Читать книгу The Man Who Was Not - John Russell Fearn - Страница 4

CHAPTER ONE

GERALD Dawson, twenty-six-year-old son of Sir Robert Dawson, the eminent surgeon, had never done anything in his life to be particularly proud of. Bluntly, he was a waster, and far too much of a drinker. As the eldest child, he was distinctly a failure—a fact of which Sir Robert and his wife, Maude, were painfully aware.

This particular day in October represented something of a crisis in the life of Gerald Dawson. The gloom that obsessed him had something in common with the weather outside. His girl friend had at last realized the kind of fellow he really was and turned him down flat. Instead of an official engage­ment to one of the beauties of the younger social set, he found himself sitting in the lounge of the Cocktail Bar—his favorite retreat—with an unused diamond ring in his pocket and a positively foul temper clouding his mind.

With a drink in front of him he disinterestedly surveyed the softly lighted lounge. He recognized one or two habitués—and one or two strangers. Nothing unusual about that. The place was not a club anyhow: entirely open to the public, one of dozens of such places to be found in the heart of London. None of the newcomers was a woman, Gerald reflected, which was a pity. His one desire at the moment was to take up with another woman, if only to show his erstwhile girl friend that she did not count for much.

No—nobody interesting. Not even the quiet looking man in a nearby corner who had a peculiarly compelling face and almost colorless pale blue eyes.

Gerald grunted to himself, downed his drink, and then after due reflection left the Cocktail Bar end climbed back into his red sports car. He had just remembered Effie Brook: might be worth renewing acquaintance with her. She was blonde, very shapely, not too intelligent.... Might be worthwhile. So Gerald weaved through the busy London traffic and towards eleven paid her a visit.

He emerged again with a metaphorical punch on the nose. Effie Brook was not so dumb as he had thought. So, disgusted with things in general, he returned to his sports car and spent the rest of the day in a useless round of old flames—to get the same answer each time. It was not to be wondered at that by the time he reached home—or more correctly the Georgian type residence owned by his father—he was not in a particularly good humor.

After having snapped off the heads of his two sisters he retired to his bedroom to start changing for dinner—when the extension telephone rang. Irritably he whipped the instrument up.

“Well?” he demanded, and the voice of the maid came to him from the hall.

“Somebody to speak to you, Mr. Gerald.”

With that she rang off and a more cheerful look came over Gerald’s face. Probably one of the girls had changed her mind and—

“I have a message for you, Mr. Gerald Dawson,” said a soft, mellow voice. “I will make it as brief as possible. You will die at precisely nine o’clock tonight. Good bye.”

The line clicked. Gerald stared in front of him, at the telephone in his hand, then slowly put it back on its rest. Gradually his mind came back to normal.

“Dam’ tomfool message,” he grunted. “As if I haven’t enough to worry over without that! Wait till I find who’s responsible!”

He went on with his dressing, then paused in the midst of it and looked at himself, strange thoughts twisting in his mind. There was no doubt that he intended, originally, to dress for dinner—Then why on earth had he changed into a sports suit with its matching champagne-silk shirt. He pressed finger and thumb to his eyes and tried to recollect why he had done such a thing.

“But of course!” he exclaimed suddenly, recollecting. “I’m going to see Betty! Wonder why it slipped my mind earlier?”

This was a question he could not answer. All that mattered now was that he visit her—and the fact that she lived fifty miles away on the south coast did not alter his decision either. He reckoned he could cover the distance in his sports car in forty-five minutes.

In a far happier mood, even if there was some slight inward puzzlement, Gerald completed his dressing and then hurried down­stairs. He nearly ran into June, his eldest sister, as he went across the hall. She looked at him in some surprise.

“Not staying for dinner?” she asked, rather dryly.

No.” Gerald pulled his overcoat and cap from the hall wardrobe. “I’ve just remembered an important date.”

June smiled rather contemptuously. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but would it be a woman?”

“Mind your own business!”

And with that chivalrous remark Gerald pulled open the main front door and slammed it behind him. In the space of a few moments he was on his way, his sports car roaring and snorting as it picked up speed down the driveway.

He noticed, though not for any particular reason, that it was five minutes before eight on the dashboard clock. Time for dinner at home. That was not the point. It meant that he ought to be at Betty’s place by 8:45, if he went all out—and once free of the cramping London traffic that was precisely what he intended doing.

