The Skeleton in the Clock

a quick heat of emotional temperature, Jenny's shoulder seemed to become as cool and lifeless as though it did not exist at all; as though it rested there out of mere politeness. If there could have been a mental conversation between them, Jenny would have begun.

(Please don't think Fm annoyed. I knew it would happen some time that night).

(What are you talking about?)

(The same thing you're thinking about. How far did it go?)

But Masters, or so the Chief Inspector believed, had no intention of giving away a fellow-male.

'A visitor,' he repeated judicially. 'Well, no harm in that I could see it in two seconds. Later the — hurrum! — the bloke went back the same way. Then nothing happened until a quarter to one. But at a quarter to one I heard someone else rustle in that aisle.'

Both Martin and Jenny were jarred out of their mental conversation. Both sat up. The sound of We're All Together Now, mixed with crowd-babble, seemed to swirl higher.'Somebody else?'

'Somebody, anyhow. It was just a bit of a faint rustle you could hardly hear, 'Streweth!' said Masters. 'If I'd been younger in the force, I might have got the wind up myself.

'You wouldn't have heard it in any case, Mr. Drake. You were sound asleep. I got ready. I thought it was creeping towards you. Anyway, it wasn't. My eyes were enough used to the dark so I could make out the outlines of the doors in the wall. Just so! You remember, I told you last night there was a little camera trick that might interest you?'

'Yes! What about it?'

'Ordinary camera,' Masters said, 'borrowed from the local police. Infra-red film, infra-red bulb, from the chemist at Brayle. Useful to have along with you. Take photographs in the dark; not a glimmer to show you're taking 'em. If you know where to aim a camera.

'1 could see that the end door opposite the bale-mountain— Mr. Drake was sleeping against the same wall about ten feet from the door — started to open. Soft as soft! And wider. No sense for me to yell lum's name if nothing was after Mr. Drake. I snapped a picture at the door before it closed.

'We-el,' resumed Masters, tapping the brief-case on the table beside him, 'I got the print from the chemist this morning. Not a good picture, no. But a picture of Enid Puckston.'

'Of, what did you say?'

'Of Enid Puckston,' repeated Masters, and tapped the briefcase again. 'Creeping in backwards. Facing the camera. On tip-toe,' Master's face darkened, 'and with a 'What larks!' delighted look. Like a kid playing a prank. Somebody's hand was on her arm, drawing her in.'

Masters drew a deep breath.

'And this,' Martin demanded, 'was at a quarter to one in the morning?'

'That's right And — come now! Blimy-O'Reilly! Can't you see the trick of it?'

'I can see that the dagger we found among that heap of rapiers…'

'Oh, ah! Exactly. It'd been planted there, with fresh blood on it to make what you think what you did think later. That somebody'd killed the girl about half-past eleven. But the girl was still alive. Not even in the prison!

'You're the arms expert, Mr. Drake. And that Italian dagger you found, now! I told you knife-wounds can't be identified certain-sure like bullet-wounds. Would you say mat dagger was (hurrum!) unique?'

'Lord, no. There are plenty of them. I've got one something like it in my own collection.'

Masters bent forward, his fingers spread. Every word he spoke seemed to pounce.

'Then: a quarter to one. Everything dark and quiet Somebody from outside leads Enid Puckston along the aisle. Creeping; hardly a rustle. Soft as soft Like a cat! Door opens (no noise; notice that), door closes. They're in the old mortuary.

'Somebody takes her across the mortuary, out into the garden under the windows of the condemned cell. Somebody kills her there with another dagger. Enid's carried the travelling-robe; it's in the photograph. Somebody carries her body, soft as soft, down the underground stair from the mortuary, along the passage, through a door, into the shaft under the gallows-trap…'

Masters, reverting to his normal tone, sat up straight

'How was I supposed to know,' he demanded, 'there'd been a murder in the prison that night? I was uneasy, like: ah, ah! But my job was to follow Mr. Drake. And I did, when he left at what he thought was four o'clock. I followed you both,' he looked at Jenny, 'down over that field.'

Now here was a characteristic of Jenny: that, though she had been furious a few minutes before over, a little matter concerning Ruth, it seemed swept out of her mind at anything concerning Martin.

'You said,' she exclaimed to Masters, 'the murde — this person — you said this person was 'somebody from outside.''

Masters pulled himself together, remembering official caution.

'Did I say that, miss?' he inquired, eyeing the brief-case. 'Then I must have meant it mustn't I?' 'So in that case…'

'As for the trick with fresh blood on the dagger that wasn't used, that's easy. Lummy! The whole alibi-trick was only a conjuring principle. Sir Henry could tell you that People won't believe what's as clear as daylight People won't believe how small a space a body can occupy; and, when a dozen girls walk out of a little cabinet there's no hocus-pocus: the girls were honestly there. They won't believe the time a thing happened, from a coin-change to a couple of bodies, was back-to-foremost Sir Henry could tell you that But will he? Oh, no! He was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago..'

Martin Drake, stung by memory, fumbled at his wrist watch.

'Fifteen minutes!' he echoed. 'It's more than half an hour!' 'What do you mean, more than half an, hour?' 'I promised Lady Brayle—'

'Martin, you did!' Jenny began to move apprehensively. ' — that H.M. would ring her in half an hour. If she doesn't hear from him, she'll be here and start a riot!' 'Agreed,' said Masters.

'Then you never will catch your murderer,' said Martin, whose brain burned to know the look of somebody's face. 'And I’ve got a score to settle too.'

'You have,' agreed Masters, looking at him in a curious way.

'Isn't there any way to find H.M.?'

'Find him?' said Masters. 'That's easy enough. By the signalling system. But get him here? Hoi He's off his chump, I tell you!'

'What's this signalling business?'

Jenny hurried to a writing desk, and took up a sheet of paper with a list typed on it. Hastening to the middle page of the window, she raised her right arm and waved.

From some forty yards down the drive, there appeared the conspicuous sleeve of a grey-and-black checked suit (Martin had seen that sleeve before, near the race-track booth.) A hand waved. Then, startlingly, the hand held high a square card bearing the large number 7.

Jenny's finger, on the typewritten sheet, found the number 7 and indicated to Martin, opposite the words Mirror Maze.

'That's Mr. MacDougall' she said rapidly. 'For some reason he thinks H.M. is wonderful. He thinks H.M. was born to the show business. Martin! Wait! Just a moment!'

Martin scarcely heard Jenny's last words as he ran.

Outside the front door, a still-rising breeze swept his face. The sky was overcast, though it did not look like rain. Empty bags of potato-crisps danced past, and a small girl's hat

'This, ladies and gentlemen,' Martin could remember a voice through a loud-speaker, though he did not hear it amid the blatter now, 'is the Mirror Maze. Biggest and finest attraction of MacDougall's Mammoth. The Mirror Maze. If you are unable—'

It was half-past twelve. Though a fair number of people still cluttered round the attractions, most of the crowd had retired farther back to eat out of picnic boxes. They sat on the greensward, encamped like an army, with white napkin-cloths and glinting thermos-flasks. As for music, only the band whooshed and boomed softly with