Fear is the Key

And Royale, of course, had found two glasses with whisky dregs in them. That made me as unconscious as Jablonsky. But it hadn't been any part of their plan to kill me too.

I understood it all now, everything except the answer to the one question that really mattered: why had they killed Jablonsky? I couldn't even begin to guess. And had they bothered looking in to check on me? I didn't think so. But I wouldn't have bet a pair of old bootlaces on it.

There was nothing to be gained by sitting and thinking about it, so I sat and thought about it for a couple of hours. By that time my clothes were dry, or as near dry as made no difference. The trousers, especially, were lined and wrinkled like a pair of elephant's legs, but then you couldn't expect an immaculate crease in the clothes of a man who is compelled to sleep in them. I dressed, all except for coat and tie, opened the window and was just on the point of throwing out the three duplicate keys for the room doors and the handcuff key to join the other stuff in the shrubbery below when I heard a soft tapping on the door of Jablonsky's room.

I only jumped about a foot, then I froze. I suppose I should have stood there with my mind racing but the truth was that with what I had been through that night and with all the inconclusive and futile thinking I'd been doing in the past two hours, my mind was in no condition to walk, far less race. I just stood there. Lot's wife had nothing on me. For a lifetime of ten seconds not a single intelligent thought came, just an impulse, one single overpowering impulse. To run. But I had no place to run to.

It was Royale, that quiet cold deadly man with the little gun. It was Royale, he was waiting outside that door and the little gun would be in his hand. He knew I was out, all right. He'd checked. He knew I'd be back, because he knew that Jablonsky and I were in cahoots and that I hadn't gone to such extreme lengths to get myself into that household just to light out at the first opportunity that offered, and he'd guessed that I should have been back by this time. Maybe he'd even seen me coming back. Then why had he waited so long?

I could guess the answer to that one too. He knew I would have been expecting Jablonsky to be there when I returned. He would think that I would have figured that Jablonsky must have gone off on some private expedition of his own and that as I'd locked the door when I came back and left the key there Jablonsky wouldn't be able to use his own to get in. So he would knock. Softly. And after having waited two hours for my partner's return I would be so worried stiff by his continuing absence that I would rush to the door when the knock came. And then Royale would let me have one of those cupro-nickel bullets between the eyes. Because if they knew beyond doubt that Jablonsky and I were working together they would also know that I would never do for them what they wanted me to do and so I would be of no further use to them. So, a bullet between the eyes. Just the same way Jablonsky had got his.

And then I thought of Jablonsky, I thought of him lying out there jammed up in that cheap packing case, and I wasn't afraid any more. I didn't see that I'd much chance, but I wasn't afraid. I cat-footed through to Jablonsky's room, closed my hand round the neck of the whisky bottle, went as silently back into my own room and slid a key into the lock of the door opening on to the passage outside. The bolt slid back without even the whisper of a click and just at that moment the knocking came again, slightly louder this time and more sustained. Under cover of the sound I slid the door open a crack, raised the bottle over my head ready for throwing and stuck my head round the corner of the door.

The passage was only dimly lit by a single weak night-light at the other end of a long corridor, but it was enough. Enough to let me see that the figure in the passage had no gun in its hand. Enough to let me see that it wasn't Royale. It was Mary Ruthven. I lowered the whisky bottle and stepped back softly into my room.

Five seconds later I was at the door of Jablonsky's room. I said in my best imitation of Jablonsky's deep husky voice: "Who's there?"

"Mary Ruthven. Let me ia. Quickly. Please!"

I let her in. Quickly. I had no more desire than she had that she should be seen out in that passage. I kept behind the door as she came through, then closed it swiftly before the pale glimmer of light from outside gave "her time to identify me.

"Mr. Jablonsky." Her voice was a quick, urgent, breathless, frightened whisper. "I had to come to see you. I simply had. I thought I could never get away but Gunther dropped off to sleep and he may wake up any moment and find that I'm-"

"Easy, easy," I said. I'd lowered my voice to a whisper, it was easier to imitate Jablonsky that way, but even so it was one of the worst imitations I had ever heard. "Why come to see me?"