I felt we were getting somewhere, teetering on the brink of a workable idea. It was Geddes who straightened it out first.
"Listen," he said, "we can assume fairly certainly that the whole business originally centered around Laribee. Whoever killed him must have been after his money. Well, they'll be wanting that will, won't they?"
"What do you mean?"
"Listen, practically everyone on the staff of this place benefited by Laribee's former will. If one of them murdered Laribee, he'd be desperately eager to find the new will and destroy it just in case it could be proved valid. If, on the other hand, we're looking for someone who benefited by the new will, they'd be just as anxious to get hold of it and use it to claim the money. That's pretty straight reasoning, isn't it?"
"Gosh, yes," I answered enthusiastically. "So we do have a trump card, after all. But how on earth can we play it?"
Geddes passed a reflective finger across his mustache. "If only we could plant it somewhere—plant it in some place that only the murderer would know. It's rather like Daring Dick, the Ace Detective, but—"
"Got it in one!" I cut in. "We know that somehow or other our criminal at large must have worked on Miss Powell to steal things for him from the surgery. When I heard her talking about her projected attack on the knives, she said,
‘I can hide them in the musical place.’
Obviously that's the spot where he gets her to conceal her stolen goods."
"Yes. And he'd take damn good care that no one else knew where it was. But what next?"
"This thing's going to be as simple as breathing," I exclaimed. "We plant the will in the musical place, let the murderer know it's there and just wait for him to take it.'*
"Unfortunately," said Geddes with a smile, "as we don't know who the murderer is we can hardly let him know what we've done."
"Then we'll have to tell everybody," I persisted. "And tell them in such a way that it'll be so much nonsense to everyone but the person we want; a sort of adaptation of my celebrated psycho-analytical experiment."
"And how do we do that?"
For a moment my fountain of inspiration seemed to become clogged, but soon it spouted up once more.
"Got it again," I cried excitedly. "We can take another cue from our versatile adversary. I'm certain he worked through Fenwick, faked up that phony spirit message to suit his own purposes. Why shouldn't we invent a spirit message, too? With any luck we could persuade Fenwick into believing we'd received an official announcement from the astral plane, that Laribee has made a new will and put it in the musical place. We could easily convince him it was his particular duty to impart the news to everyone individually. The guilty person's bound to go to the musical place on the off-chance. The others'll just accept it as Fenwick's usual hooey."
"That's pretty ingenious," remarked Geddes after a pause, "but it'd only work with the patients. If the man we're after's on the staff, he'd smell a rat right away. We'll have to think out something less fishy for them. Listen, you're more or less in their confidence, aren't you? Why don't you tell them some story? You could pretend you saw Miss Powell pinching something from Laribee's pocket just before the movies and heard her whisper something about the musical place. It's rather thin, but they're used to swallowing anything in this institution."
"Positively brilliant!" I rose and started to pace up and down that small, silent room. "If ever a cock-eyed scheme deserved to work, this does! I’ll hide the will in the musical place. Fenwick and I can circulate the messages and then—" I glanced at him eagerly. "Can you imitate one of your attacks?"
"I could hardly make a poker of myself, but I could pretend to go to sleep."
"Swell. Everyone's used to your going asleep at odd moments. We can plant you right there by the musical place and then you drop off into a dose. Why, they'd take that will from under your nose and not give you a second thought!"
"'The perfect plan," murmured Geddes wryly, "to catch the almost perfect murderer. But ..." He broke off and I saw a smile move across his lips. "Damn us for idiots, Duluth! We've forgotten the only important thing. We haven't the slightest idea where this absurd musical place is."
I felt like a pricked balloon. "Probably near the radio," I said weakly.
"Or the piano or the gramophone at the far end of the room," muttered Geddes. "Im afraid this is where we start all over again, unless we could shanghai Miss Powell. She'd be able to tell us."
"I doubt it," I said dejectedly. "I don't know much about psychology, but I'm pretty certain that she has no more idea where the musical place is than we have. All that side of her nature's subconscious or something. When she's normal, she instinctively drives it out of her mind."
