It was darkish at the other end of the room. Reaching the windows, she bent down. She seemed to peer and grope, searching. She pounced on the silver cigarette box, took a cigarette out of it, and pushed it aside. Then she searched for the box of matches; the high heels of her slippers creaked and cracked on the bad flooring as she searched. The seconds lengthened. From Vicky Fane came suddenly a little moaning cry.
"She can't find it, you see," said Rich.
"This is plain cruelty," said Sharpless, who was white to his lips. "I won't have it any longer."
"You won't have it, Captain Sharpless?" inquired Arthur.
"Never mind the matches. You needn't bring me a match," said Rich. His voice was soothing. It reached out softly across the room. It seemed to draw a blanket of warmth round her shoulders as she stood trembling. "Bring me the cigarette instead."
Vicky did so.
Rich looked at the grand piano in the corner by the windows.
"She plays?" Rich asked Arthur.
"Yes, but-"
"Sit down at the piano;" Rich instructed softly. "You are happy, my dear. Very happy. Play something. Sing or hum it as you do, to show us you are happy."
Something was wrong again. Vicky's fingers rested on the keys of the piano. The piano was in gloom; Vicky's back was turned to them some distance away. Yet she seemed to be struggling with herself.
"I command you, my dear. Play anything. Any—"
The piano tinkled, and its keys ran softly.
The voice, which had been trying to hum raggedly, broke off in a sob.
"That will be enough," Rich said quickly.
His expression changed. It was now very grave. Rich's eyes, now grown sharp and shrewd and suspicious, moved round the group. He ran a hand across his bald skull, down to die roll of gray-streaked hair over his collar. He was human again, and very much troubled.
"Gentlemen," he said, "gentlemen, I think I've been in danger of making a grave mistake. I should not have consented to do this until I — investigated. Has Mrs. Fane any association with that particular song?"
"Not that I know of," replied Arthur, with dreary surprise. "Unless, of course, Captain Sharpless can tell us?"
Rich glanced at Sharpless's face. "I think we had better end this." "And I think not," said Arthur Fane. "You insist on that, sir?"
"You, sir, promised to show us something. You have not yet done so."
"As you like," breathed Rich. "Sit down again, then." He waited until the three spectators had done so. "Victoria Fane, walk up to the table in the middle of the room. On that table you will find a loaded revolver. Pick it up."
In the group, it was as though nobody dared to draw his breath. Ann Browning, who had not uttered a word, was bending forward with her knees crossed and her slim hands gripped round them. Her gold hair caught the light. The color in her cheeks, the brilliant shining of her pale blue eyes, made a contrast to the shabby, tear-streaked face of the automaton.
"Walk forward until I tell you to.. there! Stop! Now turn to your right a little more — facing your husband."
Arthur Fane moistened his lips.
"Stand back a few steps… that's it.
Captain Sharpless, if you touch Mrs. Fane in any way, you may do her a serious injury."
Sharpless jerked back.
"Victoria Fane, you hate the man sitting in front of you. He has done something which you consider unforgivable. You hate him from the bottom of your heart. You wish him dead."
Vicky did not move.
"You hold a loaded revolver. From where you stand, it would be easy to shoot him through the heart. Look."
From his inside pocket Rich took out a pencil of soft, dark, rather smeary lead. He went up to Arthur, and, before the latter could protest, he drew a cross on the left breast of his host's soft shirt.
"There is his heart. Higher up than you thought it was. You wish him dead. I order you to kill him. I will count three, and then you will fire. One.. two…"
If the hammer fell on even a dud cartridge, it would make a sharp click. Every ear strained for that click.
Vicky's finger, shaking like the whole movement of her arm and shoulder and body, did not tighten. It loosened and uncurled from the trigger. The revolver dropped with a crash and clatter on the hardwood floor.
She could not do it.
Dr. Richard Rich, expelling his breath slowly, closed up his eyes with relief. It was a second or two before he could smile again.
Though he remained impassive, Arthur Fane could not help the flicker of a complacent smirk which crossed his face. He tried to look cool and unconcerned, yet the other expression intruded, welling up from deep in vanity.
"Ah!" smiled Rich. "You refuse to use the revolver, then. But perhaps it isn't suited to you. Perhaps you can force yourself to use a dagger. A dagger is a woman's weapon. There is a dagger on the table. Get it."
Rather unsteadily, Vicky moved towards the table.
"Good. Pick it up. Grasp the handle firmly. Now return here, and.. stop."
He shaded his eyes with his hand.
"Your hate for the man in front of you is increased. The weapon you hold is just as deadly as the revolver. There is his heart. Strike."
Without hesitation Vicky lifted her arm and struck like a snake.
Grandly, like a satisfied showman, Dr. Richard Rich turned round on his heel to look at Sharpless and Ann Browning. He was smiling. His hand was extended, palm upwards, like one who says, "Well?"
But he did not say it.
Behind him, the door to the hall opened. Hubert Fane, effulgent and self-satisfied, opened the door; and then stopped short. Rich saw the expression on his face as Hubert stared from behind Sharpless and Ann Browning, beyond them to Arthur.
And Rich himself whirled round.
Arthur Fane coughed only once. A black handle, which looked like rubber but could not have been rubber, was protruding from Arthur's white shirt just over the cross Rich had drawn there. But the shirt was no longer white. A moving stain, dull red, widened and deepened round the handle as its edges soaked through the thin fabric.
Arthur, his elbows dug into the arms of the chair, tried to push himself forward. His knees shook. His lips drew back, writhing, for what must have been a second of intense agony. Then he pitched forward on his face.
Five
Nobody moved. It may be accounted as doubtful whether anybody could have moved. Such a sight as this had first of all to be understood.
The seconds ticked by: ten, twenty, thirty. Arthur Fane lay partly on his side and partly on his face, also without moving. The light of the lamp was reflected in patches from the polished hardwood floor.
Presently, Dr. Rich went down on one knee beside Arthur. He rolled Arthur over on his back. First he felt for a pulse at the wrist; then he took his watch out of his pocket, and held it so that the crystal almost touched Arthur's lips. No breath clouded the glass. After consulting the watch as to the time, Rich replaced it in his pocket.
"Incredible as it seems, this man is dead."
"Dead?" echoed Sharpless.
"Dead. Stabbed through the heart."
"Oh, no," said Hubert Fane. "No, no, no, no, no!"
Uncle Hubert's tone, at the moment, was merely one of frightened skepticism. His manner indicated that the world couldn't play him a dirty trick like this.
"No, really, now!" he said, as though determined to stop such nonsense at once. "This is too much. I must really protest. Get up, my dear boy! Get up and—"
"He won't hear you," said Rich, as Hubert began to chafe at one of Arthur's wrists. "I tell you he's dead."