The Man Who Was Not. John Russell Fearn

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.

      CHAPTER TWO

      IN Chief-Inspector Hargraves’ office there was comparative silence. It was just twelve hours since Trudy had died. Nine in the morning, with the dingy view of the Embankment outside the office window, and a slow drift of drizzle over the autumn scene.

      “And that’s how it happened, sir,” Forsythe said, seated at the desk. “The Divisional Inspector thought I should let you have the details personally. There’s little more to add to the official report which I delivered here last night.”

      “On the contrary,” Hargraves said grimly, turning. “There is a great deal more! Trudy Dawson was murdered.... That is if we dispense with the conception of suicide.”

      “But that isn’t possible, sir! There was nobody in the room except the family, and her fiancé. Or perhaps you mean that her general emotional state brought on heart failure?”

      “I mean that she was poisoned!” Hargraves came across to the desk and