Geddes jumped up from the bed. "Why not crib another of our friend's tricks and work on Miss Powell's subconscious mind, Duluth? Have you got any jewelry?"
I indicated a ring on my finger.
"You say she steals things while she talks to people,** continued the Englishman quietly. "And she hides them in definite places. With any luck—"
"—we could get her to take the ring and put it in the musical place," I broke in quickly. "Fine and dandy!"
I think that if I alone had figured out that scheme, built up as it was on an elaborate groundwork of conjecture and other people's psychoses, it would have seemed credibly, hopelessly fantastic. But I had lived so lot among crazy people that nothing seemed particularly crazy any more. Besides, there was a matter-of-fact about Geddes. Any plan with his okay must have a certain amount of logic.
"I think we'd better perform our miracle tonight, Duluth," he was saying calmly. "We'll get to the central lounge about eight o'clock, that gives us two hours before the alienist comes. You can start work right away on Powell and I'll get Fenwick to circulate the spirit message. Then we plant the will and I go to sleep. You'll just have to give your story to the staff and we’ll be ready."
"But even if someone does take the will," I said sudden doubt, "do you suppose that's enough to convince the police?"
"It's enough to get them thinking," muttered Geddes. "And that's all we can hope for at the moment."
He stared once more at his bruised wrists and fingered them gently.
"Think I ought to report this, by the way?"
Finally we agreed to say nothing about the attack on Geddes for the time being. It would probably result in his being questioned by the police just when our plan was to go into action.
As we gathered up the bandages and hid them temporarily under his mattress, I noticed the handkerchief which had been used to gag him. It was lying on the floor by the bed. I picked it up and then gave a little grunt of surprise. The white cotton was stained with blood.
"You've been bleeding," I said.
Geddes moved forward and took the handkerchief from me swiftly. There was a puzzled frown on his forehead.
"That's not my handkerchief," he said slowly. "I always use brown silk ones. Bought them in India for about ten cents each."
"But there's blood on it, anyway."
"I wonder—" Geddes turned to face me. "Take a look at me, Duluth. See if I've been bleeding anywhere."
I examined him carefully. His throat was still red, but there was no sign of any cut or abrasion inside or outside his mouth. We stared at each other blankly.
"He couldn't have been such a fool!" exclaimed Geddes at length. "He'd never have used his own handkerchief to gag me."
"It's just possible," I said excitedly. "He'd have been in a hurry and—"
"But the blood!"
"Exactly." I exclaimed. "It looks as though we've been given a break. Don't you see? That's most likely Laribee's blood. That handkerchief must have been used to wipe the fingerprints off the knife."
We were still staring at each other like a couple of kids who have discovered buried treasure.
"We'll have to tell the police," said Geddes at last. "This is too important to hold back."
"Okay. We'll tell Clarke. He's a good fellow and an old pal of mine. We'll need his help tonight if anything comes of our little act. I'll give him the handkerchief and ask him to find out who it belongs to."
"Fine." Geddes had turned to the mirror and was surveying his crumpled appearance despondently. "That settles everything except my trousers. I suppose you couldn't get your friend Clarke to press them, too!"
IT WAS ALMOST TIME for dinner when we broke up our conspiratorial conclave and I returned to my own room. Discipline seemed to have returned almost to normal. Both Miss Brush and Mrs. Fogarty were bustling around as though day and night had joined forces to dispel the clouds of unrest. The patients were still speculating about the supposed fire, some of them declaring that by now the theatre must be a charred ruin, but their healthy appetites prompted them to appear punctually for the evening meal.
Clarke was standing outside the dining room in his attendant's white coat. When he saw me, he grinned confidentially and whispered:
"Boss says business as usual tonight."
"Anything new?"
"Nope. They're combing the theatre and they've examined the knife. Green was right. There's no prints there except the Brush woman's and a few of Miss Pattison’s."
"How is Miss Pattison?" I asked anxiously.
"All right." His face was sympathetic. "She's in her room and Lenz won't let the chief see her, not yet."
