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Title: A Treasury of Sayers Stories
Author: Sayers, Dorothy Leigh (1893-1957)
Date of first publication: June 1958
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Victor Gollancz, January 1961
   ["Third Impression"]
Date first posted: 5 December 2011
Date last updated: 5 December 2011
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #891

This ebook was produced by:
Barbara Watson, LN Yaddanapudi, Mark Akrigg
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net






  A TREASURY
  OF SAYERS STORIES

  by

  DOROTHY L. SAYERS


  LONDON
  VICTOR GOLLANCZ LTD
  1961




AUTHOR'S NOTE


Every person, incident, institution, college, firm or whatnot in this
book is purely imaginary and is not intended to refer to any actual
person, incident, institution, college, firm or whatnot whatsoever.


  _First published June 1958_
  _Third Impression January 1961_


  MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
  WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES




CONTENTS


LORD PETER WIMSEY STORIES

1. The Image in the Mirror                                      7

2. The Incredible Elopement of Lord Peter Wimsey               26

3. The Queen's Square                                          46

4. The Necklace of Pearls                                      60


MONTAGUE EGG STORIES

1. The Poisoned Dow '08                                        69

2. Sleuths on the Scent                                        77

3. Murder in the Morning                                       86

4. One Too Many                                                94

5. Murder at Pentecost                                        102

6. Maher-shalal-hashbaz                                       111


OTHER STORIES

1. The Man Who Knew How                                       120

2. The Fountain Plays                                         130


MORE LORD PETER STORIES

1. The Abominable History of the Man with Copper Fingers      143

2. The Entertaining Episode of the Article in Question        158

3. The Fascinating Problem of Uncle Meleager's Will           166

4. The Fantastic Horror of the Cat in the Bag                 181

5. The Unprincipled Affair of the Practical Joker             191

6. The Undignified Melodrama of the Bone of Contention        201

7. The Vindictive Story of the Footsteps that Ran             245

8. The Bibulous Business of a Matter of Taste                 258

9. The Learned Adventure of the Dragon's Head                 269

10. The Piscatorial Farce of the Stolen Stomach               286

11. The Unsolved Puzzle of the Man with No Face               302

12. The Adventurous Exploit of the Cave of Ali Baba           324




LORD PETER WIMSEY STORIES




1. THE IMAGE IN THE MIRROR


The little man with the cow-lick seemed so absorbed in the book that
Wimsey had not the heart to claim his property, but, drawing up the
other arm-chair and placing his drink within easy reach, did his best to
entertain himself with the Dunlop Book, which graced, as usual, one of
the tables in the lounge.

The little man read on, his elbows squared upon the arms of his chair,
his ruffled red head bent anxiously over the text. He breathed heavily,
and when he came to the turn of the page, he set the thick volume down
on his knee and used both hands for his task. Not what is called "a
great reader," Wimsey decided.

When he reached the end of the story, he turned laboriously back, and
read one passage over again with attention. Then he laid the book, still
open, upon the table, and in so doing caught Wimsey's eye.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said in his rather thin Cockney voice, "is
this your book?"

"It doesn't matter at all," said Wimsey graciously, "I know it by heart.
I only brought it along with me because it's handy for reading a few
pages when you're stuck in a place like this for the night. You can
always take it up and find something entertaining."

"This chap Wells," pursued the red-haired man, "he's what you'd call a
very clever writer, isn't he? It's wonderful how he makes it all so
real, and yet some of the things he says, you wouldn't hardly think they
could be really possible. Take this story now; would you say, sir, a
thing like that could actually happen to a person, as it might be
you--or me?"

Wimsey twisted his head round so as to get a view of the page.

"_The Plattner Experiment_," he said, "that's the one about the
school-master who was blown into the fourth dimension and came back with
his right and left sides reversed. Well, no, I don't suppose such a
thing would really occur in real life, though of course it's very
fascinating to play with the idea of a fourth dimension."

"Well----" He paused and looked up shyly at Wimsey. "I don't rightly
understand about this fourth dimension. I didn't know there was such a
place, but he makes it all very clear no doubt to them that know
science. But this right-and-left business, now, I know that's a fact. By
experience, if you'll believe me."

Wimsey extended his cigarette-case. The little man made an instinctive
motion towards it with his left hand and then seemed to check himself
and stretched his right across.

"There, you see. I'm always left-handed when I don't think about it.
Same as this Plattner. I fight against it, but it doesn't seem any use.
But I wouldn't mind that--it's a small thing and plenty of people are
left-handed and think nothing of it. No. It's the dretful anxiety of not
knowing what I mayn't be doing when I'm in this fourth dimension or
whatever it is."

He sighed deeply.

"I'm worried, that's what I am, worried to death."

"Suppose you tell me about it," said Wimsey.

"I don't like telling people about it, because they might think I had a
slate loose. But it's fairly getting on my nerves. Every morning when I
wake up I wonder what I've been doing in the night and whether it's the
day of the month it ought to be. I can't get any peace till I see the
morning paper, and even then I can't be sure . . .

"Well, I'll tell you, if you won't take it as a bore or a liberty. It
all began----" He broke off and glanced nervously about the room.
"There's nobody to see. If you wouldn't mind, sir, putting your hand
just here a minute----"

He unbuttoned his rather regrettable double-breasted waistcoat, and laid
a hand on the part of his anatomy usually considered to indicate the
site of the heart.

"By all means," said Wimsey, doing as he was requested.

"Do you feel anything?"

"I don't know that I do," said Wimsey. "What ought I to feel? A swelling
or anything? If you mean your pulse, the wrist is a better place."

"Oh, you can feel it _there_, all right," said the little man. "Just try
the other side of the chest, sir."

Wimsey obediently moved his hand across.

"I seem to detect a little flutter," he said after a pause.

"You do? Well, you wouldn't expect to find it that side and not the
other, would you? Well, that's where it is. I've got my heart on the
right side, that's what I wanted you to feel for yourself."

"Did it get displaced in an illness?" asked Wimsey sympathetically.

"In a manner of speaking. But that's not all. My liver's got round the
wrong side, too, and my organs. I've had a doctor see it, and he told me
I was all reversed. I've got my appendix on my left side--that is, I had
till they took it away. If we was private, now, I could show you the
scar. It was a great surprise to the surgeon when they told him about
me. He said afterwards it made it quite awkward for him, coming
left-handed to the operation, as you might say."

"It's unusual, certainly," said Wimsey, "but I believe such cases do
occur sometimes."

"Not the way it occurred to me. It happened in an air-raid."

"In an air-raid?" said Wimsey, aghast.

"Yes--and if that was all it had done to me I'd put up with it and be
thankful. Eighteen I was then, and I'd just been called up. Previous to
that I'd been working in the packing department at Crichton's--you've
heard of them, I expect--Crichton's for Admirable Advertising, with
offices in Holborn. My mother was living in Brixton, and I'd come up to
town on leave from the training-camp. I'd been seeing one or two of my
old pals, and I thought I'd finish the evening by going to see a film at
the Stoll. It was after supper--I had just time to get in to the last
house, so I cut across from Leicester Square through Covent Garden
Market. Well, I was getting along when wallop! A bomb came down it
seemed to me right under my feet, and everything went black for a bit."

"That was the raid that blew up Oldham's, I suppose."

"Yes, it was January 28th, 1918. Well, as I say, everything went right
out. Next thing as I knew, I was walking in some place in broad
daylight, with green grass all round me, and trees, and water to the
side of me, and knowing no more about how I got there than the man in
the moon."

"Good Lord!" said Wimsey. "And was it the fourth dimension, do you
think?"

"Well, no, it wasn't. It was Hyde Park, as I come to see when I had my
wits about me. I was along the bank of the Serpentine and there was a
seat with some women sitting on it, and children playing about."

"Had the explosion damaged you?"

"Nothing to see or feel, except that I had a big bruise on one hip and
shoulder as if I'd been chucked up against something. I was fairly
staggered. The air-raid had gone right out of my mind, don't you see,
and I couldn't imagine how I came there, and why I wasn't at Crichton's.
I looked at my watch, but that had stopped. I was feeling hungry. I felt
in my pocket and found some money there, but it wasn't as much as I
should have had--not by a long way. But I felt I must have a bit of
something, so I got out of the Park by the Marble Arch gate, and went
into a Lyons. I ordered two poached on toast and a pot of tea, and while
I was waiting I took up a paper that somebody had left on the seat.
Well, that finished me. The last thing I remembered was starting off to
see that film on the 28th--and here was the date on the paper--January
30th! I'd lost a whole day and two nights somewhere!"

"Shock," suggested Wimsey. The little man took the suggestion and put
his own meaning on it.

"Shock? I should think it was. I was scared out of my life. The girl who
brought my eggs must have thought I was barmy. I asked her what day of
the week it was, and she said 'Friday.' There wasn't any mistake.

"Well, I don't want to make this bit too long, because that's not the
end by a long chalk. I got my meal down somehow, and went to see a
doctor. He asked me what I remembered doing last, and I told him about
the film, and he asked whether I was out in the air-raid. Well, then it
came back to me, and I remembered the bomb falling, but nothing more. He
said I'd had a nervous shock and lost my memory a bit, and that it often
happened and I wasn't to worry. And then he said he'd look me over to
see if I'd got hurt at all. So he started in with his stethoscope, and
all of a sudden he said to me:

"'Why, you keep your heart on the wrong side, my lad!'

"'Do I?' said I. 'That's the first I've heard of it.'

"Well, he looked me over pretty thoroughly, and then he told me what
I've told you, that I was all reversed inside, and he asked a lot of
questions about my family. I told him I was an only child and my father
was dead--killed by a motor-lorry, he was, when I was a kid of ten--and
I lived with my mother in Brixton and all that. And he said I was an
unusual case, but there was nothing to worry about. Bar being wrong side
round I was sound as a bell, and he told me to go home and take things
quietly for a day or two.

"Well, I did, and I felt all right, and I thought that was the end of
it, though I'd overstayed my leave and had a bit of a job explaining
myself to the R.T.O. It wasn't till several months afterwards the draft
was called up, and I went along for my farewell leave. I was having a
cup of coffee in the Mirror Hall at the Strand Corner House--you know
it, down the steps?"

Wimsey nodded.

"All the big looking-glasses all round. I happened to look into the one
near me, and I saw a young lady smiling at me as if she knew me. I saw
her reflection, that is, if you understand me. Well, I couldn't make it
out, for I had never seen her before, and I didn't take any notice,
thinking she'd mistook me for somebody else. Besides, though I wasn't so
very old then, I thought I knew her sort, and my mother had always
brought me up strict. I looked away and went on with my coffee, and all
of a sudden a voice said quite close to me:

"'Hullo, Ginger--aren't you going to say good evening?'

"I looked up and there she was. Pretty, too, if she hadn't been painted
up so much.

"'I'm afraid,' I said, rather stiff, 'you have the advantage of me,
miss.'

"'Oh, Ginger,' says she, 'Mr. Duckworthy, and after Wednesday night!' A
kind of mocking way she had of speaking.

"I hadn't thought so much of her calling me Ginger, because that's what
any girl would say to a fellow with my sort of hair, but when she got my
name off so pat, I tell you it did give me a turn.

"'You seem to think we're acquainted, miss,' said I.

"'Well, I should rather say so, shouldn't you?' said she.

"There! I needn't go into it all. From what she said I found out she
thought she'd met me one night and taken me home with her. And what
frightened me most of all, she said it had happened on the night of the
big raid.

"'It _was_ you,' she said, staring into my face a little puzzled-like.
'Of course it was you. I knew you in a minute when I saw your face in
the glass.'

"Of course, I couldn't say that it hadn't been. I knew no more of what
I'd been and done that night than the babe unborn. But it upset me
cruelly, because I was an innocent sort of lad in those days and hadn't
ever gone with girls, and it seemed to me if I'd done a thing like that
I ought to know about it. It seemed to me I'd been doing wrong and not
getting full value for my money either.

"I made some excuse to get rid of her, and I wondered what else I'd been
doing. She couldn't tell me farther than the morning of the 29th, and it
worried me a bit wondering if I'd done any other queer things."

"It must have," said Wimsey, and put his finger on the bell. When the
waiter arrived, he ordered drinks for two and disposed himself to listen
to the rest of Mr. Duckworthy's adventures.

"I didn't think much about it, though," went on the little man; "we went
abroad, and I saw my first corpse and dodged my first shell and had my
first dose of the trenches, and I hadn't much time for what they call
introspection.

"The next queer thing that happened was in the C.C.S. at Ypres. I'd got
a blighty one near Caudry in September during the advance from
Cambrai--half buried, I was, in a mine explosion and laid out
unconscious near twenty-four hours it must have been. When I came to, I
was wandering about somewhere behind the lines with a nasty hole in my
shoulder. Somebody had bandaged it up for me, but I hadn't any
recollection of that. I walked a long way, not knowing where I was, till
at last I fetched up in an aid-post. They fixed me up and sent me down
the line to a base hospital. I was pretty feverish, and the next thing I
knew, I was in bed with a nurse looking after me. The bloke in the next
bed to mine was asleep. I got talking to a chap in the next bed beyond
him, and he told me where I was, when all of a sudden the other man woke
up and says:

"'My God,' he says, 'you dirty ginger-haired swine, it's you, is it?
What have you done with them vallables?'

"I tell you, I was struck all of a heap. Never seen the man in my life.
But he went on at me and made such a row, the nurse came running in to
see what was up. All the men were sitting up in bed listening--you never
saw anything like it.

"The upshot was, as soon as I could understand what this fellow was
driving at, that he'd been sharing a shell-hole with a chap that he said
was me, and that this chap and he had talked together a bit and then,
when he was weak and helpless, the chap had looted his money and watch
and revolver and what not and gone off with them. A nasty, dirty trick,
and I couldn't blame him for making a row about it, if true. But I said
and stood to it, it wasn't me, but some other fellow of the same name.
He said he recognised me--said he and this other chap had been together
a whole day, and he knew every feature in his face and couldn't be
mistaken. However, it seemed this bloke had said he belonged to the
Blankshires, and I was able to show my papers and prove I belonged to
the Buffs, and eventually the bloke apologised and said he must have
made a mistake. He died, anyhow, a few days after, and we all agreed he
must have been wandering a bit. The two divisions were fighting side by
side in that dust-up and it was possible for them to get mixed up. I
tried afterwards to find out whether by any chance I had a double in the
Blankshires, but they sent me back home, and before I was fit again the
Armistice was signed, and I didn't take any more trouble.

"I went back to my old job after the war, and things seemed to settle
down a bit. I got engaged when I was twenty-one to a regular good girl,
and I thought everything in the garden was lovely. And then, one day--up
it all went! My mother was dead then, and I was living by myself in
lodgings. Well, one day I got a letter from my intended, saying that she
had seen me down at Southend on the Sunday, and that was enough for her.
All was over between us.

"Now, it was most unfortunate that I'd had to put off seeing her that
week-end, owing to an attack of influenza. It's a cruel thing to be ill
all alone in lodgings, and nobody to look after you. You might die there
all on your own and nobody the wiser. Just an unfurnished room I had,
you see, and no attendance, and not a soul came near me, though I was
pretty bad. But my young lady she said as she had seen me down at
Southend with another young woman, and she would take no excuse. Of
course, I said, what was _she_ doing down at Southend without me,
anyhow, and that tore it. She sent me back the ring, and the episode, as
they say, was closed.

"But the thing that troubled me was, I was getting that shaky in my
mind, how did I know I hadn't been to Southend without knowing it? I
thought I'd been half sick and half asleep in my lodgings, but it was
misty-like to me. And knowing the things I had done other times--well,
there! I hadn't any clear recollection one way or another, except
fever-dreams. I had a vague recollection of wandering and walking
somewhere for hours together. Delirious, I thought I was, but it might
have been sleep-walking for all I knew. I hadn't a leg to stand on by
way of evidence. I felt it very hard, losing my intended like that, but
I could have got over that if it hadn't been for the fear of myself and
my brain giving way or something.

"You may think this is all foolishness and I was just being mixed up
with some other fellow of the same name that happened to be very like
me. But now I'll tell you something.

"Terrible dreams I got to having about that time. There was one thing as
always haunted me--a thing that had frightened me as a little chap. My
mother, though she was a good, strict woman, liked to go to a cinema now
and again. Of course, in those days they weren't like what they are now,
and I expect we should think those old pictures pretty crude if we was
to see them, but we thought a lot of them at that time. When I was about
seven or eight I should think, she took me with her to see a thing--I
remember the name now--_The Student of Prague_, it was called. I've
forgotten the story, but it was a costume piece, about a young fellow at
the university who sold himself to the devil, and one day his reflection
came stalking out of the mirror on its own, and went about committing
dreadful crimes, so that everybody thought it was him. At least, I think
it was that, but I forget the details, it's so long ago. But what I
shan't forget in a hurry is the fright it gave me to see that dretful
figure come out of the mirror. It was that ghastly to see it, I cried
and yelled, and after a time mother had to take me out. For months and
years after that I used to dream of it. I'd dream I was looking in a
great long glass, same as the student in the picture, and after a bit
I'd see my reflection smiling at me and I'd walk up to the mirror
holding out my left hand, it might be, and seeing myself walking to meet
me with its right hand out. And just as it came up to me, it would
suddenly--that was the awful moment--turn its back on me and walk away
into the mirror again, grinning over its shoulder, and suddenly I'd know
that _it_ was the real person and _I_ was only the reflection, and I'd
make a dash after it into the mirror, and then everything would go grey
and misty round me and with the horror of it I'd wake up all of a
perspiration."

"Uncommonly disagreeable," said Wimsey. "That legend of the
_Doppelgänger_, it's one of the oldest and the most widespread and never
fails to terrify me. When _I_ was a kid, my nurse had a trick that
frightened me. If we'd been out, and she was asked if we'd met anybody,
she used to say, 'Oh, no--we saw nobody nicer than ourselves.' I used to
toddle after her in terror of coming round a corner and seeing a horrid
and similar pair pouncing out at us. Of course I'd have rather died than
tell a soul how the thing terrified me. Rum little beasts, kids."

The little man nodded thoughtfully.

"Well," he went on, "about that time the nightmare came back. At first
it was only at intervals, you know, but it grew on me. At last it
started coming every night. I hadn't hardly closed my eyes before there
was the long mirror and the thing coming grinning along, always with its
hand out as if it meant to catch hold of me and pull me through the
glass. Sometimes I'd wake up with the shock, but sometimes the dream
went on, and I'd be stumbling for hours through a queer sort of
world--all mist and half-lights, and the walls would be all crooked like
they are in that picture of 'Dr. Caligari.' Lunatic, that's what it was.
Many's the time I've sat up all night for fear of going to sleep. I
didn't know, you see. I used to lock the bedroom door and hide the key
for fear--you see, I didn't know what I might be doing. But then I read
in a book that sleep-walkers can remember the places where they've
hidden things when they were awake. So that was no use."

"Why didn't you get someone to share the room with you?"

"Well, I did." He hesitated. "I got a woman--she was a good kid. The
dream went away then. I had blessed peace for three years. I was fond of
that girl. Damned fond of her. Then she died."

He gulped down the last of his whisky and blinked.

"Influenza, it was. Pneumonia. It kind of broke me up. Pretty she was,
too . . .

"After that, I was alone again. I felt bad about it. I couldn't--I
didn't like--but the dreams came back. Worse. I dreamed about doing
things--well! That doesn't matter now.

"And one day it came in broad daylight . . .

"I was going along Holborn at lunch-time. I was still at Crichton's.
Head of the packing department I was then, and doing pretty well. It was
a wet beast of a day, I remember--dark and drizzling. I wanted a
hair-cut. There's a barber's shop on the south side, about half way
along--one of those places where you go down a passage and there's a
door at the end with a mirror and the name written across it in gold
letters. You know what I mean.

"I went in there. There was a light in the passage, so I could see quite
plainly. As I got up to the mirror I could see my reflection coming to
meet me, and all of a sudden the awful dream-feeling came over me. I
told myself it was all nonsense and put my hand out to the
door-handle--my left hand, because the handle was that side and I was
still apt to be left-handed when I didn't think about it.

"The reflection, of course, put out its right hand--that was all right,
of course--and I saw my own figure in my old squash hat and
Burberry--but the face--oh, my God! It was grinning at me--and then just
like in the dream, it suddenly turned its back and walked away from me,
looking over its shoulder----

"I had my hand on the door, and it opened, and I felt myself stumbling
and falling over the threshold.

"After that, I don't remember anything more. I woke up in my own bed and
there was a doctor with me. He told me I had fainted in the street, and
they'd found some letters on me with my address and taken me home.

"I told the doctor all about it, and he said I was in a highly nervous
condition and ought to find a change of work and get out in the open air
more.

"They were very decent to me at Crichton's. They put me on to inspecting
their outdoor publicity. You know. One goes round from town to town
inspecting the hoardings and seeing what posters are damaged or badly
placed and reporting on them. They gave me a Morgan to run about in. I'm
on that job now.

"The dreams are better. But I still have them. Only a few nights ago it
came to me. One of the worst I've ever had. Fighting and strangling in a
black, misty place. I'd tracked the devil--my other self--and got him
down. I can feel my fingers on his throat now--killing myself.

"That was in London. I'm always worse in London. Then I came up here . . .

"You see why that book interested me. The fourth dimension . . . it's
not a thing I ever heard of, but this man Wells seems to know all about
it. You're educated now. Daresay you've been to college and all that.
What do you think about it, eh?"

"I should think, you know," said Wimsey, "it was more likely your doctor
was right. Nerves and all that."

"Yes, but that doesn't account for me having got twisted round the way I
am, now, does it? Legends, you talked of. Well, there's some people
think those medeeval johnnies knew quite a lot. I don't say I believe in
devils and all that. But maybe some of them may have been afflicted,
same as me. It stands to reason they wouldn't talk such a lot about it
if they hadn't felt it, if you see what I mean. But what I'd like to
know is, can't I get back any way? I tell you, it's a weight on my mind.
I never know, you see."

"I shouldn't worry too much, if I were you," said Wimsey. "I'd stick to
the fresh-air life. And I'd get married. Then you'd have a check on your
movements, don't you see. And the dreams might go again."

"Yes. Yes. I've thought of that. But--did you read about that man the
other day? Strangled his wife in his sleep, that's what he did. Now,
supposing I--that would be a terrible thing to happen to a man, wouldn't
it? Those dreams . . ."

He shook his head and stared thoughtfully into the fire. Wimsey, after a
short interval of silence, got up and went out into the bar. The
landlady and the waiter and the barmaid were there, their heads close
together over the evening paper. They were talking animatedly, but
stopped abruptly at the sound of Wimsey's footsteps.

Ten minutes later, Wimsey returned to the lounge. The little man had
gone. Taking up his motoring-coat, which he had flung on a chair, Wimsey
went upstairs to his bedroom. He undressed slowly and thoughtfully, put
on his pyjamas and dressing-gown, and then, pulling a copy of the
_Evening News_ from his motoring-coat pocket, he studied a front-page
item attentively for some time. Presently he appeared to come to some
decision, for he got up and opened his door cautiously. The passage was
empty and dark. Wimsey switched on a torch and walked quietly along,
watching the floor. Opposite one of the doors he stopped, contemplating
a pair of shoes which stood waiting to be cleaned. Then he softly tried
the door. It was locked. He tapped cautiously.

A red head emerged.

"May I come in a moment?" said Wimsey, in a whisper.

The little man stepped back, and Wimsey followed him in.

"What's up?" said Mr. Duckworthy.

"I want to talk to you," said Wimsey. "Get back into bed, because it may
take some time."

The little man looked at him, scared, but did as he was told. Wimsey
gathered the folds of his dressing-gown closely about him, screwed his
monocle more firmly into his eye, and sat down on the edge of the bed.
He looked at Mr. Duckworthy a few minutes without speaking, and then
said:

"Look here. You've told me a queerish story to-night. For some reason I
believe you. Possibly it only shows what a silly ass I am, but I was
born like that, so it's past praying for. Nice, trusting nature and so
on. Have you seen the paper this evening?"

He pushed the _Evening News_ into Mr. Duckworthy's hand and bent the
monocle on him more glassily than ever.

On the front page was a photograph. Underneath was a panel in bold type,
boxed for greater emphasis:

     "The police at Scotland Yard are anxious to get into touch with the
     original of this photograph, which was found in the handbag of Miss
     Jessie Haynes, whose dead body was found strangled on Barnes Common
     last Thursday morning. The photograph bears on the back the words
     'J. H. with love from R. D.' Anybody recognising the photograph is
     asked to communicate immediately with Scotland Yard or any police
     station."

Mr. Duckworthy looked, and grew so white that Wimsey thought he was
going to faint.

"Well?" said Wimsey.

"Oh, God, sir! Oh, God! It's come at last." He whimpered and pushed the
paper away, shuddering. "I've always known something of this would
happen. But as sure as I'm born I knew nothing about it."

"It's you all right, I suppose?"

"The photograph's me all right. Though how it came there I _don't_ know.
I haven't had one taken for donkey's years, on my oath I haven't--except
once in a staff group at Crichton's. But I tell you, sir, honest-to-God,
there's times when I don't know what I'm doing, and that's a fact."

Wimsey examined the portrait feature by feature.

"Your nose, now--it has a slight twist--if you'll excuse my referring
to it--to the right, and so it has in the photograph. The left eyelid
droops a little. That's correct, too. The forehead here seems to have a
distinct bulge on the left side--unless that's an accident in the
printing."

"No!" Mr. Duckworthy swept his tousled cowlick aside. "It's very
conspicuous--unsightly, I always think, so I wear the hair over it."

With the ginger lock pushed back, his resemblance to the photograph was
more startling than before.

"My mouth's crooked, too."

"So it is. Slants up to the left. Very attractive, a one-sided smile, I
always think--on a face of your type, that is. I have known such things
to look positively sinister."

Mr. Duckworthy smiled a faint, crooked smile.

"Do you know this girl, Jessie Haynes?"

"Not in my right senses, I don't, sir. Never heard of her--except, of
course, that I read about the murder in the papers. Strangled--oh, my
God!" He pushed his hands out in front of him and stared woefully at
them.

"What can I do? If I was to get away----"

"You can't. They've recognised you down in the bar. The police will
probably be here in a few minutes. No,"--as Duckworthy made an attempt
to get out of bed--"don't do that. It's no good, and it would only get
you into worse trouble. Keep quiet and answer one or two questions.
First of all, do you know who I am? No, how should you? My name's
Wimsey--Lord Peter Wimsey----"

"The detective?"

"If you like to call it that. Now, listen. Where was it you lived at
Brixton?"

The little man gave the address.

"Your mother's dead. Any other relatives?"

"There was an aunt. She came from somewhere in Surrey, I think. Aunt
Susan, I used to call her. I haven't seen her since I was a kid."

"Married?"

"Yes--oh, yes--Mrs. Susan Brown."

"Right. Were you left-handed as a child?"

"Well, yes, I was, at first. But mother broke me of it."

"And the tendency came back after the air-raid. And were you ever ill as
a child? To have the doctor, I mean?"

"I had measles once, when I was about four."

"Remember the doctor's name?"

"They took me to the hospital."

"Oh, of course. Do you remember the name of the barber in Holborn?"

This question came so unexpectedly as to stagger the wits of Mr.
Duckworthy, but after a while he said he thought it was Biggs or Briggs.

Wimsey sat thoughtfully for a moment, and then said:

"I think that's all. Except--oh, yes! What is your Christian name?"

"Robert."

"And you assure me that, so far as you know, you had no hand in this
business?"

"That," said the little man, "that I swear to. As far as I know, you
know. Oh, my Lord! If only it was possible to prove an alibi! That's my
only chance. But I'm so afraid, you see, that I _may_ have done it. Do
you think--do you think they would hang me for that?"

"Not if you could prove you knew nothing about it," said Wimsey. He did
not add that, even so, his acquaintance might probably pass the rest of
his life at Broadmoor.

"And you know," said Mr. Duckworthy, "if I'm to go about all my life
killing people without knowing it, it would be much better that they
should hang me and done with it. It's a terrible thing to think of."

"Yes, but you may not have done it, you know."

"I hope not, I'm sure," said Mr. Duckworthy. "I say--what's that?"

"The police, I fancy," said Wimsey lightly. He stood up as a knock came
at the door, and said heartily, "Come in!"

The landlord, who entered first, seemed rather taken aback by Wimsey's
presence.

"Come right in," said Wimsey hospitably. "Come in, sergeant; come in,
officer. What can we do for you?"

"Don't," said the landlord, "don't make a row if you can help it."

The police sergeant paid no attention to either of them, but stalked
across to the bed and confronted the shrinking Mr. Duckworthy.

"It's the man all right," said he. "Now, Mr. Duckworthy, you'll excuse
this late visit, but as you may have seen by the papers, we've been
looking for a person answering your description, and there's no time
like the present. We want----"

"I didn't do it," cried Mr. Duckworthy wildly. "I know nothing about
it----"

The officer pulled out his note-book and wrote: "He said before any
question was asked him, 'I didn't do it.'"

"You seem to know all about it," said the sergeant.

"Of course he does," said Wimsey; "we've been having a little informal
chat about it."

"You have, have you? And who might you be--sir?" The last word appeared
to be screwed out of the sergeant forcibly by the action of the monocle.

"I'm so sorry," said Wimsey, "I haven't a card on me at the moment. I am
Lord Peter Wimsey."

"Oh, indeed," said the sergeant. "And may I ask, my lord, what you know
about this here?"

"You may, and I may answer if I like, you know. I know nothing at all
about the murder. About Mr. Duckworthy I know what he has told me and
no more. I dare say he will tell you, too, if you ask him nicely. But no
third degree, you know, sergeant. No Savidgery."

Baulked by this painful reminder, the sergeant said, in a voice of
annoyance:

"It's my duty to ask him what he knows about this."

"I quite agree," said Wimsey. "As a good citizen, it's his duty to
answer you. But it's a gloomy time of night, don't you think? Why not
wait till the morning? Mr. Duckworthy won't run away."

"I'm not so sure of that."

"Oh, but I am. I will undertake to produce him whenever you want him.
Won't that do? You're not charging him with anything, I suppose?"

"Not yet," said the sergeant.

"Splendid. Then it's all quite friendly and pleasant, isn't it? How
about a drink?"

The sergeant refused this kindly offer with some gruffness in his
manner.

"On the waggon?" inquired Wimsey sympathetically. "Bad luck. Kidneys? Or
liver, eh?"

The sergeant made no reply.

"Well, we are charmed to have had the pleasure of seeing you," pursued
Wimsey. "You'll look us up in the morning, won't you? I've got to get
back to town fairly early, but I'll drop in at the police-station on my
way. You will find Mr. Duckworthy in the lounge, here. It will be more
comfortable for you than at your place. Must you be going? Well, good
night, all."

Later, Wimsey returned to Mr. Duckworthy, after seeing the police off
the premises.

"Listen," he said, "I'm going up to town to do what I can. I'll send you
up a solicitor first thing in the morning. Tell him what you've told me,
and tell the police what he tells you to tell them and no more.
Remember, they can't force you to say anything or to go down to the
police-station unless they charge you. If they do charge you, go quietly
and say nothing. And whatever you do, don't run away, because if you do,
you're done for."

       *       *       *       *       *

Wimsey arrived in town the following afternoon, and walked down Holborn,
looking for a barber's shop. He found it without much difficulty. It
lay, as Mr. Duckworthy had described it, at the end of a narrow passage,
and it had a long mirror in the door, with the name Briggs scrawled
across it in gold letters. Wimsey stared at his own reflection
distastefully.

"Check number one," said he, mechanically setting his tie to rights.
"Have I been led up the garden? Or is it a case of fourth dimensional
mystery? 'The animals went in four by four, _vive la compagnie!_ The
camel he got stuck in the door.' There is something intensely unpleasant
about making a camel of one's self. It goes for days without a drink and
its table-manners are objectionable. But there is no doubt that this
door is made of looking-glass. Was it always so, I wonder? On, Wimsey,
on. I cannot bear to be shaved again. Perhaps a hair-cut might be
managed."

He pushed the door open, keeping a stern eye on his reflection to see
that it played him no trick.

Of his conversation with the barber, which was lively and varied, only
one passage is deserving of record.

"It's some time since I was in here," said Wimsey. "Keep it short behind
the ears. Been re-decorated, haven't you?"

"Yes, sir. Looks quite smart, doesn't it?"

"The mirror on the outside of the door--that's new, too, isn't it?"

"Oh, no, sir. That's been there ever since we took over."

"Has it! Then it's longer ago than I thought. Was it there three years
ago?"

"Oh, yes, sir. Ten years Mr. Briggs has been here, sir."

"And the mirror too?"

"Oh, yes, sir."

"Then it's my memory that's wrong. Senile decay setting in. 'All, all
are gone, the old familiar landmarks.' No, thanks, if I go grey I'll go
grey decently. I don't want any hair-tonics to-day, thank you. No, nor
even an electric comb. I've had shocks enough."

It worried him, though. So much so that when he emerged, he walked back
a few yards along the street, and was suddenly struck by seeing the
glass door of a tea-shop. It also lay at the end of a dark passage and
had a gold name written across it. The name was "The BRIDGET Tea-shop,"
but the door was of plain glass. Wimsey looked at it for a few moments
and then went in. He did not approach the tea-tables, but accosted the
cashier, who sat at a little glass desk inside the door.

Here he went straight to the point and asked whether the young lady
remembered the circumstance of a man's having fainted in the doorway
some years previously.

The cashier could not say; she had only been there three months, but she
thought one of the waitresses might remember. The waitress was produced,
and after some consideration, thought she did recollect something of the
sort. Wimsey thanked her, said he was a journalist--which seemed to be
accepted as an excuse for eccentric questions--parted with half a crown,
and withdrew.

His next visit was to Carmelite House. Wimsey had friends in every
newspaper office in Fleet Street, and made his way without difficulty to
the room where photographs are filed for reference. The original of the
"J. D." portrait was produced for his inspection.

"One of yours?" he asked.

"Oh, no. Sent out by Scotland Yard. Why? Anything wrong with it?"

"Nothing. I wanted the name of the original photographer, that's all."

"Oh! Well, you'll have to ask them there. Nothing more I can do for
you?"

"Nothing, thanks."

Scotland Yard was easy. Chief-Inspector Parker was Wimsey's closest
friend. An inquiry of him soon furnished the photographer's name, which
was inscribed at the foot of the print. Wimsey voyaged off at once in
search of the establishment, where his name readily secured an interview
with the proprietor.

As he had expected, Scotland Yard had been there before him. All
information at the disposal of the firm had already been given. It
amounted to very little. The photograph had been taken a couple of years
previously, and nothing particular was remembered about the sitter. It
was a small establishment, doing a rapid business in cheap portraits,
and with no pretensions to artistic refinements.

Wimsey asked to see the original negative, which, after some search, was
produced.

Wimsey looked it over, laid it down, and pulled from his pocket the copy
of the _Evening News_ in which the print had appeared.

"Look at this," he said.

The proprietor looked, then looked back at the negative.

"Well, I'm dashed," he said. "That's funny."

"It was done in the enlarging lantern, I take it," said Wimsey.

"Yes. It must have been put in the wrong way round. Now, fancy that
happening. You know, sir, we often have to work against time, and I
suppose--but it's very careless. I shall have to inquire into it."

"Get me a print of it right way round," said Wimsey.

"Yes, sir, certainly, sir. At once."

"And send one to Scotland Yard."

"Yes, sir. Queer it should have been just this particular one, isn't it,
sir? I wonder the party didn't notice. But we generally take three or
four positions, and he might not remember, you know."

"You'd better see if you've got any other positions and let me have them
too."

"I've done that already, sir, but there are none. No doubt this one was
selected and the others destroyed. We don't keep all the rejected
negatives, you know, sir. We haven't the space to file them. But I'll
get three prints off at once."

"Do," said Wimsey. "The sooner the better. Quick-dry them. And don't do
any work on the prints."

"No, sir. You shall have them in an hour or two, sir. But it's
astonishing to me that the party didn't complain."

"It's not astonishing," said Wimsey. "He probably thought it the best
likeness of the lot. And so it would be--to him. Don't you see--that's
the only view he could ever take of his own face. That photograph, with
the left and right sides reversed, is the face he sees in the mirror
every day--the only face he can really recognise as his. 'Wad the gods
the giftie gie us,' and all that."

"Well, that's quite true, sir. And I'm much obliged to you for pointing
the mistake out."

Wimsey reiterated the need for haste, and departed. A brief visit to
Somerset House followed; after which he called it a day and went home.

       *       *       *       *       *

Inquiry in Brixton, in and about the address mentioned by Mr.
Duckworthy, eventually put Wimsey on to the track of persons who had
known him and his mother. An aged lady who had kept a small
green-grocery in the same street for the last forty years remembered all
about them. She had the encyclopædic memory of the almost illiterate,
and was positive as to the date of their arrival.

"Thirty-two years ago, if we lives another month," she said. "Michaelmas
it was they come. She was a nice-looking young woman, too, and my
daughter, as was expecting her first, took a lot of interest in the
sweet little boy."

"The boy was not born here?"

"Why, no, sir. Born somewheres on the south side, he was, but I remember
she never rightly said where--only that it was round about the New Cut.
She was one of the quiet sort and kep' herself to herself. Never one to
talk, she wasn't. Why even to my daughter, as might 'ave good reason for
bein' interested, she wouldn't say much about 'ow she got through 'er
bad time. Chlorryform she said she 'ad, I know, and she disremembered
about it, but it's my belief it 'ad gone 'ard with 'er and she didn't
care to think overmuch about it. 'Er 'usband--a nice man 'e was, too--'e
says to me, 'Don't remind 'er of it, Mrs. 'Arbottle, don't remind 'er of
it.' Whether she was frightened or whether she was 'urt by it I don't
know, but she didn't 'ave no more children. 'Lor!' I says to 'er time
and again, 'you'll get used to it, my dear, when you've 'ad nine of 'em
same as me,' and she smiled, but she never 'ad no more, none the more
for that."

"I suppose it does take some getting used to," said Wimsey, "but nine of
them don't seem to have hurt _you_, Mrs. Harbottle, if I may say so. You
look extremely flourishing."

"I keeps my 'ealth, sir, I am glad to say, though stouter than I used to
be. Nine of them does 'ave a kind of spreading action on the figure. You
wouldn't believe, sir, to look at me now, as I 'ad a eighteen-inch waist
when I was a girl. Many's the time me pore mother broke the laces on
me, with 'er knee in me back and me 'oldin' on to the bed-post."

"One must suffer to be beautiful," said Wimsey politely. "How old was
the baby, then, when Mrs. Duckworthy came to live in Brixton?"

"Three weeks old, 'e was, sir--a darling dear--and a lot of 'air on 'is
'ead. Black 'air it was then, but it turned into the brightest red you
ever see--like them carrots there. It wasn't so pretty as 'is ma's,
though much the same colour. He didn't favour 'er in the face, neither,
nor yet 'is dad. She said 'e took after some of 'er side of the family."

"Did you ever see any of the rest of the family?"

"Only 'er sister, Mrs. Susan Brown. A big, stern, 'ard-faced woman she
was--not like 'er sister. Lived at Evesham she did, as well I remembers,
for I was gettin' my grass from there at the time. I never sees a bunch
o' grass now but what I think of Mrs. Susan Brown. Stiff, she was, with
a small 'ead, very like a stick o' grass."

Wimsey thanked Mrs. Harbottle in a suitable manner and took the next
train to Evesham. He was beginning to wonder where the chase might lead
him, but discovered, much to his relief, that Mrs. Susan Brown was well
known in the town, being a pillar of the Methodist Chapel and a person
well respected.

She was upright still, with smooth, dark hair parted in the middle and
drawn tightly back--a woman broad in the base and narrow in the
shoulder--not, indeed, unlike the stick of asparagus to which Mrs.
Harbottle had compared her. She received Wimsey with stern civility, but
disclaimed all knowledge of her nephew's movements. The hint that he was
in a position of some embarrassment, and even danger, did not appear to
surprise her.

"There was bad blood in him," she said. "My sister Hetty was softer by
half than she ought to have been."

"Ah!" said Wimsey. "Well, we can't all be people of strong character,
though it must be a source of great satisfaction to those that are. I
don't want to be a trouble to you, madam, and I know I'm given to
twaddling rather, being a trifle on the soft side myself--so I'll get to
the point. I see by the register at Somerset House that your nephew,
Robert Duckworthy, was born in Southwark, the son of Alfred and Hester
Duckworthy. Wonderful system they have there. But of course--being only
human--it breaks down now and again--doesn't it?"

She folded her wrinkled hands over one another on the edge of the table,
and he saw a kind of shadow flicker over her sharp dark eyes.

"If I'm not bothering you too much--in what name was the other
registered?"

The hands trembled a little, but she said steadily:

"I do not understand you."

"I'm frightfully sorry. Never was good at explaining myself. There were
twin boys born, weren't there? Under what name did they register the
other! I'm so sorry to be a nuisance, but it's really rather important."

"What makes you suppose that there were twins?"

"Oh, I don't suppose it. I wouldn't have bothered you for a supposition.
I know there was a twin brother. What became--at least, I do know more
or less what became of him----"

"It died," she said hurriedly.

"I hate to seem contradictory," said Wimsey. "Most unattractive
behaviour. But it didn't die, you know. In fact, it's alive now. It's
only the name I want to know, you know."

"And why should I tell you anything, young man?"

"Because," said Wimsey, "if you will pardon the mention of anything so
disagreeable to a refined taste, there's been a murder committed and
your nephew Robert is suspected. As a matter of fact, I happen to know
that the murder was done by the brother. That's why I want to get hold
of him, don't you see. It would be such a relief to my mind--I am
naturally nice-minded--if you would help me to find him. Because, if
not, I shall have to go to the police, and then you might be subpœna'd
as a witness, and I shouldn't like--I really shouldn't like--to see you
in the witness-box at a murder trial. So much unpleasant publicity,
don't you know. Whereas, if we can lay hands on the brother quickly, you
and Robert need never come into it at all."

Mrs. Brown sat in grim thought for a few minutes.

"Very well," she said, "I will tell you."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Of course," said Wimsey to Chief-Inspector Parker a few days later,
"the whole thing was quite obvious when one had heard about the reversal
of friend Duckworthy's interior economy."

"No doubt, no doubt," said Parker. "Nothing could be simpler. But all
the same, you are aching to tell me how you deduced it and I am willing
to be instructed. Are all twins wrong-sided? And are all wrong-sided
people twins?"

"Yes. No. Or rather, no, yes. Dissimilar twins and some kinds of similar
twins may both be quite normal. But the kind of similar twins that
result from the splitting of a single cell _may_ come out as
looking-glass twins. It depends on the line of fission in the original
cell. You can do it artificially with tadpoles and a bit of horsehair."

"I will make a note to do it at once," said Parker gravely.

"In fact, I've read somewhere that a person with a reversed inside
practically always turns out to be one of a pair of similar twins. So
you see, while poor old R. D. was burbling on about the _Student of
Prague_ and the fourth dimension, I was expecting the twin-brother.

"Apparently what happened was this. There were three sisters of the name
of Dart--Susan, Hester and Emily. Susan married a man called Brown;
Hester married a man called Duckworthy; Emily was unmarried. By one of
those cheery little ironies of which life is so full, the only sister
who had a baby, or who was apparently capable of having babies, was the
unmarried Emily. By way of compensation, she overdid it and had twins.

"When this catastrophe was about to occur, Emily (deserted, of course,
by the father) confided in her sisters, the parents being dead. Susan
was a tartar--besides, she had married above her station and was
climbing steadily on a ladder of good works. She delivered herself of a
few texts and washed her hands of the business. Hester was a
kind-hearted soul. She offered to adopt the infant, when produced, and
bring it up as her own. Well, the baby came, and, as I said before, it
was twins.

"That was a bit too much for Duckworthy. He had agreed to one baby, but
twins were more than he had bargained for. Hester was allowed to pick
her twin, and, being a kindly soul, she picked the weaklier-looking one,
which was our Robert--the mirror-image twin. Emily had to keep the
other, and, as soon as she was strong enough, decamped with him to
Australia, after which she was no more heard of.

"Emily's twin was registered in her own name of Dart and baptised
Richard. Robert and Richard were two pretty men. Robert was registered
as Hester Duckworthy's own child--there were no tiresome rules in those
days requiring notification of births by doctors and midwives, so one
could do as one liked about these matters. The Duckworthys, complete
with baby, moved to Brixton, where Robert was looked upon as being a
perfectly genuine little Duckworthy.

"Apparently Emily died in Australia, and Richard, then a boy of fifteen,
worked his passage home to London. He does not seem to have been a nice
little boy. Two years afterwards, his path crossed that of Brother
Robert and produced the episode of the air-raid night.

"Hester may have known about the wrong-sidedness of Robert, or she may
not. Anyway, he wasn't told. I imagine that the shock of the explosion
caused him to revert more strongly to his natural left-handed tendency.
It also seems to have induced a new tendency to amnesia under similar
shock-conditions. The whole thing preyed on his mind, and he became more
and more vague and somnambulant.

"I rather think that Richard may have discovered the existence of his
double and turned it to account. That explains the central incident of
the mirror. I think Robert must have mistaken the glass door of the
tea-shop for the door of the barber's shop. It really was Richard who
came to meet him, and who retired again so hurriedly for fear of being
seen and noted. Circumstances played into his hands, of course--but
these meetings do take place, and the fact that they were both wearing
soft hats and Burberrys is not astonishing on a dark, wet day.

"And then there is the photograph. No doubt the original mistake was the
photographer's, but I shouldn't be surprised if Richard welcomed it and
chose that particular print on that account. Though that would mean, of
course, that he knew about the wrong-sidedness of Robert. I don't know
how he could have done that, but he may have had opportunities for
inquiry. It was known in the Army, and rumours may have got round. But I
won't press that point.

"There's one rather queer thing, and that is that Robert should have had
that dream about strangling, on the very night, as far as one could make
out, that Richard was engaged in doing away with Jessie Haynes. They say
that similar twins are always in close sympathy with one another--that
each knows what the other is thinking about, for instance, and contracts
the same illness on the same day and all that. Richard was the stronger
twin of the two, and perhaps he dominated Robert more than Robert did
him. I'm sure I don't know. Daresay it's all bosh. The point is that
you've found him all right."

"Yes. Once we'd got the clue there was no difficulty."

"Well, let's toddle round to the Cri and have one."

Wimsey got up and set his tie to rights before the glass.

"All the same," he said, "there's something queer about mirrors.
Uncanny, a bit, don't you think so?"




2. THE INCREDIBLE ELOPEMENT OF LORD PETER WIMSEY


"That house, señor?" said the landlord of the little _posada_. "That is
the house of the American physician, whose wife, may the blessed saints
preserve us, is bewitched." He crossed himself, and so did his wife and
daughter.

"Bewitched, is she?" said Langley sympathetically. He was a professor of
ethnology, and this was not his first visit to the Pyrenees. He had,
however, never before penetrated to any place quite so remote as this
tiny hamlet, clinging, like a rock-plant, high up the scarred granite
shoulders of the mountain. He scented material here for his book on
Basque folk-lore. With tact, he might persuade the old man to tell his
story.

"And in what manner," he asked, "is the lady bespelled?"

"Who knows?" replied the landlord, shrugging his shoulders. "'The man
that asked questions on Friday was buried on Saturday.' Will your honour
consent to take his supper?"

Langley took the hint. To press the question would be to encounter
obstinate silence. Later, when they knew him better, perhaps----

His dinner was served to him at the family table--the oily,
pepper-flavoured stew to which he was so well accustomed, and the harsh
red wine of the country. His hosts chattered to him freely enough in
that strange Basque language which has no fellow in the world, and is
said by some to be the very speech of our first fathers in Paradise.
They spoke of the bad winter, and young Esteban Arramandy, so strong and
swift at the pelota, who had been lamed by a falling rock and now halted
on two sticks; of three valuable goats carried off by a bear; of the
torrential rains that, after a dry summer, had scoured the bare ribs of
the mountains. It was raining now, and the wind was howling
unpleasantly. This did not trouble Langley; he knew and loved this
haunted and impenetrable country at all times and seasons. Sitting in
that rude peasant inn, he thought of the oak-panelled hall of his
Cambridge college and smiled, and his eyes gleamed happily behind his
scholarly pince-nez. He was a young man, in spite of his professorship
and the string of letters after his name. To his university colleagues
it seemed strange that this man, so trim, so prim, so early old, should
spend his vacations eating garlic, and scrambling on mule-back along
precipitous mountain-tracks. You would never think it, they said, to
look at him.

There was a knock at the door.

"That is Martha," said the wife.

She drew back the latch, letting in a rush of wind and rain which made
the candle gutter. A small, aged woman was blown in out of the night,
her grey hair straggling in wisps from beneath her shawl.

"Come in, Martha, and rest yourself. It is a bad night. The parcel is
ready--oh, yes. Dominique brought it from the town this morning. You
must take a cup of wine or milk before you go back."

The old woman thanked her and sat down, panting.

"And how goes all at the house? The doctor is well?"

"He is well."

"And _she_?"

The daughter put the question in a whisper, and the landlord shook his
head at her with a frown.

"As always at this time of the year. It is but a month now to the Day of
the Dead. Jesu-Maria! it is a grievous affliction for the poor
gentleman, but he is patient, patient."

"He is a good man," said Dominique, "and a skilful doctor, but an evil
like that is beyond his power to cure. You are not afraid, Martha?"

"Why should I be afraid? The Evil One cannot harm _me_. I have no
beauty, no wits, no strength for him to envy. And the Holy Relic will
protect me."

Her wrinkled fingers touched something in the bosom of her dress.

"You come from the house yonder?" asked Langley.

She eyed him suspiciously.

"The señor is not of our country?"

"The gentleman is a guest, Martha," said the landlord hurriedly. "A
learned English gentleman. He knows our country and speaks our language
as you hear. He is a great traveller, like the American doctor, your
master."

"What is your master's name?" asked Langley. It occurred to him that an
American doctor who had buried himself in this remote corner of Europe
must have something unusual about him. Perhaps he also was an
ethnologist. If so, they might find something in common.

"He is called Wetherall." She pronounced the name several times before
he was sure of it.

"Wetherall? Not Standish Wetherall?"

He was filled with extraordinary excitement.

The landlord came to his assistance.

"This parcel is for him," he said. "No doubt the name will be written
there."

It was a small package, neatly sealed, bearing the label of a firm of
London chemists and addressed to "Standish Wetherall, Esq., M.D."

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Langley. "But this is strange. Almost a
miracle. I know this man. I knew his wife, too----"

He stopped. Again the company made the sign of the cross.

"Tell me," he said in great agitation, and forgetting his caution, "you
say his wife is bewitched--afflicted--how is this? Is she the same woman
I know? Describe her. She was tall, beautiful, with gold hair and blue
eyes like the Madonna. Is this she?"

There was a silence. The old woman shook her head and muttered something
inaudible, but the daughter whispered:

"True--it is true. Once we saw her thus, as the gentleman says----"

"Be quiet," said her father.

"Sir," said Martha, "we are in the hand of God."

She rose, and wrapped her shawl about her.

"One moment," said Langley. He pulled out his note-book and scribbled a
few lines. "Will you take this letter to your master the doctor? It is
to say that I am here, his friend whom he once knew, and to ask if I may
come and visit him. That is all."

"You would not go to that house, excellence?" whispered the old man
fearfully.

"If he will not have me, maybe he will come to me here." He added a word
or two and drew a piece of money from his pocket. "You will carry my
note for me?"

"Willingly, willingly. But the señor will be careful? Perhaps, though a
foreigner, you are of the Faith?"

"I am a Christian," said Langley.

This seemed to satisfy her. She took the letter and the money, and
secured them, together with the parcel, in a remote pocket. Then she
walked to the door, strongly and rapidly for all her bent shoulders and
appearance of great age.

Langley remained lost in thought. Nothing could have astonished him
more than to meet the name of Standish Wetherall in this place. He had
thought that episode finished and done with over three years ago. Of all
people! The brilliant surgeon in the prime of his life and reputation,
and Alice Wetherall, that delicate piece of golden womanhood--exiled in
this forlorn corner of the world! His heart beat a little faster at the
thought of seeing her again. Three years ago, he had decided that it
would be wiser if he did not see too much of that porcelain loveliness.
That folly was past now--but still he could not visualise her except
against the background of the great white house in Riverside Drive, with
the peacocks and the swimming-pool and the gilded tower with the
roof-garden. Wetherall was a rich man, the son of old Hiram Wetherall
the automobile magnate. What was Wetherall doing here?

He tried to remember. Hiram Wetherall, he knew, was dead, and all the
money belonged to Standish, for there were no other children. There had
been trouble when the only son had married a girl without parents or
history. He had brought her from "somewhere out west." There had been
some story of his having found her, years before, as a neglected orphan,
and saved her from something or cured her of something and paid for her
education, when he was still scarcely more than a student. Then, when he
was a man over forty and she a girl of seventeen, he had brought her
home and married her.

And now he had left his house and his money and one of the finest
specialist practices in New York to come to live in the Basque
country--in a spot so out of the way that men still believed in Black
Magic, and could barely splutter more than a few words of bastard French
or Spanish--a spot that was uncivilised even by comparison with the
primitive civilisation surrounding it. Langley began to be sorry that he
had written to Wetherall. It might be resented.

The landlord and his wife had gone out to see to their cattle. The
daughter sat close to the fire, mending a garment. She did not look at
him, but he had the feeling that she would be glad to speak.

"Tell me, child," he said gently, "what is the trouble which afflicts
these people who may be friends of mine?"

"Oh!" She glanced up quickly and leaned across to him, her arms
stretched out over the sewing in her lap. "Sir, be advised. Do not go up
there. No one will stay in that house at this time of the year, except
Tomaso, who has not all his wits, and old Martha, who is----"

"What?"

"A saint--or something else," she said hurriedly.

"Child," said Langley again, "this lady when I knew----"

"I will tell you," she said, "but my father must not know. The good
doctor brought her here three years ago last June, and then she was as
you say. She was beautiful. She laughed and talked in her own
speech--for she knew no Spanish or Basque. But on the Night of the
Dead----"

She crossed herself.

"All-Hallows Eve," said Langley softly.

"Indeed, I do not know what happened. But she fell into the power of the
darkness. She changed. There were terrible cries--I cannot tell. But
little by little she became what she is now. Nobody sees her but Martha
and she will not talk. But the people say it is not a woman at all that
lives there now."

"Mad?" said Langley.

"It is not madness. It is--enchantment. Listen. Two years since on
Easter Day--is that my father?"

"No, no."

"The sun had shone and the wind came up from the valley. We heard the
blessed church bells all day long. That night there came a knock at the
door. My father opened and one stood there like Our Blessed Lady
herself, very pale like the image in the church and with a blue cloak
over her head. She spoke, but we could not tell what she said. She wept
and wrung her hands and pointed down the valley path, and my father went
to the stable and saddled the mule. I thought of the flight from bad
King Herod. But then--the American doctor came. He had run fast and was
out of breath. And she shrieked at sight of him."

A great wave of indignation swept over Langley. If the man was brutal to
his wife, something must be done quickly. The girl hurried on.

"He said--Jesu-Maria--he said that his wife was bewitched. At
Easter-tide the power of the Evil One was broken and she would try to
flee. But as soon as the Holy Season was over, the spell would fall on
her again, and therefore it was not safe to let her go. My parents were
afraid to have touched the evil thing. They brought out the Holy Water
and sprinkled the mule, but the wickedness had entered into the poor
beast and she kicked my father so that he was lame for a month. The
American took his wife away with him and we never saw her again. Even
old Martha does not always see her. But every year the power waxes and
wanes--heaviest at Hallow-tide and lifted again at Easter. Do not go to
that house, señor, if you value your soul! Hush! they are coming back."

Langley would have liked to ask more, but his host glanced quickly and
suspiciously at the girl. Taking up his candle, Langley went to bed. He
dreamed of wolves, long, lean and black, running on the scent of blood.

Next day brought an answer to his letter:

     "DEAR LANGLEY,--Yes, this is myself, and of course I remember you
     well. Only too delighted to have you come and cheer our exile. You
     will find Alice somewhat changed, I fear, but I will explain our
     misfortunes when we meet. Our household is limited, owing to some
     kind of superstitious avoidance of the afflicted, but if you will
     come along about half-past seven, we can give you a meal of sorts.
     Martha will show you the way.

       "Cordially,
       STANDISH WETHERALL."

The doctor's house was small and old, stuck halfway up the mountain-side
on a kind of ledge in the rock-wall. A stream, unseen but clamorous,
fell echoing down close at hand. Langley followed his guide into a dim,
square room with a great hearth at one end and, drawn close before the
fire, an armchair with wide, sheltering ears. Martha, muttering some
sort of apology, hobbled away and left him standing there in the
half-light. The flames of the wood fire, leaping and falling, made here
a gleam and there a gleam, and, as his eyes grew familiar with the room,
he saw that in the centre was a table laid for a meal, and that there
were pictures on the walls. One of these struck a familiar note. He went
close to it and recognised a portrait of Alice Wetherall that he had
last seen in New York. It was painted by Sargent in his happiest mood,
and the lovely wild-flower face seemed to lean down to him with the
sparkling smile of life.

A log suddenly broke and fell in the hearth, flaring. As though the
little noise and light had disturbed something, he heard, or thought he
heard, a movement from the big chair before the fire. He stepped
forward, and then stopped. There was nothing to be seen, but a noise had
begun; a kind of low, animal muttering, extremely disagreeable to listen
to. It was not made by a dog or a cat, he felt sure. It was a sucking,
slobbering sound that affected him in a curiously sickening way. It
ended in a series of little grunts or squeals, and then there was
silence.

Langley stepped backwards towards the door. He was positive that
something was in the room with him that he did not care about meeting.
An absurd impulse seized him to run away. He was prevented by the
arrival of Martha, carrying a big, old-fashioned lamp, and behind her,
Wetherall, who greeted him cheerfully.

The familiar American accents dispelled the atmosphere of discomfort
that had been gathering about Langley. He held out a cordial hand.

"Fancy meeting _you_ here," said he.

"The world is very small," replied Wetherall. "I am afraid that is a
hardy bromide, but I certainly am pleased to see you," he added, with
some emphasis.

The old woman had put the lamp on the table, and now asked if she should
bring in the dinner. Wetherall replied in the affirmative, using a
mixture of Spanish and Basque which she seemed to understand well
enough.

"I didn't know you were a Basque scholar," said Langley.

"Oh, one picks it up. These people speak nothing else. But of course
Basque is your speciality, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes."

"I daresay they have told you some queer things about us. But we'll go
into that later. I've managed to make the place reasonably comfortable,
though I could do with a few more modern conveniences. However, it suits
us."

Langley took the opportunity to mumble some sort of inquiry about Mrs.
Wetherall.

"Alice? Ah, yes, I forgot--you have not seen her yet." Wetherall looked
hard at him with a kind of half-smile. "I should have warned you. You
were--rather an admirer of my wife in the old days."

"Like everyone else," said Langley.

"No doubt. Nothing specially surprising about it, was there? Here comes
dinner. Put it down, Martha, and we will ring when we are ready."

The old woman set down a dish upon the table, which was handsomely
furnished with glass and silver, and went out. Wetherall moved over to
the fireplace, stepping sideways and keeping his eyes oddly fixed on
Langley. Then he addressed the armchair.

"Alice! Get up, my dear, and welcome an old admirer of yours. Come
along. You will both enjoy it. Get up."

Something shuffled and whimpered among the cushions. Wetherall stooped,
with an air of almost exaggerated courtesy, and lifted it to its feet. A
moment, and it faced Langley in the lamplight.

It was dressed in a rich gown of gold satin and lace, that hung rucked
and crumpled upon the thick and slouching body. The face was white and
puffy, the eyes vacant, the mouth drooled open, with little trickles of
saliva running from the loose corners. A dry fringe of rusty hair clung
to the half-bald scalp, like the dead wisps on the head of a mummy.

"Come, my love," said Wetherall. "Say how do you do to Mr. Langley."

The creature blinked and mouthed out some inhuman sounds. Wetherall put
his hand under its forearm, and it slowly extended a lifeless paw.

"There, she recognises you all right. I thought she would. Shake hands
with him, my dear."

With a sensation of nausea, Langley took the inert hand. It was clammy
and coarse to the touch and made no attempt to return his pressure. He
let it go; it pawed vaguely in the air for a moment and then dropped.

"I was afraid you might be upset," said Wetherall, watching him. "I have
grown used to it, of course, and it doesn't affect me as it would an
outsider. Not that you are an outsider--anything but that--eh? Premature
senility is the lay name for it, I suppose. Shocking, of course, if you
haven't met it before. You needn't mind, by the way, what you say. She
understands nothing."

"How did it happen?"

"I don't quite know. Came on gradually. I took the best advice,
naturally, but there was nothing to be done. So we came here. I didn't
care about facing things at home where everybody knew us. And I didn't
like the idea of a sanatorium. Alice is my wife, you know--sickness or
health, for better, for worse, and all that. Come along; dinner's
getting cold."

He advanced to the table, leading his wife, whose dim eyes seemed to
brighten a little at the sight of food.

"Sit down, my dear, and eat your nice dinner. (She understands that, you
see.) You'll excuse her table-manners, won't you? They're not pretty,
but you'll get used to them."

He tied a napkin round the neck of the creature and placed food before
her in a deep bowl. She snatched at it hungrily, slavering and gobbling
as she scooped it up in her fingers and smeared face and hands with the
gravy.

Wetherall drew out a chair for his guest opposite to where his wife sat.
The sight of her held Langley with a kind of disgusted fascination.

The food--a sort of salmis--was deliciously cooked, but Langley had no
appetite. The whole thing was an outrage, to the pitiful woman and to
himself. Her seat was directly beneath the Sargent portrait, and his
eyes went helplessly from the one to the other.

"Yes," said Wetherall, following his glance. "There is a difference,
isn't there?" He himself was eating heartily and apparently enjoying his
dinner. "Nature plays sad tricks upon us."

"Is it always like this?"

"No; this is one of her bad days. At times she will be--almost human. Of
course these people here don't know what to think of it all. They have
their own explanation of a very simple medical phenomenon."

"Is there any hope of recovery?"

"I'm afraid not--not of a permanent cure. You are not eating anything."

"I--well, Wetherall, this has been a shock to me."

"Of course. Try a glass of burgundy. I ought not to have asked you to
come, but the idea of talking to an educated fellow-creature once again
tempted me, I must confess."

"It must be terrible for you."

"I have become resigned. Ah, naughty, naughty!" The idiot had flung half
the contents of her bowl upon the table. Wetherall patiently remedied
the disaster, and went on:

"I can bear it better here, in this wild place where everything seems
possible and nothing unnatural. My people are all dead, so there was
nothing to prevent me from doing as I liked about it."

"No. What about your property in the States?"

"Oh, I run over from time to time to keep an eye on things. In fact, I
am due to sail next month. I'm glad you caught me. Nobody over there
knows how we're fixed, of course. They just know we're living in
Europe."

"Did you consult no American doctor?"

"No. We were in Paris when the first symptoms declared themselves. That
was shortly after that visit you paid to us." A flash of some emotion to
which Langley could not put a name made the doctor's eyes for a moment
sinister. "The best men on this side confirmed my own diagnosis. So we
came here."

He rang for Martha, who removed the salmis and put on a kind of sweet
pudding.

"Martha is my right hand," observed Wetherall. "I don't know what we
shall do without her. When I am away, she looks after Alice like a
mother. Not that there's much one can do for her, except to keep her fed
and warm and clean--and the last is something of a task."

There was a note in his voice which jarred on Langley. Wetherall noticed
his recoil and said:

"I won't disguise from you that it gets on my nerves sometimes. But it
can't be helped. Tell me about yourself. What have you been doing
lately?"

Langley replied with as much vivacity as he could assume, and they
talked of indifferent subjects till the deplorable being which had once
been Alice Wetherall began to mumble and whine fretfully and scramble
down from her chair.

"She's cold," said Wetherall. "Go back to the fire, my dear."

He propelled her briskly towards the hearth, and she sank back into the
armchair, crouching and complaining and thrusting out her hands towards
the blaze. Wetherall brought out brandy and a box of cigars.

"I contrive just to keep in touch with the world, you see," he said.
"They send me these from London. And I get the latest medical journals
and reports. I'm writing a book, you know, on my own subject; so I don't
vegetate. I can experiment, too--plenty of room for a laboratory, and no
Vivisection Acts to bother one. It's a good country to work in. Are you
staying here long?"

"I think not very."

"Oh! If you had thought of stopping on, I would have offered you the use
of this house while I was away. You would find it more comfortable than
the _posada_, and I should have no qualms, you know, about leaving you
alone in the place with my wife--under the peculiar circumstances."

He stressed the last words and laughed. Langley hardly knew what to say.

"Really, Wetherall----"

"Though, in the old days, _you_ might have liked the prospect more and
_I_ might have liked it less. There was a time, I think, Langley, when
you would have jumped at the idea of living alone with--_my wife_."

Langley jumped up.

"What the devil are you insinuating, Wetherall?"

"Nothing, nothing. I was just thinking of the afternoon when you and she
wandered away at a picnic and got lost. You remember? Yes, I thought you
would."

"This is monstrous," retorted Langley. "How dare you say such
things--with that poor soul sitting there----?"

"Yes, poor soul. You're a poor thing to look at now, aren't you, my
kitten?"

He turned suddenly to the woman. Something in his abrupt gesture seemed
to frighten her, and she shrank away from him.

"You devil!" cried Langley. "She's afraid of you. What have you been
doing to her? How did she get into this state? I _will_ know!"

"Gently," said Wetherall. "I can allow for your natural agitation at
finding her like this, but I can't have you coming between me and _my
wife_. What a faithful fellow you are, Langley. I believe you still want
her--just as you did before when you thought I was dumb and blind. Come
now, have you got designs on _my wife_, Langley? Would you like to kiss
her, caress her, take her to bed with you--my beautiful wife?"

A scarlet fury blinded Langley. He dashed an inexpert fist at the
mocking face. Wetherall gripped his arm, but he broke away. Panic seized
him. He fled stumbling against the furniture and rushed out. As he went
he heard Wetherall very softly laughing.

       *       *       *       *       *

The train to Paris was crowded. Langley, scrambling in at the last
moment, found himself condemned to the corridor. He sat down on a
suitcase and tried to think. He had not been able to collect his
thoughts on his wild flight. Even now, he was not quite sure what he had
fled from. He buried his head in his hands.

"Excuse me," said a polite voice.

Langley looked up. A fair man in a grey suit was looking down at him
through a monocle.

"Fearfully sorry to disturb you," went on the fair man. "I'm just tryin'
to barge back to my jolly old kennel. Ghastly crowd, isn't it? Don't
know when I've disliked my fellow-creatures more. I say, you don't look
frightfully fit. Wouldn't you be better on something more comfortable?"

Langley explained that he had not been able to get a seat. The fair man
eyed his haggard and unshaven countenance for a moment and then said:

"Well, look here, why not come and lay yourself down in my bin for a
bit? Have you had any grub? No? That's a mistake. Toddle along with me
and we'll get hold of a spot of soup and so on. You'll excuse my
mentioning it, but you look as if you'd been backing a system that's
come unstuck, or something. Not my business, of course, but do have
something to eat."

Langley was too faint and sick to protest. He stumbled obediently along
the corridor till he was pushed into a first-class sleeper, where a
rigidly correct manservant was laying out a pair of mauve silk pyjamas
and a set of silver-mounted brushes.

"This gentleman's feeling rotten, Bunter," said the man with the
monocle, "so I've brought him in to rest his aching head upon thy
breast. Get hold of the commissariat and tell 'em to buzz a plate of
soup along and a bottle of something drinkable."

"Very good, my lord."

Langley dropped, exhausted, on the bed, but when the food appeared he
ate and drank greedily. He could not remember when he had last made a
meal.

"I say," he said, "I wanted that. It's awfully decent of you. I'm sorry
to appear so stupid. I've had a bit of a shock."

"Tell me all," said the stranger pleasantly.

The man did not look particularly intelligent, but he seemed friendly,
and above all, normal. Langley wondered how the story would sound.

"I'm an absolute stranger to you," he began.

"And I to you," said the fair man. "The chief use of strangers is to
tell things to. Don't you agree?"

"I'd like----" said Langley. "The fact is, I've run away from something.
It's queer--it's--but what's the use of bothering you with it?"

The fair man sat down beside him and laid a slim hand on his arm.

"Just a moment," he said. "Don't tell me anything if you'd rather not.
But my name is Wimsey--Lord Peter Wimsey--and I am interested in queer
things."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was the middle of November when the strange man came to the village.
Thin, pale and silent, with his great black hood flapping about his
face, he was surrounded with an atmosphere of mystery from the start. He
settled down, not at the inn, but in a dilapidated cottage high up in
the mountains, and he brought with him five mule-loads of mysterious
baggage and a servant. The servant was almost as uncanny as the master;
he was a Spaniard and spoke Basque well enough to act as an interpreter
for his employer when necessary; but his words were few, his aspect
gloomy and stern, and such brief information as he vouchsafed,
disquieting in the extreme. His master, he said, was a wise man; he
spent all his time reading books; he ate no flesh; he was of no known
country; he spoke the language of the Apostles and had talked with
blessed Lazarus after his return from the grave; and when he sat alone
in his chamber by night, the angels of God came and conversed with him
in celestial harmonies.

This was terrifying news. The few dozen villagers avoided the little
cottage, especially at night-time; and when the pale stranger was seen
coming down the mountain path, folded in his black robe and bearing one
of his magic tomes beneath his arm, the women pushed their children
within doors, and made the sign of the cross.

Nevertheless, it was a child that first made the personal acquaintance
of the magician. The small son of the Widow Etcheverry, a child of bold
and inquisitive disposition, went one evening adventuring into the
unhallowed neighbourhood. He was missing for two hours, during which his
mother, in a frenzy of anxiety, had called the neighbours about her and
summoned the priest, who had unhappily been called away on business to
the town. Suddenly, however, the child reappeared, well and cheerful,
with a strange story to tell.

He had crept up close to the magician's house (the bold, wicked child,
did ever you hear the like?) and climbed into a tree to spy upon the
stranger (Jesu-Maria!) And he saw a light in the window, and strange
shapes moving about and shadows going to and fro within the room. And
then there came a strain of music so ravishing it drew the very heart
out of his body, as though all the stars were singing together. (Oh, my
precious treasure! The wizard has stolen the heart out of him, alas!
alas!) Then the cottage door opened and the wizard came out and with him
a great company of familiar spirits. One of them had wings like a seraph
and talked in an unknown tongue, and another was like a wee man, no
higher than your knee, with a black face and a white beard, and he sat
on the wizard's shoulder and whispered in his ear. And the heavenly
music played louder and louder. And the wizard had a pale flame all
about his head, like the pictures of the saints. (Blessed St. James of
Compostella, be merciful to us all! And what then?) Why then he, the
boy, had been very much frightened and wished he had not come, but the
little dwarf spirit had seen him and jumped into the tree after him,
climbing--oh! so fast! And he had tried to climb higher and had slipped
and fallen to the ground. (Oh, the poor, wicked, brave, bad boy!)

Then the wizard had come and picked him up and spoken strange words to
him and all the pain had gone away from the places where he had bumped
himself (Marvellous! marvellous!), and he had carried him into the
house. And inside, it was like the streets of Heaven, all gold and
glittering. And the familiar spirits had sat beside the fire, nine in
number, and the music had stopped playing. But the wizard's servant had
brought him marvellous fruits in a silver dish, like fruits of Paradise,
very sweet and delicious, and he had eaten them, and drunk a strange,
rich drink from a goblet covered with red and blue jewels. Oh, yes--and
there had been a tall crucifix on the wall, big, big, with a lamp
burning before it and a strange sweet perfume like the smell in church
on Easter Day.

(A crucifix? That was strange. Perhaps the magician was not so wicked
after all. And what next?)

Next, the wizard's servant had told him not to be afraid, and had asked
his name and his age and whether he could repeat his Paternoster. So he
had said that prayer and the Ave Maria and part of the Credo, but the
Credo was long and he had forgotten what came after "_ascendit in
cœlum_." So the wizard had prompted him and they had finished saying it
together. And the wizard had pronounced the sacred names and words
without flinching and in the right order, so far as he could tell. And
then the servant had asked further about himself and his family, and he
had told about the death of the black goat and about his sister's lover,
who had left her because she had not so much money as the merchant's
daughter. Then the wizard and his servant had spoken together and
laughed, and the servant had said: "My master gives this message to your
sister: that where there is no love there is no wealth, but he that is
bold shall have gold for the asking." And with that, the wizard had put
forth his hand into the air and taken from it--out of the empty air,
yes, truly--one, two, three, four, five pieces of money and given them
to him. And he was afraid to take them till he had made the sign of the
cross upon them, and then, as they did not vanish or turn into fiery
serpents, he had taken them, and here they were!

So the gold pieces were examined and admired in fear and trembling, and
then, by grandfather's advice, placed under the feet of the image of Our
Lady, after a sprinkling with Holy Water for their better purification.
And on the next morning, as they were still there, they were shown to
the priest, who arrived, tardy and flustered upon his last night's
summons, and by him pronounced to be good Spanish coin, whereof one
piece being devoted to the Church to put all right with Heaven, the rest
might be put to secular uses without peril to the soul. After which, the
good padre made his hasty way to the cottage, and returned, after an
hour, filled with good reports of the wizard.

"For, my children," said he, "this is no evil sorcerer, but a Christian
man, speaking the language of the Faith. He and I have conversed
together with edification. Moreover, he keeps very good wine and is
altogether a very worthy person. Nor did I perceive any familiar spirits
or flaming apparitions; but it is true that there is a crucifix and also
a very handsome Testament with pictures in gold and colour.
_Benedicite_, my children. This is a good and learned man."

And away he went back to his presbytery; and that winter the chapel of
Our Lady had a new altar-cloth.

After that, each night saw a little group of people clustered at a safe
distance to hear the music which poured out from the wizard's windows,
and from time to time a few bold spirits would creep up close enough to
peer through the chinks of the shutters and glimpse the marvels within.

The wizard had been in residence about a month, and sat one night after
his evening meal in conversation with his servant. The black hood was
pushed back from his head, disclosing a sleek poll of fair hair, and a
pair of rather humorous grey eyes, with a cynical droop of the lids. A
glass of Cockburn 1908 stood on the table at his elbow and from the arm
of his chair a red-and-green parrot gazed unwinkingly at the fire.

"Time is getting on, Juan," said the magician. "This business is very
good fun and all that--but is there anything doing with the old lady?"

"I think so, my lord. I have dropped a word or two here and there of
marvellous cures and miracles. I think she will come. Perhaps even
to-night."

"Thank goodness! I want to get the thing over before Wetherall comes
back, or we may find ourselves in Queer Street. It will take some weeks,
you know, before we are ready to move, even if the scheme works at all.
Damn it, what's that?"

Juan rose and went into the inner room, to return in a minute carrying
the lemur.

"Micky had been playing with your hair-brushes," he said indulgently,
"Naughty one, be quiet! Are you ready for a little practice, my lord?"

"Oh, rather, yes! I'm getting quite a dab at this job. If all else
fails, I shall try for an engagement with Maskelyn."

Juan laughed, showing his white teeth. He brought out a set of
billiard-balls, coins and other conjuring apparatus, palming and
multiplying them negligently as he went. The other took them from him,
and the lesson proceeded.

"Hush!" said the wizard, retrieving a ball which had tiresomely slipped
from his fingers in the very act of vanishing. "There's somebody coming
up the path."

He pulled his robe about his face and slipped silently into the inner
room. Juan grinned, removed the decanter and glasses, and extinguished
the lamp. In the firelight the great eyes of the lemur gleamed strongly
as it hung on the back of the high chair. Juan pulled a large folio from
the shelf, lit a scented pastille in a curiously shaped copper vase and
pulled forward a heavy iron cauldron which stood on the hearth. As he
piled the logs about it, there came a knock. He opened the door, the
lemur running at his heels.

"Whom do you seek, mother?" he asked, in Basque.

"Is the Wise One at home?"

"His body is at home, mother; his spirit holds converse with the unseen.
Enter. What would you with us?"

"I have come, as I said--ah, Mary! Is that a spirit?"

"God made spirits and bodies also. Enter and fear not."

The old woman came tremblingly forward.

"Hast thou spoken with him of what I told thee?"

"I have. I have shown him the sickness of thy mistress--her husband's
sufferings--all."

"What said he?"

"Nothing; he read in his book."

"Think you he can heal her?"

"I do not know; the enchantment is a strong one; but my master is mighty
for good."

"Will he see me?"

"I will ask him. Remain here, and beware thou show no fear, whatever
befall."

"I will be courageous," said the old woman, fingering her beads.

Juan withdrew. There was a nerve-shattering interval. The lemur had
climbed up to the back of the chair again and swung, teeth-chattering,
among the leaping shadows. The parrot cocked his head and spoke a few
gruff words from his corner. An aromatic steam began to rise from the
cauldron. Then, slowly into the red light, three, four, seven white
shapes came stealthily and sat down in a circle about the hearth. Then,
a faint music, that seemed to roll in from leagues away. The flame
flickered and dropped. There was a tall cabinet against the wall, with
gold figures on it that seemed to move with the moving firelight.

Then, out of the darkness, a strange voice chanted in an unearthly
tongue that sobbed and thundered.

Martha's knees gave under her. She sank down. The seven white cats rose
and stretched themselves, and came sidling slowly about her. She looked
up and saw the wizard standing before her, a book in one hand and a
silver wand in the other. The upper part of his face was hidden, but she
saw his pale lips move and presently he spoke, in a deep, husky tone
that vibrated solemnly in the dim room:

  "ὦ πέπον, εἰ μὲν γὰρ, πόλεμον περὶ τόνδε φυγόντε,
  αἰεὶ δὴ μέλλοιμεν ἀγήρω τ' ἀθανάτω τε
  ἔσσεσθ', οὔτε κεν αὐτὸς ἐνὶ πρώτοισι μαχοίμην,
  οὔτε κέ σε στέλλοιμι μάχην ἐς κυδιάνειραν . . ."

  [Greek: Transliteration
   "ô pepon, ei men gar, polemon peri tonde phygonte,
    aiei dê melloimen agêrô t' athanatô te
    essesth', oute ken autos eni prôtoisi machoimên,
    oute ke se stelloimi machên es kydianeiran . . ."]

The great syllables went rolling on. Then the wizard paused, and added,
in a kinder tone:

"Great stuff, this Homer. 'It goes so thunderingly as though it conjured
devils.' What do I do next?"

The servant had come back, and now whispered in Martha's ear.

"Speak now," said he. "The master is willing to help you."

Thus encouraged, Martha stammered out her request. She had come to ask
the Wise Man to help her mistress, who lay under an enchantment. She had
brought an offering--the best she could find, for she had not liked to
take anything of her master's during his absence. But here were a silver
penny, an oat-cake, and a bottle of wine, very much at the wizard's
service, if such small matters could please him.

The wizard, setting aside his book, gravely accepted the silver penny,
turned it magically into six gold pieces and laid the offering on the
table. Over the oat-cake and the wine he showed a little hesitation, but
at length, murmuring:

"_Ergo omnis longo solvit se Teucria luctu_"

(a line notorious for its grave spondaic cadence), he metamorphosed the
one into a pair of pigeons and the other into a curious little crystal
tree in a metal pot, and set them beside the coins. Martha's eyes nearly
started from her head, but Juan whispered encouragingly:

"The good intention gives value to the gift. The master is pleased.
Hush!"

The music ceased on a loud chord. The wizard, speaking now with greater
assurance, delivered himself with fair accuracy of a page or so from
Homer's Catalogue of the Ships, and, drawing from the folds of his robe
his long white hand laden with antique rings, produced from mid-air a
small casket of shining metal, which he proffered to the suppliant.

"The master says," prompted the servant, "that you shall take this
casket, and give to your lady of the wafers which it contains, one at
every meal. When all have been consumed, seek this place again. And
remember to say three Aves and two Paters morning and evening for the
intention of the lady's health. Thus, by faith and diligence, the cure
may be accomplished."

Martha received the casket with trembling hands.

"Tendebantque manus ripæ ulterioris amore," said the wizard, with
emphasis. "Poluphloisboio thalasses. Ne plus ultra. Valete. Plaudite."

He stalked away into the darkness, and the audience was over.

       *       *       *       *       *

"It is working, then?" said the wizard to Juan.

The time was five weeks later, and five more consignments of enchanted
wafers had been ceremoniously dispatched to the grim house on the
mountain.

"It is working," agreed Juan. "The intelligence is returning, the body
is becoming livelier and the hair is growing again."

"Thank the Lord! It was a shot in the dark, Juan, and even now I can
hardly believe that anyone in the world could think of such a devilish
trick. When does Wetherall return?"

"In three weeks' time."

"Then we had better fix our grand finale for to-day fortnight. See that
the mules are ready, and go down to the town and get a message off to
the yacht."

"Yes, my lord."

"That will give you a week to get clear with the menagerie and the
baggage. And--I say, how about Martha? Is it dangerous to leave her
behind, do you think?"

"I will try to persuade her to come back with us."

"Do. I should hate anything unpleasant to happen to her. The man's a
criminal lunatic. Oh, lord! I'll be glad when this is over. I want to
get into a proper suit of clothes again. What Bunter would say if he saw
this----"

The wizard laughed, lit a cigar and turned on the gramophone.

       *       *       *       *       *

The last act was duly staged a fortnight later.

It had taken some trouble to persuade Martha of the necessity of
bringing her mistress to the wizard's house. Indeed, that supernatural
personage had been obliged to make an alarming display of wrath and
declaim two whole choruses from Euripides before gaining his point. The
final touch was put to the terrors of the evening by a demonstration of
the ghastly effects of a sodium flame--which lends a very corpse-like
aspect to the human countenance, particularly in a lonely cottage on a
dark night, and accompanied by incantations and the "Danse Macabre" of
Saint-Saens.

Eventually the wizard was placated by a promise, and Martha departed,
bearing with her a charm, engrossed upon parchment, which her mistress
was to read and thereafter hang about her neck in a white silk bag.

Considered as a magical formula, the document was perhaps a little
unimpressive in its language, but its meaning was such as a child could
understand. It was in English, and ran:

     "You have been ill and in trouble, but your friends are ready to
     cure you and help you. Don't be afraid, but do whatever Martha
     tells you, and you will soon be quite well and happy again."

"And even if she can't understand it," said the wizard to his man, "it
can't possibly do any harm."

       *       *       *       *       *

The events of that terrible night have become legend in the village.
They tell by the fireside with bated breath how Martha brought the
strange, foreign lady to the wizard's house, that she might be finally
and for ever freed from the power of the Evil One. It was a dark night
and a stormy one, with the wind howling terribly through the mountains.

The lady had become much better and brighter through the wizard's
magic--though this, perhaps, was only a fresh glamour and delusion--and
she had followed Martha like a little child on that strange and secret
journey. They had crept out very quietly to elude the vigilance of old
Tomaso, who had strict orders from the doctor never to let the lady
stir one step from the house. As for that, Tomaso swore that he had been
cast into an enchanted sleep--but who knows? There may have been no more
to it than over-much wine. Martha was a cunning woman, and, some said,
little better than a witch herself.

Be that as it might, Martha and the lady had come to the cottage, and
there the wizard had spoken many things in a strange tongue, and the
lady had spoken likewise. Yes--she who for so long had only grunted like
a beast, had talked with the wizard and answered him. Then the wizard
had drawn strange signs upon the floor round about the lady and himself.
And when the lamp was extinguished, the signs glowed awfully, with a
pale light of their own. The wizard also drew a circle about Martha
herself, and warned her to keep inside it. Presently they heard a
rushing noise, like great wings beating, and all the familiars leaped
about, and the little white man with the black face ran up the curtain
and swung from the pole. Then a voice cried out: "He comes! He comes!"
and the wizard opened the door of the tall cabinet with gold images upon
it, that stood in the centre of the circle, and he and the lady stepped
inside it and shut the doors after them.

The rushing sound grew louder and the familiar spirits screamed and
chattered--and then, all of a sudden, there was a thunder-clap and a
great flash of light and the cabinet was shivered into pieces and fell
down. And lo and behold! the wizard and the lady had vanished clean away
and were never more seen or heard of.

This was Martha's story, told the next day to her neighbours. How she
had escaped from the terrible house she could not remember. But when,
some time after, a group of villagers summoned up courage to visit the
place again, they found it bare and empty. Lady, wizard, servant,
familiars, furniture, bags and baggage--all were gone, leaving not a
trace behind them, except a few mysterious lines and figures traced on
the floor of the cottage.

This was a wonder indeed. More awful still was the disappearance of
Martha herself, which took place three nights afterwards.

Next day, the American doctor returned, to find an empty hearth and a
legend.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Yacht ahoy!"

Langley peered anxiously over the rail of the _Abracadabra_ as the boat
loomed out of the blackness. When the first passenger came aboard, he
ran hastily to greet him.

"Is it all right, Wimsey?"

"Absolutely all right. She's a bit bewildered, of course--but you
needn't be afraid. She's like a child, but she's getting better every
day. Bear up, old man--there's nothing to shock you about her."

Langley moved hesitatingly forward as a muffled female figure was
hoisted gently on board.

"Speak to her," said Wimsey. "She may or may not recognise you. I can't
say."

Langley summoned up his courage. "Good evening, Mrs. Wetherall," he
said, and held out his hand.

The woman pushed the cloak from her face. Her blue eyes gazed shyly at
him in the lamplight--then a smile broke out upon her lips.

"Why, I know you--of course I know you. You're Mr. Langley. I'm so glad
to see you."

She clasped his hand in hers.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Well, Langley," said Lord Peter, as he manipulated the syphon, "a more
abominable crime it has never been my fortune to discover. My religious
beliefs are a little ill-defined, but I hope something really beastly
happens to Wetherall in the next world. Say when!

"You know, there were one or two very queer points about that story you
told me. They gave me a line on the thing from the start.

"To begin with, there was this extraordinary kind of decay or imbecility
settlin' in on a girl in her twenties--so conveniently, too, just after
you'd been hangin' round the Wetherall home and showin' perhaps a trifle
too much sensibility, don't you see? And then there was this tale of the
conditions clearin' up regularly once a year or so--not like any
ordinary brain-trouble. Looked as if it was being controlled by
somebody.

"Then there was the fact that Mrs. Wetherall had been under her
husband's medical eye from the beginning, with no family or friends who
knew anything about her to keep a check on the fellow. Then there was
the determined isolation of her in a place where no doctor could see her
and where, even if she had a lucid interval, there wasn't a soul who
could understand or be understood by her. Queer, too, that it should be
a part of the world where you, with your interests, might reasonably be
expected to turn up some day and be treated to a sight of what she had
turned into. Then there were Wetherall's well-known researches, and the
fact that he kept in touch with a chemist in London.

"All that gave me a theory, but I had to test it before I could be sure
I was right. Wetherall was going to America, and that gave me a chance;
but of course he left strict orders that nobody should get into or out
of his house during his absence. I had, somehow, to establish an
authority greater than his over old Martha, who is a faithful soul, God
bless her! Hence, exit Lord Peter Wimsey and enter the magician. The
treatment was tried and proved successful--hence the elopement and the
rescue.

"Well, now, listen--and don't go off the deep end. It's all over now.
Alice Wetherall is one of those unfortunate people who suffer from
congenital thyroid deficiency. You know the thyroid gland in your
throat--the one that stokes the engine and keeps the old brain going. In
some people the thing doesn't work properly, and they turn out cretinous
imbeciles. Their bodies don't grow and their minds don't work. But feed
'em the stuff, and they come absolutely all right--cheery and handsome
and intelligent and lively as crickets. Only, don't you see, you have to
_keep_ feeding it to 'em, otherwise they just go back to an imbecile
condition.

"Wetherall found this girl when he was a bright young student just
learning about the thyroid. Twenty years ago, very few experiments had
been made in this kind of treatment, but he was a bit of a pioneer. He
gets hold of the kid, works a miraculous cure, and, bein' naturally
bucked with himself, adopts her, gets her educated, likes the look of
her, and finally marries her. You understand, don't you, that there's
nothing fundamentally unsound about those thyroid deficients. Keep 'em
going on the little daily dose, and they're normal in every way, fit to
live an ordinary life and have ordinary healthy children.

"Nobody, naturally, knew anything about this thyroid business except the
girl herself and her husband. All goes well till _you_ come along. Then
Wetherall gets jealous----"

"He had no cause."

Wimsey shrugged his shoulders.

"Possibly, my lad, the lady displayed a preference--we needn't go into
that. Anyhow, Wetherall did get jealous and saw a perfectly marvellous
revenge in his power. He carried his wife off to the Pyrenees, isolated
her from all help, and then simply sat back and starved her of her
thyroid extract. No doubt he told her what he was going to do, and why.
It would please him to hear her desperate appeals--to let her feel
herself slipping back day by day, hour by hour, into something less than
a beast----"

"Oh, God!"

"As you say. Of course, after a time, a few months, she would cease to
know what was happening to her. He would still have the satisfaction of
watching her--seeing her skin thicken, her body coarsen, her hair fall
out, her eyes grow vacant, her speech die away into mere animal noises,
her brain go to mush, her habits----"

"Stop it, Wimsey."

"Well, you saw it all yourself. But that wouldn't be enough for him. So,
every so often, he would feed her the thyroid again and bring her back
sufficiently to realise her own degradation----"

"If only I had the brute here!"

"Just as well you haven't. Well then, one day--by a stroke of luck--Mr.
Langley, the amorous Mr. Langley, actually turns up. What a triumph to
let him see----"

Langley stopped him again.

"Right-ho! but it was ingenious, wasn't it? So simple. The more I think
of it, the more it fascinates me. But it was just that extra refinement
of cruelty that defeated him. Because, when you told me the story, I
couldn't help recognising the symptoms of thyroid deficiency, and I
thought, 'Just supposing'--so I hunted up the chemist whose name you saw
on the parcel, and, after unwinding a lot of red tape, got him to admit
that he had several times sent Wetherall consignments of thyroid
extract. So then I was almost sure, don't you see.

"I got a doctor's advice and a supply of gland extract, hired a tame
Spanish conjurer and some performing cats and things, and barged off
complete with disguise and a trick cabinet devised by the ingenious Mr.
Devant. I'm a bit of a conjurer myself, and between us we didn't do so
badly. The local superstitions helped, of course, and so did the
gramophone records. Schubert's "Unfinished" is first class for producing
an atmosphere of gloom and mystery, so are luminous paint and the
remnants of a classical education."

"Look here, Wimsey, will she get all right again?"

"Right as ninepence, and I imagine that any American court would give
her a divorce on the grounds of persistent cruelty. After that--it's up
to you!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Lord Peter's friends greeted his reappearance in London with mild
surprise.

"And what have _you_ been doing with yourself?" demanded the Hon. Freddy
Arbuthnot.

"Eloping with another man's wife," replied his lordship. "But only," he
hastened to add, "in a purely Pickwickian sense. Nothing in it for yours
truly. Oh, well! Let's toddle round to the Holborn Empire, and see what
George Robey can do for us."




3. THE QUEEN'S SQUARE


"You Jack o' Di'monds, you Jack o' Di'monds," said Mark Sambourne,
shaking a reproachful head, "I know you of old." He rummaged beneath the
white satin of his costume, panelled with gigantic oblongs and spotted
to represent a set of dominoes. "Hang this fancy rig! Where the blazes
has the fellow put my pockets? You rob my pocket, yes, you rob-a my
pocket, you rob my pocket of silver and go-ho-hold. How much do you make
it?" He extracted a fountain-pen and a cheque-book.

"Five-seventeen-six," said Lord Peter Wimsey. "That's right, isn't it,
partner?" His huge blue-and-scarlet sleeves rustled as he turned to Lady
Hermione Creethorpe, who, in her Queen of Clubs costume, looked a very
redoubtable virgin, as, indeed, she was.

"Quite right," said the old lady, "and I consider that very cheap."

"We haven't been playing long," said Wimsey apologetically.

[Illustration: PLAN OF THE BALL-ROOM

A, Stair to Dressing-room and Gallery; B, Stair to Gallery; C, Stair to
Musicians' Gallery only; D, Settee where Joan Carstairs sat; E, Settee
where Jim Playfair sat; F, Where Waits stood; G, Where Ephraim Dodd sat;
H, Guests' 'Sir Roger'; J, Servants' 'Sir Roger'; XX, Hanging Lanterns;
O O O O, Arcading.]

"It would have been more, Auntie," observed Mrs. Wrayburn, "if you
hadn't been greedy. You shouldn't have doubled those four spades of
mine."

Lady Hermione snorted, and Wimsey hastily cut in:

"It's a pity we've got to stop, but Deverill will never forgive us if
we're not there to dance Sir Roger. He feels strongly about it. What's
the time? Twenty past one. Sir Roger is timed to start sharp at
half-past. I suppose we'd better tootle back to the ballroom."

"I suppose we had," agreed Mrs. Wrayburn. She stood up, displaying her
dress, boldly patterned with the red and black points of a backgammon
board. "It's very good of you," she added, as Lady Hermione's voluminous
skirts swept through the hall ahead of them, "to chuck your dancing to
give Auntie her bridge. She does so hate to miss it."

"Not at all," replied Wimsey. "It's a pleasure. And in any case I was
jolly glad of a rest. These costumes are dashed hot for dancing in."

"You make a splendid Jack of Diamonds, though. Such a good idea of Lady
Deverill's, to make everybody come as a game. It cuts out all those
wearisome pierrots and columbines." They skirted the south-west angle of
the ballroom and emerged into the south corridor, lit by a great hanging
lantern in four lurid colours. Under the arcading they paused and stood
watching the floor, where Sir Charles Deverill's guests were
fox-trotting to a lively tune discoursed by the band in the musicians'
gallery at the far end. "Hullo, Giles!" added Mrs. Wrayburn, "you look
hot."

"I am hot," said Giles Pomfret. "I wish to goodness I hadn't been so
clever about this infernal costume. It's a beautiful billiard-table, but
I can't sit down in it." He mopped his heated brow, crowned with an
elegant green lamp-shade. "The only rest I can get is to hitch my behind
on a radiator, and as they're all in full blast, it's not very cooling.
Thank goodness, I can always make these damned sandwich boards an excuse
to get out of dancing." He propped himself against the nearest column,
looking martyred.

"Nina Hartford comes off best," said Mrs. Wrayburn. "Water-polo--so
sensible--just a bathing-dress and a ball; though I must say it would
look better on a less _Restoration_ figure. You playing-cards are much
the prettiest, and I think the chess-pieces run you close. There goes
Gerda Bellingham, dancing with her husband--isn't she _too_ marvellous
in that red wig? And the bustle and everything--my dear, so attractive.
I'm glad they didn't make themselves too Lewis Carroll; Charmian Grayle
is the sweetest White Queen--where is she, by the way?"

"I don't like that young woman," said Lady Hermione; "she's fast."

"Dear lady!"

"I've no doubt you think me old-fashioned. Well, I'm glad I am. I say
she's fast, and, what's more, heartless. I was watching her before
supper, and I'm sorry for Tony Lee. She's been flirting as hard as she
can go with Harry Vibart--not to give it a worse name--and she's got Jim
Playfair on a string, too. She can't even leave Frank Bellingham alone,
though she's staying in his house."

"Oh, I say, Lady H!" protested Sambourne, "you're a bit hard on Miss
Grayle. I mean, she's an awfully sporting kid and all that."

"I detest that word 'sporting'," snapped Lady Hermione. "Nowadays it
merely means drunk and disorderly. And she's not such a kid either,
young man. In three years' time she'll be a hag, if she goes on at this
rate."

"Dear Lady Hermione," said Wimsey, "we can't all be untouched by time,
like you."

"You could," retorted the old lady, "if you looked after your stomachs
and your morals. Here comes Frank Bellingham--looking for a drink, no
doubt. Young people to-day seem to be positively pickled in gin."

The fox-trot had come to an end, and the Red King was threading his way
towards them through a group of applauding couples.

"Hullo, Bellingham!" said Wimsey. "Your crown's crooked. Allow me." He
set wig and head-dress to rights with skilful fingers. "Not that I blame
you. What crown is safe in these Bolshevik days?"

"Thanks," said Bellingham. "I say, I want a drink."

"What did I tell you?" said Lady Hermione.

"Buzz along, then, old man," said Wimsey. "You've got four minutes. Mind
you turn up in time for Sir Roger."

"Right you are. Oh, I'm dancing it with Gerda, by the way. If you see
her, you might tell her where I've gone to."

"We will. Lady Hermione, you're honouring me, of course?"

"Nonsense! You're not expecting me to dance at my age? The Old Maid
ought to be a wallflower."

