could find no sign of foul play.
Neil solved the mystery. He experimented with a policewoman volunteer. After she got into a tub identical to those used by Smith, the inspector tried to force her under. Water splashed everywhere and, as she fought him off, it was obvious that if he were to be successful, her body would most certainly show signs of violence . . . which had not been the case with any of the wife-corpses.
Suddenly, he grabbed her feet and yanked upward. As her head went under water, she became unconscious almost immediately. Not until after half an hour’s resuscitation efforts was she able to tell the inspector that the water unexpectedly rushing up her nose had rendered her unconscious.
Smith was hanged.
And now, here was Smith, in waxen form, firmly clutching the ankles of his naked wife as her head disappeared beneath the water, a shocked and horrified expression on her face.
He heard a sound. It wasn’t much of a sound. But it was the first foreign sound, the first sound not suited to any of the exhibits. A clicking sound—like that made when a door is locked.
Toussaint was vividly aware of his solitude. He was alone—or worse, perhaps not alone. But he was isolated; no other tourist was down here, of that he was certain. And that was no longer merely odd, it was ominous.
Perspiration drew his shirt tightly to his back. He took out a clean white handkerchief and touched it to his brow. He sought to moisten his lips, but his mouth was very dry. Seldom had he felt so vulnerable, so impotent. He tried to see around the next bend but, seemingly, the already dim lights had been further turned down. He strained to see a mere few feet ahead of him.
One more step took him into a small, squarish room that seemed to contain five exhibits, though he could see none clearly.
He stepped closer to the nearest exhibit. It showed a man about to be guillotined. He was surrounded by guards. His arms were bound behind his body. His neck was on the block, his head turned slightly sideways. The blade was poised to fall. There was no mistaking it: The victim’s face was that of Toussaint.
A chill knifed through him. Quickly he moved to the next exhibit. Here several men stood atop a gallows. Two guards stood at either arm of the condemned. A priest stood off to one side. The hangman was fitting a noose over the head of . . . Toussaint.
His breathing as well as his heartbeat had become rapid.
He moved to the next exhibit. A dingy Spanish prison cell. A man tied to a stake. An executioner was garroting . . . Toussaint.
To the next. An electric chair. Strapped into the chair was . . . Toussaint.
The final exhibit. A man strapped in a straight-back wooden chair. Pinned to the man’s shirt was a target, the bull’s-eye directly over his heart. The sound of rifles being cocked, fired. The figure in the chair appeared to slump in death. The figure was . . . Toussaint.
He turned and ran back through the narrow and now all-but-lightless corridor. He reached the entrance, but it was closed—locked. He rattled the door several times. He was about to call for help when he heard a voice behind him.
“Don’t turn!” the voice ordered in an amused but mirthless tone. “We go.”
Toussaint felt something hard and round pressed into the small of his back. It had to be a gun barrel. He felt the panic of a man trapped and, perhaps, doomed.
Before leaving the Chamber of Horrors, the gunman’s companion affixed an image of a black hand to the floor just inside the exit door.
It was so senseless. That’s what bothered him most.
Long ago, Boyle had come to grips with the inevitability of his own death. But he found himself thinking about it again as he vested with deliberation for the ecumenical prayer service in Westminster Abbey.
It was, as a friend had once observed, that everybody wanted to go to heaven but no one wanted to die. Boyle certainly was not eager to die but, at the same time, he did not inordinately fear death.
And, indeed, he was no stranger to the danger of death. As another of his friends had once remarked, if you stick your head up out of a crowd, someone is likely to want to use it as a golf ball.
Well, when the cause demanded it, he had been unafraid to stick his head up and take a public position on any number of controversial issues. And there had been no dearth of antagonists who had taken at least figurative swings at him. He had been picketed, jeered at, and even, as far as his annual arch-diocesan collection was concerned, boycotted.
There was always the possibility that some of his adversaries might escalate their verbal or economic assaults into physical attack. And he was on public exhibition so often. If it was not services at the cathedral, it was innumerable services at the various parishes; confirmation ceremonies, chairing or attending public meetings . . . or just his frequent walks up and down Washington Boulevard. Anyone who wanted to attack him physically did not lack for opportunity. Indeed, there were countless opportunities.
From time to time, he would become conscious of this possibility at some public function, especially when, as not infrequently happened, tempers became intemperate.
But, usually, in such a situation, he would console himself with the conviction that should he have to suffer some physical abuse, even death, at least it would very probably be for a cause in which he believed.
Such was not the case now. Since being named a Cardinal, he had been attacked twice. The first time, as Inspector Koznicki had assured him, it was only a deranged man intent solely on gaining notoriety; the second time, as part of a bizarre plot to eliminate the more prominent
And that was the reason he had consented to participate—no, insisted on participating—in tonight’s service. All the principal participants, including Cardinal Whealan and the Most Reverend and Right Honorable Arthur Bell, Archbishop of Canterbury—who was not considered to be in any danger—had been frankly warned, then thoroughly briefed by the authorities at Scotland Yard. All agreed the ceremony should go on.
As far as Cardinal Boyle was concerned, he wanted only to get it over with. He agreed entirely with Inspector Koznicki’s assessment of the situation. The police could and would smoke out the conspirators, this splinter branch of the Rastafarians. But the task would get done far more quickly if the perpetrators were caught in the act than if they were run to earth only after a long, drawn-out investigation.
Why, only a few minutes ago, Inspector Koznicki had informed Boyle that the Italian police had apprehended what they believed to be the entire group of Rome Rastafarians suspected of involvement in this conspiracy. And the Toronto police had had similar success.
Even though Boyle and Whealan would be given the maximum possible security during the service, there was always the possibility that even the maximum might prove insufficient. Boyle was trying to get his thoughts in order for that possibility. He was preparing his mind and soul for death. His body, in an excellent state of health, all things considered, was not prepared for death.
But it was so senseless. That’s what bothered him most.
“How do you get into one of these? Any idea?” Assistant Commissioner Henry Beauchamp asked as he struggled with a long, white alb.
“I would try to advise you, but first I must find one that fits.” Inspector Koznicki was searching through the press for a vestment large enough for him. In trying several, he had ripped the stitching of a couple while trying to pull them over his head and shoulders.
“‘ere, ‘enry,” said Detective Chief Superintendent Charles Somerset, who had slid into his alb easily, one might even say professionally, “you pull it over yer ‘ead. Did you never see yer wife pull over ‘er bloomin’ petticoat?”
“Oh, that’s the way, then.” Enlightened by Somerset’s metaphor, Beauchamp managed to tug the vestment over his head and slide it down till it fell just short of his shoe tops. “I wonder how those unmarried, celibate chaps learn how to do it?”
“That’s why they got their seminaries, ‘enry. So they can learn important things like this.”
“Oh, that’s why, then,” Beauchamp replied. “There must be better ways to learn, wouldn’t you think, Charlie?”
