‘The local police,’ said Mrs Blackburn from the doorway, ‘aren’t going to hear anything, at least not on this phone!’ She held up the hand-instrument and the useless flex coiled limply across the floor. ‘It’s been cut through with a pair of scissors, I’d say.’
‘Now that,’ said Mr Blackburn softly ‘is most interesting.’ He turned to Rutland. ‘How far away is the police station?’
‘Matter of five miles,’ the other answered. ‘We’re pretty isolated down here.’
‘That,’ returned Jeffery, ‘seems to have been the idea! Whoever is responsible for those vanishing tricks doesn’t want a police investigation. So I suggest you hop in your car and bring over the local sergeant.’
‘But – can he do any good?’
Jeffery regarded him thoughtfully. ‘I may be quite wrong, Jim. But I have an idea that once the police are brought into this, the whole mystery will collapse like a house of cards.’ Suddenly his manner became brisk. ‘Now, jump to it, old man. Meanwhile, I’ve another little job on my hands.’
Rutland, halfway out of the room, paused and looked back. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.
Mr Blackburn said complacently, ‘Me – I’m a detective, so now I’m going to start to detect.’
Jeffery Blackburn held the flame of the candle to the cigarette between his lips, then bending, placed the light on the rough floor and surveyed his surroundings. He blew a thin fan of smoke that hung on the motionless air, then began to unfold and undulate slowly, reaching out grey tentacles to the grey walls that hemmed him in.
Two people had entered this room, and approximately fifteen seconds later, had vanished from it. There was, of course, the legend, but that sinister story made no mention of an amputated telephone wire. To prevent news of these fantastic happenings reaching outside of Kettering, someone had cut all communication. Obviously because a police investigation must reveal the means by which these disappearances had been contrived.
How the devil did one get out of a locked room? Not by any secret passage through the walls, of that he was convinced. By the door? But that massive, two foot thickness of stone had been shut and bolted on the outside.
Jeffery tossed his cigarette aside and crossed to the entrance. The heavy door hung half-open. He raised both hands in an effort to push it wider, but to his surprise the massive portal moved so easily that he suspected oil on the hinges. But the dry grinding in his ears dismissed such a suggestion.
Mr Blackburn frowned.
Something was wrong. Somewhere, at the back of his mind, two small details clashed and contradicted. Standing there in the entrance, one hand on the rough stonework of the door, Jeffery sent his mind racing back over the details of Wilkins’s disappearance.
They had walked out of that room. With a thrust of his arm, Rutland had pushed the door shut and slid the bolts. But – and here Jeffery’s eyes narrowed suddenly – when Wilkins’s muffled cry had sent them racing back, it had taken the combined efforts of the three men to open this same door. This curious, grey, enigmatic door, which was light and easy to move at one time – and fifteen seconds later, so much heavier -
‘Give!’ said Mr Blackburn and tapped the door encouragingly. Next moment, his fingers snapped back as though the surface had become white-hot. Wonderingly, almost incredulously, he tapped again and this time there was no mistaking that hollow resonance.
The door was nothing more than a hollow shell!
‘Oh, my aunt,’ whispered Jeffery. He stared unbelievingly. But surely there was some mistake? They had sounded the four walls – Lambert, Rutland and himself. He even recalled Rutland thumping and bumping on the solid stonework surrounding the doorway. Then, surely, if the door had given up its secret so easily to Jeffery, Rutland must have known, too?
And if he did?
Mr Blackburn chuckled softly. One part of the tangle was already coming free in his mind, so that he could follow the loosening end to a logical conclusion. In time, he would deal with the second snarl. But first things first. Jeffery switched on his torch and moving closer to the door began running tentative fingers over the surface.
Ten minutes later, he walked into the reception room. Elizabeth, dozing in front of the dying fire, blinked at his dusty but patently triumphant expression.
‘Hello,’ she said vaguely, ‘I must have fallen asleep.’
‘We’ve all been asleep,’ returned Jeffery. He sat down and lit a cigarette with cobwebby fingers. ‘Tell me, Beth. When you ran to that door after Sally’s scream, was it difficult to open?’
Mrs Blackburn frowned. ‘Yes -’ then quickly, ‘yes, it was, Jeff! Somehow, it seemed much heavier.’
‘Naturally,’ agreed Jeffery, ‘You see, Sally was
Incredulity raised Elizabeth ’s voice a tone. ‘Then how did they get out again?’
‘In both cases, the door was left unbolted after the discovery. They stepped out, pushed open the door and just walked out of the room.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Mrs Blackburn.
‘Why not?’
‘But you men sounded every inch of that room for cavities.’
‘Except the door,’ her husband pointed out. ‘One doesn’t expect cavities in doors. That was where Rutland was so clever.’
‘Jim?’
‘He knew the panel was concealed in that door. That was why, when we sounded those walls, he chose the one with the door – to stop us discovering the trick for ourselves.’
‘But why?’
Jeffery crossed to the ashtray on the mantel and crushed out his cigarette. Then he turned. ‘Let’s start at the beginning. The Rutlands knew of this trick door and saw an excellent opportunity for one of their crazy jokes. That’s why we were asked down here. I have some small reputation as a solver of riddles – Lambert has a big name as a detective novelist. Can’t you,’ asked Mr Blackburn, ‘see the Rutlands gloating over this opportunity – presenting us both with a first-class mystery, then chuckling up their sleeves at our attempts to solve it?’
But his wife shook a stubborn head. ‘I still can’t believe it.’
Jeffery said austerely, ‘The type of mind that would sit me down on a squeaking cushion is capable of anything.’
‘John Wilkins hasn’t that type of mind.’
‘Know anything more about him?’
‘Only,’ returned Elizabeth, ‘what Sally told me. He’s the merest acquaintance – a comparative stranger. Jim met him casually in the city and he came down a few days ago with his chauffeur – a tough looking gent named Tucker.’ And here Mrs Blackburn ran off at a tangent. ‘Besides, who cut the telephone wire?’
‘Why not,’ suggested Mr Blackburn, ‘think something out for yourself?’
Elizabeth said sweetly, ‘Meaning you haven’t the faintest idea, darling?’
‘Frankly, no! But I know this much. As I said, the Rutlands planned this as the joke of the season. But someone,’ continued Jeffery, ‘took it right smack out of their hands, someone who wanted Wilkins out of the way – and who cut the telephone wire to stop police interference.’
‘But why John Wilkins?’
‘Wilkins is a financier, darling. Financiers deal in large sums of money. And money, as the copybooks used to tell us, is the root of all evil. Everyone wants money. Even Miss Rountree, living in her cloud, cuckoo-land of metaphysics, couldn’t exist without -’, and suddenly Jeffery stopped, his mouth open on the word, staring at his wife as though she was some complete and surprising stranger.
‘Darling,’ cried Mrs Blackburn in sudden alarm.
Then Jeffery grinned. A wide grin in which enlightenment, relief and admiration were somehow blended. He walked across and bending, kissed Elizabeth on the tip of her pretty nose. It was a charming scene of domestic felicity, only slightly marred by the expression of complete bewilderment on Mrs Blackburn’s face. Then a voice spoke harshly from the entrance.
‘ Blackburn!’
They turned. Evan Lambert stood there, his thin figure hunched and suggestive of a spring tightly coiled. He