"Nothing of the sort. If only I'd had the luck to be born earlier, you
and I should have appeared side by side, as Matrimony. Of course you're
going to dance it with me--unless you mean to throw me over for one of
these youngsters."

"I've no use for youngsters," said Lady Hermione. "No guts.
Spindle-shanks." She darted a swift glance at Wimsey's scarlet hose.
"You at least have some suggestion of calves. I can stand up with you
without blushing for you."

Wimsey bowed his scarlet cap and curled wig in deep reverence over the
gnarled knuckles extended to him.

"You make me the happiest of men. We'll show them all how to do it.
Right hand, left hand, both hands across, back to back, round you go and
up the middle. There's Deverill going down to tell the band to begin.
Punctual old bird, isn't he? Just two minutes to go . . . What's the
matter, Miss Carstairs? Lost your partner?"

"Yes--have you seen Tony Lee anywhere?"

"The White King? Not a sign. Nor the White Queen either. I expect
they're together somewhere."

"Probably. Poor old Jimmie Playfair is sitting patiently in the north
corridor, looking like Casabianca."

"You'd better go along and console him," said Wimsey, laughing.

Joan Carstairs made a face and disappeared in the direction of the
buffet, just as Sir Charles Deverill, giver of the party, bustled up to
Wimsey and his companions, resplendent in a Chinese costume patterned
with red and green dragons, bamboos, circles and characters, and
carrying on his shoulder a stuffed bird with an enormous tail.

"Now, now," he exclaimed, "come along, come along, come along! All ready
for Sir Roger. Got your partner, Wimsey? Ah, yes, Lady
Hermione--splendid. You must come and stand next to your dear mother and
me, Wimsey. Don't be late, don't be late. We want to dance it right
through. The waits will begin at two o'clock--I hope they will arrive in
good time. Dear me, dear me! Why aren't the servants in yet? I told
Watson--I must go and speak to him."

He darted away, and Wimsey, laughing, led his partner up to the top of
the room, where his mother, the Dowager Duchess of Denver, stood
waiting, magnificent as the Queen of Spades.

"Ah! here you are," said the Duchess placidly. "Dear Sir Charles--he was
getting quite flustered. Such a man for punctuality--he ought to have
been a Royalty. A delightful party, Hermione, isn't it? Sir Roger and
the waits--quite mediæval--and a Yule-log in the hall, with the
steam-radiators and everything--so oppressive!"

"Tumty, tumty, tiddledy, tumty, tumty, tiddledy," sang Lord Peter, as
the band broke into the old tune. "I do adore this music. Foot it featly
here and there--oh! there's Gerda Bellingham. Just a moment! Mrs.
Bellingham--hi! your royal spouse awaits your Red Majesty's pleasure in
the buffet. Do hurry him up. He's only got half a minute."

The Red Queen smiled at him, her pale face and black eyes startlingly
brilliant beneath her scarlet wig and crown.

"I'll bring him up to scratch all right," she said, and passed on,
laughing.

"So she will," said the Dowager. "You'll see that young man in the
Cabinet before very long. Such a handsome couple on a public platform,
and very sound, I'm told, about pigs, and that's so important, the
British breakfast-table being what it is."

Sir Charles Deverill, looking a trifle heated, came hurrying back and
took his place at the head of the double line of guests, which now
extended three-quarters of the way down the ballroom. At the lower end,
just in front of the Musicians' Gallery, the staff had filed in, to form
a second Sir Roger, at right angles to the main set. The clock chimed
the half-hour. Sir Charles, craning an anxious neck, counted the
dancers.

"Eighteen couples. We're two couples short. How vexatious! Who are
missing?"

"The Bellinghams?" said Wimsey. "No, they're here. It's the White King
and Queen, Badminton and Diabolo."

"There's Badminton!" cried Mrs. Wrayburn, signalling frantically across
the room. "Jim! Jim! Bother! He's gone back again. He's waiting for
Charmian Grayle."

"Well, we can't wait any longer," said Sir Charles peevishly. "Duchess,
will you lead off?"

The Dowager obediently threw her black velvet train over her arm and
skipped away down the centre, displaying an uncommonly neat pair of
scarlet ankles. The two lines of dancers, breaking into the hop-and-skip
step of the country dance, jigged sympathetically. Below them, the cross
lines of black and white and livery coats followed their example with
respect. Sir Charles Deverill, dancing solemnly down after the Duchess,
joined hands with Nina Hartford from the far end of the line. Tumty,
tumty, tiddledy, tumty, tumty, tiddledy . . . the first couple turned
outward and led the dancers down. Wimsey, catching the hand of Lady
Hermione, stooped with her beneath the arch and came triumphantly up to
the top of the room, in a magnificent rustle of silk and satin. "My
love," sighed Wimsey, "was clad in the black velvet, and I myself in
cramoisie." The old lady, well pleased, rapped him over the knuckles
with her gilt sceptre. Hands clapped merrily.

"Down we go again," said Wimsey, and the Queen of Clubs and Emperor of
the great Mahjongg dynasty twirled and capered in the centre. The Queen
of Spades danced up to meet her Jack of Diamonds. "Bézique," said
Wimsey; "double Bézique," as he gave both his hands to the Dowager.
Tumty, tumty, tiddledy. He again gave his hand to the Queen of Clubs and
led her down. Under their lifted arms the other seventeen couples
passed. Then Lady Deverill and her partner followed them down--then five
more couples.

"We're working nicely to time," said Sir Charles, with his eye on the
clock. "I worked it out at two minutes per couple. Ah! here's one of the
missing pairs." He waved an agitated arm. "Come into the centre--come
along--in here."

A man whose head was decorated with a huge shuttlecock, and Joan
Carstairs, dressed as a Diabolo, had emerged from the north corridor.
Sir Charles, like a fussy rooster with two frightened hens, guided and
pushed them into place between two couples who had not yet done their
"hands across," and heaved a sigh of relief. It would have worried him
to see them miss their turn. The clock chimed a quarter to two.

"I say, Playfair, have you seen Charmian Grayle or Tony Lee anywhere
about?" asked Giles Pomfret of the Badminton costume. "Sir Charles is
quite upset because we aren't complete."

"Not a sign of 'em. I was supposed to be dancing this with Charmian,
but she vanished upstairs and hasn't come down again. Then Joan came
barging along looking for Tony, and we thought we'd better see it
through together."

"Here are the waits coming in," broke in Joan Carstairs. "Aren't they
sweet? Too-too-truly-rural!"

Between the columns on the north side of the ballroom the waits could be
seen filing into place in the corridor, under the command of the Vicar.
Sir Roger jigged on his exhausting way. Hands across. Down the centre
and up again. Giles Pomfret, groaning, scrambled in his sandwich-boards
beneath the lengthening arch of hands for the fifteenth time. Tumty,
tiddledy. The nineteenth couple wove their way through the dance. Once
again, Sir Charles and the Dowager Duchess, both as fresh as paint,
stood at the top of the room. The clapping was loudly renewed; the
orchestra fell silent; the guests broke up into groups; the servants
arranged themselves in a neat line at the lower end of the room; the
clock struck two; and the Vicar, receiving a signal from Sir Charles,
held his tuning-fork to his ear and gave forth a sonorous A. The waits
burst shrilly into the opening bars of "Good King Wenceslas."

It was just as the night was growing darker and the wind blowing
stronger that a figure came thrusting its way through the ranks of the
singers, and hurried across to where Sir Charles stood; Tony Lee, with
his face as white as his costume.

"Charmian . . . in the tapestry room . . . dead . . . strangled."

       *       *       *       *       *

Superintendent Johnson sat in the library, taking down the evidence of
the haggard revellers, who were ushered in upon him one by one. First,
Tony Lee, his haunted eyes like dark hollows in a mask of grey paper.

"Miss Grayle had promised to dance with me the last dance before Sir
Roger; it was a fox-trot. I waited for her in the passage under the
musicians' gallery. She never came. I did not search for her. I did not
see her dancing with anyone else. When the dance was nearly over, I went
out into the garden, by way of the service door under the musicians'
stair. I stayed in the garden till Sir Roger de Coverley was over----"

"Was anybody with you, sir?"

"No, nobody."

"You stayed alone in the garden from--yes, from 1.20 to past 2 o'clock.
Rather disagreeable, was it not, sir, with the snow on the ground?" The
Superintendent glanced keenly from Tony's stained and sodden white shoes
to his strained face.

"I didn't notice. The room was hot--I wanted air. I saw the waits arrive
at about 1.40--I daresay they saw me. I came in a little after 2
o'clock----"

"By the service door again, sir?"

"No; by the garden door on the other side of the house, at the end of
the passage which runs along beside the tapestry room. I heard singing
going on in the ballroom and saw two men sitting in the little recess at
the foot of the staircase on the left-hand side of the passage. I think
one of them was the gardener. I went into the Tapestry Room----"

"With any particular purpose in mind, sir?"

"No--except that I wasn't keen on rejoining the party. I wanted to be
quiet." He paused; the Superintendent said nothing. "Then I went into
the tapestry room. The light was out. I switched it on and saw--Miss
Grayle. She was lying close against the radiator. I thought she had
fainted. I went over to her and found she was--dead. I only waited long
enough to be sure, and then I went into the ballroom and gave the
alarm."

"Thank you, sir. Now, may I ask, what were your relations with Miss
Grayle?"

"I--I admired her very much."

"Engaged to her, sir?"

"No, not exactly."

"No quarrel--misunderstanding--anything of that sort?"

"Oh, no!"

Superintendent Johnson looked at him again, and again said nothing, but
his experienced mind informed him:

"He's lying."

Aloud he only thanked and dismissed Tony. The White King stumbled
drearily out, and the Red King took his place.

"Miss Grayle," said Frank Bellingham, "is a friend of my wife and
myself; she was staying at our house. Mr. Lee is also our guest. We all
came in one party. I believe there was some kind of understanding
between Miss Grayle and Mr. Lee--no actual engagement. She was a very
bright, lively, popular girl. I have known her for about six years, and
my wife has known her since our marriage. I know of no one who could
have borne a grudge against Miss Grayle. I danced with her the last
dance but two--it was a waltz. After that came a fox-trot and then Sir
Roger. She left me at the end of the waltz; I think she said she was
going upstairs to tidy. I think she went out by the door at the upper
end of the ballroom. I never saw her again. The ladies' dressing-room is
on the second floor, next door to the picture-gallery. You reach it by
the staircase that goes up from the garden-passage. You have to pass the
door of the tapestry room to get there. The only other way to the
dressing-room is by the stair at the east end of the ballroom, which
goes up to the picture-gallery. You would then have to pass through the
picture-gallery to get to the dressing-room. I know the house well; my
wife and I have often stayed here."

Next came Lady Hermione, whose evidence, delivered at great length,
amounted to this:

"Charmian Grayle was a minx and no loss to anybody. I am not surprised
that someone has strangled her. Women like that ought to be strangled. I
would cheerfully have strangled her myself. She has been making Tony
Lee's life a burden to him for the last six weeks. I saw her flirting
with Mr. Vibart to-night on purpose to make Mr. Lee jealous. She made
eyes at Mr. Bellingham and Mr. Playfair. She made eyes at everybody. I
should think at least half a dozen people had very good reason to wish
her dead."

Mr. Vibart, who arrived dressed in a gaudy Polo costume, and still
ludicrously clutching a hobby-horse, said that he had danced several
times that evening with Miss Grayle. She was a damn sportin' girl,
rattlin' good fun. Well, a bit hot, perhaps, but, dash it all, the poor
kid was dead. He might have kissed her once or twice, perhaps, but no
harm in that. Well, perhaps poor old Lee did take it a bit hard. Miss
Grayle liked pulling Tony's leg. He himself had liked Miss Grayle and
was dashed cut-up about the whole beastly business.

Mrs. Bellingham confirmed her husband's evidence. Miss Grayle had been
their guest, and they were all on the very best of terms. She felt sure
that Mr. Lee and Miss Grayle had been very fond of one another. She had
not seen Miss Grayle during the last three dances, but had attached no
importance to that. If she had thought about it at all, she would have
supposed Miss Grayle was sitting out with somebody. She herself had not
been up to the dressing-room since about midnight, and had not seen Miss
Grayle go upstairs. She had first missed Miss Grayle when they all stood
up for Sir Roger.

Mrs. Wrayburn mentioned that she had seen Miss Carstairs in the ballroom
looking for Mr. Lee, just as Sir Charles Deverill went down to speak to
the band. Miss Carstairs had then mentioned that Mr. Playfair was in the
north corridor, waiting for Miss Grayle. She could say for certain that
the time was then 1.28. She had seen Mr. Playfair himself at 1.30. He
had looked in from the corridor and gone out again. The whole party had
then been standing up together, except Miss Grayle, Miss Carstairs, Mr.
Lee and Mr. Playfair. She knew that, because Sir Charles had counted the
couples.

Then came Jim Playfair, with a most valuable piece of evidence.

"Miss Grayle was engaged to me for Sir Roger de Coverley. I went to wait
for her in the north corridor as soon as the previous dance was over.
That was at 1.25. I sat on the settee in the eastern half of the
corridor. I saw Sir Charles go down to speak to the band. Almost
immediately afterwards, I saw Miss Grayle come out of the passage under
the musicians' gallery and go up the stairs at the end of the corridor.
I called out: 'Hurry up! they're just going to begin.' I do not think
she heard me; she did not reply. I am quite sure I saw her. The
staircase has open banisters. There is no light in that corner except
from the swinging lantern in the corridor, but that is very powerful. I
could not be mistaken in the costume. I waited for Miss Grayle till the
dance was half over; then I gave it up and joined forces with Miss
Carstairs, who had also mislaid her partner."

The maid in attendance on the dressing-room was next examined. She and
the gardener were the only two servants who had not danced Sir Roger.
She had not quitted the dressing-room at any time since supper, except
that she might have gone as far as the door. Miss Grayle had certainly
not entered the dressing-room during the last hour of the dance.

The Vicar, much worried and distressed, said that his party had arrived
by the garden door at 1.40. He had noticed a man in a white costume
smoking a cigarette in the garden. The waits had removed their outer
clothing in the garden passage and then gone out to take up their
position in the north corridor. Nobody had passed them till Mr. Lee had
come in with his sad news.

Mr. Ephraim Dodd, the sexton, made an important addition to this
evidence. This aged gentleman was, as he confessed, no singer, but was
accustomed to go round with the waits to carry the lantern and
collecting box. He had taken a seat in the garden passage "to rest me
pore feet." He had seen the gentleman come in from the garden "all in
white with a crown on 'is 'ead." The choir were then singing "Bring me
flesh and bring me wine." The gentleman had looked about a bit, "made a
face, like," and gone into the room at the foot of the stairs. He hadn't
been absent "more nor a minute," when he "come out faster than he gone
in," and had rushed immediately into the ballroom.

In addition to all this, there was, of course, the evidence of Dr.
Pattison. He was a guest at the dance, and had hastened to view the body
of Miss Grayle as soon as the alarm was given. He was of opinion that
she had been brutally strangled by someone standing in front of her. She
was a tall, strong girl, and he thought it would have needed a man's
strength to overpower her. When he saw her at five minutes past two he
concluded that she must have been killed within the last hour, but not
within the last five minutes or so. The body was still quite warm, but,
since it had fallen close to the hot radiator, they could not rely very
much upon that indication.

Superintendent Johnson rubbed a thoughtful ear and turned to Lord Peter
Wimsey, who had been able to confirm much of the previous evidence and,
in particular, the exact times at which various incidents had occurred.
The Superintendent knew Wimsey well, and made no bones about taking him
into his confidence.

"You see how it stands, my lord. If the poor young lady was killed when
Dr. Pattison says, it narrows it down a good bit. She was last seen
dancing with Mr. Bellingham at--call it 1.20. At 2 o'clock she was dead.
That gives us forty minutes. But if we're to believe Mr. Playfair, it
narrows it down still further. He says he saw her alive just after Sir
Charles went down to speak to the band, which you put at 1.28. That
means that there's only five people who could possibly have done it,
because all the rest were in the ballroom after that, dancing Sir Roger.
There's the maid in the dressing-room; between you and me, sir, I think
we can leave her out. She's a little slip of a thing, and it's not clear
what motive she could have had. Besides, I've known her from a child,
and she isn't the sort to do it. Then there's the gardener; I haven't
seen him yet, but there again, he's a man I know well, and I'd as soon
suspect myself. Well now, there's this Mr. Tony Lee, Miss Carstairs, and
Mr. Playfair himself. The girl's the least probable, for physical
reasons, and besides, strangling isn't a woman's crime--not as a rule.
But Mr. Lee--that's a queer story, if you like. What was he doing all
that time out in the garden by himself?"

"It sounds to me," said Wimsey, "as if Miss Grayle had given him the
push and he had gone into the garden to eat worms."

"Exactly, my lord; and that's where his motive might come in."

"So it might," said Wimsey, "but look here. There's a couple of inches
of snow on the ground. If you can confirm the time at which he went out,
you ought to be able to see, from his tracks, whether he came in again
before Ephraim Dodd saw him. Also, where he went in the interval and
whether he was alone."

"That's a good idea, my lord. I'll send my sergeant to make inquiries."

"Then there's Mr. Bellingham. Suppose he killed her after the end of his
waltz with her. Did anyone see him in the interval between that and the
fox-trot?"

"Quite, my lord. I've thought of that. But you see where _that_ leads.
It means that Mr. Playfair must have been in a conspiracy with him to do
it. And from all we hear, that doesn't seem likely."

"No more it does. In fact, I happen to know that Mr. Bellingham and Mr.
Playfair were not on the best of terms. You can wash that out."

"I think so, my lord. And that brings us to Mr. Playfair. It's him we're
relying on for the time. We haven't found anyone who saw Miss Grayle
during the dance before his--that was the fox-trot. What was to prevent
him doing it then? Wait a bit. What does he say himself? Says he danced
the fox-trot with the Duchess of Denver." The Superintendent's face
fell, and he hunted through his notes again. "She confirms that. Says
she was with him during the interval and danced the whole dance with
him. Well, my lord, I suppose we can take Her Grace's word for it."

"I think you can," said Wimsey, smiling. "I've known my mother
practically since my birth, and have always found her very reliable."

"Yes, my lord. Well, that brings us to the end of the fox-trot. After
that, Miss Carstairs saw Mr. Playfair waiting in the north corridor. She
says she noticed him several times during the interval and spoke to him.
And Mrs. Wrayburn saw him there at 1.30 or thereabouts. Then at 1.45 he
and Miss Carstairs came and joined the company. Now, is there anyone
who can check all these points? That's the next thing we've got to see
to."

Within a very few minutes, abundant confirmation was forthcoming. Mervyn
Bunter, Lord Peter's personal man, said that he had been helping to take
refreshments along to the buffet. Throughout the interval between the
waltz and the fox-trot, Mr. Lee had been standing by the service door
beneath the musicians' stair, and half-way through the fox-trot he had
been seen to go out into the garden by way of the servants' hall. The
police-sergeant had examined the tracks in the snow and found that Mr.
Lee had not been joined by any other person, and that there was only the
one set of his footprints, leaving the house by the servants' hall and
returning by the garden door near the tapestry room. Several persons
were also found who had seen Mr. Bellingham in the interval between the
waltz and the fox-trot, and who were able to say that he had danced the
fox-trot through with Mrs. Bellingham. Joan Carstairs had also been seen
continuously throughout the waltz and the fox-trot, and during the
following interval and the beginning of Sir Roger. Moreover, the
servants who had danced at the lower end of the room were positive that
from 1.29 to 1.45 Mr. Playfair had sat continuously on the settee in the
north corridor, except for the few seconds during which he had glanced
into the ballroom. They were also certain that during that time no one
had gone up the staircase at the lower end of the corridor, while Mr.
Dodd was equally positive that, after 1.40, nobody except Mr. Lee had
entered the garden passage or the tapestry room.

Finally, the circle was closed by William Hoggarty, the gardener. He
asserted with the most obvious sincerity that from 1.30 to 1.40 he had
been stationed in the garden passage to receive the waits and marshal
them to their places. During that time, no one had come down the stair
from the picture-gallery or entered the tapestry room. From 1.40
onwards, he had sat beside Mr. Dodd in the passage and nobody had passed
him except Mr. Lee.

These points being settled, there was no further reason to doubt Jim
Playfair's evidence, since his partners were able to prove his
whereabouts during the waltz, the fox-trot and the intervening interval.
At 1.28 or just after, he had seen Charmian Grayle alive. At 2.2 she had
been found dead in the tapestry room. During that interval, no one had
been seen to enter the room, and every person had been accounted for.

       *       *       *       *       *

At 6 o'clock, the exhausted guests had been allowed to go to their
rooms, accommodation being provided in the house for those who, like the
Bellinghams, had come from a distance, since the Superintendent had
announced his intention of interrogating them all afresh later in the
day.

       *       *       *       *       *

This new inquiry produced no result. Lord Peter Wimsey did not take
part in it. He and Bunter (who was an expert photographer) occupied
themselves in photographing the ballroom and adjacent rooms and
corridors from every imaginable point of view, for, as Lord Peter said,
"You never know what may turn out to be relevant." Late in the afternoon
they retired together to the cellar, where with dishes, chemicals and
safe-light hastily procured from the local chemist, they proceeded to
develop the plates.

"That's the lot, my lord," observed Bunter at length, sloshing the final
plate in the water and tipping it into the hypo. "You can switch the
light on now, my lord."

Wimsey did so, blinking in the sudden white glare.

"A very hefty bit of work," said he. "Hullo! What's that plateful of
blood you've got there?"

"That's the red backing they put on these plates, my lord, to obviate
halation. You may have observed me washing it off before inserting the
plate in the developing-dish. Halation, my lord, is a phenomenon----"

Wimsey was not attending.

"But why didn't I notice it before?" he demanded. "That stuff looked to
me exactly like clear water."

"So it would, my lord, in the red safe-light. The appearance of
whiteness is produced," added Bunter sententiously, "by the reflection
of _all_ the available light. When all the available light is red, red
and white are, naturally, indistinguishable. Similarly, in a green
light----"

"Good God!" said Wimsey. "Wait a moment, Bunter, I must think this out
. . . Here! damn those plates--let them be. I want you upstairs."

He led the way at a canter to the ballroom, dark now, with the windows
in the south corridor already curtained and only the dimness of the
December evening filtering through the high windows of the clerestory
above the arcading. He first turned on the three great chandeliers in
the ballroom itself. Owing to the heavy oak panelling that rose to the
roof at both ends and all four angles of the room, these threw no light
at all upon the staircase at the lower end of the north corridor. Next,
he turned on the light in the four-sided hanging lantern, which hung in
the north corridor above and between the two settees. A vivid shaft of
green light immediately flooded the lower half of the corridor and the
staircase; the upper half was bathed in strong amber, while the
remaining sides of the lantern showed red towards the ballroom and blue
towards the corridor wall.

Wimsey shook his head.

"Not much room for error there. Unless--I know! Run, Bunter, and ask
Miss Carstairs and Mr. Playfair to come here a moment."

While Bunter was gone, Wimsey borrowed a step-ladder from the kitchen
and carefully examined the fixing of the lantern. It was a temporary
affair, the lantern being supported by a hook screwed into a beam and
lit by means of a flex run from the socket of a permanent fixture at a
little distance.

"Now, you two," said Wimsey, when the two guests arrived, "I want to
make a little experiment. Will you sit down on this settee, Playfair, as
you did last night. And you, Miss Carstairs--I picked you out to help
because you're wearing a white dress. Will you go up the stairs at the
end of the corridor as Miss Grayle did last night. I want to know
whether it looks the same to Playfair as it did then--bar all the other
people, of course."

He watched them as they carried out this manœuvre. Jim Playfair looked
puzzled.

"It doesn't seem quite the same, somehow. I don't know what the
difference is, but there is a difference."

Joan, returning, agreed with him.

"I was sitting on that other settee part of the time," she said, "and it
looks different to me. I think it's darker."

"Lighter," said Jim.

"Good!" said Wimsey. "That's what I wanted you to say. Now, Bunter,
swing that lantern through a quarter-turn to the left."

The moment this was done, Joan gave a little cry.

"That's it! That's it! The blue light! I remember thinking how
frosty-faced those poor waits looked as they came in."

"And you, Playfair?"

"That's right," said Jim, satisfied. "The light was red last night. _I_
remember thinking how warm and cosy it looked."

Wimsey laughed.

"We're on to it, Bunter. What's the chessboard rule? _The Queen stands
on a square of her own colour._ Find the maid who looked after the
dressing-room, and ask her whether Mrs. Bellingham was there last night
between the fox-trot and Sir Roger."

In five minutes Bunter was back with his report.

"The maid says, my lord, that Mrs. Bellingham did not come into the
dressing-room at that time. But she saw her come out of the
picture-gallery and run downstairs towards the tapestry room just as the
band struck up Sir Roger."

"And that," said Wimsey, "was at 1.29."

"Mrs. Bellingham?" said Jim. "But you said you saw her yourself in the
ballroom before 1.30. She couldn't have had time to commit the murder."

"No, she couldn't," said Wimsey. "But Charmian Grayle was dead long
before that. It was the Red Queen, not the White, you saw upon the
staircase. Find out why Mrs. Bellingham lied about her movements, and
then we shall know the truth."

       *       *       *       *       *

"A very sad affair, my lord," said Superintendent Johnson, some hours
later. "Mr. Bellingham came across with it like a gentleman as soon as
we told him we had evidence against his wife. It appears that Miss
Grayle knew certain facts about him which would have been very damaging
to his political career. She'd been getting money out of him for years.
Earlier in the evening she surprised him by making fresh demands. During
the last waltz they had together, they went into the tapestry room and a
quarrel took place. He lost his temper and laid hands on her. He says he
never meant to hurt her seriously, but she started to scream and he took
hold of her throat to silence her and--sort of accidentally--throttled
her. When he found what he'd done, he left her there and came away,
feeling, as he says, all of a daze. He had the next dance with his wife.
He told her what had happened, and then discovered that he'd left the
little sceptre affair he was carrying in the room with the body. Mrs.
Bellingham--she's a brave woman--undertook to fetch it back. She slipped
through the dark passage under the musicians' gallery--which was
empty--and up the stair to the picture-gallery. She did not hear Mr.
Playfair speak to her. She ran through the gallery and down the other
stair, secured the sceptre and hid it under her own dress. Later, she
heard from Mr. Playfair about what he saw, and realised that in the red
light he had mistaken her for the White Queen. In the early hours of
this morning, she slipped downstairs and managed to get the lantern
shifted round. Of course, she's an accessory after the fact, but she's
the kind of wife a man would like to have. I hope they let her off
light."

"Amen!" said Lord Peter Wimsey.




4. THE NECKLACE OF PEARLS


Sir Septimus Shale was accustomed to assert his authority once in the
year and once only. He allowed his young and fashionable wife to fill
his house with diagrammatic furniture made of steel; to collect advanced
artists and anti-grammatical poets; to believe in cocktails and
relativity and to dress as extravagantly as she pleased; but he did
insist on an old-fashioned Christmas. He was a simple-hearted man, who
really liked plum-pudding and cracker mottoes, and he could not get it
out of his head that other people, "at bottom," enjoyed these things
also. At Christmas, therefore, he firmly retired to his country house in
Essex, called in the servants to hang holly and mistletoe upon the
cubist electric fittings; loaded the steel sideboard with delicacies
from Fortnum & Mason; hung up stockings at the heads of the polished
walnut bedsteads; and even, on this occasion only, had the electric
radiators removed from the modernist grates and installed wood fires
and a Yule log. He then gathered his family and friends about him,
filled them with as much Dickensian good fare as he could persuade them
to swallow, and, after their Christmas dinner, set them down to play
"Charades" and "Clumps" and "Animal, Vegetable and Mineral" in the
drawing-room, concluding these diversions by "Hide-and-Seek" in the dark
all over the house. Because Sir Septimus was a very rich man, his guests
fell in with this invariable programme, and if they were bored, they did
not tell him so.

Another charming and traditional custom which he followed was that of
presenting to his daughter Margharita a pearl on each successive
birthday--this anniversary happening to coincide with Christmas Eve. The
pearls now numbered twenty, and the collection was beginning to enjoy a
certain celebrity, and had been photographed in the Society papers.
Though not sensationally large--each one being about the size of a
marrowfat pea--the pearls were of very great value. They were of
exquisite colour and perfect shape and matched to a hair's-weight. On
this particular Christmas Eve, the presentation of the twenty-first
pearl had been the occasion of a very special ceremony. There was a
dance and there were speeches. On the Christmas night following, the
more restricted family party took place, with the turkey and the
Victorian games. There were eleven guests, in addition to Sir Septimus
and Lady Shale and their daughter, nearly all related or connected to
them in some way: John Shale, a brother, with his wife and their son and
daughter Henry and Betty; Betty's _fiancé_, Oswald Truegood, a young man
with parliamentary ambitions; George Comphrey, a cousin of Lady Shale's,
aged about thirty and known as a man about town; Lavinia Prescott, asked
on George's account; Joyce Trivett, asked on Henry Shale's account;
Richard and Beryl Dennison, distant relations of Lady Shale, who lived a
gay and expensive life in town on nobody precisely knew what resources;
and Lord Peter Wimsey, asked, in a touching spirit of unreasonable hope,
on Margharita's account. There were also, of course, William Norgate,
secretary to Sir Septimus, and Miss Tomkins, secretary to Lady Shale,
who had to be there because, without their calm efficiency, the
Christmas arrangements could not have been carried through.

Dinner was over--a seemingly endless succession of soup, fish, turkey,
roast beef, plum-pudding, mince-pies, crystallised fruit, nuts and five
kinds of wine, presided over by Sir Septimus, all smiles, by Lady Shale,
all mocking deprecation, and by Margharita, pretty and bored, with the
necklace of twenty-one pearls gleaming softly on her slender throat.
Gorged and dyspeptic and longing only for the horizontal position, the
company had been shepherded into the drawing-room and set to play
"Musical Chairs" (Miss Tomkins at the piano), "Hunt the Slipper"
(slipper provided by Miss Tomkins), and "Dumb Crambo" (Costumes by Miss
Tomkins and Mr. William Norgate). The back drawing-room (for Sir
Septimus clung to these old-fashioned names) provided an admirable
dressing-room, being screened by folding doors from the large
drawing-room in which the audience sat on aluminium chairs, scrabbling
uneasy toes on a floor of black glass under the tremendous illumination
of electricity reflected from a brass ceiling.

It was William Norgate who, after taking the temperature of the meeting,
suggested to Lady Shale that they should play at something less
athletic. Lady Shale agreed and, as usual, suggested bridge. Sir
Septimus, as usual, blew the suggestion aside.

"Bridge? Nonsense! Nonsense! Play bridge every day of your lives. This
is Christmas time. Something we can all play together. How about
'Animal, Vegetable and Mineral'?"

This intellectual pastime was a favourite with Sir Septimus; he was
rather good at putting pregnant questions. After a brief discussion, it
became evident that this game was an inevitable part of the programme.
The party settled down to it, Sir Septimus undertaking to "go out" first
and set the thing going.

Presently they had guessed among other things Miss Tomkins's mother's
photograph, a gramophone record of "I want to be happy" (much scientific
research into the exact composition of records, settled by William
Norgate out of the _Encyclopædia Britannica_), the smallest stickleback
in the stream at the bottom of the garden, the new planet Pluto, the
scarf worn by Mrs. Dennison (very confusing, because it was not silk,
which would be animal, or artificial silk, which would be vegetable, but
made of spun glass--mineral, a very clever choice of subject), and had
failed to guess the Prime Minister's wireless speech--which was voted
not fair, since nobody could decide whether it was animal by nature or a
kind of gas. It was decided that they should do one more word and then
go on to "Hide-and-Seek." Oswald Truegood had retired into the back room
and shut the door behind him while the party discussed the next subject
of examination, when suddenly Sir Septimus broke in on the argument by
calling to his daughter:

"Hullo, Margy! What have you done with your necklace?"

"I took it off, Dad, because I thought it might get broken in 'Dumb
Crambo.' It's over here on this table. No, it isn't. Did you take it,
mother?"

"No, I didn't. If I'd seen it, I should have. You are a careless child."

"I believe you've got it yourself, Dad. You're teasing."

Sir Septimus denied the accusation with some energy. Everybody got up
and began to hunt about. There were not many places in that bare and
polished room where a necklace could be hidden. After ten minutes'
fruitless investigation, Richard Dennison, who had been seated next to
the table where the pearls had been placed, began to look rather
uncomfortable.

"Awkward, you know," he remarked to Wimsey.

At this moment, Oswald Truegood put his head through the folding-doors
and asked whether they hadn't settled on something by now, because he
was getting the fidgets.

This directed the attention of the searchers to the inner room.
Margharita must have been mistaken. She had taken it in there, and it
had got mixed up with the dressing-up clothes somehow. The room was
ransacked. Everything was lifted up and shaken. The thing began to look
serious. After half an hour of desperate energy it became apparent that
the pearls were nowhere to be found.

"They must be somewhere in these two rooms, you know," said Wimsey. "The
back drawing-room has no door and nobody could have gone out of the
front drawing-room without being seen. Unless the windows----"

No. The windows were all guarded on the outside by heavy shutters which
it needed two footmen to take down and replace. The pearls had not gone
out that way. In fact, the mere suggestion that they had left the
drawing-room at all was disagreeable. Because--because----

It was William Norgate, efficient as ever, who coldly and boldly faced
the issue.

"I think, Sir Septimus, it would be a relief to the minds of everybody
present if we could all be searched."

Sir Septimus was horrified, but the guests, having found a leader,
backed up Norgate. The door was locked, and the search was
conducted--the ladies in the inner room and the men in the outer.

Nothing resulted from it except some very interesting information about
the belongings habitually carried about by the average man and woman. It
was natural that Lord Peter Wimsey should possess a pair of forceps, a
pocket lens and a small folding foot-rule--was he not a Sherlock Holmes
in high life? But that Oswald Truegood should have two liver-pills in a
screw of paper and Henry Shale a pocket edition of _The Odes of Horace_
was unexpected. Why did John Shale distend the pockets of his dress-suit
with a stump of red sealing-wax, an ugly little mascot and a
five-shilling piece? George Comphrey had a pair of folding scissors, and
three wrapped lumps of sugar, of the sort served in restaurants and
dining-cars--evidence of a not uncommon form of kleptomania; but that
the tidy and exact Norgate should burden himself with a reel of white
cotton, three separate lengths of string and twelve safety-pins on a
card seemed really remarkable till one remembered that he had
superintended all the Christmas decorations. Richard Dennison, amid some
confusion and laughter, was found to cherish a lady's garter, a
powder-compact and half a potato; the last-named, he said, was a
prophylactic against rheumatism (to which he was subject), while the
other objects belonged to his wife. On the ladies' side, the more
striking exhibits were a little book on palmistry, three invisible
hair-pins and a baby's photograph (Miss Tomkins); a Chinese trick
cigarette-case with a secret compartment (Beryl Dennison); a _very_
private letter and an outfit for mending stocking-ladders (Lavinia
Prescott); and a pair of eyebrow tweezers and a small packet of white
powder, said to be for headaches (Betty Shale). An agitating moment
followed the production from Joyce Trivett's handbag of a small string
of pearls--but it was promptly remembered that these had come out of one
of the crackers at dinner-time, and they were, in fact, synthetic. In
short, the search was unproductive of anything beyond a general
shamefacedness and the discomfort always produced by undressing and
re-dressing in a hurry at the wrong time of the day.

It was then that somebody, very grudgingly and haltingly, mentioned the
horrid word "Police." Sir Septimus, naturally, was appalled by the idea.
It was disgusting. He would not allow it. The pearls must be somewhere.
They must search the rooms again. Could not Lord Peter Wimsey, with his
experience of--er--mysterious happenings, do something to assist them?

"Eh?" said his lordship. "Oh, by Jove, yes--by all means, certainly.
That is to say, provided nobody supposes--eh, what? I mean to say, you
don't know that I'm not a suspicious character, do you, what?"

Lady Shale interposed with authority.

"We don't think _anybody_ ought to be suspected," she said, "but, if we
did, we'd know it couldn't be you. You know _far_ too much about crimes
to want to commit one."

"All right," said Wimsey. "But after the way the place has been gone
over----" He shrugged his shoulders.

"Yes, I'm afraid you won't be able to find any footprints," said
Margharita. "But we may have overlooked something."

Wimsey nodded.

"I'll try. Do you all mind sitting down on your chairs in the outer room
and staying there. All except one of you--I'd better have a witness to
anything I do or find. Sir Septimus--you'd be the best person, I think."

He shepherded them to their places and began a slow circuit of the two
rooms, exploring every surface, gazing up to the polished brazen ceiling
and crawling on hands and knees in the approved fashion across the black
and shining desert of the floors. Sir Septimus followed, staring when
Wimsey stared, bending with his hands upon his knees when Wimsey
crawled, and puffing at intervals with astonishment and chagrin. Their
progress rather resembled that of a man taking out a very inquisitive
puppy for a very leisurely constitutional. Fortunately, Lady Shale's
taste in furnishing made investigation easier; there were scarcely any
nooks or corners where anything could be concealed.

They reached the inner drawing-room, and here the dressing-up clothes
were again minutely examined, but without result. Finally, Wimsey lay
down flat on his stomach to squint under a steel cabinet which was one
of the very few pieces of furniture which possessed short legs.
Something about it seemed to catch his attention. He rolled up his
sleeve and plunged his arm into the cavity, kicked convulsively in the
effort to reach farther than was humanly possible, pulled out from his
pocket and extended his folding foot-rule, fished with it under the
cabinet and eventually succeeded in extracting what he sought.

It was a very minute object--in fact, a pin. Not an ordinary pin, but
one resembling those used by entomologists to impale extremely small
moths on the setting-board. It was about three-quarters of an inch in
length, as fine as a very fine needle, with a sharp point and a
particularly small head.

"Bless my soul!" said Sir Septimus. "What's that?"

"Does anybody here happen to collect moths or beetles or anything?"
asked Wimsey, squatting on his haunches and examining the pin.

"I'm pretty sure they don't," replied Sir Septimus. "I'll ask them."

"Don't do that." Wimsey bent his head and stared at the floor, from
which his own face stared meditatively back at him.

"I see," said Wimsey presently. "That's how it was done. All right, Sir
Septimus. I know where the pearls are, but I don't know who took them.
Perhaps it would be as well--for everybody's satisfaction--just to find
out. In the meantime they are perfectly safe. Don't tell anyone that
we've found this pin or that we've discovered anything. Send all these
people to bed. Lock the drawing-room door and keep the key, and we'll
get our man--or woman--by breakfast-time."

"God bless my soul," said Sir Septimus, very much puzzled.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lord Peter Wimsey kept careful watch that night upon the drawing-room
door. Nobody, however, came near it. Either the thief suspected a trap
or he felt confident that any time would do to recover the pearls.
Wimsey, however, did not feel that he was wasting his time. He was
making a list of people who had been left alone in the back drawing-room
during the playing of "Animal, Vegetable and Mineral." The list ran as
follows.

Sir Septimus Shale

Lavinia Prescott

William Norgate

Joyce Trivett and Henry Shale (together, because they had claimed
to be incapable of guessing anything unaided)

Mrs. Dennison

Betty Shale

George Comphrey

Richard Dennison

Miss Tomkins

Oswald Truegood.

He also made out a list of the persons to whom pearls might be useful or
desirable. Unfortunately, this list agreed in almost all respects with
the first (always excepting Sir Septimus) and so was not very helpful.
The two secretaries had both come well recommended, but that was exactly
what they would have done had they come with ulterior designs; the
Dennisons were notorious livers from hand to mouth; Betty Shale carried
mysterious white powders in her handbag, and was known to be in with a
rather rapid set in town; Henry was a harmless dilettante, but Joyce
Trivett could twist him round her little finger and was what Jane Austen
liked to call "expensive and dissipated"; Comphrey speculated; Oswald
Truegood was rather frequently present at Epsom and Newmarket--the
search for motives was only too fatally easy.

When the second housemaid and the under-footman appeared in the passage
with household implements, Wimsey abandoned his vigil, but he was down
early to breakfast. Sir Septimus with his wife and daughter were down
before him, and a certain air of tension made itself felt. Wimsey,
standing on the hearth before the fire, made conversation about the
weather and politics.

The party assembled gradually, but, as though by common consent, nothing
was said about pearls until after breakfast, when Oswald Truegood took
the bull by the horns.

"Well now!" said he. "How's the detective getting along? Got your man,
Wimsey?"

"Not yet," said Wimsey easily.

Sir Septimus, looking at Wimsey as though for his cue, cleared his
throat and dashed into speech.

"All very tiresome," he said, "all very unpleasant. Hr'rm. Nothing for
it but the police, I'm afraid. Just at Christmas, too. Hr'rm. Spoilt the
party. Can't stand seeing all this stuff about the place." He waved his
hand towards the festoons of evergreens and coloured paper that adorned
the walls. "Take it all down, eh, what? No heart in it. Hr'rm. Burn the
lot."

"What a pity, when we worked so hard over it," said Joyce.

"Oh, leave it, Uncle," said Henry Shale. "You're bothering too much
about the pearls. They're sure to turn up."

"Shall I ring for James?" suggested William Norgate.

"No," interrupted Comphrey, "let's do it ourselves. It'll give us
something to do and take our minds off our troubles."

"That's right," said Sir Septimus. "Start right away. Hate the sight of
it."

He savagely hauled a great branch of holly down from the mantelpiece and
flung it, crackling, into the fire.

"That's the stuff," said Richard Dennison. "Make a good old blaze!" He
leapt up from the table and snatched the mistletoe from the chandelier.
"Here goes! One more kiss for somebody before it's too late."

"Isn't it unlucky to take it down before the New Year?" suggested Miss
Tomkins.

"Unlucky be hanged. We'll have it all down. Off the stairs and out of
the drawing-room too. Somebody go and collect it."

"Isn't the drawing-room locked?" asked Oswald.

"No. Lord Peter says the pearls aren't there, wherever else they are, so
it's unlocked. That's right, isn't it, Wimsey?"

"Quite right. The pearls were taken out of these rooms. I can't tell yet
how, but I'm positive of it. In fact, I'll pledge my reputation that
wherever they are, they're not up there."

"Oh, well," said Comphrey, "in that case, have at it! Come along,
Lavinia--you and Dennison do the drawing-room and I'll do the back room.
We'll have a race."

"But if the police are coming in," said Dennison, "oughtn't everything
to be left just as it is?"

"Damn the police!" shouted Sir Septimus. "They don't want evergreens."

Oswald and Margharita were already pulling the holly and ivy from the
staircase, amid peals of laughter. The party dispersed. Wimsey went
quietly upstairs and into the drawing-room, where the work of demolition
was taking place at a great rate. George having bet the other two ten
shillings to a tanner that they would not finish their part of the job
before he finished his.

"You mustn't help," said Lavinia, laughing to Wimsey. "It wouldn't be
fair."

Wimsey said nothing, but waited till the room was clear. Then he
followed them down again to the hall, where the fire was sending up a
great roaring and spluttering, suggestive of Guy Fawkes night. He
whispered to Sir Septimus, who went forward and touched George Comphrey
on the shoulder.

"Lord Peter wants to say something to you, my boy," he said.

Comphrey started and went with him a little reluctantly, as it seemed.
He was not looking very well.

"Mr. Comphrey," said Wimsey, "I fancy these are some of your property."
He held out the palm of his hand, in which rested twenty-two fine,
small-headed pins.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Ingenious," said Wimsey, "but something less ingenious would have
served his turn better. It was very unlucky, Sir Septimus, that you
should have mentioned the pearls when you did. Of course, he hoped that
the loss wouldn't be discovered till we'd chucked guessing games and
taken to 'Hide-and-Seek.' Then the pearls might have been anywhere in
the house, we shouldn't have locked the drawing-room door, and he could
have recovered them at his leisure. He had had this possibility in his
mind when he came here, obviously, and that was why he brought the
pins, and Miss Shale's taking off the necklace to play 'Dumb Crambo'
gave him his opportunity.

"He had spent Christmas here before, and knew perfectly well that
'Animal, Vegetable and Mineral' would form part of the entertainment. He
had only to gather up the necklace from the table when it came to his
turn to retire, and he knew he could count on at least five minutes by
himself while we were all arguing about the choice of a word. He had
only to snip the pearls from the string with his pocket-scissors, burn
the string in the grate and fasten the pearls to the mistletoe with the
fine pins. The mistletoe was hung on the chandelier, pretty high--it's a
lofty room--but he could easily reach it by standing on the glass table,
which wouldn't show footmarks, and it was almost certain that nobody
would think of examining the mistletoe for extra berries. I shouldn't
have thought of it myself if I hadn't found that pin which he had
dropped. That gave me the idea that the pearls had been separated and
the rest was easy. I took the pearls off the mistletoe last night--the
clasp was there, too, pinned among the holly-leaves. Here they are.
Comphrey must have got a nasty shock this morning. I knew he was our man
when he suggested that the guests should tackle the decorations
themselves and that he should do the back drawing-room--but I wish I had
seen his face when he came to the mistletoe and found the pearls gone."

"And you worked it all out when you found the pin?" said Sir Septimus.

"Yes; I knew then where the pearls had gone to."

"But you never even looked at the mistletoe."

"I saw it reflected in the black glass floor, and it struck me then how
much the mistletoe berries looked like pearls."




MONTAGUE EGG STORIES




1. THE POISONED DOW '08


"Good morning, miss," said Mr. Montague Egg, removing his smart trilby
with something of a flourish as the front door opened. "Here I am again,
you see. Not forgotten me, have you? That's right, because I couldn't
forget a young lady like you, not in a hundred years. How's his lordship
to-day? Think he'd be willing to see me for a minute or two?"

He smiled pleasantly, bearing in mind Maxim Number Ten of the
_Salesman's Handbook_, "The goodwill of the maid is nine-tenths of the
trade."

The parlourmaid, however, seemed nervous and embarrassed.

"I don't--oh, yes--come in, please. His lordship--that is to say--I'm
afraid----"

Mr. Egg stepped in promptly, sample case in hand, and, to his great
surprise, found himself confronted by a policeman, who, in somewhat
gruff tones, demanded his name and business.

"Travelling representative of Plummet & Rose, Wines and Spirits,
Piccadilly," said Mr. Egg, with the air of one who has nothing to
conceal. "Here's my card. What's up, sergeant?"

"Plummet & Rose?" said the policeman. "Ah, well, just sit down a moment,
will you? The inspector'll want to have a word with you, I shouldn't
wonder."

More and more astonished, Mr. Egg obediently took a seat, and in a few
minutes' time found himself ushered into a small sitting-room which was
occupied by a uniformed police inspector and another policeman with a
note-book.

"Ah!" said the inspector. "Take a seat, will you, Mr.--ha, hum--Egg.
Perhaps you can give us a little light on this affair. Do you know
anything about a case of port wine that was sold to Lord Borrodale last
spring?"

"Certainly I do," replied Mr. Egg, "if you mean the Dow '08. I made the
sale myself. Six dozen at 192_s_. a dozen. Ordered from me, personally,
March 3rd. Dispatched from our head office March 8th. Receipt
acknowledged March 10th, with cheque in settlement. All in order our
end. Nothing wrong with it, I hope? We've had no complaint. In fact,
I've just called to ask his lordship how he liked it and to ask if he'd
care to place a further order."

"I see," said the inspector. "You just happened to call to-day in the
course of your usual round? No special reason?"

Mr. Egg, now convinced that something was very wrong indeed, replied by
placing his order-book and road schedule at the inspector's disposal.

"Yes," said the inspector, when he had glanced through them. "That seems
to be all right. Well, now, Mr. Egg, I'm sorry to say that Lord
Borrodale was found dead in his study this morning under circumstances
strongly suggestive of his having taken poison. And what's more, it
looks very much as if the poison had been administered to him in a glass
of this port wine of yours."

"You don't say!" said Mr. Egg incredulously. "I'm very sorry to hear
that. It won't do us any good, either. Not but what the wine was
wholesome enough when we sent it out. Naturally, it wouldn't pay us to
go putting anything funny into our wines; I needn't tell you that. But
it's not the sort of publicity we care for. What makes you think it was
the port, anyway?"

For answer, the inspector pushed over to him a glass decanter which
stood upon the table.

"See what you think yourself. It's all right--we've tested it for
fingerprints already. Here's a glass if you want one, but I shouldn't
advise you to swallow anything--not unless you're fed up with life."

Mr. Egg took a cautious sniff at the decanter and frowned. He poured out
a thimbleful of the wine, sniffed and frowned again. Then he took an
experimental drop upon his tongue, and immediately expectorated, with
the utmost possible delicacy, into a convenient flower-pot.

"Oh, dear, oh, dear," said Mr. Montague Egg. His rosy face was puckered
with distress. "Tastes to me as though the old gentleman had been
dropping his cigar-ends into it."

The inspector exchanged a glance with the policeman.

"You're not far out," he said. "The doctor hasn't quite finished his
post-mortem, but he says it looks to him like nicotine poisoning. Now,
here's the problem. Lord Borrodale was accustomed to drink a couple of
glasses of port in his study every night after dinner. Last night the
wine was taken in to him as usual at 9 o'clock. It was a new bottle, and
Craven--that's the butler--brought it straight up from the cellar in a
basket arrangement----"

"A cradle," interjected Mr. Egg.

"--a cradle, if that's what you call it. James the footman followed him,
carrying the decanter and a wineglass on a tray. Lord Borrodale
inspected the bottle, which still bore the original seal, and then
Craven drew the cork and decanted the wine in full view of Lord
Borrodale and the footman. Then both servants left the room and retired
to the kitchen quarters, and as they went, they heard Lord Borrodale
lock the study door after them."

"What did he do that for?"

"It seems he usually did. He was writing his memoirs--he was a famous
judge, you know--and as some of the papers he was using were highly
confidential, he preferred to make himself safe against sudden
intruders. At 11 o'clock, when the household went to bed, James noticed
that the light was still on in the study. In the morning it was
discovered that Lord Borrodale had not been to bed. The study door was
still locked and, when it was broken open, they found him lying dead on
the floor. It looked as though he had been taken ill, had tried to reach
the bell, and had collapsed on the way. The doctor says he must have
died at about 10 o'clock."

"Suicide?" suggested Mr. Egg.

"Well, there are difficulties about that. The position of the body, for
one thing. Also, we've carefully searched the room and found no traces
of any bottle or anything that he could have kept the poison in.
Besides, he seems to have enjoyed his life. He had no financial or
domestic worries, and in spite of his advanced age his health was
excellent. Why should he commit suicide?"

"But if he didn't," objected Mr. Egg, "how was it he didn't notice the
bad taste and smell of the wine?"

"Well, he seems to have been smoking a pretty powerful cigar at the
time," said the inspector (Mr. Egg shook a reproachful head), "and I'm
told he was suffering from a slight cold, so that his taste and smell
may not have been in full working order. There are no fingerprints on
the decanter or the glass except his own and those of the butler and the
footman--though, of course, that wouldn't prevent anybody dropping
poison into either of them, if only the door hadn't been locked. The
windows were both fastened on the inside, too, with burglar-proof
catches."

"How about the decanter?" asked Mr. Egg, jealous for the reputation of
his firm. "Was it clean when it came in?"

"Yes, it was. James washed it out immediately before it went into the
study; the cook swears she saw him do it. He used water from the tap and
then swilled it round with a drop of brandy."

"Quite right," said Mr. Egg approvingly.

"And there's nothing wrong with the brandy, either, for Craven took a
glass of it himself afterwards--to settle his palpitations, so he says."
The inspector sniffed meaningly. "The glass was wiped out by James when
he put it on the tray, and then the whole thing was carried along to the
study. Nothing was put down or left for a moment between leaving the
pantry and entering the study, but Craven recollects that as he was
crossing the hall Miss Waynfleet stopped him and spoke to him for a
moment about some arrangements for the following day."

"Miss Waynfleet? That's the niece, isn't it? I saw her on my last visit.
A very charming young lady."

"Lord Borrodale's heiress," remarked the inspector meaningly.

"A very _nice_ young lady," said Mr. Egg, with emphasis. "And I
understand you to say that Craven was carrying only the cradle, not the
decanter or the glass."

"That's so."

"Well, then, I don't see that she could have put anything into what
James was carrying." Mr. Egg paused. "The seal on the cork, now--you say
Lord Borrodale saw it?"

"Yes, and so did Craven and James. You can see it for yourself, if you
like--what's left of it."

The inspector produced an ash-tray, which held a few fragments of dark
blue sealing-wax, together with a small quantity of cigar-ash. Mr. Egg
inspected them carefully.

"That's our wax and our seal, all right," he pronounced. "The top of the
cork has been sliced off cleanly with a sharp knife and the mark's
intact. 'Plummet & Rose. Dow 1908.' Nothing wrong with that. How about
the strainer?"

"Washed out that same afternoon in boiling water by the kitchenmaid.
Wiped immediately before using by James, who brought it in on the tray
with the decanter and the glass. Taken out with the bottle and washed
again at once, unfortunately--otherwise, of course, it might have told
us something about when the nicotine got into the port wine."

"Well," said Mr. Egg obstinately, "it didn't get in at our place, that's
a certainty. What's more, I don't believe it ever was in the bottle at
all. How could it be? Where _is_ the bottle, by the way?"

"It's just been packed up to go to the analyst, I think," said the
inspector, "but as you're here, you'd better have a look at it. Podgers,
let's have that bottle again. There are no fingerprints on it except
Craven's, by the way, so it doesn't look as if it had been tampered
with."

The policeman produced a brown paper parcel, from which he extracted a
port-bottle, its mouth plugged with a clean cork. Some of the original
dust of the cellar still clung to it, mingled with fingerprint powder.
Mr. Egg removed the cork and took a long, strong sniff at the contents.
Then his face changed.

"Where did you get this bottle from?" he demanded sharply.

"From Craven. Naturally, it was one of the first things we asked to see.
He took us along to the cellar and pointed it out."

"Was it standing by itself or with a lot of other bottles?"

"It was standing on the cellar floor at the end of a row of empties, all
belonging to the same bin; he explained that he put them on the floor in
the order in which they were used, till the time came for them to be
collected and taken away."

Mr. Egg thoughtfully tilted the bottle; a few drops of thick red liquid,
turbid with disturbed crust, escaped into his wineglass. He smelt them
again and tasted them. His snub nose looked pugnacious.

"Well?" asked the inspector.

"No nicotine there, at all events," said Mr. Egg, "unless my nose
deceives me, which, you will understand, inspector, isn't likely, my
nose being my livelihood, so to speak. No. You'll have to send it to be
analysed of course; I quite understand that, but I'd be ready to bet
quite a little bit of money you'll find that bottle innocent. And that,
I needn't tell you, will be a great relief to our minds. And I'm sure,
speaking for myself, I very much appreciate the kind way you've put the
matter before me."

"That's all right; your expert knowledge is of value. We can probably
now exclude the bottle straight away and concentrate on the decanter."

"Just so," replied Mr. Egg. "Ye-es. Do you happen to know how many of
the six dozen bottles had been used?"

"No, but Craven can tell us, if you really want to know."

"Just for my own satisfaction," said Mr. Egg. "Just to be sure that this
_is_ the right bottle, you know. I shouldn't like to feel I might have
misled you in any way."

The inspector rang the bell, and the butler promptly appeared--an
elderly man of intensely respectable appearance.

"Craven," said the inspector, "this is Mr. Egg of Plummet & Rose's."

"I am already acquainted with Mr. Egg."

"Quite. He is naturally interested in the history of the port wine. He
would like to know--what is it, exactly, Mr. Egg?"

"This bottle," said Monty, rapping it lightly with his finger-nail,
"it's the one you opened last night?"

"Yes, sir."

"Sure of that?"

"Yes, sir."

"How many dozen have you got left?"

"I couldn't say off-hand, sir, without the cellar-book."

"And that's in the cellar, eh? I'd like to have a look at your
cellars--I'm told they're very fine. All in apple-pie order, I'm sure.
Right temperature and all that?"

"Undoubtedly, sir."

"We'll all go and look at the cellar," suggested the inspector, who in
spite of his expressed confidence seemed to have doubts about leaving
Mr. Egg alone with the butler.

Craven bowed and led the way, pausing only to fetch the keys from his
pantry.

"This nicotine, now," prattled Mr. Egg, as they proceeded down a long
corridor, "is it very deadly? I mean, would you require a great quantity
of it to poison a person?"

"I understand from the doctor," replied the inspector, "that a few drops
of the pure extract, or whatever they call it, would produce death in
anything from twenty minutes to seven or eight hours."

"Dear, dear!" said Mr. Egg. "And how much of the port had the poor old
gentleman taken? The full two glasses?"

"Yes, sir; to judge by the decanter, he had. Lord Borrodale had the
habit of drinking his port straight off. He did not sip it, sir."

Mr. Egg was distressed.

"Not the right thing at all," he said mournfully. "No, no. Smell, sip
and savour to bring out the flavour--that's the rule for wine, you know.
Is there such a thing as a pond or stream in the garden, Mr. Craven?"

"No, sir," said the butler, a little surprised.

"Ah! I was just wondering. Somebody must have brought the nicotine along
in something or other, you know. What would they do afterwards with the
little bottle or whatever it was?"

"Easy enough to throw it in among the bushes or bury it, surely," said
Craven. "There's six acres of garden, not counting the meadow or the
courtyard. Or there are the water-butts, of course, and the well."

"How stupid of me," confessed Mr. Egg. "I never thought of that. Ah!
this is the cellar, is it? Splendid--a real slap-up outfit, I call this.
Nice, even temperature, too. Same summer and winter, eh? Well away from
the house-furnace?"

"Oh, yes, indeed, sir. That's the other side of the house. Be careful of
the last step, gentlemen; it's a little broken away. Here is where the
Dow '08 stood, sir. No. 17 bin--one, two, three and a half dozen
remaining, sir."

Mr. Egg nodded and, holding his electric torch close to the protruding
necks of the bottles, made a careful examination of the seals.

"Yes," he said, "here they are. Three and a half dozen, as you say. Sad
to think that the throat they should have gone down lies, as you might
say, closed up by Death. I often think, as I make my rounds, what a pity
it is we don't all grow mellower and softer in our old age, same as this
wine. A fine old gentleman, Lord Borrodale, or so I'm told, but
something of a tough nut, if that's not disrespectful."

"He was hard, sir," agreed the butler, "but just. A very just master."

"Quite," said Mr. Egg. "And these, I take it, are the empties. Twelve,
twenty-four, twenty-nine--and one is thirty--and three and a half dozen
is forty-two--seventy-two--six dozen--that's O.K. by me." He lifted the
empty bottles one by one. "They say dead men tell no tales, but they
talk to little Monty Egg all right. This one, for instance. If this ever
held Plummet & Rose's Dow '08 you can take Monty Egg and scramble him.
Wrong smell, wrong crust, and that splash of white-wash was never put on
by our cellar-man. Very easy to mix up one empty bottle with another.
Twelve, twenty-four, twenty-eight and one is twenty-nine. I wonder
what's become of the thirtieth bottle."

"I'm sure I never took one away," said the butler.

"The pantry keys--on a nail inside the door--very accessible," said
Monty.

"Just a moment," interrupted the inspector. "Do you say that that bottle
doesn't belong to the same bunch of port wine?"

"No, it doesn't--but no doubt Lord Borrodale sometimes went in for a
change of vintage." Mr. Egg inverted the bottle and shook it sharply.
"Quite dry. Curious. Had a dead spider at the bottom of it. You'd be
surprised how long a spider can exist without food. Curious that this
empty bottle, which comes in the middle of the row, should be drier than
the one at the beginning of the row, and should contain a dead spider.
We see a deal of curious things in our calling, inspector--we're
encouraged to notice things, as you might say. 'The salesman with the
open eye sees commissions mount up high.' You might call this bottle a
curious thing. And here's another. That other bottle, the one you said
was opened last night, Craven--how did you come to make a mistake like
that? If my nose is to be trusted, not to mention my palate, that
bottle's been open a week at least."

"Has it indeed, sir? I'm sure it's the one as I put here at the end of
this row. Somebody must have been and changed it."

"But----" said the inspector. He stopped in mid-speech, as though struck
by a sudden thought. "I think you'd better let me have those cellar keys
of yours, Craven, and we'll get this cellar properly examined. That'll
do for the moment. If you'll just step upstairs with me, Mr. Egg, I'd
like a word with you."

"Always happy to oblige," said Monty agreeably. They returned to the
upper air.

"I don't know if you realise, Mr. Egg," observed the inspector, "the
bearing, or, as I might say, the inference of what you said just now.
Supposing you're right about this bottle not being the right one,
somebody's changed it on purpose, and the right one's missing. And,
what's more, the person that changed the bottle left no fingerprints
behind him--or her."

"I see what you mean," said Mr. Egg, who had indeed drawn this inference
some time ago, "and what's more, it looks as if the poison had been in
the bottle after all, doesn't it? And that--you're going to say--is a
serious look-out for Plummet & Rose, seeing there's no doubt our seal
was on the bottle when it was brought into Lord Borrodale's room. I
don't deny it, inspector. It's useless to bluster and say 'No, no,' when
it's perfectly clear that the facts are so. That's a very useful motto
for a man that wants to get on in our line of business."

"Well, Mr. Egg," said the inspector, laughing, "what will you say to the
next inference? Since nobody but you had any interest in changing that
bottle over, it looks as though I ought to clap the handcuffs on you."

"Now, that's a disagreeable sort of an inference," protested Mr. Egg,
"and I hope you won't follow it up. I shouldn't like anything of that
sort to happen, and my employers wouldn't fancy it either. Don't you
think that, before we do anything we might have cause to regret, it
would be a good idea to have a look in the furnace-room?"

"Why the furnace-room?"

"Because," said Mr. Egg, "it's the place that Craven particularly didn't
mention when we were asking him where anybody might have put a thing he
wanted to get rid of."

The inspector appeared to be struck by this line of reasoning. He
enlisted the aid of a couple of constables, and very soon the ashes of
the furnace that supplied the central heating were being assiduously
raked over. The first find was a thick mass of semi-molten glass, which
looked as though it might once have been part of a wine bottle.

"Looks as though you might be right," said the inspector, "but I don't
see how we're to prove anything. We're not likely to get any nicotine
out of this."

"I suppose not," agreed Mr. Egg sadly. "But"--his face brightened--"how
about this?"

From the sieve in which the constable was sifting the ashes he picked
out a thin piece of warped and twisted metal, to which a lump of charred
bone still clung.

"What on earth's that?"

"It doesn't look like much, but I think it might once have been a
corkscrew," suggested Mr. Egg mildly. "There's something homely and
familiar about it. And, if you'll look here, I think you'll see that the
metal part of it is hollow. And I shouldn't be surprised if the thick
bone handle was hollow, too. It's very badly charred, of course, but if
you were to split it open, and if you were to find a hollow inside it,
and possibly a little melted rubber--well, that might explain a lot."

The inspector smacked his thigh.

"By Jove, Mr. Egg!" he exclaimed, "I believe I see what you're getting
at. You mean that if this corkscrew had been made hollow, and contained
a rubber reservoir, inside, like a fountain-pen, filled with poison, the
poison might be made to flow down the hollow shaft by pressure on some
sort of plunger arrangement."

"That's it," said Mr. Egg. "It would have to be screwed into the cork
very carefully, of course, so as not to damage the tube, and it would
have to be made long enough to project beyond the bottom of the cork,
but still, it might be done. What's more, it has been done, or why
should there be this little hole in the metal, about a quarter of an
inch from the tip? Ordinary corkscrews never have holes in them--not in
my experience, and I've been, as you might say, brought up on
corkscrews."

"But who, in that case----?"

"Well, the man who drew the cork, don't you think? The man whose
fingerprints were on the bottle."

"Craven? But where's his motive?"

"I don't know," said Mr. Egg, "but Lord Borrodale was a judge, and a
hard judge too. If you were to have Craven's fingerprints sent up to
Scotland Yard, they might recognise them. I don't know. It's possible,
isn't it? Or maybe Miss Waynfleet might know something about him. Or he
might just possibly be mentioned in Lord Borrodale's memoirs that he was
writing."

The inspector lost no time in following up this suggestion. Neither
Scotland Yard nor Miss Waynfleet had anything to say against the butler,
who had been two years in his situation and had always been quite
satisfactory, but a reference to the records of Lord Borrodale's
judicial career showed that, a good many years before, he had inflicted
a savage sentence of penal servitude on a young man called Craven, who
was by trade a skilled metal-worker and had apparently been involved in
a fraud upon his employer. A little further investigation showed that
this young man had been released from prison six months previously.

"Craven's son, of course," said the inspector. "And he had the manual
skill to make the corkscrew in exact imitation of the one ordinarily
used in the household. Wonder where they got the nicotine from? Well, we
shall soon be able to check that up. I believe it's not difficult to
obtain it for use in the garden. I'm very much obliged to you for your
expert assistance, Mr. Egg. It would have taken us a long time to get to
the rights and wrongs of those bottles. I suppose, when you found that
Craven had given you the wrong one, you began to suspect him?"

"Oh, no," said Mr. Egg, with modest pride, "I knew it was Craven the
minute he came into the room."

"No, did you? You're a regular Sherlock, aren't you? But why?"

"He called me 'sir,'" explained Mr. Egg, coughing delicately. "Last time
I called he addressed me as 'young fellow' and told me that tradesmen
must go round to the back door. A bad error of policy. 'Whether you're
wrong or whether you're right, it's always better to be polite,' as it
says in the _Salesman's Handbook_."




2. SLEUTHS ON THE SCENT


The commercial room at the Pig and Pewter presented to Mr. Montague Egg
the aspect of a dim cavern in which some primæval inhabitant had been
cooking his mammoth-meat over a fire of damp seaweed. In other words, it
was ill lit, cold, smoky and permeated with an odour of stale food.

"Oh dear, oh dear!" muttered Mr. Egg. He poked at the sullen coals,
releasing a volume of pea-coloured smoke which made him cough.

Mr. Egg rang the bell.

"Oh, if you please, sir," said the maid who answered the summons, "I'm
sure I'm very sorry, but it's always this way when the wind's in the
east, sir, and we've tried ever so many sorts of cowls and
chimney-pots, you'd be surprised. The man was here to-day a-working in
it, which is why the fire wasn't lit till just now, sir, but they don't
seem able to do nothink with it. But there's a beautiful fire in the
bar-parlour, sir, if you cared to step along. There's a very pleasant
party in there, sir. I'm sure you would be comfortable. There's another
commercial gentleman like yourself, sir, and old Mr. Faggott and
Sergeant Jukes over from Drabblesford. Oh, and there's two parties of
motorists, but they're all quite nice and quiet, sir."

"That'll suit me all right," said Mr. Egg amiably. But he made a mental
note, nevertheless, that he would warn his fellow-commercials against
the Pig and Pewter at Mugbury, for an inn is judged by its commercial
room. Moreover, the dinner had been bad, with a badness not to be
explained by his own rather late arrival.

In the bar-parlour, however, things were better. At one side of the
cheerful hearth sat old Mr. Faggott, an aged countryman, beneath whose
scanty white beard dangled a long, scarlet comforter. In his hand was a
tankard of ale. Opposite to him, also with a tankard, was a large man,
obviously a policeman in mufti. At a table in front of the fireplace sat
an alert-looking, darkish, youngish man whom Mr. Egg instantly
identified as the commercial gentleman by the stout leather bag at his
side. He was drinking sherry. A young man and a girl in motor-cycling
kit were whispering together at another table, over a whisky-and-polly
and a glass of port. Another man, with his hat and Burberry on, was
ordering Guinness at the little serving-hatch which communicated with
the bar, while, in a far corner, an indeterminate male figure sat silent
and half concealed by a slouch hat and a newspaper. Mr. Egg saluted the
company with respect and observed that it was a nasty night.

The commercial gentleman uttered an emphatic agreement.

"I ought to have got on to Drabblesford to-night," he added, "but with
this frost and drizzle and frost again the roads are in such a state, I
think I'd better stay where I am."

"Same here," said Mr. Egg, approaching the hatch. "Half of
mild-and-bitter, please. Cold, too, isn't it?"

"Very cold," said the policeman.

"Ar," said old Mr. Faggott.

"Foul," said the man in the Burberry, returning from the hatch and
seating himself near the commercial gentleman. "I've reason to know it.
Skidded into a telegraph-pole two miles out. You should see my bumpers.
Well! I suppose it's only to be expected this time of year."

"Ar!" said old Mr. Faggott. There was a pause.


"Well," said Mr. Egg, politely raising his tankard, "here's luck!"

The company acknowledged the courtesy in a suitable manner, and another
pause followed. It was broken by the traveller.

"Acquainted with this part of the country, sir?"

"Why, no," said Monty Egg. "It's not my usual beat. Bastable covers it
as a rule--Henry Bastable--perhaps you know him? He and I travel for
Plummet & Rose, wines and spirits."

"Tall, red-haired fellow?"

"That's him. Laid up with rheumatic fever, poor chap, so I'm taking over
temporarily. My name's Egg--Montague Egg."

"Oh, yes, I think I've heard of you from Taylor of Harrogate Bros.
Redwood is my name. Fragonard & Co., perfumes and toilet accessories."

Mr. Egg bowed and inquired, in a discreet and general way, how Mr.
Redwood was finding things.

"Not too bad. Of course, money's a bit tight; that's only to be
expected. But, considering everything, not too bad. I've got a line
here, by the way, which is doing pretty well and may give _you_
something to think about." He bent over, unstrapped his bag and produced
a tall flask, its glass stopper neatly secured with a twist of fine
string. "Tell me what you think of that." He removed the string and
handed the sample to Monty.

"Parma violet?" said that gentleman, with a glance at the label. "The
young lady should be the best judge of this. Allow me, miss. Sweets to
the sweet," he added gallantly. "You'll excuse me, I'm sure."

The girl giggled.

"Go on, Gert," said her companion. "Never refuse a good offer." He
removed the stopper and sniffed heartily at the perfume. "This is
high-class stuff, this is. Put a drop on your handkerchief. Here--I'll
do it for you!"

"Oh! it's lovely!" said the girl. "Refined, I call it. Get along,
Arthur, do! Leave my handkerchief alone--what they'll all think of you!
I'm sure this gentleman won't mind you having a drop for yourself if you
want it."

Arthur favoured the company with a large wink, and sprinkled his
handkerchief liberally. Monty rescued the flask and passed it to the man
in the Burberry.

"Excuse me, sir," said Mr. Redwood, "but if I might point it out, it's
not everybody knows the right way to test perfume. Just dab a little on
the hand, wait while the liquid evaporates, and then raise the hand to
the nostrils."

"Like this?" said the man in the Burberry, dexterously hitching the
stopper out with his little finger, pouring a drop of perfume into his
left palm and re-stoppering the bottle, all in one movement. "Yes, I see
what you mean."

"That's very interesting," said Monty, much impressed and following the
example set him. "Same as when you put old brandy in a thin glass and
cradle it in the hollow of the palm to bring out the aroma. The warmth
of the hand makes the ethers expand. I'm very glad to know from you, Mr.
Redwood, what is the correct method with perfumes. Ready to learn means
ready to earn--that's Monty Egg, every time. A very fine perfume indeed.
Would you like to try it, sir?"

He offered the bottle first to the aged countryman (who shook his head,
remarking acidly that he "couldn't abide smells and sich nastiness") and
then to the policeman, who, disdaining refinements, took a strong sniff
at the bottle and pronounced the scent "good, but a bit powerful for his
liking."

"Well, well, tastes differ," said Monty. He glanced round, and,
observing the silent man in the far corner, approached him confidently
with a request for his opinion.

"What the devil's the matter with _you_?" growled this person, emerging
reluctantly from behind his barricade of newspaper, and displaying a
bristling and bellicose fair moustache and a pair of sulky blue eyes.
"There seems to be no peace in this bar. Scent? Can't abide the stuff."
He snatched the perfume impatiently from Mr. Egg's hand, sniffed and
thrust the stopper back with such blind and fumbling haste that it
missed the neck of the flask altogether and rolled away under the table.
"Well, it's scent. What else do you want me to say about it? I'm not
going to buy it, if that's what you're after."

"Certainly not, sir," said Mr. Redwood, hurt, and hastening to retrieve
his scattered property. "Wonder what's bitten him," he continued, in a
confidential undertone. "Nasty glitter in his eye. Hands all of a
tremble. Better look out for him, sergeant. We don't want murder done.
Well, anyhow, madam and gentlemen, what should you say if I was to tell
you that we're able to retail that large bottle, as it stands--retail
it, mind you--at three shillings and sixpence?"

"Three-and-six?" said Mr. Egg, surprised. "Why, I should have thought
that wouldn't so much as pay the duty on the spirit."

"Nor it would," triumphed Mr. Redwood, "if it was spirit. But it isn't,
and that's the whole point. It's a trade secret and I can't say more,
but if you were to be asked whether that was or was not the finest Parma
violet, equal to the most expensive marks, I don't mind betting you'd
never know the difference."

"No, indeed," said Mr. Egg. "Wonderful, I call it. Pity they can't
discover something similar to help the wine and spirit business, though
I needn't say it wouldn't altogether do, or what would the Chancellor of
the Exchequer have to say about it? Talking of that, what are you
drinking? And you, miss? I hope you'll allow me, gentlemen. Same again
all round, please."

The landlord hastened to fulfil the order and, as he passed through the
bar-parlour, switched on the wireless, which instantly responded with
the 9 o'clock time-signal, followed clearly by the voice of the
announcer:

"This is the National Programme from London. Before I read the weather
report, here is a police message. In connection with the murder of
Alice Steward, at Nottingham, we are asked by the Commissioner of Police
to broadcast the following. The police are anxious to get in touch with
a young man named Gerald Beeton, who is known to have visited the
deceased on the afternoon preceding her death. This man is aged
thirty-five, medium height, medium build, fair hair, small moustache,
grey or blue eyes, full face, fresh colour. When last seen was wearing a
grey lounge suit, soft grey hat and fawn overcoat, and is thought to be
now travelling the country in a Morris car, number unknown. Will this
man, or anyone able to throw light on his whereabouts, please
communicate at once with the Superintendent of Police, Nottingham, or
with any police-station? Here is the weather report. A deep depression.
. . ."

"Oh, switch it off, George," urged Mr. Redwood. "We don't want to hear
about depressions."

"That's right," agreed the landlord, switching off. "What gets me is
these police descriptions. How'd they think anyone's going to recognise
a man from the sort of stuff they give you? Medium this and medium the
other, and ordinary face and fair complexion and a soft hat--might be
anybody."

"So it might," said Monty. "It might be me."

"Well, that's true, it might," said Mr. Redwood. "Or it might be this
gentleman."

"That's a fact," admitted the man in the burberry. "Or it might be fifty
men out of every hundred."

"Yes, or"--Monty jerked his head cautiously towards the newspaper in the
corner--"him!"

"Well, so you say," said Redwood, "but nobody else has seen him to look
at. Unless it's George."

"I wouldn't care to swear to him," said the landlord, with a smile. "He
come straight in here and ordered a drink and paid for it without so
much as looking at me, but from what I did see of him the description
would fit him as well as anybody. And what's more, he's got a Morris
car--it's in the garage now."

"That's nothing against him," said Monty. "So've I."

"And I," said the man in the burberry.

"And I," chimed in Redwood. "Encourage home industries, I say. But it's
no help to identifying a man. Beg your pardon, sergeant, and all that,
but why don't the police make it a bit easier for the public?"

"Why," said the sergeant, "because they 'as to rely on the damn-fool
descriptions given to them _by_ the public. That's why."

"One up to you," said Redwood pleasantly. "Tell me, sergeant, all this
stuff about wanting to interview the fellow is all eyewash, isn't it? I
mean, what they really want to do is to arrest him."

"That ain't for me to say," replied the sergeant ponderously. "You must
use your own judgment about that. What they're asking for is an
interview, him being known to have been one of the last people to see
her before she was done in. If he's sensible, he'll turn up. If he don't
answer to the summons--well, you can think what you like."

"Who is he, anyway?" asked Monty.

"Now you want to know something. Ain't you seen the evening papers?"

"No; I've been on the road since five o'clock."

"Well, it's like this here. This old lady, Miss Alice Steward, lived all
alone with a maid in a little 'ouse on the outskirts of Nottingham.
Yesterday afternoon was the maid's afternoon out, and just as she was
stepping out of the door, a bloke drives up in a Morris--or so _she_
says, though you can't trust these girls, and if you ask me, it may just
as well have been an Austin or Wolseley, or anything else, for that
matter. He asks to see Miss Steward and the girl shows him into the
sitting-room, and as she does so she hears the old girl say, 'Why,
Gerald!'--like that. Well, she goes off to the pictures and leaves 'em
to it, and when she gets back at 10 o'clock, she finds the old lady
lying with 'er 'ead bashed in."

Mr. Redwood leaned across and nudged Mr. Egg. The stranger in the far
corner had ceased to read his paper, and was peering stealthily round
the edge of it.

"That's brought _him_ to life, anyway," muttered Mr. Redwood. "Well,
sergeant, but how did the girl know the fellow's surname and who he
was?"

"Why," replied the sergeant, "she remembered once 'earing the old lady
speak of a man called Gerald Beeton--a good many years ago, or so she
said, and she couldn't tell us much about it. Only she remembered the
name, because it was the same as the one on her cookery-book."

"Was that at Lewes?" demanded the young man called Arthur suddenly.

"Might have been," admitted the sergeant, glancing rather sharply at
him." The old lady came from Lewes. Why?"

"I remember, when I was a kid at school, hearing my mother mention an
old Miss Steward at Lewes, who was very rich and had adopted a young
fellow out of a chemist's shop. I think he ran away, and turned out
badly, or something. Anyway, the old lady left the town. She was
supposed to be very rich and to keep all her money in a tin box, or
something. My mother's cousin knew an old girl who was Miss Steward's
housekeeper--but I daresay it was all rot. Anyhow, that was about six or
seven years ago, and I believe my mother's cousin is dead now and the
housekeeper too. My mother" went on the young man called Arthur,
anticipating the next question, "died two years ago."

"That's very interesting, all the same," said Mr. Egg encouragingly.
"You ought to tell the police about it."

"Well, I have, haven't I?" said Arthur, with a grin, indicating the
sergeant. "Though I expect they know it already. Or do I have to go to
the police-station?"

"For the present purpose," replied the sergeant, "I am a police-station.
But you might give me your name and address."

The young man gave his name as Arthur Bunce, with an address in London.
At this point the girl Gertrude was struck with an idea.

"But what about the tin box? D'you think he killed her to get it?"

"There's been nothing in the papers about the tin box," put in the man
in the Burberry.

"They don't let everything get into the papers," said the sergeant.

"It doesn't seem to be in the paper our disagreeable friend is reading,"
murmured Mr. Redwood, and as he spoke, that person rose from his seat
and came over to the serving-hatch, ostensibly to order more beer, but
with the evident intention of overhearing more of the conversation.

"I wonder if they'll catch the fellow," pursued Redwood thoughtfully.
"They--by Jove! yes, that explains it--they must be keeping a pretty
sharp look-out. I wondered why they held me up outside Wintonbury to
examine my driving-licence. I suppose they're checking all the Morrises
on the roads. Some job."

"All the Morrises in this district, anyway," said Monty. "They held me
up just outside Thugford."

"Oho!" cried Arthur Bunce, "that looks as though they've got a line on
the fellow. Now, sergeant, come across with it. What do you know about
this, eh?"

"I can't tell you anything about that," replied Sergeant Jukes, in a
stately manner. The disagreeable man moved away from the serving-hatch,
and at the same moment the sergeant rose and walked over to a distant
table to knock out his pipe, rather unnecessarily, into a flower-pot. He
remained there, refilling the pipe from his pouch, his bulky form
towering between the Disagreeable Man and the door.

"They'll never catch him," said the Disagreeable Man, suddenly and
unexpectedly. "They'll never catch him. And do you know why? I'll tell
you. Not because he's too clever for them, but because he's too stupid.
It's all too ordinary. I don't suppose it was this man Beeton at all.
Don't you read your papers? Didn't you see that the old lady's
sitting-room was on the ground floor, and that the dining-room window
was found open at the top? It would be the easiest thing in the world
for a man to slip in through the dining-room--Miss Steward was rather
deaf--and catch her unawares and bash her on the head. There's only
crazy paving between the garden gate and the windows, and there was a
black frost yesterday night, so he'd leave no footmarks on the carpet.
That's the difficult sort of murder to trace--no subtlety, no apparent
motive. Look at the Reading murder, look at----"

"Hold hard a minute sir," interrupted the sergeant. "How do you know
there was crazy paving? _That's_ not in the papers, as far as I know."

The Disagreeable Man stopped short in the full tide of his eloquence,
and appeared disconcerted.

"I've seen the place, as a matter of fact," he said with some
reluctance. "Went there this morning to look at it--for private reasons,
which I needn't trouble you with."

"That's a funny thing to do, sir."

"It may be, but it's no business of yours."

"Oh, no, sir, of course not," said the sergeant. "We all of us has our
little 'obbies, and crazy paving may be yours. Landscape gardener, sir?"

"Not exactly."

"A journalist, perhaps?" suggested Mr. Redwood.

"That's nearer," said the other. "Looking at my three fountain-pens, eh?
Quite the amateur detective."

"The gentleman can't be a journalist," said Mr. Egg. "You will pardon
me, sir, but a journalist couldn't help but take an interest in Mr.
Redwood's synthetic alcohol or whatever it is. I fancy I might put a
name to your profession if I was called upon to do so. Every man carries
the marks of his trade, though it's not always as conspicuous as Mr.
Redwood's sample case or mine. Take books, for instance. I always know
an academic gentleman by the way he opens a book. It's in his blood, as
you might say. Or take bottles. I handle them one way--it's my trade. A
doctor or a chemist handles them another way. This scent-bottle, for
example. If you or I was to take the stopper out of this bottle, how
would we do it? How would you do it, Mr. Redwood?"

"Me?" said Mr. Redwood. "Why, dash it all! On the word 'one' I'd apply
the thumb and two fingers of the right hand _to_ the stopper and on the
word 'two' I would elevate them briskly, retaining a firm grip on the
bottle with the left hand in case of accident. What would you do?" He
turned to the man in the Burberry.

"Same as you," said that gentleman, suiting the action to the word. "I
don't see any difficulty about that. There's only one way I know of to
take out stoppers, and that's to take 'em out. What d'you expect me to
do? Whistle 'em out?"

"But this gentleman's quite right, all the same," put in the
Disagreeable Man." You do it that way because you aren't accustomed to
measuring and pouring with one hand while the other's occupied. But a
doctor or a chemist pulls the stopper out with his little finger, like
this, and lifts the bottle in the same hand, holding the measuring-glass
in his left--so--and when he----"

"Hi! Beeton!" cried Mr. Egg in a shrill voice, "look out!"

The flask slipped from the hand of the Disagreeable Man and crashed on
the table's edge as the man in the Burberry started to his feet. An
overpowering odour of violets filled the room. The sergeant darted
forward--there was a brief but violent struggle. The girl screamed. The
landlord rushed in from the bar, and a crowd of men surged in after him
and blocked the doorway.

"There," said the sergeant, emerging a little breathless from the
mix-up, "you best come quiet. Wait a minute! Gotter charge you. Gerald
Beeton, I arrest you for the murder of Alice Steward--stand still, can't
you?--and I warns you as anything you say may be taken down and used in
evidence at your trial. Thank you, sir. If you'll give me a 'and with
him to the door, I've got a pal waiting just up the road, with a police
car."

In a few minutes' time Sergeant Jukes returned, struggling into his
overcoat. His amateur helpers accompanied him, their faces bright, as of
those who have done their good deed for the day.

"That was a very neat dodge of yours, sir," said the sergeant,
addressing Mr. Egg, who was administering a stiff pick-me-up to the
young lady, while Mr. Redwood and the landlord together sought to remove
the drench of Parma violet from the carpet. "Whew! Smells a bit strong,
don't it? Regular barber's shop. We had the office he was expected this
way, and I had an idea that one of you gentlemen might be the man, but I
didn't know which. Mr. Bunce here saying that Beeton had been a chemist
was a big help; and you, sir, I must say you touched him off proper."

"Not at all," said Mr. Egg. "I noticed the way he took that stopper out
the first time--it showed he had been trained to laboratory work. That
might have been an accident, of course. But afterwards, when he
pretended he didn't know the right way to do it, I thought it was time
to see if he'd answer to his name."

"Good wheeze," said the Disagreeable Man agreeably. "Mind if I use it
some time?"

"Ah!" said Sergeant Jukes. "You gave me a bit of a turn, sir, with that
crazy paving. Whatever did you----"

"Professional curiosity," said the other, with a grin. "I write
detective stories. But our friend Mr. Egg is a better hand at the real
thing."

"No, no," said Monty. "We all helped. The hardest problem's easy of
solution when each one makes his little contribution. Isn't that so, Mr.
Faggott?"

The aged countryman had risen to his feet.

"Place fair stinks o' that dratted stuff," he said disapprovingly. "I
can't abide sich nastiness." He hobbled out and shut the door.




3. MURDER IN THE MORNING


"Half a mile along the main road to Ditchley, and then turn off to the
left at the sign-post," said the Traveller in Mangles; "but I think
you'll be wasting your time."

"Oh, well," said Mr. Montague Egg cheerfully, "I'll have a shot at the
old bird. As the _Salesman's Handbook_ says: 'Don't let the smallest
chance slip by; you never know until you try.' After all, he's supposed
to be rich, isn't he?"

"Mattresses stuffed with gold sovereigns, or so the neighbours say,"
acknowledged the Traveller in Mangles with a grin. "But they'd say
anything."

"Thought you said there weren't any neighbours."

"No more they are. Manner of speaking. Well, good luck to it!"

Mr. Egg acknowledged the courtesy with a wave of his smart trilby, and
let his clutch in with quiet determination.

The main road was thronged with the usual traffic of a Saturday morning
in June--worthy holiday-makers bound for Melbury Woods or for the
seashore about Beachampton--but as soon as he turned into the little
narrow lane by the sign-post which said "Hatchford Mill 2 Miles," he was
plunged into a profound solitude and silence, broken only by the scurry
of an occasional rabbit from the hedgerow and the chug of his own
Morris. Whatever else the mysterious Mr. Pinchbeck might be, he
certainly was a solitary soul, and when, about a mile and a half down
the lane, Monty caught sight of the tiny cottage, set far back in the
middle of a neglected-looking field, he began to think that the
Traveller in Mangles had been right. Rich though he might be, Mr.
Pinchbeck was probably not a very likely customer for the wines and
spirits supplied by Messrs. Plummet & Rose of Piccadilly. But,
remembering Maxim Five of the _Salesman's Handbook_, "If you're a
salesman worth the name at all, you can sell razors to a billiard-ball,"
Mr. Egg stopped his car at the entrance to the field, lifted the sagging
gate and dragged it open, creaking in every rotten rail, and drove
forward over the rough track, scarred with the ruts left by wet-weather
traffic.

The cottage door was shut. Monty beat a cheerful tattoo upon its
blistered surface, and was not very much surprised to get no answer. He
knocked again, and then, unwilling to abandon his quest now he had come
so far, walked round to the back. Here again he got no answer. Was Mr.
Pinchbeck out? It was said that he never went out. Being by nature
persistent and inquisitive, Mr. Egg stepped up to the window and looked
in. What he saw made him whistle softly. He returned to the back door,
pushed it open and entered.

When you arrive at a person's house with no intention beyond selling him
a case of whisky or a dozen or so of port, it is disconcerting to find
him stretched on his own kitchen floor, with his head battered to pulp.
Mr. Egg had served two years on the Western Front, but he did not like
what he saw. He put the table-cloth over it. Then, being a methodical
sort of person, he looked at his watch, which marked 10.25. After a
minute's pause for consideration, he made a rapid tour of the premises,
then set off, driving as fast as he could, to fetch the police.

       *       *       *       *       *

The inquest upon Mr. Humphrey Pinchbeck took place the following day,
and resulted in a verdict of wilful murder against some person or
persons unknown. During the next fortnight, Mr. Montague Egg, with some
uneasiness, watched the newspapers. The police were following up a clue.
A man was requested to communicate with the police. The man was
described--a striking-looking person with a red beard and a check suit,
driving a sports car with the registered number WOE 1313. The man was
found. The man was charged, and Mr. Montague Egg, three hundred miles
away, was informed, to his disgust, that he would be required to give
evidence before the magistrates at Beachampton.

The accused, who gave his name as Theodore Barton, age forty-two,
profession poet (at which Monty stared very hard, never having seen a
poet at such close quarters), was a tall, powerfully built man, dressed
in flamboyant tweeds, and having a certain air of rather disreputable
magnificence about him. One would expect, thought Monty, to find him
hanging about bars in the East Central district of London. His eyes were
bold, and the upper part of his face handsome in its way; the mouth was
hidden by the abundance of his tawny beard. He appeared to be perfectly
at his ease, and was represented by a solicitor.

Montague Egg was called at an early stage to give evidence of the
finding of the body. He mentioned that the time was 10.25 a.m. on
Saturday, June 18th, and that the body was still quite warm when he saw
it. The front door was locked; the back door shut, but not locked. The
kitchen was greatly disordered, as though there had been a violent
struggle, and a blood-stained poker lay beside the dead man. He had made
a rapid search before sending for the police. In a bedroom upstairs he
had seen a heavy iron box standing open and empty, with the keys hanging
from the lock. There was no other person in the cottage, nor yet
concealed about the little yard, but there were marks as though a large
car had recently stood in a shed at the back of the house. In the
sitting-room were the remains of breakfast for two persons. He (Mr. Egg)
had passed down the lane from the high-road in his car, and had met
nobody at all on the way. He had spent perhaps five or ten minutes in
searching the place, and had then driven back by the way he came.

At this point Detective-Inspector Ramage explained that the lane leading
to the cottage ran on for half a mile or so to pass Hatchford Mill, and
then bent back to enter the main Beachampton road again at a point three
miles nearer Ditchley.

The next witness was a baker named Bowles. He gave evidence that he had
called at the cottage with his van at 10.15, to deliver two loaves of
bread. He had gone to the back door, which had been opened by Mr.
Pinchbeck in person. The old gentleman had appeared to be in perfect
health, but a little flurried and irritable. He had not seen any other
person in the kitchen, but had an impression that before he knocked he
had heard two men's voices talking loudly and excitedly. The lad who had
accompanied Bowles on his round confirmed this, adding that he fancied
he had seen the outline of a man move across the kitchen window.

Mrs. Chapman, from Hatchford Mill, then came forward to say that she was
accustomed to go in every week-day to Mr. Pinchbeck's cottage to do a
bit of cleaning. She arrived at 7.30 and left at 9 o'clock. On Saturday
18th she had come as usual, to find that a visitor had arrived
unexpectedly the night before. She identified the accused, Theodore
Barton, as that visitor. He had apparently slept on the couch in the
sitting-room, and was departing again that morning. She saw his car in
the shed; it was a little sports one, and she had particularly noticed
the number, WOE 1313, thinking that there was an unlucky number and no
mistake. The interior of the shed was not visible from the back door.
She had set breakfast for the two of them. The milkman and the postman
had called before she left, and the grocer's van must have come soon
after, for it was down at the Mill by 9.30. Nobody else ever called at
the cottage, so far as she knew. Mr. Pinchbeck was a vegetarian and grew
his own garden-stuff. She had never known him have a visitor before. She
had heard nothing in the nature of "words" between Mr. Pinchbeck and the
accused, but had thought the old man was not in the best of spirits. "He
seemed a bit put out, like."

Then came another witness from the Mill, who had heard a car with a
powerful engine drive very rapidly past the Mill a little before
half-past ten. He had run out to look, fast cars being a rarity in the
lane, but had seen nothing, on account of the trees which bordered the
road at the corner just beyond the Mill.

At this point the police put in a statement made by the accused on his
arrest. He said that he was the nephew of the deceased, and frankly
admitted that he had spent the night at the cottage. Deceased had seemed
pleased to see him, as they had not met for some time. On hearing that
his nephew was "rather hard up," deceased had remonstrated with him
about following so ill paid a profession as poetry, but had kindly
offered him a small loan, which he, the accused, had gratefully
accepted. Mr. Pinchbeck had then opened the box in his bedroom and
brought out a number of banknotes, of which he had handed over "ten
fivers," accompanying the gift by a little sermon on hard work and
thrift. This had happened at about 9.45 or a little earlier--at any
rate, after Mrs. Chapman was safely off the premises. The box had
appeared to be full of banknotes and securities, and Mr. Pinchbeck had
expressed distrust both of Mrs. Chapman and of the tradesmen in general.
(Here Mrs. Chapman voiced an indignant protest, and had to be soothed by
the Bench.) The statement went on to say that the accused had had no
sort of quarrel with his uncle, and had left the cottage at, he thought,
10 o'clock or thereabouts, and driven on through Ditchley and Frogthorpe
to Beachampton. There he had left his car with a friend, to whom it
belonged, and had hired a motor-boat and gone over to spend a fortnight
in Brittany. Here he had heard nothing about his uncle's death till the
arrival of Detective-Inspector Ramage had informed him of the suspicion
against him. He had, of course, hastened back immediately to establish
his innocence.

The police theory was that, as soon as the last tradesman had left the
house, Barton had killed the old man, taken his keys, stolen the money,
and escaped, supposing that the body would not be found till Mrs.
Chapman arrived on the Monday morning.

While Theodore Barton's solicitor was extracting from Inspector Ramage
the admission that the only money found on the accused at the time of
his arrest was six Bank of England five-pound notes and a few shillings'
worth of French money, Mr. Egg became aware that somebody was breathing
very hard and excitedly down the back of his neck, and, on turning
round, found himself face to face with an elderly woman, whose rather
prominent eyes seemed ready to pop out of her head with agitation.

"Oh!" said the woman, bouncing in her seat. "Oh, dear!"

"I beg your pardon," said Mr. Egg, ever courteous. "Am I in your way, or
anything?"

"Oh! oh, thank you! Oh, do tell me what I ought to do. There's something
I ought to tell them. Poor man. He isn't guilty at all. I _know_ he
isn't. Oh, please do tell me what I ought to do. Do I have to go to the
police? Oh, dear, oh, dear! I thought--I didn't know--I've never been in
a place like this before! Oh, I know they'll bring him in guilty.
Please, _please_ stop them!"

"They can't bring him in guilty in this court," said Monty soothingly.
"They can send him up for trial----"

"Oh, but they mustn't! He didn't do it. He wasn't there. Oh, please do
something about it."

She appeared so earnest that Mr. Egg, slightly clearing his throat and
settling his tie, rose boldly to his feet and exclaimed in stentorian
accents: "Your Worship!"

The bench stared. The solicitor stared. The accused stared. Everybody
stared.

"There is a lady here," said Monty, feeling that he must go through
with it, "who tells me she has important evidence to give on behalf of
the accused."

The staring eyes became focused upon the lady, who instantly started up,
dropping her handbag, and crying: "Oh, dear! I'm so sorry! I'm afraid I
ought to have gone to the police."

The solicitor, in whose face surprise, annoyance and anticipation
struggled curiously together, at once came forward. The lady was
extricated and a short whispered consultation followed, after which the
solicitor said:

"Your worship, my client's instructions were to reserve his defence,
but, since the lady, whom I have never seen until this moment, has so
generously come forward with her statement, which appears to be a
complete answer to the charge, perhaps your worship would prefer to hear
her at this stage."

After a little discussion, the Bench decided that they would like to
hear the evidence, if the accused was agreeable. Accordingly, the lady
was put in the box, and sworn, in the name of Millicent Adela Queek.

"I am a spinster, and employed as art mistress at Woodbury High School
for Girls. Saturday 18th was a holiday, of course, and I thought I would
have a little picnic, all by my lonesome, in Melbury Woods. I started
off in my own little car just about 9.30. It would take me about half an
hour to get to Ditchley--I never drive very fast, and there was a lot of
traffic on the road--most dangerous. When I got to Ditchley, I turned to
the right, along the main road to Beachampton. After a little time I
began to wonder whether I had put in quite enough petrol. My gauge isn't
very reliable, you know, so I thought I'd better stop and make _quite_
certain. So I pulled up at a roadside garage. I don't know _exactly_
where it was, but it was quite a little way beyond Ditchley--between
that and Helpington. It was one of those _dreadfully_ ugly places, made
of corrugated iron painted bright red. I don't think they should allow
them to put up things like that. I asked the man there--a most obliging
young man--to fill my tank, and while I was there I saw this
gentleman--yes, I mean Mr. Barton, the accused--drive up in his car. He
was coming from the Ditchley direction and driving rather fast. He
pulled up on the left-hand side of the road. The garage is on the right,
but I saw him very distinctly. I couldn't mistake him--his beard, you
know, and the clothes he was wearing--so distinctive. It was the same
suit he is wearing now. Besides, I noticed the number of his car. Such a
curious one, is it not? WOE 1313. Yes. Well, he opened the bonnet and
did something to his plugs, I think, and then he drove on."

