The doctor was aghast. “He was sending sulphuric acid – by you – to a girl?”
“Yes, yes. A Chinese housemaid who-”
For the first time she opened her clenched right hand, saw the rice-paper envelope still clutched in it. It acted on her like an electric shock. “Give this to her employer.”
She sprang up, so abruptly she almost pushed the nurse over. Her eyes were not like velvet now, but like tawny flame.
“Ellen, lock up upstairs for me, will you? Call the police; tell them to talk to that man Gawdy!” She was already at the door. “I’ll be back, I don’t know when!”
The Delaunay house sat stately and brooding among twilight shadows when Sandra rang the bell under its aristocratic portico. The lank, grave face of a butler answered the soft sound of its triple door chime. Sandra burst out:
“Do you have a housemaid here named Helen Ying?”
The butler stared. “Why, yes, miss.”
“Let me speak to Mr Delaunay.”
The butler blinked. “Who shall I say is-”
A deep voice said from behind: “Who is it, Sanders?”
Sandra pushed in. “You’re Mr Delaunay?”
“I’m John Delaunay, yes.”
He was an old man, as thin as a grasshopper, leaning on a thick blackthorn cane. His mild and benignant face was filled with wrinkles like transparent wax paper that has been crumpled and then flattened out.
“I’m Sandra Grey. I run the welfare office for St. Luke’s charities. Something terrible has happened, and if I could speak to you a moment-”
“Of course. Of course.”
He guided her into the paneled entrance of a library. The first thing Sandra saw as she came in the room was a man on a sofa with his arms around a girl trying to kiss her. They both sprang up; Sandra backed out; the old man gently impelled her in again and snapped on the wall switch.
“Well, bless me,” he said mildly, “I didn’t know you two were in here Miss Grey, this is my daughter Marceline.”
Marceline was a flashily pretty brunette with brilliant black eyes. The brilliant eyes glared at Sandra. She did not say anything. She sat down at the extreme end of the sofa and gave her whole attention to a bowl of goldfish. The man was sitting in an armchair leafing through the pages of a book. He was hawk-faced, olive-cheeked, with a Vandyke beard cupping his chin like a spearhead. It was a ridiculous and awkward second for Sandra. She turned to speak to Mr Delaunay, but the old man was puttering forward to take the Vandyked man by the arm.
“This is Miss Grey. Miss Grey, this is Rupert de Saules, a long-lost distant relative.”
De Saules rose, bowed with the greatest aplomb.
“Delighted.”
He had cool, sly eyes, that traveled over Sandra with insolent appreciation. Sandra hardly looked at him. She sat down, burst at once into an account of what had happened. The old man sat down, looked at her agape. De Saules’ hawklike head came forward sharply. Even Marceline turned from her preoccupation with the goldfish.
The old man gasped: “Acid! To the Chinese maid! How frightful!” He tugged a bell pull. “We’ll have her in here.” The butler put in his lank head. “Send the Chinese maid in at once.”
Sandra was taking the rice-paper envelope from her bag. “The Chinese, Dow, gave me this surreptitiously. It’s for you, Mr Delaunay.”
“For me!” The astounded old man took it with a blue-veined hand.” ‘Give this to her employer’ – you’re right.” He set it in his lap, unsnapped a spectacles case, set his glasses on his nose.
A Chinese girl stood in the door.
“You sent for me, sir?”
“Ah… oh… yes.”
Sandra sprang up.
“You’re Helen Ying?” she asked.
The girl turned her oval face to her. She was comely, with jetblack, long-lashed, modest eyes. She curtseyed. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you know who would try to send acid to you?”
“Acid!” The girl’s eyes went wide. “To me! No, ma’am!”
“A Chinese man just came to my office and tried to get me to bring you a bamboo tube filled with sulphuric acid. It was fixed so that if you held it toward you, the natural way to open it, the acid would have spurted all over your face and throat.”
The girl clutched at herself, aghast. Her eyes were like saucers.
“He said his name was Dow. He claimed to be your cousin. Do you know him?”
The girl shook her head dumbly. Sandra searched the wide jet-black eyes. They were as candid as her own.
“A young, flashily dressed man, very well educated, smoked gold-tipped cigarettes. Have you any idea who he was?”
“No, ma’am. None… none at all.”
The Vandyked De Saules asked with a sly smile: “No love affairs, or anything like that?”
“No, sir.” The girl did not raise her eyes. “I do not know any men here in the city at all.”
“My dear girl, don’t lie.” De Saules fingered his point of beard. “You must know him, otherwise there’d be no point-”
“Suppose we hear what this says,” said old Mr Delaunay, ripping open the rice-paper envelope. He took out a typed sheet of paper, read in a slow, loud voice:
Mr John Delaunay:
You are about to die.
The acid sent to the maid is merely a subordinate matter.
Do not stay alone by yourself.
Do not eat or drink anything.
This is the only way to show that your death is not suicide, but murder.
No human agency can prevent your death.
“What’s this?” For an instant the old man’s tongue moved speechlessly in his open mouth. “Me!
His daughter Marceline gasped: “It’s a death threat!”
De Saules cried to Sandra: “This Chinaman, this Dow, gave that to you?”
“Yes! Yes!” Sandra was stunned, bewildered. “Dow – Dow, the same one that gave me the acid tube!”
“Who would
He lurched suddenly sideways. It was not a step; it was as though he had been struck from the side. The blackthorn cane flew from him. He screamed out:
“My tongue! My throat!”
Sandra could only see his face, twisted, demoniac. He was tearing at his mouth in a frenzy. Then he fell backward in a frightful spasm, struck a floor lamp, plunged like a senseless blind hammer to the floor.
II
It was so horrible and swift it left them riveted. Sandra felt only a jar in both shoulder blades, as though she had been driven back in her chair. Then De Saules was plunging at the body.
“Mr Delaunay! Mr Delaunay!”
