That was a little better. However, he did not go far away from Mina's bedroom; he sat down on the top step of the stairs. His breathing quietened; his thoughts revolved round the ease with which phantoms could be evoked; he lighted another cigarette and watched the smoke. The clock chimed the quarter to midnight. Feeling easy again, he wandered downstairs.. .

  The telephone was ringing again.

  Better answer it.

  'Hello?' said a pleasant voice. 'Grovetop three-one? This is the Daily Trumpeter -

  Sanders wearily started to lower the receiver. 'I'm sorry,' he said, 'very-sorry-no-statement-to-make-this -'

  'Hold on!' said the voice, with such urgency that he stopped in spite of himself. 'Don't ring off, will you? I don't want any story. I want to give you one.'

  'What?'

  'Is Miss Mina Shields all right? You know what I mean.' 'No, I don't know what you mean. Of course she's all right. Why?' 'Who is this speaking, please?'

  'My name is Sanders. I'm a friend of the family. Why did you ask whether she is all right?'

  'Dr Sanders ?' asked the voice, quickly. 'Doctor, you ought to know this. Mr Herman Pennik has just rung up this office.'

  'Yes?' said Sanders - knowing what was coming.

  'He said that Miss Shields would probably die before midnight to-night. He wants us to make clear that he doesn't promise it, or say that it's certain, but he thinks he'll have succeeded in killing her by then. Naturally, we don't pay much attention to his claims, but we thought we'd better give you the opportunity to contra . ..'

  'Wait! Where was he phoning from, do you know?'

  Slight pause. 'Place called the Black Swan Hotel, about four miles away from you.'

  'You're sure of that ?' 'Yes..I checked back.' 'How long ago did he ring?'

  'About ten minutes. We're considering what's best to be done about it, Doctor, and if you would care to assist us by making a state ...'

  'There is no truth in it. Mrs Constable is comfortably asleep with her door locked, and nobody can get near her. She is absolutely all right. Please accept that from me.'

  He put down the receiver with jingling finality; he stared at the bay windows, and fingered the key in his pocket.

  Was she all right?

  Shatteringly, at his elbow, the telephone rang again.

  'Grovetop three-one? This is the News-Record. Sorry to trouble you, but some remarkable claims were made to us this morning by a man named Herman Pennik. Now he has just rung up this office to say ...'

  'I know. He proposes to kill Mrs Constable by what he calls Teleforce. He is very modest about it, and doesn't entirely promise he can do this trick ...'

  'Not exactly,' said the voice. 'That's what he said fifteen minutes ago. Now he says she's dead.'

  For a time Sanders looked at the number on the white dial before him. Without listening to what the person at the other end of the wire was saying, he replaced the phone.

  He would not be gulled again. It had been all imagination that he thought he saw Herman Pennik in this house, for at that time Herman Pennik had been at the Black Swan Hotel four miles away. Everything was imagination. Yet the fact that it had been such vivid imagination, the fact that Pennik's image had been stamped on that glass as clearly as the prkjis of his nose and fingers, was what made Sanders's scalp stir with the remembrance of that hard sandy head as a reality.

  He had seen it. By the Lord, he had.

  Again the telephone clattered out.

  'Grovetop three-one? This is the Daily Wireless -

  This time Sanders put down the receiver with nicety and

  re. Taking the key to Mina's room out of his pocket, he crossed the room and went upstairs; and it was not until he tad nearly reached the top of the stairs that he began to run. He fitted the key into the lock, opened the door, and vent across to the bed.

  When he came out again, a few minutes later, he had only one idea. Mina was still lying in the bed, but her posture was no longer peaceful except in the thin sense that death is peaceful.

  Poor devil, poor woman whom he had liked so touch, poor pathetic lump of clay lying with arms and legs asprawl. Yet he had only one idea: he must somehow shut off the noise of that telephone, still ringing violently and incessantly downstairs.

  PART III

  TERROR

  Concerning Meaningless Clues

  flashes from everywhere

  Daily Non-Stop; Monday, May 2nd, 1938

  mina shields defies mystic, dies; second death from unknown force

  Daily Trumpeter

  teleforce: new menace to mankind?

  Daily News-Record

  student foretells to 'news-record' death from alleged thought-rays

  what is teleforce?

