Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

“Quaint picture, eh, Miss Wrayne?” ventured the inspector. “Not the sort of thing you’d choose for your drawing-room?”

“Hardly.”

It certainly was a strange picture. The artist had done his work well. It showed a masked burglar crouching in a darkened room. His revolver looked as if it was pointed directly at Daphne as she sat there. The whole thing was almost lifelike.

“The door of this room was locked when Wollstein was found, wasn’t it?” asked Daphne, still gazing at the picture.

“It was.”

“Key never discovered?”

“Not likely. Pendlebury probably threw it away. He had heaps of chances between here and his house.”

For a few minutes Daphne never spoke. Then she rose from her chair, dived into her vanity bag and, producing a small magnifying glass, walked across to the picture. She studied it keenly — put up the magnifying glass and studied it even more keenly. Then she turned.

“Come and have a look here, inspector!” she said.

As he came across quickly she handed him the magnifying glass. When he lowered it there was something like fear in his eyes, but Daphne was smiling now.

“Is the door locked?” she queried.

“No, but it can be in a moment.”

“Better do so. We don’t want to be interrupted at this stage. I rather think I’m going to surprise you.”

Without a word he walked to the door, turned the key in it, came back. Then:

“Miss Wrayne,” he said helplessly, “were you... were you — looking for this?”

Daphne laughed merrily. Her delight was obvious.

“Frankly no! But I don’t mind admitting that I was looking for something of this sort — though I never dared to hope I should find it.”

IV

The Wollstein murder trial one month later brought the usual crowd to the Central Criminal Court. Even though the facts of the case, as the public had read them, seemed amazingly clear, they still remembered that Pendlebury had stoutly asserted his innocence throughout.

They also remembered, too, that Martin Everest had been retained for the defense — and that Martin Everest had an interesting little knack of springing surprises on the court.

Daphne Wrayne was present, exquisitely dressed as usual, and following the proceedings with her usual interest. But then the public had grown used to seeing her at most of the causes célèbres. Her being there was nothing unusual.

There was the usual little murmur of expectancy when the prisoner was brought in. There was the usual craning of heads to get a glimpse of him, the whisperings, the nudgings. He flushed a little under the scrutiny and seemed miserably ill at ease.

But his “Not guilty, my lord!” was in clear unfaltering tones, and one or two people in the court fidgeted a little in their seats. The thought of a possibly innocent man having to fight desperately for his life is always a slightly disturbing one.

The attorney general rose to open the case. He was a big florid-faced, heavy-looking man. He outlined to the jury the circumstances of the murder with that slightly superior air that prosecuting counsel so often employs — an air that always suggests that he, counsel, is apologizing for having to waste the time of twelve such intelligent men on anything so obvious.

He presented them with the facts already known. Finally he told them that a letter would be produced acknowledged by the prisoner to have been written by himself. It contained the following remarkable passage:

...I will come and see you at nine thirty to-morrow night. As it seems useless to plead with a man like you, I will bring the money.

By the time the attorney general resumed his seat the spectators were engaged in mentally hanging George Pendlebury.

The first witness called was the butler, a clean-shaven, swarthy Italian, who gave his name as Tito Antonio, but who spoke English perfectly and swore his way through the case with complete smoothness.

He knew his master was expecting the prisoner — his master had said so. Heard no shot, but wouldn’t have expected to hear one. He was in his butler’s pantry. Besides, he was rather deaf — always had been. How did he hear the bell which summoned him to let the prisoner out? He didn’t hear it — he saw it. There was an indicator on the wall of the pantry.

Where was the prisoner when he came outside? In the hall putting on his coat. Was he absolutely certain it was the prisoner? Absolutely — know him anywhere.

Martin Everest lounged up to cross-examine, hands deep in his trousers pockets, eyes on the ceiling, a slightly bored look on his handsome face.

“The distance between the library and your pantry is exactly twenty paces. The rooms, in fact, adjoin. You swear you never heard the revolver shot?”

“I’ve already sworn it.”

“Strange, isn’t it?”

“Not at all. I’m very deaf — I’ve just said so.”

“Oh, I forgot. Of course you have!”