"What time was this?"

"I was just going to tell you. When I came to look at my watch I found
it had stopped. Most vexatious. I think it was due to the vibration of
the steering-wheel. But I looked up at the garage clock--there was one
just over the door--and it said 10.20. So I set my watch by that. Then
I went on to Melbury Woods and had my little picnic. So fortunate,
wasn't it? that I looked at the clock then. Because my watch stopped
again later on. But I do _know_ that it was 10.20 when this gentleman
stopped at the garage, so I don't see how he could have been doing a
murder at that poor man's cottage between 10.15 and 10.25, because it
must be well over twenty miles away--more, I should think."

Miss Queek ended her statement with a little gasp, and looked round
triumphantly.

Detective-Inspector Ramage's face was a study. Miss Queek went on to
explain why she had not come forward earlier with her story.

"When I read the description in the papers I thought it _must_ be the
same car I had seen, because of the number--but of course I couldn't be
sure it was the same man, could I? Descriptions are _so_ misleading. And
naturally I didn't want to be mixed up with a police case. The school,
you know--parents don't like it. But I thought, if I came and saw this
gentleman for myself, then I should be quite certain. And Miss
Wagstaffe--our head-mistress--so kindly gave me leave to come, though
to-day is very inconvenient, being my busiest afternoon. But I said it
might be a matter of life and death, and so it is, isn't it?"

The magistrate thanked Miss Queek for her public-spirited intervention,
and then, at the urgent request of both parties, adjourned the court for
further inquiry into the new evidence.

       *       *       *       *       *

Since it was extremely important that Miss Queek should identify the
garage in question as soon as possible, it was arranged that she should
set out at once in search of it, accompanied by Inspector Ramage and his
sergeant, Mr. Barton's solicitor going with them to see fair play for
his client. A slight difficulty arose, however. It appeared that the
police car was not quite big enough to take the whole party comfortably,
and Mr. Montague Egg, climbing into his own Morris, found himself hailed
by the inspector with the request for a lift.

"By all means," said Monty; "a pleasure. Besides, you'll be able to keep
your eye on me. Because, if that chap didn't do it, it looks to me as
though I must be the guilty party."

"I wouldn't say that, sir," said the inspector, obviously taken aback by
this bit of thought-reading.

"I couldn't blame you if you did," said Monty. He smiled, remembering
his favourite motto for salesmen: "A cheerful voice and cheerful look
put orders in the order-book," and buzzed merrily away in the wake of
the police car along the road from Beachampton to Ditchley.

"We ought to be getting near it now," remarked Ramage when they had left
Helpington behind them. "We're ten miles from Ditchley and about
twenty-five from Pinchbeck's cottage. Let's see--it'll be the left-hand
side of the road, going in this direction. Hullo! this looks rather like
it," he added presently. "They're pulling up."

The police car had stopped before an ugly corrugated-iron structure,
standing rather isolated on the near side of the road, and adorned with
a miscellaneous collection of enamelled advertisement-boards and a lot
of petrol pumps. Mr. Egg brought the Morris alongside.

"Is this the place, Miss Queek?"

"Well, I don't know. It was like this, and it was about here. But I
can't be sure. All these dreadful little places are so much alike,
but---- Well, there! how stupid of me! Of course this isn't it. There's
no clock. There ought to be a clock just over the door. _So_ sorry to
have made such a silly mistake. We must go on a little farther. It must
be quite near here."

The little procession moved forward again, and five miles farther on
came once more to a halt. This time there could surely be no mistake.
Another hideous red corrugated garage, more boards, more petrol-pumps,
and a clock, whose hands pointed (correctly, as the inspector
ascertained by reference to his watch) to 7.15.

"I'm sure this must be it," said Miss Queek. "Yes--I recognise the man,"
she added, as the garage proprietor came out to see what was wanted.

The proprietor, when questioned, was not able to swear with any
certainty to having filled Miss Queek's tank on June 18th. He had filled
so many tanks before and since. But in the matter of the clock he was
definite. It kept, and always had kept, perfect time, and it had never
stopped or been out of order since it was first installed. If his clock
had pointed to 10.20, then 10.20 was the time, and he would testify as
much in any court in the kingdom. He could not remember having seen the
car with the registered number WOE 1313, but there was no reason why he
should, since it had not come in for attention. Motorists who wanted to
do a spot of inspection often pulled up near his garage, in case they
should find some trouble that needed expert assistance, but such
incidents were so usual that he would pay no heed to them, especially on
a busy morning.

Miss Queek, however, felt quite certain. She recognised the man, the
garage and the clock. As a further precaution, the party went on as far
as Ditchley, but, though the roadside was peppered the whole way with
garages, there was no other exactly corresponding to the description.
Either they were the wrong colour, or built of the wrong materials, or
they had no clock.

"Well," said the inspector, rather ruefully, "unless we can prove
collusion (which doesn't seem likely, seeing the kind of woman she is),
that washes that out. That garage where she saw Barton is eighteen miles
from Pinchbeck's cottage, and since we know the old man was alive at
10.15, Barton can't have killed him--not unless he was averaging 200
miles an hour or so, which can't be done yet awhile. Well, we've got to
start all over again."

"It looks a bit awkward for me," said Monty pleasantly.

"I don't know about that. There's the voices that baker fellow heard in
the kitchen. I know that couldn't have been you, because I've checked up
your times." Mr. Ramage grinned. "Perhaps the rest of the money may turn
up somewhere. It's all in the day's work. We'd better be getting back
again."

Monty drove the first eighteen miles in thoughtful silence. They had
just passed the garage with the clock (at which the inspector shook a
mortified fist in passing), when Mr. Egg uttered an exclamation and
pulled up.

"Hullo!" said the inspector.

"I've got an idea," said Monty. He pulled out a pocket-diary and
consulted it. "Yes--I thought so. I've discovered a coincidence. Let's
check up on it. Do you mind? 'Don't trust to luck, but be exact and
verify the smallest fact.'" He replaced the diary and drove on,
over-hauling the police car. In process of time they came to the garage
which had first attracted their attention--the one which conformed to
specification, except in the particular that it displayed no clock. Here
he stopped, and the police car, following in their tracks, stopped also.

The proprietor emerged expectantly, and the first thing that struck one
about him was his resemblance to the man they had interviewed at the
other garage. Monty commented politely on the fact.

"Quite right," said the man. "He's my brother."

"Your garages are alike, too," said Monty.

"Bought off the same firm," said the man. "Supplied in parts.
Mass-production. Readily erected overnight by any handy man."

"That's the stuff," said Mr. Egg approvingly. "Standardisation means
immense saving in labour, time, expense. You haven't got a clock,
though."

"Not yet. I've got one on order."

"Never had one?"

"Never."

"Ever seen this lady before?"

The man looked Miss Queek carefully over from head to foot.

"Yes, I fancy I have. Came in one morning for petrol, didn't you, miss?
Saturday fortnight or thereabouts. I've a good memory for faces."

"What time would that be?"

"Ten to eleven, or a few minutes after. I remember I was just boiling up
a kettle for my elevenses. I generally take a cup of tea about then."

"Ten-fifty," said the inspector eagerly. "And this is----" he made a
rapid calculation--"just on twenty-two miles from the cottage. Say half
an hour from the time of the murder. Forty-four miles an hour--he could
do that on his head in a fast sports car."

"Yes, but----" interrupted the solicitor.

"Just a minute," said Monty. "Didn't you," he went on, addressing the
proprietor, "once have one of those clock-faces with movable hands to
show lighting-up time?"

"Yes, I did. I've still got it, as a matter of fact. It used to hang
over the door. But I took it down last Sunday. People found it rather a
nuisance; they were always mistaking it for a real clock."

"And lighting-up time on June 18th," said Monty softly, "was 10.20,
according to my diary."

"Well, there," said Inspector Ramage, smiting his thigh. "Now, that's
really clever of you, Mr. Egg."

"A brain-wave, a brain-wave," admitted Monty. "'The salesman who will
use his brains will spare himself a world of pains'--or so the
_Handbook_ says."




4. ONE TOO MANY


When Simon Grant, the Napoleon of Consolidated Nitro-Phosphates and
Heaven knows how many affiliated companies, vanished off the face of the
earth one rainy November night, it would have been, in any case, only
natural that his family and friends should be disturbed, and that there
should be a slight flurry on the Stock Exchange. But when, in the course
of the next few days, it became painfully evident that Consolidated
Nitro-Phosphates had been consolidated in nothing but the name--that
they were, in fact, not even ripe for liquidation, but had (so to speak)
already passed that point and evaporated into thin air, such assets as
they possessed having mysteriously disappeared at the same time as Simon
Grant--then the hue-and-cry went out with a noise that shook three
continents and, incidentally, jogged Mr. Montague Egg for an hour or so
out of his blameless routine.

Not that Mr. Egg had any money in Nitro-Phosphates, or could claim any
sort of acquaintance with the missing financier. His connection with the
case was entirely fortuitous, the by-product of a savage budgetary
announcement by the Chancellor of the Exchequer, which threatened to
have alarming results for the wine and spirits trade. Mr. Egg,
travelling representative of Messrs. Plummet & Rose of Piccadilly, had
reached Birmingham in his wanderings, when he was urgently summoned back
to town by his employers for a special conference upon policy, and
thus--though he did not know it at the time--he enjoyed the distinction
of travelling by the very train from which Simon Grant so suddenly and
unaccountably vanished.

The facts in the case of Simon Grant were disconcertingly simple. At
this time the L.M.S. Railway were running a night express from
Birmingham to London which, leaving Birmingham at 9.5, stopped only at
Coventry and Rugby before running into Euston at 12.10. Mr. Grant had
attended a dinner given in his honour by certain prominent business men
in Coventry, and after dinner had had the unblushing effrontery to make
a speech about the Prosperity of British Business. After this, he had
hastened away to take the Birmingham express as far as Rugby, where he
was engaged to stay the night with that pillar of financial rectitude,
Lord Buddlethorp. He was seen into a first-class carriage at 9.57 by two
eminently respectable Coventry magnates, who had remained chatting with
him till the train started. There was one other person in his
carriage--no less a man, in fact, than Sir Hicklebury Bowles, the
well-known sporting baronet. In the course of conversation, he had
mentioned to Sir Hicklebury (whom he knew slightly) that he was
travelling alone, his secretary having succumbed to an attack of
influenza. About half way between Coventry and Rugby, Mr. Grant had gone
out into the corridor, muttering something about the heat. He had never
been seen again.

At first, a very sinister light had been thrown on the incident by the
fact that a door in the corridor, a little way up the train, had been
found swinging open at Rugby, and the subsequent discovery of Mr.
Grant's hat and overcoat a few miles farther up the line had led
everybody to fear the worst. Careful examination, however, failed to
produce either Simon Grant's corpse or any evidence of any heavy body
having fallen from the train. In a pocket of the overcoat was a
first-class ticket from Coventry to Rugby, and it seemed clear that,
without this, he could not have passed the barrier at Rugby. Moreover,
Lord Buddlethorp had sent his car with a chauffeur and a footman to meet
the train at Rugby. The chauffeur had stood at the barrier and the
footman had paraded the platform in search of the financier. Both knew
him very well by sight, and between them they asserted positively that
he had never left the train. Nobody had arrived at the barrier
ticketless, or with the wrong ticket, and a check-up of the tickets
issued for Rugby at Birmingham and Coventry revealed no discrepancy.

There remained two possibilities, both tempting and plausible. The
Birmingham-London express reached Rugby at 10.24, departing again at
10.28. But, swift and impressive as it was, it was not the only, or the
most important, pebble on the station beach, for over against it upon
the down line was the Irish Mail, snorting and blowing in its
three-minute halt before it roared away northwards at 10.25. If the
express had been on time, Simon Grant might have slipped across and
boarded it, and been at Holyhead by 2.25 to catch the steamer, and be in
Dublin by 6.35, and Heaven only knew where a few hours after. As for the
confident assertion of Lord Buddlethorp's footman, a trifling
disguise--easily assumed in a lavatory or an empty compartment--would be
amply sufficient to deceive him. To Chief Inspector Peacock, in charge
of the investigations, the possibility appeared highly probable. It had
also the advantage that the passengers crossing by the mailboat could be
readily reckoned up and accounted for.

The question of tickets now became matter for inquiry. It was not likely
that Simon Grant would have tried to secure them during his hasty
one-minute dash for the Mail. Either he had taken them beforehand, or
some accomplice had met him at Rugby and handed them over. Chief
Inspector Peacock was elated when he discovered that tickets covering
the train-and-steamer route from Rugby to Dublin had actually been
purchased for the night in question from the L.M.S. agents in London in
the absurd and incredible name of Solomon Grundy. Mr. Peacock was well
acquainted with the feeble cunning which prompts people, when adopting
an alias, to cling to their own initials. The underlying motive is, no
doubt, a dread lest those same initials, inscribed on a watch,
cigarette-case or what-not, should arouse suspicion, but the tendency is
so well known that the choice of initials arouses in itself the very
suspicion it is intended to allay. Mr. Peacock's hopes rose very high
indeed when he discovered, in addition, that Solomon Grundy (Great
Heavens, what a name!) had gone out of his way to give a fictitious and,
indeed, non-existent address to the man at the ticket-office. And then,
just when the prospect seemed at its brightest, the whole theory
received its death-blow. Not only had no Mr. Solomon Grundy travelled by
the mailboat that night or any night--not only had his ticket never been
presented or even cancelled--but it turned out to be impossible that Mr.
Simon Grant should have boarded the Irish Mail at all. For some tedious
and infuriating reason connected with an over-heated axle-box, the
Birmingham-London express, on that night of all nights, had steamed into
Rugby three minutes behind time and two minutes after the departure of
the Mail. If this had been Simon Grant's plan of escape, something had
undoubtedly gone wrong with it.

And, that being so, Chief Inspector Peacock came back to the old
question: What had become of Simon Grant?

Talking it over with his colleagues, the Chief Inspector came eventually
to the conclusion that Grant had, in fact, intended to take the Irish
Mail, leaving the open door and the scattered garments behind him by way
of confusing the trail for the police. What, then, would he do, when he
found the Mail already gone? He could only leave the station and take
another train. He had not left the station by the barrier, and careful
inquiry convinced Mr. Peacock that it would have been extremely
difficult for him to make his way out along the line unobserved, or hang
about the railway premises till the following morning. An unfortunate
suicide had taken place only the previous week, which had made the
railwaymen particularly observant of stray passengers who might attempt
to wander on to the permanent way; and, in addition, there happened to
be two gangs of platelayers working with flares at points strategically
placed for observation. So that Peacock, while not altogether dismissing
this part of the investigation, turned it over as routine work to his
subordinates, and bent his mind to consider a second main possibility
that had already occurred to him before he had been led away by
speculations on the Irish Mail.

This was, that Simon Grant had never left the express at all, but had
gone straight through to Euston. London has great advantages as a
hiding-place--and what better thing could Grant have done, when his
first scheme failed him, than return to the express and continue his
journey? His watch would have warned him, before he reached Rugby, that
the Mail had probably left; a hasty inquiry and a quick dash to the
booking-office, and he would be ready to continue his journey.

The only drawback was that when the Chief Inspector questioned the
officials in the booking-office he was met by the positive statement
that no ticket of any kind had been issued that night later than 10.15.
Nor yet had any passenger arrived at Euston minus a ticket. And the
possibility of an accomplice on the platform had now to be dismissed,
since the original plan of escape had not involved an accomplice, and it
was not reasonable to suppose that one had been provided beforehand for
such an emergency.

But, argued the Chief Inspector, the emergency might have been foreseen
and a ticket purchased in advance. And if so, it was going to be
extremely difficult to prove, since the number of tickets issued would
correspond with the number of passengers. He set in train, however, an
exhaustive investigation into the question of the tickets issued in
London, Birmingham, Coventry and Rugby during the few weeks previous to
the disappearance, thinking that he might easily light upon a return
half which had come to hand very much subsequent to the date of issue,
and that this might suggest a line of inquiry. In addition, he sent out
a broadcast appeal, and this is where his line of inquiry impinged upon
the orbit of Mr. Montague Egg.

     "_To the Chief Commissioner of Police._--DEAR SIR,"

     wrote Mr. Egg in his neat commercial hand, "understanding as per
     the daily Press and the B.B.C. that you desire to receive
     communications from all persons travelling by the 9.5 p.m.
     Birmingham-London express on the 4th ult., I beg to inform you that
     I travelled by same (3rd class) from Coventry to Euston on the date
     mentioned and that I am entirely at your disposal for all
     enquiries. Being attached to the firm of Plummet & Rose, wine and
     spirit merchants, Piccadilly, as travelling representative, my
     permanent address will not find me at present, but I beg to enclose
     list of hotels where I shall be staying in the immediate future and
     remain, dear sir, yours faithfully."

In consequence of this letter, Mr. Egg was one evening mysteriously
called out of the commercial room at the Cat and Fiddle in Oldham to
speak with a Mr. Peacock.

"Pleased, I'm sure," said Mr. Egg, prepared for anything from a colossal
order for wine and spirits to a forgotten acquaintance with a bad-luck
story. "Monty-on-the-spot, that's me. What can I do for you, sir?"

Chief Inspector Peacock appeared to want every conceivable detail of
information about Mr. Egg, his affairs and, in particular, his late
journey to town. Monty disposed capably of the preliminaries and
mentioned that he had arrived at the station with plenty of time to
spare, and so had contrived to get a seat as soon as the train came in.

"And I was glad I did," he added. "I like to be comfortable, you know,
and the train was rather crowded."

"I know it was crowded," said Mr. Peacock, with a groan. "And well I
may, when I tell you that we have had to get in touch with every single
person on that train, and interview as many of them as we could get hold
of personally."

"Some job," said Mr. Egg, with the respect of one expert interviewer to
another. "Do you mean you've got in touch with them all?"

"Every blessed one," said Mr. Peacock, "including several officious
nuisances who weren't there at all, but hoped for a spot of notoriety."

"Talking of spots," said Monty, "what will you take?"

Mr. Peacock thanked him, and accepted a small whisky-and-soda. "Can you
remember at all what part of the train you were in?"

"Certainly," said Mr. Egg promptly. "Third-class smoker, middle of the
coach, middle of the train. Safest, you know, in case of accidents.
Corner seat, corridor side, facing engine. Immediately opposite me,
picture of York Minster, being visited by two ladies and a gentleman, in
costumes of 1904 or thereabouts. Noticed it particularly, because
everything else about the train was up to date. Thought it a pity."

"Hum," said Mr. Peacock. "Do you remember who else was in the
compartment at Coventry?"

Monty screwed up his eyes as though to squeeze recollection out through
his eyelids.

"Next me, stout, red, bald man, very sleepy, in tweeds. Been having one
or two. He'd come from Birmingham. Next him, lanky young chap with
pimples and a very bad bowler. Got in after me and tripped over my feet.
Looked like a clerk. And a young sailor in the corner seat--there when I
arrived. Talked all the time to the fellow in the corner opposite, who
looked like some sort of a parson--collar round the wrong way, clerical
hat, walrus moustache, dark spectacles, puffy cheeks and a
tell-me-my-good-man way of talking. Next him--oh! yes, a fellow smoking
a pipe of horrible scented sort of tobacco--might have been a small
tradesman, but I didn't see much of him, because he was reading a paper
most of the time. Then there was a nice, inoffensive, gentlemanly old
bird who needed a hair-cut. He had pince-nez--very crooked--and never
took his eyes off a learned-looking book. And opposite me there was a
chap with a big brown beard in a yellow inverness
cloak--foreign-looking--with a big, soft felt hat. He came from
Birmingham, and so did the parson, but the other two on that side got in
after I did."

The Chief Inspector smiled as he turned over the pages of a formidable
bunch of documents. "You're an admirable witness, Mr. Egg. Your account
tallies perfectly with those of your seven fellow-travellers, but it's
the only one of the eight that's complete. You are obviously observant."

"My job," said Monty complacently.

"Of course. You may be interested to know that the gentlemanly old bird
with the long hair was Professor Amblefoot of London University, the
great authority of the Higher Calculus, and that he described you as a
fair-haired, well-mannered young man."

"Much obliged to him, I'm sure," said Mr. Egg.

"The foreigner is Dr. Schleicher of Kew--resident there three years--the
sailor and the parson we know all about--the drunk chap is O.K. too--we
had his wife along, very voluble--the tradesman is a well-known Coventry
resident, something to do with the Church Council of St. Michael's, and
the pimply lad is one of Messrs. Morrison's clerks. They're all square.
And they all went through to town, didn't they? Nobody left at Rugby?"

"Nobody," said Mr. Egg.

"Pity," said the Chief Inspector. "The truth is, Mr. Egg, that we can't
hear of any person in the train who hasn't come forward and given an
account of himself, and the number of people who have come forward
precisely corresponds with the number of tickets collected at the
barriers at Euston. You didn't observe any person continually hanging
about the corridor, I suppose?"

"Not permanently," said Monty. "The chap with the beard got up and
prowled a bit from time to time, I remember--seemed restless. I thought
he perhaps didn't feel very well. But he'd only be absent a few minutes
at a time. He seemed to be a nervous, unpleasant sort of chap--chewed
his nails, you know, and muttered in German, but he----"

"Chewed his nails?"

"Yes. Very unpleasant, I must say. 'Well-kept hands that please the
sight seize the trade and hold it tight, but bitten nails and grubby
claws well may give the buyer pause.' So the _Salesman's Handbook_
says"--and Monty smirked gently at his own finger-tips. "This person's
hands were--definitely not gentlemanly. Bitten to the quick."

"But that's really extraordinary," said Peacock. "Dr. Schleicher's hands
are particularly well kept. I interviewed him myself yesterday. Surely
he can't suddenly have abandoned the habit of nail-biting? People
don't--not like that. And why should he? Was there anything else you
noticed about the man opposite you?"

"I don't think so. Yes. Stop a moment. He smoked cigars at a most
extraordinary rate. I remember his going out into the corridor with one
smoked down to about an inch and coming back, five minutes afterwards,
with a new one smoked half way through. Full-sized Coronas too--good
ones; and I know quite a bit about cigars."

Peacock stared and then smote his hand lightly upon the table.

"I've got it!" he said. "I remember where I met a set of badly chewed-up
nails lately. By Jove! Yes, but how could he . . ."

Monty waited for enlightenment.

"Simon Grant's secretary. He was supposed to be in town all that day and
evening, having 'flu--but how do I know that he was? But, even so, what
good could he do by being in the train in disguise? And what could Dr.
Schleicher have to do with it? It's Simon Grant we want--and Schleicher
isn't Grant--at least"--the Chief Inspector paused and went on more
dubiously--"I don't see how he could be. They know him well in the
district, though he's said to be away from home a good deal, and he's
got a wife----"

"Oh, has he?" said Mr. Egg, with a meaning emphasis.

"A double life, you mean?" said the Chief Inspector.

"_And_ a double wife," said Mr. Egg. "You will pardon my asking a
delicate question, but--er--are you certain you would spot a false beard
at once, if you weren't altogether expecting it?"

"In a good light, I probably should, but by the light of the doctor's
reading-lamp---- But what's the game, Mr. Egg? If Schleicher is Grant,
who was the man you saw in the train--the man with the bitten
finger-nails? Grant doesn't bite his nails, I know that--he's rather
particular about his appearance, so I'm told, though I've never met him
myself."

"Well," said Mr. Egg, "since you ask me, why shouldn't the other man in
the train be all three of them?"

"All three of which?"

"Grant and Schleicher and the secretary."

"I don't quite get you."

"Well, I mean--supposing Grant is Schleicher, with a nice ready-made
personality all handy for him to step into, built up, as you may say,
over the last three years, with money salted away in the name of
Schleicher--well, I mean, there he is, as you might say, waiting to slip
over to the Continent as soon as the fuss has died down--complete with
unofficial lady."

"But the secretary?"

"The secretary was the man in train, made up as Grant made up as
Schleicher. I mean, speaking as a fool, I thought he might be."

"But where was Schleicher--I mean, Grant?"

"He was the man in the train, too. I mean, he may have been."

"Do you mean there were two of them?"

"Yes--at least, that's how I see it. You're the best judge, and I
shouldn't like to put myself forward. But they'd be playing Box and Cox.
Secretary gets in at Birmingham as Schleicher. Grant gets in at Coventry
as Grant. Between Coventry and Rugby Grant changes to Schleicher in a
wash-place or somewhere, and hangs about the platform and corridor till
the train starts with him in it. He retires presently into a wash-place
again. At a prearranged moment, secretary gets up, walks along the
corridor and retires elsewhere, while Grant comes out and takes his
place. Presently Grant walks down the corridor and secretary comes back
to the compartment. They're never both visible at the same time, except
for the two or three minutes while Grant is re-entering the train at
Rugby, while honest witnesses like me are ready to come forward and
swear that Schleicher got in at Birmingham, sat tight in his seat at
Coventry and Rugby, and went straight through to Euston--as he did. I
can't say I noticed any difference between the two Schleichers, except
in the matter of the cigar. But they were very hairy and muffled up."

The Chief Inspector turned this over in his mind.

"Which of them was Schleicher when they got out at Euston?"

"Grant, surely. The secretary would remove his disguise at the last
moment and emerge as himself, taking the thousand-to-one chance of
somebody recognising him."

Peacock swore softly. "If that's what he did," he exclaimed, "we've got
him on toast. Wait a moment, though. I _knew_ there was a snag. If
that's what they did, there ought to have been an extra third-class
ticket at Euston. They can't both have travelled on one ticket."

"Why not?" said Mr. Egg. "I have often--at least, I don't exactly mean
that, but I have from time to time laid a wager with an acquaintance
that I would travel on his ticket, and got away with it."

"Perhaps," said Chief Inspector Peacock, "you would oblige me, sir, by
outlining your method."

"Oh, certainly," said Mr. Egg. "'Speak the truth with cheerful ease if
you would both convince and please'--Monty's favourite motto. If I had
been Mr. Grant's secretary, I'd have taken a return ticket from
Birmingham to London, and when the outward half had been inspected for
the last time at Rugby, I'd pretend to put it in my pocket. But I
wouldn't really. I'd shove it down at the edge of my seat and go for my
stroll along the corridor. Then, when Grant took my place--recognising
the right seat by an attaché-case, or something of that sort left on
it--he'd retrieve the ticket and retain it. At the end of the journey,
I'd slip off my beard and spectacles and so on, stick them in my
overcoat pocket and fold the conspicuous overcoat inside-out and carry
it on my arm. Then I'd wait to see Grant get out, and follow him up to
the barrier, keeping a little way behind. He'd go through, giving up
his ticket, and I'd follow along with a bunch of other people, making a
little bustle and confusion in the gateway. The ticket-collector would
stop me and say: 'I haven't got your ticket, sir.' I'd be indignant, and
say: 'Oh, yes, you have.' He'd say: 'I don't think so, sir.' Then I'd
protest, and he'd probably ask me to stand aside a minute while he dealt
with the other passengers. Then I'd say: 'See here, my man, I'm quite
sure I gave up my ticket. Look! Here's the return half, number
so-and-so. Just look through your bunch and see if you haven't got the
companion half.' He looks and he finds it, and says: 'I beg your pardon,
sir; you're quite right. Here it is.' I say: 'Don't mention it,' and go
through. And even if he suspects me, he can't prove anything, and the
other fellow is well out of the way by that time."

"I see," said the Chief Inspector. "How often did you say you had
indulged in this little game?"

"Well, never twice at the same station. It doesn't do to repeat one's
effects too often."

"I think I'd better interview Schleicher and his secretary again," said
Peacock pensively. "And the ticket-collector. I suppose we were meant to
think that Grant had skipped to the Irish Mail. I admit we should have
thought so but for the accident that the Mail left before the London
train came in. However, it takes a clever criminal to beat our
organisation. By the way, Mr. Egg, I hope you will not make a habit----"

"Talking of bad habits," said Monty happily, "what about another spot?"




5. MURDER AT PENTECOST


"Buzz off, Flathers," said the young man in flannels. "We're thrilled by
your news, but we don't want your religious opinions. And, for the
Lord's sake, stop talking about 'undergrads,' like a ruddy commercial
traveller. Hop it!"

The person addressed, a pimply youth in a commoner's gown, bleated a
little, but withdrew from the table, intimidated.

"Appalling little tick," commented the young man in flannels to his
companion. "He's on my staircase, too. Thank Heaven, I move out next
term. I suppose it's true about the Master? Poor old blighter--I'm quite
sorry I cut his lecture. Have some more coffee?"

"No, thanks, Radcott. I must be pushing off in a minute. It's getting
too near lunch-time."

Mr. Montague Egg, seated at the next small table, had pricked up his
ears. He now turned, with an apologetic cough, to the young man called
Radcott.

"Excuse me, sir," he said, with some diffidence. "I didn't intend to
overhear what you gentlemen were saying, but might I ask a question?"
Emboldened by Radcott's expression, which, though surprised, was frank
and friendly, he went on: "I happen to be a commercial traveller--Egg is
my name, Montague Egg, representing Plummet & Rose, wines and spirits,
Piccadilly. Might I ask what is wrong with saying 'undergrads'? Is the
expression offensive in any way?"

Mr. Radcott blushed a fiery red to the roots of his flaxen hair.

"I'm frightfully sorry," he said ingenuously, and suddenly looking
extremely young. "Damn stupid thing of me to say. Beastly brick."

"Don't mention it, I'm sure," said Monty.

"Didn't mean anything personal. Only, that chap Flathers gets my goat.
He ought to know that nobody says 'undergrads' except townees and
journalists and people outside the university."

"What ought we to say? 'Undergraduates'?"

"'Undergraduates' is correct."

"I'm very much obliged," said Monty. "Always willing to learn. It's easy
to make a mistake in a thing like that, and, of course, it prejudices
the customer against one. The _Salesman's Handbook_ doesn't give any
guidance about it; I shall have to make a memo for myself. Let me see.
How would this do? 'To call an Oxford gent an---- '"

"I think I should say 'Oxford man'--it's the more technical form of
expression."

"Oh, yes. 'To call an Oxford man an undergrad proclaims you an outsider
and a cad.' That's very easy to remember."

"You seem to have a turn for this kind of thing," said Radcott, amused.

"Well, I think perhaps I have," admitted Monty, with a touch of pride.
"Would the same thing apply at Cambridge?"

"Certainly," replied Radcott's companion. "And you might add that 'To
call the university the 'varsity is out of date, if not precisely
narsity.' I apologise for the rhyme. 'Varsity has somehow a flavour of
the 'nineties."

"So has the port I'm recommending," said Mr. Egg brightly. "Still, one's
sales-talk must be up to date, naturally; and smart, though not vulgar.
In the wine and spirit trade we make refinement our aim. I am really
much obliged to you, gentlemen, for your help. This is my first visit to
Oxford. Could you tell me where to find Pentecost College? I have a
letter of introduction to a gentleman there."

"Pentecost?" said Radcott. "I don't think I'd start there, if I were
you."

"No?" said Mr. Egg, suspecting some obscure point of university
etiquette. "Why not?"

"Because," replied Radcott surprisingly, "I understand from the
regrettable Flathers that some public benefactor has just murdered the
Master, and in the circumstances I doubt whether the Bursar will be able
to give proper attention to the merits of rival vintages."

"Murdered the Master?" echoed Mr. Egg.

"Socked him one--literally, I am told, with a brickbat enclosed in a
Woolworth sock--as he was returning to his house from delivering his
too-well-known lecture on Plato's use of the Enclitics. The whole school
of _Literæ Humaniores_ will naturally be under suspicion, but,
personally, I believe Flathers did it himself. You may have heard him
informing us that judgment overtakes the evil-doer, and inviting us to a
meeting for prayer and repentance in the South Lecture-Room. Such men
are dangerous."

"Was the Master of Pentecost an evil-doer?"

"He has written several learned works disproving the existence of
Providence, and I must say that I, in common with the whole Pentecostal
community, have always looked on him as one of Nature's worst mistakes.
Still, to slay him more or less on his own doorstep seems to me to be in
poor taste. It will upset the examination candidates, who face their
ordeal next week. And it will mean cancelling the Commem. Ball. Besides,
the police have been called in, and are certain to annoy the Senior
Common Room by walking on the grass in the quad. However, what's done
can't be undone. Let us pass to a pleasanter subject. I understand that
you have some port to dispose of. I, on the other hand, have recently
suffered bereavement at the hands of a bunch of rowing hearties, who
invaded my rooms the other night and poured my last dozen of Cockburn
'04 down their leathery and undiscriminating throttles. If you care to
stroll round with me to Pentecost, Mr. Egg, bringing your literature
with you, we might be able to do business."

Mr. Egg expressed himself as delighted to accept Radcott's invitation,
and was soon trotting along the Cornmarket at his conductor's athletic
heels. At the corner of Broad Street the second undergraduate left them,
while they turned on, past Balliol and Trinity, asleep in the June
sunshine, and presently reached the main entrance of Pentecost.

Just as they did so, a small, elderly man, wearing a light overcoat and
carrying an M.A. gown over his arm, came ambling short-sightedly across
the street from the direction of the Bodleian Library. A passing car
just missed whirling him into eternity, as Radcott stretched out a long
arm and raked him into safety on the pavement.

"Look out, Mr. Temple," said Radcott. "We shall be having you murdered
next."

"Murdered?" queried Mr. Temple, blinking. "Oh, you refer to the
motor-car. But I saw it coming. I saw it quite distinctly. Yes, yes. But
why 'next'? Has anybody else been murdered?"

"Only the Master of Pentecost," said Radcott, pinching Mr. Egg's arm.

"The Master? Dr. Greeby? You don't say so! Murdered? Dear me! Poor
Greeby! This will upset my whole day's work." His pale-blue eyes
shifted, and a curious, wavering look came into them. "Justice is slow
but sure. Yes, yes. The sword of the Lord and of Gideon. But the
blood--that is always so disconcerting, is it not? And yet, I washed my
hands, you know." He stretched out both hands and looked at them in a
puzzled way. "Ah, yes--poor Greeby has paid the price of his sins.
Excuse my running away from you--I have urgent business at the
police-station."

"If," said Mr. Radcott, again pinching Monty's arm, "you want to give
yourself up for the murder, Mr. Temple, you had better come along with
us. The police are bound to be about the place somewhere."

"Oh, yes, of course, so they are. Yes. Very thoughtful of you. That will
save me a great deal of time, and I have an important chapter to finish.
A beautiful day, is it not, Mr.--I fear I do not know your name. Or do
I? I am growing sadly forgetful."

Radcott mentioned his name, and the oddly assorted trio turned together
towards the main entrance to the college. The great gate was shut; at
the postern stood the porter, and at his side a massive figure in blue,
who demanded their names.

Radcott, having been duly identified by the porter, produced Monty and
his credentials.

"And this," he went on, "is, of course, Mr. Temple. You know him. He is
looking for your Superintendent."

"Right you are, sir," replied the policeman. "You'll find him in the
cloisters . . . At his old game, I suppose?" he added, as the small
figure of Mr. Temple shuffled away across the sun-baked expanse of the
quad.

"Oh, yes," said Radcott. "He was on to it like a shot. Must be quite
exciting for the old bird to have a murder so near home. Where was his
last?"

"Lincoln, sir; last Tuesday. Young fellow shot his young woman in the
Cathedral. Mr. Temple was down at the station the next day, just before
lunch, explaining that he'd done it because the poor girl was the
Scarlet Woman."

"Mr. Temple," said Radcott, "has a mission in life. He is the sword of
the Lord and of Gideon. Every time a murder is committed in this
country, Mr. Temple lays claim to it. It is true that his body can
always be shown to have been quietly in bed or at the Bodleian while the
dirty work was afoot, but to an idealistic philosopher that need present
no difficulty. But what _is_ all this about the Master, actually?"

"Well, sir, you know that little entry between the cloisters and the
Master's residence? At twenty minutes past ten this morning, Dr. Greeby
was found lying dead there, with his lecture-notes scattered all round
him and a brickbat in a woollen sock lying beside his head. He'd been
lecturing in a room in the Main Quadrangle at nine o'clock, and was, as
far as we can tell, the last to leave the lecture-room. A party of
American ladies and gentlemen passed through the cloisters a little
after 10 o'clock, and they have been found, and say there was nobody
about there then, so far as they could see--but, of course, sir, the
murderer might have been hanging about the entry, because, naturally,
they wouldn't go that way but through Boniface Passage to the Inner Quad
and the chapel. One of the young gentlemen says he saw the Master cross
the Main Quad on his way to the cloisters at 10.5, so he'd reach the
entry in about two minutes after that. The Regius Professor of
Morphology came along at 10.20, and found the body, and when the doctor
arrived, five minutes later, he said Dr. Greeby must have been dead
about a quarter of an hour. So that puts it somewhere round about 10.10,
you see, sir."

"When did these Americans leave the chapel?"

"Ah, there you are, sir!" replied the constable. He seemed very ready to
talk, thought Mr. Egg, and deduced, rightly, that Mr. Radcott was well
and favourably known to the Oxford branch of the Force. "If that there
party had come back through the cloisters, they might have been able to
tell us something. But they didn't. They went on through the Inner Quad
into the garden, and the verger didn't leave the chapel, on account of a
lady who had just arrived and wanted to look at the carving on the
reredos."

"And did the lady also come through the cloisters?"

"She did, sir, and she's the person we want to find, because it seems as
though she must have passed through the cloisters very close to the time
of the murder. She came into the chapel just on 10.15, because the
verger recollected of the clock chiming a few minutes after she came in
and her mentioning how sweet the notes was. You see the lady come in,
didn't you, Mr. Dabbs?"

"I saw _a_ lady," replied the porter, "but then I see a lot of ladies
one way and another. This one came across from the Bodleian round about
10 o'clock. Elderly lady, she was, dressed kind of old-fashioned, with
her skirts round her heels and one of them hats like a rook's nest and a
bit of elastic round the back. Looked like she might be a female
don--leastways, the way female dons used to look. And she had the
twitches--you know--jerked her head a bit. You get hundreds like 'em.
They goes to sit in the cloisters and listen to the fountain and the
little birds. But as to noticing a corpse or a murderer, it's my belief
they wouldn't know such a thing if they saw it. I didn't see the lady
again, so she must have gone out through the garden."

"Very likely," said Radcott. "May Mr. Egg and I go in through the
cloisters, officer? Because it's the only way to my rooms, unless we go
round by St. Scholastica's Gate."

"All the other gates are locked, sir. You go on and speak to the Super;
he'll let you through. You'll find him in the cloisters with Professor
Staines and Dr. Moyle."

"Bodley's Librarian? What's he got to do with it?"

"They think he may know the lady, sir, if she's a Bodley reader."

"Oh, I see. Come along, Mr. Egg."

Radcott led the way across the Main Quadrangle and through a dark little
passage at one corner, into the cool shade of the cloisters. Framed by
the arcades of ancient stone, the green lawn drowsed tranquilly in the
noonday heat. There was no sound but the echo of their own footsteps,
the plash and tinkle of the little fountain and the subdued chirping of
chaffinches, as they paced the alternate sunshine and shadow of the
pavement. About midway along the north side of the cloisters they came
upon another dim little covered passageway, at the entrance to which a
police-sergeant was kneeling, examining the ground with the aid of an
electric torch.

"Hullo, sergeant!" said Radcott. "Doing the Sherlock Holmes stunt? Show
us the bloodstained footprints."

"No blood, sir, unfortunately. Might make our job easier if there were.
And no footprints neither. The poor gentleman was sandbagged, and we
think the murderer must have climbed up here to do it, for the deceased
was a tall gentleman and he was hit right on the top of the head, sir."
The sergeant indicated a little niche, like a blocked-up window, about
four feet from the ground. "Looks as if he'd waited up here, sir, for
Dr. Greeby to go by."

"He must have been well acquainted with his victim's habits," suggested
Mr. Egg.

"Not a bit of it," retorted Radcott. "He'd only to look at the
lecture-list to know the time and place. This passage leads to the
Master's House and the Fellows' Garden and nowhere else, and it's the
way Dr. Greeby would naturally go after his lecture, unless he was
lecturing elsewhere, which he wasn't. Fairly able-bodied, your murderer,
sergeant, to get up here. At least--I don't know."

Before the policeman could stop him, he had placed one hand on the side
of the niche and a foot on a projecting band of masonry below it, and
swung himself up.

"Hi, sir! Come down, please. The Super won't like that."

"Why? Oh, gosh! Fingerprints, I suppose. I forgot. Never mind; you can
take mine if you want them, for comparison. Give you practice. Anyhow, a
baby in arms could get up here. Come on, Mr. Egg; we'd better beat it
before I'm arrested for obstruction."

But at this moment Radcott was hailed by a worried-looking don, who came
through the passage from the far side, accompanied by three or four
other people.

"Oh, Mr. Radcott! One moment, Superintendent, this gentleman will be
able to tell you what you want to know; he was at Dr. Greeby's lecture.
That is so, is it not, Mr. Radcott?"

"Well, no, not exactly, sir," replied Radcott, with some embarrassment.
"I should have been, but, by a regrettable accident, I cut--that is to
say, I was on the river, sir, and didn't get back in time."

"Very vexatious," said Professor Staines, while the Superintendent
merely observed:

"Any witness to your being on the river, sir?"

"None," replied Radcott. "I was alone in a canoe, up a
backwater--earnestly studying Aristotle. But I really didn't murder the
Master. His lectures were--if I may say so--dull, but not to that point
exasperating."

"That is a very impudent observation, Mr. Radcott," said the Professor
severely, "and in execrable taste."

The Superintendent, murmuring something about routine, took down in a
note-book the alleged times of Mr. Radcott's departure and return, and
then said:

"I don't think I need detain any of you gentlemen further. If we want to
see you again, Mr. Temple, we will let you know."

"Certainly, certainly. I shall just have a sandwich at the café and
return to the Bodleian. As for the lady, I can only repeat that she sat
at my table from about half-past nine till just before ten, and returned
again at ten-thirty. Very restless and disturbing. I do wish, Dr. Moyle,
that some arrangement could be made to give me that table to myself, or
that I could be given a place apart in the library. Ladies are always
restless and disturbing. She was still there when I left, but I very
much hope she has now gone for good. You are sure you don't want to lock
me up now? I am quite at your service."

"Not just yet, sir. You will hear from us presently."

"Thank you, thank you. I should like to finish my chapter. For the
present, then, I will wish you good-day."

The little bent figure wandered away, and the Superintendent touched his
head significantly.

"Poor gentleman! Quite harmless, of course, I needn't ask you, Dr.
Moyle, where _he_ was at the time?"

"Oh, he was in his usual corner of Duke Humphrey's Library. He admits
it, you see, when he is asked. In any case, I know definitely that he
was there this morning, because he took out a Phi book, and of course
had to apply personally to me for it. He asked for it at 9.30 and
returned it at 12.15. As regards the lady, I think I have seen her
before. One of the older school of learned ladies, I fancy. If she is an
outside reader, I must have her name and address somewhere, but she may,
of course, be a member of the University. I fear I could not undertake
to know them all by sight. But I will inquire. It is, in fact, quite
possible that she is still in the library, and, if not, Franklin may
know when she went and who she is. I will look into the matter
immediately. I need not say, professor, how deeply I deplore this
lamentable affair. Poor dear Greeby! Such a loss to classical
scholarship!"

At this point, Radcott gently drew Mr. Egg away. A few yards farther
down the cloisters, they turned into another and rather wider passage,
which brought them out into the Inner Quadrangle, one side of which was
occupied by the chapel. Mounting three dark flights of stone steps on
the opposite side, they reached Radcott's rooms, where the undergraduate
thrust his new acquaintance into an armchair, and, producing some
bottles of beer from beneath the window-seat, besought him to make
himself at home.

"Well," he observed presently, "you've had a fairly lively introduction
to Oxford life--one murder and one madman. Poor old Temple. Quite one of
our prize exhibits. Used to be a Fellow here, donkey's years ago. There
was some fuss, and he disappeared for a time. Then he turned up again,
ten years since, perfectly potty; took lodgings in Holywell, and has
haunted the Bodder and the police-station alternately ever since. Fine
Greek scholar he is, too. Quite reasonable, except on the one point. I
hope old Moyle finds his mysterious lady, though it's nonsense to
pretend that they keep tabs on all the people who use the library.
You've only got to walk in firmly, as if the place belonged to you, and,
if you're challenged, say in a loud, injured tone that you've been a
reader for years. If you borrow a gown, they won't even challenge you."

"Is that so, really?" said Mr. Egg.

"Prove it, if you like. Take my gown, toddle across to the Bodder, march
straight in past the showcases and through the little wicket marked
'Readers Only,' into Duke Humphrey's Library; do what you like, short of
stealing the books or setting fire to the place--and if anybody says
anything to you, I'll order six dozen of anything you like. That's fair,
isn't it?"

Mr. Egg accepted this offer with alacrity, and in a few moments, arrayed
in a scholar's gown, was climbing the stair that leads to England's most
famous library. With a slight tremor, he pushed open the swinging glass
door and plunged into the hallowed atmosphere of mouldering leather that
distinguishes such temples of learning.

Just inside, he came upon Dr. Moyle in conversation with the
door-keeper. Mr. Egg, bending nonchalantly to examine an illegible
manuscript in a showcase, had little difficulty in hearing what they
said, since, like all official attendants upon reading-rooms, they took
no trouble to lower their voices.

"I know the lady, Dr. Moyle. That is to say, she has been here several
times lately. She usually wears an M.A. gown. I saw her here this
morning, but I didn't notice when she left. I don't think I ever heard
her name, but seeing that she was a senior member of the
University----"

Mr. Egg waited to hear no more. An idea was burgeoning in his mind. He
walked away, courageously pushed open the Readers' Wicket, and stalked
down the solemn mediæval length of Duke Humphrey's Library. In the
remotest and darkest bay, he observed Mr. Temple, who, having apparently
had his sandwich and forgotten about the murder, sat alone, writing
busily, amid a pile of repellent volumes, with a large attaché-case full
of papers open before him.

Leaning over the table, Mr. Egg addressed him in an urgent whisper:

"Excuse me, sir. The police Superintendent asked me to say that they
think they have found the lady, and would be glad if you would kindly
step down at once and identify her."

"The lady?" Mr. Temple looked up vaguely. "Oh, yes--the lady. To be
sure. Immediately? That is not very convenient. Is it so very urgent?"

"They said particularly to lose no time, sir," said Mr. Egg.

Mr. Temple muttered something, rose, seemed to hesitate whether to clear
up his papers or not, and finally shovelled them all into the bulging
attaché-case, which he locked upon them.

"Let me carry this for you, sir," said Monty, seizing it promptly and
shepherding Mr. Temple briskly out. "They're still in the cloisters, I
think, but the Super said, would you kindly wait a few moments for him
in the porter's lodge. Here we are."

He handed Mr. Temple and his attaché-case over to the care of the
porter, who looked a little surprised at seeing Mr. Egg in academic
dress, but, on hearing the Superintendent's name, said nothing. Mr. Egg
hastened through quad and cloisters and mounted Mr. Radcott's staircase
at a run.

"Excuse me, sir," he demanded breathlessly of that young gentleman, "but
what is a Phi book?"

"A Phi book," replied Radcott, in some surprise, "is a book deemed by
Bodley's Librarian to be of an indelicate nature, and catalogued
accordingly, by some dead-and-gone humorist, under the Greek letter
_phi_. Why the question?"

"Well," said Mr. Egg, "it just occurred to me how simple it would be for
anybody to walk into the Bodleian, disguise himself in a retired
corner--say in Duke Humphrey's Library--walk out, commit a murder,
return, change back to his own clothes and walk out. Nobody would stop a
person from coming in again, if he--or she--had previously been seen to
go out--especially if the disguise had been used in the library before.
Just a change of clothes and an M.A. gown would be enough."

"What in the world are you getting at?"

"This lady, who was in the cloisters at the time of the murder. Mr.
Temple says she was sitting at his table. But isn't it funny that Mr.
Temple should have drawn special attention to himself by asking for a
Phi book, to-day of all days? If he was once a Fellow of this college,
he'd know which way Dr. Greeby would go after his lecture; and he may
have had a grudge against him on account of that old trouble, whatever

it was. He'd know about the niche in the wall, too. And he's got an
attaché-case with him that might easily hold a lady's hat and a skirt
long enough to hide his trousers. And why is he wearing a top-coat on
such a hot day, if not to conceal the upper portion of his garments? Not
that it's any business of mine--but--well, I just took the liberty of
asking myself. And I've got him out there, with his case, and the porter
keeping an eye on him."

Thus Mr. Egg, rather breathlessly. Radcott gaped at him.

"Temple? My dear man, you're as potty as he is. Why, he's always
confessing--he confessed to this--you can't possibly suppose----"

"I daresay I'm wrong," said Mr. Egg. "But isn't there a fable about the
man who cried 'Wolf!' so often that nobody would believe him when the
wolf really came? There's a motto in the _Salesman's Handbook_ that I
always admire very much. It says: 'Discretion plays a major part in
making up the salesman's art, for truths that no one can believe are
calculated to deceive.' I think that's rather subtle, don't you?"




6. MAHER-SHALAL-HASHBAZ


No Londoner can ever resist the attraction of a street crowd. Mr.
Montague Egg, driving up Kingsway, and observing a group of people
staring into the branches of one of the slender plane-trees which
embellish that thoroughfare, drew up to see what all the excitement was
about.

"Poor puss!" cried the bystanders, snapping encouraging fingers. "Poor
pussy, then! Kitty, kitty, kitty, come on!"

"Look, baby, look at the pretty pussy!"

"Fetch her a bit of cat's-meat."

"She'll come down when she's tired of it."

"Chuck a stone at her!"

"Now then, what's all this about?"

The slender, shabby child who stood so forlornly holding the empty
basket appealed to the policeman.

"Oh, do please send these people away! How _can_ he come down, with
everybody shouting at him? He's frightened, poor darling."

From among the swaying branches a pair of amber eyes gleamed wrathfully
down. The policeman scratched his head.

"Bit of a job, ain't it, missie? However did he come to get up there?"

"The fastening came undone, and he jumped out of the basket just as we
were getting off the 'bus. Oh, please do something!"

Mr. Montague Egg, casting his eye over the crowd, perceived on its
outskirts a window-cleaner with his ladders upon a truck. He hailed him.

"Fetch that ladder along, sonnie, and we'll soon get him down, if you'll
allow me to try, miss. If we leave him to himself, he'll probably stick
up there for ages. 'It's hard to reassure, persuade or charm the
customer who once has felt alarm.' Carefully, now. That's the ticket."

"Oh, thank you so much! Oh, do be gentle with him. He does so hate being
handled."

"That's all right, miss; don't you worry. Always the gentleman, that's
Monty Egg. Kind about the house and clean with children. Up she goes!"

And Mr. Egg, clapping his smart trilby upon his head and uttering
crooning noises, ascended into the leafage. A loud explosion of spitting
sounds and a small shower of twigs floated down to the spectators, and
presently Mr. Egg followed, rather awkwardly, clutching a reluctant
bunch of ginger fur. The girl held out the basket, the four furiously
kicking legs were somehow bundled in, a tradesman's lad produced a piece
of string, the lid was secured, the window-cleaner was rewarded and
removed his ladder, and the crowd dispersed. Mr. Egg, winding his
pocket-handkerchief about a lacerated wrist, picked the scattered leaves
out of his collar and straightened his tie.

"Oh, he's scratched you dreadfully!" lamented the girl, her blue eyes
large and tragic.

"Not at all," replied Mr. Egg. "Very happy to have been of assistance, I
am sure. Can I have the pleasure of driving you anywhere? It'll be
pleasanter for him than a 'bus, and if we pull up the windows he can't
jump out, even if he does get the basket open again."

The girl protested, but Mr. Egg firmly bustled her into his little
saloon and inquired where she wanted to go.

"It's this address," said the girl, pulling a newspaper cutting out of
her worn handbag. "Somewhere in Soho, isn't it?"

Mr. Egg, with some surprise, read the advertisement:

     "WANTED: hard-working, capable CAT (either sex), to keep down mice
     in pleasant villa residence and be companion to middle-aged couple.
     Ten shillings and good home to suitable applicant. Apply personally
     to Mr. John Doe, La Cigale Bienheureuse, Frith St., W., on Tuesday
     between 11 and 1 o'clock."

"That's a funny set-out," said Mr. Egg, frowning.

"Oh! do you think there's anything wrong with it? Is it just a joke?"

"Well," said Mr. Egg, "I can't quite see why anybody wants to pay ten
bob for an ordinary cat, can you? I mean, they usually come gratis and
f.o.b. from somebody who doesn't like drowning kittens. And I don't
quite believe in Mr. John Doe; he sounds like what they call a legal
fiction."

"Oh, dear!" cried the girl, with tears in the blue eyes. "I did so hope
it would be all right. You see, we're so dreadfully hard up, with father
out of work, and Maggie--that's my stepmother--says she won't keep
Maher-shalal-hashbaz any longer, because he scratches the table-legs and
eats as much as a Christian, bless him!--though he doesn't really--only
a little milk and a bit of cat's-meat, and he's a beautiful mouser, only
there aren't many mice where we live--and I thought, if I could get him
a good home--and ten shillings for some new boots for Dad, he needs them
so badly----"

"Oh, well, cheer up," said Mr. Egg. "Perhaps they're willing to pay for
a full-grown, certified mouser. Or--tell you what--it may be one of
these cinema stunts. We'll go and see, anyhow; only I think you'd better
let me come with you and interview Mr. Doe. I'm quite respectable," he
added hastily. "Here's my card. Montague Egg, travelling representative
of Plummet & Rose, wines and spirits, Piccadilly. Interviewing customers
is my long suit. 'The salesman's job is to get the trade--don't leave
the house till the deal is made'--that's Monty's motto."

"My name's Jean Maitland, and Dad's in the commercial line himself--at
least, he was till he got bronchitis last winter, and now he isn't
strong enough to go on the road."

"Bad luck!" said Monty sympathetically, as he turned down High Holborn.
He liked this child of sixteen or so, and registered a vow that
"something should be done about it."

It seemed as though there were other people who thought ten shillings
good payment for a cat. The pavement before the grubby little Soho
restaurant was thick with cat-owners, some carrying baskets, some
clutching their animals in their arms. The air resounded with the
mournful cries of the prisoners.

"Some competition," said Monty. "Well, anyhow, the post doesn't seem to
be filled yet. Hang on to me, and we'll try what we can do."

They waited for some time. It seemed that the applicants were being
passed out through a back entrance, for, though many went in, none
returned. Eventually they secured a place in the queue going up a dingy
staircase, and, after a further eternity, found themselves facing a dark
and discouraging door. Presently this was opened by a stout and
pursy-faced man, with very sharp little eyes, who said briskly: "Next,
please!" and they walked in.

"Mr. John Doe?" said Monty.

"Yes. Brought your cat? Oh, the young lady's cat. I see. Sit down,
please. Name and address, miss?"

The girl gave an address south of the Thames, and the man made a note
of it, "in case," he explained, "the chosen candidate should prove
unsuitable, and I might want to write to you again. Now, let us see the
cat."

The basket was opened, and a ginger head emerged resentfully.

"Oh, yes. Fine specimen. Poor pussy, then. He doesn't seem very
friendly."

"He's frightened by the journey, but he's a darling when he once knows
you, and a splendid mouser. And so clean."

"That's important. Must have him clean. And he must work for his living,
you know."

"Oh, he will. He can tackle rats or anything. We call him
Maher-shalal-hashbaz, because he 'makes haste to the spoil.' But he
answers to Mash, don't you, darling?"

"I see. Well, he seems to be in good condition. No fleas? No diseases?
My wife is very particular."

"Oh, no. He's a splendid healthy cat. Fleas, indeed!"

"No offence, but I must be particular, because we shall make a great pet
of him. I don't care much for his colour. Ten shillings is a high price
to pay for a ginger one. I don't know whether----"

"Come, come," said Monty. "Nothing was said in your advertisement about
colour. This lady has come a long way to bring you the cat, and you
can't expect her to take less than she's offered. You'll never get a
better cat than this; everyone knows that the ginger ones are the best
mousers--they've got more go in them. And look at his handsome white
shirt-front. It _shows_ you how beautifully clean he is. And think of
the advantage--you can _see_ him--you and your good lady won't go
tripping over him in a dark corner, same as you do with these black and
tabby ones. As a matter of fact, we ought to charge extra for such a
handsome colour as this. They're much rarer and more high-class than the
ordinary cat."

"There's something in that," admitted Mr. Doe. "Well, look here, Miss
Maitland. Suppose you bring Maher--what you said--out to our place this
evening, and if my wife likes him we will keep him. Here's the address.
And you must come at six precisely, please, as we shall be going out
later."

Monty looked at the address, which was at the northern extremity of the
Edgware-Morden Tube.

"It's a very long way to come on the chance," he said resolutely. "You
will have to pay Miss Maitland's expenses."

"Oh, certainly," said Mr. Doe. "That's only fair. Here is half a crown.
You can return me the change this evening. Very well, thank you. Your
cat will have a really happy home if he comes to us. Put him back in his
basket now. The other way out, please. Mind the step. _Good_ morning."

Mr. Egg and his new friend, stumbling down an excessively confined and
stuffy back staircase into a malodorous by-street, looked at one
another.

"He seemed rather an abrupt sort of person," said Miss Maitland. "I do
_hope_ he'll be kind to Maher-shalal-hashbaz. You were _marvellous_
about the gingeriness--I thought he was going to be stuffy about that.
My angel Mash! how _anybody_ could object to his beautiful colour!"

"Um!" said Mr. Egg. "Well, Mr. Doe may be O.K., but I shall believe in
his ten shillings when I see it. And, in any case, you're not going to
his house alone. I shall call for you in the car at five o'clock."

"But, Mr. Egg--I can't allow you! Besides, you've taken half a crown off
him for my fare."

"That's only business," said Mr. Egg. "Five o'clock sharp I shall be
there."

"Well, come at four, and let us give you a cup of tea, anyway. That's
the least we can do."

"Pleased, I'm sure," said Mr. Egg.

       *       *       *       *       *

The house occupied by Mr. John Doe was a new detached villa standing
solitary at the extreme end of a new and unmade suburban road. It was
Mrs. Doe who answered the bell--a small, frightened-looking woman with
watery eyes and a nervous habit of plucking at her pale lips with her
fingers. Maher-shalal-hashbaz was released from his basket in the
sitting-room, where Mr. Doe was reclining in an arm-chair, reading the
evening paper. The cat sniffed suspiciously at him, but softened to Mrs.
Doe's timid advances so far as to allow his ears to be tickled.

"Well, my dear," said Mr. Doe, "will he do? You don't object to the
colour, eh?"

"Oh, no. He's a beautiful cat. I like him very much."

"Right. Then we'll take him. Here you are, Miss Maitland. Ten shillings.
Please sign this receipt. Thanks. Never mind about the change from the
half-crown. There you are, my dear; you've got your cat, and I hope we
shall see no more of those mice. Now"--he glanced at his watch--"I'm
afraid you must say good-bye to your pet quickly, Miss Maitland; we've
got to get off. He'll be quite safe with us."

Monty strolled out with gentlemanly reticence into the hall while the
last words were said. It was, no doubt, the same gentlemanly feeling
which led him to move away from the sitting-room door towards the back
part of the house; but he had only waited a very few minutes when Jean
Maitland came out, sniffing valiantly into a small handkerchief, and
followed by Mrs. Doe.

"You're fond of your cat, aren't you, my dear? I do hope you don't feel
too----"

"There, there, Flossie," said her husband, appearing suddenly at her
shoulders, "Miss Maitland knows he'll be well looked after." He showed
them out, and shut the door quickly upon them.

"If you _don't_ feel happy about it," said Mr. Egg uneasily, "we'll have
him back in two twos."

"No, it's all right," said Jean. "If you don't mind, let's get in at
once and drive away--rather fast."

As they lurched over the uneven road, Mr. Egg saw a lad coming down it.
In one hand he carried a basket. He was whistling loudly.

"Look!" said Monty. "One of our hated rivals. We've got in ahead of him,
anyhow. 'The salesman first upon the field gets the bargain signed and
sealed.' Damn it!" he added to himself, as he pressed down the
accelerator, "I _hope_ it's O.K. I wonder."

       *       *       *       *       *

Although Mr. Egg had worked energetically to get Maher-shalal-hashbaz
settled in the world, he was not easy in his mind. The matter preyed
upon his spirits to such an extent that, finding himself back in London
on the following Saturday week, he made an expedition south of the
Thames to make inquiries. And when the Maitlands' door was opened by
Jean, there by her side, arching his back and brandishing his tail, was
Maher-shalal-hashbaz.

"Yes," said the girl, "he found his way back, the clever darling! Just a
week ago to-day--and he was dreadfully thin and draggled--how he did it,
I can't think. But we simply couldn't send him away again, could we,
Maggie?"

"No," said Mrs. Maitland. "I don't like the cat, and never did, but
there! I suppose even cats have their feelings. But it's an awkward
thing about the money."

"Yes," said Jean. "You see, when he got back and we decided to keep him,
I wrote to Mr. Doe and explained, and sent him a postal order for the
ten shillings. And this morning the letter came back from the Post
Office, marked 'Not Known.' So we don't know what to do about it."

"I never did believe in Mr. John Doe," said Monty. "If you ask me, Miss
Maitland, he was no good, and I shouldn't bother any more about him."

But the girl was not satisfied, and presently the obliging Mr. Egg found
himself driving out northwards in search of the mysterious Mr. Doe,
carrying the postal order with him.

The door of the villa was opened by a neatly dressed, elderly woman whom
he had never seen before. Mr. Egg inquired for Mr. John Doe.

"He doesn't live here. Never heard of him."

Monty explained that he wanted the gentleman who had purchased the cat.

"Cat?" said the woman. Her face changed. "Step inside, will you?
George!" she called to somebody inside the house, "here's a gentleman
called about a cat. Perhaps you'd like to----" The rest of the sentence
was whispered into the ear of a man who emerged from the sitting-room,
and who appeared to be, and was in fact, her husband.

George looked Mr. Egg carefully up and down. "I don't know nobody here
called Doe," said he; "but if it's the late tenant you're wanting,
they've left. Packed and went off in a hurry the day after the old
gentleman was buried. I'm the caretaker for the landlord. And if you've
missed a cat, maybe you'd like to come and have a look out here."

He led the way through the house and out at the back door into the
garden. In the middle of one of the flower-beds was a large hole, like
an irregularly shaped and shallow grave. A spade stood upright in the
mould. And laid in two lugubrious rows upon the lawn were the corpses of
some very dead cats. At a hasty estimate, Mr. Egg reckoned that there
must be close on fifty of them.

"If any of these is yours," said George, "you're welcome to it. But they
ain't in what you might call good condition."

"Good Lord!" said Mr. Egg, appalled, and thought with pleasure of
Maher-shalal-hashbaz, tail erect, welcoming him on the Maitlands'
threshold. "Come back and tell me about this. It's--it's unbelievable!"

It turned out that the name of the late tenants had been Proctor. The
family consisted of an old Mr. Proctor, an invalid, to whom the house
belonged, and his married nephew and the nephew's wife.

"They didn't have no servant sleeping in. Old Mrs. Crabbe used to do for
them, coming in daily, and she always told me that the old gentleman
couldn't abide cats. They made him ill like--I've known folks like that
afore. And, of course, they had to be careful, him being so frail and
his heart so bad he might have popped off any minute. What it seemed to
us when I found all them cats buried, like, was as how maybe young
Proctor had killed them to prevent the old gentleman seeing 'em and
getting a shock. But the queer thing is that all them cats looks to have
been killed about the same time, and not so long ago, neither."

Mr. Egg remembered the advertisement, and the false name, and the
applicants passed out by a different door, so that none of them could
possibly tell how many cats had been bought and paid for. And he
remembered also the careful injunction to bring the cat at 6 o'clock
precisely, and the whistling lad with the basket who had appeared on the
scene about a quarter of an hour after them. He remembered another
thing--a faint miauling noise that had struck upon his ear as he stood
in the hall while Jean was saying good-bye to Maher-shalal-hashbaz, and
the worried look on Mrs. Proctor's face when she had asked if Jean was
fond of her pet. It looked as though Mr. Proctor junior had been
collecting cats for some rather sinister purpose. Collecting them from
every quarter of London. From quarters as far apart as possible--or why
so much care to take down names and addresses?

"What did the old gentleman die of?" he asked.

"Well," said Mrs. George, "it was just heart-failure, or so the doctor
said. Last Tuesday week he passed away in the night, poor soul, and Mrs.
Crabbe that laid him out said he had a dreadful look of horror on his
poor face, but the doctor said that wasn't anythink out of the way, not
with his disease. But what the doctor didn't see, being too busy to come
round, was them terrible scratches on his face and arms. Must have
regular clawed himself in his agony--oh, dear, oh, dear! But there!
Anybody knew as he might go off at any time like the blowing out of a
candle."

"I know that, Sally," said her husband. "But what about them scratches
on the bedroom door? Don't tell me he did that, too. Or, if he did, why
didn't somebody hear him and come along to help him? It's all very well
for Mr. Timbs--that's the landlord--to say as tramps must have got into
the house after the Proctors left, and put us in here to look after the
place, but why should tramps go for to do a useless bit of damage like
that?"

"A 'eartless lot, them Proctors, that's what I say," said Mrs. George.
"A-snoring away, most likely, and leaving their uncle to die by himself.
And wasn't the lawyer upset about it, neither! Coming along in the
morning to make the old gentleman's will, and him passed away so sudden.
And seeing they came in for all his money after all, you'd think they
might have given him a better funeral. Mean, I call it--not a flower,
hardly--only one half-guinea wreath--and no oak--only elm and a shabby
lot of handles. Such trash! You'd think they'd be ashamed."

Mr. Egg was silent. He was not a man of strong imagination, but he saw a
very horrible picture in his mind. He saw an old, sick man asleep, and
hands that quietly opened the bedroom door, and dragged in, one after
the other, sacks that moved and squirmed and mewed. He saw the sacks
left open on the floor, and the door being softly shut and locked on the
outside. And then, in the dim glow of the night-light, he saw shadowy
shapes that leapt and flitted about the room--black and tabby and
ginger--up and down, prowling on noiseless feet, thudding on velvet paws
from tables and chairs. And then, plump up on the bed--a great ginger
cat with amber eyes--and the sleeper waking with a cry--and after that a
nightmare of terror and disgust behind the locked and remorseless door.
A very old, sick man, stumbling and gasping for breath, striking out at
the shadowy horrors that pursued and fled him--and the last tearing pain
at the heart when merciful death overtook him. Then, nothing but a
mewing of cats and a scratching at the door, and outside, the listener,
with his ear bent to the keyhole.

Mr. Egg passed his handkerchief over his forehead; he did not like his
thoughts. But he had to go on, and see the murderer sliding through the
door in the morning--hurrying to collect his innocent accomplices
before Mrs. Crabbe should come--knowing that it must be done quickly and
the corpse made decent--and that when people came to the house there
must be no mysterious miaulings to surprise them. To set the cats free
would not be enough--they might hang about the house. No; the water-butt
and then the grave in the garden. But Maher-shalal-hashbaz--noble
Maher-shalal-hashbaz had fought for his life. He was not going to be
drowned in any water-butts. He had kicked himself loose ("and I hope,"
thought Mr. Egg, "he scratched him all to blazes"), and he had toiled
his way home across London. If only Maher-shalal-hashbaz could tell what
he knew! But Monty Egg knew something, and he could tell.

"And I _will_ tell, what's more," said Monty Egg to himself, as he wrote
down the name and address of Mr. Proctor's solicitor. He supposed it
must be murder to terrify an old man to death; he was not sure, but he
meant to find out. He cast about in his mind for a consoling motto from
the _Salesman's Handbook_, but, for the first time in his life, could
find nothing that really fitted the case.

"I seem to have stepped regularly out of my line," he thought sadly;
"but still, as a citizen----"

And then he smiled, recollecting the first and last aphorism in his
favourite book:

     _To serve the Public is the aim_
     _Of every salesman worth the name_




OTHER STORIES




1. THE MAN WHO KNEW HOW


For perhaps the twentieth time since the train had left Carlisle, Pender
glanced up from _Murder at the Manse_ and caught the eye of the man
opposite.

He frowned a little. It was irritating to be watched so closely, and
always with that faint, sardonic smile. It was still more irritating to
allow oneself to be so much disturbed by the smile and the scrutiny.
Pender wrenched himself back to his book with a determination to
concentrate upon the problem of the minister murdered in the library.
But the story was of the academic kind that crowds all its exciting
incidents into the first chapter, and proceeds thereafter by a long
series of deductions to a scientific solution in the last. The thin
thread of interest, spun precariously upon the wheel of Pender's
reasoning brain, had been snapped. Twice he had to turn back to verify
points that he had missed in reading. Then he became aware that his eyes
had followed three closely argued pages without conveying anything
whatever to his intelligence. He was not thinking about the murdered
minister at all--he was becoming more and more actively conscious of the
other man's face. A queer face, Pender thought.

There was nothing especially remarkable about the features in
themselves; it was their expression that daunted Pender. It was a secret
face, the face of one who knew a great deal to other people's
disadvantage. The mouth was a little crooked and tightly tucked in at
the corners, as though savouring a hidden amusement. The eyes, behind a
pair of rimless pince-nez, glittered curiously; but that was possibly
due to the light reflected in the glasses. Pender wondered what the
man's profession might be. He was dressed in a dark lounge suit, a
raincoat and a shabby soft hat; his age was perhaps about forty.

Pender coughed unnecessarily and settled back into his corner, raising
the detective story high before his face, barrier-fashion. This was
worse than useless. He gained the impression that the man saw through
the manœuvre and was secretly entertained by it. He wanted to fidget,
but felt obscurely that his doing so would in some way constitute a
victory for the other man. In his self-consciousness he held himself so
rigid that attention to his book became a sheer physical impossibility.

There was no stop now before Rugby, and it was unlikely that any
passenger would enter from the corridor to break up this disagreeable
_solitude à deux_. But something must be done. The silence had lasted so
long that any remark, however trivial, would--so Pender felt--burst
upon the tense atmosphere with the unnatural clatter of an alarm clock.
One could, of course, go out into the corridor and not return, but that
would be an acknowledgment of defeat. Pender lowered _Murder at the
Manse_ and caught the man's eye again.

"Getting tired of it?" asked the man.

"Night journeys are always a bit tedious," replied Pender, half relieved
and half reluctant. "Would you like a book?"

He took _The Paper-Clip Clue_ from his attaché-case and held it out
hopefully. The other man glanced at the title and shook his head.

"Thanks very much," he said, "but I never read detective stories.
They're so--inadequate, don't you think so?"

"They are rather lacking in characterisation and human interest,
certainly," said Pender, "but on a railway journey----"

"I don't mean that," said the other man. "I am not concerned with
humanity. But all these murderers are so incompetent--they bore me."

"Oh, I don't know," replied Pender. "At any rate they are usually a good
deal more imaginative and ingenious than murderers in real life."

"Than the murderers who are found out in real life, yes," admitted the
other man.

"Even some of those did pretty well before they got pinched," objected
Pender. "Crippen, for instance; he need never have been caught if he
hadn't lost his head and run off to America. George Joseph Smith did
away with at least two brides quite successfully before fate and the
_News of the World_ intervened."

"Yes," said the other man, "but look at the clumsiness of it all; the
elaboration, the lies, the paraphernalia. Absolutely unnecessary."

"Oh, come!" said Pender. "You can't expect committing a murder and
getting away with it to be as simple as shelling peas."

"Ah!" said the other man. "You think that, do you?"

Pender waited for him to elaborate this remark, but nothing came of it.
The man leaned back and smiled in his secret way at the roof of the
carriage; he appeared to think the conversation not worth going on with.
Pender, taking up his book again, found himself attracted by his
companion's hands. They were white and surprisingly long in the fingers.
He watched them gently tapping upon their owner's knee--then resolutely
turned a page--then put the book down once more and said:

"Well, if it's so easy, how would _you_ set about committing a murder?"

"I?" repeated the man. The light on his glasses made his eyes quite
blank to Pender, but his voice sounded gently amused. "That's different;
_I_ should not have to think twice about it."

"Why not?"

"Because I happen to know how to do it."

"Do you indeed?" muttered Pender, rebelliously.

"Oh, yes; there's nothing in it."

"How can you be sure? You haven't tried, I suppose?"

"It isn't a case of trying," said the man. "There's nothing tentative
about my method. That's just the beauty of it."

"It's easy to say that," retorted Pender, "but what _is_ this wonderful
method?"

"You can't expect me to tell you that, can you?" said the other man,
bringing his eyes back to rest on Pender's. "It might not be safe. You
look harmless enough, but who could look more harmless than Crippen?
Nobody is fit to be trusted with _absolute_ control over other people's
lives."

"Bosh!" exclaimed Pender. "I shouldn't think of murdering anybody."

"Oh, yes, you would," said the other man, "if you really believed it was
safe. So would anybody. Why are all these tremendous artificial barriers
built up around murder by the Church and the law? Just because it's
everybody's crime, and just as natural as breathing."

"But that's ridiculous!" cried Pender, warmly.

"You think so, do you? That's what most people would say. But I wouldn't
trust 'em. Not with sulphate of thanatol to be bought for twopence at
any chemist's."

"Sulphate of what?" asked Pender sharply.

"Ah! you think I'm giving something away. Well, it's a mixture of that
and one or two other things--all equally ordinary and cheap. For
ninepence you could make up enough to poison the entire Cabinet--and
even you would hardly call that a crime, would you? But of course one
wouldn't polish the whole lot off at once; it might look funny if they
all died simultaneously in their baths."

"Why in their baths?"

"That's the way it would take them. It's the action of the hot water
that brings on the effect of the stuff, you see. Any time from a few
hours to a few days after administration. It's quite a simple chemical
reaction and it couldn't possibly be detected by analysis. It would just
look like heart failure."

Pender eyed him uneasily. He did not like the smile; it was not only
derisive, it was smug, it was almost--gloating--triumphant! He could not
quite put a name to it.

"You know," pursued the man, thoughtfully pulling a pipe from his pocket
and beginning to fill it, "it is very odd how often one seems to read of
people being found dead in their baths. It must be a very common
accident. Quite temptingly so. After all, there is a fascination about
murder. The thing grows upon one--that is, I imagine it would, you
know."

"Very likely," said Pender.

"Look at Palmer. Look at Gesina Gottfried. Look at Armstrong. No, I
wouldn't trust anybody with that formula--not even a virtuous young man
like yourself."

The long white fingers tamped the tobacco firmly into the bowl and
struck a match.

"But how about you?" said Pender, irritated. (Nobody cares to be called
a virtuous young man.) "If nobody is fit to be trusted----"

"I'm not, eh?" replied the man. "Well, that's true, but it's past
praying for now, isn't it? I know the thing and I can't unknow it again.
It's unfortunate, but there it is. At any rate you have the comfort of
knowing that nothing disagreeable is likely to happen to _me_. Dear me!
Rugby already. I get out here. I have a little bit of business to do at
Rugby."

He rose and shook himself, buttoned his raincoat about him and pulled
the shabby hat more firmly down above his enigmatic glasses. The train
slowed down and stopped. With a brief good-night and a crooked smile the
man stepped on to the platform. Pender watched him stride quickly away
into the drizzle beyond the radius of the gas-light.

"Dotty or something," said Pender, oddly relieved. "Thank goodness, I
seem to be going to have the carriage to myself."

He returned to _Murder at the Manse_, but his attention still kept
wandering.

"What was the name of that stuff the fellow talked about?"

For the life of him he could not remember.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was on the following afternoon that Pender saw the news-item. He had
bought the _Standard_ to read at lunch, and the word "Bath" caught his
eye; otherwise he would probably have missed the paragraph altogether,
for it was only a short one.

    "WEALTHY MANUFACTURER DIES IN BATH
    "WIFE'S TRAGIC DISCOVERY

     "A distressing discovery was made early this morning by Mrs. John
     Brittlesea, wife of the well-known head of Brittlesea's Engineering
     Works at Rugby. Finding that her husband, whom she had seen alive
     and well less than an hour previously, did not come down in time
     for his breakfast, she searched for him in the bathroom, where, on
     the door being broken down, the engineer was found lying dead in
     his bath, life having been extinct, according to the medical men,
     for half an hour. The cause of the death is pronounced to be heart
     failure. The deceased manufacturer . . ."

"That's an odd coincidence," said Pender. "At Rugby. I should think my
unknown friend would be interested--if he is still there, doing his bit
of business. I wonder what his business is, by the way."

       *       *       *       *       *

It is a very curious thing how, when once your attention is attracted to
any particular set of circumstances, that set of circumstances seems to
haunt you. You get appendicitis: immediately the newspapers are filled
with paragraphs about statesmen suffering from appendicitis and victims
dying of it; you learn that all your acquaintances have had it, or know
friends who have had it, and either died of it, or recovered from it
with more surprising and spectacular rapidity than yourself; you cannot
open a popular magazine without seeing its cure mentioned as one of the
triumphs of modern surgery, or dip into a scientific treatise without
coming across a comparison of the vermiform appendix in men and monkeys.
Probably these references to appendicitis are equally frequent at all
times, but you only notice them when your mind is attuned to the
subject. At any rate, it was in this way that Pender accounted to
himself for the extraordinary frequency with which people seemed to die
in their baths at this period.

The thing pursued him at every turn. Always the same sequence of events:
the hot bath, the discovery of the corpse, the inquest; always the same
medical opinion: heart failure following immersion in too-hot water. It
began to seem to Pender that it was scarcely safe to enter a hot bath at
all. He took to making his own bath cooler and cooler every day, until
it almost ceased to be enjoyable.

He skimmed his paper each morning for headlines about baths before
settling down to read the news; and was at once relieved and vaguely
disappointed if a week passed without a hot-bath tragedy.

One of the sudden deaths that occurred in this way was that of a young
and beautiful woman whose husband, an analytical chemist, had tried
without success to divorce her a few months previously. The coroner
displayed a tendency to suspect foul play, and put the husband through a
severe cross-examination. There seemed, however, to be no getting behind
the doctor's evidence. Pender, brooding fancifully over the improbable
possible, wished, as he did every day of the week, that he could
remember the name of that drug the man in the train had mentioned.

Then came the excitement in Pender's own neighbourhood. An old Mr.
Skimmings, who lived alone with a housekeeper in a street just round the
corner, was found dead in his bathroom. His heart had never been strong.
The housekeeper told the milkman that she had always expected something
of the sort to happen, for the old gentleman would always take his bath
so hot. Pender went to the inquest.

The housekeeper gave her evidence. Mr. Skimmings had been the kindest of
employers, and she was heartbroken at losing him. No, she had not been
aware that Mr. Skimmings had left her a large sum of money, but it was
just like his goodness of heart. The verdict was Death by Misadventure.

Pender, that evening, went out for his usual stroll with the dog. Some
feeling of curiosity moved him to go round past the late Mr. Skimmings's
house. As he loitered by, glancing up at the blank windows, the
garden-gate opened and a man came out. In the light of a street lamp,
Pender recognised him at once.

"Hullo!" he said.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" said the man. "Viewing the site of the tragedy,
eh? What do _you_ think about it all?"

"Oh, nothing very much," said Pender. "I didn't know him. Odd, our
meeting again like this."

"Yes, isn't it? You live near here, I suppose."

"Yes," said Pender; and then wished he hadn't. "Do you live in these
parts too?"

"Me?" said the man. "Oh, no. I was only here on a little matter of
business."

"Last time we met," said Pender, "you had business at Rugby." They had
fallen into step together, and were walking slowly down to the turning
Pender had to take in order to reach his house.

"So I had," agreed the other man. "My business takes me all over the
country. I never know where I may be wanted next."

"It was while you were at Rugby that old Brittlesea was found dead in
his bath, wasn't it?" remarked Pender carelessly.

"Yes. Funny thing, coincidence." The man glanced up at him sideways
through his glittering glasses. "Left all his money to his wife, didn't
he? She's a rich woman now. Good-looking girl--a lot younger than he
was."

They were passing Pender's gate. "Come in and have a drink," said
Pender, and again immediately regretted the impulse.

The man accepted, and they went into Pender's bachelor study.

"Remarkable lot of these bath-deaths there have been lately, haven't
there?" observed Pender carelessly, as he splashed soda into the
tumblers.

"You think it's remarkable?" said the man, with his usual irritating
trick of querying everything that was said to him. "Well, I don't know.
Perhaps it is. But it's always a fairly common accident."

"I suppose I've been taking more notice on account of that conversation
we had in the train." Pender laughed, a little self-consciously. "It
just makes me wonder--you know how one does--whether anybody else had
happened to hit on that drug you mentioned--what was its name?"

The man ignored the question.

"Oh, I shouldn't think so," he said. "I fancy I'm the only person who
knows about that. I only stumbled on the thing by accident myself when I
was looking for something else. I don't imagine it could have been
discovered simultaneously in so many parts of the country. But all these
verdicts just show, don't they, what a safe way it would be of getting
rid of a person."

"You're a chemist, then?" asked Pender, catching at the one phrase which
seemed to promise information.

"Oh, I'm a bit of everything. Sort of general utility-man. I do a good
bit of studying on my own, too. You've got one or two interesting books
here, I see."

Pender was flattered. For a man in his position--he had been in a bank
until he came into that little bit of money--he felt that he had
improved his mind to some purpose, and he knew that his collection of
modern first editions would be worth money some day. He went over to the
glass-fronted bookcase and pulled out a volume or two to show his
visitor.

The man displayed intelligence, and presently joined him in front of the
shelves.

"These, I take it, represent your personal tastes?" He took down a
volume of Henry James and glanced at the fly-leaf. "That your name? E.
Pender?"

Pender admitted that it was. "You have the advantage of me," he added.

"Oh! I am one of the great Smith clan," said the other with a laugh,
"and work for my bread. You seem to be very nicely fixed here."

Pender explained about the clerkship and the legacy.

"Very nice, isn't it?" said Smith. "Not married? No. You're one of the
lucky ones. Not likely to be needing any sulphate of . . . any useful
drugs in the near future. And you never will, if you stick to what
you've got and keep off women and speculation."

He smiled up sideways at Pender. Now that his hat was off, Pender saw
that he had a quantity of closely curled grey hair, which made him look
older than he had appeared in the railway carriage.

"No, I shan't be coming to you for assistance yet awhile," said Pender,
laughing. "Besides, how should I find you if I wanted you?"

"You wouldn't have to," said Smith. "_I_ should find _you_. There's
never any difficulty about that." He grinned, oddly. "Well, I'd better
be getting on. Thank you for your hospitality. I don't expect we shall
meet again--but we may, of course. Things work out so queerly, don't
they?"

When he had gone, Pender returned to his own arm-chair. He took up his
glass of whisky, which stood there nearly full.

"Funny!" he said to himself. "I don't remember pouring that out. I
suppose I got interested and did it mechanically." He emptied his glass
slowly, thinking about Smith.

What in the world was Smith doing at Skimmings's house?

An odd business altogether. If Skimmings's housekeeper had known about
that money . . . But she had not known, and if she had, how could she
have found out about Smith and his sulphate of . . . the word had been
on the tip of his tongue then.

"You would not need to find me. _I_ should find _you_." What had the man
meant by that? But this was ridiculous. Smith was not the devil,
presumably. But if he really had this secret--if he liked to put a price
upon it--nonsense.

"Business at Rugby--a little bit of business at Skimmings's house." Oh,
absurd!

"Nobody is fit to be trusted. _Absolute_ power over another man's life
. . . it grows on you."

Lunacy! And, if there was anything in it, the man was mad to tell Pender
about it. If Pender chose to speak he could get the fellow hanged. The
very existence of Pender would be dangerous.

That whisky!

More and more, thinking it over, Pender became persuaded that he had
never poured it out. Smith must have done it while his back was turned.
Why that sudden display of interest in the bookshelves? It had had no
connection with anything that had gone before. Now Pender came to think
of it, it had been a very stiff whisky. Was it imagination, or had there
been something about the flavour of it?

A cold sweat broke out on Pender's forehead.

A quarter of an hour later, after a powerful dose of mustard and water,
Pender was downstairs again, very cold and shivering, huddling over the
fire. He had had a narrow escape--if he had escaped. He did not know how
the stuff worked, but he would not take a hot bath again for some days.
One never knew.

       *       *       *       *       *

Whether the mustard and water had done the trick in time, or whether the
hot bath was an essential part of the treatment, Pender's life was saved
for the time being. But he was still uneasy. He kept the front door on
the chain and warned his servant to let no strangers into the house.

He ordered two more morning papers and the _News of the World_ on
Sundays, and kept a careful watch upon their columns. Deaths in baths
became an obsession with him. He neglected his first editions and took
to attending inquests.

Three weeks later he found himself at Lincoln. A man had died of heart
failure in a Turkish bath--a fat man, of sedentary habits. The jury
added a rider to their verdict of Misadventure, to the effect that the
management should exercise a stricter supervision over the bathers and
should never permit them to be left unattended in the hot room.

As Pender emerged from the hall he saw ahead of him a shabby hat that
seemed familiar. He plunged after it, and caught Mr. Smith about to step
into a taxi.

"Smith," he cried, gasping a little. He clutched him fiercely by the
shoulder.

"What, you again?" said Smith. "Taking notes of the case, eh? _Can I do
anything for you?_"

"You devil!" said Pender. "You're mixed up in this! You tried to kill me
the other day."

"Did I? Why should I do that?"

"You'll swing for this," shouted Pender menacingly.

A policeman pushed his way through the gathering crowd.

"Here!" said he, "what's all this about?"

Smith touched his forehead significantly.

"It's all right, officer," said he. "The gentleman seems to think I'm
here for no good. Here's my card. The coroner knows me. But he attacked
me. You'd better keep an eye on him."

"That's right," said a bystander.

"This man tried to kill me," said Pender.

The policeman nodded.

"Don't you worry about that, sir," he said. "You think better of it. The
'eat in there has upset you a bit. All right, _all_ right."

"But I want to charge him," said Pender.

"I wouldn't do that if I was you," said the policeman.

"I tell you," said Pender, "that this man Smith has been trying to
poison me. He's a murderer. He's poisoned scores of people."

The policeman winked at Smith.

"Best be off, sir," he said. "I'll settle this. Now, my lad"--he held
Pender firmly by the arms--"just you keep cool and take it quiet. That
gentleman's name ain't Smith nor nothing like it. You've got a bit mixed
up like."

"Well, what is his name?" demanded Pender.

"Never you mind," replied the constable. "You leave him alone, or you'll
be getting yourself into trouble."

The taxi had driven away. Pender glanced round at the circle of amused
faces and gave in.

"All right, officer," he said. "I won't give you any trouble. I'll come
round with you to the police-station and tell you about it."

       *       *       *       *       *

"What do you think o' that one?" asked the inspector of the sergeant
when Pender had stumbled out of the station.

"Up the pole an' 'alf-way round the flag, if you ask me," replied his
subordinate. "Got one o' them ideez fix what they talk about."

"H'm!" replied the inspector. "Well, we've got his name and address.
Better make a note of 'em. He might turn up again. Poisoning people so
as they die in their baths, eh? That's a pretty good 'un. Wonderful how
these barmy ones thinks it all out, isn't it?"

       *       *       *       *       *

The spring that year was a bad one--cold and foggy. It was March when
Pender went down to an inquest at Deptford, but a thick blanket of mist
was hanging over the river as though it were November. The cold ate into
your bones. As he sat in the dingy little court, peering through the
yellow twilight of gas and fog, he could scarcely see the witnesses as
they came to the table. Everybody in the place seemed to be coughing.
Pender was coughing too. His bones ached, and he felt as though he were
about due for a bout of influenza.

Straining his eyes, he thought he recognised a face on the other side of
the room, but the smarting fog which penetrated every crack stung and
blinded him. He felt in his overcoat pocket, and his hand closed
comfortably on something thick and heavy. Ever since that day in Lincoln
he had gone about armed for protection. Not a revolver--he was no hand
with firearms. A sandbag was much better. He had bought one from an old
man wheeling a barrow. It was meant for keeping out draughts from the
door--a good, old-fashioned affair.

The inevitable verdict was returned. The spectators began to push their
way out. Pender had to hurry now, not to lose sight of his man. He
elbowed his way along, muttering apologies. At the door he almost
touched the man, but a stout woman intervened. He plunged past her, and
she gave a little squeak of indignation. The man in front turned his
head, and the light over the door glinted on his glasses.

Pender pulled his hat over his eyes and followed. His shoes had crêpe
rubber soles and made no sound on the sticking pavement. The man went
on, jogging quietly up one street and down another, and never looking
back. The fog was so thick that Pender was forced to keep within a few
yards of him. Where was he going? Into the lighted streets? Home by 'bus
or tram? No. He turned off to the left, down a narrow street.

The fog was thicker here. Pender could no longer see his quarry, but he
heard the footsteps going on before him at the same even pace. It seemed
to him that they were two alone in the world--pursued and pursuer,
slayer and avenger. The street began to slope more rapidly. They must be
coming out somewhere near the river.

Suddenly the dim shapes of the houses fell away on either side. There
was an open space, with a lamp vaguely visible in the middle. The
footsteps paused. Pender, silently hurrying after, saw the man standing
close beneath the lamp, apparently consulting something in a notebook.

Four steps, and Pender was upon him. He drew the sandbag from his
pocket. The man looked up.

"I've got you this time," said Pender, and struck with all his force.

       *       *       *       *       *

Pender had been quite right. He did get influenza. It was a week before
he was out and about again. The weather had changed, and the air was
fresh and sweet. In spite of the weakness left by the malady he felt as
though a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He tottered
down to a favourite bookshop of his in the Strand, and picked up a D. H.
Lawrence "first" at a price which he knew to be a bargain. Encouraged by
this, he turned into a small chop-house, chiefly frequented by Fleet
Street men, and ordered a grilled cutlet and a half-tankard of bitter.

Two journalists were seated at the next table.

"Going to poor old Buckley's funeral?" asked one

"Yes," said the other. "Poor devil! Fancy his getting sloshed on the
head like that. He must have been on his way down to interview the widow
of that fellow who died in a bath. It's a rough district. Probably one
of Jimmy the Card's crowd had it in for him. He was a great
crime-reporter--they won't get another like Bill Buckley in a hurry."

"He was a decent sort, too. Great old sport. No end of a leg-puller.
Remember his great stunt about sulphate of thanatol?"

Pender started. _That_ was the word that had eluded him for so many
months. A curious dizziness came over him and he took a pull at the
tankard to steady himself.

". . . looking at you as sober as a judge," the journalist was saying.
"He used to work off that wheeze on poor boobs in railway carriages to
see how they'd take it. Would you believe that one chap actually offered
him----"

"Hullo!" interrupted his friend. "That bloke over there has fainted. I
thought he was looking a bit white."




2. THE FOUNTAIN PLAYS


"Yes," said Mr. Spiller, in a satisfied tone, "I must say I like a bit
of ornamental water. Gives a finish to the place."

"The Versailles touch," agreed Ronald Proudfoot.

Mr. Spiller glanced sharply at him, as though suspecting sarcasm, but
his lean face expressed nothing whatever. Mr. Spiller was never quite at
his ease in the company of his daughter's fiancé, though he was proud of
the girl's achievement. With all his (to Mr. Spiller) unamiable
qualities, Ronald Proudfoot was a perfect gentleman, and Betty was
completely wrapped up in him.

"The only thing it wants," continued Mr. Spiller, "to _my_ mind, that
is, is Opening Up. To make a Vista, so to say. You don't get the Effect
with these bushes on all four sides."

"Oh, I don't know, Mr. Spiller," objected Mrs. Digby in her mild voice.
"Don't you think it makes rather a fascinating surprise? You come along
the path, never dreaming there's anything behind those lilacs, and then
you turn the corner and come suddenly upon it. I'm sure, when you
brought me down to see it this afternoon, it quite took my breath away."

"There's that, of course," admitted Mr. Spiller. It occurred to him not
for the first time, that there was something very attractive about Mrs.
Digby's silvery personality. She had distinction, too. A widow and
widower of the sensible time of life, with a bit of money on both sides,
might do worse than settle down comfortably in a pleasant house with
half an acre of garden and a bit of ornamental water.

"And it's so pretty and secluded," went on Mrs. Digby, "with these
glorious rhododendrons. Look how pretty they are, all sprayed with the
water--like fairy jewels--and the rustic seat against those dark
cypresses at the back. Really Italian. And the scent of the lilac is so
marvellous!"

Mr. Spiller knew that the cypresses were, in fact, yews, but he did not
correct her. A little ignorance was becoming in a woman. He glanced from
the cotoneasters at one side of the fountain to the rhododendrons on the
other, their rainbow flower-trusses sparkling with diamond drops.

"I wasn't thinking of touching the rhododendrons or the cotoneasters,"
he said. "I only thought of cutting through that great hedge of lilac,
so as to make a vista from the house. But the ladies must always have
the last word, mustn't they--er--Ronald?" (He never could bring out
Proudfoot's Christian name naturally.) "If you like it as it is, Mrs.
Digby, that settles it. The lilacs shall stay."

"It's too flattering of you," said Mrs. Digby, "but you mustn't think of
altering your plans for me. I haven't any right to interfere with your
beautiful garden."

"Indeed you have," said Mr. Spiller. "I defer to your taste entirely.
You have spoken for the lilacs, and henceforward they are sacred."

"I shall be afraid to give an opinion on anything, after that," said
Mrs. Digby, shaking her head. "But whatever you decide to do, I'm sure
it will be lovely. It was a marvellous idea to think of putting the
fountain there. It makes all the difference to the garden."

Mr. Spiller thought she was quite right. And indeed, though the fountain
was rather flattered by the name of "ornamental water," consisting as it
did of a marble basin set in the centre of a pool about four feet
square, it made a brave show, with its plume of dancing water, fifteen
feet high, towering over the smaller shrubs and almost overtopping the
tall lilacs. And its cooling splash and tinkle soothed the ear on this
pleasant day of early summer.

"Costs a bit to run, doesn't it?" demanded Mr. Gooch. He had been silent
up till now, and Mrs. Digby felt that his remark betrayed a rather
sordid outlook on life. Indeed, from the first moment of meeting Mr.
Gooch, she had pronounced him decidedly common, and wondered that he
should be on such intimate terms with her host.

"No, no," replied Mr. Spiller. "No, it's not expensive. You see, it uses
the same water over and over again. Most ingenious. The fountains in
Trafalgar Square work on the same principle, I believe. Of course, I had
to pay a bit to have it put in, but I think it's worth the money."

"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Digby.

"I always said you were a warm man, Spiller," said Mr. Gooch, with his
vulgar laugh. "Wish I was in your shoes. A snug spot, that's what I call
this place. Snug."

"I'm not a millionaire," answered Mr. Spiller, rather shortly. "But
things might be worse in these times. Of course," he added, more
cheerfully, "one has to be careful. I turn the fountain off at night,
for instance, to save leakage and waste."

"I'll swear you do, you damned old miser," said Mr. Gooch, offensively.

Mr. Spiller was saved replying by the sounding of a gong in the
distance.

"Ah! there's dinner," he announced, with a certain relief in his tone.
The party wound their way out between the lilacs, and paced gently up
the long crazy pavement, past the herbaceous borders and the two long
beds of raw little ticketed roses, to the glorified villa which Mr.
Spiller had christened "The Pleasaunce."

It seemed to Mrs. Digby that there was a slightly strained atmosphere
about dinner, though Betty, pretty as a picture and very much in love
with Ronald Proudfoot, made a perfectly charming little hostess. The
jarring note was sounded by Mr. Gooch. He ate too noisily, drank far too
freely, got on Proudfoot's nerves and behaved to Mr. Spiller with a kind
of veiled insolence which was embarrassing and disagreeable to listen
to. She wondered again where he had come from, and why Mr. Spiller put
up with him. She knew little about him, except that from time to time he
turned up on a visit to "The Pleasaunce," usually staying there about a
month and being, apparently, well supplied with cash. She had an idea
that he was some kind of commission agent, though she could not recall
any distinct statement on this point. Mr. Spiller had settled down in
the village about three years previously, and she had always liked him.
Though not, in any sense of the word, a cultivated man, he was kind,
generous and unassuming, and his devotion to Betty had something very
lovable about it. Mr. Gooch had started coming about a year later. Mrs.
Digby said to herself that if ever she was in a position to lay down the
law at "The Pleasaunce"--and she had begun to think matters were tending
that way--her influence would be directed to getting rid of Mr. Gooch.

