WILLIAMS thought highly of his idea. It had come to him that morning
while thinking of the person he had heard descending the stairs, the
person he insisted was Mrs. Stokes. In its inception it had been
directed chiefly at that lady, but now with the mystery complicated by
the intrusion of a new figure its usefulness would be extended. The
thing that was aimed at Mrs. Stokes, would include Joe Tracy. That was
how he put it to Rawson to gain the consent and cooperation of his
superior. For he had little interest in Joe Tracy himself, inclining
to agree with Bassett and Anne that the boy had nothing to do with the
murder and was not on the island.
It was a simple and practicable plan--a watch kept for the rest of the
night on the stairs and certain points of exit. In the face of positive
orders two people had come from the upper floor the night before, Miss
Tracy on an errand that Rawson thought suspicious, Mrs. Stokes, in
Williams’ opinion, to communicate with her husband. Even if both men
were wrong some powerful incentive was making them take such risks and
it was natural to suppose that incentive might be strengthened after
twenty-four hours of strain and uncertainty. They might try it again,
and to catch them at it, surprise them in the act--if they didn’t break
down on the spot--a little grilling would do the job.
As for the boy--if he was still in the top story as Rawson thought,
he’d certainly not stay there after they’d been searching the place for
him. He’d know they were on his trail, that his only hope was getting
away and the night was dark enough to tempt him. If he was outside he’d
discover his escape was cut off and what would he want then--food? He’d
see himself faced by starvation and the place he’d make for would be
the kitchen.
Rawson looked at his assistant with an approving eye. The idea
was good, excellent, and without waste of time they arranged the
distribution of the watch.
Williams would take the front stairs, his particular prey was there
and he had already located the position of the electric-light button.
Rawson would station himself in the kitchen with its two doors one
to the outside, one to the hall. As Williams had pointed out it was
the place to which Joe, escape blocked, would inevitably turn. The
living-room they would assign to Shine, less important than either of
the other ambushes, but commanding the entrance to the side wing and
the path to the causeway and dock. Any one descending the back stairs
to make an exit from the house would either turn to the kitchen or go
through the living-room, and whichever way they took, would run into
a trap. The men were satisfied, each one was detailed to the spot
where he might expect to apprehend the object of his suspicion. The
living-room, central and exposed, might safely be left to Shine.
They found Shine in the butler’s room sleeping soundly on the outside
of the bed. He was acquainted with the plan, and stumbling and
heavy-eyed followed them. In the hall Rawson left them, taking his way
to his hiding-place, the other two faring on to the scene of Shine’s
duties. Here he received his instructions, special emphasis being laid
on the door that led to the kitchen wing and the back stairs. Shine
looked from the door to Williams with a perplexed frown. He did not
like to admit--no more than he had liked to display the healthy vigor
of his appetite--that he was so sleepy it was doubtful whether he could
keep awake. In this embarrassing position, when he desired to acquit
himself creditably and feared the weakness of his flesh, he too had an
idea. He did not know if it would be acceptable and broached it with a
cautious preamble.
They just wanted to know who the person was, didn’t they? He wouldn’t
have to catch them, which would be nearly impossible in the dark and
was unnecessary as no one could get off the island. To see them, be
able to identify them, get on to who was stealing round the house,
was the point. If that was enough he’d a way of doing it, the surest
and most efficacious way it could be done, no scrambling round the
furniture, no uncertainty--he’d set his small camera for a flashlight
photograph. The materials were all at hand, he’d gathered them together
for a flashlight picture of the company. All he had to do was to get
them ready and if any one entered by the door he was to watch, he’d
have their number before they knew it.
Williams was interested--it was a neat trick and tickled his fancy.
As he was ignorant of the process, Shine explained it, getting his
properties from the cabinet as he spoke. The flashlight powder in a
saucer on the table, then a double wire extending from it to a point
above the door--the pair of antlers would answer. There the wire would
be cut, one-half hanging down from the antlers, the other twisted round
the door handle, its end standing out. When the door was opened the two
severed ends would come in contact and make the circuit which would
set off the powder. He did not tell Williams that the taking of the
picture could be achieved whether he was asleep or awake, but that the
camera would make its record whatever his state was an immense relief
to his mind.
