The Sleeping Sphinx

and above all. the events of last night, have played the very devil.'

Holden took a deep draw at the cigarette.

'These gentlemen,' he said calmly, 'believe that Celia poisoned Margot?'

'They're inclined to. Yes.'

'Then the charge is absurd on the face of it. Celia loved Margot'

'Exactly! Yes! Granted!'

'Well, then? Where's your motive?'

Dr. Fell spoke quietly, his eyes never leaving the stony face across from him.

'Celia,' he said, 'really believed her sister was being led, by Thorley Marsh, a life which no humane person could call fit enough for a dog. Celia believed this, and still believes it. You grant that?'

'Yes.'

'Celia believed her sister to be the unhappiest mortal on earth. She believed Mrs. Marsh would never get a divorce, never get a separation, never go away. She believed that Mrs. Marsh sincerely and even passionately wished for death, as Mrs. Marsh told her. And so ...'

The cigarette shook slightly in Holden's fingers.

'Are you telling me,' he said, 'that these police supermen think Celia poisoned Margot out of a kind of mercy?''

'I fear so.'

'But an act like that would be sheer insanity!' 'Yes,' assented Dr. Fell quietly. 'That is what they think it is.' Pause.

'Now one moment!' Dr. Fell's big voice rang out with authority, an authority which kept his companion still. His eyes never left Holden's face. 'I see precisely what is going on in that brain and heart of yours. Oh, ah! And I sympathize. But, if you lose your head now, we are done for.

'I tell you,' added Dr. Fell, 'that of legal evidence I have nothing, I have not that, to rebut the strong evidence of the other side. Unless you and I can get Celia Devereux out of this, there will be nobody to do it. We are (I trust?) rational men, sitting quietly in an old nursery among toys, and discussing rational evidence. Shall we consider that evidence?'

'Dr. Fell,' Holden said huskily, 'I beg your pardon. It won't happen again.'

'Good! Excellent!' said Dr. Fell.

Yet the doctor, though he tried to seem cheerful, got out a red bandana handkerchief and mopped his forehead.

'First I ask you,' he proceeded, 'to look at this.'

'What is it?'

'It is a list,' answered Dr. Fell, fishing up a folded paper from beside him in the chair, 'of the real-life murderers who were impersonated in the famous Murder game at Wide-stain on the night of December twenty- third. I have jotted them down chronologically, with dates and place of trial. Please glance at it.'

Holden, trying to be very judicial, did so. Dr. Fell watched him steadily. The list of names read:

Maria Manning, housewife. (London, 1849.) Executed, with her husband, for the murder of Patrick O'Connor.

Kate Webster, maidservant. (London, 1879.) Executed for the murder of her employer, Mrs. Thomas.

Mary Pearcey, kept woman. (London, 1890.) Executed for the murder of a rival, Phoebe Hogg.

Robert Buchanan, physician. (New York, 1893.) Executed for the murder of his wife, Annie Buchanan.

G.J. Smith, professional bigamist (London, 1915.) Executed for the murder of three wives.

Henri Desire Landru, same as Smith. (Versailles, 1921.) Executed for the murder of ten women and one child.

Edith Thompson, cashier. (London, 1922.) Executed, with her lover Frederick Bywaters, for the murder of her husband, Percy Thompson.

'I say nothing of the list,' continued Dr. Fell, 'beyond expressing my belief that Mrs. Thompson was innocent and Mrs. Pearcey should have been sent to Broadmoor. But I call your attention to the first name on the list'

'Maria Manning,' said Holden, drawing deeply at the cigarette. 'That's the part Celia played in the game.'

'Yes. And Celia,' continued Dr. Fell, 'loathes crime! Hates crime! Won't read a word about itl In fact, because of this well-known tendency she was amusedly tolerated by Sir Danvers Locke for her ignorance in the part of Maria Manning.'

'Very well. What about it?'

'Yet, on going home that same night, she had a singularly vivid and horrible dream. You remember: she told you about it?'

'I remember something, yes.'

'She dreamed she was standing on a platform in an open space, with a rope round her neck and a white bag over her head, high above a shouting jeering crowd of people who were singing her name to the tune of 'Oh, Susannah.' '

A jab of dread struck at Holden. He was looking round at the scuffed walls where Celia and Margot had played as children. But he said nothing.

'The dream,' said Dr. Fell, 'described sober truth. In 1849, you see, that tune was a popular song hit. And the mob sang it, with the substitution of the words, 'Oh, Mrs. Manning,' all night long before the woman's execution on the roof of Horsemonger Lane Gaol.'

Again Dr. Fell mopped his forehead.

'Now this detail,' he went on, 'is far from being well known. Charles Dickens mentioned it in a letter to the Times, protesting against the foulness and indignity of public executions. But it is an obscure detail. Anyone who knows it...'

'Is well read in crime?'

'Yes. And is at least fascinated—morbidly so, the police think—by the whole subject' Holden tried to laugh.

'Tuppenny-ha'penny evidence,' he said. 'Celia might have learned that detail anywhere! From one of the other people at the game! And quite naturally dreamed about it!'

'That' agreed Dr. FelL 'is quite true. But it is the sort of thing, don't you see, that rouses suspicion? What really interested Hadley was her insistence, in the letter, that important evidence would be discovered when she and I unsealed the vault on the night of the eleventh of July.

'Now mark the dates involved! Just after Christmas, at Celia Devereux's impassioned plea, she and I went through that ritual of spreading sand on the floor, locking the door, and sealing it. I went away entrusted with the key and the seal.

'Afterward, for more than six months, nothing! Not a word from her! Then, out of the blue, she writes to me and asks if I will redeem my promise to unseal the tomb. At the same time she writes to the police. What’s up? Why has she waited as long as that? What does she expect to happen? Archons of Athens! Can you wonder, at least that some curiosity was roused?'

'No. I don't wonder.'

'And now,' said Dr. Fell, 'I'm afraid I have some rather bad news for you.' 'All right Let’s have it'

Replacing the bandana handkerchief in his pocket Dr. Fell took out a little wash-leather bag which was only too familiar. He opened it and spilled out on his palm the big gold ring with the seal.

'The sleeping sphinx!' he said.

'What’s that?'

'The lower part of this design,' Dr. Fell scowled at it, 'which Crawford described as being 'like a woman asleep.' In occult lore, it has—er—a meaning which is strongly applicable to this case. It is—harrumph— interesting. Yes. I could lecture on it: dignus, I hope, vindice nodus. It.. .'

'Dr. Fell, you're evading the point You're floundering like an old woman! What is this bad news? Let’s have it!'

His companion looked up.

'I told you,' Dr. Fell said, 'that I had been in touch with the police this morning?' 'Yes?'

'Dregs contained in that bottle we found in the vault' said Dr. Fell, 'have been analyzed. Madden has applied