And Milton Dorn came back. Above the strained, ugly, mounting voices of the two men pitched against each other came the crash of the window-doors to the terrace, burst forcefully open. On the sill, exaggerated and unattached against the swirling mist, stood two of Stebbins’ uniformed guards with a sagging body slung between them from the knees and armpits: like some strange inhabitants of Davy Jones’ locker bringing back to earth a victim too horrible for even the sea to swallow.
“Sorry,” growled one of them apologetically, dimly conscious of the startled horror in the silenced room, “we found this in the old well down back. Thought you might need it, Sergeant. So we brought it along up.”
The man’s recourse to the neuter in referring to his burden all too vividly indicated its lifelessness. Not that it could have possibly been otherwise. Its face was crushed out of human shape. The head fell back and off to the side, loosely, as though the neck were broken. The covering of one leg was savagely torn and the flesh from thigh to knee bared to the bone. The clothing was stiff and ungainly with congealed blood.
“Speak of the Devil!” Belknap whispered.
“Dorn, I take it,” Berry said with super-gentleness. He forced an odd laugh. “Say, you boys, next time you make a visit with that kind of visiting card, come to the front door—and ring. I don’t like stage entrances. Another of yours?” he asked, turning to look at Belknap, through narrowed eyes, as no man looks at a man.
Belknap smiled.
“How did you guess it, Lieutenant? Yes, number one. I had to scotch him on the spot last night when he was trying to slip from under. Couldn’t take any chances on how much he knew. Talk about your blind witnesses! None of ’em even saw me take my little trip to fetch something from my car last night. Went out on Dorn’s heels, too.”
“That’ll do from you,” Berry said. “Not another word. We’ve had enough. Take him to Glory for me, men. Sergeant,” he added to the stupefied Stebbins, “will you give them a ring in town and say we’re on our way—with the goods. Broadcast it. Tell them to be ready with the racks and boiling oil. And clean up this mess as best you can when my back’s turned. Run the bodies down to the morgue in the morning. There’ll be autopsies, I suppose, though God knows they aren’t needed. Come along, you,” he said, as Belknap rose unsteadily to his feet.
But Belknap, with a quick, vicious movement of his bear-like shoulders, thrust his jailors aside, and bent over the motionless, shrunken form of Nadia Mdevani. Even, bending down and using his two hands as one, he turned her face uppermost. It was an exquisite and clear-cut face, very quiet, very perfect, like a medallion or cameo face. And as devoid of expression. Suddenly Belknap straightened, threw back his head, and laughed wildly, breaking into a snatch of song:
“‘She was my woman,