  Evening Griddle (Monday night Final)

  no sign of death:

  terror stalks in surrey as teleforce claims next victim!

  (Exclusive!)

  ... but we 'eard it. Yerce! Me and me 'usband 'eard it on the wireless. And I said to me 'usband, I said, 'Well, if yer can't trust the B.B.C., then 'oo can yer trust?' That's what I said. If yer can't trust the B.B.C., 'oo can yer trust?' Cor lumme, people ain't 'arf talkin' about it. Nuffing else wherever yer go. Poor Mrs Drew, fair got the wind up she 'as; not 'arf; 'er Bert works in a garridge in Grovetop; didn't yer know? 'Reckon 'e ought to be 'anged,' she says, 'this Pennik ought.' 'Let 'im kill old 'Itler,' I says; 'let 'im kill old 'Itler,

  and then we shall see.' I said to me 'usband; knows all about it; ow, yerce, reads all the science bits in the papers; I said, 'But wot is this Teleforce?' 'E says, 'Ow, it's big, it is. Like wireless, only bigger.' But I said, "What'll they do to this Pennik, that's what I wanter know? Will they 'ang 'im? What'll they do to 'im?'

  ‘

  Another pint, please, miss. Ta.

  Now, old man, I'm sorry to say this, but I'm afraid you're a reactionary. Yes, old man, I'm afraid that's just what you are: a reactionary. No offence, I hope, but you'd be the first to admit yourself you're a bit of a reactionary.

  Believe it, old man? Why not? That's science for you. I mean, look at how the times are moving. I mean, thirty or forty years ago you'd have said wireless was impossible. Now wouldn't you, old man? I mean, if you'd been alive then? And yet there it is right bang in your own house, and all you've got to do is twiddle a little knob and there you are. See what I mean, old man?

  Gummy! In thirty or forty years you'll be able to turn on this Teleforce and kill your boss or Hitler or anybody you damn well please. Gummy! Wouldn't I show 'em a thing or two, if I knew how to work it! Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop. Like a machine-gun. All the same, old man, I mean to say. This Pennik. He can't do that. I mean, people like Einstein and H. G. Wells are all very well but, thanks, old man, I don't mind if I do.

  Another of the same, please, miss.

  Ta.

  ‘

  Evening Griddle? New York calling. Go ahe-ea-d. Hello? Evening Griddle? Let me talk to Ray Dodsworth, will you?

  Yeah, that's right: Dodsworth.

  Hello? Ray? This is Louie Westerham of the Floodlight. How-zit, Ray? Look: for crissake what's all this about a CzechoSlovakian scientist getting ready to knock off Hitler with a death-ray?

  ‘What?

  So it's all a lot of hooey?

  What do you mean, it's a better story than that?

  What?

  Look, Ray, can I depend on that?

  Story! Holy jumping - why, it's the biggest thing that - wait a minute, wait a minute; let's see how it looks in a head. T-E-L -holy jumping -

  What? -

  What do you mean, 'go easy?'

  Oh, for crissake, Ray, why bother about that? It's new, ain't it? It's big, ain't it? Suppose nobody does know what it is; that won't keep 'em from talking, will it? We'll sell Teleforce to the American people, thaf s what we'll do. We'll make every man, woman, and child in this country Teleforce-conscious. Now wait, Ray; don't go 'way; I want you to talk to -

  Allo! Allo!

  Ne coupez pas, mademoiselle, ne coupez pas! Quelqu'un sur la ligne. Retirez-vous, imbecile! Is it again the British Ministry for War ? Bon!

  All, my friend, it is still you ?

  I spoke, my friend, to offer you my sincerest congratulations. Of a truth it is magnificent. It will be of an inestimable service to the Entente Cordiale, will it not?

  Ha, ha!

  We know of what I speak, do we not? Boum! The machine which your engineers have constructed ?

  No, no, I say no more. I do not press you. It is necessary to be discreet. I only offer congratulations.

  Your tone is admirable. I, too, suspect that the wire is tapped.

  But our engineers may call on you, perhaps ?

  I cannot understand you. The wire makes sputtering sounds; it is tapped. Yes, it is beautiful weather here in Paris. The tulips are out in the gardens of the Tuileries.

  A'voir, my friend.

  CHAPTER XIII

  On Tuesday it rained. It was raining in a solid sheet when Dr Sanders got out of the Underground at Trafalgar Square and hurried across to the restaurant at the top of Whitehall where he was to meet Masters and H. M. for a conference over lunch.

