work.”
She lunged to one side, and Paxton felt his hood tightening around his neck. While he used both hands to try to loosen the choking grip, Julie finally reached the knife and climbed unsteadily to her feet. She staggered forward, the weapon poised for a swipe that would see her and Tanya the sole inheritors of the contents of Lake Vostok.
The plane droned nearer. Paxton was beginning to grow dizzy from lack of air, and Julie’s arm was already plunging downward. With the last of his strength, he twisted away. His feet slid on the ice and he fell, dragging Tanya with him. They landed on something that popped under their combined weight, and a gout of cold liquid burst across the ground. Tanya went limp.
“The sample!” screamed Julie, dropping to her knees and staring in horror at the pool of dirty water that ran in rivulets across the ice. “You fell on the container and broke it!”
“And you killed Tanya,” said Paxton, struggling free of the inert body and watching blood mingle with the spilled water. The plane roared low overhead as it prepared to land, and Paxton could see people at the windows, gesticulating wildly at what he assumed they could see on the drill-house roof. “It’s over, Julie.”
Julie was white-faced as the last dribbles from the container seeped into the snow. “It was all for nothing! None of us’ll be around by the time they agree to drill another borehole.”
“You’ll be serving a prison sentence for murder, anyway,” said Paxton coldly. “You killed six of your colleagues.”
“We almost did it,” she said softly, still gazing at the pale stain. “We held it in our hands. But at least there’s some justice in all this: you ruined our plan, but with the sample gone and the drill broken, at least it won’t be
With a deafening roar, the plane landed a short distance away, and its passengers began to hurry towards them, pointing at the drill-house roof in horror and confusion. Julie’s shoulders sagged in defeat. Paxton withdrew the small phial of Lake Vostok water he had secreted in his pocket when the others weren’t looking, and showed it to her.
“I’d have been the first to publish the results anyway,” he said softly. “All you’ve done is ensure that I’ll succeed.”
THE MYSTERY OF THE TAXI-CAB by
“Once more a humble person craves admission – NUMBER ONE.”
Brinsley read this out from a slip of paper at the next meeting of the Murder Club.
White-haired, beaming. Number One, was admitted with Brinsley’s butler carrying a large parcel, which he placed on a side table.
“Gentlemen,” said the Chief of the Secret Service, “just a little memento. You will understand when you see it. Good night.”
In a second the little silver-haired man of mystery had gone, and Brinsley, as President, drew the untied wrappings off the parcel and brought to light a magnificent chased gold cigar-box, on the lid of which was an inscription:
TO THE MURDER CLUB
FROM
NUMBER ONE.
“And what’s this?” Brinsley picked up a scrap of paper which lay at the bottom of the box and read aloud:
“I rather fancy the Murder Club and
Brinsley grabbed for an evening journal.
“The little man gets busy,” he said. “It only happened this morning and Crimp’s on it, that’s why he’s not here. I’ll read the account, and then we shall have it in our minds clear and sharp.”
And this was the account:
“Sir George Borgham appears to have left his house in Mayer Street, Sloane Square, at about twenty minutes to ten this morning. He was driven in his car by way of Piccadilly, making a call at a bookshop there, and arrived at the Law Courts at five minutes to ten. The policeman on duty outside the Courts, knowing the famous judge’s car, opened the door as usual for Sir George to alight and make his way to the judge’s entrance. But Sir George, instead of jumping out quickly as was his habit – he was a very active man for his sixty-eight years – remained seated in the near corner, with his head sunk on his chest. His silk hat was lying on the seat by his side, and in his right hand was the book which he had bought, closed, with his finger between the pages as if to keep the place. At first the policeman thought that he was asleep, so he said to him: ‘You’re at the Courts, my lord.’ But receiving no answer, he put his head further inside the car, and instinct and experience then told him that he was looking at a dead man.
“The body of the judge was lifted out and carried into his own private room at the Law Courts.
“There is no mystery as to the cause of the death of Sir George Borgham, for, embedded in the chest up to the hilt, piercing his heart, was found a long thin piece of steel, of the shape and size of an ordinary knitting needle, and as sharp as a stiletto, with a sort of handle at the end of it made from a piece of cork.
“That, brother members, seems as far as we have got up to the present with information as to this case.”
Brinsley laid down the evening journal from which he had been reading, and looked at the members.
“It sounds like murder, doesn’t it?” said Eustace Golbourne, the professor of mathematics from Scotland. “Surely a man couldn’t kill himself by driving a thin piece of sharp steel into his heart?”
The president nodded.
“Yet men have done almost incredible things when determined to take their own lives,” he said. “I’ll ring up my office and see if anything further has come in from the police,” and he reached for the telephone at his side. “If there’s anything fresh Crimp will be at
Brinsley spoke through to his office, and after listening to the answer, replaced the receiver.
“The only further scrap of news is,” he said, “that on the little finger of Sir
