The Skeleton in the Clock

The other, hunching up padded shoulders, regarded Masters with exaggerated expression of pity and hopelessness. Evidently he did not like coppers.

'This maze is a square within a circle. See?'

'Well? What about it?'

Mr. MacDougall pointed to the ceiling.

'There's a loud-speaker in every corridor. Only you can't see it (see?) less you look close. There's a microphone out in the circle, where it's open space. Bill Eraser keeps talking to the people in 'ere. Bill can't see 'em. ‘E can't 'ear 'em But Bill talks to ‘em as if he could, things that'd apply to anybody. And they jump and laugh nervous and Christ how they enjoy it!'’Careful, lady; that's a dead-end.' 'Mind, the gentleman with the bowler hat: you're taking a wrong turn.''

Still there was no sound in the maze except MacDougall’s voice.

'About every ten minutes Bill will say, 'If you can't get out, follow the black arrow.' Them black arrows are painted high up on the glass, see? You can't find 'em 'less you're told about 'em. That leads to…'

'You know me, don't you?' whispered a thin, faintly husky voice from empty space.

Mr. MacDougall, despite his knowledge, jumped as though stung, He adjusted his beret over to shrewd shiny face.

That's not Bill Praser,' he said to HLM. That's your murder-party starting now. Come on!'

They gave only one glance towards the fretted circle in the ceiling, which showed the source of the voice. Following MacDougall, they hastened and stumbled forward among their own images. They took another right- angled turn — and came face to face with Martin Drake.

Chief Inspector Masters, who expected to meet his own reflection, was even more startled to see somebody else. Martin had just put down on the floor a piece of white paper torn in a thin strip from an envelope. A wave of relief went over his face, and something else as- well.

'It's the pipes at Lucknow,' Martin said, and flung down the shredded envelope.

'This your friend?' hoarsely inquired Mr. MacDougall. 'Good!' He eyed the strip on the floor. 'Beg-pardon-I'm- sure; but what the 'ell are you doing?'

Martin looked at him. 'For some minutes, now,' he said, 'I've been putting, these down to block up what I KNOW are dead-ends.'

'Never mind that,' snapped a glowering HM 'Son, I've been worried. Have you met anybody?'

'Not met,' said Martin. 'I saw somebody with a damned brown coat and blue trousers, walking away from me. Then I ran into a sheet of plate glass. Then a voice; I found afterwards it was a loudspeaker; advised me to get to blazes out of here. That was when I started putting down papers. I wonder if Houdini ever tried this blasted place?'

Mr. MacDougall, immensely pleased, did a little tap-dance; and then nervousness smote him.

'Now look!' he urged. 'I'm leading the way. Three more turnings, and we're there. When I give the sign,' he made gestures like a temple-dancer, to illustrate, 'don't start to speak or mess about. For gossakes don't! Well be too near 'em!'

'Near them?' repeated Martin. 'Near whom?'

'Go on!' urged the insistent voice from the ceiling, as though it were eerily feeling its way along the mirror walls. 'Come a little closer! It's not so dark you can't make me out!'

'Son,' H.M. said to Martin, 'do you know who's speakin' now?'

'No!'

'It's Arthur Puckston. Puckston was the feller in the brown coat'

'You don't mean Puckston fa the… ‘

'Puckston's talking to somebody. That somebody killed George Fleet, killed and mutilated Enid Puckston, and almost murdered you: all the same somebody. We're ready, Mac-Dougall'

Though it took them three turnings and one fairly long corridor, it was only a matter of seconds until MacDougall gave the signal. Then Martin tried to straighten out his thoughts.

They all now stood facing down a short passage, not more than six or eight feet deep, with no other passage turning out of it. They stared at a dead-end of looking-glass.

'I don't say much,' sounded Puckston's voice from the ceiling. 'I was never one to say much, was I? Would I make trouble?'

Only a bumbling murmur answered with something like. ‘What do you want, then?' Whoever somebody was, Puckston was crowding the voice away from the microphone. Whoever somebody was…

Then Martin realized the presence of something impossible.

Straight ahead, reflected in that glimmering dead-end, he saw H.M.'s bulk and impassive eyes, Masters in down-pulled at and with pencil moving on a notebook, himself like a irate, MacDougall in beret peering round the angle of the passage. Crowding images of them sprang up wherever you looked. But…

'I know you killed Enid.' Puckston's breathing was now audible. 'A wanted you to hear that, like. That I know you killed 'er.'

'You can't prove that' (Whose voice?)

MacDougall had told them almost with tears that they must at utter a whisper, not make a shoe-scrape, or the slightest sound would betray them. But on the floor lay a piece of paper which Martin had dropped there.

He had explored that passage. It was made of solid looking glasses. If the microphone were outside this mirror maze in the circular shell, you could clump about or talk without being heard.

Then where were Puckston and his companion? Standing there invisibly, by some optical trick?' 'I tell you again, I don't want to prove it. If I did, I'd gone to the police.'

'With what evidence?' (Come closer) Come closer!) 'I dunno. I didn't think.' Puckston's breathing grew shorter and heavier. 'You kitted my little girl That's all I know.' No reply at all, now. Masters was silently raving. 'You killed my little girl. Why did you do it?' ‘I had to. It was a kind of — expression.' 'What’s that?’

'I said a kind of expression. Don't sob. You—’’

'But you did kill 'er?'

'Yes! What’s so bad about it?'

Clearly, not loudly, but with smooth and articulate viciousness, somebody's voice moved straight on microphone Martin Drake realized, with horror, whose voice it was.

'We mustn't worry over these things. They happen,' said somebody's voice. 'You seem sensible. I'll take care of you.'

'No, by God!' said Puckston. And every effect was shattered; his voice, with the sound known as blasting, pierce the ear but smothered clearness. 'No, by God! I'll take care of you!' And through that bubbling blatter there came a faint noise as of a hammer thudded down on meat

'Stop it!’’ shouted Masters. 'Stop it! The confession is—'

It was too late. And the maze gave up its last secret

Before Martin's eyes what seemed a solid mirror at the end of the short passage rippled like water, soundlessly, distorting the staring reflections. Then it curled and disappeared. Somebody, back to the watchers, staggered into the passage reeling out of nowhere, piercing a dead-end, straight into the watchers' faces.

Arthur Puckston, forcing back that reeling figure, no long stooped. His narrow bald head, his staring blue eyes, loomed like an image of mania. He was hitting for the face with countryman's blows: unskilled, straight, murderous. Then the group collided, and flew apart.

Martin, flung backwards, tripped and caught himself as he went down. Master's yellow pencil rolled underneath him as he got up, among reeling reflections less like a mirror maze than like a kaleidoscope. Puckston, still shouting, had driven his adversary into a short passage at right-angles to the other.

But it was all over.

One last blow Puckston landed before Masters locked both his arms from behind. Puckston's adversary, flung back again a mirror at the end of the passage, struck it with too great a weight With a crunching noise, opening in