Then, I am ashamed to say, at a moment when reason dictated that I should have emptied the contents of the water bottle on her, I started to kiss her eyes, her hair, her forehead. And I probably said more foolish things in those few seconds than in the twenty-four years of my life which preceded them. Her very frailty seemed to enhance her loveliness. It was a moment of delirium.

  But, like all the great moments of my life, it was destined to be cut short. The next thing I knew the little hand, which I had lately held so tenderly, was landing a stinging smack on my face.

  “Ouch!” I cried, stepping quickly away from the prematurely recovered Camilla, who was now sitting up and glaring at me ferociously.

  “I’m ashamed of you, Hilary Fenton,” she said, half laughing, half crying. “First of all you call me a murderess and then you start to maul me like a.—like a tiger. And my hair’s a mess and I haven’t a comb, and—and, oh Lord—where is your chivalry and your mirror?”

  I rubbed my stinging cheek. “Chivalry, my dear Camilla, is a mere bluff invented by men to hide the shallowness of women. You’ll find a mirror and a comb in my bedroom there.”

  But she did not move. Instead she pulled out her pocket handkerchief and started to cry. She didn’t do it as well as the girls in the movies but it was quite a creditable effort. Neither her eyes nor her nose became unduly red or shiny. Perhaps she sniffed a bit too much, but that was doubtless due to the sincerity of her feelings.

  “Oh, what a nasty great hoyden I am!” she gasped. “To come into a young man’s rooms uninvited and then smack his face. I’ll never forgive myself—never—and, oh, Hilary Fenton, there’s a purple patch on your cheek.”

  “Purple patch!” I replied with some heat. “The whole darned thing is like a purple patch in some penny novelette. It’s all too utterly—too incredibly fantastic!”

  “Well, it’s no good my trying to be dramatic about anything when I look as though I’d just been pulled backwards through a haystack in the floods. Wait a minute.”

  She jumped up from the couch and disappeared into my bedroom. When she returned, the ravages of the last few minutes had been repaired and an April smile played about her lips. But there was still tragedy in her eyes.

  “Now, I feel better,” she cried, “and if you’ll give me a cigarette, I’ll sit still as a mouse whilst you tell me why you accuse me of all the seven deadly sins and breaking all the commandments.” Here her voice grew more serious. “Incidentally, I am particularly interested in the sixth. Whom am I supposed to have murdered?” “Camilla,” I said gravely, “do let us be frank with each other. This is no time for fooling, pleasant though our dalliance be.” My hand again sought my burning cheek. “You came here today either because you wanted to tell me something important or because you wanted me to tell you something. You’ve made it very obvious that you didn’t come for the sake of my beaux yeux.”

  “But they are rather beaux,” she murmured. Bless her!

  “Now listen.” Then I launched forth into the whole story, beginning at the moment when I found Baumann in my room on Monday morning and ending with her unexpected presence that afternoon. I omitted nothing—not even the part about Baumann’s letter.

  It was only when I described my seeing her silhouette on the stairs that a puzzled frown passed over her forehead. For the rest of the time her face was emotionless as one of the Elgin marbles.

  Even after I had finished she continued to look straight in front of her. When she did turn towards me, her eyes were shining and her voice was very low. “And you did all this for me, Hilary Fenton, without even knowing who I was.

  “It’s the most wonderful—well, I can’t use long words—but to think that I dared to talk to you about chivalry and then—slap your face!” Here she looked at me with a strange, enigmatic smile. “But much as I appreciate all you’ve done, I must tell you quite frankly that I was nowhere near your college on Monday night. I was at a horrible debate in Sidney.”

  “But, Camilla, it must have been you. I know your profile better than I know my own mother’s. And then, that perfume. I’m frightfully sensitive to perfumes—I’d know that one anywhere and, God knows, I hate it now.”

