“The other John came at the appointed time and knocked on the window. Your John helped him in. The other John, as always, was rotten with liquor. Your John told of the determination he had come to that this was to be the last time if the other John did not amend his ways. Then came trouble. Perhaps half-brother was more drunk than usual. Anyhow, he attacked your John. Sodden with drink though he was, he was the more powerful man. But John—your John—managed somehow to tear himself free. Not knowing what he did; he picked up the heavy poker and struck, not once, but many times—”
“But what—Good God—!”
Anthony overrode the interruption. “Wait. Don’t speak till I’ve finished. Appalled at what he had done, he stood looking down at his bastard half-brother’s body. It sprawled there on the hearth in its untidy, shabby, mud-stained clothes. It was not, I conceive, a pretty sight. Then John—your John—did what better men had done before him. He lost his head. Completely he lost his head. And he thought at the time that he was clever!
“He locked the door, quietly, as the struggle had been quiet. Better for him had the struggle been noisy! He stripped to the skin. Then, naked as he was born, he stripped that sprawling thing which had been his brother. He donned the foul linen and musty clothes, the worn-out boots. More horrid still, he clad the body in his own good clothing. Carefully he did it, even to the tying of the black bow. And all the time, beneath his horror, was wonder for the amazing likeness of the thing’s face and body to his own. For half-brother John was not one of those who carry the stamp of their dissipations.
“Then John—your John—hurried away. Through that window he went. As he crouched outside it, he heard the door of the room, which he had unlocked, open. He peered, and saw his sister. He saw her hand fly to her bosom. He saw her rush to the thing on the hearth. And he knew that his sister took that Thing for the brother she had known and loved and cherished all her life.
“He heard her scream. He saw her sway and fall. For an instant sanity returned, and he thought of going back to help her. Then fear got him by the throat again; fear of arrest; fear of publicity; fear of the hangman. He saw it all. And he drifted silently away through the darkness. And next morning, while the world read about his death, John Hoode lay in a Whitechapel dosshouse. Later, an officious policeman found a carpenter’s wood-rasp and on it some blood and some fingerprints. So Deacon was arrested for the murder of a man who was still alive. The blood on that wood-rasp was not the dead man’s, nor were the fingerprints Deacon’s. The explanation is long, but I will give it if you like.” Anthony half closed his eyes and lay back in his chair.
A silence fell upon the room.
Sir Arthur shattered it. He leapt to his feet, his virility returned uncannily, a thousandfold. The light-blue eyes held fire in them.
“It’s a lie!” he roared. “It’s a lie!” He smashed his fist down upon the table. “A lie, I tell you! What’s that?” He turned sharply to face the end of the room.
“What?” Anthony rose to his feet.
“Nothing, nothing.” He came close to Anthony. “What you tell me is lies! All lies! Lies and more lies, you—” His voice rose with each word.
Suddenly, amazingly, Anthony shouted too. “It’s true, and you must believe it! Your help is wanted.” He thrust his thin, dark face at the other’s. “It’s the truth! Truth! D’you understand? I know! I know because, because Hoode told me himself—today! He’s coming here tonight! Now!”
Sir Arthur flung his arms above his head. “Lies, lies, lies!” His voice rose to a harsh, unnatural scream. “All lies! God rot him! Christ torture his soul in hell! He’s dead! He’s dead! You fool! I know, I, I! You know nothing!” His hands seemed to be reaching higher, clawing, as if they would tear holes in heaven. “You fool!” he screamed again. “He’s dead. I know! I killed him! I climbed down and killed him—”
Anthony sat down on the edge of the table. “That’ll be all, I think,” he said.
The curtains over the alcove at the end of the room parted. From behind them came three men: the first tall and of middle-aged immaculateness, the second an obvious detective-inspector, the third negligible save for the pencil and notebook he carried.
Sir Arthur turned, crouching like an animal, to see the invasion. In a flash he whipped round and leapt at Anthony’s throat, his arms outflung, his fingers crooked. Anthony, still sitting, had little time to avoid the rush. He raised a knee sharply. Sir Arthur fell to the floor, where for a time he rolled in agony.
The obvious detective-inspector bent over him. There was a click of handcuffs.
The immaculate man advanced to the table. “Very good indeed, Gethryn,” he said.
“Thanks,” Anthony said. “I suppose you’re satisfied now, Lucas?”
“Eminently, Gethryn, eminently!” Mr. Lucas beamed.
“Then that’s all right.” Anthony’s tone was heavy. “Now what about young Deacon? Can you unwind the red tape quickly?”
Mr. Lucas leant forward. “If you like,” he whispered, “I can arrange for him to get away tonight. It’s all very wrong and most unofficial; but I can manage it. Speak to the chief on the phone and all that sort of thing, you know.”
Anthony’s face relaxed into a smile. “Good for you. You might have Deacon