Williams left and he quickly completed his preparations. The antlers
served his purpose well, the depending cord was in exactly the right
position and before he made his final adjustment of the two wires
he unloosed the latch of the door that it might open easily and
noiselessly at the first push of a stealthy hand. Then, his camera in
place, he turned off the lights. The room was suddenly plunged into
Egyptian blackness; he had to feel for the chair he had pulled up and
grasping the tripod, nearly upset it. Swearing under his breath he
found the arms of the chair and let himself down upon it carefully, to
avoid creaking. The silence of the house closed round him, a silence
that was like oblivion. The darkness showed no break as his glance
traveled over it. A solid impenetrable wall, it was hard to look at,
the eye required something to rest upon. After he had stared into it
for what seemed a measureless stretch of time, he felt he must shut
his eyes for a moment of respite. He did so, his head drooped, nodded,
sunk, and he lay a big crumpled figure held in the embrace of the chair.
A bang--in that silence as loud as a cannon shot--a rending burst of
light, waked him. He leaped to his feet his senses scattered, not
knowing where he was or what had happened. Then from every side of
the house noise broke, groans, screams, slamming of doors, thudding
footfalls. It was terrifying in the darkness, like a company of ghosts
wailing and running about in some black inferno. Williams’ voice
shouted the first intelligible words:
“You got them--good work! Where the hell are the lights?”
That shook Shine into consciousness, and he called to the gallery
whence a patter of bare feet and shrill female cries rose:
“It’s all right. Don’t be scared. It’s only a flashlight.”
Male voices followed, harsh and loud as the men came rushing in:
Rawson’s from the left with the crash of the door flung back against
the wall.
“What are you doing in here? What was that?”
Bassett’s from the entrance, his body colliding with furniture as he
ran blindly forward. Somewhere in the darkness behind, Stokes’ high and
choked, breaking into curses. And over all Miss Pinkney’s riding the
tumult like the war cry of the Valkyries:
“Why don’t some of you fools turn on the electricity? The button’s on
the right side of the door.”
Bassett’s hand found it and the room was flooded with light.
The women in straight white nightgowns stood on the gallery huddled
together. The dreadful darkness lifted, they leaned over the railing,
their faces pallid between hanging locks of hair, dropping a shower of
questions on the men below. One of them was hysterical and gave forth a
sobbing wail, and Williams shouted with angry authority:
“Keep quiet up there. Nothing’s the matter. Didn’t you hear it was a
flashlight?”
Some one strangled a scream--Williams thought it was Flora but could
not be sure. Then they made a simultaneous retreat to the bedrooms for
negligées and slippers, while the men, gathered round Shine, listened
to his explanation. No, he’d seen nothing and heard nothing, but he’d
got the picture all right, whoever it was, he had them. Now he’d go
and develop it--he could do that in a few minutes--and there was the
projector in the corner he could use, throw it on to something where
they’d all see. A sheet over that screen by the desk would do. And when
it’s on there, large as life, there won’t be any use lying, there’ll be
nothing for it but to come across.
They urged him out, they’d attend to everything: hurry up with
the picture. Williams was unable to hide his elation. His idea,
augmented by Shine’s, was a bull’s-eye hit, and his voice showed an
exultant excitement as he called to Miss Pinkney to bring a sheet.
Rawson’s satisfaction was less apparent, but his eye was alight with
anticipation. If it was the boy, he had run back up-stairs, for no exit
had been attempted through the kitchen. With the whole house astir
he’d be afraid to come down and they had him safe as a rat in a trap.
Impatient at the wait for Shine’s reappearance he left the room, saying
he was going to the boat-house for a word with Patrick.
Bassett saw him go and made no move--he could not leave Anne now. The
detonation and fire-work illumination that had made him leap for the
path had roused Patrick. As he ran, not knowing what had taken place
in the house, he had heard the man’s grunt of returning consciousness
and a hoarse expletive thrown into the night. Rawson would find him
awake and his dereliction never be known. But this mattered nothing to
Bassett. An inner anguish held him; his eyes and Anne’s had met as she
stood on the gallery and for the despair in hers he had no consolation.
He saw Miss Pinkney and Williams pulling out the screen and draping
it with a sheet, he saw Stokes walking stiffly to a chair, his hands
curved over its back, his face a curious shining white--he saw and
his mind registered nothing. If it was Joe, if it was Joe--what would
become of her, what could he do?