Muffled to the ears, his cap pulled well down against the cold of the dismal October night, Gerald cursed and accelerated his way through the city traffic, and succeeded in losing half an hour before he came to the clearer regions at the edge of the city. Then he really opened out, headlights blazing, and the speedometer needle gradually creeping up. At this rate it would be nearer half past nine when he reached Betty’s.

Actually, when he came to ask himself the question, he did not know why he was so anxious to see her—or why he was going at such breakneck speed to do it. Still there it was, and he never let up his speed except when traffic regulation, or lights, compelled him to do so.

So, as he raced through the country roads under a black and starless sky, following the two tunnels of radiance made by his headlamps, he found himself thinking about that odd phone call he had received.... Death! At precisely nine o’clock! He scowled to himself as he tried to think who could have been responsible for such a rotten joke. He’d find out in time, and then there would be trouble.

Joke or otherwise, he could not help his attention straying ever and again to the dashboard clock, and as it began to near nine the thought crossed his mind that suppose it had not been a joke after all? Yet on the other hand, how could anybody possibly predict his death so accurately, especially when nobody knew where he was going, or what his intentions were?

“Ridiculous!” he exclaimed finally, and to prove just how felt he jammed his foot down on the accelerator to floor level. Fast though it was traveling, the supercharged racer moved even faster. It leapt along the narrow hill-track road it was following—at the eastern end of the South Downs—and with a screech of tires swung towards the corner that loomed directly ahead.

Then something happened. Gerald had no idea what it was. Abruptly a blinding light, perhaps from an approaching car headlamp, swung straight into his face—a terrific efful­gence which swamped him completely.

He simply could not see where he was going. The road had gone amidst the blazing brilliance—and a second later the road had gone altogether as the sports car jumped over its edge and went reeling and crashing into the waste land ten to fifteen feet below road level.

From light Gerald plunged into abysmal darkness. The night was split by the sound of cracking metal and shattering glass, then there dropped a complete quiet. The light that had virtually swept Gerald off the road had vanished—and some­where in the ruins of the supercharged sports car a smashed dashboard clock registered one minute after nine.

* * * * * * *

By the usual avenues news of Gerald’s accident finally reached home, and a long distance truck driver was responsible for the discovery. Instantly the police went to work to examine the scene, whilst Gerald’s body was transferred to the nearest mortuary at Lessington, the nearest town to the scene of the accident. Then, inevitably, came the coroner’s inquest.

The Dawson family was definitely shaken, though not greatly grieved, by the death of Gerald. He had always been a problem, anyhow. Quietly, each one told everything they knew, and there certainly was not a shred of evidence to suggest foul play.

The only one who slipped up, though not intentionally, was the maid—in that she never mentioned the phone call Gerald had received. In that she was not to blame, particularly as she did not know what the phone message had comprised.

So the business ended—for the time being, with the body buried and the Coroner giving a verdict of “Death from Mis­adventure.” So perhaps the matter might nave faded out completely had not November, a month later, seen a recurrence of the events which had led up to Gerald’s death. And this time it was Trudy, the younger sister, who found herself involved—so much so she turned to Scotland Yard for help.

Her insistent pleas, and the fact that she was the daughter of the very eminent Sir Robert Dawson, finally gained her an audience with somebody who mattered—Chief-Inspector Hargraves, normally attached to the Homicide Division, but also an expert in various other branches of crime as well, particularly those of a baffling nature.

A tall, lean-faced, immobile man with thinning ginger hair, he sat looking at the dumpling of a girl across the desk as she agitatedly poured forth her story.

“It happened this afternoon at about half past three, inspector! A telephone call telling me that I’m going to die tonight at nine o’clock!”

Hargraves made a note and passed an unnoticed glance towards his right hand man, Sergeant Brice, who was unobtrusively short-handing the interview from his own desk.

“Half past three,” Hargraves repeated, following some line of thought. “And how was the call received, Miss Dawson?”

“How?” Her gray eyes looked indignant. “I’ve just told you, inspector! By telephone!”

“Quite so, but was it on the direct line telephone, through an extension, or what?”

“Oh—er—the extension. There’s one to every room in the house—every bedroom that is. There was a long pause when I said hello, and I began to think there wasn’t anybody on the line—then just as I was about to put the phone down, a voice spoke. It didn’t ask me if I was Trudy Dawson—it said I was, and then went on to say that I would die at nine tonight.”

