'I give my word.' Yossi, released, crouched by Phryne's side. She put down her hand and he grasped it urgently. His hand was hot and sweaty with fear and shock.
'Miss, please ... my formula,' he pleaded, almost in a whisper.
'Shah,' said Phryne. 'Later.'
'How did you know that he wasn't the murderer?' asked Phryne of Robinson in an undertone.
'No one as clever as this bastard would come to burgle a dark cellar without a light,' grunted the policeman. Phryne nodded.
Silence fell again. Phryne began to suffer from the dark-induced illusion which caused so many sentries to pepper innocent shadows with shot during a long night. She thought she saw movement, then realized that it was her own eyes requiring some contrast to this black dark. The smell of rotten fruit enveloped the watchers, and the bitter city dust settled down on them.
Yossi, at Phryne's side, was kneeling on the hard floor, and Phryne could hear him as he rocked and swayed. 'Shema Yisroel,' he began, very quietly. 'Hear O Israel, the Lord, the Lord is One.' It was the martyr's prayer, the last words of so many Jews tortured and murdered by so many people through the ages. Rabbi Akiva had died with those words on his lips. Phryne fidgeted, then folded her hands. She wondered how soldiers managed to stay alert and not become exhausted, and decided that they must be like cats. Ember could crouch, paws out, head up, like a sphinx before a mousehole for hours and hours, perfectly composed and utterly alert for the twitch of a mouse's nose through the gap. And he could control himself not to move until it had come all the way out of the hole, so that it would have to turn to retreat, before the clawed paw came thudding down, merciless and faster than sound.
What am I doing, playing games with lives? thought Phryne, as the night deepened outside, the air grew heavier and the trams clanged past.
She strove for the cat's resting trance, and achieved it so well that she heard Jack Robinson's hand move to touch her.
The door had creaked again.
A bright pinpoint of light flickered and moved over the walls and then the floor. A heavy tread. Phryne saw nothing of the incomer but the gleam of his shoes. He passed her hiding place and located the pile of boxes.
The torch was laid on the floor. The unseen person shoved the boxes aside until he found the one addressed in big black letters to the Mission to the Islands. A knife blade flashed as the paper was cut and the box opened.
The noise of breaking laths was loud in the hot darkness.
The unknown had not spoken, but now he muttered as he pulled out books and threw them to the floor. Finally he found what he wanted, opened the book and felt in the spine.
Yossi gave a convulsive jerk, and Phryne suppressed him with a heavy hand on his shoulder. The man examined the bit of paper by the light of the torch. He stowed it carefully in an inner pocket.
Then all the lights came on. There stood the murderer. Phryne at last met the cunning mind which had contrived a rat-poison death for Shimeon Ben Mikhael.
Uncle Chaim Abrahams turned and ran.
Phryne and Yossi sprang up, knowing that he could not get far. Here was the bulky man who had bought the disguise of a drunken carter and had been in Miss Lee's shop that morning, defacing a book. Here was the man who had flung the remains carelessly into the bin, and caused accusations of murder in the bird dealer's. Here was the man who was dealing for Yossi's compound, who listened to Simon talk about Zion and Palestine, who was so sympathetic to the aspirations of the young. Chaim who had no head for business, who had always failed, who had had to be humiliatingly rescued by his brother who had even married the woman Chaim loved.
The doors were guarded, but Chaim was not heading for the doors. He ran not along but up, clattering up the stairs into the market. Ten policemen, Bert and Cec, Yossi and Phryne raced after him.
They heard him pounding ahead as they reached the first gallery They were close enough to hear his panting breath as he ran along the top storey They ran him to earth by the flowershops, and then they stopped.
Uncle Chaim had a hostage, and he was holding a very sharp knife to his throat.
'Simon,' said Phryne. 'I might have known it.'
She turned to address a remark to Yossi Liebermann, but he had vanished.
'Chaim,' she said to the man. 'Let him go.'
'I should let him go?' demanded Chaim Abrahams. 'Never. You let me go and maybe I won't kill him.'
'Uncle,' said Simon. He was on his knees, his hands tied behind his back. His face was dirty and he had, perhaps, been crying. But his voice was soft and there was no thread of hysteria in it. 'Uncle, you can't kill me,' he said.
'I can,' said Chaim.
'Simon,' said Phryne, and the boy tried to smile.
'I'm all right. He hasn't hurt me, he's just tied me up.'
'Send for his brother,' said Phryne to Robinson in a low voice. Then she addressed the murderer cheerily, sounding in her own ears like a district visitor. 'Now, now, a respected gentleman like you, Mr Abrahams, why are you making a scene like this? We've got you bang to rights, put down the knife.'
'Him, I've got,' said Chaim, between his teeth. He took a fistful of Simon's hair and shook it. 'You come any closer, he's dead.'
'Keep back,' ordered Robinson. He did not like the wild look in Chaim's eye. He turned from the scene and walked away out of Chaim's hearing. 'Go and get the boy's father, Constable, on the double. Keep a man at each door, keep the public out if any come along on a dirty night like this. And get me a marksman with a rifle. Station him out of sight if you can. He's to fire as soon as he's got a clear shot. Might save the boy's life.'
'Yes, sir. What are you going to do?'
'I'm going to wait,' said Detective Inspector Robinson grimly.
Thunder rolled. The storm was getting closer.
'I'm going to get a chair,' said Phryne conversationally. 'So tiring to stand on a night like this, don't you think?'
She sat down on a wrought-iron bench and regarded the tableau critically It was rather sculptural. Chaim was standing behind the kneeling boy, and the knife was held firmly in his tremorless hand. Phryne greatly feared that Chaim was determined, and that if she didn't think of something very impressive the boy was going to die.
'Simon, how did he catch you?' she asked, sadly. 'Was it a note telling you to go down to the warehouse after dark and tell no one?'
'He picked me up in the car,' said Simon. 'I was going home. Then he drove me here and said that he had something he wanted to check—I thought it was the shoe shop—we came up here and then he produced a knife and tied me up and gagged me and stowed me under the counter in there. I've been trying to get loose for hours.'
'Your mother was looking for you,' said Phryne meaningly.
'Oy, I'm in trouble,' said Simon, managing a creditable grin.
'Hey,' interjected Chaim, 'what about me?'
'What about you?' asked Phryne coldly. 'If you'll excuse me, this is a private conversation. Simon, I won't leave you,' she said.
'Tell me you love me,' he said. Phryne did not like being blackmailed but the circumstances were, she supposed, special.
'I love you,' she said obediently. 'And I'll take you to dinner at the Society again, and after that we will see.'
'Lady,' began Chaim Abrahams. 'Hey, lady!'