The Skeleton in the Clock

dropping the Toledo blade with a clang on the other weapons, seemed miraculously transformed: any of his patients would have recognized him as Martin held out dagger and sheath half-together.

'We found it' Martin told the doctor, 'in with the other things. Is that blood — recent?'

'Very.' The pince-nez edged round the blade; the long, delicate fingers touched it 'I should say,' he drew in his cheeks, 'within the last half-hour. Of course, it may not be human blood.'

'If you're anything of a pathologist?' Stannard suggested. Dr. Laurier nodded as though startled. 'Then,' Stannard added, 'you can discover whether it's human blood in a very few minutes.' 'A very few minutes?'

'Yes, my dear sir. You and Ruth and Mr. Fleet are going home.'

Stannard took a deep breath. He thrust out an elbow and looked at his wrist-watch. Then he smiled.

'It is two minutes to twelve,' he told them. 'Tune, I think, that Mr. Drake and I drew lots.'

Chapter 10

A moment more, and they were all outside again in the passage between the doors: both closed now. The sheathed dagger, wrapped in a handkerchief so that he should not get blood on his clothes, had been thrust into the pocket of a dazed Dr. Laurier.

The tendency towards hysteria was mounting again.

'You quite understand the terms?' Stannard persisted.

'Quite.' Martin tried to speak with a careless air, though his nerves were jerking like an alcoholic's. 'Whoever wins the toss locks the other in, keeps the key, sits outside, and doesn't let him out until four o'clock — unless he yells for help.'

'Exactly!' Stannard beamed. Then he looked at Ricky, and hesitated. 'You recall the rope of the alarm-bell? In the condemned cell?'

'Yes. What about it?' snarled Ricky.

'It's very old. It probably doesn't work. But if you should hear the alarm-bell in the night, it will mean we are in serious trouble.'

'What kind of trouble?'

Stannard nodded towards the door of the execution shed. 'Probably that Mr. Drake has gone mad in there,' he replied.

'What makes you so infernally sure,' demanded Martin, 'that I'm going to lose the throw?'

'My luck,' Stannard told him. 'It never fails.'

It was evident that he quite seriously believed this. Self-confidence radiated from him like a furnace; he kept patting his stomach, as though the luck rested there. Then, as he caught Ruth's eye, his tone changed.

'Not that it matters. In humanity, I should like to be the one who is shut up here. It would not, I think, trouble me much. My friend Drake has a disadvantage that will always beat him.'

'Meaning what?'

'Your imagination, my dear fellow. You will see nothing, hear nothing; but you will feel. It is only when you imagine you see them crawling up from the gallows trap — men-eating tigers like Hessler and Bourke-Smith and pretty Mrs. Langton — that the brain will crack like a china jug.' He turned round. 'Have you got the folder of matches, Ruth?' 'I have them,' said Ruth. 'I wish I hadn't' 'Turn your back. Tear out one match, and tear off another much shorter. Give us the heads to choose. The short match is the loser.'

Suddenly Dr. Laurier threw back his head and laughed, like a clergyman at a funeral. 'This is most amusing'' he said. This is really extraordinarily amusing.'

Stannard bowed slightly.

'Have you got reading-matter, my dear fellow?' he asked Martin briskly, and produced from his conjuror's coat a pocket edition of the plays of Chekhov. 'Come! Let's compare reading-matter!'

Martin took out a pocket edition of stories.

'What's this?' fussed Stannard. ''The Beach at Falisa. Markheim. Thrawn Janet. The Sire de — ' His bright black eyes grew, incredulously chiding, then gently chiding. 'Come, now! Stevenson!'

'If you,' Martin said slowly, 'are one of the clod-heads who don't appreciate Stevenson, then' nobody can make you see his fineness of touch. But did you note the title of the first story? It's called A Lodging for the Night.'

Stannard handed the book back.. Touche,' he said.

Ruth swung round, holding up her hand with the match-heads above her clenched fist The hand trembled slightly.

Only Martin and Stannard wore wrist-watches; these could be heard ticking in the pressure of silence. Martin moistened his lips. Stannard, comfortably smiling, nodded towards the matches.

'Won't you go first, my dear fellow? If not—' 'No, you don't!' said Martin.

They both lunged together for a different match. Ricky Fleet, his fists dug so deeply into the pockets of his coat that it seemed to stretch almost to his knees, watched with eyes round and fixed in a kind of incredulous hope. Both contestants, after a glance, opened a hand side by side; and. Ruth expelled her breath.

Stannard had drawn the short match. 'Believe me,' he said quietly and with evident sincerity, 'it is best.' Then he became brisk.

'My dear Drake, here is the key to lock the iron door; together with your lamp and, two spare batteries. Mr. Fleet,' he indicated a lamp on the floor, 'there is your light to guide your party to the main gate. It's a shade past midnight.'

Martin felt Ricky clap him on the back at the result of the draw.

'That's all very well, Mr. Ghostmaster,' said Ricky, leaning one elbow on the wall and making no pretense of liking Stannard, 'but you led us in here. How do you expect us to get out?'

'Ah. Did you observe the floor as we came in?' 'Not particularly.'

'In the aisle leading out you will find a length of heavy white string. I put it there this afternoon, a clue to the Cretan labyrinth. Follow the string; it will take you to the main gate.'

In spite of everything, Martin thought, Stannard's all right. He's all right!

In a very short time he and Stannard were alone. The other three, obviously very nervous, watched while Martin stood outside the iron door, turned the key, and dropped it into his pocket. They saw the white splash of Stannard's lamp as he stood inside, close to the tiny square barred opening in the iron door.

'It's amusing,' the barrister said, 'that nobody's asked to see the execution shed. You and I can speak to each other through this opening.' he added very pointedly, 'it is at all necessary.'

The trembling echoes fell away to sharp-pointed quiet Ricky's bobbing light Ruth's red and black slacks, Dr. Laurier's smile all faded amid rustles against bales. Martin switched off his own lamp. For a little time he watched Stannard, without speaking, through the little barred opening.

Holding the lamp ahead, Stannard opened the door of the execution shed. He raked the light inside. He started a little, though he must have guessed exactly how the room looked. It would look—

Stop that! Martin Drake shut up his own imagination.

Stannard, not quite so ruddy in the face, contemplated what lay inside. He turned back, entered the condemned cell, and after a moment emerged carrying an ugly-looking rocking-chair which Martin well remembered. Hoisting this awkwardly on one arm, Stannard returned to the execution shed, maneuvered in backwards, and closed the door. Utter darkness and silence descended on Pentecost Prison.

Martin hastily switched on his own lamp. The space between the iron door and the line of the piled paper was about ten feet clear. Brick walls and a brick floor. He set the lamp in a corner.

Got to sit down.

Standing on tiptoe, and with a heavy lift, he brought down one of the long paper bales. Pushing the lantern to one side with his foot, he thumped down the bale almost in the corner with its back to the wall at right-angles to the iron door. He glanced at his wrist-watch, thinking vaguely that Stannard's watch must be slow: his own registered a full fifteen minutes past twelve.

Only when he sat down and relaxed back against the wall, letting his arms and legs go as limp as a straw, did he realize. God!