“Can you give the exact words?” Hargraves asked.

“As near as I remember them he said, ‘I have a message for you, Miss Trudy Dawson. I will make it as brief as possible. You will die at precisely nine o’clock tonight. Good bye.’ That was all. Didn’t give me a chance to speak, or anything. I was so stunned I’d nothing to say, anyway.”

“I suppose,” Hargraves mused, “the idea of a particularly cruel practical joker had occurred to you?”

“Yes, but....” Trudy’s plump face clouded. “I can’t quite credit that for two reasons. One is that I don’t think anybody of my acquaintance would be so utterly beastly; and on the other hand my brother died in a road smash not quite a month ago—at nine o’clock at night. A coincidence, of course, but the time being the same I—I feel desperately uncomfortable.”

“That is understandable, Miss Dawson, but rather foolish. A connection between the two incidents is most unlikely. Come to think of it I remember reading about your brother’s accident. Crashed in his sports car, I believe?”

“Yes—and on a perfectly empty road. That was the queer thing.”

Hargraves shrugged. “That—without wishing to sound callous—is beside the point, Miss Dawson. You have received this warning and in case it should be true you want police protection. You’re quite entitled to ask for it, and we’ll see that you have it. But first I’d like a few details.”

“Haven’t I given them already?”

“I’d like to go further. A warning such as you have received, genuine or otherwise, is an indictable offence, and of course we want to trace the individual concerned. I gather it was a man. What kind of voice?”

“Very pleasant and deep. He sounded almost apologetic for warning me.”

“Thank you. Now, can you think of anybody who could really wish to have you out of the way? Don’t pull your punches, Miss Dawson. Think hard, and be ruthless.”

There was a silence whilst Trudy went through all the mani­festations of a mental struggle. Then at last she shook her head.

“Most people like me,” she said, rather naively. “I’m quite certain there’s nobody would wish to kill me—or play such a horrible joke upon me.”

“Which would seem to imply there is little need for alarm,” Hargraves smiled; and at that the girl’s expression changed.

“Even so, I want protection!”

“You have my word. I’ll contact the Divisional-Inspector for Kensington and have him arrange a detail of men.”

“But—why him? Aren’t you going to do it personally?”

“It is not within my jurisdiction for me to do so. Your home is in Kensington, and it is the job of the Divisional-Inspector for Kensington to look after your interests. Everything will be attended to, and an effort will be made to trace the mystery caller. In that respect, unfortunately, we’re handicapped.”

“How so?”

“Well, your phone is on the automatic dialing system, and most certainly the caller would also be on it. To trace a call on the dial system is impossible. There are ways, if desperate reason demands it, but so far that urgency has not arisen.”

Hargraves rose politely to signify the end of the interview, and Trudy too got to her feet. At the door, as Hargraves grasped her extended hand, she looked at him seriously.

“Don’t fail, inspector. I’ve got a sort of presentiment.”

“The guard will arrive about six o’clock,” Hargraves promised. “The grounds of your home will also be under surveillance. You have nothing to fear. I would suggest you do not go far from home for the rest of the day.”

“I won’t. I’ve only come out now in order to see you. As a matter of fact I was at a pretty hectic party last night and I’ve felt woozy ever since. Didn’t wake up until noon. Anyway, inspector, thanks for all you’re doing.”

“A pleasure, Miss Dawson.”

Hargraves closed the door upon her and then slowly returned into his office. Sergeant Brice glanced across at him.

“What do you make of her, sir? A spoiled miss with severe wind up?”

“Perhaps.” Hargraves looked at the notes he had made. “Just perhaps, sergeant. I hope to heaven there’s nothing in the girl’s presentiment. Women are funny that way sometimes; they know a thing’s going to happen before it does.”

There was a temporary silence as Hargraves’ thoughts trailed off for a moment; then with sudden decision he picked up the telephone and started contacting the Divisional-Inspector for Kensington.

* * * * * * *

Because the arrival of the men of the law would undoubtedly raise questions, Trudy lost no time when she returned home in telling her mother and sister the facts—and though they were mystified they agreed that the safest course was to call in the law. As it happened, Sir Robert Dawson came home from the hospital—where he was resident surgeon and consulting specialist—at the same time as the plainclothes men arrived. At six o’clock he alighted from his car to discover a squad car and four powerful men just behind him.

