it inside me. I don’t absently chew on the chemicals as I work.
“When I found that the silver, in order to produce the intense discoloration as I had it, must be taken in small doses over a fairly extended period of time, I knew it couldn’t be accidental; and I began to suspect what was happening. Even then it was a good while before I was able to figure out how she was giving it to me. Silver nitrate is an unstable compound — decomposes readily in contact with any organic matter — so it was doubtful if I was getting it in my food. I had samples of it tested over a period of weeks. The results were negative. I found out all I could about silver nitrate; and, finally, one fact tipped me off to the answer. Silver nitrate is absorbed through the mucous membranes. Linda had simply pulverized the crystals and added them in minute quantities — too small to make the taste noticeable — to my tooth powder!
“Neither Graf nor myself tumbled sooner, before so much damage was done, because the whole scheme was the insanely devilish sort of thing only a crazy person would think of. Gail’s figured it out now, I gather; but he knew Linda as Graf didn’t. Perhaps I should have consulted him; but, at the time, I thought a skin specialist more appropriate than a psychologist. And I really couldn’t quite believe it myself until I’d finally found Linda’s fingerprints on the nitrate bottle — I compared them with prints from a silver-handled mirror she has. I had to believe it then. I didn’t let her suspect I knew, of course; and I substituted the salt for the nitrate. Can you think of any stronger, more compelling motive for murder than the one I had? She had irretrievably destroyed my chances of doing the one thing I’ve ever wanted to do — act. I decided to kill her. And in such a way that Gail there or even Graf would never suspect me. I’d had my punishment in advance. I worked the murder out, every detail — and then, suddenly, someone else steps in, kills her, and leaves me holding the bag. If you let me live long enough, I’m going to find out whether that was intentional. If it was—” Arnold twisted the cigarette between his fingers with an involuntary movement, breaking it in half. He dropped it on the floor and put it out with his foot.
“You suspect someone,” Gavigan stated sharply. “Who?”
“Floyd. Damn him. Only I don’t understand why — He could have come back to the island yesterday, sneaked in, and put poison in Linda’s glass, but why—” Arnold shook his head in a puzzled fashion. “I didn’t tell you this morning, but I suspect that Floyd’s Hussar theory, is a clever bit of moonshine. He’s located a wreck there where he says — that’s easy — there are plenty of them, but it’s not the Hussar. That’s a little too much. I think he was simply trying to pry Linda loose from the salvage money and then clear out with it. I don’t know if Rappourt’s in on it, or simply hoeing her own row; but she’s after Linda’s money, too. Only I don’t understand why he’d kill her before he got the money. I don’t think she’d paid up yet, but I’m sure she hadn’t refused.” He stopped, staring before him, perplexity and anger on his face.
“This perfect-murder method,” Gavigan asked. “What was that?”
“That’s a leading question, but I’ll answer it. I’ll tell you what happened yesterday afternoon first, though. I went upstairs to Linda’s room at just after 3. I’ve never believed that she really intended to leave all the money to Sigrid, and I did believe that Rappourt was trying to cut herself in. I hardly blamed Floyd for doing so, but Rappourt’s fingers in the pie made me mad. I decided that had gone far enough and I intended to read Linda the riot act on Rappourt, to point out that she was simply being gulled. I never got the chance. She was sitting in the armchair — where you put her body — when I came in. Her eyes were closed, the shades drawn. That pad of paper was on the end table under her arm, and she held a pencil. She seemed to be making an attempt at the automatic writing Gail advises. She was angry because I barged in. She told me to get out. I refused, and we fought about it. That went on for three or four minutes. Then, suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, a horribly agonized look twisted her face, and she screamed.… ”