  “Listen,” she said slowly. “I can explain everything. At least, I believe I can. Even the vision on the stairs. You saw me at the lecture. For some reason or other my face struck you as funny—or something. No—don’t interrupt. You met me and, being keen on nice smells, you naturally noticed that perfectly lovely Flowers of the Veld which I’ve used for some time now. (Ask any of my friends in Newmham. They are all crazy to know its name and where I get it.) Well, to resume. My image was on your mind. You’d been telling ghost stories. The lights had gone out suddenly. You had, I’m afraid, been drinking too much whisky. At any rate you were all strung up and someone passed you on the stairs. Probably it was just another undergraduate but you imagined it was me. It’s quite obvious what happened, and I think I understand the rest, too.”

  “Well, that’s more than I do. I’ll admit, if you like, that the chances are against it’s being a woman that I saw Monday night. If it was, she either disappeared into thin air or slid down a drain pipe. Maybe my imagination was overheated with regard to the face, but the perfume was real. That I’ll swear to.”

  “I don’t think so—at least, unless the person you saw had taken it from Baumann’s room. Now, I’m going to tell you something in exchange for your frankness. Something I never meant to tell anyone. I did know Julius Baumann slightly. No, there was absolutely nothing between us. I didn’t even like him much.

  “I met him first two terms ago. We had friends in common. It was then that he gave me some of his wonderful South African scent. I liked it so much that I ordered a bottle from the Parfumerie Française in Rose Crescent. They said they never sold it and would have to get it all the way from South Africa. Finally I got it and it cost a small fortune but it was worth, it.

  “I never saw Julius Baumann again, until last Monday morning. If you don’t mind, I’d rather not tell you exactly why I went to his rooms, but one of his friends was in trouble. He was the only person who could help. That’s why I am so thankful—yes, and so grateful—to know that you posted his letter and that you never told. I really came here this afternoon because I thought you might be a friend of Baumann’s and that you would know something—”

  “But, Camilla,” I interrupted, “Inspector Horrocks knows that Baumann was murdered. He is investigating the case and he seems like a jolly good detective. It may be dangerous for you to keep things to yourself.”

  “If I thought for one single minute that any knowledge I have would help find out who killed him, I would gladly and willingly tell,” she said simply. “As it is, it would do more harm than good and make me and several other perfectly innocent people very unhappy. You must continue to take me on trust—up to a certain point.

  “But one thing is definite. I did not kill Baumann. I was nowhere near his room that night. I hadn’t the remotest idea that it was anything but an unfortunate accident. The word murder was an awful shock. That’s why I made such an ass of myself by fainting or whatever it was I did.

  “But if ever I do learn anything that might be useful, I will tell you immediately. The only suggestion I have at present is that you ask at the perfume shop whether anyone else has bought Veldbloemen. That might be a help. In the meantime could you go on forgetting that you ever saw me on the staircase at all?

  “And could you forget that vision—which you saw later on in the evening? Could you do that for me, Hilary?”

  She was now putting on her red hat and making ready to go. I could see that she was deeply moved by all that I had told her and evidently could not trust herself to talk much more.

  “I’d forget anything in the world for you, Camilla,” I replied quietly, “everything except the fact that I love you.”

  She took a step towards me and looked at me so long and searchingly that my head began to swim.

  “You are a dear,” she whispered at length, “a perfect dear, and I wish I loved you, too. But girls don’t go quite as fast as all that, I’m afraid. However—” Here she bent suddenly forward and her lips brushed the place on my cheek where her hand had slapped me—’’Now we are quits, aren’t we? And—friends?”

  I smiled. “Okay, pal. But don’t be a sister to me. I’ve got three already. And when do I see you again?”

  “Well, you know I never can resist cricket. I’ll be watching the Varsity match tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Oh, Lord,” I groaned, “we certainly are friends if I have to endure the horrid mysteries of cricket for you!”

  She laughed happily. “I wish you knew how sweet you look, Hilary Fenton, when you are sulky and disgruntled that way. And I wish you knew how lovely it is for me when you stop treating me like a woman of mystery or a kind of poisonous lotus. And you’ll go on that way, won’t you, please? You’ll treat me just as though I was another man or, at the worst, a simple, uncomplicated English girl who works eight hours a day and minds her own business?”

