No, but that wasn’t true—you did know them—a hundred times—a thousand times better than people that lived next to you all the days of their lives. That was what gave a trial its mysterious and terrible charm; curiosity is a hunger in everyone alive, and here the sides of the houses were lifted off and you saw them moving about as though they were alone. You knew—oh, you knew everything! You knew that little Pat Ives had sold papers in the streets and that he carved ships, and that once he had played the ukulele and had taken Mimi Dawson riding on spring nights.
You knew that Sue Ives had gone to church in little cotton gloves when she was six years old, and that she had a coat of cream-coloured flannel, and poor relations in Arizona, and a rose garden beyond the study window. You knew that Stephen Bellamy dined at quarter to seven and had a small car, and flowering almonds in his garden, and a wife who was more beautiful than a dream, with silver slippers and sapphire-and-diamond rings. You knew that Laura Roberts turned down the beds on the chambermaid’s night out and had a gentleman friend in the village and that—and that—
“Wake up!” said the reporter’s voice urgently. “Here are the sandwiches. I broke both legs trying to get back through that crowd. … Oh, Lord, here’s the Court! Too late—hide ’em!”
The redheaded girl hid them with a glance of unfeigned reluctance.
“Mr. Bellamy,” inquired Mr. Lambert happily, “you were telling us that you went into your house. What occurred next?”
“I went straight to the telephone and called up Mrs. Conroy. She answered the telephone herself, and I said, ‘Can I speak to Mimi for a moment, Nell?’ She said, ‘Why, Steve, Mimi isn’t here. The show got out early and we waited for about five minutes to make sure that she wasn’t there. I thought that she must have decided not to come.’ I said, ‘Yes, that’s what she must have decided.’ And I rang off. That same terror had me again; I felt cold to my bones. I said. ‘She’s not there. I was right the first time—something’s happened to her.’ Sue said, ‘Of course she’s not there. She went to the cottage.’ I said, ‘But you say that Pat didn’t go. She’d never wait there two hours for him. Maybe we’d better call up Dallas and make sure he’s there.’ ”
The even voice hesitated—was silent. Mr. Lambert moved forward energetically. “And what did Mrs. Ives say to that?”
“She said—she said, ‘No, that’s no good. He’s not at the Dallases’; he’s home.’ I said, ‘Then let’s call him up there.’ Sue said, ‘No, I’d rather not do that. I don’t want him to know about this until I decide what to do next. I give you my word of honour that he’s there. Isn’t that enough?’ I said all right, then, I’d call up the police court and the hospital to see if any accidents had been reported. I remember that Sue said something about its being premature, but none of her business. Neither the station nor the hospital had any information.”
“Did you give your name?”
“Naturally. I asked them to communicate with me at once if they heard anything.”
“And then what, Mr. Bellamy?”
“Then—then, after that, I don’t remember much. All the rest of it was sheer nightmare. I do remember Sue saying that we might retrace the route that Mimi started over toward the Conroys, on the bare chance that she had had some kind of collapse at the roadside. But that was no good, of course. And finally we decided that there was nothing more to do till morning, and that I’d better get Sue home. I drove her back to the house—”
“To your house?”
“No, no; the Ives’ house. I dropped her at the front gate. I didn’t drive in. I asked her to let me know if Pat was there, and she said that if he were she’d turn on the light in the study twice. I waited outside by the car for what seemed a hundred years, and after a long time the light in the study went on once, and off, and on again and off, and I got in the car and drove away.”
“What time was that, Mr. Bellamy?”
“I’m not sure—about quarter to eleven, perhaps. Mrs. Ives had asked me what time it was when we stopped at the gate. It was shortly after ten-thirty.”
“Did you go straight home?”
“Not directly—no. I drove around for quite a bit, but I couldn’t possibly tell you for how long. It’s like trying to remember things in a delirium.”
“But it was only after you heard that Mrs. Bellamy had not been at the movies that you were reduced to this condition—before that everything is quite clear?”
“Oh, quite.”
“And you are entirely clear that at the time fixed for the murder you and Mrs. Ives were a good ten miles away from the gardener’s cottage at Orchards?”
“Nearer twelve miles, I believe.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bellamy; that will be all. Cross-examine.”
Mr. Farr arrived in the center of the arena where sat his victim, pale and patient, with a motion so sudden that it suggested a leap. Not once had he lifted his voice during that long, laboriously retrieved narration. Now the courtroom was once more filled with its metallic clang, arresting and disturbing.
“Mr. Bellamy, you’ve told us that the tools in the garage belonged to Orsini. They were perfectly accessible to anyone else, weren’t they?”
“Perfectly.”
“Was Mrs. Bellamy in the garage at any time before you left?”
“Why, yes, I believe that she was. I remember meeting her as she came into