  He was relieved to be back in town again, in the steamy bustle where fantasies could be forgotten. But something followed and caught up with him; with the difference that whereas in the country it had been only a whisper, here it was several million voices. From the table behind the big plate-glass window giving on the street, where Masters rose to meet him, he could see newspaper bills. And they were enough.

  H. M. was only a few minutes late. They saw him get out of his car and waddle in through the rain, in a large transparent oilskin with a hood, which swathed him entirely (including his hat) and made him resemble a particularly malevolent ghost in a cloud of ectoplasm.

  He disentangled himself from this, tossed it to a waiter, and sniffed the steam of good cooking. Masters rose at him.

  'You promised, sir -

  H. M. howled back.

  'It's no good goin' for me, Masters,' he said. 'I couldn't go down to Fourways yesterday. I couldn't. There's blue blazes to pay here; and unless I can get myself out of this I'm headed for the House of Lords as straight as an onion to Covent Garden.'

  'Trouble?'

  'Trouble?' said H. M., sticking the end of his napkin under his collar and looking up over the menu. 'Oh no. We nearly had an international situation on our hands, that's all. It's better now. Or at least I hope it is. I'd like to know-what fathead started that report about us havin' a death-ray that would knock any bomber out of the sky if it wasn't more'n half a mile up. We're supposed to be crafty. Crafty. Oh, my eye! You know, Masters, it seems like every time a mess starts in this world it's our fellers who have to go out and smooth it over; and all we get for our pains is a kick in the pants for not bein' more active.'

  Masters pointed to a newspaper bill in the rain.

  'But how long is this nonsense going on, sir?'

  'I dunno. I'm hopin' for a short row and a merry one.'

  'But Pennik can't do that!' Masters pointed out.

  'Without doubt, my old one. Only he's doin' it.'

  'It's this campaign in the newspapers. I never saw anything like it in all my born days. Trams, tubes, buses: nothing but Teleforce, Teleforce, Teleforce, and what do we propose to do about it ? Very nastily said, too. It's a disgrace, they say. One gentleman buttonholed me in the train this morning and quite seriously suggested sticking Pennik away in a zinc-lined box like a tube of radium. It's the newspapers; and I wish I knew who was encouraging them.'

  H. M. tapped his chest with the menu. 'I'm encouragin' 'em,' he said. 'What?'

  'Sure. Note, son, that there ain't a soul in Fleet Street who claims Pennik is a true prophet. There's a very strong tinge of The Bird hoverin' round every line that's written. And if I can manage -'

  'But people are believing it!'

  'Oh yes. Pennik's mustard. Wait till you hear him on the wireless to-morrow night.'

  'Goddelmighty,' said Masters. 'You don't mean they're going to let him broadcast over the B.B.C. ?'

  'No. But they are in France. He goes on over Radio Brittany at 7.15; commercial programme; sponsored by. Spreedona Cheese Biscuits. Y'know, Masters' - H. M. ruffled his hands across his big bald head - 'there are features of our modern life that puzzle me. They do, honestly. How that's supposed to be a great recommendation for a product beats me. "Here we are, ladies and gentlemen. Listen to Herman

  Pennik, who knocks 'em off without even the aid of Spreedona Cheese Biscuits."'

  'And I suppose you encouraged that too, sir?'

  'Uh. Well. I didn't altogether discourage it.' Masters did not say anything. He studied H. M. as though he could think of a place of incarceration for him much more suitable than the House of Lords.

  And H. M. was not joking. He drew himself up.

  'I'm the old man, son,' he said with great dignity. 'You trust me and everything will be all right. I've got my reasons. Only-' -

  'Only?'

  'Well, if the thing won't work and I take a toss over this, I hate to think what's goin' to happen. I'll be packing my bag and departin' for Siberia with such promptness as to baffle the eyesight.'

  'You will that,' said the chief inspector grimly; and Sanders knew that H. M. was really worried.

  'Which is why,' he returned, 'that we got to get down to business and do it straightaway. I want every fact I can lay my hands on. I want every dagger in the arsenal, because Pennik's got a few himself. I've been reading your report.' He looked at Sanders. 'And yours, son. You did the postmortem on Mrs Constable yesterday ?'