I felt in my pocket and produced the bloodstained handkerchief. "I've found something," I said quietly.
He took it and examined it.
"There are three full cases of Johnny Walker in my apartment," I went on. "I won't be needing them when I get out. They're yours if you'll find out who that handkerchief belongs to."
He looked at me doubtfully.
"You don't have to keep anything from Green," I urged. "Only just hold it until I give the word."
Clarke nodded and put the handkerchief in his pocket. **Okay, I'll do it this evening. Anything else?"
"Yes. I'm hoping for a show-down later on. If I ask you to watch a certain person, will you stick onto him like a leech while I go to Green?"
"For three cases of Scotch," said Clarke cheerfully, "I'd spend the evening watching old man Lenz himself."
He was moving away when a sudden thought seemed to strike him. "Listen, Mr. Duluth," he said hesitantly. "That show-down of yours—you'd better make it snappy. Dr. Eismann's coming at ten o'clock and they're going to take Miss Pattison away."
"You mean take her away from the sanitarium?"
"That's what Green's planning to do right now."
He must have guessed my feelings from the expression on my face, for he added with some embarrassment, "Maybe I could fix it so's you could see her for a minute or two."
Clarke was one of those men you meet so seldom that you almost forget they exist. They restore your belief in the essential decency of people in general, and the police force in particular.
"It's pretty much against orders, of course," he was muttering. "But Mrs. Dell's a good sport."
"Listen," I said brokenly, "someone ought to give you a golden halo."
He grinned. "Three cases of Scotch will do for the time being."
He told me to follow him at a discreet distance and led me along back passages whose existence I had never before suspected.
The women were all at dinner so their wing was more or less deserted. But my sense of guilt peopled the corridors with terrifying female monsters who, at any moment, might spring out on me and apprehend me for this most cardinal of sanitarium sins. Once there was an actual rustle in the passage ahead. Instantly Clarke signaled me into a lavatory and I stood there, holding my breath, as official heels clattered past the closed door. Those were some of the most harrowing moments in my life.
But at last we reached our destination. With mock caution, Clarke stationed me in a small alcove while he went to dicker with Mrs. Dell. They had, of course, locked Iris up. He had to get the key.
Waiting seemed depressingly like eternity, but at last he reappeared.
'Three minutes exactly," he whispered. "And if Moreno comes, hide under the bed or Mrs. Dell says there'll be a couple more murders."
He unlocked the door and with a grin closed it behind me.
Iris was sitting by the window, gazing across the somber evening parkland outside. When she saw me, she rose, moved impulsively toward me and then paused.
"You ... !" she whispered.
My heart was beating so loud that I felt everyone in the building must be hearing it. I tried to say something, but I couldn't think out the words. I only knew that I loved her and that she was there.
Then she moved again and somehow she was in my arms. Neither of us spoke. We just clung together like a couple of mutes.
And so passed the first of my precious three minutes.
At length Iris drew away and I could see her face. I was amazed and delighted that the tormenting sadness had left her eyes. They were shining now with a bright, healthy indignation.
"Do you know what the police are going to do about me?" she asked bluntly.
I hesitated and her fingers tightened on my arm.
"You've got to tell me. None of the others will. Mrs, Dell treats me like a baby, keeps stalling me off. Don't you see? I've got to know the truth."
There was an eager new determination in her voice—a determination which elated me beyond words.
"They're sending for someone to talk to you," I said guardedly. "He's coming about ten o'clock tonight."
"You mean a police doctor?"
"Why—er…"
"So they do suspect me!" Iris tossed her head indignantly, and once more the anger blazed in her eyes. Then her shoulders moved in a slight shrug. "But I don't really blame them. There was that knife—and I acted so foolishly. But it all seemed like some horrible nightmare. I didn't know what I was doing or what I had done."
"Of course, darling."
"But I know now," she said suddenly. "I can see it was all a frame-up. That's why they scared me with those voices. They tried to make me so confused and miserable that … that when it all actually happened, I'd be crazy enough to take the blame. It almost worked but not quite."