More grievances rose and burst like skyrockets.
"Somebody thinks it's funny, eh," raved Captain Ashcroft, "to keep writin' messages on that blackboard?" He appealed to Dr. Fell. "Even if George gets stubborn and won't move t
he blackboard, thaf s no odds. I
could move it; I could grab it or impound it or chop it up for firewood. But we don't do that, because there's a better way. I brought along somebody else besides Duckworth; I brought Con Kingsley, who'
s an experienced man and no fool.
We'll post Kingsley at some place where he can't be seen: a cupboard in the library or behind the curtains in the weapons-room. Then, if somebody sneaks in to write
another
message on that damn blackboard . . ."
"You will nab the joker red-handed?" asked Dr. Fell. "I beg, sir, that you will do nothing of the kind!"
"Dr. Fell, are you nuts? Don't you want to know who the joker is?"
"I rather think I already know," Dr. Fell said modestly.
"But at no time has
it been a joke; it is frantic,
desperate earnest; w
e may still learn from it. Can
I persuade you, C
aptain, to keep your hands off
our ghostly visitan
t and let the blackboard stand
unguarded?"
"That's your advice? No kidding?"
"That is my advice. No kidding."
"Well," said Captain Ashcroft, lifting his fist and stamping over to one of the glass doors, "we'll play it your way for the time being. Your way's been right so far, though I don't like to watch where it's takin' us. There's one consolation in this business, and only one. We've seen everything; we can't be surprised any more. There's not one other move either the murderer or the joker can make!"
Captain Ashcroft was wrong. He said those words at half-past five. Before many hours had elapsed, as the metronome ticked in a lonely room amid musical instruments, blow and counter-blow were struck in a deadly contest that seemed to have no end.
15
Well, had it been a successful dinner?
Black clouds scudded across the moon as Alan drove Camilla back from Davy's Restaurant to Maynard Hall. And, driving back, he reviewed the dinner and the evening.
Camilla had taken some time to dress semi-formally; it had been past seven o'clock when they left, after Alan phoned ahead to reserve a table. Despite Captain Ash-croft's insistence that he and Dr. Fell had an urgent mission at the Hall, he made no move to get on with this. Police-officer and doctor had foregathered under the portico, sitting on the front steps, smoking cigars, and talking in muffled voices. They still sat there when Alan drove away in the dusk.
Davy's, as might hav
e been expected on Saturday
night, was packed. Alan guided Camilla through the outer room past a bar crowded three deep.
In the dining-room, with its Confederate-gray and gold decor, Camilla's receptive mood seemed only increased. The blue eyes remained intent, never once retreating from him; her color was high. Neither had much of an appetite, though they drank a fair amount of wine. And each, was a little too conscious of the other's presence; both jumped involuntarily when their hands touched in reaching for butter or salt
"Bother!" said Camilla. "You brought Dr. Fell here for sightseeing, didn't you? And yet he hasn't seen anything except Fort Moultrie, and the outside of the theatre next door to here?"
"What's been happening, I suppose, tends to swallow up other interests. Anyway, give us time; we've been here hardly more than a day!"
"What do you want him to see?"
"The old slave market, to begin with. And the original powder magazine, part of Carteret's bastion and fort, which dates from 1700."
"Aren't one or two stately homes open to the public?"
"More than one or two. The thing to remember is which stately homes are open all year, not just in the main season between the end of March and the middle of May. Camilla—!"
"Yes?"
They were bending towards each other, but they sat up very straight. Dinner was finished; a waiter had brought coffee. Into the restaurant at that moment came Dr. Mark Sheldon, escorting a slim, shapely, fashionable brunette somewhat younger than himself. Dr. Sheldon nodded briefly, but gave no other sign as Alan's friend the head-waiter ushered the newcomers to a distant table.
"Well," and Camilla lowered her voice after a quick glance, "she doesn't
look
bad-tempered, I must say. That must be Annette, surely? The wife Madge says is so very jealous?"
"Yes, I suppose so. All right: let's face it!" "Face what?"
"The whole situation. We've both been trying to ignore it and shut it out, but it won't be shut out for half an hour at a time. Are we back on the theme of jealousy again?"
"The theme of jealousy again? I don't understand."
"Last night," he reminded her, "we listened in on the conference between Dr. Fell and Captain Ashcroft because you had a reason that concerned somebody's jealousy. You couldn't believe your ears at the tone in which somebody spoke certain words. You said it was a very good reason, but you never explained what the reason was."
"Oh, Alan, it was only a wild and ridiculous idea! Don't spoil everything! Just because Mark Sheldon walks in with his wife . . ."
"He's not the only one who's come in. Look towards the door again."
It was Rip Hillboro, whom Alan saw for the first time wearing jacket and tie. Thrusting aside a waiter who stepped into his path, Rip shouldered aggressively towards their table. But he did not seem happy.
"I was having a drink at the bar," he said, nodding towards the outer room. "I won't sit down, thanks. I've already had dinner at the house. But I'm the only one who did."
"The only one who had dinner at the house?"
"Yes. Also, bar Madge and a sergeant still guarding her life, the only one left when the others lit out on their own concerns. Stonewall Jackson was released by the cops and kited off home. Valerie Huret persuaded Bob Crandall to take
her
to dinner in the Swamp Fox Room at the Francis Marion Hotel. Next, you'll ask, what about the cops? Well, old Belshazzar and his friend Gargantua . . ."
