Then he spoke. "Who is this speaking?… Yes, he's dead. Yes, he was poisoned…. Who is this speaking?" Without altering his dull tone, he put his hand over the mouthpiece and spoke softly to me. "Get hold of that porter. Tell him to go downstairs like hell and get the clerk on the switchboard and find out where this call's coming from. I'll try to hold him until-"
The night-porter was not far away from the door; he almost tumbled through when I opened it. Fortunately he had caught no glimpse of the figure in the chair inside. But he seemed to understand, did slow-moving Frank; Frank made remarkable time to the lift, and I heard it humming downstairs as I went back into Keppel's rooms. Murchison was still speaking softly to the telephone. He had the air of one who, gently and with gloved hands, is trying to draw out a nest of wasps.
"If this is a joke, I haven't got any more time to talk with you…. Don't gobble. Who are you? Who is this, then?"
By one of those curious gear-changes or volcanic disturbances along the telephone system, there was in the receiver a violent sort of plop which seems to split your ear-drum. Murchison moved the receiver away from his ear. I was close to him. I could distinctly hear the soft voice which crept out of the receiver.
"This is L. speaking," it said. "Would you like to know the truth about the money?"
There was a whispering, soft, very unpleasant laughing on the wire.
Then the line went dead.
For a couple of seconds Murchison automatically jiggled the hook. Then he got through to the switchboard downstairs. "Are you after that call? Right. Get it. Get it or I'll have your hide. Keep at it. Ring me here the minute-yes." He put down the receiver slowly, and looked up. "It was an assumed voice, of course. Mr. Blake, I've got an idea I've been talking to the murderer. And I've got an idea he's a rather more ugly customer than a puppet."
He lumbered out slowly into the room, his hands in his pockets.
"L.," he said.