The noise of the women’s footsteps on the stairs came in a descending
rush. They burst in, their voices going before them, a scattering of
gasped explosive utterances.
Flora went to Stokes and caught at his arm. “What is it, what is it?”
she kept repeating, jerking at his arm, till he started away from her
pushing her off.
Williams heard and answered with veiled gusto. Some one had been
walking about the house at night against orders. It had been important
to find out who was doing it and so Mr. Shine had set his camera
and caught them, him or her--Williams’ voice was heavy on the last
pronoun--in a flashlight picture. Mr. Shine was developing it now and
as soon as he was ready they’d see it thrown on the sheet.
“It wasn’t me,” came Mrs. Cornell’s voice in loud relief.
“Nor me, nor me.” Flora’s followed.
“Can’t you damned women keep still,” Stokes ground out between his
teeth.
Rawson reentered. He had heard them as he came up the path and stopped
on the threshold looking at Anne, waiting to see if she would speak.
But she said nothing, standing by Bassett, her hand braced against
a table, her glance on the floor. She knew Rawson was watching her
and willed her form to an upright immobility, her face to a stony
blankness. If she could hold herself this way, not move or speak, she
could bear the tension. A touch, a word, and she felt that her body
might break to pieces and her voice ascend in long-drawn screams to the
skies.
The screen under its white covering was set in the place Shine had
indicated, the projector put some distance back, facing it. To some
of them these preparations had the hideous significance of those
preceding an execution and all of them felt the deadly oppression of
the approaching climax. The room was very still as if an enchantment
lay on it. At intervals Mrs. Cornell drew her breath with a low moaning
sound, Stokes’ hands clenched and unclenched on the chair-back and
Williams looked at his watch. He began a guttural mutter of impatience
and stopped as the door opened and Shine came in.
He came quickly, bringing an air of excitement to the already highly
charged atmosphere. There was a bewildered agitation in his face, and
his words were broken and uncertain as he answered Williams’ questions:
“Oh, yes, I got it--something--I can’t quite make out--got me sort of
flustered hurrying so. You’ll have to stand away there, folks.” He made
a waving gesture and they drew back, pushing against one another till
they stood massed in the rear of the room. He turned to the projector,
adjusting it, then held the negative out toward Williams. “We’ll
probably lose this, Mr. Williams. Doing it so quickly I couldn’t fix
it. It’ll likely melt with the heat in here, won’t last more than a few
minutes. You don’t want to keep it, do you?”
“Go ahead. It’s only the picture--that’s all that concerns us.”
“All right--it’s your say-so. You’ll get it in a minute now and by gum,
I want to see--” he stopped, his breath caught, his hands busy over the
machine. “Now then, we’re ready. Some one please put out the lights.”
Miss Pinkney pressed the button and the room dropped into darkness.
Through it the projector cast a golden shaft that rested on the screen
in a bright circle. The reflection painted their faces with a spectral
glow. Every face, eyes staring, lips dropped agape or pressed together
in a taut line, watched the bright disk of gold.
“Now,” came Shine’s voice whisperingly.
A picture leaped into being on the screen. A door-frame backed by
solid indistinguishable black, the edge of a door, and beyond it,
the outlines melting into the darkness, the suggestion of a head and
shoulders only the face showing clear, looking at them with wide
questioning eyes--Sybil Saunders’ face.
The silence held for a moment, then broke in an explosive volume of
sound. The women’s shrieks rose simultaneously--“Sybil! Sybil!” The
name ran about the room, beat on the high ceiling and was buffeted from
wall to wall.
“The dead woman!” Williams shook Shine’s arm in his incredulous
amazement.
“It is--it’s her. I saw it when I developed it and I don’t
know--something’s gone wrong.”
A raucous cry rose above the chorus of female voices. Stokes had
dropped his hold on the chair, his starting eyes fixed on the picture.
From his lips, curled back like an angry dog’s, came a strangling rush
of words:
“She’s dead. She’s dead for I killed her. I shot her--she’s dead. She
can’t come back, she never can come back. I shot her as she ran--I
killed her--I saw her fall--she’s dead--dead!”
The words died in a groan. He pitched forward and lay a writhing
moaning shape with hands that clawed and dug into the carpet. The men
rushed at him, clustered about him, the women watching in dumb horror
while the picture behind them slowly faded from the screen.