Sir Robert was nothing if not to the point. In the hall he cross-examined Trudy as relentlessly as a prosecuting counsel—so much so he nearly had the girl in tears by the time he finished.

“All right, it’s done now!” he said flatly, tugging off his hat and coat. “But I don’t think you need have been so precipitate in your actions, Trudy! Scotland Yard indeed—and all over a silly phone call hoax.”

“I did what I thought was safest, dad,” Trudy insisted.

“And probably wisest,” commented one of the P.C. men. “Some criminals will get up to anything, Sir Robert—especially when the people concerned are connected with a famous man. Yourself, of course.”

Sir Robert sighed. He was medium sized man with graying hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and an almost incredibly determined chin.

“It starts a lot of nasty publicity, that’s all,” he said irritably. “You don’t suppose the fact that you men are here will escape unnoticed, do you? Not on your life! Detached though this house is there are still neighbors—damned unpleasant ones, some of them. They’re going to enjoy the fact that a squad car has turned up at my home.... If you ask me, the whole business is a lot of nonsense!”

Having thus made plain his reactions Sir Robert stormed up the big staircase and disappeared from view. Trudy looked after him, feeling vastly uncertain of herself; then she caught the eye of her mother as she emerged from the lounge.

“Take no notice of your father, my dear,” she said blandly. “He probably had a bad day at the hospital. You did perfectly right in asking for protection. Now gentlemen—” she surveyed the four men—“what moves do you wish to make?”

“I’m Sergeant Forsythe, madam,” said the P.C. man who had spoken before, “and I’m in charge of the business. I would like two of my men to patrol the grounds, and one man and myself to stay indoors, always within view—or nearly—of Miss Trudy.”

“Very well. Do as you wish. We have dinner at eight. If you wish to join in—”

“No thank you, madam, but we would like to be at some point where we can see Miss Trudy whilst you have the meal.”

Lady Dawson shrugged. “I leave it to you. You know how to handle these things better than I do.”

With that she returned into the lounge and Trudy stood waiting and listening whilst Forsythe gave his orders. In response two of the men left by the front door. The other one remained at Forsythe’s side.

“What do I do, exactly?” Trudy asked vaguely.

“Whatever you would do in the normal way, miss. Take no notice of us: we’re good at being unobtrusive. Certainly nobody will be able to get near you.”

“I see.” Trudy wandered towards the lounge. “I’ve some reading I want to catch up on before I dress for dinner.”

“Very good, miss.”

And thereafter, though she was always conscious of the P.C. men hovering around, Trudy pursued her usual habits—but not entirely. All the time she was trying to shake off a growing drowsiness, which she could only put down to the after effects of her hectic party the night before. In catching up on her romantic novel she nearly fell asleep, until the sound of her father’s voice sharply awakened her.

“See what you’ve got us into, Trudy?” he demanded, as he came into the lounge and saw the P.C. men lounging near the window. “Good as made us prisoners in our own home!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Robert,” his wife admonished. “On the contrary you ought to be glad Trudy had the commonsense to tackle the danger—if any—in the right way.”

“Huh!” the famous surgeon growled; and thereafter it was hard for either Trudy or his wife to get a word out of him. Things livened up somewhat when June came in from a long afternoon of shopping, mainly because she was the kind of girl who refused to indulge in stolid silences.

“So the men of the law are on the job!” she commented, glancing towards the two by the window. “I was watched and then questioned before I reached the front door. Been a bit of a lark if I couldn’t have got into my own home, wouldn’t it?”

“Blame your sister for all of it,” Sir Robert growled.

“Blame her? Not I! She told mother and me why she did it, and I thought she showed unusual brains—even if her lengthy explanation did delay me on my shopping tour.”

“Which means you and mother are on my side,” Trudy smiled. “Good! That makes me feel a lot better. You listening, dad?”

“I can hardly help it, can I?” Sir Robert laid aside his newspaper wearily. “It’s just the—the general atmosphere of the business that irritates me.”

“If there should be anything in the warning Trudy got,” June mused, “it’s been stifled at birth. You ought to be grateful for that, dad.”

With that she left the lounge, obviously not particularly upset either by the warning to her sister, or the presence of the P.C. men. Trudy sat thinking for a moment, then she tried again to get interested in her novel. Yet again she began to doze over it, finally shaking her head irritably.