"How about a spot of bridge?" suggested Ronald Proudfoot, when coffee
had been served. It was nice, reflected Mrs. Digby, to have coffee
brought in by the manservant. Masters was really a very well-trained
butler, though he did combine the office with that of chauffeur. One
would be comfortable at "The Pleasaunce." From the dining-room window
she could see the neat garage housing the Wolseley saloon on the ground
floor, with a room for the chauffeur above it, and topped off by a
handsome gilded weather-vane a-glitter in the last rays of the sun. A
good cook, a smart parlourmaid and everything done exactly as one could
wish--if she were to marry Mr. Spiller she would be able, for the first
time in her life, to afford a personal maid as well. There would be
plenty of room in the house, and of course, when Betty was married----

Betty, she thought, was not over-pleased that Ronald had suggested
bridge. Bridge is not a game that lends itself to the expression of
tender feeling, and it would perhaps have looked better if Ronald had
enticed Betty out to sit in the lilac-scented dusk under the yew-hedge
by the fountain. Mrs. Digby was sometimes afraid that Betty was the more
in love of the two. But if Ronald wanted anything he had to have it, of
course, and personally, Mrs. Digby enjoyed nothing better than a quiet
rubber. Besides, the arrangement had the advantage that it got rid of
Mr. Gooch. "Don't play bridge," Mr. Gooch was wont to say. "Never had
time to learn. We didn't play bridge where I was brought up." He
repeated the remark now, and followed it up with a contemptuous snort
directed at Mr. Spiller.

"Never too late to begin," said the latter pacifically.

"Not me!" retorted Mr. Gooch. "I'm going to have a turn in the garden.
Where's that fellow Masters? Tell him to take the whisky and soda down
to the fountain. The decanter, mind--one drink's no good to yours
truly." He plunged a thick hand into the box of Coronas on the
side-table, took out a handful of cigars and passed out through the
French window of the library on to the terrace. Mr. Spiller rang the
bell and gave the order without comment, and presently they saw Masters
pad down the long crazy path between the rose-beds and the herbaceous
borders, bearing the whisky and soda on a tray.

The other four played on till 10.30, when, a rubber coming to an end,
Mrs. Digby rose and said it was time she went home. Her host gallantly
offered to accompany her. "These two young people can look after
themselves for a moment," he added, with a conspiratorial smile.

"The young can look after themselves better than the old, these days."
She laughed a little shyly, and raised no objection when Mr. Spiller
drew her hand into his arm as they walked the couple of hundred yards to
her cottage. She hesitated a moment whether to ask him in, but decided
that a sweet decorum suited her style best. She stretched out a soft,
beringed hand to him over the top of the little white gate. His pressure
lingered--he would have kissed the hand, so insidious was the scent of
the red and white hawthorns in her trim garden, but before he had
summoned up courage, she had withdrawn it from his clasp and was gone.

Mr. Spiller, opening his own front door in an agreeable dream,
encountered Masters.

"Where is everybody, Masters?"

"Mr. Proudfoot left five or ten minutes since, sir, and Miss Elizabeth
has retired."

"Oh!" Mr. Spiller was a little startled. The new generation, he thought
sadly, did not make love like the old. He hoped there was nothing wrong.
Another irritating thought presented itself.

"Has Mr. Gooch come in?"

"I could not say, sir. Shall I go and see?"

"No, never mind." If Gooch had been sozzling himself up with whisky
since dinner-time, it was just as well Masters should keep away from
him. You never knew. Masters was one of these soft-spoken beggars, but
he might take advantage. Better not to trust servants, anyhow.

"You can cut along to bed. I'll lock up."

"Very good, sir."

"Oh, by the way, is the fountain turned off?"

"Yes, sir. I turned it off myself, sir, at half-past ten, seeing that
you were engaged, sir."

"Quite right. Good-night, Masters."

"Good-night, sir."

He heard the man go out by the back and cross the paved court to the
garage. Thoughtfully he bolted both entrances, and returned to the
library. The whisky decanter was not in its usual place--no doubt it was
still with Gooch in the garden--but he mixed himself a small brandy and
soda, and drank it. He supposed he must now face the tiresome business
of getting Gooch up to bed. Then, suddenly, he realised that the
encounter would take place here and not in the garden. Gooch was coming
in through the french window. He was drunk, but not, Mr. Spiller
observed with relief, incapably so.

"Well?" said Gooch.

"Well?" retorted Mr. Spiller.

"Had a good time with the accommodating widow, eh? Enjoyed yourself?
Lucky old hound, aren't you? Fallen soft in your old age, eh?"

"There, that'll do," said Mr. Spiller.

"Oh, will it? That's good. That's rich. That'll do, eh? Think I'm
Masters, talking to me like that?" Mr. Gooch gave a thick chuckle.
"Well, I'm not Masters, I'm master here. Get that into your head. I'm
master and you damn well know it."

"All right," replied Mr. Spiller meekly, "but buzz off to bed now,
there's a good fellow. It's getting late and I'm tired."

"You'll be tireder before I've done with you." Mr. Gooch thrust both
hands into his pockets and stood--a bulky and threatening
figure--swaying rather dangerously. "I'm short of cash," he added. "Had
a bad week--cleaned me out. Time you stumped up a bit more."

"Nonsense," said Mr. Spiller, with some spirit. "I pay you your
allowance as we agreed, and let you come and stay here whenever you
like, and that's all you get from me."

"Oh, is it? Getting a bit above yourself, aren't you, Number Bleeding
4132?"

"Hush!" said Mr. Spiller, glancing hastily round as though the furniture
had ears and tongues.

"Hush! hush!" repeated Mr. Gooch mockingly. "You're in a good position
to dictate terms, aren't you, 4132? Hush! The servants might hear! Betty
might hear! Betty's young man might hear. Hah! Betty's young man--he'd
be particularly pleased to know her father was an escaped jail-bird,
wouldn't he? Liable at any moment to be hauled back to work out his ten
years' hard for forgery? And when I think," added Mr. Gooch, "that a man
like me, that was only in for a short stretch and worked it out good and
proper, is dependent on the charity--ha, ha!--of my dear friend 4132,
while he's rolling in wealth----"

"I'm not rolling in wealth, Sam," said Mr. Spiller, "and you know darn
well I'm not. But I don't want any trouble. I'll do what I can, if
you'll promise faithfully this time that you won't ask for any more of
these big sums, because my income won't stand it."

"Oh, I'll promise that all right," agreed Mr. Gooch cheerfully. "You
give me five thousand down----"

Mr. Spiller uttered a strangled exclamation.

"Five thousand? How do you suppose I'm to lay hands on five thousand all
at once? Don't be an idiot, Sam. I'll give you a cheque for five
hundred----"

"Five thousand," insisted Mr. Gooch, "or up goes the monkey."

"But I haven't got it," objected Mr. Spiller.

"Then you'd bloody well better find it," returned Mr. Gooch.

"How do you expect me to find all that?"

"That's your look-out. You oughtn't to be so damned extravagant.
Spending good money, that you ought to be giving _me_, on fountains and
stuff. Now, it's no good kicking, Mr. Respectable 4132--I'm the man on
top and you're for it, my lad, if you don't look after me properly.
See?"

Mr. Spiller saw only too clearly. He saw, as he had seen indeed for some
time, that his friend Gooch had him by the short hairs. He expostulated
again feebly, and Gooch replied with a laugh and an offensive reference
to Mrs. Digby.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Spiller did not realise that he had struck very hard. He hardly
realised that he had struck at all. He thought he had aimed a blow, and
that Gooch had dodged it and tripped over the leg of the occasional
table. But he was not very clear in his mind, except on one point. Gooch
was dead.

He had not fainted; he was not stunned. He was dead. He must have caught
the brass curb of the fender as he fell. There was no blood, but Mr.
Spiller, exploring the inert head with anxious fingers, found a spot
above the temple where the bone yielded to pressure like a cracked
egg-shell. The noise of the fall had been thunderous. Kneeling on the
library floor, Mr. Spiller waited for the inevitable cry and footsteps
from upstairs.

Nothing happened. He remembered--with difficulty, for his mind seemed to
be working slowly and stiffly--that above the library there was only the
long drawing-room, and over that the spare-room and bathrooms. No
inhabited bedroom looked out on that side of the house.

A slow, grinding, grating noise startled him. He whisked round hastily.
The old-fashioned grandfather clock, wheezing as the hammer rose into
action, struck eleven. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, got up and
poured himself out another, and a stiffer, brandy.

The drink did him good. It seemed to take the brake off his mind, and
the wheels span energetically. An extraordinary clarity took the place
of his previous confusion.

He had murdered Gooch. He had not exactly intended to do so, but he had
done it. It had not felt to him like murder, but there was not the
slightest doubt what the police would think about it. And once he was in
the hands of the police--Mr. Spiller shuddered. They would almost
certainly want to take his fingerprints, and would be surprised to
recognise a bunch of old friends.

Masters had heard him say that he would wait up for Gooch. Masters knew
that everybody else had gone to bed. Masters would undoubtedly guess
something. But stop!

Could Masters prove that he himself had gone to bed? Yes, probably he
could. Somebody would have heard him cross the court and seen the light
go up over the garage. One could not hope to throw suspicion on
Masters--besides, the man hardly deserved that. But the mere idea had
started Mr. Spiller's brain on a new and attractive line of thought.

What he really wanted was an alibi. If he could only confuse the police
as to the time at which Gooch had died. If Gooch could be made to seem
alive after he was dead . . . somehow . . .

He cast his thoughts back over stories he had read on holiday, dealing
with this very matter. You dressed up as the dead man and impersonated
him. You telephoned in his name. In the hearing of the butler, you spoke
to the dead as though he were alive. You made a gramophone record of his
voice and played it. You hid the body, and thereafter sent a forged
letter from some distant place----

He paused for a moment. Forgery--but he did not want to start that old
game over again. And all these things were too elaborate, or else
impracticable at that time of night.

And then it came to him suddenly that he was a fool. Gooch must not be
made to live later, but to die earlier. He should die before 10.30, at
the time when Mr. Spiller, under the eyes of three observers, had been
playing bridge.

So far, the idea was sound and even, in its broad outline, obvious. But
now one had to come down to detail. How could he establish the time? Was
there anything that had happened at 10.30?

He helped himself to another drink, and then, quite suddenly, as though
lit by a floodlight, he saw his whole plan, picked out vividly complete,
with every join and angle clear-cut.

He glanced at his watch; the hands stood at twenty minutes past eleven.
He had the night before him.

He fetched an electric torch from the hall and stepped boldly out of the
french window. Close beside it, against the wall of the house, were two
taps, one ending in a nozzle for the garden hose, the other controlling
the fountain at the bottom of the garden. This latter he turned on, and
then, without troubling to muffle his footsteps, followed the
crazy-paved path down to the lilac hedge, and round by the bed of
cotoneasters. The sky, despite the beauty of the early evening, had now
turned very dark, and he could scarcely see the tall column of pale
water above the dark shrubbery, but he heard its comforting splash and
ripple, and as he stepped upon the surrounding grass, he felt the blown
spray upon his face. The beam of the torch showed him the garden seat
beneath the yews, and the tray, as he had expected, standing upon it.
The whisky decanter was about half full. He emptied the greater part of
its contents into the basin, wrapping the neck of the decanter in his
handkerchief, so as to leave no fingerprints. Then, returning to the
other side of the lilacs, he satisfied himself that the spray of the
fountain was invisible from house or garden.

The next part of the performance he did not care about. It was risky; it
might be heard; in fact, he wanted it to be heard if necessary--but it
was a risk. He licked his dry lips and called the dead man by name:

"Gooch! Gooch!"

No answer, except the splash of the fountain, sounding to his anxious
ear abnormally loud in the stillness. He glanced round, almost as though
he expected the corpse to stalk awfully out upon him from the darkness,
its head hanging and its dark mouth dropping open to show the pale gleam
of its dentures. Then, pulling himself together, he walked briskly back
up the path and, when he reached the house again, listened. There was no
movement, no sound but the ticking of the clocks. He shut the library
door gently. From now on there must be no noise.

There was a pair of galoshes in the cloak-room near the pantry. He put
them on and slipped like a shadow through the french window again; then
round the house into the courtyard. He glanced up at the garage; there
was no light in the upper story and he breathed a sigh of relief, for
Masters was apt sometimes to be wakeful. Groping his way to an outhouse,
he switched the torch on. His wife had been an invalid for some years
before her death, and he had brought her wheeled chair with him to "The
Pleasaunce," having a dim, sentimental reluctance to sell the thing. He
was thankful for that, now; thankful, too, that he had purchased it from
a good maker and that it ran so lightly and silently on its pneumatic
tyres. He found the bicycle pump and blew the tyres up hard and, for
further precaution, administered a drop of oil here and there. Then,
with infinite precaution, he wheeled the chair round to the library
window. How fortunate that he had put down stone flags and crazy paving
everywhere, so that no wheel-tracks could show.

The job of getting the body through the window and into the chair took
it out of him. Gooch had been a heavy man, and he himself was not in
good training. But it was done at last. Resisting the impulse to run, he
pushed his burden gently and steadily along the narrow strip of paving.
He could not see very well, and he was afraid to flash his torch too
often. A slip off the path into the herbaceous border would be fatal; he
set his teeth and kept his gaze fixed steadily ahead of him. He felt as
though, if he looked back at the house, he would see the upper windows
thronged with staring white faces. The impulse to turn his head was
almost irresistible, but he determined that he would not turn it.

At length he was round the edge of the lilacs and hidden from the house.
The sweat was running down his face and the most ticklish part of his
task was still to do. If he broke his heart in the effort, he must carry
the body over the plot of lawn. No wheel-marks or heel-marks or signs of
dragging must be left for the police to see. He braced himself for the
effort.

It was done. The corpse of Gooch lay there by the fountain, the bruise
upon the temple carefully adjusted upon the sharp stone edge of the
pool, one hand dragging in the water, the limbs disposed as naturally as
possible, to look as though the man had stumbled and fallen. Over it,
from head to foot, the water of the fountain sprayed, swaying and
bending in the night wind. Mr. Spiller looked upon his work and saw that
it was good. The journey back with the lightened chair was easy. When he
had returned the vehicle to the outhouse and passed for the last time
through the library window, he felt as though the burden of years had
been rolled from his back.

His back! He had remembered to take off his dinner-jacket while stooping
in the spray of the fountain, and only his shirt was drenched. That he
could dispose of in the linen-basket, but the seat of his trousers gave
him some uneasiness. He mopped at himself as best he could with his
handkerchief. Then he made his calculations. If he left the fountain to
play for an hour or so it would, he thought, produce the desired effect.
Controlling his devouring impatience, he sat down and mixed himself a
final brandy.

At 1 o'clock he rose, turned off the fountain, shut the library window
with no more and no less than the usual noise and force, and went with
firm footsteps up to bed.

       *       *       *       *       *

Inspector Frampton was, to Mr. Spiller's delight, a highly intelligent
officer. He picked up the clues thrown to him with the eagerness of a
trained terrier. The dead man was last seen alive by Masters after
dinner--8.30--just so. After which, the rest of the party had played
bridge together till 10.30. Mr. Spiller had then gone out with Mrs.
Digby. Just after he left, Masters had turned off the fountain. Mr.
Proudfoot had left at 10.40 and Miss Spiller and the maids had then
retired. Mr. Spiller had come in again at 10.45 or 10.50, and inquired
for Mr. Gooch. After this, Masters had gone across to the garage,
leaving Mr. Spiller to lock up. Later on, Mr. Spiller had gone down the
garden to look for Mr. Gooch. He had gone no farther than the lilac
hedge, and there calling to him and getting no answer, had concluded
that his guest had already come in and gone to bed. The housemaid
fancied she had heard him calling Mr. Gooch. She placed this episode at
about half-past eleven--certainly not later. Mr. Spiller had
subsequently sat up reading in the library till 1 o'clock, when he had
shut the window and gone to bed also.

The body, when found by the gardener at 6.30 a.m., was still wet with
the spray from the fountain, which had also soaked the grass beneath it.
Since the fountain had been turned off at 10.30, this meant that Gooch
must have lain there for an appreciable period before that. In view of
the large quantity of whisky that he had drunk, it seemed probable that
he had had a heart-attack, or had drunkenly stumbled, and, in falling,
had struck his head on the edge of the pool. All these considerations
fixed the time of death at from 9.30 to 10 o'clock--an opinion with
which the doctor, though declining to commit himself within an hour or
so, concurred, and the coroner entered a verdict of accidental death.

       *       *       *       *       *

Only the man who has been for years the helpless victim of blackmail
could fully enter into Mr. Spiller's feelings. Compunction played no
part in them--the relief was far too great. To be rid of the daily
irritation of Gooch's presence, of his insatiable demands for money, of
the perpetual menace of his drunken malice--these boons were well worth
a murder. And, Mr. Spiller insisted to himself, as he sat musing on the
rustic seat by the fountain, it had not really been murder. He
determined to call on Mrs. Digby that afternoon. He could ask her to
marry him now without haunting fear for the future. The scent of the
lilac was intoxicating.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Excuse me, sir," said Masters.

Mr. Spiller, withdrawing his meditative gaze from the spouting water,
looked inquiringly at the manservant, who stood in a respectful attitude
beside him.

"If it is convenient to you, sir, I should wish to have my bedroom
changed. I should wish to sleep indoors."

"Oh?" said Mr. Spiller. "Why that, Masters?"

"I am subject to be a light sleeper, sir, ever since the war, and I find
the creaking of the weather-vane very disturbing."

"It creaks, does it?"

"Yes, sir. On the night that Mr. Gooch sustained his unfortunate
accident, sir, the wind changed at a quarter-past eleven. The creaking
woke me out of my first sleep, sir, and disturbed me very much."

A coldness gripped Mr. Spiller at the pit of the stomach. The servant's
eyes, in that moment, reminded him curiously of Gooch. He had never
noticed any resemblance before.

"It's a curious thing, sir, if I may say so, that, with the wind
shifting as it did at 11.15, Mr. Gooch's body should have become sprayed
by the fountain. Up till 11.15, the spray was falling on the other side,
sir. The appearance presented was as though the body had been placed in
position subsequently to 11.15, sir, and the fountain turned on again."

"Very strange," said Mr. Spiller. On the other side of the lilac hedge,
he heard the voices of Betty and Ronald Proudfoot, chattering as they
paced to and fro between the herbaceous borders. They seemed to be happy
together. The whole house seemed happier, now that Gooch was gone.

"Very strange indeed, sir. I may add that, after hearing the inspector's
observations, I took the precaution to dry your dress-trousers in the
linen-cupboard in the bathroom."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Spiller.

"I shall not, of course, mention the change of wind to the authorities,
sir, and now that the inquest is over, it is not likely to occur to
anybody, unless their attention should be drawn to it. I think, sir, all
things being taken into consideration, you might find it worth your
while to retain me permanently in your service at--shall we say double
my present wage to begin with?"

Mr. Spiller opened his mouth to say, "Go to Hell," but his voice failed
him. He bowed his head.

"I am much obliged to you, sir," said Masters, and withdrew on silent
feet.

Mr. Spiller looked at the fountain, with its tall water wavering and
bending in the wind.

"Ingenious," he muttered automatically, "and it really costs nothing to
run. It uses the same water over and over again."




MORE LORD PETER STORIES




THE ABOMINABLE HISTORY OF THE MAN WITH COPPER FINGERS


The Egotists' Club is one of the most genial places in London. It is a
place to which you may go when you want to tell that odd dream you had
last night, or to announce what a good dentist you have discovered. You
can write letters there if you like, and have the temperament of a Jane
Austen, for there is no silence room, and it would be a breach of club
manners to appear busy or absorbed when another member addresses you.
You must not mention golf or fish, however, and, if the Hon. Freddy
Arbuthnot's motion is carried at the next committee meeting (and opinion
so far appears very favourable), you will not be allowed to mention
wireless either. As Lord Peter Wimsey said when the matter was mooted
the other day in the smoking-room, those are things you can talk about
anywhere. Otherwise the club is not specially exclusive. Nobody is
ineligible _per se_, except strong, silent men. Nominees are, however,
required to pass certain tests, whose nature is sufficiently indicated
by the fact that a certain distinguished explorer came to grief through
accepting, and smoking, a powerful Trichinopoly cigar as an
accompaniment to a '63 port. On the other hand, dear old Sir Roger Bunt
(the coster millionaire who won the £20,000 ballot offered by the
_Sunday Shriek_, and used it to found his immense catering business in
the Midlands) was highly commended and unanimously elected after
declaring frankly that beer and a pipe were all he really cared for in
that way. As Lord Peter said again: "Nobody minds coarseness but one
must draw the line at cruelty."

On this particular evening, Masterman (the cubist poet) had brought a
guest with him, a man named Varden. Varden had started life as a
professional athlete, but a strained heart had obliged him to cut short
a brilliant career, and turn his handsome face and remarkably beautiful
body to account in the service of the cinema screen. He had come to
London from Los Angeles to stimulate publicity for his great new film,
_Marathon_, and turned out to be quite a pleasant, unspoiled
person--greatly to the relief of the club, since Masterman's guests were
apt to be something of a toss-up.

These were only eight men, including Varden, in the brown room that
evening. This, with its panelled walls, shaded lamps, and heavy blue
curtains was perhaps the cosiest and pleasantest of the small
smoking-rooms, of which the club possessed half a dozen or so. The
conversation had begun quite casually by Armstrong's relating a curious
little incident which he had witnessed that afternoon at the Temple
Station, and Bayes had gone on to say that that was nothing to the
really very odd thing which had happened to him, personally, in a thick
fog one night in the Euston Road.

Masterman said that the more secluded London squares teemed with
subjects for a writer, and instanced his own singular encounter with a
weeping woman and a dead monkey, and then Judson took up the tale and
narrated how, in a lonely suburb, late at night, he had come upon the
dead body of a woman stretched on the pavement with a knife in her side
and a policeman standing motionless near by. He had asked if he could do
anything, but the policeman had only said, "I wouldn't interfere if I
was you, sir; she deserved what she got." Judson said he had not been
able to get the incident out of his mind, and then Pettifer told them of
a queer case in his own medical practice, when a totally unknown man had
led him to a house in Bloomsbury where there was a woman suffering from
strychnine poisoning. This man had helped him in the most intelligent
manner all night, and, when the patient was out of danger, had walked
straight out of the house and never reappeared; the odd thing being
that, when he (Pettifer) questioned the woman, she answered in great
surprise that she had never seen the man in her life and had taken him
to be Pettifer's assistant.

"That reminds me," said Varden, "of something still stranger that
happened to me once in New York--I've never been able to make out
whether it was a madman or a practical joke, or whether I really had a
very narrow shave."

This sounded promising, and the guest was urged to go on with his story.

"Well, it really started ages ago," said the actor, "seven years it must
have been--just before America came into the war. I was twenty-five at
the time, and had been in the film business a little over two years.
There was a man called Eric P. Loder, pretty well known in New York at
that period, who would have been a very fine sculptor if he hadn't had
more money than was good for him, or so I understood from the people who
go in for that kind of thing. He used to exhibit a good deal and had a
lot of one-man shows of his stuff to which the highbrow people went--he
did a good many bronzes, I believe. Perhaps you know about him,
Masterman?"

"I've never seen any of his things," said the poet, "but I remember some
photographs in _The Art of To-Morrow_. Clever, but rather over-ripe.
Didn't he go in for a lot of that chryselephantine stuff? Just to show
he could afford to pay for the materials, I suppose."

"Yes, that sounds very like him."

"Of course--and he did a very slick and very ugly realistic group called
Lucina, and had the impudence to have it cast in solid gold and stood in
his front hall."

"Oh, that thing! Yes--simply beastly I thought it, but then I never
could see anything artistic in the idea. Realism, I suppose you'd call
it. I like a picture or a statue to make you feel good, or what's it
there for? Still, there was something very attractive about Loder."

"How did you come across him?"

"Oh, yes. Well, he saw me in that little picture of mine, _Apollo comes
to New York_--perhaps you remember it. It was my first star part. About
a statue that's brought to life--one of the old gods, you know--and how
he gets on in a modern city. Dear old Reubenssohn produced it. Now,
there was a man who could put a thing through with consummate artistry.
You couldn't find an atom of offence from beginning to end, it was all
so tasteful, though in the first part one didn't have anything to wear
except a sort of scarf--taken from the classical statue, you know."

"The Belvedere?"

"I dare say. Well. Loder wrote to me, and said as a sculptor he was
interested in me, because I was a good shape and so on, and would I come
and pay him a visit in New York when I was free. So I found out about
Loder, and decided it would be good publicity, and when my contract was
up, and I had a bit of time to fill in, I went up east and called on
him. He was very decent to me, and asked me to stay a few weeks with him
while I was looking around.

"He had a magnificent great house about five miles out of the city,
crammed full of pictures and antiques and so on. He was somewhere
between thirty-five and forty, I should think, dark and smooth, and very
quick and lively in his movements. He talked very well; seemed to have
been everywhere and have seen everything and not to have any too good an
opinion of anybody. You could sit and listen to him for hours; he'd got
anecdotes about everybody, from the Pope to old Phineas E. Groot of the
Chicago Ring. The only kind of story I didn't care about hearing from
him was the improper sort. Not that I don't enjoy an after-dinner
story--no, sir, I wouldn't like you to think I was a prig--but he'd tell
it with his eye upon you as if he suspected you of having something to
do with it. I've known women do that, and I've seen men do it to women
and seen the women squirm, but he was the only man that's ever given
_me_ that feeling. Still, apart from that, Loder was the most
fascinating fellow I've ever known. And, as I say, his house surely was
beautiful, and he kept a first-class table.

"He liked to have everything of the best. There was his mistress, Maria
Morano. I don't think I've ever seen anything to touch her, and when you
work for the screen you're apt to have a pretty exacting standard of
female beauty. She was one of those big, slow, beautifully moving
creatures, very placid, with a slow, wide smile. We don't grow them in
the States. She'd come from the South--had been a cabaret dancer he
said, and she didn't contradict him. He was very proud of her, and she
seemed to be devoted to him in her own fashion. He'd show her off in the
studio with nothing on but a fig-leaf or so--stand her up beside one of
the figures he was always doing of her, and compare them point by
point. There was literally only one half inch of her, it seemed, that
wasn't absolutely perfect from the sculptor's point of view--the second
toe of her left foot was shorter than the big toe. He used to correct
it, of course, in the statues. She'd listen to it all with a
good-natured smile, sort of vaguely flattered, you know. Though I think
the poor girl sometimes got tired of being gloated over that way. She'd
sometimes hunt me out and confide to me that what she had always hoped
for was to run a restaurant of her own, with a cabaret show and a great
many cooks with white aprons, and lots of polished electric cookers.
'And then I would marry,' she'd say, 'and have four sons and one
daughter,' and she told me all the names she had chosen for the family.
I thought it was rather pathetic. Loder came in at the end of one of
these conversations. He had a sort of a grin on, so I dare say he'd
overheard. I don't suppose he attached much importance to it, which
shows that he never really understood the girl. I don't think he ever
imagined any woman would chuck up the sort of life he'd accustomed her
to, and if he was a bit possessive in his manner, at least he never gave
her a rival. For all his talk and his ugly statues, she'd got him, and
she knew it.

"I stayed there getting on for a month altogether, having a thundering
good time. On two occasions Loder had an art spasm, and shut himself up
in his studio to work and wouldn't let anybody in for several days on
end. He was rather given to that sort of stunt, and when it was over we
would have a party, and all Loder's friends and hangers-on would come to
have a look at the work of art. He was doing a figure of some nymph or
goddess, I fancy, to be cast in silver, and Maria used to go along and
sit for him. Apart from those times, he went about everywhere, and we
saw all there was to be seen.

"I was fairly annoyed, I admit, when it came to an end. War was
declared, and I'd made up my mind to join up when that happened. My
heart put me out of the running for trench service, but I counted on
getting some sort of a job, with perseverance, so I packed up and went
off.

"I wouldn't have believed Loder would have been so genuinely sorry to
say good-bye to me. He said over and over again that we'd meet again
soon. However, I did get a job with the hospital people, and was sent
over to Europe, and it wasn't till 1920 that I saw Loder again.

"He'd written to me before, but I'd had two big pictures to make in '19,
and it couldn't be done. However, in '20 I found myself back in New
York, doing publicity for _The Passion Streak_, and got a note from
Loder begging me to stay with him, and saying he wanted me to sit for
him. Well, that was advertisement that he'd pay for himself, you know,
so I agreed. I had accepted an engagement to go out with Mystofilms Ltd.
in _Jake of Dead Man's Bush_--the dwarfmen picture, you know, taken on
the spot among the Australian bushmen. I wired them that I would join
them at Sydney the third week in April, and took my bags out to Loder's.

"Loder greeted me very cordially, though I thought he looked older than
when I last saw him. He had certainly grown more nervous in his manner.
He was--how shall I describe it?--more _intense_--more real, in a way.
He brought out his pet cynicisms as if he thoroughly meant them, and
more and more with that air of getting at you personally. I used to
think his disbelief in everything was a kind of artistic pose, but I
began to feel I had done him an injustice. He was really unhappy, I
could see that quite well, and soon I discovered the reason. As we were
driving out in the car I asked after Maria.

"'She has left me,' he said.

"Well, now, you know, that really surprised me. Honestly, I hadn't
thought the girl had that much initiative. 'Why,' I said, 'has she gone
and set up in that restaurant of her own she wanted so much?'

"'Oh! she talked to you about restaurants, did she?' said Loder. 'I
suppose you are one of the men that women tell things to. No. She made a
fool of herself. She's gone.'

"I didn't quite know what to say. He was so obviously hurt in his
vanity, you know, as well as in his feelings. I muttered the usual
things, and added that it must be a great loss to his work as well as in
other ways. He said it was.

"I asked him when it had happened and whether he'd finished the nymph he
was working on before I left. He said, 'Oh, yes, he'd finished that and
done another--something pretty original, which I should like.'

"Well, we got to the house and dined, and Loder told me he was going to
Europe shortly, a few days after I left myself, in fact. The nymph stood
in the dining-room, in a special niche let into the wall. It really was
a beautiful thing, not so showy as most of Loder's work, and a wonderful
likeness of Maria. Loder put me opposite it, so that I could see it
during dinner, and, really, I could hardly take my eyes off it. He
seemed very proud of it, and kept on telling me over and over again how
glad he was that I liked it. It struck me that he was falling into a
trick of repeating himself.

"We went into the smoking-room after dinner. He'd had it rearranged, and
the first thing that caught one's eye was a big settee drawn before the
fire. It stood about a couple of feet from the ground, and consisted of
a base made like a Roman couch, with cushions and a highish back, all
made of oak with a silver inlay, and on top of this, forming the actual
seat one sat on, if you follow me, there was a great silver figure of a
nude woman, fully life-size, lying with her head back and her arms
extended along the sides of the couch. A few big loose cushions made it
possible to use the thing as an actual settee, though I must say it
never was really comfortable to sit on respectably. As a stage prop.
for registering dissipation it would have been excellent, but to see
Loder sprawling over it by his own fireside gave me a kind of shock. He
seemed very much attached to it, though.

"'I told you,' he said, 'that it was something original.'

"Then I looked more closely at it, and saw that the figure actually was
Maria's, though the face was rather sketchily done, if you understand
what I mean. I suppose he thought a bolder treatment more suited to a
piece of furniture.

"But I did begin to think Loder a trifle degenerate when I saw that
couch. And in the fortnight that followed I grew more and more
uncomfortable with him. That personal manner of his grew more marked
every day, and sometimes, while I was giving him sittings, he would sit
there and tell one of the most beastly things, with his eyes fixed on
one in the nastiest way, just to see how one would take it. Upon my
word, though he certainly did me uncommonly well, I began to feel I'd be
more at ease among the bushmen.

"Well, now I come to the odd thing."

Everybody sat up and listened a little more eagerly.

"It was the evening before I had to leave New York," went on Varden. "I
was sitting----"

Here somebody opened the door of the brown room, to be greeted by a
warning sign from Bayes. The intruder sank obscurely into a large chair
and mixed himself a whisky with extreme care not to disturb the speaker.

"I was sitting in the smoking-room," continued Varden, "waiting for
Loder to come in. I had the house to myself, for Loder had given the
servants leave to go to some show or lecture or other, and he himself
was getting his things together for his European trip and had had to
keep an appointment with his man of business. I must have been very
nearly asleep, because it was dusk when I came to with a start and saw a
young man quite close to me.

"He wasn't at all like a housebreaker, and still less like a ghost. He
was, I might almost say, exceptionally ordinary-looking. He was dressed
in a grey English suit, with a fawn overcoat on his arm, and his soft
hat and stick in his hand. He had sleek, pale hair, and one of those
rather stupid faces, with a long nose and a monocle. I stared at him,
for I knew the front door was locked, but before I could get my wits
together he spoke. He had a curious, hesitating, husky voice and a
strong English accent. He said, surprisingly:

"'Are you Mr. Varden?'

"'You have the advantage of me,' I said.

"He said, 'Please excuse my butting in; I know it looks like bad
manners, but you'd better clear out of this place very quickly, don't
you know.'

"'What the hell do you mean?' I said.

"He said, 'I don't mean it in any impertinent way, but you must realise
that Loder's never forgiven you, and I'm afraid he means to make you
into a hatstand or an electric-light fitting, or something of that
sort.'

"My God! I can tell you I felt queer. It was such a quiet voice, and his
manners were perfect, and yet the words were quite meaningless! I
remembered that madmen are supposed to be extra strong, and edged
towards the bell--and then it came over me with rather a chill that I
was alone in the house.

"'How did you get here?' I asked, putting a bold face on it.

"'I'm afraid I picked the lock,' he said, as casually as though he were
apologising for not having a card about him. 'I couldn't be sure Loder
hadn't come back. But I do really think you had better get out as
quickly as possible.'

"'See here,' I said, 'who are you and what the hell are you driving at?
What do you mean about Loder never forgiving me? Forgiving me what?'

"'Why,' he said, 'about--you _will_ pardon me prancing in on your
private affairs, won't you--about Maria Morano.'

"'_What_ about her, in the devil's name?' I cried. 'What do you know
about her, anyway? She went off while I was at the war. What's it to do
with me?'

"'Oh!' said the very odd young man, 'I beg your pardon. Perhaps I have
been relying too much on Loder's judgment. Damned foolish; but the
possibility of his being mistaken did not occur to me. He fancies you
were Maria Morano's lover when you were here last time.'

"'Maria's lover?' I said. 'Preposterous! She went off with her man,
whoever he was. He must know she didn't go with me.'

"'Maria never left the house,' said the young man, 'and if you don't get
out of it this moment, I won't answer for _your_ ever leaving, either.'

"'In God's name,' I cried, exasperated, 'what do you mean?'

"The man turned and threw the blue cushions off the foot of the silver
couch.

"'Have you ever examined the toes of this?' he asked.

"'Not particularly,' I said, more and more astonished. 'Why should I?'

"'Did you ever know Loder make any figure of her but this with that
short toe on the left foot?' he went on.

"Well, I did take a look at it then, and saw it was as he said--the left
foot had a short second toe.

"'So it is,' I said, 'but, after all, why not?'

"'Why not, indeed?' said the young man. 'Wouldn't you like to see why,
of all the figures Loder made of Maria Morano, this is the only one that
has the feet of the living woman?'

"He picked up the poker.

"'Look!' he said.

"With a lot more strength than I should have expected from him, he
brought the head of the poker down with a heavy crack on the silver
couch. It struck one of the arms of the figure neatly at the
elbow-joint, smashing a jagged hole in the silver. He wrenched at the
arm and brought it away. It was hollow, and, as I am alive, I tell you
there was a long, dry arm-bone inside it!"

Varden paused, and put away a good mouthful of whisky.

"Well?" cried several breathless voices.

"Well," said Varden, "I'm not ashamed to say I went out of that house
like an old buck-rabbit that hears the man with the gun. There was a car
standing just outside, and the driver opened the door. I tumbled in, and
then it came over me that the whole thing might be a trap, and I tumbled
out again and ran till I reached the trolley-cars. But I found my bags
at the station next day, duly registered for Vancouver.

"When I pulled myself together I did rather wonder what Loder was
thinking about my disappearance, but I could no more have gone back into
that horrible house than I could have taken poison. I left for Vancouver
next morning, and from that day to this I never saw either of those men
again. I've still not the faintest idea who the fair man was, or what
became of him, but I heard in a roundabout way that Loder was dead--in
some kind of an accident, I fancy."

There was a pause. Then:

"It's a damned good story, Mr. Varden," said Armstrong--he was a dabbler
in various kinds of handiwork, and was, indeed, chiefly responsible for
Mr. Arbuthnot's motion to ban wireless--"but are you suggesting there
was a complete skeleton inside that silver casting? Do you mean Loder
put it into the core of the mould when the casting was done? It would be
awfully difficult and dangerous--the slightest accident would have put
him at the mercy of his workmen. And that statue must have been
considerably over life-size to allow of the skeleton being well
covered."

"Mr. Varden has unintentionally misled you, Armstrong," said a quiet,
husky voice suddenly from the shadow behind Varden's chair. "The figure
was not silver, but electro-plated on a copper base deposited direct on
the body. The lady was Sheffield-plated, in fact. I fancy the soft parts
of her must have been digested away with pepsin, or some preparation of
the kind, after the process was complete, but I can't be positive about
that."

"Hullo, Wimsey," said Armstrong, "was that you came in just now? And why
this confident pronouncement?"

The effect of Wimsey's voice on Varden had been extraordinary. He had
leapt to his feet, and turned the lamp so as to light up Wimsey's face.

"Good evening, Mr. Varden," said Lord Peter. "I'm delighted to meet you
again and to apologise for my unceremonious behaviour on the occasion of
our last encounter."

Varden took the proffered hand, but was speechless.

"D'you mean to say, you mad mystery-monger, that _you_ were Varden's
Great Unknown?" demanded Bayes. "Ah, well," he added rudely, "we might
have guessed it from his vivid description."

"Well, since you're here," said Smith-Hartington, the _Morning Yell_
man, "I think you ought to come across with the rest of the story."

"Was it just a joke?" asked Judson.

"Of course not," interrupted Pettifer, before Lord Peter had time to
reply. "Why should it be? Wimsey's seen enough queer things not to have
to waste his time inventing them."

"That's true enough," said Bayes. "Comes of having deductive powers and
all that sort of thing, and always sticking one's nose into things that
are better not investigated."

"That's all very well, Bayes," said his lordship, "but if I hadn't just
mentioned the matter to Mr. Varden that evening, where would he be?"

"Ah, where? That's exactly what we want to know," demanded
Smith-Hartington. "Come on, Wimsey, no shirking; we must have the tale."

"And the whole tale," added Pettifer.

"And nothing but the tale," said Armstrong, dexterously whisking away
the whisky-bottle and the cigars from under Lord Peter's nose. "Get on
with it, old son. Not a smoke do you smoke and not a sup do you sip till
Burd Ellen is set free."

"Brute!" said his lordship plaintively. "As a matter of fact," he went
on, with a change of tone, "it's not really a story I want to get about.
It might land me in a very unpleasant sort of position--manslaughter
probably, and murder possibly."

"Gosh!" said Bayes.

"That's all right," said Armstrong, "nobody's going to talk. We can't
afford to lose you from the club, you know. Smith-Hartington will have
to control his passion for copy, that's all."

Pledges of discretion having been given all round, Lord Peter settled
himself back and began his tale.

       *       *       *       *       *

"The curious case of Eric P. Loder affords one more instance of the
strange manner in which some power beyond our puny human wills arranges
the affairs of men. Call it Providence--call it Destiny----"

"We'll call it off," said Bayes; "you can leave out that part."

Lord Peter groaned and began again.

"Well, the first thing that made me feel a bit inquisitive about Loder
was a casual remark by a man at the Emigration Office in New York,
where I happened to go about that silly affair of Mrs. Bilt's. He said,
'What on earth is Eric Loder going to do in Australia? I should have
thought Europe was more in his line.'

"'Australia?' I said, 'you're wandering, dear old thing. He told me the
other day he was off to Italy in three weeks' time.'

"'Italy, nothing,' he said, 'he was all over our place to-day, asking
about how you got to Sydney and what were the necessary formalities, and
so on.'

"'Oh,' I said, 'I suppose he's going by the Pacific route, and calling
at Sydney on his way.' But I wondered why he hadn't said so when I'd met
him the day before. He had distinctly talked about sailing for Europe
and doing Paris before he went on to Rome.

"I felt so darned inquisitive that I went and called on Loder two nights
later.

"He seemed quite pleased to see me, and was full of his forthcoming
trip. I asked him again about his route, and he told me quite distinctly
he was going via Paris.

"Well, that was that, and it wasn't really any of my business, and we
chatted about other things. He told me that Mr. Varden was coming to
stay with him before he went, and that he hoped to get him to pose for a
figure before he left. He said he'd never seen a man so perfectly
formed. 'I meant to get him to do it before,' he said, 'but war broke
out, and he went and joined the army before I had time to start.'

"He was lolling on that beastly couch of his at the time, and, happening
to look round at him, I caught such a nasty sort of glitter in his eye
that it gave me quite a turn. He was stroking the figure over the neck
and grinning at it.

"'None of your efforts in Sheffield plate, I hope,' said I.

"'Well,' he said, 'I thought of making a kind of companion to this, _The
Sleeping Athlete_, you know, or something of that sort.'

"'You'd much better cast it,' I said. 'Why did you put the stuff on so
thick? It destroys the fine detail.'

"That annoyed him. He never liked to hear any objection made to that
work of art.

"'This was experimental,' he said. 'I mean the next to be a real
masterpiece. You'll see.'

"We'd got to about that point when the butler came in to ask should he
make up a bed for me, as it was such a bad night. We hadn't noticed the
weather particularly, though it had looked a bit threatening when I
started from New York. However, we now looked out, and saw that it was
coming down in sheets and torrents. It wouldn't have mattered, only that
I'd only brought a little open racing car and no overcoat, and certainly
the prospect of five miles in that downpour wasn't altogether
attractive. Loder urged me to stay, and I said I would.

"I was feeling a bit fagged, so I went to bed right off. Loder said he
wanted to do a bit of work in the studio first and I saw him depart
along the corridor.

"You won't allow me to mention Providence, so I'll only say it was a
very remarkable thing that I should have woken up at two in the morning
to find myself lying in a pool of water. The man had stuck a hot-water
bottle into the bed, because it hadn't been used just lately, and the
beastly thing had gone and unstoppered itself. I lay awake for ten
minutes in the deeps of damp misery before I had sufficient strength of
mind to investigate. Then I found it was hopeless--sheets, blankets,
mattress, all soaked. I looked at the arm-chair, and then I had a
brilliant idea. I remembered there was a lovely great divan in the
studio, with a big skin rug and a pile of cushions. Why not finish the
night there? I took the little electric torch which always goes about
with me, and started off.

"The studio was empty, so I supposed Loder had finished and trotted off
to roost. The divan was there, all right, with a screen drawn partly
across it, so I rolled myself up under the rug and prepared to snooze
off.

"I was just getting beautifully sleepy again when I heard footsteps, not
in the passage, but apparently on the other side of the room. I was
surprised, because I didn't know there was any way out in that
direction. I lay low, and presently I saw a streak of light appear from
the cupboard where Loder kept his tools and things. The streak widened,
and Loder emerged, carrying an electric torch. He closed the cupboard
door very gently after him, and padded across the studio. He stopped
before the easel and uncovered it; I could see him through a crack in
the screen. He stood for some minutes gazing at a sketch on the easel,
and then gave one of the nastiest gurgly laughs I've ever had the
pleasure of hearing. If I'd ever seriously thought of announcing my
unauthorised presence, I abandoned all idea of it then. Presently he
covered the easel again, and went out by the door at which I had come
in.

"I waited till I was sure he had gone, and then got up--uncommonly
quietly, I may say. I tiptoed over to the easel to see what the
fascinating work of art was. I saw at once it was the design for the
figure of _The Sleeping Athlete_, and as I looked at it I felt a sort of
horrid conviction stealing over me. It was an idea which seemed to begin
in my stomach, and work its way up to the roots of my hair.

"My family say I'm too inquisitive. I can only say that wild horses
wouldn't have kept me from investigating that cupboard. With the feeling
that something absolutely vile might hop out at me--I was a bit wrought
up, and it was a rotten time of night--I put a heroic hand on the door
knob.

"To my astonishment, the thing wasn't even locked. It opened at once, to
show a range of perfectly innocent and orderly shelves, which couldn't
possibly have held Loder.

"My blood was up, you know, by this time, so I hunted round for the
spring-lock which I knew must exist, and found it without much
difficulty. The back of the cupboard swung noiselessly inwards, and I
found myself at the top of a narrow flight of stairs.

"I had the sense to stop and see that the door could be opened from the
inside before I went any farther, and I also selected a good stout
pestle which I found on the shelves as a weapon in case of accident.
Then I closed the door and tripped with elf-like lightness down that
jolly old staircase.

"There was another door at the bottom, but it didn't take me long to
fathom the secret of that. Feeling frightfully excited, I threw it
boldly open, with the pestle ready for action.

"However, the room seemed to be empty. My torch caught the gleam of
something liquid, and then I found the wall-switch.

"I saw a biggish square room, fitted up as a workshop. On the right-hand
wall was a big switchboard, with a bench beneath it. From the middle of
the ceiling hung a great flood-light, illuminating a glass vat, fully
seven feet long by about three wide. I turned on the flood-light, and
looked down into the vat. It was filled with a dark brown liquid which I
recognised as the usual compound of cyanide and copper-sulphate which
they use for copper-plating.

"The rods hung over it with their hooks all empty, but there was a
packing-case half-opened at one side of the room, and, pulling the
covering aside, I could see rows of copper anodes--enough of them to put
a plating over a quarter of an inch thick on a life-size figure. There
was a smaller case, still nailed up, which from its weight and
appearance I guessed to contain the silver for the rest of the process.
There was something else I was looking for, and I soon found it--a
considerable quantity of prepared graphite and a big jar of varnish.

"Of course, there was no evidence, really, of anything being on the
cross. There was no reason why Loder shouldn't make a plaster cast and
Sheffield-plate it if he had a fancy for that kind of thing. But then I
found something that _couldn't_ have come there legitimately.

"On the bench was an oval slab of copper about an inch and a half
long--Loder's night's work, I guessed. It was an electrotype of the
American Consular seal, the thing they stamp on your passport photograph
to keep you from hiking it off and substituting the picture of your
friend Mr. Jiggs, who would like to get out of the country because he is
so popular with Scotland Yard.

"I sat down on Loder's stool, and worked out that pretty little plot in
all its details. I could see it all turned on three things. First of
all, I must find out if Varden was proposing to make tracks shortly for
Australia, because, if he wasn't, it threw all my beautiful theories
out. And, secondly, it would help matters greatly if he happened to have
dark hair like Loder's, as he has, you see--near enough, anyway, to fit
the description on a passport. I'd only seen him in that Apollo
Belvedere thing, with a fair wig on. But I knew if I hung about I should
see him presently when he came to stay with Loder. And, thirdly, of
course, I had to discover if Loder was likely to have any grounds for a
grudge against Varden.

"Well, I figured out I'd stayed down in that room about as long as was
healthy. Loder might come back at any moment, and I didn't forget that a
vatful of copper sulphate and cyanide of potassium would be a highly
handy means of getting rid of a too-inquisitive guest. And I can't say I
had any great fancy for figuring as part of Loder's domestic furniture.
I've always hated things made in the shape of things--volumes of Dickens
that turn out to be a biscuit-tin, and dodges like that; and, though I
take no overwhelming interest in my own funeral, I should like it to be
in good taste. I went so far as to wipe away any finger-marks I might
have left behind me, and then I went back to the studio and rearranged
that divan. I didn't feel Loder would care to think I'd been down there.

"There was just one other thing I felt inquisitive about. I tiptoed back
through the hall and into the smoking-room. The silver couch glimmered
in the light of the torch. I felt I disliked it fifty times more than
ever before. However, I pulled myself together and took a careful look
at the feet of the figure. I'd heard all about that second toe of Maria
Morano's.

"I passed the rest of the night in the arm-chair after all.

"What with Mrs. Bilt's job and one thing and another, and the enquiries
I had to make, I had to put off my interference in Loder's little game
till rather late. I found out that Varden had been staying with Loder a
few months before the beautiful Maria Morano had vanished. I'm afraid I
was rather stupid about that, Mr. Varden. I thought perhaps there _had_
been something."

"Don't apologise," said Varden, with a little laugh. "Cinema actors are
notoriously immoral."

"Why rub it in?" said Wimsey, a trifle hurt. "I apologise. Anyway, it
came to the same thing as far as Loder was concerned. Then there was one
bit of evidence I had to get to be absolutely certain.
Electro-plating--especially such a ticklish job as the one I had in
mind--wasn't a job that could be finished in a night; on the other hand,
it seemed necessary that Mr. Varden should be seen alive in New York up
to the day he was scheduled to depart. It was also clear that Loder
meant to be able to prove that a Mr. Varden had left New York all right,
according to plan, and had actually arrived in Sydney. Accordingly, a
false Mr. Varden was to depart with Varden's papers and Varden's
passport, furnished with a new photograph duly stamped with the Consular
stamp, and to disappear quietly at Sydney and be retransformed into Mr.
Eric Loder, travelling with a perfectly regular passport of his own.
Well, then, in that case, obviously a cablegram would have to be sent
off to Mystofilms Ltd., warning them to expect Varden by a later boat
than he had arranged. I handed over this part of the job to my man,
Bunter, who is uncommonly capable. The devoted fellow shadowed Loder
faithfully for getting on for three weeks, and at length, the very day
before Mr. Varden was due to depart, the cablegram was sent from an
office in Broadway, where, by a happy providence (once more) they supply
extremely hard pencils."

"By Jove!" cried Varden, "I remember now being told something about a
cablegram when I got out, but I never connected it with Loder. I thought
it was just some stupidity of the Western Electric people."

"Quite so. Well, as soon as I'd got that, I popped along to Loder's with
a picklock in one pocket and an automatic in the other. The good Bunter
went with me, and, if I didn't return by a certain time, had orders to
telephone for the police. So you see everything was pretty well covered.
Bunter was the chauffeur who was waiting for you, Mr. Varden, but you
turned suspicious--I don't blame you altogether--so all we could do was
to forward your luggage along to the train.

"On the way out we met the Loder servants _en route_ for New York in a
car, which showed us that we were on the right track, and also that I
was going to have a fairly simple job of it.

"You've heard all about my interview with Mr. Varden. I really don't
think I could improve upon his account. When I'd seen him and his traps
safely off the premises, I made for the studio. It was empty, so I
opened the secret door, and, as I expected, saw a line of light under
the work-shop door at the far end of the passage."

"So Loder was there all the time?"

"Of course he was. I took my little pop-gun tight in my fist and opened
the door very gently. Loder was standing between the tank and the
switchboard, very busy indeed--so busy he didn't hear me come in. His
hands were black with graphite, a big heap of which was spread on a
sheet on the floor, and he was engaged with a long, springy coil of
copper wire, running to the output of the transformer. The big
packing-case had been opened, and all the hooks were occupied.

"'Loder!' I said.

"He turned on me with a face like nothing human. 'Wimsey!' he shouted,
'what the hell are you doing here?'

"'I have come,' I said, 'to tell you that I know how the apple gets into
the dumpling.' And I showed him the automatic.

"He gave a great yell and dashed at the switchboard, turning out the
light, so that I could not see to aim. I heard him leap at me--and then
there came in the darkness a crash and a splash--and a shriek such as I
never heard--not in five years of war--and never want to hear again.

"I groped forward for the switchboard. Of course, I turned on
everything before I could lay my hand on the light, but I got it at
last--a great white glare from the floodlight over the vat.

"He lay there, still twitching faintly. Cyanide, you see, is about the
swiftest and painfullest thing out. Before I could move to do anything,
I knew he was dead--poisoned and drowned and dead. The coil of wire that
had tripped him had gone into the vat with him. Without thinking, I
touched it, and got a shock that pretty well staggered me. Then I
realised that I must have turned on the current when I was hunting for
the light. I looked into the vat again. As he fell, his dying hands had
clutched at the wire. The coils were tight round his fingers, and the
current was methodically depositing a film of copper all over his hands,
which were blackened with the graphite.

"I had just sense enough to realise that Loder was dead, and that it
might be a nasty sort of look-out for me if the thing came out, for I'd
certainly gone along to threaten him with a pistol.

"I searched about till I found some solder and an iron. Then I went
upstairs and called in Bunter, who had done his ten miles in record
time. We went into the smoking-room and soldered the arm of that cursed
figure into place again, as well as we could, and then we took
everything back into the workshop. We cleaned off every finger-print and
removed every trace of our presence. We left the light and the
switchboard as they were, and returned to New York by an extremely
round-about route. The only thing we brought away with us was the
facsimile of the Consular seal, and that we threw into the river.

"Loder was found by the butler next morning. We read in the papers how
he had fallen into the vat when engaged on some experiments in
electro-plating. The ghastly fact was commented upon that the dead man's
hands were thickly coppered over. They couldn't get it off without
irreverent violence, so he was buried like that.

"That's all. Please, Armstrong, may I have my whisky-and-soda now?"

"What happened to the couch?" enquired Smith-Hartington presently.

"I bought it in at the sale of Loder's things," said Wimsey, "and got
hold of a dear old Catholic priest I knew, to whom I told the whole
story under strict vow of secrecy. He was a very sensible and feeling
old bird; so one moonlight night Bunter and I carried the thing out in
the car to his own little church, some miles out of the city, and gave
it Christian burial in a corner of the graveyard. It seemed the best
thing to do."




THE ENTERTAINING EPISODE OF THE ARTICLE IN QUESTION


The unprofessional detective career of Lord Peter Wimsey was regulated
(though the word has no particular propriety in this connection) by a
persistent and undignified inquisitiveness. The habit of asking silly
questions--natural, though irritating, in the immature male--remained
with him long after his immaculate man, Bunter, had become attached to
his service to shave the bristles from his chin and see to the due
purchase and housing of Napoleon brandies and Villar y Villar cigars. At
the age of thirty-two his sister Mary christened him Elephant's Child.
It was his idiotic enquiries (before his brother, the Duke of Denver,
who grew scarlet with mortification) as to what the Woolsack was really
stuffed with that led the then Lord Chancellor idly to investigate the
article in question, and to discover, tucked deep within its recesses,
that famous diamond necklace of the Marchioness of Writtle, which had
disappeared on the day Parliament was opened and been safely secreted by
one of the cleaners. It was by a continual and personal badgering of the
Chief Engineer at 2LO on the question of "Why is Oscillation and How is
it Done?" that his lordship incidentally unmasked the great Ploffsky
gang of Anarchist conspirators, who were accustomed to converse in code
by a methodical system of howls, superimposed (to the great annoyance of
listeners in British and European stations) upon the London wave-length
and duly relayed by 5XX over a radius of some five or six hundred miles.
He annoyed persons of more leisure than decorum by suddenly taking into
his head to descend to the Underground by way of the stairs, though the
only exciting things he ever actually found there were the bloodstained
boots of the Sloane Square murderer; on the other hand, when the drains
were taken up at Glegg's Folly, it was by hanging about and hindering
the plumbers at their job that he accidentally made the discovery which
hanged that detestable poisoner, William Girdlestone Chitty.

Accordingly, it was with no surprise at all that the reliable Bunter,
one April morning, received the announcement of an abrupt change of
plan.

They had arrived at the Gare St. Lazare in good time to register the
luggage. Their three months' trip to Italy had been purely for
enjoyment, and had been followed by a pleasant fortnight in Paris. They
were now intending to pay a short visit to the Duc de Sainte-Croix in
Rouen on their way back to England. Lord Peter paced the Salle des Pas
Perdus for some time, buying an illustrated paper or two and eyeing the
crowd. He bent an appreciative eye on a slim, shingled creature with
the face of a Paris _gamin_, but was forced to admit to himself that her
ankles were a trifle on the thick side; he assisted an elderly lady who
was explaining to the bookstall clerk that she wanted a map of Paris and
not a _carte postale_, consumed a quick cognac at one of the little
green tables at the far end, and then decided he had better go down and
see how Bunter was getting on.

In half an hour Bunter and his porter had worked themselves up to the
second place in the enormous queue--for, as usual, one of the
weighing-machines was out of order. In front of them stood an agitated
little group--the young woman Lord Peter had noticed in the Salle des
Pas Perdus, a sallow-faced man of about thirty, their porter, and the
registration official, who was peering eagerly through his little
_guichet_.

"Mais je te répète que je ne les ai pas," said the sallow man heatedly.
"Voyons, voyons. C'est bien toi qui les as pris, n'est-ce-pas? Eh bien,
alors, comment veux-tu que je les aie, moi?"

"Mais non, mais non, je te les ai bien donnés là-haut, avant d'aller
chercher les journaux."

"Je t'assure que non. Enfin, c'est évident! J'ai cherché partout, que
diable! Tu ne m'as rien donné, du tout, du tout."

"Mais puisque je t'ai dit d'aller faire enrégistrer les bagages! Ne
faut-il pas que je t'aie bien remis les billets? Me prends-tu pour un
imbécile? Va! On n'est pas dépourvu de sens! Mais regarde l'heure! Le
train part à 11 h. 20 m. Cherche un peu, au moins."

"Mais puisque j'ai cherché partout--le gilet, rien! Le jacquet rien,
rien! Le pardessus--rien! rien! rien! C'est toi----"

Here the porter, urged by the frantic cries and stamping of the queue,
and the repeated insults of Lord Peter's porter, flung himself into the
discussion.

"P't-être qu' m'sieur a bouté les billets dans son pantalon," he
suggested.

"Triple idiot!" snapped the traveller, "je vous le demande--est-ce qu'on
a jamais entendu parler de mettre des billets dans son pantalon?
Jamais----"

The French porter is a Republican, and, moreover, extremely ill-paid.
The large tolerance of his English colleague is not for him.

"Ah!" said he, dropping two heavy bags and looking round for moral
support. "Vous dîtes? En voilà du joli! Allons, mon p'tit, ce n'est pas
parce qu'on porte un fauxcol qu'on a le droit d'insulter les gens."

The discussion might have become a full-blown row, had not the young man
suddenly discovered the missing tickets--incidentally, they were in his
trousers-pocket after all--and continued the registration of his
luggage, to the undisguised satisfaction of the crowd.

"Bunter," said his lordship, who had turned his back on the group and
was lighting a cigarette, "I am going to change the tickets. We shall go
straight on to London. Have you got that snapshot affair of yours with
you?"

"Yes, my lord."

"The one you can work from your pocket without anyone noticing?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Get me a picture of those two."

"Yes, my lord."

"I will see to the luggage. Wire to the Duc that I am unexpectedly
called home."

"Very good, my lord."

Lord Peter did not allude to the matter again till Bunter was putting
his trousers in the press in their cabin on board the _Normannia_.
Beyond ascertaining that the young man and woman who had aroused his
curiosity were on the boat as second-class passengers, he had sedulously
avoided contact with them.

"Did you get that photograph?"

"I hope so, my lord. As your lordship knows, the aim from the
breast-pocket tends to be unreliable. I have made three attempts, and
trust that one at least may prove to be not unsuccessful."

"How soon can you develop them?"

"At once, if your lordship pleases. I have all the materials in my suit
case."

"What fun!" said Lord Peter, eagerly tying himself into a pair of mauve
silk pyjamas. "May I hold the bottles and things?"

Mr. Bunter poured 3 ounces of water into an 8-ounce measure, and handed
his master a glass rod and a minute packet.

"If your lordship would be so good as to stir the contents of the white
packet slowly into the water," he said, bolting the door, "and, when
dissolved, add the contents of the blue packet."

"Just like a Seidlitz powder," said his lordship happily. "Does it
fizz?"

"Not much, my lord," replied the expert, shaking a quantity of hypo
crystals into the hand-basin.

"That's a pity," said Lord Peter. "I say, Bunter, it's no end of a bore
to dissolve."

"Yes, my lord," returned Bunter sedately. "I have always found that part
of the process exceptionally tedious, my lord."

Lord Peter jabbed viciously with the glass rod.

"Just you wait," he said, in a vindictive tone, "till we get to
Waterloo."

       *       *       *       *       *

Three days later Lord Peter Wimsey sat in his book-lined sitting-room at
110A Piccadilly. The tall bunches of daffodils on the table smiled in
the spring sunshine, and nodded to the breeze which danced in from the
open window. The door opened, and his lordship glanced up from a
handsome edition of the Contes de la Fontaine, whose handsome
hand-coloured Fragonard plates he was examining with the aid of a lens.

"Morning, Bunter. Anything doing?"

"I have ascertained, my lord, that the young person in question has
entered the service of the elder Duchess of Medway. Her name is
Célestine Berger."

"You are less accurate than usual, Bunter. Nobody off the stage is
called Célestine. You should say 'under the name of Célestine Berger.'
And the man?"

"He is domiciled at this address in Guilford Street, Bloomsbury, my
lord."

"Excellent, my Bunter. Now give me _Who's Who_. Was it a very tiresome
job?"

"Not exceptionally so, my lord."

"One of these days I suppose I shall give you something to do which you
_will_ jib at," said his lordship, "and you will leave me and I shall
cut my throat. Thanks. Run away and play. I shall lunch at the club."

The book which Bunter had handed his employer indeed bore the words
_Who's Who_ engrossed upon its cover, but it was to be found in no
public library and in no bookseller's shop. It was a bulky manuscript,
closely filled, in part with the small print-like handwriting of Mr.
Bunter, in part with Lord Peter's neat and altogether illegible hand. It
contained biographies of the most unexpected people, and the most
unexpected facts about the most obvious people. Lord Peter turned to a
very long entry under the name of the Dowager Duchess of Medway. It
appeared to make satisfactory reading, for after a time he smiled,
closed the book, and went to the telephone.

"Yes--this is the Duchess of Medway. Who is it?"

The deep, harsh old voice pleased Lord Peter. He could see the imperious
face and upright figure of what had been the most famous beauty in the
London of the 'sixties.

"It's Peter Wimsey, duchess."

"Indeed, and how do you do, young man? Back from your Continental
jaunting?"

"Just home--and longing to lay my devotion at the feet of the most
fascinating lady in England."

"God bless my soul, child, what do you want?" demanded the duchess.
"Boys like you don't flatter an old woman for nothing."

"I want to tell you my sins, duchess."

"You should have lived in the great days," said the voice
appreciatively. "Your talents are wasted on the young fry."

"That is why I want to talk to you, duchess."

"Well, my dear, if you've committed any sins worth hearing I shall enjoy
your visit."

"You are as exquisite in kindness as in charm. I am coming this
afternoon."

"I will be at home to you and to no one else. There."

"Dear lady, I kiss your hands," said Lord Peter, and he heard a deep
chuckle as the duchess rang off.

       *       *       *       *       *

"You may say what you like, duchess," said Lord Peter from his
reverential position on the fender-stool, "but you are the youngest
grandmother in London, not excepting my own mother."

"Dear Honoria is the merest child," said the duchess. "I have twenty
years more experience of life, and have arrived at the age when we boast
of them. I have every intention of being a great-grandmother before I
die. Sylvia is being married in a fortnight's time, to that stupid son
of Attenbury's."

"Abcock?"

"Yes. He keeps the worst hunters I ever saw, and doesn't know still
champagne from sauterne. But Sylvia is stupid, too, poor child, so I
dare say they will get on charmingly. In my day one had to have either
brains or beauty to get on--preferably both. Nowadays nothing seems to
be required but a total lack of figure. But all the sense went out of
society with the House of Lords' veto. I except you, Peter. You have
talents. It is a pity you do not employ them in politics."

"Dear lady, God forbid."

"Perhaps you are right, as things are. There were giants in my day. Dear
Dizzy. I remember so well, when his wife died, how hard we all tried to
get him--Medway had died the year before--but he was wrapped up in that
stupid Bradford woman, who had never even read a line of one of his
books, and couldn't have understood 'em if she had. And now we have
Abcock standing for Midhurst, and married to Sylvia!"

"You haven't invited me to the wedding, duchess dear. I'm so hurt,"
sighed his lordship.

"Bless you, child, _I_ didn't send out the invitations, but I suppose
your brother and that tiresome wife of his will be there. You must come,
of course, if you want to. I had no idea you had a passion for
weddings."

"Hadn't you?" said Peter. "I have a passion for this one. I want to see
Lady Sylvia wearing white satin and the family lace and diamonds, and to
sentimentalise over the days when my fox-terrier bit the stuffing out of
her doll."

"Very well, my dear, you shall. Come early and give me your support. As
for the diamonds, if it weren't a family tradition, Sylvia shouldn't
wear them. She has the impudence to complain of them."

"I thought they were some of the finest in existence."

"So they are. But she says the settings are ugly and old-fashioned, and
she doesn't like diamonds, and they won't go with her dress. Such
nonsense. Whoever heard of a girl not liking diamonds? She wants to be
something romantic and moonshiny in pearls. I have no patience with
her."

"I'll promise to admire them," said Peter--"use the privilege of early
acquaintance and tell her she's an ass and so on. I'd love to have a
view of them. When do they come out of cold storage?"

"Mr. Whitehead will bring them up from the Bank the night before," said
the duchess, "and they'll go into the safe in my room. Come round at
twelve o'clock and you shall have a private view of them."

"That would be delightful. Mind they don't disappear in the night, won't
you?"

"Oh, my dear, the house is going to be over-run with policemen. Such a
nuisance. I suppose it can't be helped."

"Oh, I think it's a good thing," said Peter. "I have rather an
unwholesome weakness for policemen."

       *       *       *       *       *

On the morning of the wedding-day, Lord Peter emerged from Bunter's
hands a marvel of sleek brilliance. His primrose-coloured hair was so
exquisite a work of art that to eclipse it with his glossy hat was like
shutting up the sun in a shrine of polished jet; his spats, light
trousers, and exquisitely polished shoes formed a tone-symphony in
monochrome. It was only by the most impassioned pleading that he
persuaded his tyrant to allow him to place two small photographs and a
thin, foreign letter in his breast-pocket. Mr. Bunter, likewise
immaculately attired, stepped into the taxi after him. At noon precisely
they were deposited beneath the striped awning which adorned the door of
the Duchess of Medway's house in Park Lane. Bunter promptly disappeared
in the direction of the back entrance, while his lordship mounted the
steps and asked to see the dowager.

The majority of the guests had not yet arrived, but the house was full
of agitated people, flitting hither and thither, with flowers and
prayer-books, while a clatter of dishes and cutlery from the dining-room
proclaimed the laying of a sumptuous breakfast. Lord Peter was shown
into the morning-room while the footman went to announce him, and here
he found a very close friend and devoted colleague, Detective-Inspector
Parker, mounting guard in plain clothes over a costly collection of
white elephants. Lord Peter greeted him with an affectionate hand-grip.

"All serene so far?" he enquired.

"Perfectly O.K."

"You got my note?"

"Sure thing. I've got three of our men shadowing your friend in Guilford
Street. The girl is very much in evidence here. Does the old lady's wig
and that sort of thing. Bit of a coming-on disposition, isn't she?"

"You surprise me," said Lord Peter. "No"--as his friend grinned
sardonically--"you really do. Not seriously? That would throw all my
calculations out."

"Oh, no! Saucy with her eyes and her tongue, that's all."

"Do her job well?"

"I've heard no complaints. What put you on to this?"

"Pure accident. Of course I may be quite mistaken."

"Did you receive any information from Paris?"

"I wish you wouldn't use that phrase," said Lord Peter peevishly. "It's
so of the Yard--yardy. One of these days it'll give you away."

"Sorry," said Parker. "Second nature, I suppose."

"Those are the things to beware of," returned his lordship, with an
earnestness that seemed a little out of place. "One can keep guard on
everything but just those second-nature tricks." He moved across to the
window, which overlooked the tradesmen's entrance. "Hullo!" he said,
"here's our bird."

Parker joined him, and saw the neat, shingled head of the French girl
from the Gare St. Lazare, topped by a neat black bandeau and bow. A man
with a basket full of white narcissi had rung the bell, and appeared to
be trying to make a sale. Parker gently opened the window, and they
heard Célestine say with a marked French accent, "No, nossing to-day,
sank you." The man insisted in the monotonous whine of his type,
thrusting a big bunch of the white flowers upon her, but she pushed them
back into the basket with an angry exclamation and flirted away, tossing
her head and slapping the door smartly to. The man moved off muttering.
As he did so a thin, unhealthy-looking lounger in a check cap detached
himself from a lamp-post opposite and mouched along the street after
him, at the same time casting a glance up at the window. Mr. Parker
looked at Lord Peter, nodded, and made a slight sign with his hand. At
once the man in the check cap removed his cigarette from his mouth,
extinguished it, and, tucking the stub behind his ear, moved off without
a second glance.

"Very interesting," said Lord Peter, when both were out of sight.
"Hark!"

There was a sound of running feet overhead--a cry--and a general
commotion. The two men dashed to the door as the bride, rushing
frantically downstairs with her bevy of bridesmaids after her,
proclaimed in a hysterical shriek: "The diamonds! They're stolen!
They're gone!"

Instantly the house was in an uproar. The servants and the caterer's
men crowded into the hall; the bride's father burst out from his room in
a magnificent white waistcoat and no coat; the Duchess of Medway
descended upon Mr. Parker, demanding that something should be done;
while the butler, who never to the day of his death got over the
disgrace, ran out of the pantry with a corkscrew in one hand and a
priceless bottle of crusted port in the other, which he shook with all
the vehemence of a town-crier ringing a bell. The only dignified entry
was made by the dowager duchess, who came down like a ship in sail,
dragging Célestine with her, and admonishing her not to be so silly.

"Be quiet, girl," said the dowager. "Anyone would think you were going
to be murdered."

"Allow me, your grace," said Mr. Bunter, appearing suddenly from nowhere
in his usual unperturbed manner, and taking the agitated Célestine
firmly by the arm. "Young woman, calm yourself."

"But what is to be _done_?" cried the bride's mother. "How did it
happen?"

It was at this moment that Detective-Inspector Parker took the floor. It
was the most impressive and dramatic moment in his whole career. His
magnificent calm rebuked the clamorous nobility surrounding him.

"Your grace," he said, "there is no cause for alarm. Our measures have
been taken. We have the criminals and the gems, thanks to Lord Peter
Wimsey, from whom we received inf----"

"Charles!" said Lord Peter in an awful voice.

"Warning of the attempt. One of our men is just bringing in the male
criminal at the front door, taken red-handed with your grace's diamonds
in his possession." (All gazed round, and perceived indeed the
check-capped lounger and a uniformed constable entering with the
flower-seller between them.) "The female criminal, who picked the lock
of your grace's safe, is--here! No, you don't," he added, as Célestine,
amid a torrent of apache language which nobody, fortunately, had French
enough to understand, attempted to whip out a revolver from the bosom of
her demure black dress. "Célestine Berger," he continued, pocketing the
weapon, "I arrest you in the name of the law, and I warn you that
anything you say will be taken down and used as evidence against you."

"Heaven help us," said Lord Peter; "the roof would fly off the court.
And you've got the name wrong, Charles. Ladies and gentlemen, allow me
to introduce to you Jacques Lerouge, known as Sans-culotte--the youngest
and cleverest thief, safe-breaker, and female impersonator that ever
occupied a dossier in the Palais de Justice."

There was a gasp. Jacques Sans-culotte gave vent to a low oath and
cocked a _gamin_ grimace at Peter.

"C'est parfait," said he; "toutes mes félicitations, milord, what you
call a fair cop, hein? And now I know him," he added, grinning at
Bunter, "the so-patient Englishman who stand behind us in the queue at
St. Lazare. But tell me, please, how you know me, that I may correct it,
_next time_."

"I have mentioned to you before, Charles," said Lord Peter, "the
unwisdom of falling into habits of speech. They give you away. Now, in
France, every male child is brought up to use masculine adjectives about
himself. He says: Que je suis beau! But a little girl has it rammed home
to her that she is female; she must say: Que je suis belle! It must make
it beastly hard to be a female impersonator. When I am at a station and
I hear an excited young woman say to her companion, 'Me prends-tu pour
_un_ imbécile'--the masculine article arouses curiosity. And that's
that!" he concluded briskly. "The rest was merely a matter of getting
Bunter to take a photograph and communicating with our friends of the
Sureté and Scotland Yard."

Jacques Sans-culotte bowed again.

"Once more I congratulate milord. He is the only Englishman I have ever
met who is capable of appreciating our beautiful language. I will pay
great attention in future to the article in question."

With an awful look, the Dowager Duchess of Medway advanced upon Lord
Peter.

"Peter," she said, "do you mean to say you _knew_ about this, and that
for the last three weeks you have allowed me to be dressed and undressed
and put to bed by a _young man_?"

His lordship had the grace to blush.

"Duchess," he said humbly, "on my honour I didn't know absolutely for
certain till this morning. And the police were so anxious to have these
people caught red-handed. What can I do to show my penitence? Shall I
cut the privileged beast in pieces?"

The grim old mouth relaxed a little.

"After all," said the dowager duchess, with the delightful consciousness
that she was going to shock her daughter-in-law, "there are very few
women of my age who could make the same boast. It seems that we die as
we have lived, my dear."

For indeed the Dowager Duchess of Medway had been notable in her day.




THE FASCINATING PROBLEM OF UNCLE MELEAGER'S WILL


"You look a little worried, Bunter," said his lordship kindly to his
manservant. "Is there anything I can do?"

The valet's face brightened as he released his employer's grey trousers
from the press.

"Perhaps your lordship could be so good as to think," he said hopefully,
"of a word in seven letters with S in the middle, meaning two."

"Also," suggested Lord Peter thoughtlessly.

"I beg your lordship's pardon. T-w-o. And seven letters."

"Nonsense!" said Lord Peter. "How about that bath?"

"It should be just about ready, my lord."

Lord Peter Wimsey swung his mauve silk legs lightly over the edge of the
bed and stretched appreciatively. It was a beautiful June that year.
Through the open door he saw the delicate coils of steam wreathing
across a shaft of yellow sunlight. Every step he took into the bathroom
was a conscious act of enjoyment. In a husky light tenor he carolled a
few bars of "_Maman, dites-moi_." Then a thought struck him, and he
turned back.

"Bunter!"

"My lord?"

"No bacon this morning. Quite the wrong smell."

"I was thinking of buttered eggs, my lord."

"Excellent. Like primroses. The Beaconsfield touch," said his lordship
approvingly.

His song died into a rapturous crooning as he settled into the
verbena-scented water. His eyes roamed vaguely over the pale
blue-and-white tiles of the bathroom walls.

Mr. Bunter had retired to the kitchen to put the coffee on the stove
when the bell rang. Surprised, he hastened back to the bedroom. It was
empty. With increased surprise, he realised that it must have been the
bathroom bell. The words "heart-attack" formed swiftly in his mind, to
be displaced by the still more alarming thought, "No soap." He opened
the door almost nervously.

"Did you ring, my lord?" he demanded of Lord Peter's head, alone
visible.

"Yes," said his lordship abruptly; "Ambsace."

"I beg your lordship's pardon?"

"Ambsace. Word of seven letters. Meaning two. With S in the middle. Two
aces. Ambsace."

Bunter's expression became beatified.

"Undoubtedly correct," he said, pulling a small sheet of paper from his
pocket, and entering the word upon it in pencil. "I am extremely obliged
to your lordship. In that case the 'indifferent cook in six letters
ending with _red_' must be Alfred."

Lord Peter waved a dismissive hand.

       *       *       *       *       *

On re-entering his bedroom, Lord Peter was astonished to see his sister
Mary seated in his own particular chair and consuming his buttered
eggs. He greeted her with a friendly acerbity, demanding why she should
look him up at that unearthly hour.

"I'm riding with Freddy Arbuthnot," said her ladyship, "as you might see
by my legs, if you were really as big a Sherlock as you make out."

"Riding," replied her brother; "I had already deduced, though I admit
that Freddy's name was not writ large, to my before-breakfast eye, upon
the knees of your breeches. But why this visit?"

"Well, because you were on the way," said Lady Mary, "and I'm booked up
all day, and I want you to come and dine at the Soviet Club with me
to-night."

"Good God, Mary, why? You know I hate the place. Cooking's beastly, the
men don't shave, and the conversation gets my goat. Besides, last time I
went there, your friend Goyles plugged me in the shoulder. I thought
you'd chucked the Soviet Club."

"It isn't me. It's Hannah Marryat."

"What, the intense young woman with the badly bobbed hair and the
brogues?"

"Well, she's never been able to afford a good hairdresser. That's just
what I want your help about."

"My dear child, I can't cut her hair for her. Bunter might. He can do
most things."

"Silly. No. But she's got--that is, she used to have--an uncle, the very
rich, curmudgeony sort, you know, who never gave anyone a penny. Well,
he's dead, and they can't find his will."

"Perhaps he didn't make one."

"Oh, yes, he did. He wrote and told her so. But the nasty old thing hid
it, and it can't be found."

"Is the will in her favour?"

"Yes."

"Who's the next-of-kin?"

"She and her mother are the only members of the family left."

"Well, then, she's only got to sit tight and she'll get the goods."

"No--because the horrid old man left two wills, and, if she can't find
the latest one, they'll prove the first one. He explained that to her
carefully."

"Oh, I see. H'm. By the way, I thought the young woman was a Socialist."

"Oh, she is. Terrifically so. One really can't help admiring her. She
has done some wonderful work----"

"Yes, I dare say. But in that case I don't see why she need be so keen
on getting uncle's dollars."

Mary began to chuckle.

"Ah! but that's where Uncle Meleager----"

"Uncle _what_?"

"Meleager. That's his name. Meleager Finch."

"Oh!"

"Yes--well, that's where he's been so clever. Unless she finds the new
will, the old will comes into force and hands over every penny of the
money to the funds of the Primrose League."

Lord Peter gave a little yelp of joy.

"Good for Uncle Meleager! But, look here, Polly, I'm a Tory, if
anything. I'm certainly not a Red. Why should I help to snatch the good
gold from the Primrose Leaguers and hand it over to the Third
International? Uncle Meleager's a sport. I take to Uncle Meleager."

"Oh, but Peter, I really don't think she'll do that with it. Not at
present, anyway. They're awfully poor, and her mother ought to have some
frightfully difficult operation or something, and go and live abroad, so
it really is ever so important they should get the money. And perhaps
Hannah wouldn't be quite so Red if she'd ever had a bean of her own.
Besides, you could make it a condition of helping her that she should go
and get properly shingled at Bresil's."

"You are a very cynically-minded person," said his lordship. "However,
it would be fun to have a go at Uncle M. Was he obliging enough to give
any clues for finding the will?"

"He wrote a funny sort of letter, which we can't make head or tail of.
Come to the club to-night and she'll show it to you."

"Right-ho! Seven o'clock do? And we could go on and see a show
afterwards. Do you mind clearing out now? I'm going to get dressed."

       *       *       *       *       *

Amid a deafening babble of voices in a low-pitched cellar, the Soviet
Club meets and dines. Ethics and sociology, the latest vortices of the
Whirligig school of verse, combine with the smoke of countless
cigarettes to produce an inspissated atmosphere, through which flat,
angular mural paintings dimly lower upon the revellers. There is
painfully little room for the elbows, or indeed for any part of one's
body. Lord Peter--his feet curled under his chair to avoid the stray
kicks of the heavy brogues opposite him--was acutely conscious of an
unbecoming attitude and an overheated feeling about the head. He found
it difficult to get any response from Hannah Marryat. Under her heavy,
ill-cut fringe her dark eyes gloomed sombrely at him. At the same time
he received a strong impression of something enormously vital. He had a
sudden fancy that if she were set free from self-defensiveness and the
importance of being earnest, she would exhibit unexpected powers of
enjoyment. He was interested, but oppressed. Mary, to his great relief,
suggested that they should have their coffee upstairs.

They found a quiet corner with comfortable chairs.

"Well, now," said Mary encouragingly.

"Of course you understand," said Miss Marryat mournfully, "that if it
were not for the monstrous injustice of Uncle Meleager's other will, and
mother being so ill, I shouldn't take any steps. But when there is
£250,000, and the prospect of doing real good with it----"

"Naturally," said Lord Peter, "it isn't the money you care about, as the
dear old bromide says, it's the principle of the thing. Right you are!
Now supposin' we have a look at Uncle Meleager's letter."

Miss Marryat rummaged in a very large handbag and passed the paper over.

This was Uncle Meleager's letter, dated from Siena twelve months
previously.

     "My dear Hannah,--When I die--which I propose to do at my own
     convenience and not at that of my family--you will at last discover
     my monetary worth. It is, of course, considerably less than you had
     hoped, and quite fails, I assure you, adequately to represent my
     actual worth in the eyes of the discerning. I made my will
     yesterday, leaving the entire sum, such as it is, to the Primrose
     League--a body quite as fatuous as any other in our preposterous
     state, but which has the advantage of being peculiarly obnoxious to
     yourself. This will will be found in the safe in the library.

     "I am not, however, unmindful of the fact that your mother is my
     sister, and you and she my only surviving relatives. I shall
     accordingly amuse myself by drawing up to-day a second will,
     superseding the other and leaving the money to you.

     "I have always held that woman is a frivolous animal. A woman who
     pretends to be serious is wasting her time and spoiling her
     appearance. I consider that you have wasted your time to a really
     shocking extent. Accordingly, I intend to conceal this will, and
     that in such a manner that you will certainly never find it unless
     by the exercise of a sustained frivolity.

     "I hope you will contrive to be frivolous enough to become the
     heiress of your affectionate

     "UNCLE MELEAGER."

"Couldn't we use that letter as proof of the testator's intention, and
fight the will?" asked Mary anxiously.

"'Fraid not," said Lord Peter. "You see, there's no evidence here that
the will was ever actually drawn up. Though I suppose we could find the
witnesses."

"We've tried," said Miss Marryat, "but, as you see, Uncle Meleager was
travelling abroad at the time, and he probably got some obscure people
in some obscure Italian town to witness it for him. We advertised, but
got no answer."

"H'm. Uncle Meleager doesn't seem to have left things to chance. And,
anyhow, wills are queer things, and so are the probate and divorce
wallahs. Obviously the thing to do is to find the other will. Did the
clues he speaks of turn up among his papers?"

"We hunted through everything. And, of course, we had the whole house
searched from top to bottom for the will. But it was quite useless."

"You've not destroyed anything, of course. Who were the executors of the
Primrose League will?"

"Mother and Mr. Sands, Uncle Meleager's solicitor. The will left mother
a silver teapot for her trouble."

"I like Uncle Meleager more and more. Anyhow, he did the sporting thing.
I'm beginnin' to enjoy this case like anything. Where did Uncle Meleager
hang out?"

"It's an old house down at Dorking. It's rather quaint. Somebody had a
fancy to build a little Roman villa sort of thing there, with a verandah
behind, with columns and a pond in the front hall, and statues. It's
very decent there just now, though it's awfully cold in the winter, with
all those stone floors and stone stairs and the skylight over the hall!
Mother said perhaps you would be very kind and come down and have a look
at it."

"I'd simply love to. Can we start to-morrow? I promise you we'll be
frivolous enough to please even Uncle Meleager, if you'll do your bit,
Miss Marryat. Won't we, Mary?"

"Rather! And, I say, hadn't we better be moving if we're going to the
Pallambra?"

"I never go to music halls," said Miss Marryat ungraciously.

"Oh, but you must come to-night," said his lordship persuasively. "It's
so frivolous. Just think how it would please Uncle Meleager."

       *       *       *       *       *

Accordingly, the next day found the party, including the indispensable
Mr. Bunter, assembled at Uncle Meleager's house. Pending the settlement
of the will question, there had seemed every reason why Mr. Finch's
executrix and next-of-kin should live in the house, thus providing every
facility for what Lord Peter called the "Treasures hunt." After being
introduced to Mrs. Marryat, who was an invalid and remained in her room,
Lady Mary and her brother were shown over the house by Miss Marryat, who
explained to them how carefully the search had been conducted. Every
paper had been examined, every book in the library scrutinised page by
page, the walls and chimneys tapped for hiding-places, the boards taken
up, and so forth, but with no result.

"Y'know," said his lordship, "I'm sure you've been going the wrong way
to work. My idea is, old Uncle Meleager was a man of his word. If he
said frivolous, he meant really frivolous. Something beastly silly. I
wonder what it was."

He was still wondering when he went up to dress. Bunter was putting
studs in his shirt. Lord Peter gazed thoughtfully at him, and then
enquired:

"Are any of Mr. Finch's old staff still here?"

"Yes, my lord. The cook and the housekeeper. Wonderful old gentleman
they say he was, too. Eighty-three, but as up to date as you please. Had
his wireless in his bedroom, and enjoyed the Savoy bands every night of
his life. Followed his politics, and was always ready with the details
of the latest big law-cases. If a young lady came to see him, he'd like
to see she had her hair shingled and the latest style in fashions. They
say he took up cross-words as soon as they came in, and was remarkably
quick at solving them, my lord, and inventing them. Took a £10 prize in
the _Daily Yell_ for one, and was wonderfully pleased to get it, they
say, my lord, rich as he was."

"Indeed."

"Yes, my lord. He was a great man for acrostics before that, I
understood them to say, but, when cross-words came in, he threw away his
acrostics and said he liked the new game better. Wonderfully adaptable,
if I may say so, he seems to have been for an old gentleman."

"Was he, by Jove?" said his lordship absently, and then, with sudden
energy:

"Bunter, I'd like to double your salary, but I suppose you'd take it as
an insult."

The conversation bore fruit at dinner.

"What," enquired his lordship, "happened to Uncle Meleager's
cross-words?"

"Cross-words?" said Hannah Marryat, knitting her heavy brows. "Oh, those
puzzle things! Poor old man, he went mad over them. He had every
newspaper sent him, and in his last illness he'd be trying to fill the
wretched things in. It was worse than his acrostics and his jig-saw
puzzles. Poor old creature, he must have been senile, I'm afraid. Of
course, we looked through them, but there wasn't anything there. We put
them all in the attic."

"The attic for me," said Lord Peter.

"And for me," said Mary. "I don't believe there was anything senile
about Uncle Meleager."

The evening was warm, and they had dined in the little viridarium at the
back of the house, with its tall vases and hanging baskets of flowers
and little marble statues.

"Is there an attic here?" said Peter. "It seems such a--well, such an
un-attic thing to have in a house like this."

"It's just a horrid, poky little hole over the porch," said Miss
Marryat, rising and leading the way. "Don't tumble into the pond, will
you? It's a great nuisance having it there, especially at night. I
always tell them to leave a light on."

Lord Peter glanced into the miniature impluvium, with its tiling of red,
white and black marble.

"That's not a very classic design," he observed.

"No. Uncle Meleager used to complain about it and say he must have it
altered. There was a proper one once, I believe, but it got damaged, and
the man before Uncle Meleager had it replaced by some local idiot. He
built three bay windows out of the dining-room at the same time, which
made it very much lighter and pleasanter, of course, but it looks awful.
Now, this tiling is all right; uncle put that in himself."

She pointed to a mosaic dog at the threshold, with the motto, "Cave
canem," and Lord Peter recognised it as a copy of a Pompeian original.

A narrow stair brought them to the "attic," where the Wimseys flung
themselves with enthusiasm upon a huge heap of dusty old newspapers and
manuscripts. The latter seemed the likelier field, so they started with
them. They consisted of a quantity of cross-words in
manuscript--presumably the children of Uncle Meleager's own brain. The
square, the list of definitions, and the solution were in every case
neatly pinned together. Some (early efforts, no doubt) were childishly
simple, but others were difficult, with allusive or punning clues; some
of the ordinary newspaper type, others in the form of rhymed distichs.
They scrutinised the solutions closely, and searched the definitions for
acrostics or hidden words, unsuccessfully for a long time.

"This one's a funny one," said Mary, "nothing seems to fit. Oh! it's two
pinned together. No, it isn't--yes, it is--it's only been pinned up
wrong. Peter, have you seen the puzzle belonging to these clues
anywhere?"

"What one's that?"

"Well, it's numbered rather funnily, with Roman and Arabic numerals, and
it starts off with a thing that hasn't got any numbers at all:

     "Truth, poor girl, was nobody's daughter;
     She took off her clothes and jumped into the water."

"Frivolous old wretch!" said Miss Marryat.

"Friv--here, gimme that!" cried Lord Peter. "Look here, I say, Miss
Marryat, you oughtn't to have overlooked this."

"I thought it just belonged to that other square."

"Not it. It's different. I believe it's our thing. Listen:

     "Your expectation to be rich
     Here will reach its highest pitch.

That's one for you, Miss Marryat. Mary, hunt about. We _must_ find the
square that belongs to this."

But, though they turned everything upside-down, they could find no
square with Roman and Arabic numerals.

"Hang it all!" said Peter, "it must be made to fit one of these others.
Look! I know what he's done. He's just taken a fifteen-letter square,
and numbered it with Roman figures one way and Arabic the other. I bet
it fits into that one it was pinned up with."

But the one it was pinned up with turned out to have only thirteen
squares.

"Dash it all," said his lordship, "we'll have to carry the whole lot
down, and work away at it till we find the one it _does_ fit."

He snatched up a great bundle of newspapers, and led the way out. The
others followed, each with an armful. The search had taken some time,
and the atrium was in semi-darkness.

"Where shall I take them?" asked Lord Peter, calling back over his
shoulder.

"Hi!" cried Mary; and, "Look where you're going!" cried her friend.

They were too late. A splash and a flounder proclaimed that Lord Peter
had walked, like Johnny Head-in-Air over the edge of the impluvium,
papers and all.

"You ass!" said Mary.

His lordship scrambled out, spluttering, and Hannah Marryat suddenly
burst out into the first laugh Peter had ever heard her give.

     "Truth, they say, was nobody's daughter;
     She took off her clothes and fell into the water."

she proclaimed.

"Well, I couldn't take my clothes off with you here, could I?" grumbled
Lord Peter. "We'll have to fish out the papers. I'm afraid they've got a
bit damp."

Miss Marryat turned on the lights, and they started to clear the basin.

"Truth, poor girl--" began Lord Peter, and suddenly, with a little
shriek, began to dance on the marble edge of the impluvium.

"One, two, three, four, five, six----"

"Quite, quite demented," said Mary. "How shall I break it to mother?"

"Thirteen, fourteen, _fifteen_!" cried his lordship, and sat down,
suddenly and damply, exhausted by his own excitement.

"Feeling better?" asked his sister acidly.

"I'm well. I'm all right. Everything's all right. I _love_ Uncle
Meleager. Fifteen squares each way. Look at it. _Look_ at it. The
truth's in the water. Didn't he say so. Oh, frabjous day! Calloo!
callay! I chortle. Mary, what became of those definitions?"

"They're in your pocket, all damp," said Mary.

Lord Peter snatched them out hurriedly.

"It's all right, they haven't run," he said. "Oh, _darling_ Uncle
Meleager. Can you drain the impluvium, Miss Marryat, and find a bit of
charcoal. Then I'll get some dry clothes on and we'll get down to it.
Don't you see? _There's_ your missing cross-word square--on the floor of
the impluvium!"

[Illustration: Cross-word Square]

It took, however, some time to get the basin emptied, and it was not
till next morning that the party, armed with sticks of charcoal,
squatted down in the empty impluvium to fill in Uncle Meleager's
cross-word on the marble tiles. Their first difficulty was to decide
whether the red squares counted as stops or had to be filled in, but,
after a few definitions had been solved, the construction of the puzzle
grew apace. The investigators grew steadily hotter and more thickly
covered with charcoal, while the attentive Mr. Bunter hurried to and fro
between the atrium and the library, and the dictionaries piled upon the
edge of the impluvium.

Here was Uncle Meleager's cross-word square

           "Truth, poor girl, was nobody's daughter;
           She took off her clothes and jumped into the water."

  _Across._

  I.1.     Foolish or wise, yet one remains alone,
           'Twixt Strength and Justice on a heavenly throne.

  XI.1.    O to what ears the chink of gold was sweet;
           The greed for treasure brought him but defeat.

"That's a hint to us," said Lord Peter.

  I.2.     One drop of vinegar to two of oil
           Dresses this curly head sprung from the soil.

  X.2.     Nothing itself, it needs but little more
           To be that nothingness the Preacher saw.

  I.3.     Dusty though my fellows be,
           We are a kingly company.

  IV.3.    Have your own will, though here, I hold,
           The new is _not_ a patch upon the old.

  XIV.3.   Any loud cry would do as well,
           Or so the poet's verses tell.

  I.4.     This is the most unkindest cut of all,
           Except your skill be mathematical.

  X.4.     Little and hid from mortal sight,
           I darkly work to make all light.

  I.5.     The need for this (like that it's cut off short)
           The building of a tower to humans taught.

  XI.5.    "More than mind discloses and more than men believe"
           (A definition by a man whom Pussyfoot doth grieve).

  II.6.    Backward observe her turn her way,
           The way of wisdom, wise men say.

  VII.6.   Grew long ago by river's edge
           Where grows to-day the common sedge.

  XII.6.   One of three by which, they say,
           You'll know the Cornishmen alway.

  VI.7.    Blow upon blow; five more the vanquished Roman shows
           And if the foot slip one, on crippled feet one goes.

  I.8.     By this Jew's work the whole we find,
           In a glass clearly, darkly in the mind.

  IX.8.    Little by little see it grow
           Till cut off short by hammer-blow.

  VI.9.    Watch him go, heel and toe,
           Across the wide Karroo!

  II.10.   In expectation to be rich
           Here you reach the highest pitch.

  VII.10.  Of this, concerning nothing, much--
           Too often do we hear of such!

  XII.10.  O'er land and sea, passing on deadly wings,
           Pain to the strong, to weaklings death it brings.

  I.11.    Requests like these, however long they be,
           Stop just too soon for common courtesy.

  XI.11.   Cæsar, the living dead salute thee here,
           Facing for thy delight tooth, claw, and spear.

  I.12.    One word had served, but he in ranting vein
           "Lend me your ears" must mouth o'er Cæsar slain.

  X.12.    Helical circumvolution
           Adumbrates correct solution.

  I.13.    One that works for Irish men
           Both by word and deed and pen.

"That's an easy one," said Miss Marryat.

  IV.13.   Seven out of twelve this number makes complete
           As the sun journeys on from seat to seat.

  XIV.13.  My brothers play with planets; Cicero,
           Master of words, my master is below.

  I.14.    Free of her jesses let the falcon fly,
           With sight undimmed into the azure sky.

  X.14.    And so you dine with Borgia? Let me lend
           You this as a precaution, my poor friend.

  I.15.    Friendship carried to excess
           Got him in a horrid mess.

  XI.15.   Smooth and elastic and, I guess,
           The dearest treasure you possess.

  _Down._

  1.I.     If step by step the Steppes you wander through
           Many of those in this, of these in those you'll view.

"Bunter," said Lord Peter, "bring me a whisky-and-soda!"

  11.I.    If me without my head you do,
           Then generously my head renew,
           Or put it to my hinder end--
           Your cheer it shall nor mar nor mend.

  1.II.    Quietly, quietly, 'twixt edge and edge,
           Do this unto the thin end of the wedge.

  10.II.   "Something that hath a reference to my state?"
           Just as you like, it shall be written straight.

  1.III.   When all is read, then give the world its due,
           And never need the world read this of you.

"That's a comfort," said Lady Mary. "It shows we're on the right lines."

  4.III.   Sing Nunc Dimittis and Magnificat--
           But look a little farther back than that

  14.III.  Here in brief epitome
           Attribute of royalty.

  1.IV.    Lo! at a glance
           The Spanish gipsy and her dance.

  10.IV.   Bring me skin and a needle or a stick--
           A needle does it slowly, a stick does it quick.

  1.V.     It was a brazen business when
           King Phalaris made these for men.

  11.V.    This king (of whom not much is known),
           By Heaven's mercy was o'erthrown.

  2.VI.    "Bid ὀν και μη ὀν [Greek: on kai mê on] farewell?" Nay, in this
           The sterner Roman stands by that which is.

  7.VI.    This the termination is
           Of many minds' activities.

  12.VI.   I mingle on Norwegian shore,
           With ebbing water's backward roar.

  6.VII.   I stand, a ladder to renown,
           Set 'twixt the stars and Milan town.

  1.VIII.  Highest and lowliest both to me lay claim,
           The little hyssop and the king of fame.

"That makes that point about the squares clear," said Mary.

"I think it's even more significant," said her brother.

  9.VIII.  This sensible old man refused to tread
           The path to Hades in a youngster's stead.

  6.IX.    Long since, at Nature's call, they let it drop,
           Thoughtlessly thoughtful for our next year's crop.

  2.X.     To smallest words great speakers greatness give;
           Here Rome propounded her alternative.

  7.X.     We heap up many with toil and trouble,
           And find that the whole of our gain is a bubble.

  12.X.    Add it among the hidden things--
           A fishy tale to light it brings.

  1.XI.    "Lions," said a Gallic critic, "are not these."
           Benevolent souls--they'd make your heart's blood freeze.

  11.XI.   An epithet for husky fellows,
           That stand, all robed in greens and yellows.

