II

The shocked silence was broken by a loud crash: Rogers had dropped the coffee tray!

And there came a scream and the sound of a falling body from outside the room. Lombard sprang to the door and quickly opened it. Outside, Mrs. Rogers was lying on the floor.

Lombard called Marston and between them they lifted up the woman and carried her into the drawing-room.

Dr. Armstrong helped them to lift her onto the sofa and bent over her. He said quickly:

“It’s nothing. She’s fainted, that’s all. She’ll come round in a minute.”

Lombard told Rogers to bring some brandy. Rogers slipped quickly out of the room. His face was white, his hands were shaking.

Vera cried out:

“Who was that speaking? Where was he?”

General Macarthur looked suddenly ten years older.

“What’s going on here? What kind of a practical joke was that?”

Blore was wiping his face with a handkerchief.

Only Mr. Justice Wargrave and Miss Brent seemed comparatively unemotional. Emily Brent, sitting very erect, held her head high. There were spots of dark colour in both her cheeks. The judge sat in his usual hunched-up pose. Only his eyes were active, moving round and round the room, puzzled, watching with lively intelligence.

Again Lombard took the initiative.

He said:

“That voice? It sounded as though it were in the room.”

Vera cried again:

“Who was it? It wasn’t one of us!”

Lombard looked slowly round the room. Suddenly his eyes stopped on the door near the fireplace. That door led into an adjacent room.

He entered that room and, at once, his satisfied exclamation was heard: “Ah, here we are.”

The others followed him. Only Miss Brent remained alone sitting erect in her chair.

Inside the adjacent room a table stood close to the wall of the drawing-room. On the table was an old-fashioned gramophone with a large trumpet. The mouth of the trumpet was against the wall. Lombard pushed the trumpet aside and they saw some small holes in the wall.

Lombard replaced the needle on the record and at once they heard again: “You are charged with the following indictments —”

Vera cried:

“Turn it off! Turn it off! It’s horrible!”

Lombard obeyed.

Dr. Armstrong said, with a sigh of relief:

“An outrageous and heartless practical joke, I suppose.”

Mr. Justice Wargrave murmured:

“So you think it’s a joke, do you?”

The doctor stared at him.

“What else could it be?”

The judge gently stroked his upper lip and said he wasn’tyet prepared to give an opinion.

Anthony Marston said:

“Look here, you’ve forgotten one thing: who the devil turned the gramophone on?”

Wargrave murmured:

“Yes, I think we must investigate that.”

He led the way back into the drawing-room. The others followed.

Rogers had just returned with a glass of brandy. Miss Brent was bending over Mrs. Rogers.

Rogers slipped between the two women.

“Allow me, Madam, I’ll speak to her. Ethel, it’s all right.

All right, do you hear? Pull yourself together.”

Mrs. Rogers’ frightened eyes went round and round the ring of faces. Rogers repeated:

“Pull yourself together, Ethel.”

Dr. Armstrong spoke to her gently.

“You’ll be all right now, Mrs. Rogers.”

She said:

“Did I faint, sir?”

“Yes.”

“It was The Voice – that awful voice – like a judgement —”

Her face turned green again.

Dr. Armstrong said sharply:

“Where’s that brandy?”

Rogers had put it down on a little table. Someone handed it to the doctor and offered it to Mrs. Rogers.

She drank it, choking a little and gasping. The spirit did her good. The colour returned to her face. She said:

“I’m all right now. It just – upset me.”

Rogers said quickly:

“Of course it did. It upset me too. Made me drop that tray.

Wicked lies, it was! I’d like to know —”

A dry little cough stopped him. He stared at Mr. Justice Wargrave and the latter coughed again. Then he asked:

“Who put that record on the gramophone? Was it you, Rogers?”

Rogers cried:

“Before God, sir, I didn’t know what it was. If I had, I’d never have done it.”

The judge said drily:

“That is probably true. But I think you’d better explain, Rogers.”

The butler wiped his face with a handkerchief. He said earnestly:

“I was just obeying Mr. Owen’s orders, sir, that’s all.”

Mr. Justice Wargrave asked the butler to tell them exactly what those orders had been.

Rogers said:

“I was to take the record from the drawer and put it on the gramophone. My wife was to start the gramophone when I’d gone into the drawing-room with the coffee tray. The record had a name on it – I thought it was just a piece of music.”

Wargrave looked at Lombard.

“Was there a title on it?”

Lombard nodded. He grinned suddenly, showing his white pointed teeth.

He said:

“Quite right, sir. The title was Swan Song…”

III

General Macarthur suddenly exclaimed:

“The whole thing is absurd – just absurd! Throwing accusations about like this! Something must be done about it. This fellow Owen whoever he is —”

Emily Brent interrupted. She said sharply:

“Yes, who is he?”

The judge spoke authoritatively:

“We will go into it very carefully. Rogers, I think you should get your wife to bed first of all. Then come back here.”

Rogers and Dr. Armstrong helped Mrs. Rogers to get out of the room. When they had gone, Tony Marston said he would like to have a drink. Lombard expressed the same wish. Marston went out of the room and returned a second or two later with a tray full of various drinks.