“I’ll get changed for dinner,” she said, getting up. “Maybe that will freshen me up a bit.”

“Too many late nights and too many parties, my girl,” Sir Robert observed, looking over his glasses. “Better slow down a bit. I don’t want you as a patient, remember.”

Trudy stifled a yawn, made no answer, and left the lounge. Silently the P.C. men followed her, later taking up position outside the door of her bedroom. Forsythe glanced at his watch and made a wry face.

“Ten past seven,” he said. “Another two hours, Jerry, and our job’s finished.”

The other nodded and stifled a yawn. “Who’d be a policeman? No excitement and no glamour!”

Bored with their task, but nevertheless rigid adherents of duty, they continued to wait. Meanwhile Trudy, within her room, dressed leisurely for dinner—a custom which she would much rather have abandoned, had it not been for the somewhat old fashioned, traditional ideas of her father. For Sir Robert believed firmly in old customs, and nothing could shake him. Only when some hospital call kept him away from dinner did the family dress and behave as they liked....

At twenty minutes to eight Trudy emerged again into the corridor, looking pretty but still tired. Her eyes lacked any sparkle, even though cosmetics gave her plenty of color.

“Everything in order, Miss Dawson?” Forsythe asked, more for the sake of something to say than anything else.

Trudy smiled at him. “Yes, everything. And, you know, I do apologize for making demands on you gentlemen in this way, but I—”

“Think nothing of it,” Forsythe interrupted. “It’s our job, and that’s the end of it—”

“Trudy!” called a voice from the hall. “Trudy, are you coming down?”

“That’s my sister,” Trudy said quietly, sweeping past with a vague hint of tantalizing perfume. “Excuse me....”

Stolidly Forsythe and his colleague followed her along the corridor and down the big staircase. At the base of the stairs they paused, trying not to look as they beheld her in the affectionate embrace of a tall, black-haired young man. Then, as she detached herself and glanced towards the stairs, she evidently realized she had some explanation to make.

“This—this is Dr. Herbert Mason,” she said quickly. “My fiancé.”

The black haired young man, immaculate in evening dress, inclined his head slightly and then looked puzzled.

“Who are these gentlemen, Trudy?” he inquired.

“Come into the lounge and I’ll tell you.”

Mason nodded, gave another surprised glance, and then follow­ed Trudy out of sight. Relentlessly Forsythe and his partner followed her up, took their positions at the far end of the family, and as near as possible detached themselves from the proceedings.

Obviously this was the gathering of the family before dinner should be announced. Everyone was present—Sir Robert and his wife, June, Trudy, and Dr. Mason. Every one of them in evening dress and, at the moment, all of them chatting.... Then after a moment June detached herself and came across the lounge.

“Wouldn’t you two watchdogs like a drink?” she asked, her left eyebrow up in something like amusement.

“No thanks, miss, not while we’re on duty,” Forsythe replied.

“Then—er—would you care to join us at dinner—”

“No thanks, miss. Your mother made that suggestion, but when we’re on duty we have to refuse.”

“Too bad. You want to be sociable, yet regulations won’t permit of it.”

“That’s about the size of it, miss,” Forsythe agreed rather woodenly.

June hesitated over something, and Forsythe summed her up professionally. As a man, he liked her well enough. She was some inches taller than Trudy, with fair hair and hazel eyes. Pretty, after a fashion, yet marred somewhat by her rather overdone sophistication. She was probably in the late twenties, yet tried to affect a manner appropriate to the forties. Other­wise she was pleasing enough.

“No regulation against talking to you, is there?” she asked, after a moment.

“None, miss.”

“Good. I’ve nobody else to talk to at the moment. Dad and I never did see eye to eye, and Trudy’s got her beloved Herbert to concentrate on. And mother—Well, she sort of referees. Keeps dad in order, so to speak. Gerald was the one I used to talk to and argue with. We were two off a pair.”

“Gerald?”

“Yes—my brother, you know. Things haven’t been the same for me since he died.”

“I see,” Forsythe said stolidly, who was not aware of the Gerald Dawson facts.

“I suppose you’re wondering who the odd man out is?” June continued, glancing towards young Dr. Mason as he talked urgently to an attentively listening Trudy.

“We know he’s your sister’s fiancé,” Forsythe said. “She told us that much.”