  She had now reached the doorway.

  “That’ll be all right by me, buddy,” I called after her retreating figure. “But if you wear that damned mackintosh tomorrow, I’ll—” But she never heard the completion of the threat, for, with a swift valedictory smile, she had disappeared down the staircase. I looked at my watch. It was five minutes to six o’clock, which left me no time to dwell on my emotions if I wanted to get round to the Parfumerie Française before they closed. I dashed towards Rose Crescent. There I found that the misty blonde who presided was just about to call it a day.

  “Good evening” I said politely. “Do you happen to have some perfume called Veldbloemen? It’s South African, I believe.” I wrote the name down for her on a slip of paper.

  “Oh, yes. Flowers of the Veld, as it’s called. I haven’t any in stock but I can get some for you,” she said. “Our London dealer can obtain it. Of course we don’t get many calls for it and it’s rather dear.”

  “Some people buy it though, surely?” I said naively.

  “Why, yes, occasionally. I remember that a young lady bought some here last October. A nice-looking young lady—a most refined face. And then, this term it was, a young man ordered some most particular and then made quite a fuss about the price when he got it. I explained to him that with the duty—”

  “Was he an undergraduate?” I asked.

  The woman looked doubtful for a moment. “I don’t hardly know, sir. He was older than the usual run of undergraduates, and his voice was a bit funny.”

  “No one else?”

  “No, sir, that was all. Can I order some for you, sir?”

  “What’s that? Oh, no. I think I’ll take something simple, uncomplicated and English. How about a shilling bottle of Yardley’s lavender?”

  As she wrapped it up for me, I reflected that Camilla’s suggestion had not got me much further. The two people who had bought Flowers of the Veld were just the two that one would have expected—Camilla Lathrop herself and Julius Baumann.

  There seemed to be no possible doubt as to that.

  CHAPTER IX

  I Sharpen My Pencil

  From the days of my earliest adolescence I have set my face against the profession in which my father has become such a distinguished luminary. That is to say, I have opposed it as a career for myself, preferring to believe that I was headed in a vague way towards the diplomatic or consular service. And yet, of necessity I have acquired some smattering of law in the home circle and occasionally my father pops out in me when least expected. My actions are seldom judicious, but I flatter myself that sometimes my mind takes a turn that is surprisingly judicial.

  That evening, after Hall, was one of the times in question. I had received the Aristotelian purgation through pity and terror; I had run through the whole gamut of emotions during the day. Now that the night was coming, I felt Olympian and aloof; I was ready to weigh, with sublime impartiality, the pros and cons of the Baumann case.

  I went to my room, rolled up my sleeves and proceeded, literally and metaphorically, to sharpen my pencil. And very sharp I made it. Would I could have sharpened my wits to that same fine point.

  First of all I decided to draw up the facts of the case, going on the assumption that the South African was—as Horrocks implicity believed, and as my own reason told me must be the truth—deliberately and cold-bloodedly murdered. This being assumed, I went on, in a somewhat haphazard manner, to write as follows:

  1. Baumann was killed between 9:45 and 10:05 P. M. with, perhaps, a variation of five minutes each way.

  2. The lights went out at approximately 9:54 P. M. It is possible that the murderer was in the room at this time, but by no means certain. He could have got out just before the stampede from my room or even earlier. I was not inclined to attach too much importance to the fact that I thought I had heard a match strike when I knocked at Baumann’s door to ask for a candle.

  3. My neighbour’s door was wide open when I went down with Somerville to fetch the whisky earlier in the evening. Unless he shut it later on, the murderer could have entered the room without trouble.

  4. If Baumann had sported his oak, Hank was the only person who could have got in through the door since he alone had a key to the outer door.

  5. Anyone, however, could have got into the room through the window in exactly the same manner as I had done when I discovered the body.

  6. Obviously the murderer knew that Baumann kept his revolver in the biscuit box on the mantelpiece. Although Mrs. Bigger had been anything but reticent about the hiding place, it did point to the fact that the field was limited to an inside agency—if not to the “A” staircase itself.