Everyone felt the need of a stimulant. Only Emily Brent asked for a glass of water.

Dr. Armstrong re-entered the room. He said he had given Mrs. Rogers a sedative. He saw the drinks and joined the others. A moment or two later Rogers re-entered the room.

And Mr. Justice Wargrave started the investigation.

The judge said:

“Now then, Rogers, what do you know about this Mr. Owen who owns this place?”

Rogers shook his head.

“I can’t say, sir. You see, I’ve never seen him.”

General Macarthur said:

“You’ve never seen him? What d’you mean?”

“My wife and I, sir, were employed by letter, through an agency. The Regina Agency in Plymouth.”

Wargrave said:

“Have you got that letter?”

“No, sir. I didn’t keep it.”

“Go on with your story. You were employed, as you say, by letter.”

“Yes, sir. We were to arrive on a certain day. Everything was in order here. Plenty of food and everything very nice.”

“What next?”

“We got orders – by letter again – to prepare the rooms for a house-party and then yesterday I got another letter from Mr. Owen. It said he and Mrs. Owen were delayed and it gave the instructions about dinner and coffee and putting on the gramophone record.”

The judge asked sharply:

“Have you got that letter?”

“Yes, sir, I’ve got it here.”

He took it out from his pocket.

“H’m,” the judge said. “Headed Ritz Hotel and typewritten.”

Blore said:

“Let me have a look.”

He examined the letter and murmured:

“Quite new – no defects. A standard paper – the most widely used make. You won’t get anything out of that. Might be fingerprints, but I doubt it.”

Wargrave stared at him with sudden attention.

Anthony Marston looked at the letter over Blore’s shoulder. He said:

“Got some fancy Christian names, hasn’t he? Ulick Norman Owen. Quite a mouthful.”

“The old judge said:

“Thank you, Mr. Marston. You have drawn my attention to a curious point.”

He looked round at the others and said:

“We are all guests of the owner of this house. I think it would help if each one of us explained exactly how that happened.”

After a moment’s pause Emily Brent spoke. She explained that she had received a letter with an illegible signature.

“I thought it was either Ogden or Oliver. I am acquainted with a Mrs. Oliver and also with a Miss Ogden. But I am quite sure that I have never met anyone of the name of Owen.”

She showed the letter to the judge. He read it and said:

“I begin to understand.”

Then Vera Claythorne explained how she had been employed through the agency.

Anthony Marston said he had got a telegram from a friend.

“Surprised me at the time because I had an idea the old boy had gone to Norway. Told me to drive up here.”

Wargrave nodded and turned to Dr. Armstrong. The doctor explained that he had been called in professionally.

“And you have not met the family before?”

“No. A colleague of mine was mentioned in the letter.”

The judge said:

“To give credibility… Yes, and that colleague, I suppose, was temporarily out of touch with you?”

“Well – er – yes.”

The judge turned to General Macarthur.

Pulling at his moustache, the General murmured:

“Got a letter – from this fellow Owen – mentioned some old pals of mine who were to be here. Haven’t kept the letter, I’m afraid.”

Wargrave said:

“Mr. Lombard?”

Lombard thought quickly whether to say the truth, or not.

He made up his mind.^[18]

“Same sort of thing,” he said. “Invitation, mention of mutual friends. I haven’t kept the letter.”

Mr. Justice Wargrave turned his attention to Mr. Blore.

He said: “Amongst the names on the record was that of William Henry Blore. The name of Davis was not mentioned. What have you to say about that, Mr. Davis?”

Blore said:

“Well, I suppose I’d better admit that my name isn’t Davis.”

“You are William Henry Blore?”

“That’s right.”

“I will add something,” said Lombard. “You say you have come from Natal, South Africa. I know South Africa and Natal and I can swear that you’ve never set foot in South Africa in your life.”

Angry suspicious eyes turned to Blore. Anthony Marston clenched his fists.

“Any explanation, you swine?” he said.

Blore said:

“You gentlemen have got me wrong,” he said. “I’m an ex-C. I. D.^[19] man. I run a detective agency in Plymouth. I was put on this job.”

Mr. Justice Wargrave asked: “By whom?”

“This man Owen. I was to join the house-party as a guest.

I was given all your names. I was to watch you all.”

“What reasons?”

Blore said bitterly:

“Mrs. Owen’s jewels. Mrs. Owen! I don’t think there’s any such person.”

Again the judge stroked his upper lip, this time approvingly.

“I think you are right,” he said. “Ulick Norman Owen! In Miss Brent’s letter the Christian names are clear – Una Nancy – you notice, the same initials. Ulick Norman Owen – Una Nancy Owen – each time, that is to say, U. N. Owen. Or by a slight stretch of fancy, UNKNOWN!”

Vera cried:

“But this is mad!”

The judge nodded.

He said:

“Oh, yes. I’ve no doubt that we have been invited here by a madman – probably a dangerous homicidal lunatic.”