Seeing is Believing

'So I sort of wondered whether anybody might 'a' tried that dodge. Hubert Fane was a friendly soul who got on good terms with everybody.

'It might be interesting to do a bit of snoopin', and find out what chemists encouraged loiterin'. I had to have prescriptions filled, of course. I couldn't ask any questions, or the chemist would have shut up like an oyster. The police could do the questioning when I'd weeded out my list of possibles.

'But stop side-trackin' me! I was goin' on about Hubert Fane.

'His original plan, I think, was a straight-out murder with strychnine. But two things happened. First: he ran into his old friend Richard Rich. And, second: Mrs. Fane came in and tackled him about the murder of Potty Allen.

'Now this last thing put him in one awful awkward position. When she asked him if Arthur had killed the girl, he couldn't say: 'No; I did it myself.' And he couldn't deny the whole thing altogether, or she'd only investigate further and then there might be the devil to pay.

'So he shut her up by agreein' with what she thought, supplying such extra details as his fancy thought up, and pretendin' to be the harmless blackmailer she believed he was. The dear old gentleman again.

H.M. pointed a raw-burning cigar at Vicky, and raised his eyebrows.

'I'd just like to bet, ma'am, that the first words he said to you, in a good deal of a nervous and apologetic way, was something like this: 'Why don't you talk the matter over with Arthur?'

Vicky nodded.

'Yes, he did,' she cried. 'But I couldn't! I couldn't have mentioned it to Arthur. At least, not then. Not yet. Not till I'd had time to think.'

'Right,' said H.M., 'and very well he knew it. And by the time you might have screwed up your courage, it'd be too late. For this ingenious feller, who knows the names of Sergeant Cuff and Hamilton Qeek in a day when most people have unhappily forgotten 'em, had now planned Arthur's murder down to the last detail.

'Hubert invited Rich to this house. He knew the conversation was bound sooner or later to get round to hypnotism. If it didn't, he could always drag it there. But he got his opportunity in the persistence of an argumentative young chap like Sharpless. Then Rich-'

H.M. paused, sniffed, and stirred uncomfortably.

'Scenting another good dinner,' supplied Rich curtly. 'Go on. Don't be afraid. Say it'

'Rich offered to do his parlor trick. It was Hubert (remember?) who insisted that you should all get together for dinner again on the followin' night. And so the scheme was ready.

'The important thing to remember about this 'experiment,' as Rich told me himself, was that it never varied and it could be timed to a second. Correct, son?'

Rich nodded. 'Yes. Any entertainer will tell you the same. It becomes automatic. If possible, I always began at nine o'clock.'

'Now, ladies and gents, where Hubert learned about the trick we don't know and your guess is as good as mine. But he must have seen it, probably more than once. He had it taped and he had it timed.

'To plan his details wasn't difficult. If you tell a Scottish-Jew bookie—'

'There are na' any Jews in Sco'land,' interrupted Dr. Nithsdale. 'They canna mak' a living there.'

'Shut up. If you tell a Scottish-Jew bookie, whom you owe five pounds, to be at your house at a certain time to collect it, the one thing in this good green world you can be sure of is that he'll be on time to the tick. Donald MacDonald was timed to arrive durin' the pause, or breather, after Mrs. Fane had been put to sleep. And out went Hubert.'

The summer dusk was deepening outside the windows. The ceiling lights were on in the back drawing room, making a brilliant glow where formerly there had been only the bridge lamp. All H.M.'s listeners were bending forward with gratifying absorption in what he said.

'Next,' pursued H.M., 'lenune ask you a question. What was the one time in the whole 'experiment' when you could be certain — absolutely certain — that every witness would have his eyes glued on either Mrs. Fane or Arthur Fane, and wouldn't have looked round if a bomb had gone off?

'I'll tell you. It was the time when Mrs. Fane was asked to pick up the revolver, walk over while Rich gave her a little lecture, and shoot her husband. Now wasn't it?'

'Yes,' admitted Ann.

The others nodded.

'Hubert Fane went out into the hall, and to the front door. There he stood talkm' to the bookie, with one eye on his wrist-watch. When he judged the time was approaching, he sent Donald MacDonald away.

Daisy was in the hall, hoverin' round the drawing-room door with all her attention concentrated there, as he knew she'd be. What did Hubert do then? As we know, he walked back to the dining room. Now I want you to think back. You!' He pointed at Courtney. 'The first time you ever set eyes on Hubert Fane, or I ever set eyes on him, what was he doing?'

Courtney reflected.

'He was standing in the dining room,' Courtney responded, 'by the sideboard. Taking a nip out of a bottle of brandy. In the dark.'

H.M. nodded.

'Uh-huh. Sneaking a drink in the dark, as his habit was. As Daisy in the hall knew and expected.

'But this time he didn't do it. On Sunday I noticed somethin' else about that dining room. I noticed it after a nasty accident when I slipped on a rug and caused myself a serious injury that's mebbe goin' to leave me lame. Those rugs are arranged like islands. They're arranged so a man can walk quickly from the sideboard to the kitchen door without his foot makin' a noise on the hardwood.

'And something else. Has any of you noticed that the swing-door to the kitchen is absolutely noiseless and don't creak at all?'

'Yes,' returned Courtney, thinking back. 'I remember noticing it myself.'

'So Hubert walked into the dining room, partly closing the door. He thumped over and made a bottle clink. Then he slipped as quiet as a ghost to the kitchen door, through the kitchen, and out the back door.

'He knew he wouldn't meet anybody, because (don't we know?) Mrs. Propper always goes to bed at nine o'clock every night of her life. Now. Outside the kitchen door, Hubert has left… well, what? You tell me. You used the same article yourself, fast enough, on Sunday night, and for the same purpose as Hubert used it.'

Courtney spoke into a vast silence.

'A short ladder,' he said.

'Right. A short ladder.

'Y'see, my fatheads, all this guff and hoo-ha about a four-foot unmarked flower-bed, and dust on the window-sills, doesn't mean a curse. Why should either trouble you — if all you've got to do is prop up the ladder on a concrete drive, across the flower-bed, and rest it on the outer edge of the window-sill?

'All your assumptions, you understand, were based on the belief that somebody must have climbed through the window and into the room. But, of course, nobody ever did get into the room at all. It wasn't necessary.'

Again there was a silence.

'But the time taken to do all this!' protested Sharpless.

H.M. emitted a ghoulish chuckle. 'I sort of thought somebody would mention that. I got here—' he held it up —'a stop-watch. You, son, go out into the dining room now. When you hear somebody shout 'Go!' run through the same motions as Hubert. You'll find the ladder outside. Prop it up, and stick your head through the window.'

H.M. handed the stop-watch to Courtney as Sharpless strode out of the room.

'Clock him,' H.M. instructed.

Sharpless called out, unseen, that he was ready.

'Go!' shouted Courtney, and pressed the pin of the watch.

The steady little hand traveled. In the dusk, the edge of a ladder presently appeared on the window-sill, clearly to be seen when die curtains were open. As Sharpless's head reared up, Courtney stopped the watch.

'There must be something wrong with this thing!' he said. 'It's only thirteen seconds.'

'No, son. That's about right. Now clear the center of the room, and put the little table there.'

They all moved back as Ann and Courtney set out the table. H.M. gravely laid a rubber dagger on the table.