"I don't say much," sounded Puckston's voice from the ceiling. "I was never one to say much, was I? Would I make trouble?"
Only a bumbling murmur answered with something like. ‘What do you want, then?" Whoever somebody was, Puckston was crowding the voice away from the microphone. Whoever somebody was…
Then Martin realized the presence of something impossible.
Straight ahead, reflected in that glimmering dead-end, he saw H.M.'s bulk and impassive eyes, Masters in down-pulled at and with pencil moving on a notebook, himself like a irate, MacDougall in beret peering round the angle of the passage. Crowding images of them sprang up wherever you looked. But…
"I know you killed Enid." Puckston's breathing was now audible. "A wanted you to hear that, like. That I know you killed 'er."
"You can't prove that" (Whose voice?)
MacDougall had told them almost with tears that they must at utter a whisper, not make a shoe-scrape, or the slightest sound would betray them. But on the floor lay a piece of paper which Martin had dropped there.
He had explored that passage. It was made of solid looking glasses. If the microphone were outside this mirror maze in the circular shell, you could clump about or talk without being heard.
Then where were Puckston and his companion? Standing there invisibly, by some optical trick?' "I tell you again, I don't want to prove it. If I did, I'd gone to the police."
"With what evidence?' (Come closer) Come closer!) "I dunno. I didn't think." Puckston's breathing grew shorter and heavier. "You kitted my little girl That's all I know." No reply at all, now. Masters was silently raving. "You killed my little girl. Why did you do it?" ‘I had to. It was a kind of — expression." "What’s that?’