  7. The murderer was undoubtedly a remarkably intelligent person. Indeed, if he worked in the dark, as was more than possible, his care—or his luck—was almost superhuman.

  8. And as a corollary to number seven: If he worked in the dark, even with the aid of a flashlight, he must have been intimate with the geography of the room.

  9. Another indication that it was an inside job was the fact that no stranger was seen to leave or enter the college just before or just after the closing of the gates.

  10. Baumann obviously expected trouble of some sort. Though, if Camilla was to be believed, the trouble in question would have no bearing on his death. His open door also pointed to the fact that he neither anticipated nor feared any kind of personal violence.

  This brought me up with a jerk. There are almost 5,000 undergraduates at the University, any one of whom might have borne the South African some sort of grudge. There are about 59,262 regular inhabitants of Cambridge and some 39,067,000 people in England and Wales, any one of whom might … No, the complexity of the situation made my brain reel.

  I must stick to the possibilities of which I knew something. I must confine myself to the people who could reasonably and logically have committed the murder. In short, I must go on the assumption that it really was an inside job, otherwise I might just as well break the point of my pencil, tear up my notes and go jump in the Trinity Fountain.

  I proceeded with my wholesale prosecution as follows:

  The Case against Hankin

  Hank was the only person who could have got into Baumann’s room if the oak had been sported since he alone had the keys to the outer doors of each room on “A” staircase. There was no doubt as to his presence at the time of Baumann’s death since I myself saw him when I went down to report the fusing of the lights.

  That brought up another point which had not yet been established one way or the other. Had the fuses been destroyed by the electricity of the storm, or had someone deliberately plunged the staircase into darkness in order to consummate the murder without being recognized?

  In the latter instance no one (except possibly the porter) could have tampered with the electric system more easily than Hank. On the other hand, Hank above all others was the one person to whom darkness would not be an asset, since his presence in any room on “A” staircase would at no time be suspicious.

  Another point against our gyp was the fact that he was the only person, to my knowledge, with whom Baumann had ever achieved anything that approached intimacy. Indeed, he was the only person who might be supposed to know anything at all about the enigmatic South African. Hank also came from South Africa and a glance at the atlas showed me that his native town of Kroonstad was not far from Bloemfontein where the Baumann farm was situated. Perhaps there was some dark secret in my neighbour’s South African past to which Hank alone held the key.

  And this brought up another point. Hank had been very nervous and jumpy since Baumann’s death. Usually he was rather a phlegmatic young man who took his job seriously and minded his own business. Lately, however, I had noticed that a flush came into his cheeks at any mention of Monday night. On two occasions he had neglected to empty my ashtrays—a terrible oversight on the part of a college servant.

  But if he had borne a grudge against Baumann, it was only logical to suppose that the latter had been unaware of it, since he had asked the gyp to witness his signature on the document which I had posted for him.

  Then again, Hankin cleaned Baumann’s room every day with or without the aid of Mrs. Bigger. He would be able to find his way about in the darkness as easily as by daylight. He knew exactly where the revolver was kept. Indeed, he had not reported its presence in the biscuit box even though he must have known that it was there against regulations.

  In short, Hankin had the means and he had the opportunity. Perhaps the motive was to be found somewhere in the dark continent—somewhere in the obscure mist of their heterogeneous pasts. At the present time, at least, it was not visible on “A” staircase.

  The Case against Dr. Warren

  As far as I knew, Dr. Warren had been in his room on “A” staircase all Monday evening. He could at any time have gone to Baumann’s room and gained immediate entry in his official capacity as senior tutor. His scientific knowledge would have helped him to conceal the traces of his guilt. His eagerness for the “accident” theory was all too transparent and it might even be classed as suspicious that he summoned to investigate the case the one man who was under a deep obligation to him. His manner, too, had been strange on Monday night—more cold and harsh than usual—and the misplaced monocle certainly argued some sort of emotional upset within himself.