Gunning-Forbes had begun to take an interest. ‘Not a bad touch that,’ he commented. ‘Illustrate the way the working classes have got above themselves since the war, eh?’

Fortunately Froulish ignored him.

‘They don’t seem to be able to get a message through. At first they pass the time trying to keep cheerful. The conjurer draws billiard-balls out of the musician’s ears, the surgeon diagnoses everyone’s physical condition and says what operations he recom­mends, the charwoman sings Edwardian music-hall songs. The hunchback is the only one who doesn’t do anything. He doesn’t speak either.’

‘Doesn’t seem much point in having him there,’ from Gunning-Forbes.

‘A couple of days pass, and gradually they’re being driven mad with hunger and thirst. Finally, when they’re in the last stages of exhaustion and despair, the hunchback offers to put them out of their misery. He takes a hand-grenade out of his suitcase. Ex­ploding in that confined space it’s quite enough to kill them all. Then they have a long debate as to who shall pull the pin out to make the thing go off. There’s a theological point there, among others. The one who does it will be guilty of both suicide and murder.’

He paused. His audience looked at him apathetically. Betty’s eyes never wavered from June Veeber’s face.

‘Finally the conjurer comes to their aid. He conjures it out. Makes it jump out without seeming to touch it. Before he could be shown to be guilty of suicide, it would be necessary to prove that he’d touched the pin, and that’s not possible.’

‘Oh, come,’ cried the curate from the back row. Froulish, in his stride, ignored him.

‘Anyway, now they’re all dead. The blast frees the lift, and it drops down to the ground floor. So the corpses are taken out. Naturally, in laying them out, any papers they have about them are removed and studied to help in identification. That’s how they find out,’ he paused dramatically, ‘that the hunchback was the Chief Electrician.’

There was a silence.

‘Well, go on,’ said Gunning-Forbes encouragingly.

‘That’s the end,’ scowled Froulish.

There was a scraping of chairs.

‘So that’s your plot, is it?’ said Gunning-Forbes judicially. ‘D’you want to know what I think of it?’

‘No, but you evidently want to tell me.’

‘I think it’s got the makings of a fairly good yarn, provided of course that you cut out this verbal tomfoolery and make it clean-cut. Except for one bad flaw.’

He waited for Froulish to ask what that was, but the novelist was rolling himself a cigarette and showed no sign of hearing, so he went on.

‘That man wouldn’t have had a hand-grenade in his suitcase. People don’t. It’s just not true to life.’