Seeing is Believing

Most of all, he remembered Ann's frightened, horrified face as she looked back at him.

'You don't think,' she cried, 'that I —?' She flung the needle from her, clumsily. It landed on the coverlet and rolled.

Several buckets of water poured over Phil Courtney could have made him no wetter than he was. Yet the sensation of a bucket of water flung in the face, the drop of anti-climax after the grotesque thought that had occurred to him, partly restored sane values. If they were not altogether restored, it was because Vicky Fane moaned.

'What's going on here?' he said. 'Do you know there's supposed to be a burglar in the house?'

'I — burglar? How do you know?'

'Mrs. Propper phoned over to the major's. Didn't you hear me yelling outside?'

'N-no. Was it you who made that noise?'

'What noise?'

'A — about twenty minutes ago. When Vicky'd taken her sleeping-tablets and gone to sleep, and I was t- trying to. I was frightened out of my wits. It was a noise like something heavy falling. Downstairs. I w-went down to look, but I was frightened and I ran back up again.'

'Go on. Anything else?'

Ann had her hands pressed flat to her fiery cheeks. Her eyes regarded him with incredulous horror. Her mind was evidently obsessed with only one thing.

'You,' she said slowly, 'thought that I…'

'I don't know what I thought, so help me! Hubert Fane's downstairs now with the back of his head bashed in. There's something going on. Wait! I'm sorry I said that! He may not be badly hurt. I—'

She caught at the footboard of the bed to keep herself from falling. But she pointed to the hypodermic.

'I–I came back up here. I knew I couldn't sleep. I just walked about. Finally I decided to take one of Vicky's sleeping-tablets. I came over here,' she illustrated by turning towards the bedside table, 'and I was going to pick up the box, when I saw that syringe-thing on the table. I hadn't noticed it there before. Maybe it's something the doctors give Vicky. It must be! You don't think-?'

'How long were you out of the room?'

'About two minutes.'

Twenty minutes ago. Twenty minutes ago. Twenty minutes ago. Vicky's lips twitched. The clock ticked loudly.

Courtney went across to the bed. His mackintosh and shoes were soaking the carpet, but he paid no attention. He picked up the hypodermic needle. Fishing in his pocket after a handkerchief, he pressed the plunger of the needle gently. He had pressed it entirely down before a drop of water, or what looked like clear water, touched the fabric.

Gingerly he touched his tongue to it. Even in an alcohol solution and in such small quantity, the intensely bitter sting of it burnt his tongue. He swabbed out his mouth with haste and fierceness.

'Strychnine again,' he said.

'Are you sure?'

'I'm no doctor. But you can't very well mistake this stuff. If it is strychnine, injected straight into the bloodstream with a hypodermic, they may not be able to save her this time. Steady, now!'

A violent shudder, as though it were she herself who felt the symptoms, went through Ann's body. Time seemed to rush on while they tried to arrest it.

'I'm all right,' she said steadily, and drew the dressing robe closer about her with a hard, bright look in her eyes. 'What do we do?'

'Do you know Dr. Nithsdale's telephone number?'

'Nine-seven-o-one. He's our doctor.'

'I'll go down and phone him. You run up and rout out Mrs. Propper and Daisy. Tell them to prepare… no, blast it, an emetic's no good if the poison wasn't taken through the mouth!' His head was whirling. 'I wish to heaven I knew what to do in the meantime. I don't know what we ought to do. Anyway, rout them out. Hurry!'

'I'll do it,' said Ann calmly. 'And I'll never speak to you again as long as I live.'

There was no time to argue over this. Muttering

'nine-seven-o-one, nine-seven-o-one,' convinced that he would forget it by the time he reached the phone, he raced downstairs.

Where was the telephone anyway? Stop they always spoke of it as being in the back drawing room. He was not anxious to face that gruesome object sitting so comfortably, with the Tatler across its lap and the bloodstain down its ear to the collar. But it had to be done.

The telephone was on a little round table by the windows, almost within touching-distance of Hubert. With an unsteady finger Courtney dialed the number and got it right. The ringing-tone buzzed interminably in his head while he perched on the edge of a little chair, staring at the phone. It had rung for a full minute, which to Courtney seemed interminable, before Dr. Nithsdale's voice answered.

When he had explained, Dr. Nithsdale's language was sulphurous.

'And also,' Courtney added, 'come prepared to deal with somebody who's got a bash over the back of the head, probably—'

'Lad, are you clean daft?'

'No, no, no! There's a lunatic in the house tonight. Just do what I ask. But, Doctor!' 'Aye?'

'If the strychnine was administered with a hypodermic, what can I do about it in the meantime?'

'Naething. And it isna likely I can either. Guid-by.'

The receiver went up with a bang.

Courtney pressed his hands to a throbbing head. 'Beside him the rain was spattering in from the open window, so that bright needles stung the floor and drenched the curtains. No other sound disturbed the house.

He swung round to face Hubert, and got what was perhaps his worst shock of the night — at least, so far. Hubert, still in the same position, had not stirred. But his eyes were wide open, and they were looking straight into Courtney's from not six feet away.

'Good evening,' Hubert said in an agreeable if slightly furred and wandering voice. 'I seem to have fallen asleep. Most extraordinary. Most extraordinary.'

Nineteen

Yet it was not Hubert Fane in his right senses. Courtney realized this when he noted the expression of the eyes.

He remembered a friend of his who had Buffered concussion of the brain from being struck by the door of a railway carriage. After being knocked out, this friend had got up assuring everyone that nothing was wrong with him, and had gone about his business until he collapsed many hours later.

Hubert, grotesquely neat except for the stain of dried blood down his face, blinked and touched a hand to his forehead.

'Extraordinary,' he continued in the same buzzy, benevolent voice. The Tatler slid off his knees to the floor. 'Do you know I cannot remember—'

'Steady, sir!'

'May I ask, Mr. Courtney, how you came here? And would you do me the esthetic favor of removing that extremely disreputable coat and hat?'

'Look here-'

'My head does indeed feel excessively odd. Not painful, but odd. I surely cannot have taken that much brandy after dinner.'

Courtney felt his throat grow dry. 'Who,' he said, 'was last in this room with you, Mr. Fane?' A look of mild wonder overspread Hubert's face. ~ 'Now there,' he replied, running his fingers lightly over his forehead, 'is another remarkable thing. I cannot recall how I came here. The last thing I distinctly remember is sitting in the library