“Who’s that?”

There was something in his voice-something curious, desperate.

Frank said, “Abbott,” and crossed the space between them.

“What’s up?”

Something very odd here. The man was breathing as if he had been running for his life. It was all he could do to get enough of that hard-caught breath to speak with, and then it was only a single word-a name.

“Carroll-”

“What about him?”

“Dead-”

“Do you mean that?”

Martin Oakley had him by the arm. There was a frightful tension about his grip.

“He’s dead-”

“Where?”

“Up by the house.” He had his breath now. The words came pouring out. “I didn’t do it-I swear I didn’t! I came to see him, but he was dead when I got there. He rang up. I tell you he hinted the foulest things. What sort of mind has a man got to do a thing like that? I don’t know if it was blackmail he was after.”

Abbott had been holding the torch so that the beam slanted downwards. He turned it sharply now to let the light shine upon Martin Oakley’s face. He blinked and threw up a hand. The tumbling words checked. Frank said,

“I wouldn’t talk if I were you-unless you want to make a confession.”

“I never touched him. Take that light away!” He stepped back out of its range, his hand still up to shield his face.

Abbott said dispassionately,

“Well, just bear in mind that anything you say is liable to be used in evidence against you.”

“I tell you I never touched him!”

“All right. You’d better come along and show me where he is.”

The drive wound back to skirt a peace of woodland. Frank Abbott thought the man who planned it had gone out of his way to make it as long as possible. Chesterton’s “rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road,” just slid into his mind and out again. Of course that was why he had heard Oakley when he began to run. He had been actually nearer the house then than for most of the rest of the way. Half the lanes in England were like that-you went away from the place you were going to, and then came back to it again.

They were coming back to it now. The drive came out on a gravel sweep- “That’s where I heard him run. He must have been scared crazy to run on the gravel.” He said aloud,

“Which way?” And Martin Oakley said, “Round here to the left.”

There was a belt of shrubbery, not very thick-light leafless tracery of lilac and syringa, with a dense blackness here and there of holly and yew, a path threading it to come out upon a small paved court at the side of the house. Huddled on the paving stones, Leonard Carroll lying crookedly with the back of his head smashed in.

Martin Oakley said, “He’s dead. I didn’t touch him.”

“Somebody did,” said Frank Abbott coolly.

He stepped forward, felt the dead man’s wrist, and found it warm. He stepped back again. Then he sent the beam of the torch travelling here and there. The flags lay damp and furred with moss. Where they met the wall of the house there was a withered growth of fern, the old fronds brown and broken, the new ones curled hard upon themselves like fossils, sheltering against the January frosts. There was no sign of a weapon. The beam slid up the walls and showed rows of casement windows closed and curtained. On the ground floor all the windows shut. No light anywhere to answer the wandering beam.

Abbott said sharply, “Who sleeps this side?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Then how did you come here?”

“I came to see him.”

“But why here? What brought you here?”

Oakley fetched one of those hard breaths.

“My God, Abbott-you can’t put it on me! I tell you I was coming to see him.”

“What brought you here-round to the side of the house?”

“I came up to the front door. It was only just after ten when he telephoned. I made up my mind to see him, to find out what he meant. I came up to the front door. I thought I heard voices away over here on the left. The front of the house was all dark. I stepped back to listen. I thought I heard my own name. I came this way. My feet made a noise on the gravel. I suppose that’s why I didn’t hear any more. I had a torch. I did stop to listen once. I thought I heard someone. I called out, ‘Carroll, is that you?’ There wasn’t any answer. I went on, and found him lying here the way he is now. I didn’t touch him-I swear I didn’t!”

“You didn’t think of giving the alarm?”

“I only thought about getting away. I’m afraid I lost my head a bit. I’d come over to see him, and there he was-dead. My one idea was to get away. I started to run, but when I got on to the gravel I realized what a row I was making and stopped. I tried not to make any more noise. Then I bumped into you. That’s the absolute truth.”

Frank Abbott wondered. He said,

“We’d better go up to the house.”

Chapter XXXII

The telephone had been busy. Martin Oakley had repeated his story to Chief Inspector Lamb, haled from the borderland of slumber to preside over another investigation and a new murder. Flashlight photographs were being taken of the moss-grown courtyard, and of Leonard Carroll lying there-positively his last appearance on any stage.

Lamb sat beneath the overhead light, his coarse, curly black hair a little rumpled. It was still thick and abundant except just on the crown, and showed only a few grey threads at the temples. Under this strong dark thatch his ruddy, weather-tanned face had no more expression than a piece of wood. The brown eyes with their slight tendency to bulge remained fixed upon Mr. Oakley’s face, a habit very disconcerting to even the most innocent witness. Martin Oakley could by no means flatter himself that there was any disposition to regard him in this light. His mind, at first possessed by a frantic sense of incredulity, had now to struggle against the feeling that he was being rushed towards a precipice at a speed which precluded intelligent thought. He had expressed his willingness to make a statement, and was now regretting it. He had been cautioned, but could not resist the temptation to explain his actions.

Lamb’s voice struck robustly on his ear.

“Pearson’s account of your telephone conversation with Mr. Carroll is substantially correct?”

“I think so.”

“Would you like to look at it again?”

“No-it’s all right-that’s what he said.”

“Well now, how long was it before you made up your mind to come and see him?”

“Oh, almost at once.”

“Who rang off-you or Carroll?”

“He did. He banged down the receiver. I only hung up my end for long enough to get the exchange again.”

This was something new. Frank Abbott looked up from his notes, Miss Silver from her knitting, which had for the moment required a somewhat closer attention than she usually gave it

Lamb’s “What did you want the exchange for?” rang sharply.

“I wanted to get on to Carroll to tell him I was coming over.”

“Did you get him?”

“Yes.”

“He knew you were coming over?”

“Yes.”

“What did you say to him?”

“I said, ‘Look here, you can’t leave it like that. If you think you saw anything you’ll have to tell me what it was. I’m coming over.’ ”

“What did he say?”

“He laughed, and I hung up.” The urge to explain drove him. “That’s why I went round to the side of the house-I thought he was calling me-I thought I heard my name. I came up to the front door. He was expecting me-I thought perhaps he’d be there to let me in. But when I heard my name-”

Miss Silver gave the slight cough with which she was wont to demand attention.

“Mr. Oakley, are you sure you heard your name?”

He turned a ravaged face on her.

“I’m not sure about anything. I thought I heard it. That’s what took me round to the side of the house. Don’t you see I must have had some reason for going there?”