Free There is No Return by Anita Blackmon Page A

him,” she whispered. Her eyes travelled piteously around the circle. “I didn’t kill him,” she repeated in a lifeless voice and began to tear the handkerchief in her hands to pieces, as if she had to do something. It appeared to me that her gaze rested longest upon Professor Matthews, but he did not look at her. He was shivering. He could not seem to stop.
    Fannie Parrish started up from her chair. “I’m going to my room!” she wailed.
    Chet Keith shook his head. “Nobody can leave until the officers arrive.”
    “I can’t, I won’t stay in this horrible place!” cried Fannie.
    “I think so,” murmured Mr Chet Keith, standing with his back four-square against the door.
    “I’m going to be sick!” shrieked Fannie, turning quite green.
    “Nonsense!” I exclaimed crossly. “You can’t. There aren’t any facilities for your being sick in this room.”
    Fannie gulped, but she went back to her seat, and Chet Keith gave me a grateful glance. Apparently, like myself, he knew enough feminine psychology to realize that Fannie Parrish was the last woman in the world to be messy in public, and when Miss Maurine Smith attempted to throw a faint in his arms he disposed of her very neatly upon one of the hard red sofas where she immediately came to, looking remarkably chagrined.
    Somebody was pounding on the door. “What’s the trouble in here?” demanded a voice. “What’s happened?”
    Chet Keith frowned as he slid the bolt back. I thought he wished he could postpone the interruption, but there was no help for it.
    Captain Bill French was not a man who could be put off when he saw his duty and he was the manager of Mount Lebeau Inn. The fact that he was also a veteran of the war of ‘98 did not prevent his turning as green as Fannie when he saw that ghastly figure across the room.
    “For God’s sake, what’s happened?” he cried again.
    Chet Keith shrugged his shoulders. “I should think it is self-evident,” he said coolly. “One of your guests has been murdered.”
    “Murdered!” quavered Captain French, and I realized that Miss Smith was right. The dashing widower of twenty years before had become an old man with a paunch and a toupee.
    For the first time Dora Canby spoke. “It’s my scissors,” she said, looking like the etching of a woman which had blurred. “He was killed with half of my scissors.”
    I had until that moment been too rattled to identify the object, the hilt of which still protruded from Thomas Canby’s throat, but it undoubtedly was half a pair of scissors. The handle was gold-washed and represented some sort of bird, a swan probably, only half of it was missing.
    “It is Aunt Dora’s scissors,” whispered Judy Oliver. She stepped forward, but Chet Keith was too quick for her.
    “Don’t touch it,” he said sharply. “I’ve warned you, nothing must be touched.”
    Jeff Wayne glanced bitterly at Sheila Kelly’s bowed head.
    “What’s the difference?” he demanded. “The case is open and shut. She” — into the words he put almost savage hatred — “she killed him. We all saw it.”
    I frowned at him. “Are you able to see in the dark, Mr Wayne?” I inquired sharply.
    “In the dark? No, of course not, but we all heard her. We all know she killed him.”
    “I didn’t,” whispered Sheila Kelly.
    Chet Keith looked at her. “You’re on the spot,” he said curtly. “If you’ll take my advice you’ll say nothing until the authorities arrive.”
    She gave him a wondering glance as if she could not make him out, but she took his advice.
    It was Allan Atwood’s nerves, characteristically enough, which first frazzled under the strain. “You’ve no right to keep us cooped up here with a murderess!” he cried. “Wait for the sheriff if you like. I’m getting out.”
    “No,” said Chet Keith and then asked, “So you knew your uncle had sent for the sheriff?”
    Allan Atwood turned very white. “You-you said the sheriff was coming,” he