"They had some design in mind," Alan said, "but they hadn't carried it out when we left."
"They still haven't. The design," explained Rip, squaring himself and throwing back his shoulders, "was to question Madge about some new development today. But they wouldn't say what the development was; my best efforts couldn't get a word out of 'em. They were actually on their way upstairs when the phone rang. The message was for Shadrach himself; he put down the phone in a funny sort of way and said they'd wait till tomorrow.
Then
they
hit the trail in
a
police car. Which left
me
holding the fort on my own."
"And you didn't like being alone?" asked Camilla.
"No, madam, I did not. I'm pretty tough, I think; I've got no nerves to speak of. But I was spooked, as they say on television. For the first time in my life I was spooked and I admit it. Now look, Grantham!"
"Yes?"
"I
t's getting on for nine o'clock
did you know? There's a John Ford film at the Riviera Theatre, which is the big one on King Street. The last showing of the feature, according to the evening papers, begins at nine-five. Like to come along and see it, both of you?"
"No, I think not. Unless you, Camilla
...?
'
"Not for me, thanks!"
"Well, suit yourselves," said Rip. "I think you're making a mistake, but never mind.
I'm
going. Whatever happens, now or in the future, don't say I didn't try."
And off he went with a flourish.
They had sat for more than half an hour longer over coffee, in the dusky dining-room with the shaded lamps. But it was that interlude, first seeing the Sheldons and then seeing Rip, which made Alan ask himself questions as he drove back to Maynard Hall.
The fingers of his left hand drummed on the wheel. Frequently he glanced sideways at Camilla—the short nose, the rather broad pink mouth, a warm and vital presence as withdrawn as her gaze fixed on the road ahead.
Black clouds threatened to engulf the moon, which always wormed out from behind them. It was twenty minutes past ten when Alan drew up at the portico. Faint light showed at the windows of Madge's room above the front door; there was a bleak-looking glow from the chandelier in the main hall. The house, seeming otherwise dark, rose up desolate against a troubled sky.
"None of the others can be back yet," Camilla said. "But it's not late. Won't you—won't you come in for
a
while?"
"Thanks."
At the back of the hall hovered the imperturbable George, who asked them if they wanted anything. Camilla said they didn't, and he discreetly vanished. Alan followed her down into the library, where she switched on lamps in the big room with the portrait of Mrs. Henry Maynard above the mantelpiece. Camilla, smiling but fidgety, seemed as restless as he was.
"Not very cheerful, is it?" she asked. "Can't you understand what Rip meant by 'spooked'?"
"Yes, but—"
"Alan, is there anything on your mind?"
"There's a great deal on my mind. What went wrong?"
"Wrong?"
"Not one controversial subject all evening! Not one argument of any kind, literary or artistic or political . . ."
"Oh,
th
ose
things!" Camilla dismissed them.
"We were getting towards a kind of spiritual intimacy, we were edging closer and even hurrying together when something wrecked the atmosphere and spoiled the mood. What was it? Can't we refer to the situation in this house, can't we even think about it, without being driven apart as though we'd never even been within touching-distance?"
"Really, Alan! If you insist on playing the great detective again, and hammering me with questions as though I were your principal witness, you can't expect anything else. What do I think is going on here? What do I suspect? Questions like that!—"
"Well, what
is
going on here? What
do
you suspect?"
"Something that's just too ridiculous to be talked about!"
"The things that cause the most trouble in this world, Camilla, are the things that are too ridiculous to be talked about. Loosen up, can't you? As for playing the great detective, I admit I made a fool of myself this morning
..."
Camilla's mood suddenly changed.
"But you didn't!" she breathed. "You didn't make a fool of yourself at all! Granted the evidence you had . . ."
"Throwing a baseball and beaning the poor devil, eh?" Alan said bitterly. "If it wasn't the height of folly, at least we can call it pretty stupid. But it's just possible, given another chance. . . Now I wonder . . . ?"
"You wonder what? You're not leaving me, are you?"
"Given my own choice, I would never leave you. And I'm not leaving now."
Alan strode to the door of the weapons-room, opened it on darkness, and touched the switch just inside. Light blazed from a crystal chandelier smaller than the one in the main hall. Three times Captain Ashcroft had erased chalked letters from the blackboard across the room. A fourth message stared at Alan in night stillness now.
THEY SAY "CRACK THE CASE," DON'T THEY? OR IS IT ONLY IN BOOKS AND FILMS? J.P.H.S., R. 26. YOU HAD BETTER CRACK THE CASE WITH WHAT YOU FIND THERE, OR I CAN HELP YOU NO LONGER.
One who has done his best,
N.S.
A run of chimes, ending in the single stroke for ten-: thirty, animated the distant clock in the hall. Alan turned, to find Camilla at his elbow.
"Well," she said, "we ought to be used to it by this time, oughtn't we?"
"Steady!"
"I'm not steady, though I'll try to be. Dr. Fell seemed to expect another message, didn't he? He even seemed to want one?"
"Yes. But this time we're the ones to discover it. This time, whether they like it or not, we can steal a march on 'em."
"Steal a. . . ? Alan, are you crazy?" "No."
"So far," Camilla gabbled, "the directions have at least been understandable. This one is just gibberish. 'J.P.H.S., R. 26.' We can't make any sense of that, can we?"