The Best Murder Mysteries in One Edition. Эдгар Аллан По

on top and you’re underneath. Now then—sit on the bed. Put your hands above your head, and if you value your life don’t move them.”

      Tuppence obeyed passively. Her good sense told her that there was nothing else to do but accept the situation. If she shrieked for help there was very little chance of anyone hearing her, whereas there was probably quite a good chance of Mrs. Vandemeyer’s shooting her. In the meantime, every minute of delay gained was valuable.

      Mrs. Vandemeyer laid down the revolver on the edge of the washstand within reach of her hand, and, still eyeing Tuppence like a lynx in case the girl should attempt to move, she took a little stoppered bottle from its place on the marble and poured some of its contents into a glass which she filled up with water.

      “What’s that?” asked Tuppence sharply.

      “Something to make you sleep soundly.”

      Tuppence paled a little.

      “Are you going to poison me?” she asked in a whisper.

      “Perhaps,” said Mrs. Vandemeyer, smiling agreeably.

      “Then I shan’t drink it,” said Tuppence firmly. “I’d much rather be shot. At any rate that would make a row, and some one might hear it. But I won’t be killed off quietly like a lamb.”

      Mrs. Vandemeyer stamped her foot.

      “Don’t be a little fool! Do you really think I want a hue and cry for murder out after me? If you’ve any sense at all, you’ll realize that poisoning you wouldn’t suit my book at all. It’s a sleeping draught, that’s all. You’ll wake up to-morrow morning none the worse. I simply don’t want the bother of tying you up and gagging you. That’s the alternative—and you won’t like it, I can tell you! I can be very rough if I choose. So drink this down like a good girl, and you’ll be none the worse for it.”

      In her heart of hearts Tuppence believed her. The arguments she had adduced rang true. It was a simple and effective method of getting her out of the way for the time being. Nevertheless, the girl did not take kindly to the idea of being tamely put to sleep without as much as one bid for freedom. She felt that once Mrs. Vandemeyer gave them the slip, the last hope of finding Tommy would be gone.

      Tuppence was quick in her mental processes. All these reflections passed through her mind in a flash, and she saw where a chance, a very problematical chance, lay, and she determined to risk all in one supreme effort.

      Accordingly, she lurched suddenly off the bed and fell on her knees before Mrs. Vandemeyer, clutching her skirts frantically.

      “I don’t believe it,” she moaned. “It’s poison—I know it’s poison. Oh, don’t make me drink it”—her voice rose to a shriek—“don’t make me drink it!”

      Mrs. Vandemeyer, glass in hand, looked down with a curling lip at this sudden collapse.

      “Get up, you little idiot! Don’t go on drivelling there. How you ever had the nerve to play your part as you did I can’t think.” She stamped her foot. “Get up, I say.”

      But Tuppence continued to cling and sob, interjecting her sobs with incoherent appeals for mercy. Every minute gained was to the good. Moreover, as she grovelled, she moved imperceptibly nearer to her objective.

      Mrs. Vandemeyer gave a sharp impatient exclamation, and jerked the girl to her knees.

      “Drink it at once!” Imperiously she pressed the glass to the girl’s lips.

      Tuppence gave one last despairing moan.

      “You swear it won’t hurt me?” she temporized.

      “Of course it won’t hurt you. Don’t be a fool.”

      “Will you swear it?”

      “Yes, yes,” said the other impatiently. “I swear it.”

      Tuppence raised a trembling left hand to the glass.

      “Very well.” Her mouth opened meekly.

      Mrs. Vandemeyer gave a sigh of relief, off her guard for the moment. Then, quick as a flash, Tuppence jerked the glass upward as hard as she could. The fluid in it splashed into Mrs. Vandemeyer’s face, and during her momentary gasp, Tuppence’s right hand shot out and grasped the revolver where it lay on the edge of the washstand. The next moment she had sprung back a pace, and the revolver pointed straight at Mrs. Vandemeyer’s heart, with no unsteadiness in the hand that held it.

      In the moment of victory, Tuppence betrayed a somewhat unsportsmanlike triumph.

      “Now who’s on top and who’s underneath?” she crowed.

      The other’s face was convulsed with rage. For a minute Tuppence thought she was going to spring upon her, which would have placed the girl in an unpleasant dilemma, since she meant to draw the line at actually letting off the revolver. However, with an effort Mrs. Vandemeyer controlled herself, and at last a slow evil smile crept over her face.

      “Not a fool, then, after all! You did that well, girl. But you shall pay for it—oh, yes, you shall pay for it! I have a long memory!”

      “I’m surprised you should have been gulfed so easily,” said Tuppence scornfully. “Did you really think I was the kind of girl to roll about on the floor and whine for mercy?”

      “You may do—some day!” said the other significantly.

      The cold malignity of her manner sent an unpleasant chill down Tuppence’s spine, but she was not going to give in to it.

      “Supposing we sit down,” she said pleasantly. “Our present attitude is a little melodramatic. No—not on the bed. Draw a chair up to the table, that’s right. Now I’ll sit opposite you with the revolver in front of me—just in case of accidents. Splendid. Now, let’s talk.”

      “What about?” said Mrs. Vandemeyer sullenly.

      Tuppence eyed her thoughtfully for a minute. She was remembering several things. Boris’s words, “I believe you would sell—us!” and her answer, “The price would have to be enormous,” given lightly, it was true, yet might not there be a substratum of truth in it? Long ago, had not Whittington asked: “Who’s been blabbing? Rita?” Would Rita Vandemeyer prove to be the weak spot in the armour of Mr. Brown?

      Keeping her eyes fixed steadily on the other’s face, Tuppence replied quietly: “Money——”

      Mrs. Vandemeyer started. Clearly, the reply was unexpected.

      “What do you mean?”

      “I’ll tell you. You said just now that you had a long memory. A long memory isn’t half as useful as a long purse! I dare say it relieves your feelings a good deal to plan out all sorts of dreadful things to do to me, but is that PRACTICAL? Revenge is very unsatisfactory. Every one always says so. But money”—Tuppence warmed to her pet creed—“well, there’s nothing unsatisfactory about money, is there?”

      “Do you think,” said Mrs. Vandemeyer scornfully, “that I am the kind of woman to sell my friends?”

      “Yes,” said Tuppence promptly. “If the price was big enough.”

      “A paltry hundred pounds or so!”

      “No,” said Tuppence. “I should suggest—a hundred thousand!”

      Her economical spirit did not permit her to mention the whole million dollars suggested by Julius.

      A flush crept over Mrs. Vandemeyer’s face.

      “What did you say?” she asked, her fingers playing nervously with a brooch on her breast. In that moment Tuppence knew that the fish was hooked, and for the first time she felt a horror of her own money-loving spirit. It gave her a dreadful sense of kinship to the woman fronting her.

      “A hundred thousand pounds,” repeated Tuppence.

      The light died out of Mrs. Vandemeyer’s