  1.XII.   Whole without holes behold me here,
           My meaning should be wholly clear.

  10.XII.  Running all around, never setting foot to floor,
           If there isn't one in this room, there may be one next door.

  1.XIII.  Ye gods! think also of that goddess' name
           Whose might two hours on end the mob proclaim.

  4.XIII.  The Priest uplifts his voice on high,
           The choristers make their reply.

  14.XII.  When you've guessed it, with one voice
           You'll say it was a golden choice.

  1.XIV.   Shall learning die amid a war's alarms?
           I, at my birth, was clasped in iron arms.

  10.XIV.  At sunset see the labourer now
           Loose all his oxen from the plough.

  1.XV.    Without a miracle it cannot be--
           At this point, Solver, bid him pray for thee!

  11.XV.   Two thousand years ago and more
           (Just as we do to-day),
           The Romans saw these distant lights--
           But, oh! how hard the way!

       *       *       *       *       *

The most remarkable part of the search--or so Lord Peter thought--was
its effect on Miss Marryat. At first she hovered disconsolately on the
margin, aching with wounded dignity, yet ashamed to dissociate herself
from people who were toiling so hard and so cheerfully in her cause.

"I think that's so-and-so," Mary would say hopefully.

And her brother would reply enthusiastically, "Holed it in one, old
lady. Good for you! We've got it this time, Miss Marryat"--and explain
it.

And Hannah Marryat would say with a snort:

"That's just the childish kind of joke Uncle Meleager _would_ make."

Gradually, however, the fascination of seeing the squares fit together
caught her, and, when the first word appeared which showed that the
searchers were definitely on the right track, she lay down flat on the
floor and peered over Lord Peter's shoulder as he grovelled below,
writing letters in charcoal, rubbing them out with his handkerchief and
mopping his heated face, till the Moor of Venice had nothing on him in
the matter of blackness. Once, half scornfully, half timidly, she made a
suggestion; twice, she made a suggestion; the third time she had an
inspiration. The next minute she was down in the mêlée, crawling over
the tiles flushed and excited, wiping important letters out with her
knees as fast as Peter could write them in, poring over the pages of
Roget, her eyes gleaming under her tumbled black fringe.

Hurried meals of cold meat and tea sustained the exhausted party, and
towards sunset Peter, with a shout of triumph, added the last letter to
the square.

They crawled out and looked at it.

"All the words can't be clues," said Mary. "I think it must be just
those four."

"Yes, undoubtedly. It's quite clear. We've only got to look it up.
Where's a Bible?"

Miss Marryat hunted it out from the pile of reference books. "But that
isn't the name of a Bible book," she said. "It's those things they have
at evening service."

"That's all you know," said Lord Peter. "I was brought up religious, I
was. It's Vulgate, that's what that is. You're quite right, of course,
but, as Uncle Meleager says, we must 'look a little farther back than
that.' Here you are. Now, then."

"But it doesn't say what chapter."

"So it doesn't. I mean, nor it does."

"And, anyhow, all the chapters are too short."

"Damn! Oh! Here, suppose we just count right on from the beginning--one,
two, three----"

"Seventeen in chapter one, eighteen, nineteen--this must be it."

Two fair heads and one dark one peered excitedly at the small print,
Bunter hovering decorously on the outskirts.

     "O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the covert of
     the steep place."

"Oh, dear!" said Mary, disappointed, "that does sound rather hopeless.
Are you sure you've counted right? It might mean _anything_."

Lord Peter scratched his head.

"This is a bit of a blow," he said. "I don't like Uncle Meleager half as
much as I did. Old beast!"

"After all our work!" moaned Mary.

"It must be right," cried Miss Marryat. "Perhaps there's some kind of an
anagram in it. We can't give up now!"

"Bravo!" said Lord Peter. "That's the spirit. 'Fraid we're in for
another outburst of frivolity, Miss Marryat."

"Well, it's been great fun," said Hannah Marryat.

"If you will excuse me," began the deferential voice of Bunter.

"I'd forgotten you, Bunter," said his lordship. "Of course you can put
us right--you always can. Where have we gone wrong?"

"I was about to observe, my lord, that the words you mention do not
appear to agree with my recollection of the passage in question. In my
mother's Bible, my lord, it ran, I fancy, somewhat differently."

Lord Peter closed the volume and looked at the back of it.

"Naturally," he said, "you are right again, of course. This is a Revised
Version. It's your fault, Miss Marryat. You _would_ have a Revised
Version. But can we imagine Uncle Meleager with one? No. Bring me Uncle
Meleager's Bible."

"Come and look in the library," cried Miss Marryat, snatching him by the
hand and running. "Don't be so dreadfully calm."

On the centre of the library table lay a huge and venerable
Bible--reverend in age and tooled leather binding. Lord Peter's hands
caressed it, for a noble old book was like a song to his soul. Sobered
by its beauty, they turned the yellow pages over:

     "In the clefts of the rocks, in the secret places of the stairs."

"Miss Marryat," said his lordship, "if your Uncle's will is not
concealed in the staircase, then--well, all I can say is, he's played a
rotten trick on us," he concluded lamely.

"Shall we try the main staircase, or the little one up to the porch?"

"Oh, the main one, I think. I hope it won't mean pulling it down. No.
Somebody would have noticed if Uncle Meleager had done anything drastic
in that way. It's probably quite a simple hiding-place. Wait a minute.
Let's ask the housekeeper."

Mrs. Meakers was called, and perfectly remembered that about nine months
previously Mr. Finch had pointed out to her a "kind of a crack like" on
the under surface of the staircase, and had had a man in to fill it up.
Certainly, she could point out the exact place. There was the mark of
the plaster filling quite clear.

"Hurray!" cried Lord Peter. "Bunter--a chisel or something. Uncle
Meleager, Uncle Meleager, we've _got_ you! Miss Marryat, I think yours
should be the hand to strike the blow. It's your staircase, you know--at
least, if we find the will, so if any destruction has to be done it's up
to you."

Breathless they stood round, while with a few blows the new plaster
flaked off, disclosing a wide chink in the stonework. Hannah Marryat
flung down hammer and chisel and groped in the gap.

"There's something," she gasped. "Lift me up; I can't reach. Oh, it is!
it is! it _is_ it!" And she withdrew her hand, grasping a long, sealed
envelope, bearing the superscription:

     POSITIVELY THE =LAST= WILL AND TESTAMENT OF MELEAGER FINCH.

Miss Marryat gave a yodel of joy and flung her arms round Lord Peter's
neck.

Mary executed a joy-dance. "I'll tell the world," she proclaimed.

"Come and tell mother!" cried Miss Marryat.

Mr. Bunter interposed,

"Your lordship will excuse me," he said firmly, "but your lordship's
face is all over charcoal."

"Black but comely," said Lord Peter, "but I submit to your reproof. How
clever we've all been. How topping everything is. How rich you are going
to be. How late it is and how hungry I am. Yes, Bunter, I will wash my
face. Is there anything else I can do for anybody while I feel in the
mood?"

"If your lordship would be so kind," said Mr. Bunter, producing a small
paper from his pocket, "I should be grateful if you could favour me with
a South African quadruped in six letters, beginning with Q."

     NOTE.--_The solution of the cross-word will be found at the end of
     the book._




THE FANTASTIC HORROR OF THE CAT IN THE BAG


The Great North Road wound away like a flat, steel-grey ribbon. Up it,
with the sun and wind behind them, two black specks moved swiftly. To
the yokel in charge of the hay-wagon they were only two of "they dratted
motor-cyclists," as they barked and zoomed past him in rapid succession.
A little farther on, a family man, driving delicately with a two-seater
side-car, grinned as the sharp rattle of the o.h.v. Norton was succeeded
by the feline shriek of an angry Scott Flying-Squirrel. He, too, in
bachelor days, had taken a side in that perennial feud. He sighed
regretfully as he watched the racing machines dwindle away northwards.

At that abominable and unexpected S-bend across the bridge above
Hatfield, the Norton man, in the pride of his heart, turned to wave a
defiant hand at his pursuer. In that second, the enormous bulk of a
loaded charabanc loomed down upon him from the bridgehead. He wrenched
himself away from it in a fierce wobble, and the Scott, cornering
melodramatically, with left and right foot-rests alternately skimming
the tarmac, gained a few triumphant yards. The Norton leapt forward with
wide-open throttle. A party of children, seized with sudden panic,
rushed helter-skelter across the road. The Scott lurched through them
in drunken swerves. The road was clear, and the chase settled down once
more.

It is not known why motorists, who sing the joys of the open road, spend
so much petrol every week-end grinding their way to Southend and
Brighton and Margate, in the stench of each other's exhausts, one hand
on the horn and one foot on the brake, their eyes starting from their
orbits in the nerve-racking search for cops, corners, blind turnings,
and cross-road suicides. They ride in a baffled fury, hating each other.
They arrive with shattered nerves and fight for parking places. They
return, blinded by the headlights of fresh arrivals, whom they hate even
worse than they hate each other. And all the time the Great North Road
winds away like a long, flat, steel-grey ribbon--a surface like a
race-track, without traps, without hedges, without side-roads, and
without traffic. True, it leads to nowhere in particular; but, after
all, one pub is very much like another.

The tarmac reeled away, mile after mile. The sharp turn to the right at
Baldock, the involute intricacies of Biggleswade, with its
multiplication of sign-posts, gave temporary check, but brought the
pursuer no nearer. Through Tempsford at full speed, with bellowing horn
and exhaust, then, screaming like a hurricane past the R.A.C. post where
the road forks in from Bedford. The Norton rider again glanced back; the
Scott rider again sounded his horn ferociously. Flat as a chessboard,
dyke and field revolved about the horizon.

The constable at Eaton Socon was by no means an anti-motor fiend. In
fact, he had just alighted from his pushbike to pass the time of day
with the A.A. man on point duty at the cross-roads. But he was just and
God-fearing. The sight of two maniacs careering at seventy miles an hour
into his protectorate was more than he could be expected to
countenance--the more, that the local magistrate happened to be passing
at that very moment in a pony-trap. He advanced to the middle of the
road, spreading his arms in a majestic manner. The Norton rider looked,
saw the road beyond complicated by the pony-trap and a traction-engine,
and resigned himself to the inevitable. He flung the throttle-lever
back, stamped on his squealing brakes, and skidded to a standstill. The
Scott, having had notice, came up mincingly, with a voice like a pleased
kitten.

"Now, then," said the constable, in a tone of reproof, "ain't you got no
more sense than to come drivin' into the town at a 'undred mile an hour.
This ain't Brooklands, you know. I never see anything like it. 'Ave to
take your names and numbers, if you please. You'll bear witness, Mr.
Nadgett, as they was doin' over eighty."

The A.A. man, after a swift glance over the two sets of handle-bars to
assure himself that the black sheep were not of his flock, said, with an
air of impartial accuracy, "About sixty-six and a half, I should say, if
you was to ask me in court."

"Look here, you blighter," said the Scott man indignantly to the Norton
man, "why the hell couldn't you stop when you heard me hoot? I've been
chasing you with your beastly bag nearly thirty miles. Why can't you
look after your own rotten luggage?"

He indicated a small, stout bag, tied with string to his own carrier.

"That?" said the Norton man, with scorn. "What do you mean? It's not
mine. Never saw it in my life."

This bare-faced denial threatened to render the Scott rider speechless.

"Of all the----" he gasped. "Why, you crimson idiot, I saw it fall off,
just the other side of Hatfield. I yelled and blew like fury. I suppose
that overhead gear of yours makes so much noise you can't hear anything
else. I take the trouble to pick the thing up, and go after you, and all
you do is to race off like a lunatic and run me into a cop. Fat lot of
thanks one gets for trying to be decent to fools on the road."

"That ain't neither here nor there," said the policeman. "Your licence,
please, sir."

"Here you are," said the Scott man, ferociously flapping out his
pocket-book. "My name's Walters, and it's the last time I'll try to do
anybody a good turn, you can lay your shirt."

"Walters," said the constable, entering the particulars laboriously in
his note-book, "and Simpkins. You'll 'ave your summonses in doo course.
It'll be for about a week 'ence, on Monday or thereabouts, I shouldn't
wonder."

"Another forty bob gone west," growled Mr. Simpkins, toying with his
throttle. "Oh, well, can't be helped, I suppose."

"Forty bob?" snorted the constable. "What do _you_ think? Furious
driving to the common danger, that's wot it is. You'll be lucky to get
off with five quid apiece."

"Oh, blast!" said the other, stamping furiously on the kick-starter. The
engine roared into life, but Mr. Walters dexterously swung his machine
across the Norton's path.

"Oh, no, you don't," he said viciously. "You jolly well take your
bleeding bag, and no nonsense. I tell you, I _saw_ it fall off."

"Now, no language," began the constable, when he suddenly became aware
that the A.A. man was staring in a very odd manner at the bag and making
signs to him.

"'Ullo," he demanded, "wot's the matter with the--bleedin' bag, did you
say? 'Ere, I'd like to 'ave a look at that 'ere bag, sir, if you don't
mind."

"It's nothing to do with me," said Mr. Walters, handing it over. "I saw
it fall off and----" His voice died away in his throat, and his eyes
became fixed upon one corner of the bag, where something damp and
horrible was seeping darkly through.

"Did you notice this 'ere corner when you picked it up?" asked the
constable. He prodded it gingerly and looked at his fingers.

"I don't know--no--not particularly," stammered Walters. "I didn't
notice anything. I--I expect it burst when it hit the road."

The constable proved the split seam in silence, and then turned
hurriedly round to wave away a couple of young women who had stopped to
stare. The A.A. man peered curiously, and then started back with a
sensation of sickness.

"Ow, Gawd!" he gasped. "It's curly--it's a woman's."

"It's not me," screamed Simpkins. "I swear to heaven it's not mine. This
man's trying to put it across me."

"Me?" gasped Walters. "Me? Why, you filthy, murdering brute, I tell you
I saw it fall off your carrier. No wonder you blinded off when you saw
me coming. Arrest him, constable. Take him away to prison----"

"Hullo, officer!" said a voice behind them. "What's all the excitement?
You haven't seen a motor-cyclist go by with a little bag on his carrier,
I suppose?"

A big open car with an unnaturally long bonnet had slipped up to them,
silent as an owl. The whole agitated party with one accord turned upon
the driver.

"Would this be it, sir?"

The motorist pushed off his goggles, disclosing a long, narrow nose and
a pair of rather cynical-looking grey eyes.

"It looks rather----" he began; and then, catching sight of the horrid
relic protruding from one corner, "In God's name," he enquired, "what's
that?"

"That's what we'd like to know, sir," said the constable grimly.

"H'm," said the motorist, "I seem to have chosen an uncommonly suitable
moment for enquirin' after my bag. Tactless. To say now that it is not
my bag is simple, though in no way convincing. As a matter of fact, it
is not mine, and I may say that, if it had been, I should not have been
at any pains to pursue it."

The constable scratched his head.

"Both these gentlemen----" he began.

The two cyclists burst into simultaneous and heated disclaimers. By this
time a small crowd had collected, which the A.A. scout helpfully tried
to shoo away.

"You'll all 'ave to come with me to the station," said the harassed
constable. "Can't stand 'ere 'oldin' up the traffic. No tricks, now. You
wheel them bikes, and I'll come in the car with you, sir."

"But supposing I was to let her rip and kidnap you," said the motorist,
with a grin. "Where'd you be? Here," he added, turning to the A.A. man,
"can you handle this outfit?"

"You bet," said the scout, his eye running lovingly over the long sweep
of the exhaust and the rakish lines of the car.

"Right. Hop in. Now, officer, you can toddle along with the other
suspects and keep an eye on them. Wonderful head I've got for detail. By
the way, that foot-brake's on the fierce side. Don't bully it, or you'll
surprise yourself."

The lock of the bag was forced at the police-station in the midst of an
excitement unparalleled in the calm annals of Eaton Socon, and the
dreadful contents laid reverently upon a table. Beyond a quantity of
cheese-cloth in which they had been wrapped, there was nothing to supply
any clue to the mystery.

"Now," said the superintendent, "what do you gentlemen know about this?"

"Nothing whatever," said Mr. Simpkins, with a ghastly countenance,
"except that this man tried to palm it off on me."

"I saw it fall off this man's carrier just the other side of Hatfield,"
repeated Mr. Walters firmly, "and I rode after him for thirty miles
trying to stop him. That's all I know about it, and I wish to God I'd
never touched the beastly thing."

"Nor do I know anything about it personally," said the car-owner, "but I
fancy I know what it is."

"What's that?" asked the superintendent sharply.

"I rather imagine it's the head of the Finsbury Park murder--though,
mind you, that's only a guess."

"That's just what I've been thinking myself," agreed the superintendent,
glancing at a daily paper which lay on his desk, its headlines lurid
with the details of that very horrid crime, "and, if so, you are to be
congratulated, constable, on a very important capture."

"Thank you, sir," said the gratified officer, saluting.

"Now I'd better take all your statements," said the superintendent. "No,
no; I'll hear the constable first. Yes, Briggs?"

The constable, the A.A. man, and the two motor-cyclists having given
their versions of the story, the superintendent turned to the motorist.

"And what have you got to say about it?" he enquired. "First of all,
your name and address."

The other produced a card, which the superintendent copied out and
returned to him respectfully.

"A bag of mine, containing some valuable jewellery, was stolen from my
car yesterday, in Piccadilly," began the motorist. "It is very much like
this, but has a cipher lock. I made enquiries through Scotland Yard, and
was informed to-day that a bag of precisely similar appearance had been
cloak-roomed yesterday afternoon at Paddington, main line. I hurried
round there, and was told by the clerk that just before the police
warning came through the bag had been claimed by a man in motor-cycling
kit. A porter said he saw the man leave the station, and a loiterer
observed him riding off on a motor-bicycle. That was about an hour
before. It seemed pretty hopeless, as, of course, nobody had noticed
even the make of the bike, let alone the number. Fortunately, however,
there was a smart little girl. The smart little girl had been dawdling
round outside the station, and had heard a motor-cyclist ask a
taxi-driver the quickest route to Finchley. I left the police hunting
for the taxi-driver, and started off, and in Finchley I found an
intelligent boy-scout. He had seen a motor-cyclist with a bag on the
carrier, and had waved and shouted to him that the strap was loose. The
cyclist had got off and tightened the strap, and gone straight on up the
road towards Chipping Barnet. The boy hadn't been near enough to
identify the machine--the only thing he knew for certain was that it
wasn't a Douglas, his brother having one of that sort. At Barnet I got
an odd little story of a man in a motor-coat who had staggered into a
pub with a ghastly white face and drunk two double brandies and gone out
and ridden off furiously. Number?--of course not. The barmaid told me.
_She_ didn't notice the number. After that it was a tale of furious
driving all along the road. After Hatfield, I got the story of a
road-race. And here we are."

"It seems to me, my lord," said the superintendent, "that the furious
driving can't have been all on one side."

"I admit it," said the other, "though I do plead in extenuation that I
spared the women and children and hit up the miles in the wide, open
spaces. The point at the moment is----"

"Well, my lord," said the superintendent, "I've got your story, and, if
it's all right, it can be verified by enquiry at Paddington and Finchley
and so on. Now, as for these two gentlemen----"

"It's perfectly obvious," broke in Mr. Walters, "the bag dropped off
this man's carrier, and, when he saw me coming after him with it, he
thought it was a good opportunity to saddle me with the cursed thing.
Nothing could be clearer."

"It's a lie," said Mr. Simpkins. "Here's this fellow has got hold of the
bag--I don't say how, but I can guess--and he has the bright idea of
shoving the blame on me. It's easy enough to _say_ a thing's fallen off
a man's carrier. Where's the proof? Where's the strap? If his story's
true, you'd find the broken strap on my 'bus. The bag _was_ on _his_
machine--tied on, tight."

"Yes, with string," retorted the other. "If I'd gone and murdered
someone and run off with their head, do you think I'd be such an ass as
to tie it on with a bit of twopenny twine? The strap's worked loose and
fallen off on the road somewhere; that's what's happened to that."

"Well, look here," said the man addressed as "my lord," "I've got an
idea for what it's worth. Suppose, superintendent, you turn out as many
of your men as you think adequate to keep an eye on three desperate
criminals, and we all tool down to Hatfield together. I can take two in
my 'bus at a pinch, and no doubt you have a police car. If this thing
did fall off the carrier, somebody beside Mr. Walters may have seen it
fall."

"They didn't," said Mr. Simpkins.

"There wasn't a soul," said Mr. Walters, "but how do you know there
wasn't, eh? I thought you didn't know anything about it."

"I mean, it didn't fall off, so nobody could have seen it," gasped the
other.

"Well, my lord," said the superintendent, "I'm inclined to accept your
suggestion, as it gives us a chance of enquiring into your story at the
same time. Mind you, I'm not saying I doubt it, you being who you are.
I've read about some of your detective work, my lord, and very smart I
considered it. But, still, it wouldn't be my duty not to get
corroborative evidence if possible."

"Good egg! Quite right," said his lordship. "Forward the light brigade.
We can do it easily in--that is to say, at the legal rate of progress it
needn't take us much over an hour and a half."

       *       *       *       *       *

About three-quarters of an hour later, the racing car and the police car
loped quietly side by side into Hatfield. Henceforward, the four-seater,
in which Walters and Simpkins sat glaring at each other, took the lead,
and presently Walters waved his hand and both cars came to a stop.

"It was just about here, as near as I can remember, that it fell off,"
he said. "Of course, there's no trace of it now."

"You're quite sure as there wasn't a strap fell off with it?" suggested
the superintendent, "because, you see, there must 'a' been something
holding it on."

"Of course there wasn't a strap," said Simpkins, white with passion.
"You haven't any business to ask him leading questions like that."

"Wait a minute," said Walters slowly. "No, there was no strap. But I've
got a sort of a recollection of seeing something on the road about a
quarter of a mile farther up."

"It's a lie!" screamed Simpkins. "He's inventing it."

"Just about where we passed that man with the side-car a minute or two
ago," said his lordship. "I told you we ought to have stopped and asked
if we could help him, superintendent. Courtesy of the road, you know,
and all that."

"He couldn't have told us anything," said the superintendent. "He'd
probably only just stopped."

"I'm not so sure," said the other. "Didn't you notice what he was doing?
Oh, dear, dear, where were your eyes? Hullo! here he comes."

He sprang out into the road and waved to the rider, who, seeing four
policemen, thought it better to pull up.

"Excuse me," said his lordship. "Thought we'd just like to stop you and
ask if you were all right, and all that sort of thing, you know. Wanted
to stop in passing, throttle jammed open, couldn't shut the confounded
thing. Little trouble, what?"

"Oh, yes, perfectly all right, thanks, except that I would be glad if
you could spare a gallon of petrol. Tank came adrift. Beastly nuisance.
Had a bit of a struggle. Happily, Providence placed a broken strap in my
way and I've fixed it. Split a bit, though, where that bolt came off.
Lucky not to have an explosion, but there's a special cherub for
motor-cyclists."

"Strap, eh?" said the superintendent. "Afraid I'll have to trouble you
to let me have a look at that."

"What?" said the other. "And just as I've got the damned thing fixed?
What the----? All right, dear, all right"--to his passenger. "Is it
something serious, officer?"

"Afraid so, sir. Sorry to trouble you."

"Hi!" yelled one of the policemen, neatly fielding Mr. Simpkins as he
was taking a dive over the back of the car. "No use doin' that. You're
for it, my lad."

"No doubt about it," said the superintendent triumphantly, snatching at
the strap which the side-car rider held out to him. "Here's his name on
it, 'J. Simpkins,' written on in ink as large as life. Very much obliged
to you, sir, I'm sure. You've helped us effect a very important
capture."

"No! _Who_ is it?" cried the girl in the side-car. "How frightfully
thrilling! Is it a murder?"

"Look in your paper to-morrow, miss," said the superintendent, "and you
may see something. Here, Briggs, better put the handcuffs on him."

"And how about my tank?" said the man mournfully. "It's all right for
you to be excited, Babs, but you'll have to get out and help push."

"Oh, no," said his lordship. "Here's a strap. A much nicer strap. A
really superior strap. And petrol. And a pocket-flask. Everything a
young man ought to know. And, when you're in town, mind you both look me
up. Lord Peter Wimsey, 110A Piccadilly. Delighted to see you any time.
Chin, chin!"

"Cheerio!" said the other, wiping his lips and much mollified. "Only too
charmed to be of use. Remember it in my favour, officer, next time you
catch me speeding."

"Very fortunate we spotted him," said the superintendent complacently,
as they continued their way into Hatfield. "Quite providential, as you
might say."

       *       *       *       *       *

"I'll come across with it," said the wretched Simpkins, sitting
handcuffed in the Hatfield police-station. "I swear to God I know
nothing whatever about it--about the murder, I mean. There's a man I
know who has a jewellery business in Birmingham. I don't know him very
well. In fact, I only met him at Southend last Easter, and we got pally.
His name's Owen--Thomas Owen. He wrote me yesterday and said he'd
accidentally left a bag in the cloakroom at Paddington and asked if I'd
take it out--he enclosed the ticket--and bring it up next time I came
that way. I'm in transport service, you see--you've got my card--and I'm
always up and down the country. As it happened, I was just going up in
that direction with this Norton, so I fetched the thing out at
lunch-time and started off with it. I didn't notice the date on the
cloakroom ticket. I know there wasn't anything to pay on it, so it can't
have been there long. Well, it all went just as you said up to Finchley,
and there that boy told me my strap was loose and I went to tighten it
up. And then I noticed that the corner of the bag was split, and it was
damp--and--well, I saw what you saw. That sort of turned me over, and I
lost my head. The only thing I could think of was to get rid of it,
quick. I remembered there were a lot of lonely stretches on the Great
North Road, so I cut the strap nearly through--that was when I stopped
for that drink at Barnet--and then, when I thought there wasn't anybody
in sight, I just reached back and gave it a tug, and it went--strap and
all; I hadn't put it through the slots. It fell off, just like a great
weight dropping off my mind. I suppose Walters must just have come round
into sight as it fell. I had to slow down a mile or two farther on for
some sheep going into a field, and then I heard him hooting at
me--and--oh, my God!"

He groaned, and buried his head in his hands.

"I see," said the Eaton Socon superintendent. "Well, that's your
statement. Now, about this Thomas Owen----"

"Oh," cried Lord Peter Wimsey, "never mind Thomas Owen. He's not the man
you want. You can't suppose that a bloke who'd committed a murder would
want a fellow tailin' after him to Birmingham with the head. It stands
to reason that was intended to stay in Paddington cloakroom till the
ingenious perpetrator had skipped, or till it was unrecognisable, or
both. Which, by the way, is where we'll find those family heirlooms of
mine, which your engaging friend Mr. Owen lifted out of my car. Now, Mr.
Simpkins, just pull yourself together and tell us who was standing next
to you at the cloakroom when you took out that bag. Try hard to
remember, because this jolly little island is no place for him, and
he'll be taking the next boat while we stand talking."

"I can't remember," moaned Simpkins. "I didn't notice. My head's all in
a whirl."

"Never mind. Go back. Think quietly. Make a picture of yourself getting
off your machine--leaning it up against something----"

"No, I put it on the stand."

"Good! That's the way. Now, think--you're taking the cloakroom ticket
out of your pocket and going up--trying to attract the man's attention."

"I couldn't at first. There was an old lady trying to cloakroom a
canary, and a very bustling man in a hurry with some golf-clubs. He was
quite rude to a quiet little man with a--by Jove! yes, a hand-bag like
that one. Yes, that's it. The timid man had had it on the counter quite
a long time, and the big man pushed him aside. I don't know what
happened, quite, because mine was handed out to me just then. The big
man pushed his luggage in front of both of us and I had to reach over
it--and I suppose--yes, I must have taken the wrong one. Good God! Do
you mean to say that that timid little insignificant-looking man was a
murderer?"

"Lots of 'em like that," put in the Hatfield superintendent. "But what
was he like--come!"

"He was only about five foot five, and he wore a soft hat and a long,
dust-coloured coat. He was very ordinary, with rather weak, prominent
eyes, I think, but I'm not sure I should know him again. Oh, wait a
minute! I do remember one thing. He had an odd
scar--crescent-shaped--under his left eye."

"That settles it," said Lord Peter. "I thought as much. Did you
recognise the--the face when we took it out, superintendent? No? I did.
It was Dahlia Dallmeyer, the actress, who is supposed to have sailed for
America last week. And the short man with the crescent-shaped scar is
her husband, Philip Storey. Sordid tale and all that. She ruined him,
treated him like dirt, and was unfaithful to him, but it looks as though
he had had the last word in the argument. And now, I imagine, the Law
will have the last word with him. Get busy on the wires, superintendent,
and you might ring up the Paddington people and tell 'em to let me have
my bag, before Mr. Thomas Owen tumbles to it that there's been a slight
mistake."

"Well, anyhow," said Mr. Walters, extending a magnanimous hand to the
abashed Mr. Simpkins, "it was a top-hole race--well worth a summons. We
must have a return match one of these days."

       *       *       *       *       *

Early the following morning a little, insignificant-looking man stepped
aboard the trans-Atlantic liner _Volucria_. At the head of the gangway
two men blundered into him. The younger of the two, who carried a small
bag, was turning to apologise, when a light of recognition flashed
across his face.

"Why, if it isn't Mr. Storey!" he exclaimed loudly. "Where are you off
to? I haven't seen you for an age."

"I'm afraid," said Philip Storey, "I haven't the pleasure----"

"Cut it out," said the other, laughing. "I'd know that scar of yours
anywhere. Going out to the States?"

"Well, yes," said the other, seeing that his acquaintance's boisterous
manner was attracting attention. "I beg your pardon. It's Lord Peter
Wimsey, isn't it? Yes. I'm joining the wife out there."

"And how is she?" enquired Wimsey, steering the way into the bar and
sitting down at a table. "Left last week didn't she? I saw it in the
papers."

"Yes. She's just cabled me to join her. We're--er--taking a holiday
in--er--the lakes. Very pleasant there in summer."

"Cabled you, did she? And so here we are on the same boat. Odd how
things turn out, what? I only got my sailing orders at the last minute.
Chasing criminals--my hobby, you know."

"Oh, really?" Mr. Storey licked his lips.

"Yes. This is Detective-Inspector Parker of Scotland Yard--great pal of
mine. Yes. Very unpleasant matter, annoying and all that. Bag that ought
to have been reposin' peacefully at Paddington Station turns up at Eaton
Socon. No business there, what?"

He smacked the bag on the table so violently that the lock sprang open.

Storey leapt to his feet with a shriek, flinging his arms across the
opening of the bag as though to hide its contents.

"How did you get that?" he screamed. "Eaton Socon? It--I never----"

"It's mine," said Wimsey quietly, as the wretched man sank back,
realising that he had betrayed himself. "Some jewellery of my mother's.
What did you think it was?"

Detective Parker touched his charge gently on the shoulder.

"You needn't answer that," he said. "I arrest you, Philip Storey, for
the murder of your wife. Anything that you say may be used against you."




THE UNPRINCIPLED AFFAIR OF THE PRACTICAL JOKER


The _Zambesi_, they said, was expected to dock at six in the morning.
Mrs. Ruyslaender booked a bedroom at the Magnifical, with despair in her
heart. A bare nine hours and she would be greeting her husband. After
that would begin the sickening period of waiting--it might be days, it
might be weeks, possibly even months--for the inevitable discovery.

The reception-clerk twirled the register towards her. Mechanically, as
she signed it, she glanced at the preceding entry:

"Lord Peter Wimsey and valet--London--Suite 24."

Mrs. Ruyslaender's heart seemed to stop for a second. Was it possible
that, even now, God had left a loophole? She expected little from
Him--all her life He had shown Himself a sufficiently stern creditor. It
was fantastic to base the frailest hope on this signature of a man she
had never even seen.

Yet the name remained in her mind while she dined in her own room. She
dismissed her maid presently, and sat for a long time looking at her own
haggard reflection in the mirror. Twice she rose and went to the
door--then turned back, calling herself a fool. The third time she
turned the handle quickly and hurried down the corridor, without giving
herself time to think.

A large golden arrow at the corner directed her to Suite 24. It was 11
o'clock, and nobody was within view. Mrs. Ruyslaender gave a sharp knock
on Lord Peter Wimsey's door and stood back, waiting, with the sort of
desperate relief one experiences after hearing a dangerous letter thump
the bottom of the pillar-box. Whatever the adventure, she was committed
to it.

The manservant was of the imperturbable sort. He neither invited nor
rejected, but stood respectfully upon the threshold.

"Lord Peter Wimsey?" murmured Mrs. Ruyslaender.

"Yes, madam."

"Could I speak to him for a moment?"

"His lordship has just retired, madam. If you will step in, I will
enquire."

Mrs. Ruyslaender followed him into one of those palatial sitting-rooms
which the Magnifical provides for the wealthy pilgrim.

"Will you take a seat, madam?"

The man stepped noiselessly to the bedroom door and passed in, shutting
it behind him. The lock, however, failed to catch, and Mrs. Ruyslaender
caught the conversation.

"Pardon me, my lord, a lady has called. She mentioned no appointment, so
I considered it better to acquaint your lordship."

"Excellent discretion," said a voice. It had a slow, sarcastic
intonation, which brought a painful flush to Mrs. Ruyslaender's cheek.
"I never make appointments. Do I know the lady?"

"No, my lord. But--hem--I know her by sight, my lord. It is Mrs.
Ruyslaender."

"Oh, the diamond merchant's wife. Well, find out tactfully what it's all
about, and, unless it's urgent, ask her to call to-morrow."

The valet's next remark was inaudible, but the reply was:

"Don't be coarse, Bunter."

The valet returned.

"His lordship desires me to ask you, madam, in what way he can be of
service to you?"

"Will you say to him that I have heard of him in connection with the
Attenbury diamond case, and am anxious to ask his advice."

"Certainly, madam. May I suggest that, as his lordship is greatly
fatigued, he would be better able to assist you after he has slept."

"If to-morrow would have done, I would not have thought of disturbing
him to-night. Tell him, I am aware of the trouble I am giving----"

"Excuse me one moment, madam."

This time the door shut properly. After a short interval Bunter returned
to say, "His lordship will be with you immediately, madam," and to place
a decanter of wine and a box of Sobranies beside her.

Mrs. Ruyslaender lit a cigarette, but had barely sampled its flavour
when she was aware of a soft step beside her. Looking round, she
perceived a young man, attired in a mauve dressing-gown of great
splendour, from beneath the hem of which peeped coyly a pair of primrose
silk pyjamas.

"You must think it very strange of me, thrusting myself on you at this
hour," she said, with a nervous laugh.

Lord Peter put his head on one side.

"Don't know the answer to that," he said. "If I say, 'Not at all,' it
sounds abandoned. If I say, 'Yes, very,' it's rude. Supposin' we give it
a miss, what? and you tell me what I can do for you."

Mrs. Ruyslaender hesitated. Lord Peter was not what she had expected.
She noted the sleek, straw-coloured hair, brushed flat back from a
rather sloping forehead, the ugly, lean, arched nose, and the faintly
foolish smile, and her heart sank within her.

"I--I'm afraid it's ridiculous of me to suppose you can help me," she
began.

"Always my unfortunate appearance," moaned Lord Peter, with such
alarming acumen as to double her discomfort. "Would it invite confidence
more, d'you suppose, if I dyed my hair black an' grew a Newgate fringe?
It's very tryin', you can't think, always to look as if one's name was
Algy."

"I only meant," said Mrs. Ruyslaender, "that I don't think _anybody_
could possibly help. But I saw your name in the hotel book, and it
seemed just a chance."

Lord Peter filled the glasses and sat down.

"Carry on," he said cheerfully; "it sounds interestin'."

Mrs. Ruyslaender took the plunge.

"My husband," she explained, "is Henry Ruyslaender, the diamond
merchant. We came over from Kimberley ten years ago, and settled in
England. He spends several months in Africa every year on business, and
I am expecting him back on the _Zambesi_ to-morrow morning. Now, this is
the trouble. Last year he gave me a magnificent diamond necklace of a
hundred and fifteen stones----"

"The Light of Africa--I know," said Wimsey.

She looked a little surprised, but assented. "The necklace has been
stolen from me, and I can't hope to conceal the loss from him. No
duplicate would deceive him for an instant."

She paused, and Lord Peter prompted gently:

"You have come to me, I presume, because it is not to be a police
matter. Will you tell me quite frankly why?"

"The police would be useless. I know who took it."

"Yes?"

"There is a man we both know slightly--a man called Paul Melville."

Lord Peter's eyes narrowed. "M'm, yes, I fancy I've seen him about the
clubs. New Army, but transferred himself into the Regulars. Dark. Showy.
Bit of an ampelopsis, what?"

"Ampelopsis?"

"Suburban plant that climbs by suction. _You_ know--first year, tender
little shoots--second year, fine show--next year, all over the shop. Now
tell me I am rude."

Mrs. Ruyslaender giggled. "Now you mention it, he is _exactly_ like an
ampelopsis. What a relief to be able to think of him as that . . . Well,
he is some sort of distant relation of my husband's. He called one
evening when I was alone. We talked about jewels, and I brought down my
jewel-box and showed him the Light of Africa. He knows a good deal about
stones. I was in and out of the room two or three times, but didn't
think to lock up the box. After he left, I was putting the things away,
and I opened the jeweller's case the diamonds were in--and they had
gone!"

"H'm--pretty barefaced. Look here, Mrs. Ruyslaender, you agree he's an
ampelopsis, but you won't call in the police. Honestly, now--forgive me;
you're askin' my advice, you know--is he worth botherin' about?"

"It's not that," said the woman, in a low tone. "Oh, no! But he took
something else as well. He took--a portrait--a small painting set with
diamonds."

"Oh!"

"Yes. It was in a secret drawer in the jewel-box. I can't imagine how he
knew it was there, but the box was an old casket, belonging to my
husband's family, and I fancy he must have known about the drawer
and--well, thought that investigation might prove profitable. Anyway,
the evening the diamonds went the portrait went too, and he knows I
daren't try to get the necklace back because they'd both be found
together."

"Was there something more than just the portrait, then? A portrait in
itself isn't necessarily hopeless of explanation. It was given you to
take care of, say."

"The names were on it--and--and an inscription which nothing, _nothing_
could ever explain away. A--a passage from Petronius."

"Oh, dear!" said Lord Peter, "dear me, yes. Rather a lively author."

"I was married very young," said Mrs. Ruyslaender, "and my husband and I
have never got on well. Then one year, when he was in Africa, it all
happened. We were wonderful--and shameless. It came to an end. I was
bitter. I wish I had not been. He left me, you see, and I couldn't
forgive it. I prayed day and night for revenge. Only now--I don't want
it to be through me!"

"Wait a moment," said Wimsey, "you mean that, if the diamonds are found
and the portrait is found too, all this story is bound to come out."

"My husband would get a divorce. He would never forgive me--or him. It
is not so much that I mind paying the price myself, but----"

She clenched her hands.

"I have cursed him again and again, and the clever girl who married him.
She played her cards so well. This would ruin them both."

"But if _you_ were the instrument of vengeance," said Wimsey gently,
"you would hate yourself. And it would be terrible to you because he
would hate you. A woman like you couldn't stoop to get your own back. I
see that. If God makes a thunderbolt, how awful and satisfying--if you
help to make a beastly row, what a rotten business it would be."

"You seem to understand." said Mrs. Ruyslaender. "How unusual."

"I understand perfectly. Though let me tell you," said Wimsey, with a
wry little twist of the lips, "that it's sheer foolishness for a woman
to have a sense of honour in such matters. It only gives her
excruciating pain, and nobody expects it, anyway. Look here, don't let's
get all worked up. You certainly shan't have your vengeance thrust upon
you by an ampelopsis. Why should you? Nasty fellow. We'll have him
up--root, branch, and little suckers. Don't worry. Let's see. My
business here will only take a day. Then I've got to get to know
Melville--say a week. Then I've got to get the doings--say another week,
provided he hasn't sold them yet, which isn't likely. Can you hold your
husband off 'em for a fortnight, d'you think?"

"Oh, yes. I'll say they're in the country, or being cleaned, or
something. But do you really think you can----?"

"I'll have a jolly good try, anyhow, Mrs. Ruyslaender. Is the fellow
hard up, to start stealing diamonds?"

"I fancy he has got into debt over horses lately. And possibly poker."

"Oh! Poker player, is he? That makes an excellent excuse for gettin' to
know him. Well, cheer up--we'll get the goods, even if we have to buy
'em. But we won't, if we can help it. Bunter!"

"My lord?" The valet appeared from the inner room.

"Just go an' give the 'All Clear,' will you?"

Mr. Bunter accordingly stepped into the passage, and, having seen an old
gentleman safely away to the bathroom and a young lady in a pink kimono
pop her head out of an adjacent door and hurriedly pop it back on
beholding him, blew his nose with a loud, trumpeting sound.

"Good night," said Mrs. Ruyslaender, "and thank you."

She slipped back to her room unobserved.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Whatever has induced you, my dear boy," said Colonel Marchbanks, "to
take up with that very objectionable fellow Melville?"

"Diamonds," said Lord Peter. "Do you find him so, really?"

"Perfectly dreadful man," said the Hon. Frederick Arbuthnot. "Hearts.
What did you want to go and get him a room here for? This used to be a
quite decent club."

"Two clubs?" said Sir Impey Biggs, who had been ordering a whisky, and
had only caught the last word.

"No, no, one heart."

"I beg your pardon. Well, partner, how about spades? Perfectly good
suit."

"Pass," said the Colonel. "I don't know what the Army's coming to
nowadays."

"No trumps," said Wimsey. "It's all right, children. Trust your Uncle
Pete. Come on, Freddy, how many of those hearts are you going to shout
for?"

"None, the Colonel havin' let me down so 'orrid," said the Hon. Freddy.

"Cautious blighter. All content? Righty-ho! Bring out your dead,
partner. Oh, very pretty indeed. We'll make it a slam this time. I'm
rather glad to hear that expression of opinion from you, Colonel,
because I particularly want you and Biggy to hang on this evening and
take a hand with Melville and me."

"What happens to me?" enquired the Hon. Freddy.

"You have an engagement and go home early, dear old thing. I've
specially invited friend Melville to meet the redoubtable Colonel
Marchbanks and our greatest criminal lawyer. Which hand am I supposed to
be playin' this from? Oh, yes. Come on, Colonel--you've got to hike that
old king out some time, why not now?"

"It's a plot," said Mr. Arbuthnot, with an exaggerated expression of
mystery. "Carry on, don't mind me."

"I take it you have your own reasons for cultivating the man," said Sir
Impey.

"The rest are mine, I fancy. Well, yes, I have. You and the Colonel
would really do me a favour by letting Melville cut in to-night."

"If you wish it," growled the Colonel, "but I hope the impudent young
beggar won't presume on the acquaintance."

"I'll see to that," said his lordship. "Your cards, Freddy. Who had the
ace of hearts? Oh! I had it myself, of course. Our honours . . . Hullo!
Evenin', Melville."

The ampelopsis was rather a good-looking creature in his own way. Tall
and bronzed, with a fine row of very persuasive teeth. He greeted Wimsey
and Arbuthnot heartily, the Colonel with a shade too much familiarity,
and expressed himself delighted to be introduced to Sir Impey Biggs.

"You're just in time to hold Freddy's hand," said Wimsey; "he's got a
date. Not his little paddy-paw, I don't mean--but the dam, rotten hand
he generally gets dealt him. Joke."

"Oh, well," said the obedient Freddy, rising, "I s'pose I'd better make
a noise like a hoop and roll away. Night, night, everybody."

Melville took his place, and the game continued with varying fortunes
for two hours, at the end of which time Colonel Marchbanks, who had
suffered much under his partner's eloquent theory of the game, was
beginning to wilt visibly.

Wimsey yawned.

"Gettin' a bit bored, Colonel? Wish they'd invent somethin' to liven
this game up a bit."

"Oh, Bridge is a one-horse show, anyway," said Melville. "Why not have a
little flutter at poker, Colonel? Do you all the good in the world. What
d'you say, Biggs?"

Sir Impey turned on Wimsey a thoughtful eye, accustomed to the sizing-up
of witnesses. Then he replied:

"I'm quite willing, if the others are."

"Damn good idea," said Lord Peter. "Come now, Colonel, be a sport.
You'll find the chips in that drawer, I think. I always lose money at
poker, but what's the odds so long as you're happy. Let's have a new
pack."

"Any limit?"

"What do _you_ say, Colonel?"

The Colonel proposed a twenty-shilling limit. Melville, with a grimace,
amended this to one-tenth of the pool. The amendment was carried and the
cards cut, the deal falling to the Colonel.

Contrary to his own prophecy, Wimsey began by winning considerably, and
grew so garrulously imbecile in the process that even the experienced
Melville began to wonder whether this indescribable fatuity was the
cloak of ignorance or the mask of the hardened poker-player. Soon,
however, he was reassured. The luck came over to his side, and he found
himself winning hands down, steadily from Sir Impey and the Colonel, who
played cautiously and took little risk--heavily from Wimsey, who
appeared reckless and slightly drunk, and was staking foolishly on quite
impossible cards.

"I never knew such luck as yours, Melville," said Sir Impey, when that
young man had scooped in the proceeds from a handsome straight-flush.

"My turn to-night, yours to-morrow," said Melville, pushing the cards
across to Biggs, whose deal it was.

Colonel Marchbanks required one card. Wimsey laughed vacantly and
demanded an entirely fresh hand; Biggs asked for three; and Melville,
after a pause for consideration, took one.

It seemed as though everybody had something respectable this
time--though Wimsey was not to be depended upon, frequently going the
limit upon a pair of jacks in order, as he expressed it, to keep the pot
a-boiling. He became peculiarly obstinate now, throwing his chips in
with a flushed face, in spite of Melville's confident air.

The Colonel got out, and after a short time Biggs followed his example.
Melville held on till the pool mounted to something under a hundred
pounds, when Wimsey suddenly turned restive and demanded to see him.

"Four kings," said Melville.

"Blast you!" said Lord Peter, laying down four queens. "No holdin' this
feller to-night, is there? Here, take the ruddy cards, Melville, and
give somebody else a look in, will you."

He shuffled them as he spoke, and handed them over. Melville dealt,
satisfied the demands of the other three players, and was in the act of
taking three new cards for himself, when Wimsey gave a sudden
exclamation, and shot a swift hand across the table.

"Hullo! Melville," he said, in a chill tone which bore no resemblance to
his ordinary speech, "what exactly does this mean?"

He lifted Melville's left arm clear of the table and, with a sharp
gesture, shook it. From the sleeve something fluttered to the table and
glided away to the floor. Colonel Marchbanks picked it up, and in a
dreadful silence laid the joker on the table.

"Good God!" said Sir Impey.

"You young blackguard!" gasped the Colonel, recovering speech.

"What the hell do you mean by this?" gasped Melville, with a face like
chalk. "How dare you! This is a trick--a plant----" A horrible fury
gripped him. "You dare to say that I have been cheating. You liar! You
filthy sharper. You put it there. I tell you, gentlemen," he cried,
looking desperately round the table, "he must have put it there."

"Come, come," said Colonel Marchbanks, "no good carryin' on that way,
Melville. Dear me, no good at all. Only makes matters worse. We all saw
it, you know. Dear, dear, I don't know what the Army's coming to."

"Do you mean you believe it?" shrieked Melville. "For God's sake,
Wimsey, is this a joke or what? Biggs--you've got a head on your
shoulders--are you going to believe this half-drunk fool and this
doddering old idiot who ought to be in his grave?"

"That language won't do you any good, Melville," said Sir Impey. "I'm
afraid we all saw it clearly enough."

"I've been suspectin' this some time, y'know," said Wimsey. "That's why
I asked you two to stay to-night. We don't want to make a public row,
but----"

"Gentlemen," said Melville more soberly, "I swear to you that I am
absolutely innocent of this ghastly thing. Can't you believe me?"

"I can believe the evidence of my own eyes, sir," said the Colonel, with
some heat.

"For the good of the club," said Wimsey, "this couldn't go on, but--also
for the good of the club--I think we should all prefer the matter to be
quietly arranged. In the face of what Sir Impey and the Colonel can
witness, Melville, I'm afraid your protestations are not likely to be
credited."

Melville looked from the soldier's face to that of the great criminal
lawyer.

"I don't know what your game is," he said sullenly to Wimsey, "but I can
see you've laid a trap and pulled it off all right."

"I think, gentlemen," said Wimsey, "that, if I might have a word in
private with Melville in his own room, I could get the thing settled
satisfactorily, without undue fuss."

"He'll have to resign his commission," growled the Colonel.

"I'll put it to him in that light," said Peter. "May we go to your room
for a minute, Melville?"

With a lowering brow, the young soldier led the way. Once alone with
Wimsey, he turned furiously on him.

"What do you want? What do you mean by making this monstrous charge?
I'll take action for libel!"

"Do," said Wimsey coolly, "if you think anybody is likely to believe
your story."

He lit a cigarette, and smiled lazily at the angry young man.

"Well, what's the meaning of it, anyway?"

"The meaning," said Wimsey, "is simply that you, an officer and a member
of this club, have been caught red-handed cheating at cards while
playing for money, the witnesses being Sir Impey Biggs, Colonel
Marchbanks, and myself. Now, I suggest to you, Captain Melville, that
your best plan is to let me take charge of Mrs. Ruyslaender's diamond
necklace and portrait, and then just to trickle away quiet-like from
these halls of dazzlin' light--without any questions asked."

Melville leapt to his feet.

"My God!" he cried. "I can see it now. It's blackmail."

"You may certainly call it blackmail, and theft too," said Lord Peter,
with a shrug. "But why use ugly names? I hold five aces, you see. Better
chuck in your hand."

"Suppose I say I never heard of the diamonds?"

"It's a bit late now, isn't it?" said Wimsey affably. "But, in that
case, I'm beastly sorry and all that, of course, but we shall have to
make to-night's business public."

"Damn you!" muttered Melville, "you sneering devil."

He showed all his white teeth, half springing, with crouched shoulders.
Wimsey waited quietly, his hands in his pockets.

The rush did not come. With a furious gesture, Melville pulled out his
keys and unlocked his dressing-case.

"Take them," he growled, flinging a small parcel on the table; "you've
got me. Take 'em and go to hell."

"Eventually--why not now?" murmured his lordship. "Thanks frightfully.
Man of peace myself, you know--hate unpleasantness and all that." He
scrutinised his booty carefully, running the stones expertly between his
fingers. Over the portrait he pursed up his lips. "Yes," he murmured,
"that _would_ have made a row." He replaced the wrapping and slipped the
parcel into his pocket.

"Well, good night, Melville--and thanks for a pleasant game."

       *       *       *       *       *

"I say, Biggs," said Wimsey, when he had returned to the card-room.
"You've had a lot of experience. What tactics d'you think one's
justified in usin' with a blackmailer?"

"Ah!" said the K.C. "There you've put your finger on Society's sore
place, where the Law is helpless. Speaking as a man, I'd say nothing
could be too bad for the brute. It's a crime crueller and infinitely
worse in its results than murder. As a lawyer, I can only say that I
have consistently refused to defend a blackmailer or to prosecute any
poor devil who does away with his tormentor."

"H'm," replied Wimsey. "What do you say, Colonel?"

"A man like that's a filthy pest," said the little warrior stoutly.
"Shootin's too good for him. I knew a man--close personal friend, in
fact--hounded to death--blew his brains out--one of the best. Don't like
to talk about it."

"I want to show you something," said Wimsey.

He picked up the pack which still lay scattered on the table, and
shuffled it together.

"Catch hold of these, Colonel, and lay 'em out face downwards. That's
right. First of all you cut 'em at the twentieth card--you'll see the
seven of diamonds at the bottom. Correct? Now I'll call 'em. Ten of
hearts, ace of spades, three of clubs, five of clubs, king of diamonds,
nine, jack, two of hearts. Right? I could pick 'em all out, you see,
except the ace of hearts, and that's here."

He leaned forward and produced it dexterously from Sir Impey's
breast-pocket.

"I learnt it from a man who shared my dug-out near Ypres," he said. "You
needn't mention to-night's business, you two. There are crimes which the
Law cannot reach."




THE UNDIGNIFIED MELODRAMA OF THE BONE OF CONTENTION


"I am afraid you have brought shocking weather with you, Lord Peter,"
said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym, with playful reproof. "If it goes on like this
they will have a bad day for the funeral."

Lord Peter Wimsey glanced out of the morning-room window to the soaked
green lawn and the shrubbery, where the rain streamed down remorselessly
over the laurel leaves, stiff and shiny like mackintoshes.

"Nasty exposed business, standing round at funerals," he agreed.

"Yes, I always think it's such a shame for the old people. In a tiny
village like this it's about the only pleasure they get during the
winter. It makes something for them to talk about for weeks."

"Is it anybody's funeral in particular?"

"My dear Wimsey," said his host, "it is plain that you, coming from your
little village of London, are quite out of the swim. There has never
been a funeral like it in Little Doddering before. It's an event."

"Really?"

"Oh dear, yes. You may possibly remember old Burdock?"

"Burdock? Let me see. Isn't he a sort of local squire, or something?"

"He was," corrected Mr. Frobisher-Pym. "He's dead--died in New York
about three weeks ago, and they're sending him over to be buried. The
Burdocks have lived in the big house for hundreds of years, and they're
all buried in the churchyard, except, of course, the one who was killed
in the War. Burdock's secretary cabled the news of his death across, and
said the body was following as soon as the embalmers had finished with
it. The boat gets in to Southampton this morning, I believe. At any
rate, the body will arrive here by the 6.30 from Town."

"Are you going down to meet it, Tom?"

"No, my dear. I don't think that is called for. There will be a grand
turn-out of the village, of course. Joliffe's people are having the time
of their lives; they borrowed an extra pair of horses from young
Mortimer for the occasion. I only hope they don't kick over the traces
and upset the hearse. Mortimer's horseflesh is generally on the spirited
side."

"But, Tom, we must show some respect to the Burdocks."

"We're attending the funeral to-morrow, and that's quite enough. We must
do that, I suppose, out of consideration for the family, though, as far
as the old man himself goes, respect is the very last thing anybody
would think of paying him."

"Oh, Tom, he's dead."

"And quite time too. No, Agatha, it's no use pretending that old Burdock
was anything but a spiteful, bad-tempered, dirty-living old blackguard
that the world's well rid of. The last scandal he stirred up made the
place too hot to hold him. He had to leave the country and go to the
States, and, even so, if he hadn't had the money to pay the people off,
he'd probably have been put in gaol. That's why I'm so annoyed with
Hancock. I don't mind his calling himself a priest, though clergyman was
always good enough for dear old Weeks--who, after all, was a canon--and
I don't mind his vestments. He can wrap himself up in a Union Jack if he
likes--it doesn't worry _me_. But when it comes to having old Burdock
put on trestles in the south aisle, with candles round him, and Hubbard
from the 'Red Cow' and Duggins's boy praying over him half the night, I
think it's time to draw the line. The people don't like it, you know--at
least, the older generation don't. It's all right for the young ones, I
dare say; they must have their amusement; but it gives offence to a lot
of the farmers. After all, they knew Burdock a bit too well.
Simpson--he's people's warden, you know--came up quite in distress to
speak to me about it last night. You couldn't have a sounder man than
Simpson. I said I would speak to Hancock. I did speak to him this
morning, as a matter of fact, but you might as well talk to the west
door of the church."

"Mr. Hancock is one of those young men who fancy they know everything,"
said his wife. "A sensible man would have listened to you, Tom. You're a
magistrate and have lived here all your life, and it stands to reason
you know considerably more about the parish than he does."

"He took up the ridiculous position," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "that the
more sinful the old man had been the more he needed praying for. I said,
'I think it would need more praying than you or I could do to help old
Burdock out of the place he's in now.' Ha, ha! So he said, 'I agree with
you, Mr. Frobisher-Pym; that is why I am having eight watchers to pray
all through the night for him.' I admit he had me there."

"Eight people?" exclaimed Mrs. Frobisher-Pym.

"Not all at once, I understand; in relays, two at a time. 'Well,' I
said, 'I think you ought to consider that you will be giving a handle to
the Nonconformists.' Of course, he couldn't deny that."

Wimsey helped himself to marmalade. Nonconformists, it seemed, were
always searching for handles. Though what kind--whether door-handles,
tea-pot handles, pump-handles, or starting-handles--was never explained,
nor what the handles were to be used for when found. However, having
been brought up in the odour of the Establishment, he was familiar with
this odd dissenting peculiarity, and merely said:

"Pity to be extreme in a small parish like this. Disturbs the ideas of
the simple fathers of the hamlet and the village blacksmith, with his
daughter singin' in the choir and the Old Hundredth and all the rest of
it. Don't Burdock's family have anything to say to it? There are some
sons, aren't there?"

"Only the two, now. Aldine was the one that was killed, of course, and
Martin is somewhere abroad. He went off after that row with his father,
and I don't think he has been back in England since."

"What was the row about?"

"Oh, that was a disgraceful business. Martin got a girl into trouble--a
film actress or a typist or somebody of that sort--and insisted on
marrying her."

"Oh?"

"Yes, so dreadful of him," said the lady, taking up the tale, "when he
was practically engaged to the Delaprime girl--the one with glasses, you
know. It made a terrible scandal. Some horribly vulgar people came down
and pushed their way into the house and insisted on seeing old Mr.
Burdock. I will say for him he stood up to them--he wasn't the sort of
person you could intimidate. He told them the girl had only herself to
blame, and they could sue Martin if they liked--_he_ wouldn't be
blackmailed on his son's account. The butler was listening at the door,
naturally, and told the whole village about it. And then Martin Burdock
came home and had a quarrel with his father you could have heard for
miles. He said that the whole thing was a lie, and that he meant to
marry the girl, anyway. I cannot understand how anybody could marry into
a blackmailing family like that."

"My dear," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym gently, "I don't think you're being
quite fair to Martin, or his wife's parents, either. From what Martin
told me, they were quite decent people, only not his class, of course,
and they came in a well-meaning way to find out what Martin's
'intentions' were. You would want to do the same yourself, if it were a
daughter of ours. Old Burdock, naturally, thought they meant blackmail.
He was the kind of man who thinks everything can be paid for; and he
considered a son of his had a perfect right to seduce a young woman who
worked for a living. I don't say Martin was altogether in the right----"

"Martin is a chip off the old block, I'm afraid," retorted the lady. "He
married the girl, anyway, and why should he do that, unless he had to?"

"Well, they've never had any children, you know," said Mr.
Frobisher-Pym.

"That's as may be. I've no doubt the girl was in league with her
parents. And you know the Martin Burdocks have lived in Paris ever
since."

"That's true," admitted her husband. "It was an unfortunate affair
altogether. They've had some difficulty in tracing Martin's address,
too, but no doubt he'll be coming back shortly. He is engaged in
producing some film play, they tell me, so possibly he can't get away in
time for the funeral."

"If he had any natural feeling, he would not let a film play stand in
his way," said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym.

"My dear, there are such things as contracts, with very heavy monetary
penalties for breaking them. And I don't suppose Martin could afford to
lose a big sum of money. It's not likely that his father will have left
him anything."

"Martin is the younger son, then?" asked Wimsey, politely showing more
interest than he felt in the rather well-worn plot of this village
melodrama.

"No, he is the eldest of the lot. The house is entailed, of course, and
so is the estate, such as it is. But there's no money in the land. Old
Burdock made his fortune in rubber shares during the boom, and the money
will go as he leaves it--wherever that may be, for they haven't found
any will yet. He's probably left it all to Haviland."

"The younger son?"

"Yes. He's something in the City--a director of a company--connected
with silk stockings, I believe. Nobody has seen very much of him. He
came down as soon as he heard of his father's death. He's staying with
the Hancocks. The big house has been shut up since old Burdock went to
the States four years ago. I suppose Haviland thought it wasn't worth
while opening it up till they knew what Martin was going to do about it.
That's why the body is being taken to the church."

"Much less trouble, certainly," said Wimsey.

"Oh, yes--though, mind you, I think Haviland ought to take a more
neighbourly view of it. Considering the position the Burdocks have
always held in the place, the people had a right to expect a proper
reception after the funeral. It's usual. But these business people think
less of tradition than we do down here. And, naturally, since the
Hancocks are putting Haviland up, he can't raise much objection to the
candles and the prayers and things."

"Perhaps not," said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym, "but it would have been more
suitable if Haviland had come to us, rather than to the Hancocks, whom
he doesn't even know."

"My dear, you forget the very unpleasant dispute I had with Haviland
Burdock about shooting over my land. After the correspondence that
passed between us, last time he was down here, I could scarcely offer
him hospitality. His father took a perfectly proper view of it, I will
say that for him, but Haviland was exceedingly discourteous to me, and
things were said which I could not possibly overlook. However, we
mustn't bore you, Lord Peter, with our local small-talk. If you've
finished your breakfast, what do you say to a walk round the place? It's
a pity it's raining so hard--and you don't see the garden at its best
this time of the year, of course--but I've got some cocker span'els you
might like to have a look at."

Lord Peter expressed eager anxiety to see the spaniels, and in a few
minutes' time found himself squelching down the gravel path which led to
the kennels.

"Nothing like a healthy country life," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym. "I always
think London is so depressing in the winter. Nothing to do with one's
self. All right to run up for a day or two and see a theatre now and
again, but how you people stick it week in and week out beats me. I must
speak to Plunkett about this archway," he added. "It's getting out of
trim."

He broke off a dangling branch of ivy as he spoke. The plant shuddered
revengefully, tipping a small shower of water down Wimsey's neck.

The cocker spaniel and her family occupied a comfortable and airy stall
in the stable buildings. A youngish man in breeches and leggings emerged
to greet the visitors, and produced the little bundles of puppyhood for
their inspection. Wimsey sat down on an upturned bucket and examined
them gravely one by one. The bitch, after cautiously reviewing his boots
and grumbling a little, decided that he was trustworthy and slobbered
genially over his knees.

"Let me see," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "how old are they?"

"Thirteen days, sir."

"Is she feeding them all right?"

"Fine, sir. She's having some of the malt food. Seems to suit her very
well, sir."

"Ah, yes. Plunkett was a little doubtful about it, but I heard it spoken
very well of. Plunkett doesn't care for experiments, and, in a general
way, I agree with him. Where is Plunkett, by the way?"

"He's not very well this morning, sir."

"Sorry to hear that, Merridew. The rheumatics again?"

"No, sir. From what Mrs. Plunkett tells me, he's had a bit of a shock."

"A shock? What sort of a shock? Nothing wrong with Alf or Elsie, I
hope?"

"No, sir. The fact is--I understand he's seen something, sir."

"What do you mean, seen something?"

"Well, sir--something in the nature of a warning, from what he says."

"A warning? Good heavens, Merridew, he mustn't get those sort of ideas
in his head. I'm surprised at Plunkett; I always thought he was a very
level-headed man. What sort of warning did he say it was?"

"I couldn't say, sir."

"Surely he mentioned what he thought he'd seen."

Merridew's face took on a slightly obstinate look.

"I can't say, I'm sure, sir."

"This will never do. I must go and see Plunkett. Is he at the cottage?"

"Yes, sir."

"We'll go down there at once. You don't mind, do you, Wimsey? I can't
allow Plunkett to make himself ill. If he's had a shock he'd better see
a doctor. Well, carry on, Merridew, and be sure you keep her warm and
comfortable. The damp is apt to come up through these brick floors. I'm
thinking of having the whole place re-set with concrete, but it takes
money, of course. I can't imagine," he went on, as he led the way past
the greenhouse towards a trim cottage set in its own square of
kitchen-garden, "what can have happened to have upset Plunkett. I hope
it's nothing serious. He's getting elderly, of course, but he ought to
be above believing in warnings. You wouldn't believe the extraordinary
ideas these people get hold of. Fact is, I expect he's been round at the
'Weary Traveller,' and caught sight of somebody's washing hung out on
the way home."

"Not washing," corrected Wimsey mechanically. He had a deductive turn of
mind which exposed the folly of the suggestion even while irritably
admitting that the matter was of no importance. "It poured with rain
last night, and, besides, it's Thursday. But Tuesday and Wednesday were
fine, so the drying would have all been done then. No washing."

"Well, well--something else then--a post, or old Mrs. Giddens's white
donkey. Plunkett does occasionally take a drop too much, I'm sorry to
say, but he's a very good kennel-man, so one overlooks it. They're
superstitious round about these parts, and they can tell some queer
tales if once you get into their confidence. You'd be surprised how far
off the main track we are as regards civilisation. Why, not here, but at
Abbotts Bolton, fifteen miles off, it's as much as one's life's worth to
shoot a hare. Witches, you know, and that sort of thing."

"I shouldn't be a bit surprised. They'll still tell you about werewolves
in some parts of Germany."

"Yes, I dare say. Well, here we are." Mr. Frobisher-Pym rapped loudly
with his walking-stick on the door of the cottage and turned the handle
without waiting for permission.

"You there, Mrs. Plunkett? May we come in? Ah! good morning. Hope we're
not disturbing you, but Merridew told me Plunkett was not so well. This
is Lord Peter Wimsey--a very old friend of mine; that is to say, I'm a
very old friend of _his_; ha, ha!"

"Good morning, sir; good morning, your lordship. I'm sure Plunkett will
be very pleased to see you. Please step in. Plunkett, here's Mr. Pym to
see you."

The elderly man who sat crouching over the fire turned a mournful face
towards them, and half rose, touching his forehead.

"Well, now, Plunkett, what's the trouble?" enquired Mr. Frobisher-Pym,
with the hearty bedside manner adopted by country gentlefolk visiting
their dependants. "Sorry not to see you out and about. Touch of the old
complaint, eh?"

"No, sir; no, sir. Thank you, sir. I'm well enough in myself. But I've
had a warning, and I'm not long for this world."

"Not long for this world? Oh, nonsense, Plunkett. You mustn't talk like
that. A touch of indigestion, that's what you've got, I expect. Gives
one the blues, I know. I'm sure I often feel like nothing on earth when
I've got one of my bilious attacks. Try a dose of castor-oil, or a good
old-fashioned blue pill and black draught. Nothing like it. Then you
won't talk about warnings and dying."

"No medicine won't do no good to _my_ complaint, sir. Nobody as see what
I've seed ever got the better of it. But as you and the gentleman are
here, sir, I'm wondering if you'll do me a favour."

"Of course, Plunkett, anything you like. What is it?"

"Why, just to draw up my will, sir. Old Parson, he used to do it. But I
don't fancy this new young man, with his candles and bits of things. It
don't seem as if he'd make it good and legal, sir, and I wouldn't like
it if there was any dispute after I was gone. So as there ain't much
time left me, I'd be grateful if you'd put it down clear for me in pen
and ink that I wants my little bit all to go to Sarah here, and after
her to Alf and Elsie, divided up equal."

"Of course I'll do that for you, Plunkett, any time you like. But it's
all nonsense to be talking about wills. Bless my soul, I shouldn't be
surprised if you were to see us all underground."

"No, sir. I've been a hale and hearty man, I'm not denying. But I've
been called, sir, and I've got to go. It must come to all of us, I know
that. But it's a fearful thing to see the death-coach come for one, and
know that the dead are in it, that cannot rest in the grave."

"Come now, Plunkett, you don't mean to tell me you believe in that old
foolishness about the death-coach. I thought you were an educated man.
What would Alf say if he heard you talking such nonsense?"

"Ah, sir, young people don't know everything, and there's many more
things in God's creation than what you'll find in the printed books."

"Oh, well," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, finding this opening irresistible,
"we know there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are
dreamt of in your philosophy. Quite so. But that doesn't apply
nowadays," he added contradictorily. "There are no ghosts in the
twentieth century. Just you think the matter out quietly, and you'll
find you've made a mistake. There's probably some quite simple
explanation. Dear me! I remember Mrs. Frobisher-Pym waking up one night
and having a terrible fright, because she thought somebody'd been and
hanged himself on our bedroom door. Such a silly idea, because I was
safe in bed beside her--snoring, _she_ said, ha, ha!--and, if anybody
was feeling like hanging himself, he wouldn't come into our bedroom to
do it. Well, she clutched my arm in a great state of mind, and when I
went to see what had alarmed her, what do you think it was? My trousers,
which I'd hung up by the braces, with the socks still in the legs! My
word! and didn't I get a wigging for not having put my things away
tidy!"

Mr. Frobisher-Pym laughed, and Mrs. Plunkett said dutifully, "There
now!" Her husband shook his head.

"That may be, sir, but I see the death-coach last night with my own
eyes. Just striking midnight it was, by the church clock, and I see it
come up the lane by the old priory wall."

"And what were you doing out of bed at midnight, eh?"

"Well, sir, I'd been round to my sister's, that's got her boy home on
leaf off of his ship."

"And you'd been drinking his health, I dare say, Plunkett." Mr.
Frobisher-Pym wagged an admonitory forefinger.

"No, sir, I don't deny I'd had a glass or two of ale, but not to fuddle
me. My wife can tell you I was sober enough when I got home."

"That's right, sir. Plunkett hadn't taken too much last night, that I'll
swear to."

"Well, what was it you saw, Plunkett?"

"I see the death-coach, same as I'm telling you, sir. It come up the
lane, all ghostly white, sir, and never making no more sound than the
dead--which it were, sir."

"A wagon or something going through to Lymptree or Herriotting."

"No, sir--'tweren't a wagon. I counted the horses--four white horses,
and they went by with never a sound of hoof or bridle. And that
weren't----"

"Four horses! Come, Plunkett, you must have been seeing double. There's
nobody about here would be driving four horses, unless it was Mr.
Mortimer from Abbotts Bolton, and he wouldn't be taking his horseflesh
out at midnight."

"Four horses they was, sir. I see them plain. And it weren't Mr.
Mortimer, neither, for he drives a drag, and this were a big, heavy
coach, with no lights on it, but shinin' all of itself, with a colour
like moonshine."

"Oh, nonsense, man! You couldn't see the moon last night. It was
pitch-dark."

"No, sir, but the coach shone all moony-like, all the same."

"And no lights? I wonder what the police would say to that."

"No mortal police could stop that coach," said Plunkett contemptuously,
"nor no mortal man could abide the sight on it. I tell you, sir, that
ain't the worst of it. The horses----"

"Was it going slowly?"

"No, sir. It were going at a gallop, only the hoofs didn't touch the
ground. There weren't no sound, and I see the black road and the white
hoofs half a foot off of it. And the horses had no heads."

"No heads?"

"No, sir."

Mr. Frobisher-Pym laughed.

"Come, come, Plunkett, you don't expect us to swallow that. No heads?
How could even a ghost drive horses with no heads? How about the reins,
eh?"

"You may laugh, sir, but we know that with God all things are possible.
Four white horses they was. I see them clearly, but there was neither
head nor neck beyond the collar, sir. I see the reins, shining like
silver, and they ran up to the rings of the hames, and they didn't go no
further. If I was to drop down dead this minute, sir, that's what I
see."

"Was there a driver to this wonderful turn-out?"

"Yes, sir, there was a driver."

"Headless too, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir, headless too. At least, I couldn't see nothing of him beyond
his coat, which had them old-fashioned capes at the shoulders."

"Well, I must say, Plunkett, you're very circumstantial. How far off was
this--er--apparition when you saw it?"

"I was passing by the War Memorial, sir, when I see it come up the lane.
It wouldn't be above twenty or thirty yards from where I stood. It went
by at a gallop, and turned off to the left round the churchyard wall."

"Well, well, it sounds odd, certainly, but it was a dark night, and at
that distance your eyes may have deceived you. Now, if you'll take my
advice you'll think no more about it."

"Ah, sir, it's all very well saying that, but everybody knows the man
who sees the death-coach of the Burdocks is doomed to die within the
week. There's no use rebelling against it, sir; it is so. And if you'll
be so good as to oblige me over that matter of a will, I'd die happier
for knowing as Sarah and the children was sure of their bit of money."

Mr. Frobisher-Pym obliged over the will, though much against the grain,
exhorting and scolding as he wrote. Wimsey added his own signature as
one of the witnesses, and contributed his own bit of comfort.

"I shouldn't worry too much about the coach, if I were you," he said.
"Depend upon it, if it's the Burdock coach it'll just have come for the
soul of the old squire. It couldn't be expected to go to New York for
him, don't you see? It's just gettin' ready for the funeral to-morrow."

"That's likely enough," agreed Plunkett. "Often and often it's been seen
in these parts when one of the Burdocks was taken. But it's terrible
unlucky to see it."

The thought of the funeral seemed, however, to cheer him a little. The
visitors again begged him not to think about it, and took their
departure.

[Illustration: Map]

"Isn't it wonderful," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "what imagination will do
with these people? And they're obstinate. You could argue with them till
you were black in the face."

"Yes. I say, let's go down to the church and have a look at the place.
I'd like to know how much he could really have seen from where he was
standing."

The parish church of Little Doddering stands, like so many country
churches, at some distance from the houses. The main road from
Herriotting, Abbotts Bolton, and Frimpton runs past the west gate of the
churchyard--a wide God's acre, crowded with ancient stones. On the south
side is a narrow and gloomy lane, heavily overhung with old elm-trees,
dividing the church from the still more ancient ruins of Doddering
Priory. On the main road, a little beyond the point where Old Priory
Lane enters, stands the War Memorial, and from here the road runs
straight on into Little Doddering. Round the remaining two sides of the
churchyard winds another lane, known to the village simply as the Back
Lane. This branches out from the Herriotting road about a hundred yards
north of the church, connects with the far end of Priory Lane, and
thence proceeds deviously to Shootering Underwood, Hamsey, Thripsey, and
Wyck.

"Whatever it was Plunkett thinks he saw," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "it
must have come from Shootering. The Back Lane only leads round by some
fields and a cottage or two, and it stands to reason anybody coming from
Frimpton would have taken the main road, going and coming. The lane is
in a very bad state with all this rain. I'm afraid even your detective
ability, my dear Wimsey, would not avail to find wheel-marks on this
modern tarmac."

"Hardly," said Wimsey, "especially in the case of a ghostly chariot
which gets along without touching the ground. But your reasoning seems
perfectly sound, sir."

"It was probably a couple of belated wagons going to market," pursued
Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "and the rest of it is superstition and, I am afraid,
the local beer. Plunkett couldn't have seen all those details about
drivers and hames and so on at this distance. And, if it was making no
noise, how did he come to notice it at all, since he'd got past the turn
and was walking in the other direction? Depend upon it, he heard the
wheels and imagined the rest."

"Probably," said Wimsey.

"Of course," went on his host, "if the wagons really were going about
without lights, it ought to be looked into. It is a very dangerous
thing, with all these motor vehicles about, and I've had to speak
severely about it before now. I fined a man only the other day for the
very same thing. Do you care to see the church while we're here?"

Knowing that in country places it is always considered proper to see the
church, Lord Peter expressed his eagerness to do so.

"It's always open nowadays," said the magistrate, leading the way to the
west entrance. "The vicar has an idea that churches should be always
open for private prayer. He comes from a town living, of course. Round
about here the people are always out on the land, and you can't expect
them to come into church in their working clothes and muddy boots. They
wouldn't think it respectful, and they've other things to do. Besides,
I said to him, consider the opportunity it gives for undesirable
conduct. But he's a young man, and he'll have to learn by experience."

He pushed the door open. A curious, stuffy waft of stale incense, damp,
and stoves rushed out at them as they entered--a kind of concentrated
extract of Church of England. The two altars, bright with flowers and
gilding, and showing as garish splashes among the heavy shadows and
oppressive architecture of the little Norman building, sounded the same
note of contradiction; it was the warm and human that seemed exotic and
unfamiliar; the cold and unwelcoming that seemed native to the place and
people.

"This Lady-chapel, as Hancock calls it, in the south aisle, is new, of
course," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym. "It aroused a good deal of opposition,
but the Bishop is lenient with the High Church party--too lenient, some
people think--but, after all, what does it matter? I'm sure I can say my
prayers just as well with two communion-tables as with one. And, I will
say for Hancock, he is very good with the young men and the girls. In
these days of motor-cycles, it's something to get them interested in
religion at all. Those trestles in the chapel are for old Burdock's
coffin, I suppose. Ah! Here is the vicar."

A thin man in a cassock emerged from a door beside the high altar and
came down towards them, carrying a tall, oaken candlestick in his hand.
He greeted them with a slightly professional smile of welcome. Wimsey
diagnosed him promptly as earnest, nervous, and not highly intellectual.

"The candlesticks have only just come," he observed after the usual
introductions had been made. "I was afraid they would not be here in
time. However, all is now well."

He set the candlestick beside the coffin-trestles, and proceeded to
decorate its brass spike with a long candle of unbleached wax, which he
took from a parcel in a neighbouring pew.

Mr. Frobisher-Pym said nothing. Wimsey felt it incumbent on him to
express his interest, and did so.

"It is very gratifying," said Mr. Hancock, thus encouraged, "to see the
people beginning to take a real interest in their church. I have really
had very little difficulty in finding watchers for to-night. We are
having eight watchers, two by two, from 10 o'clock this evening--till
which time I shall be myself on duty--till six in the morning, when I
come in to say Mass. The men will carry on till 2 o'clock, then my wife
and daughter will relieve them, and Mr. Hubbard and young Rawlinson have
kindly consented to take the hours from four till six."

"What Rawlinson is that?" demanded Mr. Frobisher-Pym.

"Mr. Graham's clerk from Herriotting. It is true he is not a member of
the parish, but he was born here, and was good enough to wish to take
his turn in watching. He is coming over on his motor-cycle. After all,
Mr. Graham has had charge of Burdock's family affairs for very many
years, and no doubt they wished to show their respect in some way."

"Well, I only hope he'll be awake enough to do his work in the morning,
after gadding about all night," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym gruffly. "As for
Hubbard, that's his own look-out, though I must say it seems an odd
occupation for a publican. Still, if he's pleased, and you're pleased,
there's no more to be said about it."

"You've got a very beautiful old church here, Mr. Hancock," said Wimsey,
seeing that controversy seemed imminent.

"Very beautiful indeed," said the vicar. "Have you noticed that apse? It
is rare for a village church to possess such a perfect Norman apse.
Perhaps you would like to come and look at it." He genuflected as they
passed a hanging lamp which burned before a niche. "You see, we are
permitted Reservation. The Bishop----" He prattled cheerfully as they
wandered up the chancel, digressing from time to time to draw attention
to the handsome miserere seats ("Of course, this was the original Priory
Church"), and a beautifully carved piscina and aumbry ("It is rare to
find them so well preserved"). Wimsey assisted him to carry down the
remaining candlesticks from the vestry, and, when these had been put in
position, joined Mr. Frobisher-Pym at the door.

       *       *       *       *       *

"I think you said you were dining with the Lumsdens to-night," said the
magistrate, as they sat smoking after lunch. "How are you going? Will
you have the car?"

"I'd rather you'd lend me one of the saddle-horses," said Wimsey. "I get
few opportunities of riding in town."

"Certainly, my dear boy, certainly. Only I'm afraid you'll have rather a
wet ride. Take Polly Flinders; it will do her good to get some exercise.
You are quite sure you would prefer it? Have you got your kit with you?"

"Yes--I brought an old pair of bags down with me, and, with this
raincoat, I shan't come to any harm. They won't expect me to dress. How
far is it to Frimpton, by the way?"

"Nine miles by the main road, and tarmac all the way, I'm afraid, but
there's a good wide piece of grass each side. And, of course, you can
cut off a mile or so by going across the common. What time will you want
to start?"

"Oh, about seven o'clock, I should think. And, I say, sir--will Mrs.
Frobisher-Pym think it very rude if I'm rather late back? Old Lumsden
and I went through the war together, and if we get yarning over old
times we may go on into the small hours. I don't want to feel I'm
treating your house like a hotel, but----"

"Of course not, of course not! That's absolutely all right. My wife
won't mind in the very least. We want you to enjoy your visit and do
exactly what you like. I'll give you the key, and I'll remember not to
put the chain up. Perhaps you wouldn't mind doing that yourself when you
come in?"

"Rather not. And how about the mare?"

"I'll tell Merridew to look out for you; he sleeps over the stables. I
only wish it were going to be a better night for you. I'm afraid the
glass is going back. Yes. Dear, dear! It's a bad look-out for to-morrow.
By the way, you'll probably pass the funeral procession at the church.
It should be along by about then, if the train is punctual."

The train, presumably, was punctual, for as Lord Peter cantered up to
the west gate of the church he saw a hearse of great funereal pomp drawn
up before it, surrounded by a little crowd of people. Two mourning
coaches were in attendance; the driver of the second seemed to be having
some difficulty with the horses, and Wimsey rightly inferred that this
was the pair which had been borrowed from Mr. Mortimer. Restraining
Polly Flinders as best he might, he sidled into a respectful position on
the edge of the crowd, and watched the coffin taken from the hearse and
carried through the gate, where it was met by Mr. Hancock, in full
pontificals, attended by a thurifer and two torch-bearers. The effect
was a little marred by the rain, which had extinguished the candles, but
the village seemed to look upon it as an excellent show nevertheless. A
massive man, dressed with great correctness in a black frock coat and
tall hat, and accompanied by a woman in handsome mourning and furs, was
sympathetically commented on. This was Haviland Burdock of silk-stocking
fame, the younger son of the deceased. A vast number of white wreaths
were then handed out, and greeted with murmurs of admiration and
approval. The choir struck up a hymn, rather raggedly, and the
procession filed away into the church. Polly Flinders shook her head
vigorously, and Wimsey, taking this as a signal to be gone, replaced his
hat and ambled gently away towards Frimpton.

He followed the main road for about four miles, winding up through
finely wooded country to the edge of Frimpton Common. Here the road made
a wide sweep, skirting the common and curving gently down into Frimpton
village. Wimsey hesitated for a moment, considering that it was growing
dark and that both the way and the animal he rode were strange to him.
There seemed, however, to be a well-defined bridle-path across the
common, and eventually he decided to take it. Polly Flinders seemed to
know it well enough, and cantered along without hesitation. A ride of
about a mile and a half brought them without adventure into the main
road again. Here a fork in the road presented itself confusingly; an
electric torch, however, and a signpost solved the problem; after which
ten minutes' ride brought the traveller to his goal.

Major Lumsden was a large, cheerful man--none the less cheerful for
having lost a leg in the War. He had a large, cheerful wife, a large,
cheerful house, and a large, cheerful family. Wimsey soon found himself
seated before a fire as large and cheerful as the rest of the
establishment, exchanging gossip with his hosts over a whisky-and-soda.
He described the Burdock funeral with irreverent gusto, and went on to
tell the story of the phantom coach. Major Lumsden laughed.

"It's a quaint part of the country," he said. "The policeman is just as
bad as the rest of them. Do you remember, dear, the time I had to go out
and lay a ghost, down at Pogson's farm?"

"I do, indeed," said his wife emphatically. "The maids had a wonderful
time. Trivett--that's our local constable--came rushing in here and
fainted in the kitchen, and they all sat round howling and sustaining
him with our best brandy, while Dan went down and investigated."

"Did you find the ghost?"

"Well, not the ghost, exactly, but we found a pair of boots and half a
pork-pie in the empty house, so we put it all down to a tramp. Still, I
must say odd things do happen about here. There were those fires on the
common last year. They were never explained."

"Gipsies, Dan."

"Maybe; but nobody ever saw them, and the fires would start in the most
unexpected way, sometimes in the pouring rain; and, before you could get
near one, it would be out, and only a sodden wet black mark left behind
it. And there's another bit of the common that animals don't like--near
what they call the Dead Man's Post. My dogs won't go near it. Funny
brutes. I've never seen anything there, but even in broad daylight they
don't seem to fancy it. The common's not got a good reputation. It used
to be a great place for highwaymen."

"Is the Burdock coach anything to do with highwaymen?"

"No. I fancy it was some rakehelly dead-and-gone Burdock. Belonged to
the Hell-fire Club or something. The usual sort of story. All the people
round here believe in it, of course. It's rather a good thing. Keeps the
servants indoors at night. Well, let's go and have some grub, shall we?"

       *       *       *       *       *

"Do you remember," said Major Lumsden, "that damned old mill, and the
three elms by the pig-sty?"

"Good Lord, yes! You very obligingly blew them out of the landscape for
us, I remember. They made us a damned sight too conspicuous."

"We rather missed them when they were gone."

"Thank heaven you didn't miss them when they were there. I'll tell you
what you did miss, though."

"What's that?"

"The old sow."

"By Jove, yes. Do you remember old Piper fetching her in?"

"I'll say I do. That reminds me. You knew Bunthorne . . ."

"I'll say good night," said Mrs. Lumsden, "and leave you people to it."

"Do you remember," said Lord Peter Wimsey, "that awkward moment when
Popham went off his rocker?"

"No. I'd been sent back with a batch of prisoners. I heard about it
though. I never knew what became of him."

"I got him sent home. He's married now and living in Lincolnshire."

"Is he? Well, he couldn't help himself, I suppose. He was only a kid.
What's happened to Philpotts?"

"Oh, Philpotts . . ."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Where's your glass, old man?"

       *       *       *       *       *

"Oh, rot, old man. The night is still young . . ."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Really? Well, but look here, why not stay the night? My wife will be
delighted. I can fix you up in no time."

"No, thanks most awfully. I must be rolling off home. I said I'd be
back; and I'm booked to put the chain on the door."

"As you like, of course, but it's still raining. Not a good night for a
ride on an open horse."

"I'll bring a saloon next time. We shan't hurt. Rain's good for the
complexion--makes the roses grow. Don't wake your man up. I can saddle
her myself."

"My dear man, it's no trouble."

"No, really, old man."

"Well, I'll come along and lend you a hand."

A gust of rain and wind blew in through the hall door as they struggled
out into the night. It was past one in the morning and pitch-dark. Major
Lumsden again pressed Wimsey to stay.

"No, thanks, really. The old lady's feelings might be hurt. It's not so
bad, really--wet, but not cold. Come up, Polly, stand over, old lady."

He put the saddle on and girthed it, while Lumsden held the lantern. The
mare, fed and rested, came delicately dancing out of the warm loose-box,
head well stretched forward, and nostrils snuffing at the rain.

"Well, so long, old lad. Come and look us up again. It's been great."

"Rather! By Jove, yes. Best respects to madame. Is the gate open?"

"Yes."

"Well, cheerio!"

"Cheerio!"

Polly Flinders, with her nose turned homewards, settled down to make
short work of the nine miles of high-road. Once outside the gates, the
night seemed lighter, though the rain poured heavily. Somewhere buried
behind the thronging clouds there was a moon, which now and again showed
as a pale stain on the sky, a paler reflection on the black road.
Wimsey, with a mind full of memories and a skin full of whisky, hummed
to himself as he rode.

As he passed the fork, he hesitated for a moment. Should he take the
path over the common or stick to the road? On consideration, he decided
to give the common a miss--not because of its sinister reputation, but
because of ruts and rabbit-holes. He shook the reins, bestowed a word of
encouragement on his mount, and continued by the road, having the common
on his right hand, and, on the left, fields bounded by high hedges,
which gave some shelter from the driving rain.

He had topped the rise, and passed the spot where the bridle-path again
joined the high-road, when a slight start and stumble drew his attention
unpleasantly to Polly Flinders.

"Hold up, mare," he said disapprovingly.

Polly shook her head, moved forward, tried to pick up her easy pace
again. "Hullo!" said Wimsey, alarmed. He pulled her to a standstill.

"Lame in the near fore," he said, dismounting. "If you've been and gone
and strained anything, my girl, four miles from home, father _will_ be
pleased." It occurred to him for the first time how curiously lonely the
road was. He had not seen a single car. They might have been in the
wilds of Africa.

He ran an exploratory hand down the near foreleg. The mare stood quietly
enough, without shrinking or wincing. Wimsey was puzzled.

"If these had been the good old days," he said, "I'd have thought she'd
picked up a stone. But what----"

He lifted the mare's foot, and explored it carefully with fingers and
pocket-torch. His diagnosis had been right, after all. A steel nut,
evidently dropped from a passing car, had wedged itself firmly between
the shoe and the frog. He grunted and felt for his knife. Happily, it
was one of that excellent old-fashioned kind which includes, besides
blades and corkscrews, an ingenious apparatus for removing foreign
bodies from horses' feet.

The mare nuzzled him gently as he stooped over his task. It was a little
awkward getting to work; he had to wedge the torch under his arm, so as
to leave one hand free for the tool and the other to hold the hoof. He
was swearing gently at these difficulties when, happening to glance down
the road ahead, he fancied he caught the gleam of something moving. It
was not easy to see, for at this point the tall trees stood up on both
sides of the road, which dipped abruptly from the edge of the common. It
was not a car; the light was too faint. A wagon, probably, with a dim
lantern. Yet it seemed to move fast. He puzzled for a moment, then bent
to work again.

The nut resisted his efforts, and the mare, touched in a tender spot,
pulled away, trying to get her foot down. He soothed her with his voice
and patted her neck. The torch slipped from his arm. He cursed it
impatiently, set down the hoof, and picked up the torch from the edge of
the grass, into which it had rolled. As he straightened himself again,
he looked along the road and saw.

Up from under the dripping dark of the trees it came, shining with a
thin, moony radiance. There was no clatter of hoofs, no rumble of
wheels, no ringing of bit or bridle. He saw the white, sleek, shining
shoulders with the collar that lay on each, like a faint fiery ring,
enclosing nothing. He saw the gleaming reins, their cut ends slipping
back and forward unsupported through the ring of the hames. The feet,
that never touched earth, ran swiftly--four times four noiseless hoofs,
bearing the pale bodies by like smoke. The driver leaned forward,
brandishing his whip. He was faceless and headless, but his whole
attitude bespoke desperate haste. The coach was barely visible through
the driving rain, but Wimsey saw the dimly spinning wheels and a faint
whiteness, still and stiff, at the window. It went past at a
gallop--headless driver and headless horse and silent coach. Its passing
left a stir, a sound that was less a sound than a vibration--and the
wind roared suddenly after it, with a great sheet of water blown up out
of the south.

"Good God!" said Wimsey. And then: "How many whiskies did we have?"

He turned and looked back along the road, straining his eyes. Then
suddenly he remembered the mare, and, without troubling further about
the torch, picked up her foot and went to work by touch. The nut gave no
more trouble, but dropped out into his hand almost immediately. Polly
Flinders sighed gratefully and blew into his ear.

Wimsey led her forward a few steps. She put her feet down firmly and
strongly. The nut, removed without delay, had left no tenderness. Wimsey
mounted, let her go--then pulled her head round suddenly.

"I'm going to see," he said resolutely. "Come up, mare! We won't let any
headless horses get the better of _us_. Perfectly indecent, goin' about
without heads. Get on, old lady. Over the common with you. We'll catch
'em at the cross-roads."

Without the slightest consideration for his host or his host's property,
he put the mare to the bridle-path again, and urged her into a gallop.

At first he thought he could make out a pale, fluttering whiteness,
moving away ahead of him on the road. Presently, as high-road and
bridle-path diverged, he lost it altogether. But he knew there was no
side-road. Bar any accident to his mount, he was bound to catch it
before it came to the fork. Polly Flinders, answering easily to the
touch of his heel, skimmed over the rough track with the indifference
born of familiarity. In less than ten minutes her feet rang out again on
the tarmac. He pulled her up, faced round in the direction of Little
Doddering, and stared down the road. He could see nothing yet. Either
he was well ahead of the coach, or it had already passed at unbelievable
speed, or else----

He waited. Nothing. The violent rain had ceased, and the moon was
struggling out again. The road appeared completely deserted. He glanced
over his shoulder. A small beam of light near the ground moved, turned,
flashed green, and red, and white again, and came towards him. Presently
he made out that it was a policeman wheeling a bicycle.

"A bad night, sir," said the man civilly, but with a faint note of
enquiry in his voice.

"Rotten," said Wimsey.

"Just had to mend a puncture, to make it all the pleasanter," added the
policeman.

Wimsey expressed sympathy. "Have you been here long?" he added.

"Best part o' twenty minutes."

"Did you see anything pass along this way from Little Doddering?"

"Ain't been nothing along while I've been here. What sort of thing did
you mean, sir?"

"I thought I saw----" Wimsey hesitated. He did not care about the idea
of making a fool of himself. "A carriage with four horses," he said
hesitatingly. "It passed me on this road not a quarter of an hour
ago--down at the other end of the common. I--I came back to see. It
seemed unusual----" He became aware that his story sounded very lame.

The policeman spoke rather sharply and rapidly.

"There ain't been nothing past here."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, sir; and, if you don't mind me sayin' so, you'd best be getting
home. It's a lonesome bit o' road."

"Yes, isn't it?" said Wimsey. "Well, good night, sergeant."

He turned the mare's head back along the Little Doddering road, going
very quietly. He saw nothing, heard nothing, and passed nothing. The
night was brighter now, and, as he rode back, he verified the entire
absence of side-roads. Whatever the thing was which he had seen, it had
vanished somewhere along the edge of the common; it had not gone by the
main road, nor by any other.

       *       *       *       *       *

Wimsey came down rather late for breakfast in the morning, to find his
hosts in a state of some excitement.

"The most extraordinary thing has happened," said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym.

"Outrageous!" added her husband. "I warned Hancock--he can't say I
didn't warn him. Still, however much one may disapprove of his
goings-on, there is no excuse whatever for such abominable conduct. Once
let me get hold of the beggars, whoever they are----"

"What's up?" said Wimsey, helping himself to broiled kidneys at the
sideboard.

"A most scandalous thing," said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym. "The vicar came up
to Tom at once--I hope we didn't disturb you, by the way, with all the
excitement. It appears that when Mr. Hancock got to the church this
morning at 6 o'clock to take the early service----"

"No, no, my dear, you've got it wrong. Let _me_ tell it. When Joe
Grinch--that's the sexton, you know, and he has to get there first to
ring the bell--when he arrived, he found the south door wide open and
nobody in the chapel, where they should have been, beside the coffin. He
was very much perplexed, of course, but he supposed that Hubbard and
young Rawlinson had got sick of it and gone off home. So he went on to
the vestry to get the vestments and things ready, and to his amazement
he heard women's voices, calling out to him from inside. He was so
astonished, didn't know where he was, but he went on and unlocked the
door----"

"With his own key?" put in Wimsey.

"The key was in the door. As a rule it's kept hanging up on a nail under
a curtain near the organ, but it was in the lock--where it ought not to
have been. And inside the vestry he found Mrs. Hancock and her daughter,
nearly dead with fright and annoyance."

"Great Scott!"

"Yes, indeed. They had a most extraordinary story to tell. They'd taken
over at 2 o'clock from the other pair of watchers, and had knelt down by
the coffin in the Lady-chapel, according to plan, to say the proper sort
of prayers, whatever they are. They'd been there, to the best of their
calculation, about ten minutes, when they heard a noise up by the High
Altar, as though somebody was creeping stealthily about. Miss Hancock is
a very plucky girl, and she got up and walked up the aisle in the dark,
with Mrs. Hancock following on behind because, as she said, she didn't
want to be left alone. When they'd got as far as the rood-screen, Miss
Hancock called out aloud, 'Who's there?' At that they heard a sort of
rustling sound, and a noise like something being knocked over. Miss
Hancock most courageously snatched up one of the churchwarden's staffs,
which was clipped on to the choir-stalls, and ran forward, thinking, she
says, that somebody was trying to steal the ornaments off the altar.
There's a very fine fifteenth-century cross----"

"Never mind the cross, Tom. That hasn't been taken, at any rate."

"No, it hasn't, but she thought it might be. Anyhow, just as she got up
to the sanctuary steps, with Mrs. Hancock coming close after her and
begging her to be careful, somebody seemed to rush out of the
choir-stalls, and caught her by the arms and frog's-marched her--that's
her expression--into the vestry. And before she could get breath even
to shriek, Mrs. Hancock was pushed in beside her, and the door locked on
them."

"By Jove! You do have exciting times in your village."

"Well," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "of course they were dreadfully
frightened, because they didn't know but what these wretches would come
back and murder them, and, in any case, they thought the church was
being robbed. But the vestry windows are very narrow and barred, and
they couldn't do anything except wait. They tried to listen, but they
couldn't hear much. Their only hope was that the four-o'clock watchers
might come early and catch the thieves at work. But they waited and they
waited, and they heard four strike, and five, and nobody came."

"What had happened to what's-his-name and Rawlinson then?"

"They couldn't make out, and nor could Grinch. However, they had a good
look round the church, and nothing seemed to be taken or disturbed in
any way. Just then the vicar came along, and they told him all about it.
He was very much shocked, naturally, and his first thought--when he
found the ornaments were safe and the poor-box all right--was that some
Kensitite people had been stealing the wafers from the what d'you call
it."

"The tabernacle," suggested Wimsey.