  'Yes,' said Sanders.

  'And still no sign of what caused death?'

  'No. Except that she was so chronically run down in every organ, so burnt out except for actual physical strength, that she was the easiest possible victim -'

  'For whatever it was?'

  'Yes.'

  'Uh-huh. Finally, I want your whole story. I want to hear everything that happened to you on Sunday night, after we left you to your fate. And Mrs Constable to hers, God help us! Now tell me: slow, steady and careful.'

  Sanders told him. It lasted through the soup-course and half-way through the beef; it was the dozenth time he had told it, but he omitted nothing. H. M., his napkin stuck firmly into his collar, listened while he ate; occasionally he would stop and peer over a loaded fork. What parts of the story struck him as significant Sanders could not tell, though at times his eye was curious.

  At the end of it H. M. put down his knife and fork.

  'So,' he muttered, folding his arms. 'So!'

  'It'd seem, sir,' interposed Masters, 'it'd seem we may have made a bit of a mistake about Mrs Constable.'

  'Oh ? And that makes you still more dubious, hey ? If I'm so cocky about thinkin' I'm on the right track in this business, I got to explain how that mistake came to be made, haven't I ? I wonder if you can guess.'

  'I don't want to guess; I want to know. That's to say, if you know.'

  H. M. reflected.

  'We'll round this up. Tell me, Masters: is it absolutely certain that Pennik's alibi for Sunday night is air-tight?' Masters nodded firmly.

  'Not a doubt of it. He put up at the Black Swan, as he said he was going to. You remember that you and I went over there and tried to see him; but he got on his high and mighty horse and refused to see us.'

  'Well?'

  'Well, he arrived at the Black Swan at about nine o'clock. From that time on, until he went to bed at well past twelve, he was never out of the sight of at least two witnesses. Oh, ah! Did it deliberately, of course. He kept a group of them up on a little drinking party after the bar closed. They thought he was a bit touched in the head, and you can't blame 'em. Frothing at the mouth, and so on -'

  'Did he do that?'

  'He did. They even kept him in sight when he was making his telephone calls, though there was a lot of noise and he spoke low and they didn't hear what he was saying. However, from nine o'clock to well past twelve he's definitely got an alibi that can't be shaken.'

  Masters paused. He drew a deep breath. Then his blood-pressure went up like a thermometer.

  'I know it can't be shaken,' he repeated. 'The only trouble is that Dr Sanders here swears he saw Pennik prowling through Fourways at half-past eleven.'

  There was a silence. H. M. looked round at Sanders.

  'You're sure of that, son?'

  Sanders nodded. On that rainy afternoon, even in the crowded and noisy restaurant, the atmosphere of the twilight house was back' again. He too well remembered the nose and five fingers pressed against that glass door to the conservatory, and Pennik's face behind.

  'Yes. It was either Pennik or his ghost or his twin brother.'

  'His ghost, maybe,' commented H. M. without inflexion or surprise. 'Sort of astral projection. I told you he was mustard.'

  'Astral projection be blowed,' said Masters, going more red. 'Only - lummy! Are you telling me, sir, that he not only can polish people off without a mark left on their bodies, but he can send his ghost to do it for him? Are you telling me that?'

  'Well, how do you explain it?'

  'I don't,' said the chief inspector. 'Not yet. All I know is I'm going mad. I'm slowly going stark, staring, raving -'

  'Now, now!' urged H. M., giving a deprecating look round over his spectacles, and turning back to Masters with a soothing air. 'Just keep you shirt on, and stop poundin' on that table. Be dignified. Like me. Ho, ho!' A ghoulish grin went over his face. 'I'm as dignified as even Squiffy could want. Eat your cheese and think of Marcus Aurelius. How's everything at home ? How's the kid ?'

  Masters's face lit up.

  'Survived the operation beautifully. Everything's fine, I'm glad to say. Mrs M's with her now. I've been running about a good bit -'

  'Sure. So your brain won't work.'

  'Much obliged, sir.'

  'That's all right. Looky here. I'm trying to extract from you your meed of information. The last time I saw you, you had only one object. The last time I saw you, you were goin' bald-headed to find something out about Pennik. Have you found out anything about him?' Masters was himself again.

  'Ah! I have, just a bit. Not much, but I'm grateful for anything.' 'Well?'

 

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