Phryne cried, ‘We are going to prevent another murder — if we get there in time.’
Lindsay hung on as the Hispano-Suiza, howling on all cylinders, rocketed over the lumpy track and into the road.
Lindsay did not know that cars could go that fast. Phryne, when roused, could drive like a demon, having taken lessons from Miss May Cunliffe, the Cairo to London Road Race winner. Phryne had strong nerves and wiry wrists, and the engine of the Hispano-Suiza had been built for racing. The rain drummed on the roof and the windshield; the lights smeared as though marked with vaseline.
Lindsay hung on, cheering, exultant; Phryne clutched the wheel and bit her lip and hoped that she had guessed where the murderer was going.
After ten minutes, Lindsay said, ‘Phryne, we are going home, I mean, to your house, are we not? What do you think is going to happen there?’
‘I don’t know,’ snapped Phryne, skidding around a slow trundling truck. ‘Reach into the side pocket, will you?’
‘My God, Miss Fisher, a gun?’
‘Can you use it?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Lindsay dubiously. ‘I’ve fired one before.’
‘Good. Just try not to kill anyone with it. Now, listen. When we get to the house I want you to walk noisily down the left sideway, and I’ll go down the right. Make a lot of noise. Sing, if you like. Be genial and drunken if he is there. Hold him until help comes. Can you do it?’
Phryne felt, rather than saw, the spine stiffen and the jaw harden. There was good stuff in the young man.
‘I can do it. Why is he going to your house?’
‘Because he’s found out that Jane has seen him before.’
The car rolled to a silent halt in the cold street. Rain washed the cobbles and slicked the asphalt. Phryne buttoned her coat and pulled her cap down over her eyes, leaned over, and kissed Lindsay hard on the lips.
‘Good luck,’ she said, and got out of the car.
‘Over the top,’ said Lindsay, remembering a hundred woeful movies.
He tasted Phryne’s kiss on his lips all down the dark alley at the side of the house.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
‘Somehow it seems to fill my head with ideas, — only I don’t exactly know what they are! However, somebody killed something, that’s clear, at any rate. .’
Lewis Carroll Alice Through the Looking Glass
There were no lights in the house, and it was getting on for one in the morning. It was so quiet, except for the swish of the rain in the leaves, that Phryne could hear Lindsay on the other side of the house, singing in his pleasant tenor ‘Swing low, sweet chariot’ interrupted by the occasional hiccup. He really had a talent for acting, which his arrogant friend would never suspect. It was dark, and wet, and Phryne had not realised how many lumpy objects, just at shin height, were stored in her sideway. She banged into what seemed to be a spade, to judge by the clatter, and caught it up, using it to mark her steps and make as loud a noise as possible.
Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps he had gone to call on Eunice, perhaps he had taken a female glee-er into the bushes (though surely even students were not that lusty on a night like this), or perhaps he had gone blamelessly home to bed.
A branch struck Phryne across the face and blinded her; when she could see again she had been seized in a bone-breaking hold and there was a hand over her mouth.
She did not struggle, since this was futile; she gave a gasp and allowed herself to go limp. Her attacker was not expecting this; he had to change his grip to bear her up, and he grabbed her around the waist, leaving her hands and her mouth free. She was carried for a few paces, the strength of her captor surprising her. Phryne was a light weight, but this man carried her as if she weighed no more than a feather.
‘Fainted, have you?’ snarled a distorted voice. ‘Miss fine-airs Fisher, stealing my friend away like a poor dog to a flaunting bitch. I’ll show you, Miss Fisher, who thinks you are so clever. Then I’ll kill you, and leave you lying splayed for your lover to find. I can hear him, stumbling and singing, the drunken loon. Playing hide and seek, were you? First you, then him, then the little bitch, and the money is all mine.’
He dropped Phryne on her back and began to tear at the buttons of her sheepskin jacket. Phryne was cold with horror; the man was ten times stronger than she, and she had little time before she would be pinned like a moth.
Quickly, neatly, she rolled, drew up her legs, and kicked out with all her strength. She felt her heels sink into something soft. Her attacker gave a roar like a wounded boar and fell to his knees, catching Phryne’s neck with his right hand. His agony was measureless, his grip like that of an ape, and Phryne tore at the fingers. His one hand was not wide enough to encompass her throat, but he had his thumb on the carotid, and the air began to redden before her eyes.
‘Oh, there you are, Alastair, old chap,’ burbled Lindsay, a little breathlessly. He had heard the shout and had broken the land speed record for running around houses in the dark.
‘A fine night, isn’t it? Oh, I love these cool nights, to repose on the pale bosom of winter,’ he carolled, lifting his full bottle, which he had found in the car. ‘Have you seen Miss Fisher? Lovely girl. Oh, there she is.’ He stared owlishly at Phryne’s purpling face. ‘Sorry, old chap,’ he added, and brought the bottle down with all his force on his housemate’s head.
The bottle cracked and broke, the scalp split, and blood blinded Alastair. He released Phryne, who crawled away, groping for the side of the house to haul herself to her feet.
‘Alastair, are you dead?’ asked Lindsay, bending low, and falling headlong as the strangling hands shot up out of the dark and fastened on his neck. He was dragged close to the blood-blubbered face, and did not have time even to cry out.
Phryne fired a bullet from the small gun and hit Alastair in the thigh. The body jerked, but he did not relax his grip. Lindsay thrashed, suffocating. Phryne raised the gun again and shot Alastair neatly in the forearm, disabling the wrist, so that she could pull the choking Lindsay away, and they stood embracing each other as the monster writhed on the leaf-mould.
‘Go in, call the police, quick!’ cried Phryne. ‘Hurry!’
And Lindsay, coughing, stumbled away and she heard him pounding on the door. Lights went on in the hall. She could see the attacker clearly now. Alastair had been a good-looking young man; now he had the terror-mask of a beast, and Phryne retched when she looked at him. She held the gun unwaveringly, aware that it was glued to her hand with drying blood, and the moments crept on. More lights, and voices, and the ‘ting’ of the telephone taken off its hook. The thing on the ground stirred. Phryne backed, raising the gun.
‘Kill me,’ it muttered, blood bubbling from its nose.
‘No,’ she said, noticing that her voice trembled.
‘Kill me. I wanted to kill you. I tried, and failed. It is the natural law. You must kill me.’
‘No,’ said Phryne. Her knees felt weak. If someone did not come soon, she would fall, and be within reach of that creature on the blood-spattered leaves.
‘You killed the old woman,’ she said, bolstering her courage.
‘I did. She was useless. All women beyond childbearing are useless. She never trusted me, anyway. It was easy. I stole a uniform, got on the train, chloroformed Eunice and the old woman, then when the train stopped at the tower, I flung up my rope and a grapple, and there we were. She was no weight at all, really. And the power! I felt that I could rule the world. That’s what murder does for you, Miss Bitch Fisher. It gives you the power of a god.’
‘You came here to kill Jane,’ said Phryne. ‘She hasn’t reached childbearing yet. Wouldn’t that be a waste?’
Alastair heaved and thrashed, trying to sit up. ‘Come and help me,’ he demanded.