Demon Child

relaxedly on the arms of the chair-but then she saw how his fingers gripped the fabric so tightly that his knuckles were white. Sitting on the long, dark green sofa was a man in suit and tie, balding, perhaps a little overweight, no more than forty-five years old. His legs were crossed, and he held a notebook and pencil in his lap. The last person was Detective Maybray. She knew that instinctively. He was tall, more than six feet, broad-shouldered, well-muscled. His face was all sharp planes with a Roman nose, a square chin, very dark eyes and heavy eyebrows.
        He stepped forward and smiled at her.
        It was an awful smile, the sort of smile the crocodile gave its victim before it skittered forward and chomped all those teeth through flesh and blood.
        She wished Walter were here.
        “Miss Brighton?” Maybray asked.
        “I am,” she said.
        He smiled again.
        Then the smile flicked away.
        “Who killed Lee Symington?” he asked her. “Was it you or someone you telephoned?”

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    10
        
        “Now wait just a damn minute, Detective-” Richard began, rising from his easy chair. His face had gone scarlet in anger, and there was a look of menace in his eyes.
        “Sit down,” Maybray said without taking his eyes away from Jenny. His voice was cold, almost a monotone. It had a sense of command in it, however, which indicated that this man was not accustomed to being disobeyed.
        “I never meant that you should-”
        “Shut up!”
        The room reverberated with the harsh command.
        Richard looked furious. But the iciness in the larger man's voice got the message across. He sat back down, not looking at Jenny or at anyone else in that room. He only stared at the carpet as if he were seeing it for the first time, and he continued to gouge the easy chair's upholstery with his fingers.
        Maybray smiled and returned his attention to the young woman before him. “I asked you a question Miss Brighton. And when I ask people questions, I usually expect answers.”
        “I-I didn't understand the question,” she said. She felt dizzy, but she was determined to show as little weakness as possible. This gorilla would enjoy watching her quake. She didn't want to give him any pleasure.
        The crocodile smile came and went.
        “I asked you whether you murdered Lee Symington or whether it was someone you phoned for the job.”
        “You're crazy!” she gasped as the full import of what he had said struck her like a hammer blow. She put a hand to her breast and felt her heart thumping like the heart of a small animal or bird. “You aren't making any sense at all!”
        “Aren't I?” He kept a careful watch of her face, as if he expected to see guilt written there. “A veterinarian by the name of Lee Symington was employed on this estate this morning. This afternoon, he was found dead in the stables just down the lane, on these grounds. You were the only one, besides Richard Brucker, who knew the vet was going to be here today. And Mr. Brucker's alibi is flawless.”
        There was silence.
        She realized they were all waiting for her to speak. But she could not think of anything to say. It was as if an icy hand had slipped over her mind to slowly freeze it shut.
        She trembled all over. She could not help that.
        “Who'd you tell, Jenny?” Richard asked in a more even, friendlier tone of voice.
        She looked at him.
        Maybray continued to stare at her.
        “Dr. Hobarth,” she said at last. “I told him at breakfast.”
        “Hobarth!” Richard exploded, edging forward on his chair.
        “Anyone else?” Maybray asked.
        “Anna,” Jenny said. “She was in the kitchen when I told Dr. Hobarth. She overheard us.”
        “Well?” Maybray asked, turning to Richard.
        “If Anna knew, she told Harold.” He turned to the old man. “You knew, didn't you?”
        Harold nodded. “Yes, sir.”
        “Why didn't you speak up?” Maybray asked.
        “I didn't know Jenny was to be put to such punishment,” Harold said. “You hadn't explained your rather unorthodox operating procedure when you asked me to bring her downstairs.”
        “You told Cora, didn't you?” Richard asked.
        “Yes,” Harold said.
        “Harold is one of those old-fashioned male servants who feels his primary duty in all matters is to the man or woman of the