Four
Vicky hesitated in the doorway.
It was as though this were only some guessing-game in which she hesitated about what question to ask first. Her manner indicated this. Yet her tanned, clean-skinned face, the blue eyes more vivid against it, was softened by another underlying emotion. It was fear, and Sharpless knew it.
'Yes?' she said doubtfully.
Rich took her hand. 'Come over here, Mrs. Fane, and sit down on the sofa. Make yourself comfortable.'
Vicky stopped short.
'I'd rather not sit on the sofa,' she said.
Again a brief, vague touch of uneasiness brushed the room.
'Very well, then,' agreed Rich, after a slight pause. 'We'll try to make you comfortable somewhere else.'
He surveyed the room. He walked towards the windows, but there the sharp-squeaking wood of the floor appeared to irritate him. After treading on it experimentally, he turned round and looked at the extreme opposite end of the room. There Arthur Fane was sitting, with the cardboard box on his knees.
'May we have your chair, Mr. Fane?'
Arthur got up.
The bridge lamp had a very long cord. Rich picked it up from beside the sofa, which was pushed back against the long wall opposite the fireplace. He carried the lamp across to the white easy chair where Arthur had been sitting, and tilted its shade to shine down on the chair. He pushed the chair back flat against the
'Will this suit you, Mrs. Fane?'
'Yes, that's all right,' said Vicky. She followed him over and sat down.
'That's it. Just relax. The others of you I should like to sit fairly close, but not too close. Draw up your chairs sideways to her, where she can't see you. That's it.'
The center of the room was now a cleared space, with Vicky sitting with her back to one wall and facing the windows from some twenty-five feet away. Rich drew the curtains on these windows. In one corner he found a telephone table, round and of polished mahogany. Removing from it the telephone, an address pad, and a cigarette box, he carried this table to the middle of the room, where he set it down.
'Now!' said Rich — and walked back to Vicky.
'Mrs. Fane,' he went on, 'I want you to put yourself in my hands. I want you to trust me. You do trust me, don't you?'
'Yes, I think I do.'
'Very well.'
The man's voice was already compelling. It had a musical vibration in its soft bass. Again Rich tilted the shade of the lamp, so that its light shone on his own face. From his pocket he took a coin, a new and polished which shone with bright silver.
'Mrs. Fane, I'm going to hold this a little above the level of your eyes. I just want you to look at it. Look at it steadily. That's all. It will be easy. Do you understand?'
'Yes.'
'The rest of you, please be quiet. It is very quiet.'
Afterwards, Frank Sharpless was never quite sure how the thing happened.
The room seemed to be full of a soft voice, almost whispering. It went on interminably. It seemed to be leading them past a barrier, into another world. Sharpless could never recall what it said, except that it dealt with sleep, drugging sleep, sleep within dreams, sleep muffled beyond life. It affected even those who were not looking past that bright-shining coin into Rich's eyes.
The clock did not tick; no breath of air stirred in the trees outside; no sense of time existed.
''Sleep now,' murmured the voice. 'Sleep softly. Sleep deep. Sleep.'
And Rich stepped back.
Frank Sharpless felt a chill as though he had been touched with ice.
Vicky Fane lay back quietly, every limb at rest, in the white easy chair. As Rich shifted the light on her, they saw that her eyes were closed. She did not move except for the slow rise and fall of her breast, where the light made a hollow in the smooth flesh above the bodice of the violet-colored gown.
The face, framed in brown bobbed hair, was serene and untroubled, the eyelids waxy, the mouth faintly wistful.
Sharpless, Arthur, Hubert, Ann Browning were all still trying to shake themselves loose from the spell, as from clinging veils on a threshold. Ann spoke, instinctively, in a whisper.
'Can she hear us?'
'No,' said Rich, in his normal voice. The change sounded startling. He mopped his moist forehead with a handkerchief.
'Is she really-'
'Oh, yes. She's gone.'
'Now, Mr. Fane. Will you take the revolver and the dagger, and place them on that round table I put in the middle of the room?'
Arthur hesitated. For the first time he seemed uneasy. Removing the articles from the cardboard box, he examined them. He bent the rubber dagger back and forth. Suddenly he broke open the magazine of the revolver, drew out and scrutinized each dummy bullet before shutting up the magazine again.
Then, as though sneering at himself, he walked across and put the revolver and dagger on the little table.
He was returning to the group by the easy chair, his footfalls clacking loudly, when they suffered an interruption. The door to the hall opened. Daisy the maid, put her head in.
'Please, sir—' she began.
Arthur turned on her.
'What the devil do you mean by coining in here?' he demanded. His normal voice sounded loud, hard, and harsh against the still-clinging quiet. 'I told you—'
Daisy shied back, but stuck it out. 'I couldn't help it, sir! There's a man outside, asking for Mr. Hubert, and he won't go away. He says his name's Donald Mac-Donald. He says—'
Arthur turned to Hubert.
'Is that…' Arthur swallowed, but was compelled to complete the sentence. 'Is that your bookmaker again?'
'I regret, my dear boy,' Hubert conceded, 'that such appears to be the fact. Doubtless Mr. MacDonald will be forgiven his sins in a better world (including, let us hope, his avarice), but at the moment I fear he is vulgar enough to want money. A slight miscalculation on my part, despite information straight from the stable-'
'Then go and pay him off. I won't have such people seen at my house, do you hear?'
'Unfortunately, my boy, I have just remembered that I failed to go to the bank today. The sum is trifling: five pounds. If you would be kind enough to advance it to me until tomorrow morning?'
Arthur breathed through his nostrils, heavily. After a pause he reached into his pocket, drew out a notecase, counted out five pound notes, and handed them to Hubert.
'Until tomorrow, my boy,' promised Hubert. 'I shall be back in a moment. Pray continue the experiment.'
The door closed after him.
The spell, which should have been broken, was not broken at all. It may be doubted whether anybody except Arthur had even noticed this byplay. Sharpless, Ann Browning, even Rich himself were gathered round Vicky, regarding her with emotions which need not be described. Arthur Fane spoke quietly.
'And now what?'
'Now,' said Rich, mopping his forehead again before putting away the handkerchief, 'comes the most difficult part. You have had your breather. Now sit down again, and don't move or speak again until I give you leave. It may be dangerous. Is that clear?'
'But-'