"Yes, that's his name for it. That worried him very much, and he
unlocked it and had a look, but the wafers were all there all right,
and, as there's only one key, and that was on his own watch-chain, it
wasn't a case of anyone substituting unconsecrated wafers for
consecrated ones, or any practical joke of that kind. So he sent Mrs.
and Miss Hancock home, and had a look round the church outside, and the
first thing he saw, lying in the bushes near the south door, was young
Rawlinson's motor-cycle."

"Oho!"

"So his next idea was to hunt for Rawlinson and Hubbard. However, he
didn't have to look far. He'd got round the church as far as the
furnace-house on the north side, when he heard a terrific hullabaloo
going on, and people shouting and thumping on the door. So he called
Grinch, and they looked in through the little window, and there, if you
please, were Hubbard and young Rawlinson, bawling and going on and using
the most shocking language. It seems they were set on in exactly the
same way, only before they got inside the church. Rawlinson had been
passing the evening with Hubbard, I understand, and they had a bit of a
sleep downstairs in the back bar, to avoid disturbing the house
early--or so they say, though I dare say if the truth was known they
were having drinks; and if that's Hancock's idea of a suitable
preparation for going to church and saying prayers, all I can say is, it
isn't mine. Anyway, they started off just before four, Hubbard going
down on the carrier of Rawlinson's bicycle. They had to get off at the
south gate, which was pushed to, and while Rawlinson was wheeling the
machine up the path two or three men--they couldn't see exactly--jumped
out from the trees. There was a bit of a scuffle, but what with the
bicycle, and its being so unexpected, they couldn't put up a very good
fight, and the men dropped blankets over their heads, or something. I
don't know all the details. At any rate, they were bundled into the
furnace-house and left there. They may be there still, for all I know,
if they haven't found the key. There should be a spare key, but I don't
know what's become of it. They sent up for it this morning, but I
haven't seen it about for a long time."

"It wasn't left in the lock this time, then?"

"No, it wasn't. They've had to send for the locksmith. I'm going down
now to see what's to be done about it. Like to come, if you're ready?"

Wimsey said he would. Anything in the nature of a problem always
fascinated him.

"You were back pretty late, by the way," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym
jovially, as they left the house. "Yarning over old times, I suppose."

"We were, indeed," said Wimsey.

"Hope the old girl carried you all right. Lonely bit of road, isn't it?
I don't suppose you saw anybody worse than yourself, as the saying
goes?"

"Only a policeman," said Wimsey untruthfully. He had not yet quite
decided about the phantom coach. No doubt Plunkett would be relieved to
know that he was not the only person to whom the "warning" had come.
But, then, had it really been the phantom coach, or merely a delusion,
begotten by whisky upon reminiscence? Wimsey, in the cold light of day,
was none too certain.

On arriving at the church, the magistrate and his guest found quite a
little crowd collected, conspicuous among whom were the vicar, in
cassock and biretta, gesticulating freely, and the local policeman, his
tunic buttoned awry and his dignity much impaired by the small fry of
the village, who clustered round his legs. He had just finished taking
down the statements of the two men who had been released from the
stoke-hole. The younger of these, a fresh-faced, impudent-looking fellow
of twenty-five or so, was in the act of starting up his motor-cycle. He
greeted Mr. Frobisher-Pym pleasantly. "Afraid they've made us look a bit
small, sir. You'll excuse me, won't you? I'll have to be getting back to
Herriotting. Mr. Graham won't be any too pleased if I'm late for the
office. I think some of the bright lads have been having a joke with
us." He grinned as he pushed the throttle-lever over and departed in a
smother of unnecessary smoke that made Mr. Frobisher-Pym sneeze. His
fellow-victim, a large, fat man, who looked the sporting publican that
he was, grinned shamefacedly at the magistrate.

"Well, Hubbard," said the latter, "I hope you've enjoyed your
experience. I must say I'm surprised at a man of your size letting
himself be shut up in a coal-hole like a naughty urchin."

"Yes, sir, I was surprised myself at the time," retorted the publican,
good-humouredly enough. "When that there blanket came down on my head, I
was the most surprised man in this here country. I gave 'em a hack or
two on the shins, though, to remember me by," he added, with a
reminiscent chuckle.

"How many of them were there?" asked Wimsey.

"Three or four, I should say, sir. But not 'avin' seen 'em, I can only
tell from 'earin' 'em talk. There was two laid 'old of me, I'm pretty
sure, and young Rawlinson thinks there was only one 'ad 'old of 'im, but
'e was a wonderful strong 'un."

"We must leave no stone unturned to find out who these people were,"
said the vicar excitedly. "Ah, Mr. Frobisher-Pym, come and see what they
have done in the church. It is as I thought--an anti-Catholic protest.
We must be most thankful that they have done no more than they have."

He led the way in. Someone had lit two or three hanging lamps in the
gloomy little chancel. By their light Wimsey was able to see that the
neck of the eagle lectern was decorated with an enormous
red-white-and-blue bow, and bore a large placard--obviously pinched from
the local newspaper offices--"VATICAN BANS IMMODEST DRESS." In each of
the choir-stalls a teddy-bear sat, lumpishly amiable, apparently
absorbed in reading the choir-books upside-down, while on the ledge
before them copies of the _Pink 'Un_ were obstrusively displayed. In the
pulpit, a waggish hand had set up a pantomime ass's head, elegantly
arrayed in a nightgown, and crowned with a handsome nimbus, cut from
gold paper.

"Disgraceful, isn't it?" said the vicar.

"Well, Hancock," replied Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "I must say I think you have
brought it upon yourself--though I quite agree, of course, that this
sort of thing cannot possibly be allowed, and the offenders must be
discovered and severely punished. But you must see that many of your
practices appear to these people to be papistical nonsense at best, and
while that is no excuse . . ."

His reprimanding voice barked on.

". . . what I really can only look upon as this sacrilegious business
with old Burdock--a man whose life . . ."

The policeman had by this time shoved away the attendant villagers and
was standing beside Lord Peter at the entrance of the rood-screen.

"Was that you was out on the road this morning, sir? Ah! I thought I
reckernised your voice. Did you get home all right, sir? Didn't meet
nothing?"

There seemed to be a shade more than idle questioning in the tone of his
voice. Wimsey turned quickly.

"No, I met nothing--more. Who is it drives a coach with four white
horses about this village of a night, sergeant?"

"Not sergeant, sir--I ain't due for promotion yet awhile. Well, sir, as
to white horses, I don't altogether like to say. Mr. Mortimer over at
Abbotts Bolton has some nice greys, and he's the biggest horse-breeder
about these parts--but, well, there, sir, he wouldn't be driving out in
all that rain, sir, would he?"

"It doesn't seem a sensible thing to do, certainly."

"No, sir. And"--the constable leaned close to Wimsey and spoke into his
ear--"and Mr. Mortimer is a man that's got a head on his
shoulders--_and, what's more, so have his horses_."

"Why," said Wimsey, a little startled by the aptness of this remark,
"did you ever know a horse that hadn't?"

"No, sir," said the policeman, with emphasis, "I never knew no _livin'_
horse that hadn't. But that's neether here nor there, as the sayin'
goes. But as to this church business, that's just a bit of a lark got up
among the boys, that's what that is. They don't mean no harm, you know,
sir; they likes to be up to their tricks. It's all very well for the
vicar to talk, sir, but this ain't no Kensitites nor anythink of that,
as you can see with half an eye. Just a bit of fun, that's all it is."

"I'd come to the same conclusion myself," said Wimsey, interested, "but
I'd rather like to know what makes you think so."

"Lord bless you, sir, ain't it plain as the nose on your face? If it had
a-bin these Kensitites, wouldn't they have gone for the crosses and the
images and the lights and--that there?" He extended a horny finger in
the direction of the tabernacle. "No, sir, these lads what did this
ain't laid a finger on the things what you might call sacred images--and
they ain't done no harm neether to the communion-table. So I says as it
ain't a case of con_trov_versy, but more a bit of fun, like. And they've
treated Mr. Burdock's corpse respectful, sir, you see, too. That shows
they wasn't meaning anything wrong at heart, don't you see?"

"I agree absolutely," said Wimsey. "In fact, they've taken particular
care not to touch anything that a churchman holds really sacred. How
long have you been on this job, officer?"

"Three years, sir, come February."

"Ever had any idea of going to town or taking up the detective side of
the business?"

"Well, sir--I have--but it isn't just ask and have, as you might say."
Wimsey took a card from his note-case.

"If you ever think seriously about it," he said, "give this card to
Chief Inspector Parker, and have a chat with him. Tell him I think you
haven't got opportunities enough down here. He's a great friend of mine,
and he'll give you a good chance, I know."

"I've heard of you, my lord," said the constable, gratified, "and I'm
sure it's very kind of your lordship. Well, I suppose I'd best be
getting along now. You leave it to me, Mr. Frobisher-Pym, sir; we'll
soon get at the bottom of this here."

"I hope you do," said the magistrate. "Meanwhile, Mr. Hancock, I trust
you will realise the inadvisability of leaving the church doors open at
night. Well, come along, Wimsey; we'll leave them to get the church
straight for the funeral. What have you found there?"

"Nothing," said Wimsey, who had been peering at the floor of the
Lady-chapel. "I was afraid you'd got the worm in here, but I see it's
only sawdust." He dusted his fingers as he spoke, and followed Mr.
Frobisher-Pym out of the building.

       *       *       *       *       *

When you are staying in a village, you are expected to take part in the
interests and amusements of the community. Accordingly, Lord Peter duly
attended the funeral of Squire Burdock, and beheld the coffin safely
committed to the ground, in a drizzle, certainly, but not without the
attendance of a large and reverent congregation. After this ceremony, he
was formally introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Haviland Burdock, and was able
to confirm his previous impression that the lady was well, not to say
too well, dressed, as might be expected from one whose wardrobe was
based upon silk stockings. She was a handsome woman, in a large, bold
style, and the hand that clasped Wimsey's was quite painfully encrusted
with diamonds. Haviland was disposed to be friendly--and, indeed, silk
manufacturers have no reason to be otherwise to rich men of noble birth.
He seemed to be aware of Wimsey's reputation as an antiquarian and
book-collector, and extended a hearty invitation to him to come and see
the old house.

"My brother Martin is still abroad," he said, "but I'm sure he would be
delighted to have you come and look at the place. I'm told there are
some very fine old books in the library. We shall be staying here till
Monday--if Mrs. Hancock will be good enough to have us. Suppose you come
along to-morrow afternoon."

Wimsey said he would be delighted.

Mrs. Hancock interposed and said, wouldn't Lord Peter come to tea at the
vicarage first.

Wimsey said it was very good of her.

"Then that's settled," said Mrs. Burdock. "You and Mr. Pym come to tea,
and then we'll all go over the house together. I've hardly seen it
myself yet."

"It's very well worth seeing," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym. "Fine old place,
but takes some money to keep up. Has nothing been seen of the will yet,
Mr. Burdock?"

"Nothing whatever," said Haviland. "It's curious, because Mr.
Graham--the solicitor, you know, Lord Peter--certainly drew one up,
just after poor Martin's unfortunate difference with our father. He
remembers it perfectly."

"Can't he remember what's in it?"

"He could, of course, but he doesn't think it etiquette to say. He's one
of the crusted old type. Poor Martin always called him an old
scoundrel--but then, of course, he never approved of Martin, so Martin
was not altogether unprejudiced. Besides, as Mr. Graham says, all that
was some years ago, and it's quite possible that the governor destroyed
the will later, or made a new one in America."

"'Poor Martin' doesn't seem to have been popular hereabouts," said
Wimsey to Mr. Frobisher-Pym, as they parted from the Burdocks and turned
homewards.

"N-no," said the magistrate. "Not with Graham, anyway. Personally, I
rather liked the lad, though he was a bit harum-scarum. I dare say he's
sobered up with time--and marriage. It's odd that they can't find the
will. But, if it was made at the time of the rumpus, it's bound to be in
Haviland's favour."

"I think Haviland thinks so," said Wimsey. "His manner seemed to convey
a chastened satisfaction. I expect the discreet Graham made it fairly
clear that the advantage was not with the unspeakable Martin."

The following morning turned out fine, and Wimsey, who was supposed to
be enjoying a rest-and-fresh-air cure in Little Doddering, petitioned
for a further loan of Polly Flinders. His host consented with pleasure,
and only regretted that he could not accompany his guest, being booked
to attend a Board of Guardians' meeting in connection with the
workhouse.

"But you could go up and get a good blow on the common," he suggested.
"Why not go round by Petering Friars, turn off across the common till
you get to Dead Man's Post, and come back by the Frimpton road? It makes
a very pleasant round--about nineteen miles. You'll be back in nice time
for lunch if you take it easy."

Wimsey fell in with the plan--the more readily that it exactly coincided
with his own inward purpose. He had a reason for wishing to ride over
the Frimpton road by daylight.

"You'll be careful about Dead Man's Post," said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym a
little anxiously. "The horses have a way of shying at it. I don't know
why. People say, of course----"

"All nonsense," said her husband. "The villagers dislike the place and
that makes the horses nervous. It's remarkable how a rider's feelings
communicate themselves to his mount. _I've_ never had any trouble at
Dead Man's Post."

It was a quiet and pretty road, even on a November day, that led to
Petering Friars. Jogging down the winding Essex lanes in the wintry
sunshine, Wimsey felt soothed and happy. A good burst across the common
raised his spirits to exhilaration pitch. He had entirely forgotten
Dead Man's Post and its uncanny reputation, when a violent start and
swerve, so sudden that it nearly unseated him, recalled him to what he
was doing. With some difficulty, he controlled Polly Flinders, and
brought her to a standstill.

He was at the highest point of the common, following a bridle-path which
was bordered on each side by gorse and dead bracken. A little way ahead
of him another bridle-path seemed to run into it, and at the junction of
the two was something which he had vaguely imagined to be a decayed
sign-post. Certainly it was short and thick for a sign-post, and had no
arms. It appeared, however, to bear some sort of inscription on the face
that was turned towards him.

He soothed the mare, and urged her gently towards the post. She took a
few hesitating steps, and plunged sideways, snorting and shivering.

"Queer!" said Wimsey. "If this is my state of mind communicating itself
to my mount, I'd better see a doctor. My nerves must be in a rotten
state. Come up, old lady! What's the matter with you?"

Polly Flinders, apologetic but determined, refused to budge. He urged
her gently with his heel. She sidled away, with ears laid back, and he
saw the white of a protesting eye. He slipped from the saddle, and,
putting his hand through the bridle, endeavoured to lead her forward.
After a little persuasion, the mare followed him, with stretched neck
and treading as though on egg-shells. After a dozen hesitating paces,
she stopped again, trembling in all her limbs. He put his hand on her
neck and found it wet with sweat.

"Damn it all!" said Wimsey. "Look here, I'm jolly well going to read
what's on that post. If you won't come, will you stand still?"

He dropped the bridle. The mare stood quietly, with hanging head. He
left her and went forward, glancing back from time to time to see that
she showed no disposition to bolt. She stood quietly enough, however,
only shifting her feet uneasily.

Wimsey walked up to the post. It was a stout pillar of ancient oak,
newly painted white. The inscription, too, had been recently blacked in.
It read:

  ON THIS SPOT
  GEORGE WINTER
  WAS FOULLY MURTHERED
  IN DEFENSE OF
  HIS MASTER'S GOODS
  BY BLACK RALPH
  OF HERRIOTTING
  WHO WAS AFTERWARD
  HANGED IN CHAINS
  ON THE PLACE OF HIS CRIME
  9 NOVEMBER 1674

  FEAR JUSTICE

"And very nice, too," said Wimsey. "Dead Man's Post without a doubt.
Polly Flinders seems to share the local feeling about the place. Well,
Polly, if them's your sentiments, I won't do violence to them. But may I
ask why, if you're so sensitive about a mere post, you should swallow a
death-coach and four headless horses with such hardened equanimity?"

The mare took the shoulder of his jacket gently between her lips and
mumbled at it.

"Just so," said Wimsey. "I perfectly understand. You would if you could,
but you really can't. But those horses, Polly--did they bring with them
no brimstone blast from the nethermost pit? Can it be that they really
exuded nothing but an honest and familiar smell of stables?"

He mounted, and, turning Polly's head to the right, guided her in a
circle, so as to give Dead Man's Post a wide berth before striking the
path again.

"The supernatural explanation is, I think, excluded. Not on _a priori_
grounds, which would be unsound, but on the evidence of Polly's senses.
There remain the alternatives of whisky and jiggery-pokery. Further
investigation seems called for."

He continued to muse as the mare moved quietly forward.

"Supposing I wanted, for some reason, to scare the neighbourhood with
the apparition of a coach and headless horses, I should choose a dark,
rainy night. Good! It was that kind of night. Now, if I took black
horses and painted their bodies white--poor devils! what a state they'd
be in. No. How do they do these Maskelyne-and-Devant stunts where they
cut off people's heads? White horses, of course--and black felt clothing
over their heads. Right! And luminous paint on the harness, with a touch
here and there on their bodies, to make good contrast and ensure that
the whole show wasn't invisible. No difficulty about that. But they must
go silently. Well, why not? Four stout black cloth bags filled with
bran, drawn well up and tied round the fetlocks would make any horse go
quietly enough, especially if there was a bit of a wind going. Rags
round the bridle-rings to prevent clinking, and round the ends of the
traces to keep 'em from squeaking. Give 'em a coachman in a white coat
and a black mask, hitch 'em to a rubber-tyred fly, picked out with
phosphorus and well-oiled at the joints--and I swear I'd make something
quite ghostly enough to startle a rather well-irrigated gentleman on a
lonely road at half-past two in the morning."

He was pleased with this thought, and tapped his boot cheerfully with
his whip.

"But damn it all! They never passed me again. Where did they go to? A
coach-and-horses can't vanish into thin air, you know. There must be a
side-road after all--or else, Polly Flinders, you've been pulling my leg
all the time."

The bridle-path eventually debouched upon the highway at the now
familiar fork where Wimsey had met the policeman. As he slowly ambled
homewards, his lordship scanned the left-hand hedgerow, looking for the
lane which surely must exist. But nothing rewarded his search. Enclosed
fields with padlocked gates presented the only breaks in the hedge, till
he again found himself looking down the avenue of trees up which the
death-coach had come galloping two nights before.

"Damn!" said Wimsey.

It occurred to him for the first time that the coach might perhaps have
turned round and gone back through Little Doddering. Certainly it had
been seen by Little Doddering Church on Wednesday. But on that occasion,
also, it had galloped off in the direction of Frimpton. In fact,
thinking it over, Wimsey concluded that it had approached from Frimpton,
gone round the church--widdershins, naturally--by the Back Lane, and
returned by the high-road whence it came. But in that case----

"Turn again, Whittington," said Wimsey, and Polly Flinders rotated
obediently in the road. "Through one of those fields it went, or I'm a
Dutchman."

He pulled Polly into a slow walk, and passed along the strip of grass at
the right-hand side, staring at the ground as though he were an
Aberdonian who had lost a sixpence.

The first gate led into a ploughed field, harrowed smooth and sown with
autumn wheat. It was clear that no wheeled thing had been across it for
many weeks. The second gate looked more promising. It gave upon fallow
ground, and the entrance was seamed with innumerable wheel-ruts. On
further examination, however, it was clear that this was the one and
only gate. It seemed unlikely that the mysterious coach should have been
taken into a field from which there was no way out. Wimsey decided to
seek farther.

The third gate was in bad repair. It sagged heavily from its hinges; the
hasp was gone, and gate and post had been secured with elaborate twists
of wire. Wimsey dismounted and examined these, convincing himself that
their rusty surface had not been recently disturbed.

There remained only two more gates before he came to the cross-roads.
One led into plough again, where the dark ridge-and-furrow showed no
sign of disturbance, but at sight of the last gate Wimsey's heart gave a
leap.

There was plough-land here also, but round the edge of the field ran a
wide, beaten path, rutted and water-logged. The gate was not locked, but
opened simply with a spring catch. Wimsey examined the approach. Among
the wide ruts made by farm-wagons was the track of four narrow
wheels--the unmistakable prints of rubber tyres. He pushed the gate open
and passed through.

The path skirted two sides of the plough; then came another gate and
another field, containing a long barrow of mangold wurzels and a couple
of barns. At the sound of Polly's hoofs, a man emerged from the nearest
barn, with a paint-brush in his hand, and stood watching Wimsey's
approach.

"'Morning!" said the latter genially.

"'Morning, sir."

"Fine day after the rain."

"Yes, it is, sir."

"I hope I'm not trespassing?"

"Where was you wanting to go, sir?"

"I thought, as a matter of fact--hullo!"

"Anything wrong, sir?"

Wimsey shifted in the saddle.

"I fancy this girth's slipped a bit. It's a new one." (This was a fact.)
"Better have a look."

The man advanced to investigate, but Wimsey had dismounted and was
tugging at the strap, with his head under the mare's belly.

"Yes, it wants taking up a trifle. Oh! Thanks most awfully. Is this a
short cut to Abbotts Bolton, by the way?"

"Not to the village, sir, though you can get through this way. It comes
out by Mr. Mortimer's stables."

"Ah, yes. This his land?"

"No, sir, it's Mr. Topham's land, but Mr. Mortimer rents this field and
the next for fodder."

"Oh, yes." Wimsey peered across the hedge. "Lucerne, I suppose. Or
clover."

"Clover, sir. And the mangolds is for the cattle."

"Oh--Mr. Mortimer keeps cattle as well as horses?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very jolly. Have a gasper?" Wimsey had sidled across to the barn in his
interest, and was gazing absently into its dark interior. It contained a
number of farm implements and a black fly of antique construction, which
seemed to be undergoing renovation with black varnish. Wimsey pulled
some vestas from his pocket. The box was apparently damp, for, after one
or two vain attempts he abandoned it, and struck a match on the wall of
the barn. The flame, lighting up the ancient fly, showed it to be
incongruously fitted with rubber tyres.

"Very fine stud, Mr. Mortimer's, I understand," said Wimsey carelessly.

"Yes, sir, very fine indeed."

"I suppose he hasn't any greys, by any chance. My mother--queenly woman,
Victorian ideas, and all that--is rather keen on greys. Sports a
carriage and pay-ah, don't you know."

"Yes, sir? Well, Mr. Mortimer would be able to suit the lady, I think,
sir. He has several greys."

"No? has he though? I must really go over and see him. Is it far?"

"Matter of five or six mile by the fields, sir."

Wimsey looked at his watch.

"Oh, dear! I'm really afraid it's too far for this morning. I absolutely
promised to get back to lunch. I must come over another day. Thanks so
much. Is that girth right now? Oh, really, I'm immensely obliged. Get
yourself a drink, won't you--and tell Mr. Mortimer not to sell his greys
till I've seen them. Well, _good_ morning, and many thanks."

He set Polly Flinders on the homeward path and trotted gently away. Not
till he was out of sight of the barn did he pull up and, stooping from
the saddle, thoughtfully examine his boots. They were liberally
plastered with bran.

"I must have picked it up in the barn," said Wimsey. "Curious, if true.
Why should Mr. Mortimer be lashing the stuffing out of his greys in an
old fly at dead of night--and with muffled hoofs and no heads to boot?
It's not a kind thing to do. It frightened Plunkett very much. It made
me think I was drunk--a thought I hate to think. Ought I to tell the
police? Are Mr. Mortimer's jokes any business of mine? What do _you_
think, Polly?"

The mare, hearing her name, energetically shook her head.

"You think not? Perhaps you are right. Let us say that Mr. Mortimer did
it for a wager. Who am I to interfere with his amusements? All the
same," added his lordship, "I'm glad to know it wasn't Lumsden's
whisky."

       *       *       *       *       *

"This is the library," said Haviland, ushering in his guests. "A fine
room--and a fine collection of books, I'm told, though literature isn't
much in my line. It wasn't much in the governor's line, either, I'm
afraid. The place wants doing up, as you see. I don't know whether
Martin will take it in hand. It's a job that'll cost money, of course."

Wimsey shivered a little as he gazed round--more from sympathy than from
cold, though a white November fog lay curled against the tall windows
and filtered damply through the frames.

A long, mouldering room, in the frigid neo-classical style, the library
was melancholy enough in the sunless grey afternoon, even without the
signs of neglect which wrung the book-collector's heart. The walls,
panelled to half their height with book-cases, ran up in plaster to the
moulded ceiling. Damp had blotched them into grotesque shapes, and here
and there were ugly cracks and squamous patches, from which the plaster
had fallen in yellowish flakes. A wet chill seemed to ooze from the
books, from the calf bindings peeling and perishing, from the stains of
greenish mildew which spread horridly from volume to volume. The curious
musty odour of decayed leather and damp paper added to the general
cheerlessness of the atmosphere.

"Oh, dear, dear!" said Wimsey, peering dismally into this sepulchre of
forgotten learning. With his shoulders hunched like the neck-feathers of
a chilly bird, with his long nose and half-shut eyes, he resembled a
dilapidated heron, brooding over the stagnation of a wintry pool.

"What a freezing-cold place!" exclaimed Mrs. Hancock. "You really ought
to scold Mrs. Lovall, Mr. Burdock. When she was put in here as
caretaker, I said to my husband--didn't I, Philip?--that your father had
chosen the laziest woman in Little Doddering. She ought to have kept up
big fires here, _at least_ twice a week! It's really shameful, the way
she has let things go."

"Yes, isn't it?" agreed Haviland.

Wimsey said nothing. He was nosing along the shelves, every now and then
taking a volume down and glancing at it.

"It was always rather a depressing room," went on Haviland. "I remember,
when I was a kid, it used to overawe me rather. Martin and I used to
browse about among the books, you know, but I think we were always
afraid that something or somebody would stalk out upon us from the dark
corners. What's that you've got there, Lord Peter? Oh, _Foxe's Book of
Martyrs_. Dear me! How those pictures did terrify me in the old days!
And there was a _Pilgrim's Progress_, with a most alarming picture of
Apollyon straddling over the whole breadth of the way, which gave me
many nightmares. Let me see. It used to live over in this bay, I think.
Yes, here it is. How it does bring it all back, to be sure! Is it
valuable, by the way?"

"No, not really. But this first edition of Burton is worth money; badly
spotted, though--you'd better send it to be cleaned. And this is an
extremely fine Boccaccio; take care of it."

"John Boccace--_The Dance of Machabree_. It's a good title, anyhow. Is
that the same Boccaccio that wrote the naughty stories?"

"Yes," said Wimsey, a little shortly. He resented this attitude towards
Boccaccio.

"Never read them," said Haviland, with a wink at his wife, "but I've
seen 'em in the windows of those surgical shops--so I suppose they're
naughty, eh? The vicar's looking shocked."

"Oh, not at all," said Mr. Hancock, with a conscientious assumption of
broad-mindedness. "_Et ego in Arcadia_--that is to say, one doesn't
enter the Church without undergoing a classical education, and making
the acquaintance of much more worldly authors even than Boccaccio. Those
woodcuts are very fine, to my uninstructed eye."

"Very fine indeed," said Wimsey.

"There's another old book I remember, with jolly pictures," said
Haviland. "A chronicle of some sort--what's 'is name--place in
Germany--_you_ know--where that hangman came from. They published his
diary the other day. I read it, but it wasn't really exciting; not half
as gruesome as old Harrison Ainsworth. What's the name of the place?"

"Nüremberg?" suggested Wimsey.

"That's it, of course--the _Nüremberg Chronicle_. I wonder if that's
still in its old place. It was over here by the window, if I remember
rightly."

He led the way to the end of one of the bays, which ran up close against
a window. Here the damp seemed to have done its worst. A pane of glass
was broken, and rain had blown in.

"Now where has it gone to? A big book, it was, with a stamped leather
binding. I'd like to see the old _Chronicle_ again. I haven't set eyes
on it for donkey's years."

His glance roamed vaguely over the shelves. Wimsey, with the booklover's
instinct, was the first to spot the _Chronicle_, wedged at the extreme
end of the shelf, against the outer wall. He hitched his finger into the
top edge of the spine, but finding that the rotting leather was ready to
crumble at a touch, he dislodged a neighbouring book and drew the
_Chronicle_ gently out, using his whole hand.

"Here he is--in pretty bad condition, I'm afraid. Hullo!"

As he drew the book away from the wall, a piece of folded parchment came
away with it and fell at his feet. He stooped and picked it up.

"I say, Burdock--isn't this what you've been looking for?"

Haviland Burdock, who had been rooting about on one of the lower
shelves, straightened himself quickly, his face red from stooping.

"By Jove!" he said, turning first redder and then pale with excitement.
"Look at this, Winnie. It's the governor's will. What an extraordinary
thing! Whoever would have thought of looking for it here, of all
places?"

"Is it really the will?" cried Mrs. Hancock.

"No doubt about it, I should say," observed Wimsey coolly. "Last Will
and Testament of Simon Burdock." He stood, turning the grimy document
over and over in his hands, looking from the endorsement to the plain
side of the folded parchment.

"Well, well!" said Mr. Hancock. "How strange! It seems almost
providential that you should have taken that book down."

"What does the will say?" demanded Mrs. Burdock, in some excitement.

"I beg your pardon," said Wimsey, handing it over to her. "Yes, as you
say, Mr. Hancock, it does almost seem as if I was meant to find it." He
glanced down again at the _Chronicle_, mournfully tracing with his
finger the outline of a damp stain which had rotted the cover and spread
to the inner pages, almost obliterating the colophon.

Haviland Burdock meanwhile had spread the will out on the nearest table.
His wife leaned over his shoulder. The Hancocks, barely controlling
their curiosity, stood near, awaiting the result. Wimsey, with an
elaborate pretence of non-interference in this family matter, examined
the wall against which the _Chronicle_ had stood, feeling its moist
surface and examining the damp-stains. They had assumed the appearance
of a grinning face. He compared them with the corresponding mark on the
book, and shook his head desolately over the damage.

Mr. Frobisher-Pym, who had wandered away some time before and was
absorbed in an ancient book of Farriery, now approached, and enquired
what the excitement was about.

"Listen to this!" cried Haviland. His voice was quiet, but a suppressed
triumph throbbed in it and glittered from his eyes.

"'I bequeath everything of which I die possessed'--there's a lot of
enumeration of properties here, which doesn't matter--'to my eldest son,
Martin'----"

Mr. Frobisher-Pym whistled.

"Listen! 'To my eldest son Martin, for so long as my body shall remain
above ground. But so soon as I am buried, I direct that the whole of
this property shall revert to my younger son Haviland absolutely'----"

"Good God!" said Mr. Frobisher-Pym.

"There's a lot more," said Haviland, "but that's the gist of it."

"Let me see," said the magistrate.

He took the will from Haviland, and read it through with a frowning
face.

"That's right," he said. "No possible doubt about it. Martin has had his
property and lost it again. How very curious. Up till yesterday
everything belonged to him, though nobody knew it. Now it is all yours,
Burdock. This certainly is the strangest will I ever saw. Just fancy
that. Martin the heir, up to the time of the funeral. And now--well,
Burdock, I must congratulate you."

"Thank you," said Haviland. "It is very unexpected." He laughed
unsteadily.

"But what a queer idea!" cried Mrs. Burdock. "Suppose Martin had been at
home. It almost seems a mercy that he wasn't, doesn't it? I mean, it
would all have been so awkward. What would have happened if he had tried
to stop the funeral, for instance?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Hancock. "Could he have done anything? Who decides
about funerals?"

"The executors, as a rule," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym.

"Who are the executors in this case?" enquired Wimsey.

"I don't know. Let me see." Mr. Frobisher-Pym examined the document
again. "Ah, yes! Here we are. 'I appoint my two sons, Martin and
Haviland, joint executors of this my will.' What an extraordinary
arrangement."

"I call it a wicked, un-Christian arrangement," cried Mrs. Hancock. "It
might have caused dreadful mischief if the will hadn't been--quite
providentially--lost!"

"Hush, my dear!" said her husband.

"I'm afraid," said Haviland grimly, "that that was my father's idea.
It's no use my pretending he wasn't spiteful; he was, and I believe he
hated both Martin and me like poison."

"Don't say that," pleaded the vicar.

"I do say it. He made our lives a burden to us, and he obviously wanted
to go on making them a burden after he was dead. If he'd seen us cutting
each other's throats, he'd only have been too pleased. Come, vicar, it's
no use pretending. He hated our mother and was jealous of us. Everybody
knows that. It probably pleased his unpleasant sense of humour to think
of us squabbling over his body. Fortunately, he over-reached himself
when he hid the will here. He's buried now, and the problem settles
itself."

"Are you quite sure of that?" said Wimsey.

"Why, of course," said the magistrate. "The property goes to Mr.
Haviland Burdock as soon as his father's body is underground. Well, his
father was buried yesterday."

"But are you sure of _that_?" repeated Wimsey. He looked from one to the
other quizzically, his long lips curling into something like a grin.

"Sure of that?" exclaimed the vicar. "My dear Lord Peter, you were
present at the funeral. You saw him buried yourself."

"I saw his coffin buried," said Wimsey mildly. "That the body was in it
is merely an unverified inference."

"I think," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "this is rather an unseemly kind of
jest. There is no reason to imagine that the body was not in the
coffin."

"I saw it in the coffin," said Haviland, "and so did my wife."

"And so did I," said the vicar. "I was present when it was transferred
from the temporary shell in which it crossed over from the States to a
permanent lead-and-oak coffin provided by Joliffe. And, if further
witnesses are necessary, you can easily get Joliffe himself and his men,
who put the body in and screwed it down."

"Just so," said Wimsey. "I'm not denying that the body was in the coffin
when the coffin was placed in the chapel. I only doubt whether it was
there when it was put in the ground."

"That is a most unheard-of suggestion to make, Lord Peter," said Mr.
Frobisher-Pym, with severity. "May I ask if you have anything to go
upon? And, if the body is not in the grave, perhaps you wouldn't mind
telling us where you imagine it to be?"

"Not at all," said Wimsey. He perched himself on the edge of the table
and sat, swinging his legs and looking down at his own hands, as he
ticked his points off on his fingers.

"I think," he said, "that this story begins with young Rawlinson. He is
a clerk in the office of Mr. Graham, who drew up this will, and I fancy
he knows something about its conditions. So, of course, does Mr. Graham,
but I don't somehow suspect _him_ of being mixed up in this. From what
I can hear, he is not a man to take sides--or not Mr. Martin's side, at
any rate.

"When the news of Mr. Burdock's death was cabled over from the States, I
think young Rawlinson remembered the terms of the will, and considered
that Mr. Martin--being abroad and all that--would be rather at a
disadvantage. Rawlinson must be rather attached to your brother, by the
way----"

"Martin always had a way of picking up good-for-nothing youths and
wasting his time with them," agreed Haviland sulkily.

The vicar seemed to feel that this statement needed some amendment, and
murmured that he had always heard how good Martin was with the village
lads.

"Quite so," said Wimsey. "Well, I think young Rawlinson wanted to give
Martin an equal chance of securing the legacy, don't you see. He didn't
like to say anything about the will--which might or might not turn
up--and possibly he thought that even if it did turn up there might be
difficulties. Well, anyway, he decided that the best thing to do was to
steal the body and keep it above-ground till Martin came home to see to
things himself."

"This is an extraordinary accusation," began Mr. Frobisher-Pym.

"I dare say I'm mistaken," said Wimsey, "but it's just my idea. It makes
a damn good story, anyhow--you see! Well, then, young Rawlinson saw that
this was too big a job to carry out alone, so he looked round for
somebody to help him. And he pitched on Mr. Mortimer."

"Mortimer?"

"I don't know Mr. Mortimer personally, but he seems to be a sportin'
sort of customer from what I can hear, with certain facilities which
everybody hasn't got. Young Rawlinson and Mortimer put their heads
together and worked out a plan of action. Of course, Mr. Hancock, you
helped them enormously with this lying-in-state idea of yours. Without
that, I don't know if they could have worked it."

Mr. Hancock made an embarrassed clucking sound.

"The idea was this. Mortimer was to provide an antique fly and four
white horses, made up with luminous paint and black cloth to represent
the Burdock death-coach. The advantage of that idea was that nobody
would feel inclined to inspect the turn-out too closely if they saw it
hangin' round the churchyard at unearthly hours. Meanwhile, young
Rawlinson had to get himself accepted as a watcher for the chapel, and
to find a sporting companion to watch with him and take a hand in the
game. He fixed things up with the publican-fellow, and spun a tale for
Mr. Hancock, so as to get the vigil from four to six. Didn't it strike
you as odd, Mr. Hancock, that he should be so keen to come all the way
from Herriotting?"

"I am accustomed to find keenness in my congregation," said Mr. Hancock
stiffly.

"Yes, but Rawlinson didn't belong to your congregation. Anyway it was
all worked out, and there was a dress-rehearsal on the Wednesday night,
which frightened your man Plunkett into fits, sir."

"If I thought this was true----" said Mr. Frobisher-Pym.

"On Thursday night," pursued Wimsey, "the conspirators were ready,
hidden in the chancel at two in the morning. They waited till Mrs. and
Miss Hancock had taken their places, and then made a row to attract
their attention. When the ladies courageously advanced to find out what
was up, they popped out and bundled 'em into the vestry."

"Good gracious!" said Mrs. Hancock.

"That was when the death-coach affair was timed to drive up to the south
door. It came round the Back Lane, I fancy, though I can't be sure. Then
Mortimer and the other two took the embalmed body out of the coffin and
filled its place up with bags of sawdust. I know it was sawdust, because
I found the remains of it on the Lady-chapel floor in the morning. They
put the body in the fly, and Mortimer drove off with it. They passed me
on the Herriotting Road at half-past two, so they can't have wasted much
time over the job. Mortimer may have been alone, or possibly he had
someone with him to see to the body while he himself did the headless
coachman business in a black mask. I'm not certain about that. They
drove through the last gate before you come to the fork at Frimpton, and
went across the fields to Mortimer's barn. They left the fly there--I
know that, because I saw it, and I saw the bran they used to muffle the
horses' hoofs, too. I expect they took it on from there in a car, and
fetched the horses up next day--but that's a detail. I don't know,
either, where they took the body to, but I expect, if you went and asked
Mortimer about it, he would be able to assure you that it was still
above ground."

Wimsey paused. Mr. Frobisher-Pym and the Hancocks were looking only
puzzled and angry, but Haviland's face was green. Mrs. Haviland showed a
red, painted spot on each cheek, and her mouth was haggard. Wimsey
picked up the _Nüremberg Chronicle_ and caressed its covers thoughtfully
as he went on.

"Meanwhile, of course, young Rawlinson and his companion were doing the
camouflage in the church, to give the idea of a Protestant outrage.
Having fixed everything up neat and pretty, all they had to do was to
lock themselves up in the furnace-house and chuck the key through the
window. You'll probably find it there, Mr. Hancock, if you care to look.
Didn't you think that story of an assault by two or three men was a bit
thin? Hubbard is a hefty great fellow, and Rawlinson's a sturdy lad--and
yet, on their own showing, they were bundled into a coalhole like
helpless infants, without a scratch on either of 'em. Look for the men
in buckram, my dear sir, look for the men in buckram!"

"Look here, Wimsey, are you sure you're not romancing?" said Mr.
Frobisher-Pym. "One would need some very clear proof before----"

"Certainly," said Wimsey. "Get a Home Office order. Open the grave.
You'll soon see whether it's true or whether it's just my diseased
imagination."

"I think this whole conversation is disgusting," cried Mrs. Burdock.
"Don't listen to it, Haviland. Anything more heartless on the day after
father's funeral than sitting here and inventing such a revolting story
I simply can't imagine. It is not worth paying a moment's attention to.
You will certainly not permit your father's body to be disturbed. It's
horrible. It's a desecration."

"It is very unpleasant indeed," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym gravely, "but if
Lord Peter is seriously putting forward this astonishing theory, which I
can scarcely credit----"

Wimsey shrugged his shoulders.

"--then I feel bound to remind you, Mr. Burdock, that your brother, when
he returns, may insist on having the matter investigated."

"But he can't, can he?" said Mrs. Burdock.

"Of course he can, Winnie," snapped her husband savagely. "He's an
executor. He has as much right to have the governor dug up as I have to
forbid it. Don't be a fool."

"If Martin had any decency, he would forbid it, too," said Mrs. Burdock.

"Oh, well!" said Mrs. Hancock, "shocking as it may seem, there's the
money to be considered. Mr. Martin might think it a duty to his wife,
and his family, if he should ever have any----"

"The whole thing is preposterous," said Haviland decidedly. "I don't
believe a word of it. If I did, naturally I should be the first person
to take action in the matter--not only in justice to Martin, but on my
own account. But if you ask me to believe that a responsible man like
Mortimer would purloin a corpse and desecrate a church--the thing only
has to be put into plain words to show how absurd and unthinkable it is.
I suppose Lord Peter Wimsey, who consorts, as I understand, with
criminals and police officers, finds the idea conceivable. I can only
say that I do not. I am sorry that his mind should have become so
blunted to all decent feeling. That's all. Good afternoon."

Mr. Frobisher-Pym jumped up.

"Come, come, Burdock, don't take that attitude. I am sure Lord Peter
intended no discourtesy. I must say I think he's all wrong, but, 'pon my
soul, things have been so disturbed in the village these last few days,
I'm not surprised anybody should think there was something behind it.
Now, let's forget about it--and hadn't we better be moving out of this
terribly cold room? It's nearly dinner-time. Bless me, what will Agatha
think of us?"

Wimsey held out his hand to Burdock, who took it reluctantly.

"I'm sorry," said Wimsey. "I suffer from hypertrophy of the imagination,
y'know. Over-stimulation of the thyroid probably. Don't mind me. I
apologise, and all that."

"I don't think, Lord Peter," said Mrs. Burdock acidly, "you ought to
exercise your imagination at the expense of good taste."

Wimsey followed her from the room in some confusion. Indeed, he was so
disturbed that he carried away the _Nüremberg Chronicle_ beneath his
arm, which was an odd thing for him to do under the circumstances.

       *       *       *       *       *

"I am gravely distressed," said Mr. Hancock.

He had come over, after Sunday evening service, to call upon the
Frobisher-Pyms. He sat upright on his chair, his thin face flushed with
anxiety.

"I could never have believed such a thing of Hubbard. It has been a
grievous shock to me. It is not only the great wickedness of stealing a
dead body from the very precincts of the church, though that is grave
enough. It is the sad hypocrisy of his behaviour--the mockery of sacred
things--the making use of the holy services of his religion to further
worldly ends. He actually attended the funeral, Mr. Frobisher-Pym, and
exhibited every sign of grief and respect. Even now he hardly seems to
realise the sinfulness of his conduct. I feel it very much, as a priest
and as a pastor--very much indeed."

"Oh, well, Hancock," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "you must make allowances,
you know. Hubbard's not a bad fellow, but you can't expect refinement of
feeling from a man of his class. The point is, what are we to do about
it? Mr. Burdock must be told, of course. It's a most awkward situation.
Dear me! Hubbard confessed the whole conspiracy, you say? How did he
come to do that?"

"I taxed him with it," said the parson. "When I came to think over Lord
Peter Wimsey's remarks, I was troubled in my mind. It seemed to me--I
cannot say why--that there might be some truth in the story, wild as it
appeared. I was so worried about it that I swept the floor of the
Lady-chapel myself last night, and I found quite a quantity of sawdust
among the sweepings. That led me to search for the key of the
furnace-house, and I discovered it in some bushes at a little
distance--in fact, within a stone's throw--of the furnace-house window.
I sought guidance in prayer--and from my wife, whose judgment I greatly
respect--and I made up my mind to speak to Hubbard after Mass. It was a
great relief to me that he did not present himself at Early Celebration.
Feeling as I did, I should have had scruples."

"Just so, just so," said the magistrate, a little impatiently. "Well,
you taxed him with it, and he confessed?"

"He did. I am sorry to say he showed no remorse at all. He even laughed.
It was a most painful interview."

"I am sure it must have been," said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym sympathetically.

"We must go and see Mr. Burdock," said the magistrate, rising. "Whatever
old Burdock may or may not have intended by that iniquitous will of his,
it's quite evident that Hubbard and Mortimer and Rawlinson were entirely
in the wrong. Upon my word, I've no idea whether it's an indictable
offence to steal a body. I must look it up. But I should say it was. If
there is any property in a corpse, it must belong to the family or the
executors. And in any case, it's sacrilege, to say nothing of the
scandal in the parish. I must say, Hancock, it won't do us any good in
the eyes of the Nonconformists. However, no doubt you realise that.
Well, it's an unpleasant job, and the sooner we tackle it the better.
I'll run over to the vicarage with you and help you to break it to the
Burdocks. How about you, Wimsey? You were right, after all, and I think
Burdock owes you an apology."

"Oh, I'll keep out of it," said Wimsey. "I shan't be exactly _persona
grata_, don't you know. It's going to mean a deuce of a big financial
loss to the Haviland Burdocks."

"So it is. Most unpleasant. Well, perhaps you're right. Come along,
vicar."

Wimsey and his hostess sat discussing the matter by the fire for half an
hour or so, when Mr. Frobisher-Pym suddenly put his head in and said:

"I say, Wimsey--we're all going over to Mortimer's. I wish you'd come
and drive the car. Merridew always has the day off on Sunday, and I
don't care about driving at night, particularly in this fog."

"Right you are," said Wimsey. He ran upstairs, and came down in a few
moments wearing a heavy leather flying-coat, and with a parcel under his
arm. He greeted the Burdocks briefly, climbed into the driving-seat, and
was soon steering cautiously through the mist along the Herriotting
Road.

He smiled a little grimly to himself as they came up under the trees to
the spot where the phantom coach had passed him. As they passed the gate
through which the ingenious apparition had vanished, he indulged himself
by pointing it out, and was rewarded by hearing a snarl from Haviland.
At the well-remembered fork, he took the right-hand turning into
Frimpton and drove steadily for six miles or so, till a warning shout
from Mr. Frobisher-Pym summoned him to look out for the turning up to
Mortimer's.

Mr. Mortimer's house, with its extensive stabling and farm buildings,
stood about two miles back from the main road. In the darkness Wimsey
could see little of it; but he noticed that the ground-floor windows
were all lit up, and, when the door opened to the magistrate's
imperative ring, a loud burst of laughter from the interior gave
evidence that Mr. Mortimer was not taking his misdoings too seriously.

"Is Mr. Mortimer at home?" demanded Mr. Frobisher-Pym, in the tone of a
man not to be trifled with.

"Yes, sir. Will you come in, please?"

They stepped into a large, old-fashioned hall, brilliantly lit, and made
cosy with a heavy oak screen across the door. As Wimsey advanced,
blinking, from the darkness, he saw a large, thick-set man, with a ruddy
face, advancing with hand outstretched in welcome.

"Frobisher-Pym! By Jove! how decent of you to come over! We've got some
old friends of yours here. Oh!" (in a slightly altered tone) "Burdock!
Well, well----"

"Damn you!" said Haviland Burdock, thrusting furiously past the
magistrate, who was trying to hold him back. "Damn you, you swine! Chuck
this bloody farce. What have you done with the body?"

"The body, eh?" said Mr. Mortimer, retreating in some confusion.

"Yes, curse you! Your friend Hubbard's split. It's no good denying it.
What the devil do you mean by it? You've got the body here somewhere.
Where is it? Hand it over!"

He strode threateningly round the screen into the lamplight. A tall,
thin man rose up unexpectedly from the depths of an armchair and
confronted him.

"Hold hard, old man!"

"Good God!" said Haviland, stepping heavily back on Wimsey's toes.
"Martin!"

"Sure," said the other. "Here I am. Come back like a bad half-penny. How
are you?"

"So _you're_ at the bottom of this!" stormed Haviland. "I might have
known it. You damned, dirty hound! I suppose you think it's decent to
drag your father out of his coffin and tote him about the country like a
circus. It's degrading. It's disgusting. It's abominable. You must be
perfectly dead to all decent feeling. You don't deny it, I suppose?"

"I say, Burdock!" expostulated Mortimer.

"Shut up, curse you!" said Haviland. "I'll deal with you in a minute.
Now, look here, Martin, I'm not going to stand any more of this
disgraceful behaviour. You'll give up that body, and----"

"Just a moment, just a moment," said Martin. He stood, smiling a little,
his hands thrust into the pockets of his dinner-jacket. "This
_éclaircissement_ seems to be rather public. Who are all these people?
Oh, it's the vicar, I see, I'm afraid we owe you a little explanation,
vicar. And, er----"

"This is Lord Peter Wimsey," put in Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "who discovered
your--I'm afraid, Burdock, I must agree with your brother in calling it
your disgraceful plot."

"Oh, Lord!" said Martin. "I say, Mortimer, you didn't know you were up
against Lord Peter Wimsey, did you? No wonder the cat got out of the
bag. The man's known to be a perfect Sherlock. However, I seem to have
got home at the crucial moment, so there's no harm done. Diana, this is
Lord Peter Wimsey--my wife."

A young and pretty woman in a black evening dress greeted Wimsey with a
shy smile, and turned deprecatingly to her brother-in-law.

"Haviland, we want to explain----"

He paid no attention to her.

"Now then, Martin, the game's up."

"I think it is, Haviland. But why make all this racket?"

"Racket! I like that. You take your own father's body out of its
coffin----"

"No, no, Haviland. I knew nothing about it. I swear that. I only got the
news of his death a few days ago. We were right out in the wilds,
filming a show in the Pyrenees, and I came straight back as soon as I
could get away. Mortimer here, with Rawlinson and Hubbard, staged the
whole show by themselves. I never heard a word about it till yesterday
morning in Paris, when I found his letter waiting at my old digs.
Honestly, Haviland, I had nothing to do with it. Why should I? I didn't
need to."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, if I'd been here, I should only have had to speak to stop the
funeral altogether. Why on earth should I have gone to the trouble of
stealing the body? Quite apart from the irreverence and all that. As it
is, when Mortimer told me about it, I must say I was a bit revolted at
the idea, though I appreciated the kindness and the trouble they'd been
to on my account. I think Mr. Hancock has most cause for wrath, really.
But Mortimer has been as careful as possible, sir--really he has. He has
placed the old governor quite reverently and decently in what used to be
the chapel, and put flowers round him and so on. You will be quite
satisfied, I'm sure."

"Yes, yes," said Mortimer. "No disrespect intended, don't you know. Come
and see him."

"This is dreadful," said the vicar helplessly.

"They had to do the best they could, don't you see, in my absence," said
Martin. "As soon as I can, I'll make proper arrangements for a suitable
tomb--above ground, of course. Or possibly cremation would fit the
case."

"What!" gasped Haviland. "Do you mean to say you imagine I'm going to
let my father stay unburied, simply because of your disgusting greed
about money?"

"My dear chap, do you think I'm going to let you put him underground,
simply to enable you to grab my property?"

"I'm the executor of his will, and I say he shall be buried, whether you
like it or not!"

"And _I'm_ an executor too--and I say he shan't be buried. He can be
kept absolutely decently above ground, and he shall be."

"But hear me," said the vicar, distracted between these two disagreeable
and angry young men.

"I'll see what Graham says about you," bawled Haviland.

"Oh, yes--the honest lawyer, Graham," sneered Martin. "_He_ knew what
was in the will, didn't he? I suppose he didn't mention it to _you_, by
any chance?"

"He did not," retorted Haviland. "He knew too well the sort of skunk
_you_ were to say anything about it. Not content with disgracing us with
your miserable, blackmailing marriage----"

"Mr. Burdock, Mr. Burdock----"

"Take care, Haviland!"

"You have no more decency----"

"Stop it!"

"Than to steal your father's body and my money so that you and your
damned wife can carry on your loose-living, beastly ways with a parcel
of film-actors and chorus-girls----"

"Now then, Haviland. Keep your tongue off my wife and my friends. How
about your own? Somebody told me Winnie'd been going the pace pretty
well--next door to bankruptcy, aren't you, with the gees and the tables
and God knows what! No wonder you want to do your brother out of his
money. I never thought much of you, Haviland, but by God----"

"One moment!"

Mr. Frobisher-Pym at last succeeded in asserting himself, partly through
the habit of authority, and partly because the brothers had shouted
themselves breathless.

"One moment, Martin. I will call you so, because I have known you a long
time, and your father too. I understand your anger at the things
Haviland has said. They were unpardonable, as I am sure he will realise
when he comes to his right mind. But you must remember that he has been
greatly shocked and upset--as we all have been--by this very very
painful business. And it is not fair to say that Haviland has tried to
'do you out' of anything. He knew nothing about this iniquitous will,
and he naturally saw to it that the funeral arrangements were carried
out in the usual way. You must settle the future amicably between you,
just as you would have done had the will not been accidentally mislaid.
Now, Martin--and Haviland too--think it over. My dear boys, this scene
is simply appalling. It really must not happen. Surely the estate can be
divided up in a friendly manner between you. It is horrible that an old
man's body should be a bone of contention between his own sons, just
over a matter of money."

"I'm sorry," said Martin. "I forgot myself. You're quite right, sir.
Look here, Haviland, forget it. I'll let you have half the money----"

"Half the money! But it's all mine. _You'll_ let me have half? How
damned generous! My own money!"

"No, old man. It's mine at the moment. The governor's not buried yet,
you know. That's right, isn't it, Mr. Frobisher-Pym?"

"Yes; the money is yours, legally, at this moment. You must see that,
Haviland. But your brother offers you half, and----"

"Half! I'm damned if I'll take half. The man's tried to swindle me out
of it. I'll send for the police, and have him put in gaol for robbing
the Church. You see if I don't. Give me the telephone."

"Excuse me," said Wimsey. "I don't want to butt in on your family
affairs any more than I have already, but I really don't advise you to
send for the police."

"_You_ don't, eh? What the hell's it got to do with you?"

"Well," said Wimsey deprecatingly, "if this will business comes into
court, I shall probably have to give evidence, because I was the bird
who found the thing, don't you see?"

"Well, then?"

"Well, then. They might ask how long the will was supposed to have been
where I found it."

Haviland appeared to swallow something which obstructed his speech.

"What about it, curse you!"

"Yes. Well, you see, it's rather odd when you come to think of it. I
mean, your late father must have hidden that will in the bookcase before
he went abroad. That was--how long ago? Three years? Five years?"

"About four years."

"Quite. And since then your bright caretaker has let the damp get into
the library, hasn't she? No fires, and the window getting broken, and so
on. Ruinous to the books. Very distressin' to anybody like myself, you
know. Yes. Well, supposin' they asked that question about the will--and
you said it had been there in the damp for four years. Wouldn't they
think it a bit funny if I told 'em that there was a big damp stain like
a grinning face on the end of the bookshelf, and a big, damp, grinning
face on the jolly old _Nüremberg Chronicle_ to correspond with it, and
no stain on the will which had been sittin' for four years between the
two?"

Mrs. Haviland screamed suddenly. "Haviland! You fool! You utter fool!"

"Shut up!"

Haviland snapped round at his wife with a cry of rage, and she collapsed
into a chair, with her hand snatched to her mouth.

"Thank you, Winnie," said Martin. "No, Haviland--don't trouble to
explain. Winnie's given the show away. So you knew--you _knew_ about the
will, and you deliberately hid it away and let the funeral go on. I'm
immensely obliged to you--nearly as obliged as I am to the discreet
Graham. Is it fraud or conspiracy or what, to conceal wills? Mr.
Frobisher-Pym will know."

"Dear, dear!" said the magistrate. "Are you certain of your facts,
Wimsey?"

"Positive," said Wimsey, producing the _Nüremberg Chronicle_ from under
his arm. "Here's the stain--you can see it yourself. Forgive me for
having borrowed your property, Mr. Burdock. I was rather afraid Mr.
Haviland might think this little discrepancy over in the still watches
of the night, and decide to sell the _Chronicle_, or give it away, or
even think it looked better without its back pages and cover. Allow me
to return it to you, Mr. Martin--intact. You will perhaps excuse my
saying that I don't very much admire any of the rôles in this melodrama.
It throws, as Mr. Pecksniff would say, a sad light on human nature. But
I resent extremely the way in which I was wangled up to that bookshelf
and made to be the bright little independent witness who found the will.
I may be an ass, Mr. Haviland Burdock, but I'm not a bloody ass. Good
night. I will wait in the car till you are all ready."

Wimsey stalked out with some dignity.

Presently he was followed by the vicar and by Mr. Frobisher-Pym.

"Mortimer's taking Haviland and his wife to the station," said the
magistrate. "They're going back to town at once. You can send their
traps off in the morning, Hancock. We'd better make ourselves scarce."

Wimsey pressed the self-starter.

As he did so, a man ran hastily down the steps and came up to him. It
was Martin.

"I say," he muttered. "You've done me a good turn--more than I deserve,
I'm afraid. You must think I'm a damned swine. But I'll see the old man
decently put away, and I'll share with Haviland. You mustn't judge him
too hardly, either. That wife of his is an awful woman. Run him over
head and ears in debt. Bust up his business. I'll see it's all squared
up. See? Don't want you to think us too awful."

"Oh, right-ho!" said Wimsey.

He slipped in the clutch, and faded away into the wet, white fog.




THE VINDICTIVE STORY OF THE FOOTSTEPS THAT RAN


Mr. Bunter withdrew his head from beneath the focusing cloth.

"I fancy that will be quite adequate, sir," he said deferentially,
"unless there are any further patients, if I may call them so, which you
would wish put on record."

"Not to-day," replied the doctor. He took the last stricken rat gently
from the table, and replaced it in its cage with an air of
satisfaction. "Perhaps on Wednesday, if Lord Peter can kindly spare
your services once again----"

"What's that?" murmured his lordship, withdrawing his long nose from the
investigation of a number of unattractive-looking glass jars. "Nice old
dog," he added vaguely. "Wags his tail when you mention his name, what?
Are these monkey-glands, Hartman, or a south-west elevation of
Cleopatra's duodenum?"

"You don't know anything, do you?" said the young physician, laughing."
No use playing your bally-fool-with-an-eyeglass tricks on me, Wimsey.
I'm up to them. I was saying to Bunter that I'd be no end grateful if
you'd let him turn up again three days hence to register the progress of
the specimens--always supposing they do progress, that is."

"Why ask, dear old thing?" said his lordship. "Always a pleasure to
assist a fellow-sleuth, don't you know. Trackin' down murderers--all in
the same way of business and all that. All finished? Good egg! By the
way, if you don't have that cage mended you'll lose one of your
patients--Number 5. The last wire but one is workin' loose--assisted by
the intelligent occupant. Jolly little beasts, ain't they? No need of
dentists--wish I was a rat--wire much better for the nerves than that
fizzlin' drill."

Dr. Hartman uttered a little exclamation.

"How in the world did you notice that, Wimsey? I didn't think you'd even
looked at the cage."

"Built noticin'--improved by practice," said Lord Peter quietly.
"Anythin' wrong leaves a kind of impression on the eye; brain trots
along afterwards with the warnin'. I saw that when we came in. Only just
grasped it. Can't say my mind was glued on the matter. Shows the
victim's improvin', anyhow. All serene, Bunter?"

"Everything perfectly satisfactory, I trust, my lord," replied the
manservant. He had packed up his camera and plates, and was quietly
restoring order in the little laboratory, whose fittings--compact as
those of an ocean liner--had been disarranged for the experiment.

"Well," said the doctor, "I am enormously obliged to you, Lord Peter,
and to Bunter too. I am hoping for a great result from these
experiments, and you cannot imagine how valuable an assistance it will
be to me to have a really good series of photographs. I can't afford
this sort of thing--yet," he added, his rather haggard young face
wistful as he looked at the great camera, "and I can't do the work at
the hospital. There's no time; I've got to be here. A struggling G.P.
can't afford to let his practice go, even in Bloomsbury. There are times
when even a half-crown visit makes all the difference between making
both ends meet and having an ugly hiatus."

"As Mr. Micawber said," replied Wimsey, "'Income twenty pounds,
expenditure nineteen, nineteen, six--result: happiness; expenditure
twenty pounds, ought, six--result: misery.' Don't prostrate yourself in
gratitude, old bean; nothin' Bunter loves like messin' round with pyro
and hyposulphite. Keeps his hand in. All kinds of practice welcome.
Finger-prints and process plates spell seventh what-you-may-call-it of
bliss, but focal-plane work on scurvy-ridden rodents (good phrase!)
acceptable if no crime forthcoming. Crimes have been rather short
lately. Been eatin' our heads off, haven't we, Bunter? Don't know what's
come over London. I've taken to prying into my neighbour's affairs to
keep from goin' stale. Frightened the postman into a fit the other day
by askin' him how his young lady at Croydon was. He's a married man,
livin' in Great Ormond Street."

"How did you know?"

"Well, I didn't really. But he lives just opposite to a friend of
mine--Inspector Parker; and his wife--not Parker's; he's unmarried; the
postman's, I mean--asked Parker the other day whether the flyin' shows
at Croydon went on all night. Parker, bein' flummoxed, said 'No,'
without thinkin'. Bit of a give-away, what? Thought I'd give the poor
devil a word in season, don't you know. Uncommonly thoughtless of
Parker."

The doctor laughed. "You'll stay to lunch, won't you?" he said. "Only
cold meat and salad, I'm afraid. My woman won't come Sundays. Have to
answer my own door. Deuced unprofessional, I'm afraid, but it can't be
helped."

"Pleasure," said Wimsey, as they emerged from the laboratory and entered
the dark little flat by the back door. "Did you build this place on?"

"No," said Hartman; "the last tenant did that. He was an artist. That's
why I took the place. It comes in very useful, ramshackle as it is,
though this glass roof is a bit sweltering on a hot day like this.
Still, I had to have something on the ground floor, cheap, and it'll do
till times get better."

"Till your vitamin experiments make you famous, eh?" said Peter
cheerfully. "You're goin' to be the comin' man, you know. Feel it in my
bones. Uncommonly neat little kitchen you've got, anyhow."

"It does," said the doctor. "The lab. makes it a bit gloomy, but the
woman's only here in the daytime."

He led the way into a narrow little dining-room, where the table was
laid for a cold lunch. The one window at the end farthest from the
kitchen looked out into Great James Street. The room was little more
than a passage, and full of doors--the kitchen door, a door in the
adjacent wall leading into the entrance-hall, and a third on the
opposite side, through which his visitor caught a glimpse of a
moderate-sized consulting-room.

Lord Peter Wimsey and his host sat down to table, and the doctor
expressed a hope that Mr. Bunter would sit down with them. That correct
person, however, deprecated any such suggestion.

"If I might venture to indicate my own preference, sir," he said, "it
would be to wait upon you and his lordship in the usual manner."

"It's no use," said Wimsey. "Bunter likes me to know my place.
Terrorisin' sort of man, Bunter. Can't call my soul my own. Carry on,
Bunter; we wouldn't presume for the world."

Mr. Bunter handed the salad, and poured out the water with a grave
decency appropriate to a crusted old tawny port.

It was a Sunday afternoon in that halcyon summer of 1921. The sordid
little street was almost empty. The ice-cream man alone seemed thriving
and active. He leaned luxuriously on the green post at the corner, in
the intervals of driving a busy trade. Bloomsbury's swarm of able-bodied
and able-voiced infants was still; presumably within-doors, eating
steamy Sunday dinners inappropriate to the tropical weather. The only
disturbing sounds came from the flat above, where heavy footsteps passed
rapidly to and fro.

"Who's the merry-and-bright bloke above?" enquired Lord Peter presently.
"Not an early riser, I take it. Not that anybody is on a Sunday mornin'.
Why an inscrutable Providence ever inflicted such a ghastly day on
people livin' in town I can't imagine. I ought to be in the country, but
I've got to meet a friend at Victoria this afternoon. Such a day to
choose . . . Who's the lady? Wife or accomplished friend? Gather she
takes a properly submissive view of woman's duties in the home, either
way. That's the bedroom overhead, I take it."

Hartman looked at Lord Peter in some surprise.

"'Scuse my beastly inquisitiveness, old thing," said Wimsey. "Bad habit.
Not my business."

"How did you?----"

"Guesswork," said Lord Peter, with disarming frankness. "I heard the
squawk of an iron bedstead on the ceiling and a heavy fellow get out
with a bump, but it may quite well be a couch or something. Anyway, he's
been potterin' about in his stocking feet over these few feet of floor
for the last half-hour, while the woman has been clatterin' to and fro,
in and out of the kitchen and away into the sittin'-room, with her high
heels on, ever since we've been here. Hence deduction as to domestic
habits of the first-floor tenants."

"I thought," said the doctor, with an aggrieved expression, "you'd been
listening to my valuable exposition of the beneficial effects of Vitamin
B, and Lind's treatment of scurvy with fresh lemons in 1755."

"I was listenin'," agreed Lord Peter hastily, "but I heard the footsteps
as well. Fellow's toddled into the kitchen--only wanted the matches,
though; he's gone off into the sittin'-room and left her to carry on the
good work. What was I sayin'? Oh, yes! You see, as I was sayin' before,
one hears a thing or sees it without knowin' or thinkin' about it. Then
afterwards one starts meditatin', and it all comes back, and one sorts
out one's impressions. Like those plates of Bunter's. Picture's all
there, l--la--what's the word I want, Bunter?"

"Latent, my lord."

"That's it. My right-hand man, Bunter; couldn't do a thing without him.
The picture's latent till you put the developer on. Same with the brain.
No mystery. Little grey books all my respected grandmother! Little grey
matter's all you want to remember things with. As a matter of curiosity,
was I right about those people above?"

"Perfectly. The man's a gas-company's inspector. A bit surly, but
devoted (after his own fashion) to his wife. I mean, he doesn't mind
hulking in bed on a Sunday morning and letting her do the chores, but he
spends all the money he can spare on giving her pretty hats and fur
coats and what not. They've only been married about six months. I was
called in to her when she had a touch of 'flu in the spring, and he was
almost off his head with anxiety. She's a lovely little woman, I must
say--Italian. He picked her up in some eating-place in Soho, I believe.
Glorious dark hair and eyes: Venus sort of figure; proper contours in
all the right places; good skin--all that sort of thing. She was a bit
of a draw to that restaurant while she was there, I fancy. Lively. She
had an old admirer round here one day--awkward little Italian fellow,
with a knife--active as a monkey. Might have been unpleasant, but I
happened to be on the spot, and her husband came along. People are
always laying one another out in these streets. Good for business, of
course, but one gets tired of tying up broken heads and slits in the
jugular. Still, I suppose the girl can't help being attractive, though I
don't say she's what you might call stand-offish in her manner. She's
sincerely fond of Brotherton, I think, though--that's his name."

Wimsey nodded inattentively. "I suppose life is a bit monotonous here,"
he said.

"Professionally, yes. Births and drunks and wife-beatings are pretty
common. And all the usual ailments, of course. Just at present I'm
living on infant diarrhœa chiefly--bound to, this hot weather, you know.
With the autumn, 'flu and bronchitis set in. I may get an occasional
pneumonia. Legs, of course, and varicose veins---- God!" cried the
doctor explosively, "if only I could get away, and do my experiments!"

"Ah!" said Peter, "where's that eccentric old millionaire with a
mysterious disease, who always figures in the novels? A lightning
diagnosis--a miraculous cure--'God bless you, doctor; here are five
thousand pounds'--Harley Street----"

"That sort doesn't live in Bloomsbury," said the doctor.

"It must be fascinatin', diagnosin' things," said Peter thoughtfully.
"How d'you do it? I mean, is there a regular set of symptoms for each
disease, like callin' a club to show you want your partner to go no
trumps? You don't just say: 'This fellow's got a pimple on his nose,
therefore he has fatty degeneration of the heart---- '"

"I hope not," said the doctor drily.

"Or is it more like gettin' a clue to a crime?" went on Peter. "You see
somethin'--a room, or a body, say, all knocked about anyhow, and there's
a damn sight of symptoms of somethin' wrong, and you've got just to pick
out the ones which tell the story?"

"That's more like it," said Dr. Hartman. "Some symptoms are significant
in themselves--like the condition of the gums in scurvy, let us
say--others in conjunction with----"

He broke off, and both sprang to their feet as a shrill scream sounded
suddenly from the flat above, followed by a heavy thud. A man's voice
cried out lamentably; feet ran violently to and fro; then, as the doctor
and his guests stood frozen in consternation, came the man
himself--falling down the stairs in his haste, hammering at Hartman's
door.

"Help! Help! Let me in! My wife! He's murdered her!"

       *       *       *       *       *

They ran hastily to the door and let him in. He was a big, fair man, in
his shirt-sleeves and stockings. His hair stood up, and his face was set
in bewildered misery.

"She is dead--dead. He was her lover," he groaned. "Come and look--take
her away---- Doctor! I have lost my wife! My Maddalena----" He paused,
looked wildly for a moment, and then said hoarsely, "Someone's been
in--somehow--stabbed her--murdered her. I'll have the law on him,
doctor. Come quickly--she was cooking the chicken for my dinner----
Ah-h-h!"

He gave a long, hysterical shriek, which ended in a hiccupping laugh.
The doctor took him roughly by the arm and shook him. "Pull yourself
together, Mr. Brotherton," he said sharply. "Perhaps she is only hurt.
Stand out of the way!"

"Only hurt?" said the man, sitting heavily down on the nearest chair.
"No--no--she is dead--little Maddalena---- Oh, my God!"

Dr. Hartman snatched a roll of bandages and a few surgical appliances
from the consulting-room, and he ran upstairs, followed closely by Lord
Peter. Bunter remained for a few moments to combat hysterics with cold
water. Then he stepped across to the dining-room window and shouted.

"Well, wot is it?" cried a voice from the street.

"Would you be so kind as to step in here a minute, officer?" said Mr.
Bunter. "There's been murder done."

       *       *       *       *       *

When Brotherton and Bunter arrived upstairs with the constable, they
found Dr. Hartman and Lord Peter in the little kitchen. The doctor was
kneeling beside the woman's body. At their entrance he looked up, and
shook his head.

"Death instantaneous," he said. "Clean through the heart. Poor child.
She cannot have suffered at all. Oh, constable, it is very fortunate you
are here. Murder appears to have been done--though I'm afraid the man
has escaped. Probably Mr. Brotherton can give us some help. He was in
the flat at the time."

The man had sunk down on a chair, and was gazing at the body with a face
from which all meaning seemed to have been struck out. The policeman
produced a notebook.

"Now, sir," he said, "don't let's waste any time. Sooner we can get to
work the more likely we are to catch our man. Now, you was 'ere at the
time, was you?"

Brotherton stared a moment, then, making a violent effort, he answered
steadily:

"I was in the sitting-room, smoking and reading the paper.
My--_she_--was getting the dinner ready in here. I heard her give a
scream, and I rushed in and found her lying on the floor. She didn't
have time to say anything. When I found she was dead, I rushed to the
window, and saw the fellow scrambling away over the glass roof there. I
yelled at him, but he disappeared. Then I ran down----"

"'Arf a mo'," said the policeman. "Now, see 'ere, sir, didn't you think
to go after 'im at once?"

"My first thought was for her," said the man. "I thought maybe she
wasn't dead. I tried to bring her round----" His speech ended in a
groan.

"You say he came in through the window," said the policeman.

"I beg your pardon, officer," interrupted Lord Peter, who had been
apparently making a mental inventory of the contents of the kitchen.
"Mr. Brotherton suggested that the man went _out_ through the window.
It's better to be accurate."

"It's the same thing," said the doctor. "It's the only way he could have
come in. These flats are all alike. The staircase door leads into the
sitting-room, and Mr. Brotherton was there, so the man couldn't have
come that way."

"And," said Peter, "he didn't get in through the bedroom window, or we
should have seen him. We were in the room below. Unless, indeed, he let
himself down from the roof. Was the door between the bedroom and the
sitting-room open?" he asked suddenly, turning to Brotherton.

The man hesitated a moment. "Yes," he said finally. "Yes, I'm sure it
was."

"Could you have seen the man if he had come through the bedroom window?"

"I couldn't have helped seeing him."

"Come, come, sir," said the policeman, with some irritation, "better let
_me_ ask the questions. Stands to reason the fellow wouldn't get in
through the bedroom window in full view of the street."

"How clever of you to think of that," said Wimsey. "Of course not. Never
occurred to me. Then it must have been this window, as you say."

"And, what's more, here's his marks on the window-sill," said the
constable triumphantly, pointing to some blurred traces among the London
soot. "That's right. Down he goes by that drain-pipe, over the glass
roof down there--what's that the roof of?"

"My laboratory," said the doctor. "Heavens! to think that while we were
there at dinner this murdering villain----"

"Quite so, sir," agreed the constable. "Well, he'd get away over the
wall into the court be'ind. 'E'll 'ave been seen there, no fear; you
needn't anticipate much trouble in layin' 'ands on 'im, sir. I'll go
round there in 'arf a tick. Now then, sir"--turning to Brotherton--"'ave
you any idea wot this party might have looked like?"

Brotherton lifted a wild face, and the doctor interposed.

"I think you ought to know, constable," he said, "that there was--well,
not a murderous attack, but what might have been one, made on this woman
before--about eight weeks ago--by a man named Marincetti--an Italian
waiter--with a knife."

"Ah!" The policeman licked his pencil eagerly. "Do you know this party
as 'as been mentioned?" he enquired of Brotherton.

"That's the man," said Brotherton, with concentrated fury. "Coming here
after my wife--God curse him! I wish to God I had him dead here beside
her!"

"Quite so," said the policeman. "Now, sir"--to the doctor--"'ave you got
the weapon wot the crime was committed with?"

"No," said Hartman, "there was no weapon in the body when I arrived."

"Did _you_ take it out?" pursued the constable, to Brotherton.

"No," said Brotherton, "he took it with him."

"Took it with 'im," the constable entered the fact in his notes. "Phew!
Wonderful 'ot it is in 'ere, ain't it, sir?" he added, mopping his brow.

"It's the gas-oven, I think," said Peter mildly. "Uncommon hot thing, a
gas-oven, in the middle of July. D'you mind if I turn it out? There's
the chicken inside, but I don't suppose you want----"

Brotherton groaned, and the constable said: "Quite right, sir. A man
wouldn't 'ardly fancy 'is dinner after a thing like this. Thank you,
sir. Well now, doctor, wot kind of weapon do you take this to 'ave
been?"

"It was a long, narrow weapon--something like an Italian stiletto, I
imagine," said the doctor, "about six inches long. It was thrust in with
great force under the fifth rib, and I should say it had pierced the
heart centrally. As you see, there has been practically no bleeding.
Such a wound would cause instant death. Was she lying just as she is now
when you first saw her, Mr. Brotherton?"

"On her back, just as she is," replied the husband.

"Well, that seems clear enough," said the policeman. "This 'ere
Marinetti, or wotever 'is name is, 'as a grudge against the poor young
lady----"

"I believe he was an admirer," put in the doctor,

"Quite so," agreed the constable. "Of course, these foreigners are like
that--even the decentest of 'em. Stabbin' and such-like seems to come
nateral to them, as you might say. Well, this 'ere Marinetti climbs in
'ere, sees the poor young lady standin' 'ere by the table all alone,
gettin' the dinner ready; 'e comes in be'ind, catches 'er round the
waist, stabs 'er--easy job, you see; no corsets nor nothink--she shrieks
out, 'e pulls 'is stiletty out of 'er an' makes tracks. Well, now we've
got to find 'im, and by your leave, sir, I'll be gettin' along. We'll
'ave 'im by the 'eels before long, sir, don't you worry. I'll 'ave to
put a man in charge 'ere, sir, to keep folks out, but that needn't worry
you. Good mornin', gentlemen."

"May we move the poor girl now?" asked the doctor.

"Certainly. Like me to 'elp you, sir?"

"No. Don't lose any time. We can manage." Dr. Hartman turned to Peter as
the constable clattered downstairs. "Will you help me, Lord Peter?"

"Bunter's better at that sort of thing," said Wimsey, with a hard mouth.

The doctor looked at him in some surprise, but said nothing, and he and
Bunter carried the still form away. Brotherton did not follow them. He
sat in a grief-stricken heap, with his head buried in his hands. Lord
Peter walked about the little kitchen, turning over the various knives
and kitchen utensils, peering into the sink bucket, and apparently
taking an inventory of the bread, butter, condiments, vegetables, and so
forth which lay about in preparation for the Sunday meal. There were
potatoes in the sink, half peeled, a pathetic witness to the quiet
domestic life which had been so horribly interrupted. The colander was
filled with green peas. Lord Peter turned these things over with an
inquisitive finger, gazed into the smooth surface of a bowl of dripping
as though it were a divining-crystal, ran his hands several times right
through a bowl of flour--then drew his pipe from his pocket and filled
it slowly.

The doctor returned, and put his hand on Brotherton's shoulder.

"Come," he said gently, "we have laid her in the other bedroom. She
looks very peaceful. You must remember that, except for that moment of
terror when she saw the knife, she suffered nothing. It is terrible for
you, but you must try not to give way. The police----"

"The police can't bring her back to life," said the man savagely. "She's
dead. Leave me alone, curse you! Leave me alone, I say!"

He stood up, with a violent gesture.

"You must not sit here," said Hartman firmly. "I will give you something
to take, and you must try to keep calm. Then we will leave you, but if
you don't control yourself----"

After some further persuasion, Brotherton allowed himself to be led
away.

"Bunter," said Lord Peter, as the kitchen door closed behind them, "do
you know why I am doubtful about the success of those rat experiments?"

"Meaning Mr. Hartman's, my lord?"

"Yes. Dr. Hartman has a theory. In any investigations, my Bunter, it is
most damnably dangerous to have a theory."

"I have heard you say so, my lord."

"Confound you--you know it as well as I do! What is wrong with the
doctor's theories, Bunter?"

"You wish me to reply, my lord, that he only sees the facts which fit in
with the theory."

"Thought-reader!" exclaimed Lord Peter bitterly.

"And that he supplies them to the police, my lord."

"Hush!" said Peter, as the doctor returned.

       *       *       *       *       *

"I have got him to lie down," said Dr. Hartman, "and I think the best
thing we can do is to leave him to himself."

"D'you know," said Wimsey, "I don't cotton to that idea, somehow."

"Why? Do you think he's likely to destroy himself?"

"That's as good a reason to give as any other, I suppose," said Wimsey,
"when you haven't got any reason which can be put into words. But my
advice is, don't leave him for a moment."

"But why? Frequently, with a deep grief like this, the presence of other
people is merely an irritant. He begged me to leave him."

"Then for God's sake go back to him," said Peter.

"Really, Lord Peter," said the doctor, "I think I ought to know what is
best for my patient."

"Doctor," said Wimsey, "this is not a question of your patient. A crime
has been committed."

"But there is no mystery."

"There are twenty mysteries. For one thing, when was the window-cleaner
here last?"

"The window-cleaner?"

"Who shall fathom the ebony-black enigma of the window-cleaner?" pursued
Peter lightly, putting a match to his pipe. "You are quietly in your
bath, in a state of more or less innocent nature, when an intrusive head
appears at the window, like the ghost of Hamilton Tighe, and a gruff
voice, suspended between earth and heaven, says 'Good morning, sir.'
Where do window-cleaners go between visits? Do they hibernate, like busy
bees? Do they----?"

"Really, Lord Peter," said the doctor, "don't you think you're going a
bit beyond the limit?"

"Sorry you feel like that," said Peter, "but I really want to know about
the window-cleaner. Look how clear these panes are."

"He came yesterday, if you want to know," said Dr. Hartman, rather
stiffly.

"You are sure?"

"He did mine at the same time."

"I thought as much," said Lord Peter. "In the words of the song:


                  "I thought as much,
     It was a little--window-cleaner.

"In that case," he added, "it is absolutely imperative that Brotherton
should not be left alone for a moment. Bunter! Confound it all, where's
that fellow got to?"

The door into the bedroom opened.

"My lord?" Mr. Bunter unobtrusively appeared, as he had unobtrusively
stolen out to keep an unobtrusive eye upon the patient.

"Good," said Wimsey. "Stay where you are." His lackadaisical manner had
gone, and he looked at the doctor as four years previously he might have
looked at a refactory subaltern.

"Dr. Hartman," he said, "something is wrong. Cast your mind back. We
were talking about symptoms. Then came the scream. Then came the sound
of feet running. _Which direction did they run in?"_

"I'm sure I don't know."

"Don't you? Symptomatic, though, doctor. They have been troubling me all
the time, subconsciously. Now I know why. They ran _from the kitchen_."

"Well?"

"Well! And now the window-cleaner----"

"What about him?"

"Could you swear that it wasn't the window-cleaner who made those marks
on the sill?"

"And the man Brotherton saw----?"

"Have we examined your laboratory roof for his footsteps?"

"But the weapon? Wimsey, this is madness! Someone took the weapon."

"I know. But did you think the edge of the wound was clean enough to
have been made by a smooth stiletto? It looked ragged to me."

"Wimsey, what are you driving at?"

"There's a clue here in the flat--and I'm damned if I can remember it.
I've seen it--I know I've seen it. It'll come to me presently.
Meanwhile, don't let Brotherton----"

"What?"

"Do whatever it is he's going to do."

"But what is it?"

"If I could tell you that I could show you the clue. Why couldn't he
make up his mind whether the bedroom door was open or shut? Very good
story, but not quite thought out. Anyhow--I say, doctor, make some
excuse, and strip him, and bring me his clothes. And send Bunter to me."

The doctor stared at him, puzzled. Then he made a gesture of
acquiescence and passed into the bedroom. Lord Peter followed him,
casting a ruminating glance at Brotherton as he went. Once in the
sitting-room, Lord Peter sat down on a red velvet arm-chair, fixed his
eyes on a gilt-framed oleograph, and became wrapped in contemplation.

Presently Bunter came in, with his arms full of clothing. Wimsey took
it, and began to search it, methodically enough, but listlessly.
Suddenly he dropped the garments, and turned to the manservant.

"No," he said, "this is a precaution, Bunter mine, but I'm on the wrong
track. It wasn't here I saw--whatever I did see. It was in the kitchen.
Now, what was it?"

"I could not say, my lord, but I entertain a conviction that I was also,
in a manner of speaking, conscious--not consciously conscious, my lord,
if you understand me, but still conscious of an incongruity."

"Hurray!" said Wimsey suddenly. "Cheer-oh! for the sub-conscious
what's-his-name! Now let's remember the kitchen. I cleared out of it
because I was gettin' obfuscated. Now then. Begin at the door.
Fryin'-pans and saucepans on the wall. Gas-stove--oven goin'--chicken
inside. Rack of wooden spoons on the wall, gas-lighter, pan-lifter. Stop
me when I'm gettin' hot. Mantelpiece. Spice-boxes and stuff. Anything
wrong with them? No. Dresser. Plates. Knives and forks--all clean; flour
dredger--milk-jug--sieve on the wall--nutmeg-grater. Three-tier steamer.
Looked inside--no grisly secrets in the steamer."

"Did you look in all the dresser drawers, my lord?"

"No. That could be done. But the point is, I _did_ notice somethin'.
What did I notice? That's the point. Never mind. On with the dance--let
joy be unconfined! Knife-board. Knife-powder. Kitchen table. Did you
speak?"

"No," said Bunter, who had moved from his attitude of wooden deference.

"Table stirs a chord. Very good. On table. Choppin'-board. Remains of
ham and herb stuffin'. Packet of suet. Another sieve. Several plates.
Butter in a glass dish. Bowl of drippin'----"

"Ah!"

"Drippin'----! Yes, there was----"

"Something unsatisfactory, my lord----"

"About the drippin'! Oh, my head! What's that they say in _Dear Brutus_,
Bunter? 'Hold on to the workbox.' That's right. Hold on to the drippin'.
Beastly slimy stuff to hold on to---- Wait!"

There was a pause.

"When I was a kid," said Wimsey, "I used to love to go down into the
kitchen and talk to old cookie. Good old soul she was, too. I can see
her now, gettin' chicken ready, with me danglin' my legs on the table.
_She_ used to pluck an' draw 'em herself. I revelled in it. Little
beasts boys are, ain't they, Bunter? Pluck it, draw it, wash it, stuff
it, tuck its little tail through its little what-you-may-call-it, truss
it, grease the dish---- Bunter?"

"My lord!"

"Hold on to the dripping!"

"The bowl, my lord----"

"The bowl--visualise it--what was wrong!"

"It was full, my lord!"

"Got it--got it--_got_ it! The bowl was full--smooth surface. Golly! I
knew there was something queer about it. Now why shouldn't it be full?
Hold on to the----"

"The bird was in the oven."

"Without dripping!"

"Very careless cookery, my lord."

"The bird--in the oven--no dripping. Bunter! Suppose it was never put in
till after she was dead? Thrust in hurriedly by someone who had
something to hide--horrible!"

"But with what object, my lord?"

"Yes, why? That's the point. One more mental association with the bird.
It's just coming. Wait a moment. Pluck, draw, wash, stuff, tuck up,
truss---- By God!"

"My lord?"

"Come on, Bunter. Thank Heaven we turned off the gas!"

He dashed through the bedroom, disregarding the doctor and the patient,
who sat up with a smothered shriek. He flung open the oven door and
snatched out the baking-tin. The skin of the bird had just begun to
discolour. With a little gasp of triumph, Wimsey caught the iron ring
that protruded from the wing, and jerked out--the six-inch spiral
skewer.

The doctor was struggling with the excited Brotherton in the doorway.
Wimsey caught the man as he broke away, and shook him into the corner
with a jiu-jitsu twist.

"Here is the weapon," he said.

"Prove it, blast you!" said Brotherton savagely.

"I will," said Wimsey. "Bunter, call in the policeman whom you will find
at the door. Doctor, we shall need your microscope."

       *       *       *       *       *

In the laboratory the doctor bent over the microscope. A thin layer of
blood from the skewer had been spread upon the slide.

"Well?" said Wimsey impatiently.

"It's all right," said Hartman. "The roasting didn't get anywhere near
the middle. My God, Wimsey, yes, you're right--round corpuscles,
diameter 1/3621--mammalian blood--probably human----"

"Her blood," said Wimsey.

       *       *       *       *       *

"It was very clever, Bunter," said Lord Peter, as the taxi trundled
along on the way to his flat in Piccadilly. "If that fowl had gone on
roasting a bit longer the blood-corpuscles might easily have been
destroyed beyond all hope of recognition. It all goes to show that the
unpremeditated crime is usually the safest."

"And what does your lordship take the man's motive to have been?"

"In my youth," said Wimsey meditatively, "they used to make me read the
Bible. Trouble was, the only books I ever took to naturally were the
ones they weren't over and above keen on. But I got to know the Song of
Songs pretty well by heart. Look it up, Bunter; at your age it won't
hurt you; it talks sense about jealousy."

"I have perused the work in question, your lordship," replied Mr.
Bunter, with a sallow blush. "It says, if I remember rightly: '_Jealousy
is cruel as the grave_'."




THE BIBULOUS BUSINESS OF A MATTER OF TASTE


"Halte-La! . . . Attention! . . . F----e!"

The young man in the grey suit pushed his way through the protesting
porters and leapt nimbly for the footboard of the guard's van as the
Paris-Evreux express steamed out of the Invalides. The guard, with an
eye to a tip, fielded him adroitly from among the detaining hands.

"It is happy for monsieur that he is so agile," he remarked. "Monsieur
is in a hurry?"

"Somewhat. Thank you. I can get through by the corridor?"

"But certainly. The _premières_ are two coaches away, beyond the
luggage-van."

The young man rewarded his rescuer, and made his way forward, mopping
his face. As he passed the piled-up luggage, something caught his eye,
and he stopped to investigate. It was a suit-case, nearly new, of
expensive-looking leather, labelled conspicuously:

  LORD PETER WIMSEY,
      Hôtel Saumon d'Or,
            Verneuil-sur-Eure

and bore witness to its itinerary thus:

  LONDON--PARIS
  (Waterloo)  (Gare St. Lazare)
  via Southampton-Havre

  PARIS--VERNEUIL
  (Ch. de Fer de l'Ouest)

The young man whistled, and sat down on a trunk to think it out.

Somewhere there had been a leakage, and they were on his trail. Nor did
they care who knew it. There were hundreds of people in London and Paris
who would know the name of Wimsey, not counting the police of both
countries. In addition to belonging to one of the oldest ducal families
in England, Lord Peter had made himself conspicuous by his meddling with
crime detection. A label like this was a gratuitous advertisement.

But the amazing thing was that the pursuers were not troubling to hide
themselves from the pursued. That argued very great confidence. That he
should have got into the guard's van was, of course, an accident, but,
even so, he might have seen it on the platform, or anywhere.

An accident? It occurred to him--not for the first time, but definitely
now, and without doubt--that it was indeed an accident for them that he
was here. The series of maddening delays that had held him up between
London and the Invalides presented itself to him with an air of
pre-arrangement. The preposterous accusation, for instance, of the woman
who had accosted him in Piccadilly, and the slow process of extricating
himself at Marlborough Street. It was easy to hold a man up on some
trumped-up charge till an important plan had matured. Then there was the
lavatory door at Waterloo, which had so ludicrously locked itself upon
him. Being athletic, he had climbed over the partition, to find the
attendant mysteriously absent. And, in Paris, was it by chance that he
had had a deaf taxi-driver, who mistook the direction "Quai d'Orléans"
for "Gare de Lyon," and drove a mile and a half in the wrong direction
before the shouts of his fare attracted his attention? They were clever,
the pursuers, and circumspect. They had accurate information; they would
delay him, but without taking any overt step; they knew that, if only
they could keep time on their side, they needed no other ally.

Did they know he was on the train? If not, he still kept the advantage,
for they would travel in a false security, thinking him to be left,
raging and helpless, in the Invalides. He decided to make a cautious
reconnaissance.

The first step was to change his grey suit for another of inconspicuous
navy-blue cloth, which he had in his small black bag. This he did in the
privacy of the toilet, substituting for his grey soft hat a large
travelling-cap, which pulled well down over his eyes.

There was little difficulty in locating the man he was in search of. He
found him seated in the inner corner of a first-class compartment,
facing the engine, so that the watcher could approach unseen from
behind. On the rack was a handsome dressing-case, with the initials P.
D. B. W. The young man was familiar with Wimsey's narrow, beaky face,
flat yellow hair, and insolent dropped eyelids. He smiled a little
grimly.

"He is confident," he thought, "and has regrettably made the mistake of
underrating the enemy. Good! This is where I retire into a _seconde_ and
keep my eyes open. The next act of this melodrama will take place, I
fancy, at Dreux."

       *       *       *       *       *

It is a rule on the Chemin de Fer de l'Ouest that all Paris-Evreux
trains, whether of Grande Vitesse or what Lord Peter Wimsey preferred to
call Grande Paresse, shall halt for an interminable period at Dreux. The
young man (now in navy-blue) watched his quarry safely into the
refreshment-room, and slipped unobtrusively out of the station. In a
quarter of an hour he was back--this time in a heavy motoring-coat,
helmet, and goggles, at the wheel of a powerful hired Peugeot. Coming
quietly on to the platform, he took up his station behind the wall of
the _lampisterie_, whence he could keep an eye on the train and the
buffet door. After fifteen minutes his patience was rewarded by the
sight of his man again boarding the express, dressing-case in hand. The
porters slammed the doors, crying: "Next stop Verneuil!" The engine
panted and groaned; the long train of grey-green carriages clanked
slowly away. The motorist drew a breath of satisfaction, and, hurrying
past the barrier, started up the car. He knew that he had a good eighty
miles an hour under his bonnet, and there is no speed-limit in France.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mon Souci, the seat of that eccentric and eremitical genius the Comte de
Rueil, is situated three kilometres from Verneuil. It is a sorrowful and
decayed château, desolate at the termination of its neglected avenue of
pines. The mournful state of a nobility without an allegiance surrounds
it. The stone nymphs droop greenly over their dry and mouldering
fountains. An occasional peasant creaks with a single wagon-load of wood
along the ill-forested glades. It has the atmosphere of sunset at all
hours of the day. The woodwork is dry and gaping for lack of paint.
Through the jalousies one sees the prim _salon_, with its beautiful and
faded furniture. Even the last of its ill-dressed, ill-favoured women
has withered away from Mon Souci, with her inbred, exaggerated features
and her long white gloves. But at the rear of the château a chimney
smokes incessantly. It is the furnace of the laboratory, the only living
and modern thing among the old and dying; the only place tended and
loved, petted and spoiled, heir to the long solicitude which counts of a
more light-hearted day had given to stable and kennel, portrait-gallery
and ballroom. And below, in the cool cellar, lie row upon row the dusty
bottles, each an enchanted glass coffin in which the Sleeping Beauty of
the vine grows ever more ravishing in sleep.

As the Peugeot came to a standstill in the courtyard, the driver
observed with considerable surprise that he was not the count's only
visitor. An immense super-Renault, like a _merveilleuse_ of the
Directoire, all bonnet and no body, had been drawn so ostentatiously
across the entrance as to embarrass the approach of any new-comer. Its
glittering panels were embellished with a coat of arms, and the count's
elderly servant was at that moment staggering beneath the weight of two
large and elaborate suit-cases, bearing in silver letters that could be
read a mile away the legend: "LORD PETER WIMSEY."

The Peugeot driver gazed with astonishment at this display, and grinned
sardonically. "Lord Peter seems rather ubiquitous in this country," he
observed to himself. Then, taking pen and paper from his bag, he busied
himself with a little letter-writing. By the time that the suit-cases
had been carried in, and the Renault had purred its smooth way to the
outbuildings, the document was complete and enclosed in an envelope
addressed to the Comte de Rueil. "The hoist with his own petard touch,"
said the young man, and, stepping up to the door, presented the envelope
to the manservant.

"I am the bearer of a letter of introduction to monsieur le comte," he
said. "Will you have the obligingness to present it to him? My name is
Bredon--Death Bredon."

The man bowed, and begged him to enter.

"If monsieur will have the goodness to seat himself in the hall for a
few moments. Monsieur le comte is engaged with another gentleman, but I
will lose no time in making monsieur's arrival known."

The young man sat down and waited. The windows of the hall looked out
upon the entrance, and it was not long before the château's sleep was
disturbed by the hooting of yet another motor-horn. A station taxi-cab
came noisily up the avenue. The man from the first-class carriage and
the luggage labelled P. D. B. W. were deposited upon the doorstep. Lord
Peter Wimsey dismissed the driver and rang the bell.

"Now," said Mr. Bredon, "the fun is going to begin." He effaced himself
as far as possible in the shadow of a tall _armoire normande_.

"Good evening," said the new-comer to the manservant, in admirable
French, "I am Lord Peter Wimsey. I arrive upon the invitation of
Monsieur le comte de Rueil. Monsieur le comte is at liberty?"

"Milord Peter Wimsey? Pardon, monsieur, but I do not understand. Milord
de Wimsey is already arrived and is with monsieur le comte at this
moment."

"You surprise me," said the other, with complete imperturbability, "for
certainly no one but myself has any right to that name. It seems as
though some person more ingenious than honest has had the bright idea of
impersonating me."

The servant was clearly at a loss.

"Perhaps," he suggested, "monsieur can show his _papiers d'identité._"

"Although it is somewhat unusual to produce one's credentials on the
doorstep when paying a private visit," replied his lordship, with
unaltered good humour, "I have not the slightest objection. Here is my
passport, here is a _permis de séjour_ granted to me in Paris, here my
visiting-card, and here a quantity of correspondence addressed to me at
the Hôtel Meurice, Paris, at my flat in Piccadilly, London, at the
Marlborough Club, London, and at my brother's house at King's Denver. Is
that sufficiently in order?"

The servant perused the documents carefully, appearing particularly
impressed by the _permis de séjour_.

"It appears there is some mistake," he murmured dubiously; "if monsieur
will follow me, I will acquaint monsieur le comte."

They disappeared through the folding doors at the back of the hall and
Bredon was left alone.

"Quite a little boom in Richmonds to-day," he observed, "each of us more
unscrupulous than the last. The occasion obviously calls for a refined
subtlety of method."

After what he judged to be a hectic ten minutes in the count's library,
the servant reappeared, searching for him.

"Monsieur le comte's compliments, and would monsieur step this way?"

Bredon entered the room with a jaunty step. He had created for himself
the mastery of this situation. The count, a thin, elderly man, his
fingers deeply stained with chemicals, sat, with a perturbed expression,
at his desk. In two arm-chairs sat the two Wimseys. Bredon noted that,
while the Wimsey he had seen in the train (whom he mentally named Peter
I) retained his unruffled smile, Peter II (he of the Renault) had the
flushed and indignant air of an Englishman affronted. The two men were
superficially alike--both fair, lean, and long-nosed, with the
nondescript, inelastic face which predominates in any assembly of well
bred Anglo-Saxons.

"Mr. Bredon," said the count, "I am charmed to have the pleasure of
making your acquaintance, and regret that I must at once call upon you
for a service as singular as it is important. You have presented to me a
letter of introduction from your cousin, Lord Peter Wimsey. Will you now
be good enough to inform me which of these gentlemen he is?"

Bredon let his glance pass slowly from the one claimant to the other,
meditating what answer would best serve his own ends. One, at any rate,
of the men in this room was a formidable intellect, trained in the
detection of imposture.

"Well?" said Peter II. "Are you going to acknowledge me, Bredon?"

