'Are you off your chump ?'
"There's two of Pennik,' persisted Riddle tightening his grip. 'I thought it was so before, sir; and I know it now.'
'Steady, son,' interposed a heavy voice. Riddle heard Sir Henry Merrivale breathe in the gloom. 'Keep your shirt on, Masters. Y'know, in a way he's quite right.'
'Thank you, sir. My dad -'
'Now, now! But let him go, son; take your hand off him. He hasn't done anything.'
'But these murders, sir -'
'He hasn't done any murders, son.'
Riddle's hand fell, the more so as this time there was no mistaking the look about Chief Inspector Masters in the gloom. It was the young man called Sanders who spoke. He spoke quietly and reasonably; yet Riddle had a feeling that he meant to be answered, and Riddle would have been impelled to answer him if he could.
Sanders said: 'Look here, sir, this has got to be a showdown. The time for hocus-pocus is past. You tell me what I'm to do, and I do it; you tell me how deeply I'm involved, and what to be careful of, and how I must help you; but it's only fair to give me a shot at what's going on.'
'Uh-huh. Well? What is it?’
'Do you say now that Pennik didn't do the murders?'
'He didn't do anything,' returned the heavy voice, dully and rather wearily. 'He didn't do any murders; he don't even know a thing about any murders. He's absolutely innocent of crime or complicity in crime of any kind at all.'
Below them on the tall balcony, wind frothed in the leaves of the garden.
'There,' pursued the heavy, eerie voice. 'There you are. That's the hobgoblin that's been frettin' you, and frettin' the world, for nearly a week. But come along with me. I’ll show you a real hobgoblin, if you like.'
He moved along towards the iron stairway towards the balcony of the floor above. For all his breadth and lumbering movement he made little noise. Sanders followed him.
'But this is the Constables' flat! This one. Here, on this floor. This is where they lived. Why are we going upstairs?'
That whole unnatural colloquy, taking place in explosive whispers, was beginning to wear on the nerves of everyone present. The steep stairway creaked, H. M. went ahead, and the others followed. Up at the top floor there was a gleam of moonlight through iron ribs and slats. Almost at the top of the stairs, H. M. hesitated and turned round. The moonlight shone on his spectacles, and on the nap of the ancient top-hat that was pushed to the back of his head. His thick arms were outstretched as though to bar the top of the stairs. Just as he turned round, they all heard, thinly but shrilly ringing, the front doorbell of the top floor flat.
'I expect that's the real murderer ringin' at the bell now,' muttered H. M. 'Listen to me. We're goin' to look in through some windows that have been left for us. If anybody speaks while we're up on this balcony, I'll murder him. I just want to tell you that up here is the flat of the person towards whom the whole scheme of the dirty work has been directed almost from the beginning; and that person is supposed to die to-night. Come on.'
His coat disappeared. Above them there was no hood to the balcony. Moonlight silvered the tiles of the roof, and the long windows that stretched to the floor. These windows opened out like doors; two of them stood several inches open how. Inside were heavy pink draperies probably half an inch thick; and these also had been left partly open. There was a slight mist or unreality about the scene, since, in addition to the padded draperies, curtains of very fine-spun gold mesh had been drawn across the windows. No breath of air stirred them. As though through a film of gauze, the watchers looked into the dimly lighted box beyond.
It was a woman's bedroom or boudoir after the French fashion of the middle eighteenth century. The wall-panels were of silk, alternating in mirrors with gilt medallion-heads. The bed at their left, a sort of indoor tent, was draped and billowing from a gilded circle of wood in the ceiling; and from this ceiling the chandelier hung in weights of crystal. But there were no lights except two electric wall-candles burning. Someone whom they could not see, presumably the owner of the flat, sat in a high wing chair with its back to the windows.
They had already heard the murderer ringing at the door- ' bell. A voice from the wing chair called back a request to come in. There was a noise of footsteps coming through other rooms in the flat.
Dr Sanders, who felt his heart bump as though with a physical fall, was gripped by H. M. and thrust towards the gap in two of the curtains. Directly across from him there was a door. That door opened and the visitor came in.
It was P.C. Riddle who disobeyed H. M.'s orders.
He spoke in a hacking, shattering whisper almost against Sanders's ear.
'But I know who that is, sir,' he seemed half to shout. 'I've often seen her here at her stepmother's flat. That's Miss Hilary Keen.'
chapter xix
The mist of unreality about that scene behind the gold gauze, the two electric candles throwing their light dimly on silk wall-panels, the hush given to footsteps and even voices by very thick carpeting, all these things kept the brains of the watchers dulled like an opiate.
In the midst of this finery, Hilary looked deprecating and rather apologetic.
True enough, there was a somewhat breathless air about her, and a faint colour in her cheeks; but this might have come from walking too fast up the stairs. For she carried under one arm a sizeable squarish parcel wrapped in brown paper. She wore a tailored suit of dark green tweed, and a soft hat which shaded her eyes. Despite her deprecating air, her smile was the straightforward smile that all the watchers had seen.
A crow of pleasure or welcome issued from the chair where her hostess, and stepmother, was sitting. 'Hilary, my dear! How nice of you to come!' And her hostess bounced up.
By moving his head sideways, Sanders could now see Mrs Joseph Keen reflected in one of the long mirrors across the room. She was a small, plumpish, extremely good-looking blonde, with long ringlets which fell past her shoulders, large lips, and narrow twinkling eyes. She could not have been much older than Hilary herself; and beside Hilary she looked tiny. She was wearing a heavy lace neglige which went with her air of silk sleekness. Running to Hilary, she kissed her smackingly on both cheeks.
'How are you, Cynthia dear?' said Hilary, allowing herself to be kissed.
'I knew you would come,' said Cynthia triumphantly 'I promised there shouldn't be anybody else here, and there isn't! Hilary, you wretch, I've been running after you for days and days and days -'
'But you only got back from the Riviera on Sunday,' protested Hilary. She paused, and added in a curious voice: 'How was the Riviera ?'
'Heavenly! Absolutely heavenly!'
'I imagine it was.'
'Oh, it was. I met the nicest - but never mind that. You know what I want to hear. All about P-e-n-n-i-k. Hilary, you've become positively famous; all these terrible things in the papers; I can't think what's come over us. And you there in the middle of it all, all the thrilling things and everything. And that's not all. Pennik! They say he'd do anything for you; they say he adores you; positively dotes on you.'
'I suppose he does, rather.'
'Stella Erskine saw you both at Borononi's last night. Stella said she saw him lean over and kiss your hand in public. Well, I mean. Aren't you thrilled? I should be. Like being taken out by Hitler or Mussolini; only more so, if you know what I mean. Hilary, people positively run after me when they know I'm related to you. But you will tell me first, won't you? You will tell me all about it?'
'You shall hear all about it, Cynthia dear. I promise you that.'
Cynthia wriggled with pleasure.
'That's my Hilary. Now come over here and sit down, do. I can't wait to hear about it. Is he nice? Has he - you know what I mean, dear? Yet, I mean? They say it's a real grande passion, like those French kings who tear about in the stories and whoop it up so.' Her forehead clouded, though not seriously. She half laughed. 'Stella says I'd better be careful. She says she heard that Pennik said I wasn't fit to live, because I took your father's money from you or something like that. How absurd! Isn't it, dear? But don't stand there like that, please. Take off your things. And what on earth is that you've got under your arm ?'