Stebbins had departed. Headquarters needed him. And he had gone, warding
off with both arms a hornet’s nest of reporters all down the drive to
his parked car. He said he’d be back if he was wanted, or something
turned up in the way of evidence. For all the help he was he might as
well stay away, Julian said, but perhaps he was good camouflage. The
house did somehow feel a little more exposed without him; although he
left a substantial guard.
There was a tense, uncomfortable, haphazard meal in the nature of a
buffet supper. The kitchen was so disorganized it was a miracle anything
like food came out of it. No one was on the best of speaking terms with
anyone else—unless perhaps Julian with Joel, and she was too distressed
with weariness and fear to know what he was saying. So he had resigned
himself to sitting near her where she lay on the library divan, her
tear-darkened lids closed over her tired eyes. He tried to figure rhyme
or reason into the events of the twenty-four hours. He traced patterns
and followed clues to where they disappeared in storm and mist. He tried
flying below the clouds, tried to get above them, and failed to make it
either way. For all he knew he was flying upside down. And yet his mind
seemed lucid, even brilliant. It was extraordinary how nearness to Joel
had the power to heighten and stimulate whatever he was doing, talking,
thinking, feeling, dreaming. If she now and then failed to catch his
innuendoes, the stupid darling, yet it was her very presence that made
him even half-way witty. And, if she didn’t quite understand music as he
understood it, it was her closeness to his shoulder at a concert that
lifted him beyond the appreciative to the creative listener. He leaned
over now and kissed her cheek gently, not to disturb her.
He very much wished she would tell him what had been so upsetting her
since she had seen that black figure eight in the wainscoting. Not that
it wasn’t a strangely sinister and upsetting discovery—even Julian
couldn’t control a shudder at the thought of it. But Joel’s upset
condition had been chronic. It was just because she claimed it would
upset her more to talk of it than to try to forget it (oh, if she only
_could_ forget it!) that he had decided not to urge her. Besides, she
had said it was all a frightful nightmare, utterly impossible and false.
She must, simply _must_, put it out of mind.
Julian, though, had been having a few weird and outrageous ideas
himself; and he would have liked nothing better than to compare notes
with Joel. Dorn was troubling him like a ghost or a vampire. The least
stir of the curtains, the quietest footstep, went through his body with
a needle-thrust of exquisite horror. Perhaps Belknap had not been alone
in having a fleeting glimpse of the man—if man he still was. To Julian
to be insane was to be inhuman. Something _had_ happened when Joel was
in the library, Julian felt convinced of that. By signs of a strained
understanding between her and Belknap he came to the conclusion they
both knew what it was. He could almost have said they shared a guilty
secret, as if they were shielding someone, against the rules of the
game. Why in the name of heaven should they shield Dorn? He might have
been a friend of Whittaker’s, but as far as Julian knew Joel had
scarcely met him; and Belknap, the night before, had shown a positive
dislike for him.
It might be Mrs. Crawford they were combining to protect. There seemed
to be an all-around conspiracy to spare Sydney. Well, who could wonder,
really? After Whittaker’s unspeakable betrayal, and Neil’s and Romany’s,
and the thought of the Diary with its ghastly story ever appearing in
print, who could blame her for getting her hands on the Diary if it
meant Hartley Blake’s life—for revenging her honor if it meant Romany’s
life—or her husband’s honor if it meant Whittaker’s? Or perhaps Belknap
and Berry were closing in on Sydney obliquely, by way of pressure
brought to bear on Neil. _That_ might break her to admission. Although
the way she looked tonight, coming and going from the room where Neil
lay ill and delirious, nothing short of death would break her.
They had been hard on Neil Crawford—unnecessarily so, Julian thought.
Though even if someone had been ahead of his assassins in the case of
Whittaker, as Crawford insisted, he supposed the law could do something
about the mere fact of intended murder. And Crawford, as well as his
wife, had reasons for wishing Romany and the Diary disposed of. When it
came right down to it any one of them might have killed Whittaker. But
how thankful one was, Julian drew a deep breath, to have it done for
him. He even wondered if there mightn’t now be a chance for some of them
to wiggle out scot-free—with the past still a closed book. One thing
about Belknap he had to admit was jolly decent—and that was his not
stressing what must have been as obvious to him as to the others,
perhaps more obvious: namely, that Whittaker’s intention had been to
make a clean sweep of his guests. Not only was Belknap being discreet
with regard to the content of the Diary, but he was actually
soft-pedaling it. No doubt wholly in consideration of Nadia Mdevani as
usual! But in this instance he was benefiting others than Nadia. And
Julian for one was deeply grateful.
Again, who had killed whom? Who had chased whom around the walls of
what? However you looked at it any one could have killed every other
one. And quite possibly victim could have killed victim—perhaps
two-thirds of the murderers were among the murdered. Which could lead to
conjuring in terms: victor-victim, or victim-victor. Blake may have
killed Romany, Romany Blake. Even the doctor was unable to tell which
had died first—the times had apparently so nearly coincided. Or
Whittaker could have killed both. The one proven fact was that neither
Blake nor Romany could have killed Whittaker. It was hoped there would
be one more fact settled with the matching of markings on the bullet and
pistol. _The_ bullet. Julian was still bothered by the question of his
two shots. One must have been an echo.
And _had_ Nadia Mdevani fired her own weapon? She had been found in the
library—its only occupant. But she gave the appearance of not having
stirred for hours. Perfect acting. But it would take superhuman agility
to have cleared the wall-space and become rooted to the couch before he
had sprung in from the terrace outside. And why had she left her gun
lying around? Perhaps she thought nothing would be discovered before she
returned in quiet to dispose of it. No, that wouldn’t do: she herself
had spotted the holes. The margin between being innocently honest and
too honest because of guilt is so slight it would take a wiser and more
practiced analyst than Julian considered himself to be to gauge it. Here
again he had hope of Berry. And it was clear Berry was not particularly
inclined to Nadia’s guilt. He seemed to have other fish to fry. What
fish?
For if Nadia, Sydney and Crawford, by a bare chance, were all innocent,
who was left? Joel, himself,—and of course that mysterious Dorn. Why
couldn’t they find Dorn? Talk about the ineffectiveness of the police!
The one thing you’d think they might accomplish would be the finding of
a human being who had had less than twelve hours’ start. Particularly if
he was, as began to seem more than likely, hanging around Thorngate. If
it wasn’t for this blasted fog he’d go hunting himself, even if it meant
a hand-to-hand encounter. Anything was better than waiting for Dorn to
move. What was that noise now—like a finger-nail on glass? A twig rubbed
on the window by the wind? But there wasn’t a wind. Wind and fog don’t
go hand in hand. The thing to do was to find Berry and get down to work.
It was this terrible inactivity that was beginning to tell on his
nerves.
He hated to leave Joel, even for a moment. Looking at her sad, white
face as she lay there sleeping (she had fallen into a restless sleep)
his heart ached for her. Forgive her her murder! He had scarcely thought
of it since she had told him of it. He would protect her against the
past as well as against the future. He prayed the future had nothing
worse in store for her. He touched her hand.
“I _will_ come back soon this time, my darling,” he whispered.
Joel stirred, shifted. Her lips moved, though her eyes were closed. She
whispered something, and Julian bent down quickly to listen.
“Violet Mowbray, that’s the name. You see I _did_ remember.
Violet—Violet—Violet—” She trailed off into indistinguishable sounds.
Julian waited, hoping she might, while she was about this opportune
sleep-talking, give away more important matters. But she didn’t speak
again, and Julian, pleased as Punch anyway with what she had revealed,
went off to find Berry.