“How else could he protect himself?”
In the dim light Wanda’s rouged lips were dark against her ghastly white face. She swayed and clutched the railing of the stairway to steady herself.
“There’s one thing I’d like to know,” went on Basil. “Does the Tilbury clock keep time accurately?”
A shaky smile quivered on Wanda’s lips. “So you noticed? So few people do!”
“You mean it’s not accurate?”
Wanda’s smile steadied. “Outdoor clocks on tall buildings are never reliable to the split second unless they’re covered with glass.”
“Why not?”
“Because the hands are blown by the wind. It’s not strong enough to affect the hour hand, but at that height on a blustery day the wind does alter the position of the minute hand by several minutes if it’s blowing in the right direction. Most people never notice it, because they only glance at such a clock now and then. But I have good reason to remember it. When I had my first small part on Broadway I used to live in that hotel on 45th Street where most actors live in their salad days. I had a room in the back with windows looking toward 44th and Broadway like the room Seymour Hutchins has now. I set my watch by the Tilbury clock and was ten minutes late for an appointment with a producer who had promised me a good supporting role. He happened to be a crank about punctuality, and I did not get the job. I made inquiries then and learned that on really windy days the Tilbury clock may be fast or slow by as much as ten minutes. They ought to put a glass over it, but I suppose that would spoil the looks of the building.”
“The police will want to know that and other things,” said Basil. “Are you going to tell?”
“I . . .” Wanda’s mouth opened and closed. “I . . .”
Something flashed between them with the blue glitter of steel. There was a singing vibration. In the wall behind Wanda a silver knife handle quivered half a foot from her head. The steel blade was embedded in the wall.
Wanda screamed like an animal. “No, I won’t tell! Never!” Her knees could not support her. She sank to the floor in a pool of fur. Her mouth was shapeless with terror. Her eyes stared into the darkness. “Put out the light!” she whispered to Basil. “Please! He saw me coming here this evening. He knew you were alone in the theater—as I did—and he understood that I was coming to see you and why. I think he plans to kill us both. Oh, do put out the light!”
A dark figure moved out of the shadows and set foot on the iron stairway. “Don’t follow me. I have other knives—the whole surgical kit—and they’re all sharp now.” Light feet ran up the stairs. A man’s head and shoulders were silhouetted against a glittering slice of stars. Someone was passing through the fire door.
Basil took the stairs two at a time. The door was open. He took a step onto the top landing of the fire escape. A dark figure was waiting for him. Only the face and the knife were pale in the starlight.
LEONARD MARTIN SPOKE his lines on cue: “Reckless, aren’t you, Dr. Willing? A little too reckless! You’ll be found in the alley tomorrow morning with a knife through your heart, and every bone in your body broken by your fall. But they’ll never catch me. Wanda’s too frightened to talk even though she’s the one who’ll be suspected, because she’s the one who asked Milhau for a stage-door key tonight. I learned to pick any kind of lock years ago when I played
Basil played up to both. “You were clever—but not quite clever enough. Inspector Foyle has evidence that you are guilty.”
“You’re lying! I don’t believe it!”
Basil knew that if he lived he would never forget these perilous moments watching that murderous face in the starlight high above the blacked-out city. But if he could only play upon the actors’ instinct for dramatizing every situation and keep Leonard talking long enough. . . .
“You overlooked three main clues,” said Basil calmly. “A clock, a fly, and a canary.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
