something from under the table.
A vital, not-very-tall figure?it may have been the white gown which gave her such a small-girl appearance?Barbara stood moving and twisting her fingers on the back of the chair.
“Yes, yes, yes?” went on the probing voice of professor Rigaud. “You are very much interested in such things. Only . . .”
Barbara forced out a laugh.
“Well!” she said. “It doesn’t do to make crimes
“Are you a writer of fiction, mademoiselle?”
“Not?exactly.” She laughed again, trying to dismiss the subject with a turn of her wrist. “Anyway,” she hurried on, “you tell us somebody murdered this Mr. Brooke. Who murdered him? Was it?Fay Seton?”
There was a pause, a pause of slightly tense nerves, before Professor Rigaud eyed her as though trying to make up his mind. Then he chuckled.
“What assurance will you have, mademoiselle? Have I not told you that this lady was not, in the accepted sense, a criminal of any kind?”
“Oh!” said Barbara Morell. “Then that's all right.”
And she drew back her chair and sat down again, while Miles stared at her.
“if you think it’s all right, Miss Morell, I can’t say I agree. According to Professor Rigaud here, nobody went near the victim at any time?
“Exactly! And I repeat the statement!”
“How can you be sure of it?”
“Among other things, witnesses.”
“Such as?”
With a quick glance at Barbara, Professor Rigaud tenderly picked up the blade-part of the sword-stick. He replace it in the cane-scabbard, screwed its threads tight again, and once more propped it up with nicety against the side of the table.
“You will perhaps agree, my friend, that I am an observant man?”
Miles grinned. “I agree without a struggle.”
“Good! Then I will show you.”
Professor Rigaud illustrated the next part of his argument by again sticking his elbows on the table, lifting his arms, tapping the forefinger of his right hand against the forefinger of his left, an at the same time bringing his intent, gleaming eyes so close to the fingers that he almost grew cross-eyed.
“First of all, I myself can testify that there was no person in or on the tower?hiding there?when we left Mr. Brooke alone. Such an idea is absurd! The place was as bare as a jug! I saw for myself! And the same truth applies to my return at five minutes past four, when I can take my oath that no murderer was lurking inside to make subsequent escape.
“Next, what happens as soon as Harry and I go away? The open grass space, surrounding the tower on every side except for the narrow segment where it overhangs the river, is instantly invaded by a family of eight persons: Monsieur and Madame Lambert, their niece, their daughter-in-law, and four children.
“I am a bachelor, thank God.
“These people take possession of the open space. By sheer numbers they fill t. Papa and Mama are in sight of the doorway. Niece and eldest child keep walking around the tower looking at it. The two youngest are actually
Miles opened his mouth to make a protest, but Professor Rigaud intervened before he could speak.
“It is true,” the professor conceded, “that these people could not speak as to the side of the round-tower facing the river.”
“Ah!” said Miles. “There were no witnesses on that side?”
“Alas, none.”
“Then it’s fairly obvious, isn’t it? You told us a while ago that one of the battlements round the parapet, on the side facing the river, had crumbling pieces of rock broken off as though someone’s fingers had clawed at them in climbing up. The murderer must have come from the river-side.”
“Consider,” said Professor Rigaud in a persuasive voice, “the difficulties of such a theory.”
“What difficulties?”
The other checked them off on his forefinger, tapping again.
“No boat approached the tower, or it would have been seen. The stone of that tower, forty feet high, was as smooth as a wet fish. The lowest window (as measured by the police) was full twenty-five feet above the surface of the water. How does your murderer scale the wall, kill Mr. Brooke, and get down again?”
There was a long silence.
“But, hang it all, the thing was done!” protested Miles. “You’re not going to tell me this crime was committed by a . . .”
“By a what?”
The question was fired back so quickly, while Professor Rigaud lowered his hands and leaned forward, that Miles felt an eerie and disturbing twinge of nerves. It seemed to him that Professor Rigaud was trying to tell him something, trying to lead him, trying to draw him on, with sardonic amusement behind it.
“I was going to say,” Miles answered, “by some sort of supernatural being that could float in the air.”
“How curious for you to use those words! How very interesting!”
“Would you mind if I interrupted for a moment?” asked Barbara, fiddling with the table cloth. “The main thing, after all, is about?is about Fay Seton. Think you said she had an appointment with Mr. Brooke for four o’clock. Did she keep that appointment at all?”
“She was, at least, not seen.”
“She arrived there afterwards, mademoiselle. When it was all over.”
“Then what was she doing during that time?”
“Ah!” said Professor Rigaud, with such relish that both his auditors half dreaded what he might say. “Now we come to it!”
“Come to what?”
“The most fascinating part of the mystery. This puzzle of a man alone when he is stabbed”?Professor Rigaud puffed out his cheeks?it is interesting, yes. But to me the great interest of a case is not in material clues, like a bright little puzzle-box with all the pieces numbered and of a different colour. No! To me it lies in the human mind, the human behaviour: if you like, the human soul.” His voice sharpened. “Fay Seton, for example. Describe for me, if you can, her mind and soul.”
“It might help us,” Miles pointed out, “if we learned what she had been doing which upset people so much, and changed everybody’s feelings towards her. Forgive me, but?you do know what it was?”
“Yes.” The word was clipped off. “I know.”
“And where she was at the time of the murder,” continued Miles, with questions boiling inside him. “And what the police thought about her position in the affair. And what happened to her romance with Harry Brooke. And, in short, the whole end of the story!”
Professor Rigaud nodded.
“I will tell you,” he promised. “But first”?like a good connoisseur, tantalizingly, he beamed as he held them in suspense?we must have a glass of something to drink. My throat is as dry as sand. And you must drink too.” He raised his voice. “Waiter!”
After a pause he shouted again. The sound filled the room; it seemed to draw vibrations from the engraving of the skull hung over the mantelpiece, it made the candle-flames curl slowly; but there was no reply. Outside the windows the night was now pitch-black, gurgling as though from a waterspout.
“Ah, zut!” fussed Professor Rigaud, and began to look about for a bell.
“To tell you the truth,” ventured Barbara, “I’m rather surprised we haven’t been turned out of here long ago. The Murder Club seem to be very favored people. It must be nearly eleven o’clock.”
“It is nearly eleven o’clock,” fumed Professor Rigaud, consulting his watch. Then he bounced to his feet, “I