Peter I extracted a cigarette from a silver case. "Your confederate does
not seem very well up in his part," he remarked, with a quiet smile at
Peter II.

"Monsieur le comte," said Bredon, "I regret extremely that I cannot
assist you in the matter. My acquaintance with my cousin, like your own,
has been made and maintained entirely through correspondence on a
subject of common interest. My profession," he added, "has made me
unpopular with my family."

There was a very slight sigh of relief somewhere. The false
Wimsey--whichever he was--had gained a respite. Bredon smiled.

"An excellent move, Mr. Bredon," said Peter I, "but it will hardly
explain---- Allow me." He took the letter from the count's hesitating
hand. "It will hardly explain the fact that the ink of this letter of
recommendation, dated three weeks ago, is even now scarcely dry--though
I congratulate you on the very plausible imitation of my handwriting."

"If you can forge my handwriting," said Peter II, "so can this Mr.
Bredon." He read the letter aloud over his double's shoulder.

"'Monsieur le comte--I have the honour to present to you my friend and
cousin, Mr. Death Bredon, who, I understand, is to be travelling in your
part of France next month. He is very anxious to view your interesting
library. Although a journalist by profession, he really knows something
about books.' I am delighted to learn for the first time that I have
such a cousin. An interviewer's trick, I fancy, monsieur le comte. Fleet
Street appears well informed about our family names. Possibly it is
equally well informed about the object of my visit to Mon Souci?"

"If," said Bredon boldly, "you refer to the acquisition of the de Rueil
formula for poison gas for the British Government, I can answer for my
own knowledge, though possibly the rest of Fleet Street is less
completely enlightened." He weighed his words carefully now, warned by
his slip. The sharp eyes and detective ability of Peter I alarmed him
far more than the caustic tongue of Peter II.

The count uttered an exclamation of dismay.

"Gentlemen," he said, "one thing is obvious--that there has been
somewhere a disastrous leakage of information. Which of you is the Lord
Peter Wimsey to whom I should entrust the formula I do not know. Both of
you are supplied with papers of identity; both appear completely
instructed in this matter; both of your handwritings correspond with the
letters I have previously received from Lord Peter, and both of you have
offered me the sum agreed upon in Bank of England notes. In addition,
this third gentleman arrives endowed with an equal facility in
handwritings, an introductory letter surrounded by most suspicious
circumstances, and a degree of acquaintance with this whole matter which
alarms me. I can see but one solution. All of you must remain here at
the château while I send to England for some elucidation of this
mystery. To the genuine Lord Peter I offer my apologies, and assure him
that I will endeavour to make his stay as agreeable as possible. Will
this satisfy you? It will? I am delighted to hear it. My servants will
show you to your bedrooms, and dinner will be at half-past seven."

       *       *       *       *       *

"It is delightful to think," said Mr. Bredon, as he fingered his glass
and passed it before his nostrils with the air of a connoisseur, "that
whichever of these gentlemen has the right to the name which he assumes
is assured to-night of a truly Olympian satisfaction." His impudence had
returned to him, and he challenged the company with an air. "Your
cellars, monsieur le comte, are as well known among men endowed with a
palate as your talents among men of science. No eloquence could say
more."

The two Lord Peters murmured assent.

"I am the more pleased by your commendation," said the count, "that it
suggests to me a little test which, with your kind co-operation, will, I
think, assist us very much in determining which of you gentlemen is Lord
Peter Wimsey and which his talented impersonator. Is it not matter of
common notoriety that Lord Peter has a palate for wine almost unequalled
in Europe?"

"You flatter me, monsieur le comte," said Peter II modestly.

"I wouldn't like to say unequalled," said Peter I, chiming in like a
well-trained duet; "let's call it fair to middling. Less liable to
misconstruction and all that."

"Your lordship does yourself an injustice," said Bredon, addressing both
men with impartial deference. "The bet which you won from Mr. Frederick
Arbuthnot at the Egotists' Club, when he challenged you to name the
vintage years of seventeen wines blindfold, received its due prominence
in the _Evening Wire_."

"I was in extra form that night," said Peter I.

"A fluke," laughed Peter II.

"The test I propose, gentlemen, is on similar lines," pursued the count,
"though somewhat less strenuous. There are six courses ordered for
dinner to-night. With each we will drink a different wine, which my
butler shall bring in with the label concealed. You shall each in turn
give me your opinion upon the vintage. By this means we shall perhaps
arrive at something, since the most brilliant forger--of whom I gather I
have at least two at my table to-night--can scarcely forge a palate for
wine. If too hazardous a mixture of wines should produce a temporary
incommodity in the morning, you will, I feel sure, suffer it gladly for
this once in the cause of truth."

The two Wimseys bowed.

"_In vino veritas_," said Mr. Bredon, with a laugh. He at least was well
seasoned, and foresaw opportunities for himself.

"Accident, and my butler, having placed you at my right hand, monsieur,"
went on the count, addressing Peter I, "I will ask you to begin by
pronouncing, as accurately as may be, upon the wine which you have just
drunk."

"That is scarcely a searching ordeal," said the other, with a smile. "I
can say definitely that it is a very pleasant and well-matured Chablis
Moutonne; and, since ten years is an excellent age for a Chablis--a real
Chablis--I should vote for 1916, which was perhaps the best of the war
vintages in that district."

"Have you anything to add to that opinion, monsieur?" enquired the
count, deferentially, of Peter II.

"I wouldn't like to be dogmatic to a year or so," said that gentleman
critically, "but if I must commit myself, don't you know, I should say
1915--decidedly 1915."

The count bowed, and turned to Bredon.

"Perhaps you, too, monsieur, would be interested to give an opinion," he
suggested, with the exquisite courtesy always shown to the plain man in
the society of experts.

"I'd rather not set a standard which I might not be able to live up to,"
replied Bredon, a little maliciously. "I know that it is 1915, for I
happened to see the label."

Peter II looked a little disconcerted.

"We will arrange matters better in future," said the count. "Pardon me."
He stepped apart for a few moments' conference with the butler, who
presently advanced to remove the oysters and bring in the soup.

The next candidate for attention arrived swathed to the lip in damask.

"It is your turn to speak first, monsieur," said the count to Peter II.
"Permit me to offer you an olive to cleanse the palate. No haste, I
beg. Even for the most excellent political ends, good wine must not be
used with disrespect."

The rebuke was not unnecessary, for, after a preliminary sip, Peter II
had taken a deep draught of the heady white richness. Under Peter I's
quizzical eye he wilted quite visibly.

"It is--it is Sauterne," he began, and stopped. Then, gathering
encouragement from Bredon's smile, he said, with more aplomb. "Château
Yquem, 1911--ah! the queen of white wines, sir, as what's-his-name
says." He drained his glass defiantly.

The count's face was a study as he slowly detached his fascinated gaze
from Peter II to fix it on Peter I.

"If I had to be impersonated by somebody," murmured the latter gently,
"it would have been more flattering to have had it undertaken by a
person to whom all white wines were _not_ alike. Well, now, sir, this
admirable vintage is, of course, a Montrachet of--let me see"--he rolled
the wine delicately upon his tongue--"of 1911. And a very attractive
wine it is, though, with all due deference to yourself, monsieur le
comte, I feel that it is perhaps slightly too sweet to occupy its
present place in the menu. True, with this excellent _consommé marmite_,
a sweetish wine is not altogether out of place, but, in my own humble
opinion, it would have shown to better advantage with the _confitures_."

"There, now," said Bredon innocently, "it just shows how one may be
misled. Had not I had the advantage of Lord Peter's expert opinion--for
certainly nobody who could mistake Montrachet for Sauterne has any claim
to the name of Wimsey--I should have pronounced this to be, not the
Montrachet-Aîné, but the Chevalier-Montrachet of the same year, which is
a trifle sweeter. But no doubt, as your lordship says, drinking it with
the soup has caused it to appear sweeter to me than it actually is."

The count looked sharply at him, but made no comment.

"Have another olive," said Peter I kindly. "You can't judge wine if your
mind is on other flavours."

"Thanks frightfully," said Bredon. "And that reminds me----" He launched
into a rather pointless story about olives, which lasted out the soup
and bridged the interval to the entrance of an exquisitely cooked sole.

The count's eye followed the pale amber wine rather thoughtfully as it
trilled into the glasses. Bredon raised his in the approved manner to
his nostrils, and his face flushed a little. With the first sip he
turned excitedly to his host.

"Good God, sir----" he began.

The lifted hand cautioned him to silence.

Peter I sipped, inhaled, sipped again, and his brows clouded. Peter II
had by this time apparently abandoned his pretensions. He drank
thirstily, with a beaming smile and a lessening hold upon reality.

"Eh bien, monsieur?" enquired the count gently.

"This," said Peter I, "is certainly hock, and the noblest hock I have
ever tasted, but I must admit that for the moment I cannot precisely
place it."

"No?" said Bredon. His voice was like bean-honey now, sweet and harsh
together. "Nor the other gentleman? And yet I fancy I could place it
within a couple of miles, though it is a wine I had hardly looked to
find in a French cellar at this time. It is hock, as your lordship says,
and at that it is Johannisberger. Not the plebeian cousin, but the
echter Schloss Johannis berger from the castle vineyard itself. Your
lordship must have missed it (to your great loss) during the war years.
My father laid some down the year before he died, but it appears that
the ducal cellars at Denver were less well furnished."

"I must set about remedying the omission," said the remaining Peter,
with determination.

The _poulet_ was served to the accompaniment of an argument over the
Lafitte, his lordship placing it at 1878, Bredon maintaining it to be a
relic of the glorious 'seventy-fives, slightly over-matured, but both
agreeing as to its great age and noble pedigree.

As to the Clos-Vougeôt, on the other hand, there was complete agreement;
after a tentative suggestion of 1915, it was pronounced finally by Peter
I to belong to the equally admirable though slightly lighter 1911 crop.
The _pré-salé_ was removed amid general applause, and the dessert was
brought in.

"Is it necessary," asked Peter I, with a slight smile in the direction
of Peter II--now happily murmuring, "Damn good wine, damn good dinner,
damn good show"--"is it necessary to prolong this farce any further?"

"Your lordship will not, surely, refuse to proceed with the discussion?"
cried the count.

"The point is sufficiently made, I fancy."

"But no one will surely ever refuse to discuss wine," said Bredon,
"least of all your lordship, who is so great an authority."

"Not on this," said the other. "Frankly, it is a wine I do not care
about. It is sweet and coarse, qualities that would damn any wine in the
eyes--the mouth, rather--of a connoisseur. Did your excellent father
have this laid down also, Mr. Bredon?"

Bredon shook his head.

"No," he said, "no. Genuine Imperial Tokay is beyond the opportunities
of Grub Street, I fear. Though I agree with you that it is horribly
overrated--with all due deference to yourself, monsieur le comte."

"In that case," said the count, "we will pass at once to the liqueur. I
admit that I had thought of puzzling these gentlemen with the local
product, but, since one competitor seems to have scratched, it shall be
brandy--the only fitting close to a good wine-list."

In a slightly embarrassing silence the huge, round-bellied balloon
glasses were set upon the table, and the few precious drops poured
gently into each and set lightly swinging to release the bouquet.

"This," said Peter I, charmed again into amiability, "is, indeed, a
wonderful old French brandy. Half a century old, I suppose."

"Your lordship's praise lacks warmth," replied Bredon. "This is _the_
brandy--the brandy of brandies--the superb--the incomparable--the true
Napoleon. It should be honoured like the emperor it is."

He rose to his feet, his napkin in his hand.

"Sir," said the count, turning to him, "I have on my right a most
admirable judge of wine, but you are unique." He motioned to Pierre, who
solemnly brought forward the empty bottles, unswathed now, from the
humble Chablis to the stately Napoleon, with the imperial seal blown in
the glass. "Every time you have been correct as to growth and year.
There cannot be six men in the world with such a palate as yours, and I
thought that but one of them was an Englishman. Will you not favour us,
this time, with your real name?"

"It doesn't matter what his name is," said Peter I. He rose. "Put up
your hands, all of you. Count, the formula!"

Bredon's hands came up with a jerk, still clutching the napkin. The
white folds spurted flame as his shot struck the other's revolver
cleanly between trigger and barrel, exploding the charge, to the extreme
detriment of the glass chandelier. Peter I stood shaking his paralysed
hand and cursing.

Bredon kept him covered while he cocked a wary eye at Peter II, who, his
rosy visions scattered by the report, seemed struggling back to
aggressiveness.

"Since the entertainment appears to be taking a lively turn," observed
Bredon, "perhaps you would be so good, count, as to search these
gentlemen for further firearms. Thank you. Now, why should we not all
sit down again and pass the bottle round?"

"You--_you_ are----" growled Peter I.

"Oh, my name is Bredon all right," said the young man cheerfully. "I
loathe aliases. Like another fellow's clothes, you know--never seem
quite to fit. Peter Death Bredon Wimsey--a bit lengthy and all that, but
handy when taken in instalments. I've got a passport and all those
things, too, but I didn't offer them, as their reputation here seems a
little blown upon, so to speak. As regards the formula, I think I'd
better give you my personal cheque for it--all sorts of people seem able
to go about flourishing Bank of England notes. Personally, I think all
this secret diplomacy work is a mistake, but that's the War Office's
pigeon. I suppose we all brought similar credentials. Yes, I thought so.
Some bright person seems to have sold himself very successfully in two
places at once. But you two must have been having a lively time, each
thinking the other was me."

"My lord," said the count heavily, "these two men are, or were,
Englishmen, I suppose. I do not care to know what Governments have
purchased their treachery. But where they stand, I, alas! stand too. To
our venal and corrupt Republic I, as a Royalist, acknowledge no
allegiance. But it is in my heart that I have agreed to sell my country
to England because of my poverty. Go back to your War Office and say I
will not give you the formula. If war should come between our
countries--which may God avert!--I will be found on the side of France.
That, my lord, is my last word."

Wimsey bowed.

"Sir," said he, "it appears that my mission has, after all, failed. I am
glad of it. This trafficking in destruction is a dirty kind of business
after all. Let us shut the door upon these two, who are neither flesh
nor fowl, and finish the brandy in the library."




THE LEARNED ADVENTURE OF THE DRAGON'S HEAD


"Uncle Peter!"

"Half a jiff, Gherkins. No, I don't think I'll take the Catullus, Mr.
Ffolliott. After all, thirteen guineas is a bit steep without either the
title or the last folio, what? But you might send me round the Vitruvius
and the Satyricon when they come in; I'd like to have a look at them,
anyhow. Well, old man, what is it?"

"Do come and look at these pictures, Uncle Peter. I'm sure it's an
awfully old book."

Lord Peter Wimsey sighed as he picked his way out of Mr. Ffolliott's
dark back shop, strewn with the flotsam and jetsam of many libraries. An
unexpected outbreak of measles at Mr. Bultridge's excellent preparatory
school, coinciding with the absence of the Duke and Duchess of Denver on
the Continent, had saddled his lordship with his ten-year-old nephew,
Viscount St. George, more commonly known as Young Jerry, Jerrykins, or
Pickled Gherkins. Lord Peter was not one of those born uncles who
delight old nurses by their fascinating "way with" children. He
succeeded, however, in earning tolerance on honourable terms by treating
the young with the same scrupulous politeness which he extended to their
elders. He therefore prepared to receive Gherkin's discovery with
respect, though a child's taste was not to be trusted, and the book
might quite well be some horror of woolly mezzotints or an inferior
modern reprint adorned with leprous electros. Nothing much better was
really to be expected from the "cheap shelf" exposed to the dust of the
street.

"Uncle! there's such a funny man here, with a great long nose and ears
and a tail and dogs' heads all over his body. _Monstrum hoc
Cracoviæ_--that's a monster, isn't it? I should jolly well think it was.
What's _Cracoviæ_, Uncle Peter?"

"Oh," said Lord Peter, greatly relieved, "the Cracow monster?" A
portrait of that distressing infant certainly argued a respectable
antiquity. "Let's have a look. Quite right, it's a very old
book--Munster's _Cosmographia Universalis_. I'm glad you know good stuff
when you see it, Gherkins. What's the _Cosmographia_ doing out here, Mr.
Ffolliott, at five bob?"

"Well, my lord," said the bookseller, who had followed his customers to
the door, "it's in a very bad state, you see; covers loose and nearly
all the double-page maps missing. It came in a few weeks ago--dumped in
with a collection we bought from a gentleman in Norfolk--you'll find his
name in it--Dr. Conyers of Yelsall Manor. Of course, we might keep it
and try to make up a complete copy when we get another example. But it's
rather out of our line, as you know, classical authors being our
speciality. So we just put it out to go for what it would fetch in the
_status quo_, as you might say."

"Oh, look!" broke in Gherkins. "Here's a picture of a man being chopped
up in little bits. What does it say about it?"

"I thought you could read Latin."

"Well, but it's all full of sort of pothooks. What do they mean?"

"They're just contractions," said Lord Peter patiently. "'_Solent quoque
hujus insulæ cultores_'--It is the custom of the dwellers in this
island, when they see their parents stricken in years and of no further
use, to take them down into the market-place and sell them to the
cannibals, who kill them and eat them for food. This they do also with
younger persons when they fall into any desperate sickness."

"Ha, ha!" said Mr. Ffolliott. "Rather sharp practice on the poor
cannibals. They never got anything but tough old joints or diseased
meat, eh?"

"The inhabitants seem to have had thoroughly advanced notions of
business," agreed his lordship.

The viscount was enthralled.

"I _do_ like this book," he said; "could I buy it out of my
pocket-money, please?"

"Another problem for uncles," thought Lord Peter, rapidly ransacking his
recollections of the _Cosmographia_ to determine whether any of its
illustrations were indelicate; for he knew the duchess to be
strait-laced. On consideration, he could only remember one that was
dubious, and there was a sporting chance that the duchess might fail to
light upon it.

"Well," he said judicially, "in your place. Gherkins, I should be
inclined to buy it. It's in a bad state, as Mr. Ffolliott has
honourably told you--otherwise, of course, it would be exceedingly
valuable; but, apart from the lost pages, it's a very nice clean copy,
and certainly worth five shillings to you, if you think of starting a
collection."

Till that moment, the viscount had obviously been more impressed by the
cannibals than by the state of the margins, but the idea of figuring
next term at Mr. Bultridge's as a collector of rare editions had
undeniable charm.

"None of the other fellows collect books," he said; "they collect
stamps, mostly. I think stamps are rather ordinary, don't you, Uncle
Peter? I was rather thinking of giving up stamps. Mr. Porter, who takes
us for history, has got a lot of books like yours, and he is a splendid
man at footer."

Rightly interpreting this reference to Mr. Porter, Lord Peter gave it as
his opinion that book-collecting could be a perfectly manly pursuit.
Girls, he said, practically never took it up, because it meant so much
learning about dates and type-faces and other technicalities which
called for a masculine brain.

"Besides," he added, "it's a very interesting book in itself, you know.
Well worth dipping into."

"I'll take it, please," said the viscount, blushing a little at
transacting so important and expensive a piece of business; for the
duchess did not encourage lavish spending by little boys, and was strict
in the matter of allowances.

Mr. Ffolliott bowed, and took the _Cosmographia_ away to wrap it up.

"Are you all right for cash?" enquired Lord Peter discreetly. "Or can I
be of temporary assistance?"

"No, thank you, uncle; I've got Aunt Mary's half-crown and four
shillings of my pocket-money, because, you see, with the measles
happening, we didn't have our dormitory spread, and I was saving up for
that."

The business being settled in this gentlemanly manner, and the budding
bibliophile taking personal and immediate charge of the stout, square
volume, a taxi was chartered which, in due course of traffic delays,
brought the _Cosmographia_ to 110A Piccadilly.

       *       *       *       *       *

"And who, Bunter, is Mr. Wilberforce Pope?"

"I do not think we know the gentleman, my lord. He is asking to see your
lordship for a few minutes on business."

"He probably wants me to find a lost dog for his maiden aunt. What it is
to have acquired a reputation as a sleuth! Show him in. Gherkins, if
this good gentleman's business turns out to be private, you'd better
retire into the dining-room."

"Yes, Uncle Peter," said the viscount dutifully. He was extended on his
stomach on the library hearthrug, laboriously picking his way through
the more exciting-looking bits of the _Cosmographia_, with the aid of
Messrs. Lewis & Short, whose monumental compilation he had hitherto
looked upon as a barbarous invention for the annoyance of upper forms.

Mr. Wilberforce Pope turned out to be a rather plump, fair gentleman in
the late thirties, with a prematurely bald forehead, horn-rimmed
spectacles, and an engaging manner.

"You will excuse my intrusion, won't you?" he began. "I'm sure you must
think me a terrible nuisance. But I wormed your name and address out of
Mr. Ffolliott. Not his fault, really. You won't blame him, will you? I
positively badgered the poor man. Sat down on his doorstep and refused
to go, though the boy was putting up the shutters. I'm afraid you will
think me very silly when you know what it's all about. But you really
mustn't hold poor Mr. Ffolliott responsible, now, will you?"

"Not at all," said his lordship. "I mean, I'm charmed and all that sort
of thing. Something I can do for you about books? You're a collector,
perhaps? Will you have a drink or anything?"

"Well, no," said Mr. Pope, with a faint giggle. "No, not exactly a
collector. Thank you very much, just a spot--no, no, literally a spot.
Thank you; no"--he glanced round the bookshelves, with their rows of
rich old leather bindings--"certainly not a collector. But I happen to
be er, interested--sentimentally interested--in a purchase you made
yesterday. Really, such a very small matter. You will think it foolish.
But I am told you are the present owner of a copy of Munster's
_Cosmographia_, which used to belong to my uncle, Dr. Conyers."

Gherkins looked up suddenly, seeing that the conversation had a personal
interest for him.

"Well, that's not quite correct," said Wimsey. "I was there at the time,
but the actual purchaser is my nephew. Gerald, Mr. Pope is interested in
your _Cosmographia_. My nephew, Lord St. George."

"How do you do, young man," said Mr. Pope affably. "I see that the
collecting spirit runs in the family. A great Latin scholar, too, I
expect, eh? Ready to decline _jusjurandum_ with the best of us? Ha, ha!
And what are you going to do when you grow up? Be Lord Chancellor, eh?
Now, I bet you think you'd rather be an engine-driver, what, what?"

"No, thank you," said the viscount, with aloofness.

"What, not an engine-driver? Well, now, I want you to be a real business
man this time. Put through a book deal, you know. Your uncle will see I
offer you a fair price, what? Ha, ha! Now, you see, that picture-book of
yours has a great value for me that it wouldn't have for anybody else.
When _I_ was a little boy of your age it was one of my very greatest
joys. I used to have it to look at on Sundays. Ah, dear! the happy hours
I used to spend with those quaint old engravings, and the funny old
maps with the ships and salamanders and '_Hic dracones_'--you know what
that means, I dare say. What does it mean?"

"Here are dragons," said the viscount, unwillingly but still politely.

"Quite right. I _knew_ you were a scholar."

"It's a very attractive book," said Lord Peter. "My nephew was quite
entranced by the famous Cracow monster."

"Ah yes--a glorious monster, isn't it?" agreed Mr. Pope, with
enthusiasm. "Many's the time I've fancied myself as Sir Lancelot or
somebody on a white war horse, charging that monster, lance in rest,
with the captive princess cheering me on. Ah! childhood! You're living
the happiest days of your life, young man. You won't believe me, but you
are."

"Now what is it exactly you want my nephew to do?" enquired Lord Peter a
little sharply.

"Quite right, quite right. Well now, you know, my uncle, Dr. Conyers,
sold his library a few months ago. I was abroad at the time, and it was
only yesterday, when I went down to Yelsall on a visit, that I learnt
the dear old book had gone with the rest. I can't tell you how
distressed I was. I know it's not valuable--a great many pages missing
and all that--but I can't bear to think of its being gone. So, purely
from sentimental reasons, as I said, I hurried off to Ffolliott's to see
if I could get it back. I was quite upset to find I was too late, and
gave poor Mr. Ffolliott no peace till he told me the name of the
purchaser. Now, you see, Lord St. George, I'm here to make you an offer
for the book. Come, now, double what you gave for it. That's a good
offer, isn't it, Lord Peter? Ha, ha! And you will be doing me a very
great kindness as well."

Viscount St. George looked rather distressed, and turned appealingly to
his uncle.

"Well, Gerald," said Lord Peter, "it's your affair, you know. What do
you say?"

The viscount stood first on one leg and then on the other. The career of
a book collector evidently had its problems, like other careers.

"If you please, Uncle Peter," he said, with embarrassment, "may I
whisper?"

"It's not usually considered the thing to whisper, Gherkins, but you
could ask Mr. Pope for time to consider his offer. Or you could say you
would prefer to consult me first. That would be quite in order."

"Then, if you don't mind, Mr. Pope, I should like to consult my uncle
first."

"Certainly, certainly; ha, ha!" said Mr. Pope. "Very prudent to consult
a collector of greater experience, what? Ah! the younger generation, eh,
Lord Peter? Regular little business men already."

"Excuse us, then, for one moment," said Lord Peter, and drew his nephew
into the dining-room.

"I say, Uncle Peter," said the collector breathlessly, when the door was
shut, "_need_ I give him my book? I don't think he's a very nice man. I
_hate_ people who ask you to decline nouns for them."

"Certainly you needn't, Gherkins, if you don't want to. The book is
yours, and you've a right to it."

"What would _you_ do, uncle?"

Before replying, Lord Peter, in the most surprising manner, tiptoed
gently to the door which communicated with the library and flung it
suddenly open, in time to catch Mr. Pope kneeling on the hearthrug
intently turning over the pages of the coveted volume, which lay as the
owner had left it. He started to his feet in a flurried manner as the
door opened.

"Do help yourself, Mr. Pope, won't you?" cried Lord Peter hospitably,
and closed the door again.

"What is it, Uncle Peter?"

"If you want my advice, Gherkins, I should be rather careful how you had
any dealings with Mr. Pope. I don't think he's telling the truth. He
called those wood-cuts engravings--though, of course, that may be just
his ignorance. But I can't believe that he spent all his childhood's
Sunday afternoons studying those maps and picking out the dragons in
them, because, as you may have noticed for yourself, old Munster put
very few dragons into his maps. They're mostly just plain maps--a bit
queer to our ideas of geography, but perfectly straight-forward. That
was why I brought in the Cracow monster, and, you see, he thought it was
some sort of dragon."

"Oh, I say, uncle! So you said that on purpose!"

"If Mr. Pope wants the _Cosmographia_, it's for some reason he doesn't
want to tell us about. And, that being so, I wouldn't be in too big a
hurry to sell, if the book were mine. See?"

"Do you mean there's something frightfully valuable about the book,
which we don't know?"

"Possibly."

"How exciting! It's just like a story in the _Boys' Friend Library_.
What am I to say to him, uncle?"

"Well, in your place I wouldn't be dramatic or anything. I'd just say
you've considered the matter, and you've taken a fancy to the book and
have decided not to sell. You thank him for his offer, of course."

"Yes--er, won't you say it for me, uncle?"

"I think it would look better if you did it yourself."

"Yes, perhaps it would. Will he be very cross?"

"Possibly," said Lord Peter, "but, if he is, he won't let on. Ready?"

The consulting committee accordingly returned to the library. Mr. Pope
had prudently retired from the hearthrug and was examining a distant
bookcase.

"Thank you very much for your offer, Mr. Pope," said the viscount,
striding stoutly up to him, "but I have considered it, and I have taken
a--a--a fancy for the book and decided not to sell."

"Sorry and all that," put in Lord Peter, "but my nephew's adamant about
it. No, it isn't the price; he wants the book. Wish I could oblige you,
but it isn't in my hands. Won't you take something else before you go?
Really? Ring the bell, Gherkins. My man will see you to the lift. _Good_
evening."

When the visitor had gone, Lord Peter returned and thoughtfully picked
up the book.

"We were awful idiots to leave him with it, Gherkins, even for a moment.
Luckily, there's no harm done."

"You don't think he found out anything while we were away, do you,
uncle?" gasped Gherkins, open-eyed.

"I'm sure he didn't."

"Why?"

"He offered me fifty pounds for it on the way to the door. Gave the game
away. H'm! Bunter."

"My lord?"

"Put this book in the safe and bring me back the keys. And you'd better
set all the burglar alarms when you lock up."

"Oo--er!" said Viscount St. George.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the third morning after the visit of Mr. Wilberforce Pope, the
viscount was seated at a very late breakfast in his uncle's flat, after
the most glorious and soul-satisfying night that ever boy experienced.
He was almost too excited to eat the kidneys and bacon placed before him
by Bunter, whose usual impeccable manner was not in the least impaired
by a rapidly swelling and blackening eye.

It was about two in the morning that Gherkins--who had not slept very
well, owing to too lavish and grown-up a dinner and theatre the evening
before--became aware of a stealthy sound somewhere in the direction of
the fire-escape. He had got out of bed and crept very softly into Lord
Peter's room and woken him up. He had said: "Uncle Peter, I'm sure
there's burglars on the fire-escape." And Uncle Peter, instead of
saying, "Nonsense, Gherkins, hurry up and get back to bed," had sat up
and listened and said: "By Jove, Gherkins, I believe you're right." And
had sent Gherkins to call Bunter. And on his return, Gherkins, who had
always regarded his uncle as a very top-hatted sort of person, actually
saw him take from his handkerchief-drawer an undeniable automatic
pistol.

It was at this point that Lord Peter was apotheosed from the state of
Quite Decent Uncle to that of Glorified Uncle. He said:

"Look here, Gherkins, we don't know how many of these blighters
there'll be, so you must be jolly smart and do anything I say sharp, on
the word of command--even if I have to say 'Scoot.' Promise?"

Gherkins promised, with his heart thumping, and they sat waiting in the
dark, till suddenly a little electric bell rang sharply just over the
head of Lord Peter's bed and a green light shone out.

"The library window," said his lordship, promptly silencing the bell by
turning a switch. "If they heard, they may think better of it. We'll
give them a few minutes."

They gave them five minutes, and then crept very quietly down the
passage.

"Go round by the dining-room, Bunter," said his lordship; "they may bolt
that way."

With infinite precaution, he unlocked and opened the library door, and
Gherkins noticed how silently the locks moved.

A circle of light from an electric torch was moving slowly along the
bookshelves. The burglars had obviously heard nothing of the
counter-attack. Indeed, they seemed to have troubles enough of their own
to keep their attention occupied. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim
light, Gherkins made out that one man was standing holding the torch,
while the other took down and examined the books. It was fascinating to
watch his apparently disembodied hands move along the shelves in the
torch-light.

The men muttered discontentedly. Obviously the job was proving a harder
one than they had bargained for. The habit of ancient authors of
abbreviating the titles on the backs of their volumes, or leaving them
completely untitled, made things extremely awkward. From time to time
the man with the torch extended his hand into the light. It held a piece
of paper, which they anxiously compared with the title-page of a book.
Then the volume was replaced and the tedious search went on.

Suddenly some slight noise--Gherkins was sure _he_ did not make it; it
may have been Bunter in the dining-room--seemed to catch the ear of the
kneeling man.

"Wot's that?" he gasped, and his startled face swung round into view.

"Hands up!" said Lord Peter, and switched the light on.

The second man made one leap for the dining-room door, where a smash and
an oath proclaimed that he had encountered Bunter. The kneeling man shot
his hands up like a marionette.

"Gherkins," said Lord Peter, "do you think you can go across to that
gentleman by the bookcase and relieve him of the article which is so
inelegantly distending the right-hand pocket of his coat? Wait a minute.
Don't on any account get between him and my pistol, and mind you take
the thing out very carefully. There's no hurry. That's splendid. Just
point it at the floor while you bring it across, would you? Thanks.
Bunter has managed for himself, I see. Now run into my bedroom, and in
the bottom of my wardrobe you will find a bundle of stout cord. Oh! I
beg your pardon; yes, put your hands down by all means. It must be very
tiring exercise."

The arms of the intruders being secured behind their backs with a
neatness which Gherkins felt to be worthy of the best traditions of
Sexton Blake, Lord Peter motioned his captives to sit down and
despatched Bunter for whisky-and-soda.

"Before we send for the police," said Lord Peter, "you would do me a
great personal favour by telling me what you were looking for, and who
sent you. Ah! thanks, Bunter. As our guests are not at liberty to use
their hands, perhaps you would be kind enough to assist them to a drink.
Now then, say when."

"Well, you're a gentleman, guv'nor," said the First Burglar, wiping his
mouth politely on his shoulder, the back of his hand not being
available. "If we'd a known wot a job this wos goin' ter be, blow me if
we'd a touched it. The bloke said, ses 'e, 'It's takin' candy from a
baby,' 'e ses. 'The gentleman's a reg'lar softie,' 'e ses, 'one o' these
'ere sersiety toffs wiv a maggot fer old books,' that's wot 'e ses, 'an'
ef yer can find this 'ere old book fer me,' 'e ses, 'there's a pony fer
yer.' Well! Sech a job! 'E didn't mention as 'ow there'd be five 'undred
fousand bleedin' ole books all as alike as a regiment o' bleedin'
dragoons. Nor as 'ow yer kept a nice little machine-gun like that 'andy
by the bedside, _nor_ yet as 'ow yer was so bleedin' good at tyin' knots
in a bit o' string. No--'e didn't think ter mention them things."

"Deuced unsporting of him," said his lordship. "Do you happen to know
the gentleman's name?"

"No--that was another o' them things wot 'e didn't mention. 'E's a
stout, fair party, wiv 'orn rims to 'is goggles and a bald 'ead. One o'
these 'ere philanthropists, I reckon. A friend o' mine, wot got inter
trouble onct, got work froo 'im, and the gentleman comes round and ses
to 'im, 'e ses, 'Could yer find me a couple o' lads ter do a little
job?' 'e ses, an' my friend, finkin' no 'arm, you see, guv'nor, but wot
it might be a bit of a joke like, 'e gets 'old of my pal an' me, an' we
meets the gentleman in a pub dahn Whitechapel way. W'ich we was ter meet
'im there again Friday night, us 'avin' allowed that time fer ter git
'old of the book."

"The book being, if I may hazard a guess, the _Cosmographia
Universalis_?"

"Sumfink like that, guv'nor. I got its jaw-breakin' name wrote down on a
bit o' paper, wot my pal 'ad in 'is 'and. Wot did yer do wiv that 'ere
bit o' paper, Bill?"

"Well, look here," said Lord Peter, "I'm afraid I must send for the
police, but I think it likely, if you give us your assistance to get
hold of your gentleman, whose name I strongly suspect to be Wilberforce
Pope, that you will get off pretty easily. Telephone the police,
Bunter, and then go and put something on that eye of yours. Gherkins,
we'll give these gentlemen another drink, and then I think perhaps you'd
better hop back to bed; the fun's over. No? Well, put a good thick coat
on, there's a good fellow, because what your mother will say to me if
you catch a cold I don't like to think."

So the police had come and taken the burglars away, and now
Detective-Inspector Parker, of Scotland Yard, a great personal friend of
Lord Peter's, sat toying with a cup of coffee and listening to the
story.

"But what's the matter with the jolly old book, anyhow, to make it so
popular?" he demanded.

"I don't know," replied Wimsey; "but after Mr. Pope's little visit the
other day I got kind of intrigued about it and had a look through it.
I've got a hunch it may turn out rather valuable, after all. Unsuspected
beauties and all that sort of thing. If only Mr. Pope had been a trifle
more accurate in his facts, he might have got away with something to
which I feel pretty sure he isn't entitled. Anyway, when I'd seen--what
I saw, I wrote off to Dr. Conyers of Yelsall Manor, the late owner----"

"Conyers, the cancer man?"

"Yes. He's done some pretty important research in his time, I fancy.
Getting on now, though; about seventy-eight, I fancy. I hope he's more
honest than his nephew, with one foot in the grave like that. Anyway, I
wrote (with Gherkin's permission, naturally) to say we had the book and
had been specially interested by something we found there, and would he
be so obliging as to tell us something of its history. I also----"

"But what did you find in it?"

"I don't think we'll tell him yet, Gherkins, shall we? I like to keep
policemen guessing. As I was saying, when you so rudely interrupted me,
I also asked him whether he knew anything about his good nephew's offer
to buy it back. His answer has just arrived. He says he knows of nothing
specially interesting about the book. It has been in the library untold
years, and the tearing out of the maps must have been done a long time
ago by some family vandal. He can't think why his nephew should be so
keen on it, as he certainly never pored over it as a boy. In fact, the
old man declares the engaging Wilberforce has never even set foot in
Yelsall Manor to his knowledge. So much for the fire-breathing monsters
and the pleasant Sunday afternoons."

"Naughty Wilberforce!"

"M'm. Yes. So, after last night's little dust-up, I wired the old boy we
were tooling down to Yelsall to have a heart-to-heart talk with him
about his picture-book and his nephew."

"Are you taking the book down with you?" asked Parker. "I can give you a
police escort for it if you like."

"That's not a bad idea," said Wimsey. "We don't know where the
insinuating Mr. Pope may be hanging out, and I wouldn't put it past him
to make another attempt."

"Better be on the safe side," said Parker. "I can't come myself, but
I'll send down a couple of men with you."

"Good egg," said Lord Peter. "Call up your myrmidons. We'll get a car
round at once. You're coming, Gherkins, I suppose? God knows what your
mother would say. Don't ever be an uncle, Charles; it's frightfully
difficult to be fair to all parties."

       *       *       *       *       *

Yelsall Manor was one of those large, decaying country mansions which
speak eloquently of times more spacious than our own. The original late
Tudor construction had been masked by the addition of a wide frontage in
the Italian manner, with a kind of classical portico surmounted by a
pediment and approached by a semi-circular flight of steps. The grounds
had originally been laid out in that formal manner in which grove nods
to grove and each half duly reflects the other. A late owner, however,
had burst out into the more eccentric sort of landscape gardening which
is associated with the name of Capability Brown. A Chinese pagoda,
somewhat resembling Sir William Chambers's erection in Kew Gardens, but
smaller, rose out of a grove of laurustinus towards the eastern
extremity of the house, while at the rear appeared a large artificial
lake, dotted with numerous islands, on which odd little temples,
grottos, tea-houses, and bridges peeped out from among clumps of shrubs,
once ornamental, but now sadly overgrown. A boat-house, with wide eaves
like the designs on a willow-pattern plate, stood at one corner, its
landing-stage fallen into decay and wreathed with melancholy weeds.

"My disreputable old ancestor, Cuthbert Conyers, settled down here when
he retired from the sea in 1732," said Dr. Conyers, smiling faintly.
"His elder brother died childless, so the black sheep returned to the
fold with the determination to become respectable and found a family. I
fear he did not succeed altogether. There were very queer tales as to
where his money came from. He is said to have been a pirate, and to have
sailed with the notorious Captain Blackbeard. In the village, to this
day, he is remembered and spoken of as Cut-throat Conyers. It used to
make the old man very angry, and there is an unpleasant story of his
slicing the ears off a groom who had been heard to call him 'Old
Cut-throat.' He was not an uncultivated person, though. It was he who
did the landscape-gardening round at the back, and he built the pagoda
for his telescope. He was reputed to study the Black Art, and there were
certainly a number of astrological works in the library with his name on
the fly-leaf, but probably the telescope was only a remembrance of his
seafaring days.

"Anyhow, towards the end of his life he became more and more odd and
morose. He quarrelled with his family, and turned his younger son out of
doors with his wife and children. An unpleasant old fellow.

"On his deathbed he was attended by the parson--a good, earnest,
God-fearing sort of man, who must have put up with a deal of insult in
carrying out what he firmly believed to be the sacred duty of
reconciling the old man to this shamefully treated son. Eventually, 'Old
Cut-throat' relented so far as to make a will, leaving to the younger
son 'My treasure which I have buried in Munster.' The parson represented
to him that it was useless to bequeath a treasure unless he also
bequeathed the information where to find it, but the horrid old pirate
only chuckled spitefully, and said that, as he had been at the pains to
collect the treasure, his son might well be at the pains of looking for
it. Further than that he would not go, and so he died, and I dare say
went to a very bad place.

"Since then the family has died out, and I am the sole representative of
the Conyers, and heir to the treasure, whatever and wherever it is, for
it was never discovered. I do not suppose it was very honestly come by,
but, since it would be useless now to try and find the original owners,
I imagine I have a better right to it than anybody living.

"You may think it very unseemly, Lord Peter, that an old, lonely man
like myself should be greedy for a hoard of pirate's gold. But my whole
life has been devoted to studying the disease of cancer, and I believe
myself to be very close to a solution of one part at least of the
terrible problem. Research costs money, and my limited means are very
nearly exhausted. The property is mortgaged up to the hilt, and I do
most urgently desire to complete my experiments before I die, and to
leave a sufficient sum to found a clinic where the work can be carried
on.

"During the last year I have made very great efforts to solve the
mystery of 'Old Cut-throat's' treasure. I have been able to leave much
of my experimental work in the most capable hands of my assistant, Dr.
Forbes, while I pursued my researches with the very slender clue I had
to go upon. It was the more expensive and difficult that Cuthbert had
left no indication in his will whether Münster in Germany or Munster in
Ireland was the hiding-place of the treasure. My journeys and my search
in both places cost money and brought me no further on my quest. I
returned, disheartened, in August, and found myself obliged to sell my
library, in order to defray my expenses and obtain a little money with
which to struggle on with my sadly delayed experiments."

"Ah!" said Lord Peter. "I begin to see light."

The old physician looked at him enquiringly. They had finished tea, and
were seated around the great fireplace in the study. Lord Peter's
interested questions about the beautiful, dilapidated old house and
estate had led the conversation naturally to Dr. Conyers's family,
shelving for the time the problem of the _Cosmographia_, which lay on a
table beside them.

"Everything you say fits into the puzzle," went on Wimsey, "and I think
there's not the smallest doubt what Mr. Wilberforce Pope was after,
though how he knew that you had the _Cosmographia_ here I couldn't say."

"When I disposed of the library, I sent him a catalogue," said Dr.
Conyers. "As a relative, I thought he ought to have the right to buy
anything he fancied. I can't think why he didn't secure the book then,
instead of behaving in this most shocking fashion."

Lord Peter hooted with laughter.

"Why, because he never tumbled to it till afterwards," he said. "And oh,
dear, how wild he must have been! I forgive him everything. Although,"
he added, "I don't want to raise your hopes too high, sir, for, even
when we've solved old Cuthbert's riddle, I don't know that we're very
much nearer to the treasure."

"To the _treasure_?"

"Well, now, sir. I want you first to look at this page, where there's a
name scrawled in the margin. Our ancestors had an untidy way of signing
their possessions higgledy-piggledy in margins instead of in a decent,
Christian way in the fly-leaf. This is a handwriting of somewhere about
Charles I's reign: 'Jac: Coniers.' I take it that goes to prove that the
book was in the possession of your family at any rate as early as the
first half of the seventeenth century, and has remained there ever
since. Right, now we turn to page 1099, where we find a description of
the discoveries of Christopher Columbus. It's headed, you see, by a kind
of map, with some of Mr. Pope's monsters swimming about in it, and
apparently representing the Canaries, or, as they used to be called, the
Fortunate Isles. It doesn't look much more accurate than old maps
usually are, but I take it the big island on the right is meant for
Lanzarote, and the two nearest to it may be Teneriffe and Gran Canaria."

"But what's that writing in the middle?"

"That's just the point. The writing is later than 'Jac: Coniers's'
signature; I should put it about 1700--but, of course, it may have been
written a good deal later still. I mean, a man who was elderly in 1730
would still use the style of writing he adopted as a young man,
especially if, like your ancestor the pirate, he had spent the early
part of his life in outdoor pursuits and hadn't done much writing."

"Do you mean to say, Uncle Peter," broke in the viscount excitedly,
"that that's 'Old Cut-throat's' writing?"

"I'd be ready to lay a sporting bet it is. Look here, sir, you've been
scouring round Münster in Germany and Munster in Ireland--but how about
good old Sebastian Munster here in the library at home?"

"God bless my soul! Is it possible?"

"It's pretty nearly certain, sir. Here's what he says, written, you see,
round the head of that sort of sea-dragon:

        "Hic in capite draconis ardet perpetuo Sol."
  Here the sun shines perpetually upon the Dragon's Head.

"Rather doggy Latin--sea-dog Latin, you might say, in fact."

[Illustration: Old Map]

"I'm afraid," said Dr. Conyers, "I must be very stupid, but I can't see
where that leads us."

"No; 'Old Cut-throat' was rather clever. No doubt he thought that, if
anybody read it, they'd think it was just an allusion to where it says,
further down, that 'the islands were called _Fortunatæ_ because of the
wonderful temperature of the air and the clemency of the skies.' But the
cunning old astrologer up in his pagoda had a meaning of his own. Here's
a little book published in 1678--Middleton's _Practical Astrology_--just
the sort of popular handbook an amateur like 'Old Cut-throat' would use.
Here you are: 'If in your figure you find Jupiter or Venus or _Dragon's
head_, you may be confident there is Treasure in the place supposed . . .
If you find _Sol_ to be the significator of the hidden Treasure, you
may conclude there is Gold, or some jewels.' You know, sir, I think we
may conclude it."

"Dear me!" said Dr. Conyers. "I believe, indeed, you must be right. And
I am ashamed to think that if anybody had suggested to me that it could
ever be profitable to me to learn the terms of astrology, I should have
replied in my vanity that my time was too valuable to waste on such
foolishness. I am deeply indebted to you."

"Yes," said Gherkins, "but where _is_ the treasure, uncle?"

"That's just it," said Lord Peter. "The map is very vague; there is no
latitude or longitude given; and the directions, such as they are, seem
not even to refer to any spot on the islands, but to some place in the
middle of the sea. Besides, it is nearly two hundred years since the
treasure was hidden, and it may already have been found by somebody or
other."

Dr. Conyers stood up.

"I am an old man," he said, "but I still have some strength. If I can by
any means get together the money for an expedition, I will not rest till
I have made every possible effort to find the treasure and to endow my
clinic."

"Then, sir, I hope you'll let me give a hand to the good work," said
Lord Peter.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dr. Conyers had invited his guests to stay the night, and, after the
excited viscount had been packed off to bed, Wimsey and the old man sat
late, consulting maps and diligently reading Munster's chapter "_De
Novis Insulis_," in the hope of discovering some further clue. At
length, however, they separated, and Lord Peter went upstairs, the book
under his arm. He was restless, however, and, instead of going to bed,
sat for a long time at his window, which looked out upon the lake. The
moon, a few days past the full, was riding high among small, windy
clouds, and picked out the sharp eaves of the Chinese tea-houses and the
straggling tops of the unpruned shrubs. 'Old Cut-throat' and his
landscape-gardening! Wimsey could have fancied that the old pirate was
sitting now beside his telescope in the preposterous pagoda, chuckling
over his riddling testament and counting the craters of the moon. "If
_Luna_, there is silver." The water of the lake was silver enough; there
was a great smooth path across it, broken by the sinister wedge of the
boat-house, the black shadows of the islands, and, almost in the middle
of the lake, a decayed fountain, a writhing Celestial dragon-shape,
spiny-backed and ridiculous.

Wimsey rubbed his eyes. There was something strangely familiar about the
lake; from moment to moment it assumed the queer unreality of a place
which one recognises without having ever known it. It was like one's
first sight of the Leaning Tower of Pisa--too like its picture to be
quite believable. Surely, thought Wimsey, he knew that elongated island
on the right, shaped rather like a winged monster, with its two little
clumps of buildings. And the island to the left of it, like the British
Isles, but warped out of shape. And the third island, between the
others, and nearer. The three formed a triangle, with the Chinese
fountain in the centre, the moon shining steadily upon its dragon head.
"_Hic in capite draconis ardet perpetuo_----"

Lord Peter sprang up with a loud exclamation, and flung open the door
into the dressing-room. A small figure wrapped in an eiderdown hurriedly
uncoiled itself from the window-seat.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Peter," said Gherkins. "I was so _dreadfully_ wide
awake, it wasn't any good staying in bed."

"Come here," said Lord Peter, "and tell me if I'm mad or dreaming. Look
out of the window and compare it with the map--Old Cut-throat's 'New
Islands.' He made 'em, Gherkins; he put 'em here. Aren't they laid out
just like the Canaries? Those three islands in a triangle, and the
fourth down here in the corner? And the boat-house where the big ship is
in the picture? And the dragon fountain where the dragon's head is?
Well, my son, that's where your hidden treasure's gone to. Get your
things on, Gherkins, and damn the time when all good little boys should
be in bed! We're going for a row on the lake, if there's a tub in that
boat-house that'll float."

"Oh, Uncle Peter! This is a _real_ adventure!"

"All right," said Wimsey. "Fifteen men on the dead man's chest, and all
that! Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of Johnny Walker! Pirate expedition fitted
out in dead of night to seek hidden treasure and explore the Fortunate
Isles! Come on, crew!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Lord Peter hitched the leaky dinghy to the dragon's knobbly tail and
climbed out carefully, for the base of the fountain was green and weedy.

"I'm afraid it's your job to sit there and bail, Gherkins," he said.
"All the best captains bag the really interesting jobs for themselves.
We'd better start with the head. If the old blighter said head, he
probably meant it." He passed an arm affectionately round the creature's
neck for support, while he methodically pressed and pulled the various
knobs and bumps of its anatomy. "It seems beastly solid, but I'm sure
there's a spring somewhere. You won't forget to bail, will you? I'd
simply hate to turn round and find the boat gone. Pirate chief marooned
on island and all that. Well, it isn't its back hair, anyhow. We'll try
its eyes. I say, Gherkins, I'm sure I felt something move, only it's
frightfully stiff. We might have thought to bring some oil. Never mind;
it's dogged as does it. It's coming. It's coming. Booh! Pah!"

A fierce effort thrust the rusted knob inwards, releasing a huge spout
of water into his face from the dragon's gaping throat. The fountain,
dry for many years, soared rejoicingly heavenwards, drenching the
treasure-hunters, and making rainbows in the moonlight.

"I suppose this is 'Old Cut-throat's' idea of humour," grumbled Wimsey,
retreating cautiously round the dragon's neck. "And now I can't turn it
off again. Well, dash it all, let's try the other eye."

He pressed for a few moments in vain. Then, with a grinding clang, the
bronze wings of the monster clapped down to its sides, revealing a deep
square hole, and the fountain ceased to play.

"Gherkins!" said Lord Peter, "we've done it. (But don't neglect bailing
on that account!) There's a box here. And it's beastly heavy. No; all
right, I can manage. Gimme the boat-hook. Now I do hope the old sinner
really did have a treasure. What a bore if it's only one of his little
jokes. Never mind--hold the boat steady. There. Always remember,
Gherkins, that you can make quite an effective crane with a boat-hook
and a stout pair of braces. Got it? That's right. Now for home and
beauty . . . Hullo! what's all that?"

As he paddled the boat round, it was evident that something was
happening down by the boat-house. Lights were moving about, and a sound
of voices came across the lake.

"They think we're burglars, Gherkins. Always misunderstood. Give way, my
hearties--

     "A-roving, a-roving, since roving'a been my ru-i-in,
     I'll go no more a-roving with you, fair maid."

"Is that you, my lord?" said a man's voice as they drew in to the
boat-house.

"Why, it's our faithful sleuths!" cried his lordship. "What's the
excitement?"

"We found this fellow sneaking round the boat-house," said the man from
Scotland Yard. "He says he's the old gentleman's nephew. Do you know
him, my lord?"

"I rather fancy I do," said Wimsey. "Mr. Pope, I think. Good evening.
Were you looking for anything? Not a treasure, by any chance? Because
we've just found one. Oh! don't say that. _Maxima reverentia_, you know.
Lord St. George is of tender years. And, by the way, thank you so much
for sending your delightful friends to call on me last night. Oh, yes,
Thompson, I'll charge him all right. You there, doctor? Splendid. Now,
if anybody's got a spanner or anything handy, we'll have a look at
Great-grandpapa Cuthbert. And if he turns out to be old iron, Mr. Pope,
you'll have had an uncommonly good joke for your money."

An iron bar was produced from the boat-house and thrust under the hasp
of the chest. It creaked and burst. Dr. Conyers knelt down tremulously
and threw open the lid.

There was a little pause.

"The drinks are on you, Mr. Pope," said Lord Peter. "I think, doctor, it
ought to be a jolly good hospital when it's finished."




THE PISCATORIAL FARCE OF THE STOLEN STOMACH


"What in the world," said Lord Peter Wimsey, "is that?"

Thomas Macpherson disengaged the tall jar from its final swathings of
paper and straw and set it tenderly upright beside the coffee-pot.

"That," he said, "is Great-Uncle Joseph's legacy."

"And who is Great-Uncle Joseph?"

"He was my mother's uncle. Name of Ferguson. Eccentric old boy. I was
rather a favourite of his."

"It looks like it. Was that all he left you?"

"Imph'm. He said a good digestion was the most precious thing a man
could have."

"Well, he was right there. Is this his? Was it a good one?"

"Good enough. He lived to be ninety-five, and never had a day's
illness."

Wimsey looked at the jar with increased respect.

"What did he die of?"

"Chucked himself out of a sixth-story window. He had a stroke, and the
doctors told him--or he guessed for himself--that it was the beginning
of the end. He left a letter. Said he had never been ill in his life and
wasn't going to begin now. They brought it in temporary insanity, of
course, but I think he was thoroughly sensible."

"I should say so. What was he when he was functioning?"

"He used to be in business--something to do with ship-building, I
believe, but he retired long ago. He was what the papers call a recluse.
Lived all by himself in a little top flat in Glasgow, and saw nobody.
Used to go off by himself for days at a time, nobody knew where or why.
I used to look him up about once a year and take him a bottle of
whisky."

"Had he any money?"

"Nobody knew. He ought to have had--he was a rich man when he retired.
But, when we came to look into it, it turned out he only had a balance
of about five hundred pounds in the Glasgow Bank. Apparently he drew out
almost everything he had about twenty years ago. There were one or two
big bank failures round about that time, and they thought he must have
got the wind up. But what he did with it, goodness only knows."

"Kept it in an old stocking, I expect."

"I should think Cousin Robert devoutly hopes so."

"Cousin Robert?"

"He's the residuary legatee. Distant connection of mine, and the only
remaining Ferguson. He was awfully wild when he found he'd only got
five hundred. He's rather a bright lad, is Robert, and a few thousands
would have come in handy."

"I see. Well, how about a bit of brekker? You might stick Great-Uncle
Joseph out of the way somewhere. I don't care about the looks of him."

"I thought you were rather partial to anatomical specimens."

"So I am, but not on the breakfast-table. 'A place for everything and
everything in its place,' as my grandmother used to say. Besides, it
would give Maggie a shock if she saw it."

Macpherson laughed, and transferred the jar to a cupboard.

"Maggie's shock-proof. I brought a few odd bones and things with me, by
way of a holiday task. I'm getting near my final, you know. She'll just
think this is another of them. Ring the bell, old man, would you? We'll
see what the trout's like."

The door opened to admit the housekeeper, with a dish of grilled trout
and a plate of fried scones.

"These look good, Maggie," said Wimsey, drawing his chair up and
sniffing appreciatively.

"Aye, sir, they're gude, but they're awfu' wee fish."

"Don't grumble at them," said Macpherson. "They're the sole result of a
day's purgatory up on Loch Whyneon. What with the sun fit to roast you
and an east wind, I'm pretty well flayed alive. I very nearly didn't
shave at all this morning." He passed a reminiscent hand over his red
and excoriated face. "Ugh! It's a stiff pull up that hill, and the boat
was going wallop, wallop all the time, like being in the Bay of Biscay."

"Damnable, I should think. But there's a change coming. The glass is
going back. We'll be having some rain before we're many days older."

"Time, too," said Macpherson. "The burns are nearly dry, and there's not
much water in the Fleet." He glanced out of the window to where the
little river ran tinkling and skinkling over the stones at the bottom of
the garden. "If only we get a few days' rain now, there'll be some grand
fishing."

"It _would_ come just as I've got to go, naturally," remarked Wimsey.

"Yes; can't you stay a bit longer? I want to have a try for some
sea-trout."

"Sorry, old man, can't be done. I must be in Town on Wednesday. Never
mind. I've had a fine time in the fresh air and got in some good rounds
of golf."

"You must come up another time. I'm here for a month--getting my
strength up for the exams and all that. If you can't get away before I
go, we'll put it off till August and have a shot at the grouse. The
cottage is always at your service, you know, Wimsey."

"Many thanks. I may get my business over quicker than I think, and, if I
do, I'll turn up here again. When did you say your great-uncle died?"

Macpherson stared at him.

"Some time in April, as far as I can remember. Why?"

"Oh, nothing--I just wondered. You were a favourite of his, didn't you
say?"

"In a sense. I think the old boy liked my remembering him from time to
time. Old people are pleased by little attentions, you know."

"M'm. Well, it's a queer world. What did you say his name was?"

"Ferguson--Joseph Alexander Ferguson, to be exact. You seem
extraordinarily interested in Great-Uncle Joseph."

"I thought, while I was about it, I might look up a man I know in the
ship-building line, and see if he knows anything about where the money
went to."

"If you can do that, Cousin Robert will give you a medal. But, if you
really want to exercise your detective powers on the problem, you'd
better have a hunt through the flat in Glasgow."

"Yes--what is the address, by the way?"

Macpherson told him the address.

"I'll make a note of it, and, if anything occurs to me, I'll communicate
with Cousin Robert. Where does he hang out?"

"Oh, he's in London, in a solicitor's office. Crosbie & Plump, somewhere
in Bloomsbury. Robert was studying for the Scottish Bar, you know, but
he made rather a mess of things, so they pushed him off among the
Sassenachs. His father died a couple of years ago--he was a Writer to
the Signet in Edinburgh--and I fancy Robert has rather gone to the
bow-wows since then. Got among a cheerful crowd down there, don't you
know, and wasted his substance somewhat."

"Terrible! Scotsmen shouldn't be allowed to leave home. What are you
going to do with Great-Uncle?"

"Oh, I don't know. Keep him for a bit, I think. I liked the old fellow,
and I don't want to throw him away. He'll look rather well in my
consulting-room, don't you think, when I'm qualified and set up my brass
plate. I'll say he was presented by a grateful patient on whom I
performed a marvellous operation."

"That's a good idea. Stomach-grafting. Miracle of surgery never before
attempted. He'll bring sufferers to your door in flocks."

"Good old Great-Uncle--he may be worth a fortune to me after all."

"So he may. I don't suppose you've got such a thing as a photograph of
him, have you?"

"A photograph?" Macpherson stared again. "Great-Uncle seems to be
becoming a passion with you. I don't suppose the old man had a
photograph taken these thirty years. There was one done then--when he
retired from business. I expect Robert's got that."

"Och aye," said Wimsey, in the language of the country.

       *       *       *       *       *

Wimsey left Scotland that evening, and drove down through the night
towards London, thinking hard as he went. He handled the wheel
mechanically, swerving now and again to avoid the green eyes of rabbits
as they bolted from the roadside to squat fascinated in the glare of his
head-lamps. He was accustomed to say that his brain worked better when
his immediate attention was occupied by the incidents of the road.

Monday morning found him in town with his business finished and his
thinking done. A consultation with his ship-building friend had put him
in possession of some facts about Great-Uncle Joseph's money, together
with a copy of Great-Uncle Joseph's photograph, supplied by the London
representative of the Glasgow firm to which he had belonged. It appeared
that old Ferguson had been a man of mark in his day. The portrait showed
a fine, dour old face, long-lipped and high in the cheekbones--one of
those faces which alter little in a lifetime. Wimsey looked at the
photograph with satisfaction as he slipped it into his pocket and made a
bee-line for Somerset House.

Here he wandered timidly about the wills department, till a uniformed
official took pity on him and enquired what he wanted.

"Oh, thank you," said Wimsey effusively, "thank you so much. Always feel
nervous in these places. All these big desks and things, don't you know,
so awe-inspiring and business-like. Yes, I just wanted to have a squint
at a will. I'm told you can see anybody's will for a shilling. Is that
really so?"

"Yes, sir, certainly. Anybody's will in particular, sir?"

"Oh, yes, of course--how silly of me. Yes. Curious, isn't it, that when
you're dead any stranger can come and snoop round your private
affairs--see how much you cut up for and who your lady friends were, and
all that. Yes. Not at all nice. Horrid lack of privacy, what?"

The attendant laughed.

"I expect it's all one when you're dead, sir."

"That's awfully true. Yes, naturally, you're dead by then and it doesn't
matter. May be a bit trying for your relations, of course, to learn what
a bad boy you've been. Great fun annoyin' one's relations. Always do it
myself. Now, what were we sayin'? Ah! yes--the will. (I'm always so
absent-minded.) Whose will, you said? Well, it's an old Scots gentleman
called Joseph Alexander Ferguson that died at Glasgow--you know Glasgow,
where the accent's so strong that even Scotsmen faint when they hear
it--in April, this last April as ever was. If it's not troubling you too
much, may I have a bob's-worth of Joseph Alexander Ferguson?"

The attendant assured him that he might, adding the caution that he must
memorise the contents of the will and not on any account take notes.
Thus warned, Wimsey was conducted into a retired corner, where in a
short time the will was placed before him.

It was a commendably brief document, written in holograph, and was
dated the previous January. After the usual preamble and the bequest of
a few small sums and articles of personal ornament to friends, it
proceeded somewhat as follows:

     "And I direct that, after my death, the alimentary organs be
     removed entire with their contents from my body, commencing with
     the œsophagus and ending with the anal canal, and that they be
     properly secured at both ends with a suitable ligature, and be
     enclosed in a proper preservative medium in a glass vessel and
     given to my great-nephew Thomas Macpherson of the Stone Cottage,
     Gatehouse-of-the-Fleet, in Kirkcudbrightshire, now studying
     medicine in Aberdeen. And I bequeath him these my alimentary organs
     with their contents for his study and edification, they having
     served me for ninety-five years without failure or defect, because
     I wish him to understand that no riches in the world are comparable
     to the riches of a good digestion. And I desire of him that he
     will, in the exercise of his medical profession, use his best
     endeavours to preserve to his patients the blessing of good
     digestion unimpaired, not needlessly filling their stomachs with
     drugs out of concern for his own pocket, but exhorting them to a
     sober and temperate life agreeably to the design of Almighty
     Providence."

After this remarkable passage, the document went on to make Robert
Ferguson residuary legatee without particular specification of any
property, and to appoint a firm of lawyers in Glasgow executors of the
will.

Wimsey considered the bequest for some time. From the phraseology he
concluded that old Mr. Ferguson had drawn up his own will without legal
aid, and he was glad of it, for its wording thus afforded a valuable
clue to the testator's mood and intention. He mentally noted three
points: the "alimentary organs with their contents" were mentioned twice
over, with a certain emphasis; they were to be ligatured top and bottom;
and the legacy was accompanied by the expression of a wish that the
legatee should not allow his financial necessities to interfere with the
conscientious exercise of his professional duties. Wimsey chuckled. He
felt he rather liked Great-Uncle Joseph.

He got up, collected his hat, gloves, and stick, and advanced with the
will in his hand to return it to the attendant. The latter was engaged
in conversation with a young man, who seemed to be expostulating about
something.

"I'm sorry, sir," said the attendant, "but I don't suppose the other
gentleman will be very long. Ah!" He turned and saw Wimsey. "Here is the
gentleman."

The young man, whose reddish hair, long nose, and slightly sodden eyes
gave him the appearance of a dissipated fox, greeted Wimsey with a
disagreeable stare.

"What's up? Want me?" asked his lordship airily.

"Yes, sir. Very curious thing, sir; here's a gentleman enquiring for
that very same document as you've been studying, sir. I've been in this
department fifteen years, and I don't know as I ever remember such a
thing happening before."

"No," said Wimsey, "I don't suppose there's much of a run on any of your
lines as a rule."

"It's a very curious thing indeed," said the stranger, with marked
displeasure in his voice.

"Member of the family?" suggested Wimsey.

"I _am_ a member of the family," said the foxy-faced man. "May I ask
whether _you_ have any connection with us?"

"By all means," replied Wimsey graciously.

"I don't believe it. I don't know you."

"No, no--I meant you might ask, by all means."

The young man positively showed his teeth.

"Do you mind telling me who you are, anyhow, and why you're so damned
inquisitive about my great-uncle's will?"

Wimsey extracted a card from his case and presented it with a smile. Mr.
Robert Ferguson changed colour.

"If you would like a reference as to my respectability," went on Wimsey
affably, "Mr. Thomas Macpherson will, I am sure, be happy to tell you
about me. I am inquisitive," said his lordship--"a student of humanity.
Your cousin mentioned to me the curious clause relating to your esteemed
great-uncle's--er--stomach and appurtenances. Curious clauses are a
passion with me. I came to look it up and add it to my collection of
curious wills. I am engaged in writing a book on the subject--_Clauses
and Consequences_. My publishers tell me it should enjoy a ready sale. I
regret that my random jottings should have encroached upon your
doubtless far more serious studies. I wish you a very good morning."

As he beamed his way out, Wimsey, who had quick ears, heard the
attendant informing the indignant Mr. Ferguson that he was "a very funny
gentleman--not quite all there, sir." It seemed that his criminological
fame had not penetrated to the quiet recesses of Somerset House. "But,"
said Wimsey to himself, "I am sadly afraid that Cousin Robert has been
given food for thought."

       *       *       *       *       *

Under the spur of this alarming idea, Wimsey wasted no time, but took a
taxi down to Hatton Garden, to call upon a friend of his. This
gentleman, rather curly in the nose and fleshy about the eyelids,
nevertheless came under Mr. Chesterton's definition of a nice Jew, for
his name was neither Montagu nor McDonald, but Nathan Abrahams, and he
greeted Lord Peter with a hospitality amounting to enthusiasm.

"So pleased to see you. Sit down and have a drink. You have come at last
to select the diamonds for the future Lady Peter, eh?"

"Not yet," said Wimsey.

"No? That's too bad. You should make haste and settle down. It is time
you became a family man. Years ago we arranged I should have the
privilege of decking the bride for the happy day. That is a promise, you
know. I think of it when the fine stones pass through my hands. I say,
'That would be the very thing for my friend Lord Peter.' But I hear
nothing, and I sell them to stupid Americans who think only of the price
and not of the beauty."

"Time enough to think of the diamonds when I've found the lady."

Mr. Abrahams threw up his hands.

"Oh, yes! And then everything will be done in a hurry! 'Quick, Mr.
Abrahams! I have fallen in love yesterday and I am being married
to-morrow.' But it may take months--years--to find and match perfect
stones. It can't be done between to-day and to-morrow. Your bride will
be married in something ready-made from the jeweller's."

"If three days are enough to choose a wife," said Wimsey, laughing, "one
day should surely be enough for a necklace."

"That is the way with Christians," replied the diamond-merchant
resignedly. "You are so casual. You do not think of the future. Three
days to choose a wife! No wonder the divorce-courts are busy. My son
Moses is being married next week. It has been arranged in the family
these ten years. Rachel Goldstein, it is. A good girl, and her father is
in a very good position. We are all very pleased, I can tell you. Moses
is a good son, a very good son, and I am taking him into partnership."

"I congratulate you," said Wimsey heartily. "I hope they will be very
happy."

"Thank you, Lord Peter. They will be happy, I am sure. Rachel is a sweet
girl and very fond of children. And she is pretty, too. Prettiness is
not everything, but it is an advantage for a young man in these days. It
is easier for him to behave well to a pretty wife."

"True," said Wimsey. "I will bear it in mind when my time comes. To the
health of the happy pair, and may you soon be an ancestor. Talking of
ancestors, I've got an old bird here that you may be able to tell me
something about."

"Ah, yes! Always delighted to help you in any way, Lord Peter."

"This photograph was taken some thirty years ago, but you may possibly
recognise it."

Mr. Abrahams put on a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, and examined the
portrait of Great-Uncle Joseph with serious attention.

"Oh, yes, I know him quite well. What do you want to know about him,
eh?" He shot a swift and cautious glance at Wimsey.

"Nothing to his disadvantage. He's dead, anyhow. I thought it just
possible he had been buying precious stones lately."

"It is not exactly business to give information about a customer," said
Mr. Abrahams.

"I'll tell you what I want it for," said Wimsey. He lightly sketched the
career of Great-Uncle Joseph, and went on: "You see, I looked at it this
way. When a man gets a distrust of banks, what does he do with his
money? He puts it into property of some kind. It may be land, it may be
houses--but that means rent, and more money to put into banks. He is
more likely to keep it in gold or notes, or to put it into precious
stones. Gold and notes are comparatively bulky; stones are small.
Circumstances in this case led me to think he might have chosen stones.
Unless we can discover what he did with the money, there will be a great
loss to his heirs."

"I see. Well, if it is as you say, there is no harm in telling you. I
know you to be an honourable man, and I will break my rule for you. This
gentleman, Mr. Wallace----"

"Wallace, did he call himself?"

"That was not his name? They are funny, these secretive old gentlemen.
But that is nothing unusual. Often, when they buy stones, they are
afraid of being robbed, so they give another name. Yes, yes. Well, this
Mr. Wallace used to come to see me from time to time, and I had
instructions to find diamonds for him. He was looking for twelve big
stones, all matching perfectly and of superb quality. It took a long
time to find them, you know."

"Of course."

"Yes. I supplied him with seven altogether, over a period of twenty
years or so. And other dealers supplied him also. He is well known in
this street. I found the last one for him--let me see--in last December,
I think. A beautiful stone--beautiful! He paid seven thousand pounds for
it."

"Some stone. If they were all as good as that, the collection must be
worth something."

"Worth anything. It is difficult to tell how much. As you know, the
twelve stones, all matched together, would be worth far more than the
sum of the twelve separate prices paid for the individual diamonds."

"Naturally they would. Do you mind telling me how he was accustomed to
pay for them?"

"In Bank of England notes--always--cash on the nail. He insisted on
discount for cash," added Mr. Abrahams, with a chuckle.

"He was a Scotsman," replied Wimsey. "Well, that's clear enough. He had
a safe-deposit somewhere, no doubt. And, having collected the stones, he
made his will. That's clear as daylight, too."

"But what has become of the stones?" enquired Mr. Abrahams, with
professional anxiety.

"I think I know that too," said Wimsey. "I'm enormously obliged to you,
and so, I fancy, will his heir be."

"If they should come into the market again----" suggested Mr. Abrahams.

"I'll see you have the handling of them," said Wimsey promptly.

"That is kind of you," said Mr. Abrahams. "Business is business. Always
delighted to oblige you. Beautiful stones--beautiful. If you thought of
being the purchaser, I would charge you a special commission, as my
friend."

"Thank you," said Wimsey, "but as yet I have no occasion for diamonds,
you know."

"Pity, pity," said Mr. Abrahams. "Well, very glad to have been of
service to you. You are not interested in rubies? No? Because I have
something very pretty here."

He thrust his hand casually into a pocket, and brought out a little pool
of crimson fire like a miniature sunset.

"Look nice in a ring, now, wouldn't it?" said Mr. Abrahams. "An
engagement ring, eh?"

Wimsey laughed, and made his escape.

He was strongly tempted to return to Scotland and attend personally to
the matter of Great-Uncle Joseph, but the thought of an important book
sale next day deterred him. There was a manuscript of Catullus which he
was passionately anxious to secure, and he never entrusted his interests
to dealers. He contented himself with sending a wire to Thomas
Macpherson:

     "Advise opening up Greatuncle Joseph immediately."

The girl at the post-office repeated the message aloud and rather
doubtfully. "Quite right," said Wimsey, and dismissed the affair from
his mind.

       *       *       *       *       *

He had great fun at the sale next day. He found a ring of dealers in
possession, happily engaged in conducting a knock-out. Having lain low
for an hour in a retired position behind a large piece of statuary, he
emerged, just as the hammer was falling upon the Catullus for a price
representing the tenth part of its value, with an overbid so large,
prompt, and sonorous that the ring gasped with a sense of outrage.
Skrymes--a dealer who had sworn an eternal enmity to Wimsey, on account
of a previous little encounter over a Justinian--pulled himself together
and offered a fifty-pound advance. Wimsey promptly doubled his bid.
Skrymes overbid him fifty again. Wimsey instantly jumped another
hundred, in the tone of a man prepared to go on till Doomsday. Skrymes
scowled and was silent. Somebody raised it fifty more; Wimsey made it
guineas and the hammer fell. Encouraged by this success, Wimsey,
feeling that his hand was in, romped happily into the bidding for the
next lot, a _Hypnerotomachia_ which he already possessed, and for which
he felt no desire whatever. Skrymes, annoyed by his defeat, set his
teeth, determining that, if Wimsey was in the bidding mood, he should
pay through the nose for his rashness. Wimsey, entering into the spirit
of the thing, skied the bidding with enthusiasm. The dealers, knowing
his reputation as a collector, and fancying that there must be some
special excellence about the book that they had failed to observe,
joined in whole-heartedly, and the fun became fast and furious.
Eventually they all dropped out again, leaving Skrymes and Wimsey in
together. At which point Wimsey, observing a note of hesitation in the
dealer's voice, neatly extricated himself and left Mr. Skrymes with the
baby. After this disaster, the ring became sulky and demoralised and
refused to bid at all, and a timid little outsider, suddenly flinging
himself into the arena, became the owner of a fine fourteenth-century
missal at bargain price. Crimson with excitement and surprise, he paid
for his purchase and ran out of the room like a rabbit, hugging the
missal as though he expected to have it snatched from him. Wimsey
thereupon set himself seriously to acquire a few fine early printed
books, and, having accomplished this, retired, covered with laurels and
hatred.

After this delightful and satisfying day, he felt vaguely hurt at
receiving no ecstatic telegram from Macpherson. He refused to imagine
that his deductions had been wrong, and supposed rather that the rapture
of Macpherson was too great to be confined to telegraphic expression and
would come next day by post. However, at eleven next morning the
telegram arrived. It said:

     "Just got your wire what does it mean greatuncle stolen last night
     burglar escaped please write fully."

Wimsey commuted himself to a brief comment in language usually confined
to the soldiery. Robert had undoubtedly got Great-Uncle Joseph, and,
even if they could trace the burglary to him, the legacy was by this
time gone for ever. He had never felt so furiously helpless. He even
cursed the Catullus, which had kept him from going north and dealing
with the matter personally.

While he was meditating what to do, a second telegram was brought in. It
ran:

     "Greatuncle's bottle found broken in fleet dropped by burglar in
     flight contents gone what next."

Wimsey pondered this.

"Of course," he said, "if the thief simply emptied the bottle and put
Great-Uncle in his pocket, we're done. Or if he's simply emptied
Great-Uncle and put the contents in his pocket, we're done. But 'dropped
in flight' sounds rather as though Great-Uncle had gone overboard lock,
stock, and barrel. Why can't the fool of a Scotsman put a few more
details into his wires? It'd only cost him a penny or two. I suppose I'd
better go up myself. Meanwhile a little healthy occupation won't hurt
him."

He took a telegraph form from the desk and despatched a further message:

     "Was greatuncle in bottle when dropped if so drag river if not
     pursue burglar probably Robert Ferguson spare no pains starting for
     Scotland tonight hope arrive early to-morrow urgent important put
     your back into it will explain."

The night express decanted Lord Peter Wimsey at Dumfries early the
following morning, and a hired car deposited him at the Stone Cottage in
time for breakfast. The door was opened to him by Maggie, who greeted
him with hearty cordiality:

"Come awa' in, sir. All's ready for ye, and Mr. Macpherson will be back
in a few minutes, I'm thinkin'. Ye'll be tired with your long journey,
and hungry, maybe? Aye. Will ye tak' a bit parritch to your eggs and
bacon? There's nae troot the day, though yesterday was a gran' day for
the fush. Mr. Macpherson has been up and doun, up and doun the river wi'
my Jock, lookin' for ane of his specimens, as he ca's them, that was
dropped by the thief that cam' in. I dinna ken what the thing may be--my
Jock says it's like a calf's pluck to look at, by what Mr. Macpherson
tells him."

"Dear me!" said Wimsey. "And how did the burglary happen, Maggie?"

"Indeed, sir, it was a vera' remarkable circumstance. Mr. Macpherson was
awa' all day Monday and Tuesday, up at the big loch by the viaduct,
fishin'. There was a big rain Saturday and Sunday, ye may remember, and
Mr. Macpherson says, 'There'll be grand fishin' the morn Jock,' says he.
'We'll go up to the viaduct if it stops rainin' and we'll spend the
nicht at the keeper's lodge.' So on Monday it stoppit rainin' and was a
grand warm, soft day, so aff they went together. There was a telegram
come for him Tuesday mornin', and I set it up on the mantelpiece, where
he'd see it when he cam' in, but it's been in my mind since that maybe
that telegram had something to do wi' the burglary."

"I wouldn't say but you might be right, Maggie," replied Wimsey gravely.

"Aye, sir, that wadna surprise me." Maggie set down a generous dish of
eggs and bacon before the guest and took up her tale again.

"Well, I was sittin' in my kitchen the Tuesday nicht, waitin' for Mr.
Macpherson and Jock to come hame, and sair I pitied them, the puir
souls, for the rain was peltin' down again, and the nicht was sae dark I
was afraid they micht ha' tummelt into a bog-pool. Weel, I was listenin'
for the sound o' the door-sneck when I heard something movin' in the
front room. The door wasna lockit, ye ken, because Mr. Macpherson was
expectit back. So I up from my chair and I thocht they had mebbe came in
and I not heard them. I waited a meenute to set the kettle on the fire,
and then I heard a crackin' sound. So I cam' out and I called, 'Is't
you, Mr. Macpherson?' And there was nae answer, only anither big
crackin' noise, so I ran forrit, and a man cam' quickly oot o' the front
room, brushin' past me an' puttin' me aside wi' his hand, so, and oot o'
the front door like a flash o' lighnin'. So, wi' that, I let oot a
skelloch, an' Jock's voice answered me fra' the gairden gate. 'Och!' I
says, 'Jock! here's a burrglar been i' the hoose!' An' I heerd him
runnin' across the gairden, doun tae the river, tramplin' doun a' the
young kail and the stra'berry beds, the blackguard!"

Wimsey expressed his sympathy.

"Aye, that was a bad business. An' the next thing, there was Mr.
Macpherson and Jock helter-skelter after him. If Davie Murray's cattle
had brokken in, they couldna ha' done mair deevastation. An' then there
was a big splashin' an' crashin', an', after a bit, back comes Mr.
Macpherson an' he says, 'He's jumpit intil the Fleet,' he says, 'an'
he's awa'. What has he taken?' he says. 'I dinna ken,' says I, 'for it
all happened sae quickly I couldna see onything.' 'Come awa' ben,' says
he, an' we'll see what's missin'. 'So we lookit high and low, an' all we
could find was the cupboard door in the front room broken open, and
naething taken but this bottle wi' the specimen."

"Aha!" said Wimsey.

"Ah! an' they baith went oot tegither wi' lichts, but naething could
they see of the thief. Sae Mr. Macpherson comes back, and 'I'm gaun to
ma bed,' says he, 'for I'm that tired I can dae nae mair the nicht,'
says he. 'Oh!' I said, 'I daurna gae tae bed; I'm frichtened.' An' Jock
said, 'Hoots, wumman, dinna fash yersel'. There'll be nae mair burglars
the nicht, wi' the fricht we've gied 'em.' So we lockit up a' the doors
an' windies an' gaed to oor beds, but I couldna sleep a wink."

"Very natural," said Wimsey.

"It wasna till the next mornin'," said Maggie, "that Mr. Macpherson
opened yon telegram. Eh! but he was in a taking. An' then the telegrams
startit. Back an' forrit, back an' forrit atween the hoose an' the
post-office. An' then they fund the bits o' the bottle that the specimen
was in, stuck between twa stanes i' the river. And aff goes Mr.
Macpherson an' Jock wi' their waders on an' a couple o' gaffs, huntin'
in a' the pools an' under the stanes to find the specimen. An' they're
still at it."

At this point three heavy thumps sounded on the ceiling.

"Gude save us!" ejaculated Maggie, "I was forgettin' the puir
gentleman."

"What gentleman?" enquired Wimsey.

"Him that was feshed oot o' the Fleet," replied Maggie. "Excuse me juist
a moment, sir."

She fled swiftly upstairs. Wimsey poured himself out a third cup of
coffee and lit a pipe.

Presently a thought occurred to him. He finished the coffee--not being a
man to deprive himself of his pleasures--and walked quietly upstairs in
Maggie's wake. Facing him stood a bedroom door, half open--the room
which he had occupied during his stay at the cottage. He pushed it open.
In the bed lay a red-headed gentleman, whose long, foxy countenance was
in no way beautified by a white bandage, tilted rakishly across the left
temple. A breakfast-tray stood on a table by the bed. Wimsey stepped
forward with extended hand.

"Good morning, Mr. Ferguson," said he. "This is an unexpected pleasure."

"Good morning," said Mr. Ferguson snappishly.

"I had no idea, when we last met," pursued Wimsey, advancing to the bed
and sitting down upon it, "that you were thinking of visiting my friend
Macpherson.

"Get off my leg," growled the invalid. "I've broken my kneecap."

"What a nuisance! Frightfully painful, isn't it? And they say it takes
years to get right--if it ever does get right. Is it what they call a
Potts fracture? I don't know who Potts was, but it sounds impressive.
How did you get it? Fishing?"

"Yes. A slip in that damned river."

"Beastly. Sort of thing that might happen to anybody. A keen fisher, Mr.
Ferguson?"

"So-so."

"So am I, when I get the opportunity. What kind of fly do you fancy for
this part of the country. I rather like a Greenaway's Gadget myself.
Ever tried it?"

"No," said Mr. Ferguson briefly.

"Some people find a Pink Sisket better, so they tell me. Do you use one?
Have you got your fly-book here?"

"Yes--no," said Mr. Ferguson. "I dropped it."

"Pity. But do give me your opinion of the Pink Sisket."

"Not so bad," said Mr. Ferguson. "I've sometimes caught trout with it."

"You surprise me," said Wimsey, not unnaturally, since he had invented
the Pink Sisket on the spur of the moment, and had hardly expected his
improvisation to pass muster. "Well, I suppose this unlucky accident has
put a stop to your sport for the season. Damned bad luck. Otherwise, you
might have helped us to have a go at the Patriarch."

"What's that? A trout?"

"Yes--a frightfully wily old fish. Lurks about in the Fleet. You never
know where to find him. Any moment he may turn up in some pool or other.
I'm going out with Mac to try for him to-day. He's a jewel of a fellow.
We've nicknamed him Great-Uncle Joseph. Hi! don't joggle about like
that--you'll hurt that knee of yours. Is there anything I can get for
you?"

He grinned amiably, and turned to answer a shout from the stairs.

"Hullo! Wimsey! is that you?"

"It is. How's sport?"

Macpherson came up the stairs four steps at a time, and met Wimsey on
the landing as he emerged from the bedroom.

"I say, d'you know who that is? It's Robert."

"I know. I saw him in town. Never mind him. Have you found Great-Uncle?"

"No, we haven't. What's all this mystery about? And what's Robert doing
here? What did you mean by saying he was the burglar? And why is
Great-Uncle Joseph so important?"

"One thing at a time. Let's find the old boy first. What have you been
doing?"

"Well, when I got your extraordinary messages I thought, of course, you
were off your rocker." (Wimsey groaned with impatience.) "But then I
considered what a funny thing it was that somebody should have thought
Great-Uncle worth stealing, and thought there might be some sense in
what you said, after all." ("Dashed good of you," said Wimsey.) "So I
went out and poked about a bit, you know. Not that I think there's the
faintest chance of finding anything, with the river coming down like
this. Well, I hadn't got very far--by the way, I took Jock with me. I'm
sure he thinks I'm mad, too. Not that he says anything; these people
here never commit themselves----"

"Confound Jock! Get on with it."

"Oh--well, before we'd got very far, we saw a fellow wading about in the
river with a rod and a creel. I didn't pay much attention, because, you
see, I was wondering what you---- Yes. Well! Jock noticed him and said
to me, 'Yon's a queer kind of fisherman, I'm thinkin'.' So I had a look,
and there he was, staggering about among the stones with his fly
floating away down the stream in front of him; and he was peering into
all the pools he came to, and poking about with a gaff. So I hailed him,
and he turned round, and then he put the gaff away in a bit of a hurry
and started to reel in his line. He made an awful mess of it," added
Macpherson appreciatively.

"I can believe it," said Wimsey. "A man who admits to catching trout
with a Pink Sisket would make a mess of anything."

"A pink what?"

"Never mind. I only meant that Robert was no fisher. Get on."

"Well, he got the line hooked round something, and he was pulling and
hauling, you know, and splashing about, and then it came out all of a
sudden, and he waved it all over the place and got my hat. That made me
pretty wild, and I made after him, and he looked round again, and I
yelled out, 'Good God, it's Robert!' And he dropped his rod and took to
his heels. And of course he slipped on the stones and came down an awful
crack. We rushed forward and scooped him up and brought him home. He's
got a nasty bang on the head and a fractured patella. Very interesting.
I should have liked to have a shot at setting it myself, but it wouldn't
do, you know, so I sent for Strachan. He's a good man."

"You've had extraordinary luck about this business so far," said Wimsey.
"Now the only thing left is to find Great-Uncle. How far down have you
got?"

"Not very far. You see, what with getting Robert home and setting his
knee and so on, we couldn't do much yesterday."

"Damn Robert! Great-Uncle may be away out to sea by this time. Let's get
down to it."

He took up a gaff from the umbrella-stand ("Robert's," interjected
Macpherson), and led the way out. The little river was foaming down in a
brown spate, rattling stones and small boulders along in its passage.
Every hole, every eddy might be a lurking-place for Great-Uncle Joseph.
Wimsey peered irresolutely here and there--then turned suddenly to Jock.

"Where's the nearest spit of land where things usually get washed up?"
he demanded.

"Eh, well! there's the Battery Pool, about a mile doon the river. Ye'll
whiles find things washed up there. Aye. Imph'm. There's a pool and a
bit sand, where the river mak's a bend. Ye'll mebbe find it there, I'm
thinkin'. Mebbe no. I couldna say."

"Let's have a look, anyway."

Macpherson, to whom the prospect of searching the stream in detail
appeared rather a dreary one, brightened a little at this.

"That's a good idea. If we take the car down to just above Gatehouse,
we've only got two fields to cross."

The car was still at the door; the hired driver was enjoying the
hospitality of the cottage. They pried him loose from Maggie's scones
and slipped down the road to Gatehouse.

"Those gulls seem rather active about something," said Wimsey, as they
crossed the second field. The white wings swooped backwards and forwards
in narrowing circles over the yellow shoal. Raucous cries rose on the
wind. Wimsey pointed silently with his hand. A long, unseemly object,
like a drab purse, lay on the shore. The gulls, indignant, rose higher,
squawking at the intruders. Wimsey ran forward, stooped, rose again with
the long bag dangling from his fingers.

"Great-Uncle Joseph, I presume," he said, and raised his hat with
old-fashioned courtesy.

"The gulls have had a wee peck at it here and there," said Jock "It'll
be tough for them. Aye. They havena done so vera much with it."

"Aren't you going to open it?" said Macpherson impatiently.

"Not here," said Wimsey. "We might lose something." He dropped it into
Jock's creel. "We'll take it home first and show it to Robert."

Robert greeted them with ill-disguised irritation.

"We've been fishing," said Wimsey cheerfully. "Look at our bonny wee
fush." He weighed the catch in his hand. "What's inside this wee fush,
Mr. Ferguson?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," said Robert.

"Then why did you go fishing for it?" asked Wimsey pleasantly "Have you
got a surgical knife there, Mac?"

"Yes--here. Hurry up."

"I'll leave it to you. Be careful. I should begin with the stomach."

Macpherson laid Great-Uncle Joseph on the table, and slit him open with
a practised hand.

"Gude be gracious to us!" cried Maggie, peering over his shoulder.
"What'll that be?"

Wimsey inserted a delicate finger and thumb into the cavities of Uncle
Joseph. "One--two--three----" The stones glittered like fire as he laid
them on the table. "Seven--eight--nine. That seems to be all. Try a
little farther down, Mac."

Speechless with astonishment, Mr. Macpherson dissected his legacy.

"Ten--eleven," said Wimsey. "I'm afraid the sea-gulls have got number
twelve. I'm sorry, Mac."

"But how did they get there?" demanded Robert foolishly.

"Simple as shelling peas. Great-Uncle Joseph makes his will, swallows
his diamonds----"

"He must ha' been a grand man for a pill," said Maggie, with respect.

"--and jumps out of the window. It was as clear as crystal to anybody
who read the will. He told you, Mac, that the stomach was given you to
study."

Robert Ferguson gave a deep groan.

"I knew there was something in it," he said. "That's why I went to look
up the will. And when I saw you there, I knew I was right. (Curse this
leg of mine!) But I never imagined for a moment----"

His eyes appraised the diamonds greedily.

"And what will the value of these same stones be?" enquired Jock "About
seven thousand pounds apiece, taken separately. More than that, taken
together."

"The old man was mad," said Robert angrily. "I shall dispute the will."

"I think not," said Wimsey. "There's such an offence as entering and
stealing, you know."

"My God!" said Macpherson, handling the diamonds like a man in a dream.
"My God!"

"Seven thousan' pund," said Jock. "Did I unnerstan' ye richtly to say
that one o' they gulls is gaun aboot noo wi' seven thousan' punds' worth
o' diamonds in his wame? Ech! it's just awfu' to think of. Guid day to
you, sirs. I'll be gaun round to Jimmy McTaggart to ask will he send me
the loan o' a gun."




THE UNSOLVED PUZZLE OF THE MAN WITH NO FACE


"And what would _you_ say, sir," said the stout man, "to this here
business of the bloke what's been found down on the beach at East
Felpham?"

The rush of travellers after the Bank Holiday had caused an overflow of
third-class passengers into the firsts, and the stout man was anxious to
seem at ease in his surroundings. The youngish gentleman whom he
addressed had obviously paid full fare for a seclusion which he was
fated to forgo. He took the matter amiably enough, however, and replied
in a courteous tone:

"I'm afraid I haven't read more than the headlines. Murdered, I suppose,
wasn't he?"

"It's murder, right enough," said the stout man, with relish. "Cut about
he was, something shocking."

"More like as if a wild beast had done it," chimed in the thin, elderly
man opposite. "No face at all he hadn't got, by what my paper says.
It'll be one of these maniacs, I shouldn't be surprised, what goes about
killing children."

"I wish you wouldn't talk about such things," said his wife, with a
shudder. "I lays awake at nights thinking what might 'appen to Lizzie's
girls, till my head feels regular in a fever, and I has such a sinking
in my inside I has to get up and eat biscuits. They didn't ought to put
such dreadful things in the papers."

"It's better they should, ma'am," said the stout man, "then we're
warned, so to speak, and can take our measures accordingly. Now, from
what I can make out, this unfortunate gentleman had gone bathing all by
himself in a lonely spot. Now, quite apart from cramps, as is a thing
that might 'appen to the best of us, that's a very foolish thing to do."

"Just what I'm always telling my husband," said the young wife. The
young husband frowned and fidgeted. "Well, dear, it really isn't safe,
and you with your heart not strong----" Her hand sought his under the
newspaper. He drew away, self-consciously, saying, "That'll do, Kitty."

"The way I look at it is this," pursued the stout man. "Here we've been
and had a war, what has left 'undreds o' men in what you might call a
state of unstable ekilibrium. They've seen all their friends blown up or
shot to pieces. They've been through five years of 'orrors and
bloodshed, and it's given 'em what you might call a twist in the mind
towards 'orrors. They may seem to forget it and go along as peaceable as
anybody to all outward appearance, but it's all artificial, if you get
my meaning. Then, one day something 'appens to upset them--they 'as
words with the wife, or the weather's extra hot, as it is to-day--and
something goes pop inside their brains and makes raving monsters of
them. It's all in the books. I do a good bit of reading myself of an
evening, being a bachelor without encumbrances."

"That's all very true," said a prim little man, looking up from his
magazine, "very true indeed--too true. But do you think it applies in
the present case? I've studied the literature of crime a good deal--I
may say I make it my hobby--and it's my opinion there's more in this
than meets the eye. If you will compare this murder with some of the
most mysterious crimes of late years--crimes which, mind you, have never
been solved, and, in my opinion, never will be--what do you find?" He
paused and looked round. "You will find many features in common with
this case. But especially you will find that the face--and the face
only, mark you--has been disfigured, as though to prevent recognition.
As though to blot out the victim's personality from the world. And you
will find that, in spite of the most thorough investigation, the
criminal is never discovered. Now what does all that point to? To
organisation. Organisation. To an immensely powerful influence at work
behind the scenes. In this very magazine that I'm reading now"--he
tapped the page impressively--"there's an account--not a faked-up story,
but an account extracted from the annals of the police--of the
organisation of one of these secret societies, which mark down men
against whom they bear a grudge, and destroy them. And, when they do
this, they disfigure their faces with the mark of the Secret Society,
and they cover up the track of the assassin so completely--having money
and resources at their disposal--that nobody is ever able to get at
them."

"I've read of such things, of course," admitted the stout man, "but I
thought as they mostly belonged to the medeevial days. They had a thing
like that in Italy once. What did they call it now? A Gomorrah, was it?
Are there any Gomorrahs nowadays?"

"You spoke a true word, sir, when you said Italy," replied the prim man.
"The Italian mind is made for intrigue. There's the Fascisti. That's
come to the surface now, of course, but it started by being a secret
society. And, if you were to look below the surface, you would be amazed
at the way in which that country is honeycombed with hidden
organisations of all sorts. Don't you agree with me, sir?" he added,
addressing the first-class passenger.

"Ah!" said the stout man, "no doubt this gentleman has been in Italy and
knows all about it. Should you say this murder was the work of a
Gomorrah, sir?"

"I hope not, I'm sure," said the first-class passenger. "I mean, it
rather destroys the interest, don't you think? I like a nice, quiet,
domestic murder myself, with the millionaire found dead in the library.
The minute I open a detective story and find a Camorra in it, my
interest seems to dry up and turn to dust and ashes--a sort of Sodom and
Camorra, as you might say."

"I agree with you there," said the young husband, "from what you might
call the artistic standpoint. But in this particular case I think there
may be something to be said for this gentleman's point of view."

"Well," admitted the first-class passenger, "not having read the
details----"

"The details are clear enough," said the prim man. "This poor creature
was found lying dead on the beach at East Felpham early this morning,
with his face cut about in the most dreadful manner. He had nothing on
him but his bathing-dress----"

"Stop a minute. Who was he, to begin with?"

"They haven't identified him yet. His clothes had been taken----"

"That looks more like robbery, doesn't it?" suggested Kitty.

"If it was just robbery," retorted the prim man, "why should his face
have been cut up in that way? No--the clothes were taken away, as I
said, to prevent identification. That's what these societies always try
to do."

"Was he stabbed?" demanded the first-class passenger.

"No," said the stout man. "He wasn't. He was strangled."

"Not a characteristically Italian method of killing," observed the
first-class passenger.

"No more it is," said the stout man. The prim man seemed a little
disconcerted.

"And if he went down there to bathe," said the thin, elderly man, "how
did he get there? Surely somebody must have missed him before now, if he
was staying at Felpham. It's a busy spot for visitors in the holiday
season."

"No," said the stout man, "not East Felpham. You're thinking of West
Felpham, where the yacht-club is. East Felpham is one of the loneliest
spots on the coast. There's no house near except a little pub all by
itself at the end of a long road, and after that you have to go through
three fields to get to the sea. There's no real road, only a cart-track,
but you can take a car through. I've been there."

"He came in a car," said the prim man. "They found the track of the
wheels. But it had been driven away again."

"It looks as though the two men had come there together," suggested
Kitty.

"I think they did," said the prim man. "The victim was probably gagged
and bound and taken along in the car to the place, and then he was taken
out and strangled and----"

"But why should they have troubled to put on his bathing-dress?" said
the first-class passenger.

"Because," said the prim man, "as I said, they didn't want to leave any
clothes to reveal his identity."

"Quite; but why not leave him naked? A bathing-dress seems to indicate
an almost excessive regard for decorum, under the circumstances."

"Yes, yes," said the stout man impatiently, "but you 'aven't read the
paper carefully. The two men couldn't have come there in company, and
for why? There was only one set of footprints found, and they belonged
to the murdered man."

He looked round triumphantly.

"Only one set of footprints, eh?" said the first-class passenger
quickly. "This looks interesting. Are you sure?"

"It says so in the paper. A single set of footprints, it says, made by
bare feet, which by a careful comparison 'ave been shown to be those of
the murdered man, lead from the position occupied by the car to the
place where the body was found. What do you make of that?"

"Why," said the first-class passenger, "that tells one quite a lot,
don't you know. It gives one a sort of a bird's eye view of the place,
and it tells one the time of the murder, besides castin' quite a good
bit of light on the character and circumstances of the murderer--or
murderers."