“Oh—then there’s not much left for me to tell. He and Trudy plan to get married in the spring—and a good match too, I should think. He’s a hypnotherapist in the same hospital as dad, and according to dad he’s a genius. Going to make his mark with his new method of treatment.”

“Hypno-therapy?” Forsythe repeated, pondering. “Anything to do with hypnotic surgery and so forth?”

“I believe so. Hypnosis instead of anaesthetic, and all that kind of thing. Herbert’s quite an expert at it, and since he’s only about thirty he ought to have a brilliant career before—”

June broke off as the maid appeared and announced that dinner was ready. Conversation ceased forthwith as the family and Dr. Mason moved out of the lounge. Forsythe glanced at his colleague.

“To smell and see a good dinner and be forced to stand aside is going to be hell,” he commented. “I’ve a damned good mind to change my job.”

He glanced at his watch, observed that it was precisely eight o’clock, and then having entered the dining room he moved over to an unobtrusive position with his colleague and proceeded to keep an eye on the proceedings.

Not that there was anything spectacular. There was a constant flow of conversation and plenty of good food—In other words, a perfectly normal well-to-do family dining in the traditional manner. Certainly no hint of death in the air, even though Trudy was increasingly conscious of the threat that had been made to her as the gap to nine o’clock began to narrow.

Her nervousness was plain to be seen. It expressed itself in her heightened color, her quick breathing, and her never ending prattling. It just could not be called conversation. She rattled on with the inconsequence and vagueness of a child, and most of the time it was young Dr. Mason to whom she addressed herself. Politely, consolingly, gently he listened to her, making some remark of his own here and there. He typified both the affectionate fiancé and the professional doctor, trying to soothe and commiserate with Trudy at one end the same time. Knowing all the facts, he had an insight into her state of mind.

“This will never do!” he said finally, forcing Trudy to be quiet for a moment. “Any more of this worked-up, emotional state and you’ll have hysterics, Trudy. You have got to control yourself.”

“I can’t—somehow,” Trudy whispered, the color still very high beneath the rouge. “I just can’t! You all know what’s worrying me! I ask you—would you be calm and unconcerned in the same circumstances—?”

Stopping abruptly, she pointed to the electric clock on the wall.

“Look at the time! Half past eight! And in half an hour I am supposed to die!”

“Oh, forget it!” June exclaimed sharply. “Just a silly joke—a beastly joke. There’s no need to get worked up.”

“Certainly there isn’t,” Sir Robert said flatly. “Let’s have no more of it, Trudy! You’re behaving like a silly child. It would be bad enough in the ordinary way, but with these two gentlemen from Scotland Yard looking on as well it becomes positively embarrassing. Stop it!”

The blunt authority in the voice seemed to have some effect. With a tremendous effort Trudy took a grip on herself, made an end of her meal, and then got to her feet.

“I’ll—I’ll perhaps feel better in the lounge,” she said; and immediately Mason too had risen and taken her arm. Silently, Forsythe and his colleague got on the move too.

Thereafter, as the rest of the family came in one by one and disported themselves in various chairs, Trudy kept her eyes almost unceasingly on the clock as the finger crept up to nine. She was not doing much talking now but gave the impression of being inwardly overwhelmed by panic thoughts. On the arm of the chair Mason was perched, holding the girl in a protective grip.

“There’s absolutely nothing to worry about,” he murmured. “In a moment or two it will be nine o’clock—and quite obviously there isn’t an enemy within miles of you. You’re surrounded by your own family: over there are the two men from Scotland Yard to protect you. Security on every side.”

“I know, I know, but—” Trudy leapt in restless anxiety to her feet. “Still there is this feeling of uncertainty—an awful presentiment....”

She swung, wide-eyed, as though she had seen something that nobody else could see. She was apparently looking at the clock—yet somehow through its ornamental design to the oak-panelled well beyond.

“Nine o’clock,” she whispered, dry lipped, as the hour began to strike. “I—I—”

She gulped and struggled for words, took a faltering step forward, then suddenly her knees gave way and she collapsed full length to the skin rug.

For an instant there was dead silence. The rest of the family, which included Mason, were on their feet, astounded. Before they could even move Forsythe hurtled across from his corner and dropped to his knees. He took the girl’s wrist in finger and thumb. He listened intently to her breast.... Then he very slowly looked up.

“Dead,” he said quietly, as the last gonging stroke of nine faded into silence.