"How do you make that out, sir?" demanded the elderly man.

"Well, to begin with--though I've never been near the place, there is
obviously a sandy beach from which one can bathe."

"That's right," said the stout man.

"There is also, I fancy, in the neighbourhood, a spur of rock running
out into the sea, quite possibly with a handy diving-pool. It must run
out pretty far; at any rate, one can bathe there before it is high water
on the beach."

"I don't know how you know that, sir, but it's a fact. There's rocks
and a bathing-pool, exactly as you describe, about a hundred yards
farther along. Many's the time I've had a dip off the end of them."

"And the rocks run right back inland, where they are covered with short
grass."

"That's right."

"The murder took place shortly before high tide, I fancy, and the body
lay just about at high-tide mark."

"Why so?"

"Well, you say there were footsteps leading right up to the body. That
means that the water hadn't been up beyond the body. But there were no
other marks. Therefore the murderer's footprints must have been washed
away by the tide. The only explanation is that the two men were standing
together just below the tide-mark. The murderer came up out of the sea.
He attacked the other man--maybe he forced him back a little on his own
tracks--and there he killed him. Then the water came up and washed out
any marks the murderer may have left. One can imagine him squatting
there, wondering if the sea was going to come up high enough."

"Ow!" said Kitty, "you make me creep all over."

"Now, as to these marks on the face," pursued the first-class passenger.
"The murderer, according to the idea I get of the thing, was already in
the sea when the victim came along. You see the idea?"

"I get you," said the stout man. "You think as he went in off them rocks
what we was speaking of, and came up through the water, and that's why
there weren't no footprints."

"Exactly. And since the water is deep round those rocks, as you say, he
was presumably in a bathing-dress too."

"Looks like it."

"Quite so. Well, now--what was the face-slashing done with? People don't
usually take knives out with them when they go for a morning dip."

"That's a puzzle," said the stout man.

"Not altogether. Let's say, either the murderer had a knife with him or
he had not. If he had----"

"If he had," put in the prim man eagerly, "he must have laid wait for
the deceased on purpose. And, to my mind, that bears out my idea of a
deep and cunning plot."

"Yes. But, if he was waiting there with the knife, why didn't he stab
the man and have done with it? Why strangle him, when he had a perfectly
good weapon there to hand? No--I think he came unprovided, and, when he
saw his enemy there, he made for him with his hands in the
characteristic British way."

"But the slashing?"

"Well, I think that when he had got his man down, dead before him, he
was filled with a pretty grim sort of fury and wanted to do more damage.
He caught up something that was lying near him on the sand--it might be
a bit of old iron, or even one of those sharp shells you sometimes see
about, or a bit of glass--and he went for him with that in a desperate
rage of jealousy or hatred."

"Dreadful, dreadful!" said the elderly woman.

"Of course, one can only guess in the dark, not having seen the wounds.
It's quite possible that the murderer dropped his knife in the struggle
and had to do the actual killing with his hands, picking the knife up
afterwards. If the wounds were clean knife-wounds, that is probably what
happened, and the murder was premeditated. But if they were rough,
jagged gashes, made by an impromptu weapon, then I should say it was a
chance encounter, and that the murderer was either mad or----"

"Or?"

"Or had suddenly come upon somebody whom he hated very much."

"What do you think happened afterwards?"

"That's pretty clear. The murderer, having waited, as I said, to see
that all his footprints were cleaned up by the tide, waded or swam back
to the rock where he had left his clothes, taking the weapon with him.
The sea would wash away any blood from his bathing-dress or body. He
then climbed out upon the rocks, walked, with bare feet, so as to leave
no tracks on any seaweed or anything, to the short grass of the shore,
dressed, went along to the murdered man's car, and drove it away."

"Why did he do that?"

"Yes, why? He may have wanted to get somewhere in a hurry. Or he may
have been afraid that if the murdered man were identified too soon it
would cast suspicion on him. Or it may have been a mixture of motives.
The point is, where did he come from? How did he come to be bathing at
that remote spot, early in the morning? He didn't get there by car, or
there would be a second car to be accounted for. He may have been
camping near the spot; but it would have taken him a long time to strike
camp and pack all his belongings into the car, and he might have been
seen. I am rather inclined to think he had bicycled there, and that he
hoisted the bicycle into the back of the car and took it away with him."

"But, in that case, why take the car?"

"Because he had been down at East Felpham longer than he expected, and
he was afraid of being late. Either he had to get back to breakfast at
some house, where his absence would be noticed, or else he lived some
distance off, and had only just time enough for the journey home. I
think, though, he had to be back to breakfast."

"Why?"

"Because, if it was merely a question of making up time on the road, all
he had to do was to put himself and his bicycle on the train for part of
the way. No; I fancy he was staying in a smallish hotel somewhere. Not
a large hotel, because there nobody would notice whether he came in or
not. And not, I think, in lodgings, or somebody would have mentioned
before now that they had had a lodger who went bathing at East Felpham.
Either he lives in the neighbourhood, in which case he should be easy to
trace, or was staying with friends who have an interest in concealing
his movements. Or else--which I think is more likely--he was in a
smallish hotel, where he would be missed from the breakfast-table, but
where his favourite bathing-place was not matter of common knowledge."

"That seems feasible," said the stout man.

"In any case," went on the first-class passenger, "he must have been
staying within easy bicycling distance of East Felpham, so it shouldn't
be too hard to trace him. And then there is the car."

"Yes. Where is the car, on your theory?" demanded the prim man, who
obviously still had hankerings after the Camorra theory.

"In a garage, waiting to be called for," said the first-class passenger
promptly.

"Where?" persisted the prim man.

"Oh! somewhere on the other side of wherever it was the murderer was
staying. If you have a particular reason for not wanting it to be known
that you were in a certain place at a specified time, it's not a bad
idea to come back from the opposite direction. I rather think I should
look for the car at West Felpham, and the hotel in the nearest town on
the main road beyond where the two roads to East and West Felpham join.
When you've found the car, you've found the name of the victim,
naturally. As for the murderer, you will have to look for an active man,
a good swimmer and ardent bicyclist--probably not very well off, since
he cannot afford to have a car--who has been taking a holiday in the
neighbourhood of the Felphams, and who has a good reason for disliking
the victim, whoever he may be."

"Well, I never," said the elderly woman admiringly. "How beautiful you
do put it all together. Like Sherlock Holmes, I do declare."

"It's a very pretty theory," said the prim man, "but, all the same,
you'll find it's a secret society. Mark my words. Dear me! We're just
running in. Only twenty minutes late. I call that very good for
holiday-time. Will you excuse me? My bag is just under your feet."

There was an eighth person in the compartment, who had remained
throughout the conversation apparently buried in a newspaper. As the
passengers decanted themselves upon the platform, this man touched the
first-class passenger upon the arm.

"Excuse me, sir," he said. "That was a very interesting suggestion of
yours. My name is Winterbottom, and I am investigating this case. Do you
mind giving me your name? I might wish to communicate with you later
on."

"Certainly," said the first-class passenger. "Always delighted to have
a finger in any pie, don't you know. Here is my card. Look me up any
time you like."

Detective-Inspector Winterbottom took the card and read the name:

  LORD PETER WIMSEY,
    110A Piccadilly.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Evening Views_ vendor outside Piccadilly Tube Station arranged his
placard with some care. It looked very well, he thought.

  MAN WITH
  NO FACE
  IDENTIFIED

It was, in his opinion, considerably more striking than that displayed
by a rival organ, which announced, unimaginatively:

  BEACH MURDER
  VICTIM
  IDENTIFIED

A youngish gentleman in a grey suit who emerged at that moment from the
Criterion Bar appeared to think so too, for he exchanged a copper for
the _Evening Views_, and at once plunged into its perusal with such
concentrated interest that he bumped into a hurried man outside the
station and had to apologise.

The _Evening Views_, grateful to murderer and victim alike for providing
so useful a sensation in the dead days after the Bank Holiday, had torn
Messrs. Negretti & Zambra's rocketing thermometrical statistics from the
"banner" position which they had occupied in the lunch edition, and
substituted:

     "FACELESS VICTIM OF BEACH OUTRAGE IDENTIFIED

     MURDER OF PROMINENT
     PUBLICITY ARTIST

     POLICE CLUES

     "The body of a middle-aged man who was discovered, attired only in
     a bathing-costume and with his face horribly disfigured by some
     jagged instrument, on the beach at East Felpham last Monday
     morning, has been identified as that of Mr. Coreggio Plant, studio
     manager of Messrs. Crichton Ltd., the well-known publicity experts
     of Holborn.

     "Mr. Plant, who was forty-five years of age and a bachelor, was
     spending his annual holiday in making a motoring tour along the
     West Coast. He had no companion with him and had left no address
     for the forwarding of letters, so that, without the smart work of
     Detective-Inspector Winterbottom of the Westshire police, his
     disappearance might not in the ordinary way have been noticed until
     he became due to return to his place of business in three weeks'
     time. The murderer had no doubt counted on this, and had removed
     the motor-car, containing the belongings of his victim, in the hope
     of covering up all traces of this dastardly outrage so as to gain
     time for escape.

     "A rigorous search for the missing car, however, eventuated in its
     discovery in a garage at West Felpham, where it had been left for
     decarbonisation and repairs to the magneto. Mr. Spiller, the garage
     proprietor, himself saw the man who left the car, and has furnished
     a description of him to the police. He is said to be a small, dark
     man of foreign appearance. The police hold a clue to his identity,
     and an arrest is confidently expected in the near future.

     "Mr. Plant was for fifteen years in the employment of Messrs.
     Crichton, being appointed Studio Manager in the latter years of the
     war. He was greatly liked by all his colleagues, and his skill in
     the lay-out and designing of advertisements did much to justify the
     truth of Messrs. Crichton's well-known slogan: 'Crichton's for
     Admirable Advertising.'

     "The funeral of the victim will take place to-morrow at Golders
     Green Cemetery.

     "(Pictures on Back Page.)"

Lord Peter Wimsey turned to the back page. The portrait of the victim
did not detain him long; it was one of those characterless studio
photographs which establish nothing except that the sitter has a
tolerable set of features. He noted that Mr. Plant had been thin rather
than fat, commercial in appearance rather than artistic, and that the
photographer had chosen to show him serious rather than smiling. A
picture of East Felpham beach, marked with a cross where the body was
found, seemed to arouse in him rather more than a casual interest. He
studied it intently for some time, making little surprised noises. There
was no obvious reason why he should have been surprised, for the
photograph bore out in every detail the deductions he had made in the
train. There was the curved line of sand, with a long spur of rock
stretching out behind it into deep water, and running back till it
mingled with the short, dry turf. Nevertheless, he looked at it for
several minutes with close attention, before folding the newspaper and
hailing a taxi; and when he was in the taxi he unfolded the paper and
looked at it again.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Your lordship having been kind enough," said Inspector Winterbottom,
emptying his glass rather too rapidly for true connoisseurship, "to
suggest I should look you up in Town, I made bold to give you a call in
passing. Thank you, I won't say no. Well, as you've seen in the papers
by now, we found that car all right."

Wimsey expressed his gratification at this result.

"And very much obliged I was to your lordship for the hint," went on the
Inspector generously, "not but what I wouldn't say but I should have
come to the same conclusion myself, given a little more time. And,
what's more, we're on the track of the man."

"I see he's supposed to be foreign-looking. Don't say he's going to turn
out to be a Camorrist after all!"

"No, my lord." The Inspector winked. "Our friend in the corner had got
his magazine stories a bit on the brain, if you ask me. And you were a
bit out too, my lord, with your bicyclist idea."

"Was I? That's a blow."

"Well, my lord, these here theories _sound_ all right, but half the time
they're too fine-spun altogether. Go for the facts--that's our motto in
the Force--facts and motive, and you won't go far wrong."

"Oh! you've discovered the motive, then?"

The Inspector winked again.

"There's not many motives for doing a man in," said he. "Women or
money--or women _and_ money--it mostly comes down to one or the other.
This fellow Plant went in for being a bit of a lad, you see. He kept a
little cottage down Felpham way, with a nice little skirt to furnish it
and keep the love-nest warm for him--see?"

"Oh! I thought he was doing a motor-tour."

"Motor-tour your foot!" said the Inspector, with more energy than
politeness. "That's what the old [epithet] told 'em at the office. Handy
reason, don't you see, for leaving no address behind him. No, no. There
was a lady in it all right. I've seen her. A very taking piece too, if
you like 'em skinny, which I don't. I prefer 'em better upholstered
myself."

"That chair is really more comfortable with a cushion," put in Wimsey,
with anxious solicitude. "Allow me."

"Thanks, my lord, thanks. I'm doing very well. It seems that this
woman--by the way, we're speaking in confidence, you understand. I don't
want this to go further till I've got my man under lock and key."

Wimsey promised discretion.

"That's all right, my lord, that's all right. I know I can rely on you.
Well, the long and the short is, this young woman had another fancy
man--a sort of an Italiano, whom she'd chucked for Plant, and this same
dago got wind of the business and came down to East Felpham on the
Sunday night, looking for her. He's one of these professional partners
in a Palais de Danse up Cricklewood way, and that's where the girl comes
from, too. I suppose she thought Plant was a cut above him. Anyway,
down he comes, and busts in upon them Sunday night when they were having
a bit of supper--and that's when the row started."

"Didn't you know about this cottage and the goings-on there?"

"Well, you know, there's such a lot of these week-enders nowadays. We
can't keep tabs on all of them, so long as they behave themselves and
don't make a disturbance. The woman's been there--so they tell me--since
last June, with him coming down Saturday to Monday; but it's a lonely
spot, and the constable didn't take much notice. He came in the
evenings, so there wasn't anybody much to recognise him, except the old
girl who did the slops and things, and she's half-blind. And of course,
when they found him, he hadn't any face to recognise. It'd be thought
he'd just gone off in the ordinary way. I dare say the dago fellow
reckoned on that. As I was saying, there was a big row, and the dago was
kicked out. He must have lain wait for Plant down by the bathing-place,
and done him in."

"By strangling?"

"Well, he _was_ strangled."

"Was his face cut up with a knife, then?"

"Well, no--I don't think it was a knife. More like a broken bottle, I
should say, if you ask me. There's plenty of them come in with the
tide."

"But then we're brought back to our old problem. If this Italian was
lying in wait to murder Plant, why didn't he take a weapon with him,
instead of trusting to the chance of his hands and a broken bottle?"

The Inspector shook his head.

"Flighty," he said. "All these foreigners are flighty. No headpiece. But
there's our man and there's our motive, plain as a pikestaff. You don't
want more."

"And where is the Italian fellow now?"

"Run away. That's pretty good proof of guilt in itself. But we'll have
him before long. That's what I've come to Town about. He can't get out
of the country. I've had an all-stations call sent out to stop him. The
dance-hall people were able to supply us with a photo and a good
description. I'm expecting a report in now any minute. In fact, I'd best
be getting along. Thank you very much for your hospitality, my lord."

"The pleasure is mine," said Wimsey, ringing the bell to have the
visitor shown out. "I have enjoyed our little chat immensely."

       *       *       *       *       *

Sauntering into the Falstaff at twelve o'clock the following morning,
Wimsey, as he had expected, found Salcombe Hardy supporting his rather
plump contours against the bar. The reporter greeted his arrival with a
heartiness amounting almost to enthusiasm, and called for two large
Scotches immediately. When the usual skirmish as to who should pay had
been honourably settled by the prompt disposal of the drinks and the
standing of two more, Wimsey pulled from his pocket the copy of last
night's _Evening Views_.

"I wish you'd ask the people over at your place to get hold of a decent
print of this for me," he said, indicating the picture of East Felpham
beach.

Salcombe Hardy gazed limpid enquiry at him from eyes like drowned
violets.

"See here, you old sleuth," he said, "does this mean you've got a theory
about the thing? I'm wanting a story badly. Must keep up the excitement,
you know. The police don't seem to have got any further since last
night."

"No; I'm interested in this from another point of view altogether. I did
have a theory--of sorts--but it seems it's all wrong. Bally old Homer
nodding, I suppose. But I'd like a copy of the thing."

"I'll get Warren to get you one when we come back. I'm just taking him
down with me to Crichton's. We're going to have a look at a picture. I
say, I wish you'd come too. Tell me what to say about the damned thing."

"Good God! I don't know anything about commercial art."

"'Tisn't commercial art. It's supposed to be a portrait of this blighter
Plant. Done by one of the chaps in his studio or something. Kid who told
me about it says it's clever. I don't know. Don't suppose she knows,
either. You go in for being artistic, don't you?"

"I wish you wouldn't use such filthy expressions, Sally. Artistic! Who
is this girl?"

"Typist in the copy department."

"Oh, Sally!"

"Nothing of that sort. I've never met her. Name's Gladys Twitterton. I'm
sure that's beastly enough to put anybody off. Rang us up last night and
told us there was a bloke there who'd done old Plant in oils and was it
any use to us? Drummer thought it might be worth looking into. Make a
change from that everlasting syndicated photograph."

"I see. If you haven't got an exclusive story, an exclusive picture's
better than nothing. The girl seems to have her wits about her. Friend
of the artist's?"

"No--said he'd probably be frightfully annoyed at her having told me.
But I can wangle that. Only I wish you'd come and have a look at it.
Tell me whether I ought to say it's an unknown masterpiece or merely a
striking likeness."

"How the devil can I say if it's a striking likeness of a bloke I've
never seen?"

"I'll say it's that, in any case. But I want to know if it's well
painted."

"Curse it, Sally, what's it matter whether it is or not? I've got other
things to do. Who's the artist, by the way? Anybody one's ever heard
of?"

"Dunno. I've got the name here somewhere." Sally rooted in his
hip-pocket and produced a mass of dirty correspondence, its angles
blunted by constant attrition. "Some comic name like Buggle or
Snagtooth--wait a big--here it is. Crowder. Thomas Crowder. I knew it
was something out of the way."

"Singularly like Buggle or Snagtooth. All right, Sally. I'll make a
martyr of myself. Lead me to it."

"We'll have another quick one. Here's Warren. This is Lord Peter Wimsey.
This is on me."

"On me," corrected the photographer, a jaded young man with a
disillusioned manner. "Three large White Labels, please. Well, here's
all the best. Are you fit, Sally? Because we'd better make tracks. I've
got to be up at Golders Green by two for the funeral."

Mr. Crowder of Crichton's appeared to have had the news broken to him
already by Miss Twitterton, for he received the embassy in a spirit of
gloomy acquiescence.

"The directors won't like it," he said, "but they've had to put up with
such a lot that I suppose one irregularity more or less won't give 'em
apoplexy." He had a small, anxious, yellow face like a monkey. Wimsey
put him down as being in his late thirties. He noticed his fine, capable
hands, one of which was disfigured by a strip of sticking-plaster.

"Damaged yourself?" said Wimsey pleasantly, as they made their way
upstairs to the studio. "Mustn't make a practice of that, what? An
artist's hands are his livelihood--except, of course, for Armless
Wonders and people of that kind! Awkward job, painting with your toes."

"Oh, it's nothing much," said Crowder, "but it's best to keep the paint
out of surface scratches. There's such a thing as lead-poisoning. Well,
here's this dud portrait, such as it is. I don't mind telling you that
it didn't please the sitter. In fact, he wouldn't have it at any price."

"Not flattering enough?" asked Hardy.

"As you say." The painter pulled out a four by three canvas from its
hiding-place behind a stack of poster cartoons, and heaved it up on to
the easel.

"Oh!" said Hardy, a little surprised. Not that there was any reason for
surprise as far as the painting itself was concerned. It was a
straight-forward handling enough; the skill and originality of the
brushwork being of the kind that interests the painter without shocking
the ignorant.

"Oh!" said Hardy. "Was he really like that?"

He moved closer to the canvas, peering into it as he might have peered
into the face of the living man, hoping to get something out of him.
Under this microscopic scrutiny, the portrait, as is the way of
portraits, dislimned, and became no more than a conglomeration of
painted spots and streaks. He made the discovery that, to the painter's
eye, the human face is full of green and purple patches.

He moved back again, and altered the form of his question:

"So that's what he was like, was he?"

He pulled out the photograph of Plant from his pocket, and compared it
with the portrait. The portrait seemed to sneer at his surprise.

"Of course, they touch these things up at these fashionable
photographers," he said. "Anyway, that's not my business. This thing
will make a jolly good eye-catcher, don't you think so, Wimsey? Wonder
if they'd give us a two-column spread on the front page? Well, Warren,
you'd better get down to it."

The photographer, bleakly unmoved by artistic or journalistic
considerations, took silent charge of the canvas, mentally resolving it
into a question of pan-chromatic plates and coloured screens. Crowder
gave him a hand in shifting the easel into a better light. Two or three
people from other departments, passing through the studio on their
lawful occasions stopped, and lingered in the neighbourhood of the
disturbance, as though it were a street accident. A melancholy,
grey-haired man, temporary head of the studio, vice Coreggio Plant,
deceased, took Crowder aside, with a muttered apology, to give him some
instructions about adapting a whole quad to an eleven-inch treble. Hardy
turned to Lord Peter.

"It's damned ugly," he said. "Is it good?"

"Brilliant," said Wimsey. "You can go all out. Say what you like about
it."

"Oh, splendid! Could we discover one of our neglected British masters?"

"Yes; why not? You'll probably make the man the fashion and ruin him as
an artist, but that's his pigeon."

"But, I say--do you think it's a good likeness? He's made him look a
most sinister sort of fellow. After all, Plant thought it was so bad he
wouldn't have it."

"The more fool he. Ever heard of the portrait of a certain statesman
that was so revealing of his inner emptiness that he hurriedly bought it
up and hid it to prevent people like you from getting hold of it?"

Crowder came back.

"I say," said Wimsey, "whom does that picture belong to? You? Or the
heirs of the deceased, or what?"

"I suppose it's back on my hands," said the painter. "Plant--well, he
more or less commissioned it, you see, but----"

"How more or less?"

"Well, he kept on hinting, don't you know, that he would like me to do
him, and, as he was my boss, I thought I'd better. No price actually
mentioned. When he saw it, he didn't like it, and told me to alter it."

"But you didn't."

"Oh--well, I put it aside and said I'd see what I could do with it. I
thought he'd perhaps forget about it."

"I see. Then presumably it's yours to dispose of."

"I should think so. Why?"

"You have a very individual technique, haven't you?" pursued Wimsey. "Do
you exhibit much?"

"Here and there. I've never had a show in London."

"I fancy I once saw a couple of small sea-scapes of yours somewhere.
Manchester, was it? or Liverpool? I wasn't sure of your name, but I
recognised the technique immediately."

"I dare say. I did send a few things to Manchester about two years ago."

"Yes--I felt sure I couldn't be mistaken. I want to buy the portrait.
Here's my card, by the way. I'm not a journalist; I collect things."

Crowder looked from the card to Wimsey and from Wimsey to the card, a
little reluctantly.

"If you want to exhibit it, of course," said Lord Peter, "I should be
delighted to leave it with you as long as you liked."

"Oh, it's not that," said Crowder. "The fact is, I'm not altogether keen
on the thing. I should like to--that is to say, it's not really
finished."

"My dear man, it's a bally masterpiece."

"Oh, the painting's all right. But it's not altogether satisfactory as a
likeness."

"What the devil does the likeness matter? I don't know what the late
Plant looked like and I don't care. As I look at the thing it's a damn
fine bit of brush-work, and if you tinker about with it you'll spoil it.
You know that as well as I do. What's biting you? It isn't the price, is
it? You know I shan't boggle about that. I can afford my modest
pleasures, even in these thin and piping times. You don't want me to
have it? Come now--what's the real reason?"

"There's no reason at all why you shouldn't have it if you really want
it, I suppose," said the painter, still a little sullenly. "If it's
really the painting that interests you."

"What do you suppose it is? The notoriety? I can have all I want of
_that_ commodity, you know, for the asking--or even without asking.
Well, anyhow, think it over, and when you've decided, send me a line and
name your price."

Crowder nodded without speaking, and the photographer having by this
time finished his job, the party took their leave.

As they left the building, they became involved in the stream of
Crichton's staff going out to lunch. A girl, who seemed to have been
loitering in a semi-intentional way in the lower hall, caught them as
the lift descended.

"Are you the _Evening Views_ people? Did you get your picture all
right?"

"Miss Twitterton?" said Hardy interrogatively. "Yes, rather--thank you
so much for giving us the tip. You'll see it on the front page this
evening."

"Oh! that's splendid! I'm frightfully thrilled. It has made an
excitement here--all this business. Do they know anything yet about who
murdered Mr. Plant? Or am I being horribly indiscreet?"

"We're expecting news of an arrest any minute now," said Hardy. "As a
matter of fact, I shall have to buzz back to the office as fast as I
can, to sit with one ear glued to the telephone. You will excuse me,
won't you? And, look here--will you let me come round another day, when
things aren't so busy, and take you out to lunch?"

"Of course. I should love to." Miss Twitterton giggled. "I do so want to
hear about all the murder cases."

"Then here's the man to tell you about them, Miss Twitterton," said
Hardy, with mischief in his eye. "Allow me to introduce Lord Peter
Wimsey."

Miss Twitterton offered her hand in an ecstasy of excitement which
almost robbed her of speech.

"How do you do?" said Wimsey. "As this blighter is in such a hurry to
get back to his gossip-shop, what do you say to having a spot of lunch
with me?"

"Well, really----" began Miss Twitterton.

"He's all right," said Hardy; "he won't lure you into any gilded dens of
infamy. If you look at him, you will see he has a kind, innocent face."

"I'm sure I never thought of such a thing," said Miss Twitterton. "But
you know--really--I've only got my old things on. It's no good wearing
anything decent in this dusty old place."

"Oh, nonsense!" said Wimsey. "You couldn't possibly look nicer. It isn't
the frock that matters--it's the person who wears it. _That's_ all
right, then. See you later, Sally! Taxi! Where shall we go? What time do
you have to be back, by the way?"

"Two o'clock," said Miss Twitterton regretfully.

"Then we'll make the Savoy do," said Wimsey; "it's reasonably handy."

Miss Twitterton hopped into the waiting taxi with a little squeak of
agitation.

"Did you see Mr. Crichton?" she said. "He went by just as we were
talking. However, I dare say he doesn't really know me by sight. I hope
not--or he'll think I'm getting too grand to need a salary." She rooted
in her hand-bag. "I'm sure my face is getting all shiny with excitement.
What a silly taxi. It hasn't got a mirror--and I've bust mine."

Wimsey solemnly produced a small looking-glass from his pocket.

"How wonderfully competent of you!" exclaimed Miss Twitterton. "I'm
afraid, Lord Peter, you are used to taking girls about."

"Moderately so," said Wimsey. He did not think it necessary to mention
that the last time he had used that mirror it had been to examine the
back teeth of a murdered man.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Of course," said Miss Twitterton, "they had to say he was popular with
his colleagues. Haven't you noticed that murdered people are always well
dressed and popular?"

"They have to be," said Wimsey. "It makes it more mysterious and
pathetic. Just as girls who disappear are always bright and home-loving
and have no men friends."

"Silly, isn't it?" said Miss Twitterton, with her mouth full of roast
duck and green peas. "I should think everybody was only too glad to get
rid of Plant--nasty, rude creature. So mean, too, always taking credit
for other people's work. All those poor things in the studio, with all
the spirit squashed out of them. I always say, Lord Peter, you can tell
if a head of a department's fitted for his job by noticing the
atmosphere of the place as you go into it. Take the copy-room, now.
We're all as cheerful and friendly as you like, though I must say the
language that goes on there is something awful, but these writing
fellows are like that, and they don't mean anything by it. But then, Mr.
Ormerod is a real gentleman--that's our copy-chief, you know--and he
makes them all take an interest in the work, for all they grumble about
the cheese-bills and the department-store bilge they have to turn out.
But it's quite different in the studio. A sort of dead-and-alive feeling
about it, if you understand what I mean. We girls notice things like
that more than some of the high-up people think. Of course, I'm very
sensitive to these feelings--almost psychic, I've been told."

Lord Peter said there was nobody like a woman for sizing up character at
a glance. Women, he thought, were remarkably intuitive.

"That's a fact," said Miss Twitterton. "I've often said, if I could have
a few frank words with Mr. Crichton, I could tell him a thing or two.
There are wheels within wheels beneath the surface of a place like this
that these brass-hats have no idea of."

Lord Peter said he felt sure of it.

"The way Mr. Plant treated people he thought were beneath him," went on
Miss Twitterton, "I'm sure it was enough to make your blood boil. I'm
sure, if Mr. Ormerod sent me with a message to him, I was glad to get
out of the room again. Humiliating, it was, the way he'd speak to you. I
don't care if he's dead or not; being dead doesn't make a person's past
behaviour any better, Lord Peter. It wasn't so much the rude things he
said. There's Mr. Birkett, for example; _he's_ rude enough, but nobody
minds him. He's just like a big, blundering puppy--rather a lamb,
really. It was Mr. Plant's nasty sneering way we all hated so. And he
was always running people down."

"How about this portrait?" asked Wimsey. "Was it like him at all?"

"It was a lot too like him," said Miss Twitterton emphatically. "That's
why he hated it so. He didn't like Crowder, either. But, of course, he
knew he could paint, and he made him do it, because he thought he'd be
getting a valuable thing cheap. And Crowder couldn't very well refuse,
or Plant would have got him sacked."

"I shouldn't have thought that would have mattered much to a man of
Crowder's ability."

"Poor Mr. Crowder! I don't think he's ever had much luck. Good artists
don't always seem able to sell their pictures. And I know he wanted to
get married--otherwise he'd never have taken up this commercial work.
He's told me a good bit about himself. I don't know why--but I'm one of
the people men seem to tell things to."

Lord Peter filled Miss Twitterton's glass.

"Oh, please! No, really! Not a drop more! I'm talking a lot too much as
it is. I don't know what Mr. Ormerod will say when I go in to take his
letters. I shall be writing down all kinds of funny things. Ooh! I
really must be getting back. Just look at the time!"

"It's not really late. Have a black coffee--just as a corrective."
Wimsey smiled. "You haven't been talking at all too much. I've enjoyed
your picture of office life enormously. You have a very vivid way of
putting things, you know. I see now why Mr. Plant was not altogether a
popular character."

"Not in the office, anyway--whatever he may have been elsewhere." said
Miss Twitterton darkly.

"Oh?"

"Oh! he was a one," said Miss Twitterton. "He certainly was a one. Some
friends of mine met him one evening up in the West End, and they came
back with some nice stories. It was quite a joke in the office--old
Plant and his rosebuds, you know. Mr. Cowley--he's _the_ Cowley, you
know, who rides in the motor-cycle races--he always said he knew what to
think of Mr. Plant and his motor-tours. That time Mr. Plant pretended
he'd gone touring in Wales, Mr. Cowley was asking him about the roads,
and he didn't know a thing about them. Because Mr. Cowley really had
been touring there, and he knew quite well Mr. Plant hadn't been where
he said he had; and, as a matter of fact, Mr. Cowley knew he'd been
staying the whole time in a hotel at Aberystwyth, in very attractive
company."

Miss Twitterton finished her coffee and slapped the cup down defiantly.

"And now I really _must_ run away, or I shall be most dreadfully late.
And thank you ever so much."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Hullo!" said Inspector Winterbottom, "you've bought that portrait,
then?"

"Yes," said Wimsey. "It's a fine bit of work." He gazed thoughtfully at
the canvas. "Sit down, inspector; I want to tell you a story."

"And I want to tell _you_ a story," replied the inspector.

"Let's have yours first," said Wimsey, with an air of flattering
eagerness.

"No, no, my lord. You take precedence. Go ahead."

He snuggled down with a chuckle into his arm-chair.

"Well!" said Wimsey. "Mine's a sort of a fairy-story. And, mind you, I
haven't verified it."

"Go ahead, my lord, go ahead."

"Once upon a time----" said Wimsey, sighing.

"That's the good old-fashioned way to begin a fairy-story," said
Inspector Winterbottom.

"Once upon a time," repeated Wimsey, "there was a painter. He was a good
painter, but the bad fairy of Financial Success had not been asked to
his christening--what?"

"That's often the way with painters," agreed the inspector.

"So he had to take up a job as a commercial artist, because nobody would
buy his pictures and, like so many people in fairy-tales, he wanted to
marry a goose-girl."

"There's many people want to do the same," said the inspector.

"The head of his department," went on Wimsey, "was a man with a mean,
sneering soul. He wasn't even really good at his job, but he had been
pushed into authority during the war, when better men went to the Front.
Mind you, I'm rather sorry for the man. He suffered from an inferiority
complex"--the inspector snorted--"and he thought the only way to keep
his end up was to keep other people's end down. So he became a little
tin tyrant and a bully. He took all the credit for the work of the men
under his charge, and he sneered and harassed them till they got
inferiority complexes even worse than his own."

"I've known that sort," said the inspector, "and the marvel to me is how
they get away with it."

"Just so," said Wimsey. "Well, I dare say this man would have gone on
getting away with it all right, if he hadn't thought of getting this
painter to paint his portrait."

"Damn silly thing to do," said the inspector. "It was only making the
painter-fellow conceited with himself."

"True. But, you see, this tin tyrant person had a fascinating female in
tow, and he wanted the portrait for the lady. He thought that, by making
the painter do it, he would get a good portrait at starvation price. But
unhappily he'd forgotten that, however much an artist will put up with
in the ordinary way, he is bound to be sincere with his art. That's the
one thing a genuine artist won't muck about with."

"I dare say," said the inspector. "I don't know much about artists."

"Well, you can take it from me. So the painter painted the portrait as
he saw it, and he put the man's whole creeping, sneering, paltry soul on
the canvas for everybody to see."

Inspector Winterbottom stared at the portrait, and the portrait sneered
back at him.

"It's not what you'd call a flattering picture, certainly," he admitted.

"Now, when a painter paints a portrait of anybody," went on Wimsey,
"that person's face is never the same to him again. It's like--what
shall I say? Well, it's like the way a gunner, say, looks at a landscape
where he happens to be posted. He doesn't see it as a landscape. He
doesn't see it as a thing of magic beauty, full of sweeping lines and
lovely colour. He sees it as so much cover, so many landmarks to aim by,
so many gun-emplacements. And when the war is over and he goes back to
it, he will still see it as cover and landmarks and gun-emplacements. It
isn't a landscape any more. It's a war map."

"I know that," said Inspector Winterbottom. "I was a gunner myself."

"A painter gets just the same feeling of deadly familiarity with every
line of a face he's once painted," pursued Wimsey. "And, if it's a face
he hates, he hates it with a new and more irritable hatred. It's like a
defective barrel-organ, everlastingly grinding out the same old
maddening tune, and making the same damned awful wrong note every time
the barrel goes round."

"Lord! how you can talk!" ejaculated the inspector.

"That was the way the painter felt about this man's hateful face. All
day and every day he had to see it. He couldn't get away because he was
tied to his job, you see."

"He ought to have cut loose," said the inspector. "It's no good going on
like that, trying to work with uncongenial people."

"Well, anyway, he said to himself, he could escape for a bit during his
holidays. There was a beautiful little quiet spot he knew on the West
Coast, where nobody ever came. He'd been there before and painted it.
Oh! by the way, that reminds me--I've got another picture to show you."

He went to a bureau and extracted a small panel in oils from a drawer.

"I saw that two years ago at a show in Manchester, and I happened to
remember the name of the dealer who bought it."

Inspector Winterbottom gaped at the panel.

"But that's East Felpham!" he exclaimed.

"Yes. It's only signed T.C., but the technique is rather unmistakable
don't you think?"

The inspector knew little about technique, but initials he understood.
He looked from the portrait to the panel and back at Lord Peter.

"The painter----"

"Crowder?"

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather go on calling him the painter.
He packed up his traps on his push-bike carrier, and took his tormented
nerves down to this beloved and secret spot for a quiet week-end. He
stayed at a quiet little hotel in the neighbourhood, and each morning he
cycled off to this lovely little beach to bathe. He never told anybody
at the hotel where he went, because it was _his_ place, and he didn't
want other people to find it out."

Inspector Winterbottom set the panel down on the table, and helped
himself to whisky.

"One morning--it happened to be the Monday morning"--Wimsey's voice
became slower and more reluctant--"he went down as usual. The tide was
not yet fully in, but he ran out over the rocks to where he knew there
was a deep bathing-pool. He plunged in and swam about, and let the small
noise of his jangling troubles be swallowed up in the innumerable
laughter of the sea."

"Eh?"

"κυμάτων ανήριθμον γέλασμα [Greek: kymatôn anêrithmon
gelasma]--quotation from the classics. Some people say it means the
dimpled surface of the waves in the sunlight--but how could Prometheus,
bound upon his rock, have seen it? Surely it was the chuckle of the
incoming tide among the stones that came up to his ears on the lonely
peak where the vulture fretted at his heart. I remember arguing about it
with old Philpotts in class, and getting rapped over the knuckles for
contradicting him. I didn't know at the time that he was engaged in
producing a translation on his own account, or doubtless I should have
contradicted him more rudely and been told to take my trousers down.
Dear old Philpotts!"

"I don't know anything about that," said the inspector.

"I beg your pardon. Shocking way I have of wandering. The painter--well!
he swam round the end of the rocks, for the tide was nearly in by that
time; and, as he came up from the sea, he saw a man standing on the
beach--that beloved beach, remember, which he thought was his own sacred
haven of peace. He came wading towards it, cursing the Bank Holiday
rabble who must needs swarm about everywhere with their
cigarette-packets and their kodaks and their gramophones--and then he
saw that it was a face he knew. He knew every hated line in it, on that
clear sunny morning. And, early as it was, the heat was coming up over
the sea like a haze."

"It was a hot week-end," said the Inspector.

"And then the man hailed him, in his smug, mincing voice. 'Hullo!' he
said, 'you here? How did you find my little bathing-place?' And that was
too much for the painter. He felt as if his last sanctuary had been
invaded. He leapt at the lean throat--it's rather a stringy one, you may
notice, with a prominent Adam's apple--an irritating throat. The water
chuckled round their feet as they swayed to and fro. He felt his thumbs
sink into the flesh he had painted. He saw, and laughed to see, the
hateful familiarity of the features change and swell into an
unrecognisable purple. He watched the sunken eyes bulge out and the thin
mouth distort itself as the blackened tongue thrust through it--I am not
unnerving you, I hope?"

The inspector laughed.

"Not a bit. It's wonderful, the way you describe things. You ought to
write a book."

     "I sing but as the throstle sings,
     Amid the branches dwelling,"

replied his lordship negligently, and went on without further comment.

"The painter throttled him. He flung him back on the sand. He looked at
him, and his heart crowed within him. He stretched out his hand, and
found a broken bottle, with a good jagged edge. He went to work with a
will, stamping and tearing away every trace of the face he knew and
loathed. He blotted it out and destroyed it utterly.

"He sat beside the thing he had made. He began to be frightened. They
had staggered back beyond the edge of the water, and there were the
marks of his feet on the sand. He had blood on his face and on his
bathing-suit, and he had cut his hand with the bottle. But the blessed
sea was still coming in. He watched it pass over the bloodstains and the
footprints and wipe the story of his madness away. He remembered that
this man had gone from his place, leaving no address behind him. He went
back, step by step, into the water, and, as it came up to his breast, he
saw the red stains smoke away like a faint mist in the brown-blueness of
the tide. He went--wading and swimming and plunging his face and arms
deep in the water, looking back from time to time to see what he had
left behind him. I think that when he got back to the point and drew
himself out, clean and cool, upon the rocks, he remembered that he ought
to have taken the body back with him and let the tide carry it away, but
it was too late. He was clean, and he could not bear to go back for the
thing. Besides, he was late, and they would wonder at the hotel if he
was not back in time for breakfast. He ran lightly over the bare rocks
and the grass that showed no footprint. He dressed himself, taking care
to leave no trace of his presence. He took the car, which would have
told a story. He put his bicycle in the back seat, under the rugs, and
he went--but you know as well as I do where he went."

Lord Peter got up with an impatient movement, and went over to the
picture, rubbing his thumb meditatively over the texture of the
painting.

"You may say, if he hated the face so much, why didn't he destroy the
picture? He couldn't. It was the best thing he'd ever done. He took a
hundred guineas for it. It was cheap at a hundred guineas. But then--I
think he was afraid to refuse me. My name is rather well known. It was a
sort of blackmail, I suppose. But I wanted that picture."

Inspector Winterbottom laughed again.

"Did you take any steps, my lord, to find out if Crowder has really been
staying at East Felpham?"

"No." Wimsey swung round abruptly. "I have taken no steps at all. That's
your business. I have told you the story, and, on my soul, I'd rather
have stood by and said nothing."

"You needn't worry." The inspector laughed for the third time. "It's a
good story, my lord, and you told it well. But you're right when you say
it's a fairy story. We've found this Italian fellow--Franceso, he called
himself, and he's the man all right."

"How do you know? Has he confessed?"

"Practically. He's dead. Killed himself. He left a letter to the woman,
begging her forgiveness, and saying that when he saw her with Plant he
felt murder come into his heart. 'I have revenged myself,' he says, 'on
him who dared to love you.' I suppose he got the wind up when he saw we
were after him--I wish these newspapers wouldn't be always putting these
criminals on their guard--so he did away with himself to cheat the
gallows. I may say it's been a disappointment to me."

"It must have been," said Wimsey. "Very unsatisfactory, of course. But
I'm glad my story turned out to be only a fairy-tale after all. You're
not going?"

"Got to get back to my duty," said the inspector, heaving himself to his
feet. "Very pleased to have met you, my lord. And I mean what I say--you
ought to take to literature."

Wimsey remained after he had gone, still looking at the portrait.

"'What is Truth?' said jesting Pilate. No wonder, since it is so
completely unbelievable . . . I could prove it . . . if I liked . . .
but the man had a villainous face, and there are few good painters in
the world."




THE ADVENTUROUS EXPLOIT OF THE CAVE OF ALI BABA


In the front room of a grim and narrow house in Lambeth a man sat eating
kippers and glancing through the _Morning Post_. He was smallish and
spare, with brown hair rather too regularly waved and a strong, brown
beard, cut to a point. His double-breasted suit of navy-blue and his
socks, tie, and handkerchief, all scrupulously matched, were a trifle
more point-device than the best taste approves, and his boots were
slightly too bright a brown. He did not look a gentleman, not even a
gentleman's gentleman, yet there was something about his appearance
which suggested that he was accustomed to the manner of life in good
families. The breakfast-table, which he had set with his own hands, was
arrayed with the attention to detail which is exacted of good-class
servants. His action, as he walked over to a little side-table and
carved himself a plate of ham, was the action of a superior butler; yet
he was not old enough to be a retired butler; a footman, perhaps, who
had come into a legacy.

He finished the ham with good appetite, and, as he sipped his coffee,
read through attentively a paragraph which he had already noticed and
put aside for consideration.

     "LORD PETER WIMSEY'S WILL
     BEQUEST TO VALET
     £10,000 TO CHARITIES

     "The will of Lord Peter Wimsey, who was killed last December while
     shooting big game in Tanganyika, was proved yesterday at £500,000.
     A sum of £10,000 was left to various charities, including [here
     followed a list of bequests]. To his valet, Mervyn Bunter, was left
     an annuity of £500 and the lease of the testator's flat in
     Piccadilly. [Then followed a number of personal bequests.] The
     remainder of the estate, including the valuable collection of books
     and pictures at 110a Piccadilly, was left to the testator's mother,
     the Dowager Duchess of Denver.

       *       *       *       *       *

     "Lord Peter Wimsey was thirty-seven at the time of his death. He
     was the younger brother of the present Duke of Denver, who is the
     wealthiest peer in the United Kingdom. Lord Peter was distinguished
     as a criminologist and took an active part in the solution of
     several famous mysteries. He was a well-known book collector and
     man-about-town."

The man gave a sigh of relief.

"No doubt about that," he said aloud. "People don't give their money
away if they're going to come back again. The blighter's dead and buried
right enough. I'm free."

He finished his coffee, cleared the table, and washed up the crockery,
took his bowler hat from the hall-stand, and went out.

A bus took him to Bermondsey. He alighted, and plunged into a network of
gloomy streets, arriving after a quarter of an hour's walk at a
seedy-looking public-house in a low quarter. He entered and called for a
double whisky.

The house had only just opened, but a number of customers, who had
apparently been waiting on the doorstep for this desirable event, were
already clustered about the bar. The man who might have been a footman
reached for his glass, and in doing so jostled the elbow of a flash
person in a check suit and regrettable tie.

"Here!" expostulated the flash person, "what d'yer mean by it? We don't
want your sort here. Get out!"

He emphasised his remarks with a few highly coloured words, and a
violent push in the chest.

"Bar's free to everybody, isn't it?" said the other, returning the shove
with interest.

"Now then!" said the barmaid, "none o' that. The gentleman didn't do it
intentional, Mr. Jukes."

"Didn't he?" said Mr. Jukes. "Well, I _did_."

"And you ought to be ashamed of yourself," retorted the young lady, with
a toss of the head. "I'll have no quarrelling in my bar--not this time
in the morning."

"It was quite an accident," said the man from Lambeth. "I'm not one to
make a disturbance, having always been used to the best houses. But if
any gentleman _wants_ to make trouble----"

"All right, all right," said Mr. Jukes, more pacifically. "I'm not keen
to give you a new face. Not but what any alteration wouldn't be for the
better. Mind your manners another time, that's all. What'll you have?"

"No, no," protested the other, "this one must be on me. Sorry I pushed
you. I didn't mean it. But I didn't like to be taken up so short."

"Say no more about it," said Mr. Jukes generously. "I'm standing this.
Another double whisky, miss, and one of the usual. Come over here where
there isn't so much of a crowd, or you'll be getting yourself into
trouble again."

He led the way to a small table in the corner of the room.

"That's all right," said Mr. Jukes. "Very nicely done. I don't think
there's any danger here, but you can't be too careful. Now, what about
it, Rogers? Have you made up your mind to come in with us?"

"Yes," said Rogers, with a glance over his shoulder, "yes, I have. That
is, mind you, if everything seems all right. I'm not looking for
trouble, and I don't want to get let in for any dangerous games. I don't
mind giving you information, but it's understood as I take no active
part in whatever goes on. Is that straight?"

"You wouldn't be allowed to take an active part if you wanted to," said
Mr. Jukes. "Why, you poor fish, Number One wouldn't have anybody but
experts on his jobs. All you have to do is to let us know where the
stuff is and how to get it. The Society does the rest. It's some
organisation, I can tell you. You won't even know who's doing it, or
how it's done. You won't know anybody, and nobody will know you--except
Number One, of course. He knows everybody."

"And you," said Rogers.

"And me, of course. But I shall be transferred to another district. We
shan't meet again after to-day, except at the general meetings, and then
we shall all be masked."

"Go on!" said Rogers incredulously.

"Fact. You'll be taken to Number One--he'll see you, but you won't see
him. Then, if he thinks you're any good, you'll be put on the roll, and
after that you'll be told where to make your reports to. There is a
divisional meeting called once a fortnight, and every three months
there's a general meeting and share-out. Each member is called up by
number and has his whack handed over to him. That's all."

"Well, but suppose two members are put on the same job together?"

"If it's a daylight job, they'll be so disguised their mothers wouldn't
know 'em. But it's mostly night work."

"I see. But, look here--what's to prevent somebody following me home and
giving me away to the police?"

"Nothing, of course. Only I wouldn't advise him to try it, that's all.
The last man who had that bright idea was fished out of the river down
Rotherhithe way, before he had time to get his precious report in.
Number One knows everybody, you see."

"Oh!--and who is this Number One?"

"There's lots of people would give a good bit to know that."

"Does nobody know?"

"Nobody. He's a fair marvel, is Number One. He's a gentleman, I can tell
you that, and a pretty high-up one, from his ways. _And_ he's got eyes
all round his head. _And_ he's got an arm as long as from here to
Australia. _But_ nobody knows anything about him, unless it's Number
Two, and I'm not even sure about her."

"There are women in it, then?"

"You can bet your boots there are. You can't do a job without 'em
nowadays. But that needn't worry you. The women are safe enough. They
don't want to come to a sticky end, no more than you and me."

"But, look here, Jukes--how about the money? It's a big risk to take. Is
it worth it?"

"Worth it?" Jukes leant across the little marble-topped table and
whispered.

"Coo!" gasped Rogers. "And how much of that would I get, now?"

"You'd share and share alike with the rest, whether you'd been in that
particular job or not. There's fifty members, and you'd get
one-fiftieth, same as Number One and same as me."

"Really? No kidding?"

"See that wet, see that dry!" Jukes laughed. "Say, can you beat it?
There's never been anything like it. It's the biggest thing ever been
known. He's a great man, is Number One."

"And do you pull off many jobs?"

"Many? Listen. You remember the Carruthers necklace, and the Gorleston
Bank robbery? And the Faversham burglary? And the big Rubens that
disappeared from the National Gallery? And the Frensham pearls? All done
by the Society. And never one of them cleared up."

Rogers licked his lips.

"But now, look here," he said cautiously. "Supposing I was a spy, as you
might say, and supposing I was to go straight off and tell the police
about what you've been saying?"

"Ah!" said Jukes, "suppose you did, eh? Well, _supposing_ something
nasty didn't happen to you on the way there--which I wouldn't answer
for, mind----"

"Do you mean to say you've got me watched?"

"You can bet your sweet life we have. Yes. Well, supposing nothing
happened on the way there, and you was to bring the slops to this pub,
looking for yours truly----"

"Yes?"

"You wouldn't find me, that's all. I should have gone to Number Five."

"Who's Number Five?"

"Ah! I don't know. But he's the man that makes you a new face while you
wait. Plastic surgery, they call it. And new finger-prints. New
everything. We go in for up-to-date methods in our show."

Rogers whistled.

"Well, how about it?" asked Jukes, eyeing his acquaintance over the rim
of his tumbler.

"Look here--you've told me a lot of things. Shall I be safe if I say
'no'?"

"Oh, yes--if you behave yourself and don't make trouble for us."

"H'm, I see. And if I say 'yes'?"

"Then you'll be a rich man in less than no time, with money in your
pocket to live like a gentleman. And nothing to do for it, except to
tell us what you know about the houses you've been to when you were in
service. It's money for jam if you act straight by the Society."

Rogers was silent, thinking it over.

"I'll do it!" he said at last.

"Good for you. Miss! The same again, please. Here's to it, Rogers! I
knew you were one of the right sort the minute I set eyes on you. Here's
to money for jam, and take care of Number One! Talking of Number One,
you'd better come round and see him to-night. No time like the present."

"Right you are. Where'll I come to? Here?"

"Nix. No more of this little pub for us. It's a pity because it's nice
and comfortable, but it can't be helped. Now, what you've got to do is
this. At ten o'clock to-night exactly, you walk north across Lambeth
Bridge." (Rogers winced at this intimation that his abode was known),
"and you'll see a yellow taxi standing there, with the driver doing
something to his engine. You'll say to him, 'Is your bus fit to go?' and
he'll say, 'Depends where you want to go to.' And you'll say, 'Take me
to Number One, London.' There's a shop called that, by the way, but he
won't take you there. You won't know where he _is_ taking you, because
the taxi-windows will be covered up, but you mustn't mind that. It's the
rule for the first visit. Afterwards, when you're regularly one of us,
you'll be told the name of the place. And when you get there, do as
you're told and speak the truth, because, if you don't, Number One will
deal with you. See?"

"I see."

"Are you game? You're not afraid?"

"Of course I'm not afraid."

"Good man! Well, we'd better be moving now. And I'll say good-bye,
because we shan't see each other again. Good-bye--and good luck!"

"Good-bye."

They passed through the swing-doors, and out into the mean and dirty
street.

       *       *       *       *       *

The two years subsequent to the enrolment of the ex-footman Rogers in a
crook society were marked by a number of startling and successful raids
on the houses of distinguished people. There was the theft of the great
diamond tiara from the Dowager Duchess of Denver; the burglary at the
flat formerly occupied by the late Lord Peter Wimsey, resulting in the
disappearance of £7,000 worth of silver and gold plate; the burglary at
the country mansion of Theodore Winthrop, the millionaire--which,
incidentally, exposed that thriving gentleman as a confirmed Society
blackmailer and caused a reverberating scandal in Mayfair; and the
snatching of the famous eight-string necklace of pearls from the
Marchioness of Dinglewood during the singing of the Jewel Song in
_Faust_ at Covent Garden. It is true that the pearls turned out to be
imitation, the original string having been pawned by the noble lady
under circumstances highly painful to the Marquis, but the coup was
nevertheless a sensational one.

On a Saturday afternoon in January, Rogers was sitting in his room in
Lambeth, when a slight noise at the front door caught his ear. He sprang
up almost before it had ceased, dashed through the small hallway, and
flung the door open. The street was deserted. Nevertheless, as he turned
back to the sitting-room, he saw an envelope lying on the hat-stand. It
was addressed briefly to "Number Twenty-one." Accustomed by this time to
the somewhat dramatic methods used by the Society to deliver its
correspondence, he merely shrugged his shoulders, and opened the note.

It was written in cipher, and, when transcribed, ran thus:

     "Number Twenty-one,--An Extraordinary General Meeting will be held
     to-night at the house of Number One at 11.30. You will be absent,
     at your peril. The word is FINALITY."

Rogers stood for a little time considering this. Then he made his way to
a room at the back of the house, in which there was a tall safe, built
into the wall. He manipulated the combination and walked into the safe,
which ran back for some distance, forming, indeed, a small strong-room.
He pulled out a drawer marked "Correspondence," and added the paper he
had just received to the contents.

After a few moments he emerged, re-set the lock to a new combination,
and returned to the sitting-room.

"Finality," he said. "Yes--I think so." He stretched out his hand to the
telephone--then appeared to alter his mind.

He went upstairs to an attic, and thence climbed into a loft close under
the roof. Crawling among the rafters, he made his way into the farthest
corner; then carefully pressed a knot on the timber-work. A concealed
trap-door swung open. He crept through it, and found himself in the
corresponding loft of the next house. A soft cooing noise greeted him as
he entered. Under the skylight stood three cages, each containing a
carrier pigeon.

He glanced cautiously out of the skylight, which looked out upon a high
blank wall at the back of some factory or other. There was nobody in the
dim little courtyard, and no window within sight. He drew his head in
again, and, taking a small fragment of thin paper from his pocket-book,
wrote a few letters and numbers upon it. Going to the nearest cage, he
took out the pigeon and attached the message to its wing. Then he
carefully set the bird on the window-ledge. It hesitated a moment,
shifted its pink feet a few times, lifted its wings, and was gone. He
saw it tower up into the already darkening sky over the factory roof and
vanish into the distance.

He glanced at his watch and returned downstairs. An hour later he
released the second pigeon, and in another hour the third. Then he sat
down to wait.

At half-past nine he went up to the attic again. It was dark, but a few
frosty stars were shining, and a cold air blew through the open window.
Something pale gleamed faintly on the floor. He picked it up--it was
warm and feathery. The answer had come.

He ruffled the soft plumes and found the paper. Before reading it, he
fed the pigeon and put it into one of the cages. As he was about to
fasten the door, he checked himself.

"If anything happens to me," he said, "there's no need for you to starve
to death, my child."

He pushed the window a little wider open and went downstairs again. The
paper in his hand bore only the two letters, "O.K." It seemed to have
been written hurriedly, for there was a long smear of ink in the upper
left-hand corner. He noted this with a smile, put the paper in the fire,
and, going out into the kitchen, prepared and ate a hearty meal of eggs
and corned beef from a new tin. He ate it without bread, though there
was a loaf on the shelf near at hand, and washed it down with water from
the tap, which he let run for some time before venturing to drink it.
Even then he carefully wiped the tap, both inside and outside, before
drinking.

When he had finished, he took a revolver from a locked drawer,
inspecting the mechanism with attention to see that it was in working
order, and loaded it with new cartridges from an unbroken packet. Then
he sat down to wait again.

At a quarter before eleven, he rose and went out into the street. He
walked briskly, keeping well away from the wall, till he came out into a
well-lighted thoroughfare. Here he took a bus, securing the corner seat
next the conductor, from which he could see everybody who got on and
off. A succession of buses eventually brought him to a respectable
residential quarter of Hampstead. Here he alighted and, still keeping
well away from the walls, made his way up to the Heath.

The night was moonless, but not altogether black, and, as he crossed a
deserted part of the Heath, he observed one or two other dark forms
closing in upon him from various directions. He paused in the shelter of
a large tree, and adjusted to his face a black velvet mask, which
covered him from brow to chin. At its base the number 21 was clearly
embroidered in white thread.

At length a slight dip in the ground disclosed one of those agreeable
villas which stand, somewhat isolated, among the rural surroundings of
the Heath. One of the windows was lighted. As he made his way to the
door, other dark figures, masked like himself, pressed forward and
surrounded him. He counted six of them.

The foremost man knocked on the door of the solitary house. After a
moment, it was opened slightly. The man advanced his head to the
opening; there was a murmur, and the door opened wide. The man stepped
in, and the door was shut.

When three of the men had entered, Rogers found himself to be the next
in turn. He knocked, three times loudly, then twice faintly. The door
opened to the extent of two or three inches, and an ear was presented to
the chink. Rogers whispered "Finality." The ear was withdrawn, the door
opened, and he passed in.

Without any further word of greeting, Number Twenty-one passed into a
small room on the left, which was furnished like an office, with a desk,
a safe, and a couple of chairs. At the desk sat a massive man in evening
dress, with a ledger before him. The new arrival shut the door carefully
after him; it clicked to, on a spring lock. Advancing to the desk, he
announced, "Number Twenty-one, sir," and stood respectfully waiting. The
big man looked up, showing the number 1 startlingly white on his velvet
mask. His eyes, of a curious hard blue, scanned Rogers attentively. At a
sign from him, Rogers removed his mask. Having verified his identity
with care, the President said, "Very well, Number Twenty-one," and made
an entry in the ledger. The voice was hard and metallic, like his eyes.
The close scrutiny from behind the immovable black mask seemed to make
Rogers uneasy; he shifted his feet, and his eyes fell. Number One made a
sign of dismissal, and Rogers, with a faint sigh as though of relief,
replaced his mask and left the room. As he came out, the next comer
passed in in his place.

The room in which the Society met was a large one, made by knocking the
two largest of the first-floor rooms into one. It was furnished in the
standardised taste of twentieth-century suburbia and brilliantly
lighted. A gramophone in one corner blared out a jazz tune, to which
about ten couples of masked men and women were dancing, some in evening
dress and others in tweeds and jumpers.

In one corner of the room was an American bar. Rogers went up and asked
the masked man in charge for a double whisky. He consumed it slowly,
leaning on the bar. The room filled. Presently somebody moved across to
the gramophone and stopped it. He looked round. Number One had appeared
on the threshold. A tall woman in black stood beside him. The mask,
embroidered with a white 2, covered hair and face completely; only her
fine bearing and her white arms and bosom and the dark eyes shining
through the eye-slits proclaimed her a woman of power and physical
attraction.

"Ladies and gentlemen." Number One was standing at the upper end of the
room. The woman sat beside him; her eyes were cast down and betrayed
nothing, but her hands were clenched on the arms of the chair and her
whole figure seemed tensely aware.

"Ladies and gentlemen. Our numbers are two short to-night." The masks
moved; eyes were turned, seeking and counting. "I need not inform you of
the disastrous failure of our plan for securing the plans of the
Court-Windlesham helicopter. Our courageous and devoted comrades, Number
Fifteen and Number Forty-eight, were betrayed and taken by the police."

An uneasy murmur rose among the company.

"It may have occurred to some of you that even the well-known
steadfastness of these comrades might give way under examination. There
is no cause for alarm. The usual orders have been issued, and I have
this evening received the report that their tongues have been
effectually silenced. You will, I am sure, be glad to know that these
two brave men have been spared the ordeal of so great a temptation to
dishonour, and that they will not be called upon to face a public trial
and the rigours of a long imprisonment."

A hiss of intaken breath moved across the assembled members like the
wind over a barley-field.

"Their dependants will be discreetly compensated in the usual manner. I
call upon Numbers Twelve and Thirty-four to undertake this agreeable
task. They will attend me in my office for their instructions after the
meeting. Will the Numbers I have named kindly signify that they are able
and willing to perform this duty?"

Two hands were raised in salute. The President continued, looking at his
watch:

"Ladies and gentlemen, please take your partners for the next dance."

The gramophone struck up again. Rogers turned to a girl near him in a
red dress. She nodded, and they slipped into the movement of a fox-trot.
The couples gyrated solemnly and in silence. Their shadows were flung
against the blinds as they turned and stepped to and fro.

"What has happened?" breathed the girl in a whisper, scarcely moving her
lips. "I'm frightened, aren't you? I feel as if something awful was
going to happen."

"It does take one a bit short, the President's way of doing things,"
agreed Rogers, "but it's safer like that."

"Those poor men----"

A dancer, turning and following on their heels, touched Rogers on the
shoulder.

"No talking, please," he said. His eyes gleamed sternly; he twirled his
partner into the middle of the crowd and was gone. The girl shuddered.

The gramophone stopped. There was a burst of clapping. The dancers again
clustered before the President's seat.

"Ladies and gentlemen. You may wonder why this extraordinary meeting has
been called. The reason is a serious one. The failure of our recent
attempt was no accident. The police were not on the premises that night
by chance. We have a traitor among us."

Partners who had been standing close together fell distrustfully apart.
Each member seemed to shrink, as a snail shrinks from the touch of a
finger.

"You will remember the disappointing outcome of the Dinglewood affair,"
went on the President, in his harsh voice. "You may recall other smaller
matters which have not turned out satisfactorily. All these troubles
have been traced to their origin. I am happy to say that our minds can
now be easy. The offender has been discovered and will be removed. There
will be no more mistakes. The misguided member who introduced the
traitor to our Society will be placed in a position where his lack of
caution will have no further ill-effects. There is no cause for alarm."

Every eye roved about the company, searching for the traitor and his
unfortunate sponsor. Somewhere beneath the black masks a face must have
turned white; somewhere under the stifling velvet there must have been a
brow sweating, not with the heat of the dance. But the masks hid
everything.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please take your partners for the next dance."

The gramophone struck into an old and half-forgotten tune: "There ain't
nobody loves me." The girl in red was claimed by a tall mask in evening
dress. A hand laid on Roger's arm made him start. A small, plump woman
in a green jumper slipped a cold hand into his. The dance went on.

When it stopped, amid the usual applause, everyone stood, detached,
stiffened in expectation. The President's voice was raised again.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please behave naturally. This is a dance, not a
public meeting."

Rogers led his partner to a chair and fetched her an ice. As he stooped
over her, he noticed the hurried rise and fall of her bosom.

"Ladies and gentlemen." The endless interval was over. "You will no
doubt wish to be immediately relieved from suspense. I will name the
persons involved. Number Thirty-seven!"

A man sprang up with a fearful, strangled cry.

"Silence!"

The wretch choked and gasped.

"I never--I swear I never--I'm innocent."

"Silence. You have failed in discretion. You will be dealt with. If you
have anything to say in defence of your folly, I will hear it later. Sit
down."

Number Thirty-seven sank down upon a chair. He pushed his handkerchief
under the mask to wipe his face. Two tall men closed in upon him. The
rest fell back, feeling the recoil of humanity from one stricken by
mortal disease.

The gramophone struck up.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I will now name the traitor. Number Twenty-one,
stand forward."

Rogers stepped forward. The concentrated fear and loathing of
forty-eight pairs of eyes burned upon him. The miserable Jukes set up a
fresh wail.

"Oh, my God! Oh, my God!"

"Silence! Number Twenty-one, take off your mask."

The traitor pulled the thick covering from his face. The intense hatred
of the eyes devoured him.

"Number Thirty-seven, this man was introduced here by you, under the
name of Joseph Rogers, formerly second footman in the service of the
Duke of Denver, dismissed for pilfering. Did you take steps to verify
that statement?"

"I did--I did! As God's my witness, it was all straight. I had him
identified by two of the servants. I made enquiries. The tale was
straight--I'll swear it was."

The President consulted a paper before him, then he looked at his watch
again.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please take your partners . . ."

Number Twenty-one, his arms twisted behind him and bound, and his wrists
handcuffed, stood motionless, while the dance of doom circled about him.
The clapping, as it ended, sounded like the clapping of the men and
women who sat, thirsty-lipped, beneath the guillotine.

"Number Twenty-one, your name has been given as Joseph Rogers, footman,
dismissed for theft. Is that your real name?"

"No."

"What is your name?"

"Peter Death Bredon Wimsey."

"We thought you were dead."

"Naturally. You were intended to think so."

"What has become of the genuine Joseph Rogers?"

"He died abroad. I took his place. I may say that no real blame attaches
to your people for not having realised who I was. I not only took
Roger's place; I _was_ Rogers. Even when I was alone, I walked like
Rogers, I sat like Rogers, I read Rogers's books, and wore Rogers's
clothes. In the end, I almost thought Rogers's thoughts. The only way to
keep up a successful impersonation is never to relax."

"I see. The robbery of your own flat was arranged?"

"Obviously."

"The robbery of the Dowager Duchess, your mother, was connived at by
you?"

"It was. It was a very ugly tiara--no real loss to anybody with decent
taste. May I smoke, by the way?"

"You may not. Ladies and gentlemen . . ."

The dance was like the mechanical jigging of puppets. Limbs jerked, feet
faltered. The prisoner watched with an air of critical detachment.

"Numbers Fifteen, Twenty-two and Forty-nine. You have watched the
prisoner. Has he made any attempts to communicate with anybody?"

"None." Number Twenty-two was the spokesman. "His letters and parcels
have been opened, his telephone tapped, and his movements followed. His
water-pipes have been under observation for Morse signals."

"You are sure of what you say?"

"Absolutely."

"Prisoner, have you been alone in this adventure? Speak the truth, or
things will be made somewhat more unpleasant for you than they might
otherwise be."

"I have been alone. I have taken no unnecessary risks."

"It may be so. It will, however, be as well that steps should be taken
to silence the man at Scotland Yard--what is his name?--Parker. Also the
prisoner's manservant, Mervyn Bunter, and possibly also his mother and
sister. The brother is a stupid oaf, and not, I think, likely to have
been taken into the prisoner's confidence. A precautionary watch will, I
think, meet the necessities of his case."

The prisoner appeared, for the first time, to be moved.

"Sir, I assure you that my mother and sister know nothing which could
possibly bring danger on the Society."

"You should have thought of their situation earlier. Ladies and
gentlemen, please take----"

"No--no!" Flesh and blood could endure the mockery no longer. "No!
Finish with him. Get it over. Break up the meeting. It's dangerous. The
police----"

"Silence!"

The President glanced round at the crowd. It had a dangerous look about
it. He gave way.

"Very well. Take the prisoner away and silence him. He will receive
Number 4 treatment. And be sure you explain it to him carefully first."

"Ah!"

The eyes expressed a wolfish satisfaction. Strong hands gripped Wimsey's
arms.

"One moment--for God's sake let me die decently."

"You should have thought this over earlier. Take him away. Ladies and
gentlemen, be satisfied--he will not die quickly."

"Stop! Wait!" cried Wimsey desperately. "I have something to say. I
don't ask for life--only for a quick death. I--I have something to
sell."

"To sell?"

"Yes."

"We make no bargains with traitors."

"No--but listen! Do you think I have not thought of this? I am not so
mad. I have left a letter."

"Ah! now it is coming. A letter. To whom?"

"To the police. If I do not return to-morrow----"

"Well?"

"The letter will be opened."

"Sir," broke in Number Fifteen. "This is bluff. The prisoner has not
sent any letter. He has been strictly watched for many months."

"Ah! but listen. I left the letter before I came to Lambeth."

"Then it can contain no information of value."

"Oh, but it does."

"What?"

"The combination of my safe."

"Indeed? Has this man's safe been searched?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did it contain?"

"No information of importance, sir. An outline of our organisation--the
name of this house--nothing that cannot be altered and covered before
morning."

Wimsey smiled.

"Did you investigate the inner compartment of the safe?"

There was a pause.

"You hear what he says," snapped the President sharply. "Did you find
this inner compartment?"

"There was no inner compartment, sir. He is trying to bluff."

"I hate to contradict you," said Wimsey, with an effort at his ordinary
pleasant tone, "but I really think you must have overlooked the inner
compartment."

"Well," said the President, "and what do you say is in this inner
compartment, if it does exist?"

"The names of every member of this Society, with their addresses,
photographs, and finger-prints."

"What?"

The eyes round him now were ugly with fear. Wimsey kept his face
steadily turned towards the President.

"How do you say you have contrived to get this information?"

"Well, I have been doing a little detective work on my own, you know."

"But you have been watched."

"True. The finger-prints of my watchers adorn the first page of the
collection."

"This statement can be proved?"

"Certainly. I will prove it. The name of Number Fifty, for example----"

"Stop!"

A fierce muttering arose. The President silenced it with a gesture.

"If you mention names here, you will certainly have no hope of mercy.
There is a fifth treatment--kept specially for people who mention names.
Bring the prisoner to my office. Keep the dance going."

The President took an automatic from his hip-pocket and faced his
tightly fettered prisoner across the desk.

"Now speak!" he said.

"I should put that thing away, if I were you," said Wimsey
contemptuously. "It would be a much pleasanter form of death than
treatment Number 5, and I might be tempted to ask for it."

"Ingenious," said the President, "but a little too ingenious. Now, be
quick; tell me what you know."

"Will you spare me if I tell you?"

"I make no promises. Be quick."

Wimsey shrugged his bound and aching shoulders.

"Certainly. I will tell you what I know. Stop me when you have heard
enough."

He leaned forward and spoke low. Overhead the noise of the gramophone
and the shuffling of feet bore witness that the dance was going on.
Stray passers-by crossing the Heath noted that the people in the lonely
house were making a night of it again.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Well," said Wimsey, "am I to go on?"

From beneath the mask the President's voice sounded as though he were
grimly smiling.

"My lord," he said, "your story fills me with regret that you are not,
in fact, a member of our Society. Wit, courage, and industry are
valuable to an association like ours. I fear I cannot persuade you?
No--I supposed not."

He touched a bell on his desk.

"Ask the members kindly to proceed to the supper-room," he said to the
mask who entered.

The "supper-room" was on the ground-floor, shuttered and curtained. Down
its centre ran a long, bare table, with chairs set about it.

"A Barmecide feast, I see," said Wimsey pleasantly. It was the first
time he had seen this room. At the far end, a trap-door in the floor
gaped ominously.

The President took the head of the table.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, as usual--and the foolish courtesy had
never sounded so sinister--"I will not conceal from you the seriousness
of the situation. The prisoner has recited to me more than twenty names
and addresses which were thought to be unknown, except to their owners
and to me. There has been great carelessness"--his voice rang
harshly--"which will have to be looked into. Finger-prints have been
obtained--he has shown me the photographs of some of them. How our
investigators came to overlook the inner door of this safe is a matter
which calls for enquiry."

"Don't blame them," put in Wimsey. "It was meant to be overlooked, you
know. I made it like that on purpose."

The President went on, without seeming to notice the interruption.

"The prisoner informs me that the book with the names and addresses is
to be found in this inner compartment, together with certain letters and
papers stolen from the houses of members, and numerous objects bearing
authentic finger-prints. I believe him to be telling the truth. He
offers the combination of the safe in exchange for a quick death. I
think the offer should be accepted. What is your opinion, ladies and
gentlemen?"

"The combination is known already," said Number Twenty-two.

"Imbecile! This man has told us, and has proved to me, that he is Lord
Peter Wimsey. Do you think he will have forgotten to alter the
combination? And then there is the secret of the inner door. If he
disappears to-night and the police enter his house----"

"I say," said a woman's rich voice, "that the promise should be given
and the information used--and quickly. Time is getting short."

A murmur of agreement went round the table.

"You hear," said the President, addressing Wimsey. "The Society offers
you the privilege of a quick death in return for the combination of the
safe and the secret of the inner door."

"I have your word for it?"

"You have."

"Thank you. And my mother and sister?"

"If you in your turn will give us your word--you are a man of
honour--that these women know nothing that could harm us, they shall be
spared."

"Thank you, sir. You may rest assured, upon my honour, that they know
nothing. I should not think of burdening any woman with such dangerous
secrets--particularly those who are dear to me."

"Very well. It is agreed--yes?"

The murmur of assent was given, though with less readiness than before.

"Then I am willing to give you the information you want. The word of the
combination is UNRELIABILITY."

"And the inner door?"

"In anticipation of the visit of the police, the inner door--which might
have presented difficulties--is open."

"Good! You understand that if the police interfere with our
messenger----"

"That would not help me, would it?"

"It is a risk," said the President thoughtfully, "but a risk which I
think we must take. Carry the prisoner down to the cellar. He can amuse
himself by contemplating apparatus Number 5. In the meantime, Numbers
Twelve and Forty-six----"

"No, no!"

A sullen mutter of dissent arose and swelled threateningly.

"No," said a tall man with a voice like treacle. "No--why should any
members be put in possession of this evidence? We have found one traitor
among us to-night and more than one fool. How are we to know that
Numbers Twelve and Forty-six are not fools and traitors also?"

The two men turned savagely upon the speaker, but a girl's voice struck
into the discussion, high and agitated.

"Hear, hear! That's right, I say. How about us? We ain't going to have
our names read by somebody we don't know nothing about. I've had enough
of this. They might sell the 'ole lot of us to the narks."

"I agree," said another member. "Nobody ought to be trusted, nobody at
all."

The President shrugged his shoulders.

"Then what, ladies and gentlemen, do you suggest?"

There was a pause. Then the same girl shrilled out again:

"I say Mr. President oughter go himself. He's the only one as knows all
the names. It won't be no cop to him. Why should we take all the risk
and trouble and him sit at home and collar the money? Let him go
himself, that's what I say."

A long rustle of approbation went round the table.

"I second that motion," said a stout man who wore a bunch of gold seals
at his fob. Wimsey smiled as he looked at the seals; it was that
trifling vanity which had led him directly to the name and address of
the stout man, and he felt a certain affection for the trinkets on that
account.

The President looked round.

"It is the wish of the meeting, then, that I should go?" he said, in an
ominous voice.

Forty-five hands were raised in approbation. Only the woman known as
Number Two remained motionless and silent, her strong white hands
clenched on the arm of the chair.

The President rolled his eyes slowly round the threatening ring till
they rested upon her.

"Am I to take it that this vote is unanimous?" he enquired.

The woman raised her head.

"Don't go," she gasped faintly.

"You hear," said the President, in a faintly derisive tone. "This lady
says, don't go."

"I submit that what Number Two says is neither here nor there," said the
man with the treacly voice. "Our own ladies might not like us to be
going, if they were in madam's privileged position." His voice was an
insult.

"Hear, hear!" cried another man. "This is a democratic society, this is.
We don't want no privileged classes."

"Very well," said the President. "You hear, Number Two. The feeling of
the meeting is against you. Have you any reasons to put forward in
favour of your opinion?"

"A hundred. The President is the head and soul of our Society. If
anything should happen to him--where should we be? You"--she swept the
company magnificently with her eyes--"you have all blundered. We have
your carelessness to thank for all this. Do you think we should be safe
for five minutes if the President were not here to repair your follies?"

"Something in that," said a man who had not hitherto spoken.

"Pardon my suggesting," said Wimsey maliciously, "that, as the lady
appears to be in a position peculiarly favourable for the reception of
the President's confidences, the contents of my modest volume will
probably be no news to her. Why should not Number Two go herself?"

"Because I say she must not," said the President sternly, checking the
quick reply that rose to his companion's lips. "If it is the will of the
meeting, I will go. Give me the key of the house."

One of the men extracted it from Wimsey's jacket-pocket and handed it
over.

"Is the house watched?" he demanded of Wimsey.

"No."

"That is the truth?"

"It is the truth."

The President turned at the door.

"If I have not returned in two hours' time," he said, "act for the best
to save yourselves, and do what you like with the prisoner. Number Two
will give orders in my absence."

He left the room. Number Two rose from her seat with a gesture of
command.

"Ladies and gentlemen. Supper is now considered over. Start the dancing
again."

       *       *       *       *       *

Down in the cellar the time passed slowly, in the contemplation of
apparatus Number 5. The miserable Jukes, alternately wailing and raving,
at length shrieked himself into exhaustion. The four members guarding
the prisoners whispered together from time to time.

"An hour and a half since the President left," said one.

Wimsey glanced up. Then he returned to his examination of the room.
There were many curious things in it, which he wanted to memorise.

Presently the trap-door was flung open. "Bring him up!" cried a voice.
Wimsey rose immediately, and his face was rather pale.

The members of the gang were again seated round the table. Number Two
occupied the President's chair, and her eyes fastened on Wimsey's face
with a tigerish fury, but when she spoke it was with a self-control
which roused his admiration.

"The President has been two hours gone," she said. "What has happened to
him? Traitor twice over--what has happened to him?"

"How should I know?" said Wimsey. "Perhaps he has looked after Number
One and gone while the going was good!"

She sprang up with a little cry of rage, and came close to him.

"Beast! liar!" she said, and struck him on the mouth. "You know he would
never do that. He is faithful to his friends. What have you done with
him? Speak--or I will make you speak. You two, there--bring the irons.
He _shall_ speak!"

"I can only form a guess, madame," replied Wimsey, "and I shall not
guess any the better for being stimulated with hot irons, like Pantaloon
at the circus. Calm yourself, and I will tell you what I think. I
think--indeed, I greatly fear--that Monsieur le Président in his hurry
to examine the interesting exhibits in my safe may, quite inadvertently,
no doubt, have let the door of the inner compartment close behind him.
In which case----"

He raised his eyebrows, his shoulders being too sore for shrugging, and
gazed at her with a limpid and innocent regret.

"What do you mean?"

Wimsey glanced round the circle.

"I think," he said, "I had better begin from the beginning by explaining
to you the mechanism of my safe. It is rather a nice safe," he added
plaintively. "I invented the idea myself--not the principle of its
working, of course; that is a matter for scientists--but just the idea
of the thing.

"The combination I gave you is perfectly correct as far as it goes. It
is a three-alphabet thirteen-letter lock by Bunn & Fishett--a very good
one of its kind. It opens the outer door, leading into the ordinary
strong-room, where I keep my cash and my Froth Blower's cuff-links and
all that. But there is an inner compartment with two doors, which open
in quite a different manner. The outermost of these two inner doors is
merely a thin steel skin, painted to look like the back of the safe and
fitting closely, so as not to betray any join. It lies in the same plane
as the wall of the room, you understand, so that if you were to measure
the outside and the inside of the safe you would discover no
discrepancy. It opens outwards with an ordinary key, and, as I truly
assured the President, it was left open when I quitted my flat."

"Do you think," said the woman sneeringly, "that the President is so
simple as to be caught in a so obvious trap? He will have wedged open
that inner door undoubtedly."

"Undoubtedly, madame. But the sole purpose of that outer inner door, if
I may so express myself, is to appear to be the only inner door. But
hidden behind the hinge of that door is another door, a sliding panel,
set so closely in the thickness of the wall that you would hardly see it
unless you knew it was there. This door was also left open. Our revered
Number One had nothing to do but to walk straight through into the inner
compartment of the safe, which, by the way, is built into the chimney of
the old basement kitchen, which runs up the house at that point. I hope
I make myself clear?"

"Yes, yes--get on. Make your story short."

Wimsey bowed, and, speaking with even greater deliberation than ever,
resumed:

"Now, this interesting list of the Society's activities, which I have
had the honour of compiling, is written in a very large book--bigger,
even, than Monsieur le Président's ledger which he uses downstairs. (I
trust, by the way, madame, that you have borne in mind the necessity of
putting that ledger in a safe place. Apart from the risk of
investigation by some officious policeman, it would be inadvisable that
any junior member of the Society should get hold of it. The feeling of
the meeting would, I fancy, be opposed to such an occurrence.)"

"It is secure," she answered hastily. "_Mon dieu!_ get on with your
story."

"Thank you--you have relieved my mind. Very good. This big book lies on
a steel shelf at the back of the inner compartment. Just a moment. I
have not described this inner compartment to you. It is six feet high,
three feet wide, and three feet deep. One can stand up in it quite
comfortably, unless one is very tall. It suits me nicely--as you may
see, I am not more than five feet eight and a half. The President has
the advantage of me in height; he might be a little cramped, but there
would be room for him to squat if he grew tired of standing. By the way,
I don't know if you know it, but you have tied me up rather tightly."

"I would have you tied till your bones were locked together. Beat him,
you! He is trying to gain time."

"If you beat me," said Wimsey, "I'm damned if I'll speak at all. Control
yourself, madame; it does not do to move hastily when your king is in
check."

"Get on!" she cried again, stamping with rage.

"Where was I? Ah! the inner compartment. As I say, it is a little
snug--the more so that it is not ventilated in any way. Did I mention
that the book lay on a steel shelf?"

"You did."

"Yes. The steel shelf is balanced on a very delicate concealed spring.
When the weight of the book--a heavy one, as I said--is lifted, the
shelf rises almost imperceptibly. In rising it makes an electrical
contact. Imagine to yourself, madame; our revered President steps
in--propping the false door open behind him--he sees the book--quickly
he snatches it up. To make sure that it is the right one, he opens
it--he studies the pages. He looks about for the other objects I have
mentioned, which bear the marks of finger-prints. And silently, but
very, very quickly--you can imagine it, can you not?--the secret panel,
released by the rising of the shelf, leaps across like a panther behind
him. Rather a trite simile, but apt, don't you think?"

"My God! oh, my God!" Her hand went up as though to tear the choking
mask from her face. "You--you devil--devil! What is the word that opens
the inner door? Quick! I will have it torn out of you--the word!"

"It is not a hard word to remember, madame--though it has been forgotten
before now. Do you recollect, when you were a child, being told the tale
of 'Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves'? When I had that door made, my mind
reverted, with rather a pretty touch of sentimentality, in my opinion,
to the happy hours of my childhood. The words that open the door
are--'Open Sesame'."

"Ah! How long can a man live in this devil's trap of yours?"

"Oh," said Wimsey cheerfully, "I should think he might hold out a few
hours if he kept cool and didn't use up the available oxygen by shouting
and hammering. If we went there at once, I dare say we should find him
fairly all right."

"I shall go myself. Take this man and--do your worst with him. Don't
finish him till I come back. I want to see him die!"

"One moment," said Wimsey, unmoved by this amiable wish. "I think you
had better take me with you."

"Why--why?"

"Because, you see, I'm the only person who can open the door."

"But you have given me the word. Was that a lie?"

"No--the word's all right. But, you see, it's one of these new-style
electric doors. In fact, it's really the very latest thing in doors. I'm
rather proud of it. It opens to the words 'Open Sesame' all right--_but
to my voice only_."

"Your voice? I will choke your voice with my own hands. What do you
mean--your voice only?"

"Just what I say. Don't clutch my throat like that, or you may alter my
voice so that the door won't recognise it. That's better. It's apt to be
rather pernickety about voices. It got stuck up for a week once, when I
had a cold and could only implore it in a hoarse whisper. Even in the
ordinary way, I sometimes have to try several times before I hit on the
exact right intonation."

She turned and appealed to a short, thick-set man standing beside her.

"Is this true? Is it possible?"

"Perfectly, ma'am, I'm afraid," said the man civilly. From his voice
Wimsey took him to be a superior workman of some kind--probably an
engineer.

"Is it an electrical device? Do you understand it?"

"Yes, ma'am. It will have a microphone arrangement somewhere, which
converts the sound into a series of vibrations controlling an electric
needle. When the needle has traced the correct pattern, the circuit is
completed and the door opens. The same thing can be done by light
vibrations equally easily."

"Couldn't you open it with tools?"

"In time, yes, ma'am. But only by smashing the mechanism, which is
probably well protected."

"You may take that for granted," interjected Wimsey reassuringly.

She put her hands to her head.

"I'm afraid we're done in," said the engineer, with a kind of respect in
his tone for a good job of work.

"No--wait! Somebody must know--the workmen who made this thing?"

"In Germany," said Wimsey briefly.

"Or--yes, yes, I have it--a gramophone. This--this--_he_--shall be made
to say the word for us. Quick--how can it be done?"

"Not possible, ma'am. Where should we get the apparatus at half-past
three on a Sunday morning? The poor gentleman would be dead long
before----"

There was a silence, during which the sounds of the wakening day came
through the shuttered windows. A motor-horn sounded distantly.

"I give in," she said. "We must let him go. Take the ropes off him. You
will free him, won't you?" she went on, turning piteously to Wimsey.
"Devil as you are, you are not such a devil as that! You will go
straight back and save him!"

"Let him go, nothing!" broke in one of the men. "He doesn't go to peach
to the police, my lady, don't you think it. The President's done in,
that's all, and we'd all better make tracks while we can. It's all up,
boys. Chuck this fellow down the cellar and fasten him in, so he can't
make a row and wake the place up. I'm going to destroy the ledgers. You
can see it done if you don't trust me. And you, Thirty, you know where
the switch is. Give us a quarter of an hour to clear, and then you can
blow the place to glory."

"No! You can't go--you can't leave him to die--your President--your
leader--my--I won't let it happen. Set this devil free. Help me, one of
you, with the ropes----"

"None of that, now," said the man who had spoken before. He caught her
by the wrists, and she twisted, shrieking, in his arms, biting and
struggling to get free.

"Think, think," said the man with the treacly voice. "It's getting on to
morning. It'll be light in an hour or two. The police may be here any
minute."

"The police!" She seemed to control herself by a violent effort. "Yes,
yes, you are right. We must not imperil the safety of all for the sake
of one man. _He_ himself would not wish it. That is so. We will put this
carrion in the cellar where it cannot harm us, and depart, every one to
his own place, while there is time."

"And the other prisoner?"

"He? Poor fool--he can do no harm. He knows nothing. Let him go," she
answered contemptuously.

In a few minutes' time Wimsey found himself bundled unceremoniously into
the depths of the cellar. He was a little puzzled. That they should
refuse to let him go, even at the price of Number One's life, he could
understand. He had taken the risk with his eyes open. But that they
should leave him as a witness against them seemed incredible.

The men who had taken him down strapped his ankles together and
departed, switching the lights out as they went.

"Hi! Kamerad!" said Wimsey. "It's a bit lonely sitting here. You might
leave the light on."

"It's all right, my friend," was the reply. "You will not be in the dark
long. They have set the time-fuse."

The other man laughed with rich enjoyment, and they went out together.
So that was it. He was to be blown up with the house. In that case the
President would certainly be dead before he was extricated. This worried
Wimsey; he would rather have been able to bring the big crook to
justice. After all, Scotland Yard had been waiting six years to break up
this gang.

He waited, straining his ears. It seemed to him that he heard footsteps
over his head. The gang had all crept out by this time . . .

There was certainly a creak. The trap-door had opened; he felt, rather
than heard, somebody creeping into the cellar.

"Hush!" said a voice in his ear. Soft hands passed over his face, and
went fumbling about his body. There came the cold touch of steel on his
wrists. The ropes slackened and dropped off. A key clicked in the
handcuffs. The strap about his ankles was unbuckled.

"Quick! quick! they have set the time-switch. The house is mined. Follow
me as fast as you can. I stole back--I said I had left my jewellery. It
was true. I left it on purpose. _He_ must be saved--only you can do it.
Make haste!"

Wimsey, staggering with pain, as the blood rushed back into his bound
and numbed arms, crawled after her into the room above. A moment, and
she had flung back the shutters and thrown the window open.

"Now go! Release him! You promise?"

"I promise. And I warn you, madame, that this house is surrounded. When
my safe-door closed it gave a signal which sent my servant to Scotland
Yard. Your friends are all taken----"

"Ah! But you go--never mind me--quick! The time is almost up."

"Come away from this!"

He caught her by the arm, and they went running and stumbling across the
little garden. An electric torch shone suddenly in the bushes.

"That you, Parker?" cried Wimsey. "Get your fellows away. Quick! the
house is going up in a minute."

The garden seemed suddenly full of shouting, hurrying men. Wimsey,
floundering in the darkness, was brought up violently against the wall.
He made a leap at the coping, caught it, and hoisted himself up. His
hands groped for the woman; he swung her up beside him. They jumped;
everyone was jumping; the woman caught her foot and fell with a gasping
cry. Wimsey tried to stop himself, tripped over a stone, and came down
headlong. Then, with a flash and a roar, the night went up in fire.

       *       *       *       *       *

Wimsey picked himself painfully out from among the débris of the garden
wall. A faint moaning near him proclaimed that his companion was still
alive. A lantern was turned suddenly upon them.

"Here you are!" said a cheerful voice. "Are you all right, old thing?
Good lord! what a hairy monster!"

"All right," said Wimsey. "Only a bit winded. Is the lady safe? H'm--arm
broken, apparently--otherwise sound. What's happened?"

"About half a dozen of 'em got blown up; the rest we've bagged." Wimsey
became aware of a circle of dark forms in the wintry dawn. "Good Lord,
what a day! What a come-back for a public character! You old stinker--to
let us go on for two years thinking you were dead! I bought a bit of
black for an arm-band. I did, really. Did anybody know, besides Bunter?"

"Only my mother and sister. I put it in a secret trust--you know, the
thing you send to executors and people. We shall have an awful time with
the lawyers, I'm afraid, proving I'm me. Hullo! Is that friend Sugg?"

"Yes, my lord," said Inspector Sugg, grinning and nearly weeping with
excitement. "Damned glad to see your lordship again. Fine piece of work,
your lordship. They're all wanting to shake hands with you, sir."

"Oh, Lord! I wish I could get washed and shaved first. Awfully glad to
see you all again, after two years' exile in Lambeth. Been a good little
show, hasn't it?"

"Is he safe?"

Wimsey started at the agonised cry.

"Good Lord!" he cried. "I forgot the gentleman in the safe. Here, fetch
a car, quickly. I've got the great big top Moriarty of the whole bunch
quietly asphyxiating at home. Here--hop in, and put the lady in too. I
promised we'd get back and save him--though" (he finished the sentence
in Parker's ear) "there may be murder charges too, and I wouldn't give
much for his chance at the Old Bailey. Whack her up. He can't last much
longer shut up there. He's the bloke you've been wanting, the man at the
back of the Morrison case and the Hope-Wilmington case, and hundreds of
others."

       *       *       *       *       *

The cold morning had turned the streets grey when they drew up before
the door of the house in Lambeth. Wimsey took the woman by the arm and
helped her out. The mask was off now, and showed her face, haggard and
desperate, and white with fear and pain.

"Russian, eh?" whispered Parker in Wimsey's ear.

"Something of the sort. Damn! the front door's blown shut, and the
blighter's got the key with him in the safe. Hop through the window,
will you?"

Parker bundled obligingly in, and in a few seconds threw open the door
to them. The house seemed very still. Wimsey led the way to the back
room, where the strong-room stood. The outer door and the second door
stood propped open with chairs. The inner door faced them like a blank
green wall.

"Only hope he hasn't upset the adjustment with thumping at it," muttered
Wimsey. The anxious hand on his arm clutched feverishly. He pulled
himself together, forcing his tone to one of cheerful commonplace.

"Come on, old thing," he said, addressing himself conversationally to
the door. "Show us your paces. Open Sesame, confound you. Open Sesame!"

The green door slid suddenly away into the wall. The woman sprang
forward and caught in her arms the humped and senseless thing that
rolled out from the safe. Its clothes were torn to ribbons, and its
battered hands dripped blood.

"It's all right," said Wimsey, "it's all right! He'll live--to stand his
trial."




NOTES TO THE SOLUTION


  I.1.    VIRGO: The sign of the zodiac between LEO (strength) and
          LIBRA (justice). Allusion to parable of The Ten Virgins.

  I.3.    R.S.: Royal Society, whose "fellows" are addicted to studies
          usually considered dry-as-dust.

  IV.3.   TESTAMENT (or will); search is to be directed to the Old
          Testament. Ref. to parable of New Cloth and Old Garment.

  XIV.3.  HI: "He would answer to Hi!
               Or to any loud cry."

                  _The Hunting of the Snark._

  I.5.    TRANS.: Abbreviation of Translation; ref. to building of

  XI.5.   SCENT: "Even the scent of roses
                  Is not what they supposes,
                  But more than mind discloses
                  And more than men believe."

                  G. K. Chesterton: _The Song of Quoodle_.

  VI.7.   ICTUS: Blow; add V (five) and you get VICTUS (vanquished);
          the ictus is the stress in a foot of verse; if the stress be
          misplaced the line goes lamely.

  I.8.    SPINOZA: He wrote on the properties of optical glasses; also
          on metaphysics.

  IV.13.  THIRTY-ONE: Seven (months) out of the twelve of the sun's
          course through the heavens have thirty-one days.

  XIV.13. ET: Conjunction. In astrology an aspect of the heavenly
          bodies. That Cicero was the master of this word indicates
          that it is a Latin one.

  X.14.   BEZOAR: The bezoar stone was supposed to be a prophylactic
          against poison.

       *       *       *       *       *

  11.I.   PLAUD: If you would laud, then plaud (var. of applaud);
          Plaud-it also means "cheer."

  10.II.  ALIENA: _As You Like It._ II. 1. 130.

  1.III.  R.D.: "Refer to Drawer."

  4.III.  CANTICLES: The Magnificat and Nunc Dimittis are known as
          the Canticles, but the Book of Canticles (the Vulgate name for
          the Song of Songs, in which the solution is found) occurs
          earlier in the Bible.

  2.VI.   EST: ὀν και μη ὀν [Greek: on kai mê on] = _est_ and _non est_
          --the problem of being and not-being. Ref. Marlowe: _Doctor
          Faustus_ I. 1.

  12.X.   TOB.: Add IT to get Tobit; the tale of Tobit and the Fish is
          in the Apocrypha (the book of hidden things).

  1.XI.   MANES: "Un lion est une mâchoire et non pas une crinière":
          Emile Faguet: _Lit. du XVIIe siècle_. Manes: benevolent
          spirits of the dead.

  1.XV.   SAINT: Evidence of miraculous power is required for canonisation.




THE SOLUTION OF THE CROSS-WORD PUZZLE IN "UNCLE MELEAGER'S WILL."


[Illustration: THE SOLUTION OF THE CROSS-WORD PUZZLE IN "UNCLE
MELEAGER'S WILL"]




  +--------------------------------------------------------------+
  | Transcriber's Note--Detailed                                 |
  |                                                              |
  | The following words with typographical errors were changed   |
  | from the original.                                           |
  |                                                              |
  | |Original    |Changed to   |Context                        | |
  | |            |             |                               | |
  | |ἐι          |εἰ           |"ὦ πέπον, ἐι μὲν γὰρ,           | |
  | |ἔσσεθ',     |ἔσσεσθ',     |ἔσσεθ', οὔτε κεν αὐτὸς         | |
  | |be          |he           |that was why he brought the    | |
  | |Scheicher   |Schleicher   |Secretary gets in at           | |
  | |            |             |  Birmingham as Schleicher.    | |
  | |surburban   |suburban     |a new and unmade suburban road | |
  | |this        |his          |He cast his thoughts back      | |
  | |goloshes    |galoshes     |There was a pair of galoshes   | |
  | |whisky of   |of whisky    |the large quantity of whisky   | |
  | |neacklace   |necklace     |that famous diamond necklace   | |
  | |parcequ'on  |parce qu'on  |ce n'est pas parce qu'on porte | |
  | |back        |black        |white and black marble.        | |
  | |Surburban   |Suburban     |Suburban plant that climbs     | |
  | |            |             |  by suction                   | |
  | |as          |at           |at least, the older generation | |
  | |familar     |familiar     |he was familiar with this      | |
  | |of          |off          |a chip off the old block       | |
  | |unfamilar   |unfamiliar   |exotic and unfamiliar;         | |
  | |slighest    |slightest    |Without the slightest          | |
  | |            |             |  consideration                | |
  | |conscrated  |consecrated  |unconsecrated wafers for       | |
  | |            |             |  consecrated                  | |
  | |its         |it's         |it's bound to be in            | |
  | |Martrys     |Martyrs      |Foxe's Book of Martyrs         | |
  | |or          |for          |To my eldest son Martin, for   | |
  | |            |             |  so long as                   | |
  | |goal        |gaol         |put in gaol for robbing        | |
  | |sitin'-room |sittin'-room |he's gone off into the         | |
  | |            |             |  sittin'-room                 | |
  | |Now         |now          |Right, now we turn to          | |
  | |Salcome     |Salcombe     |Salcombe Hardy gazed limpid    | |
  |                                                              |
  | The changes in lines 1 and 3 of the Greek poem in "The       |
  | Incredible Elopement of Lord Peter Wimsey are done on the    |
  | authority of http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?       |
  | doc=Perseus%3Atext%3A1999.01.0133%3Abook%3D12%3Acard%3D320   |
  |                                                              |
  +--------------------------------------------------------------+




[End of A Treasury of Sayers Stories, by Dorothy L. Sayers]
