8

Some time afterwards, in the library at the house, H.M. and Cy Norton and Gilbert Byles assembled for that private talk the District Attorney had requested. The library ran straight through the house, with two windows front and back.

It must regretfully be admitted that H.M., when deep in a problem of some kind, has no sense of the fitness of things. The library was hot, so he removed his robe. He sat there in his red-and-white striped bathing suit, his sandalled feet on the table, smoking a cigar.

Byles'3 offer of a Havana he had declined with disdain.

"This here," declared H.M., taking the cigar out of his mouth to sniff voluptuously, "is a real Wheeling stogy. In the good old days they were two for a nickel. What's on your mind, Gil?"

Cy Norton, who had dashed upstairs to dress after a fashion, arrived back just in time to hear this question. Byles absently waved him towards a chair. Then it was as though the District Attorney—tall and sallow, standing by the table—had been wearing a false beard and sinister crêpe hair, and that these slipped off like a disguise.

His eyes twinkled. When he whooped with mirth, as he did now, his whole face seemed to become broader and less pointed of chin. He sat down, still laughing. Mr. District Attorney Byles had relaxed, and he was enjoying himself.

"You know, H.M.," he said, "I wrote to you that you were an old s.o.b., and you are."

H.M. nodded.

"There were other endearin' terms," he said. "At home, if the Director of Public Prosecutions ever dictated a letter like that, they'd have had to revive his secretary with smelling salts."

"Oh, I wrote it myself on my own typewriter. But tell me. All this posing about 'three clues'—it isn't on the level, of course?"

"It's strictly on the level, Gil."

"A man dives into a swimming pool. He doesn't come up, but he's not there when the pool is drained. Thaf s carrying tilings too far."

"Burn it all, I can't help that! It happened!" "Come on, H.M." Byles's grin broadened. "Weren't you all just rallying round the flag? And telling a corporate lie to support Manning?"

"Oh, lord love a duck," breathed H.M. "NO!"

"Well, it doesn't matter," said Byles.

And he brushed it aside with a carelessness that raised Cy Norton's hair. Gilbert Byles rubbed his long chin, which would have been blue if he had not shaved twice a day. His expression grew serious.

"Instead of asking me what's on my mind, H.M., what's on your mind?"

"Ill tell you," replied H.M., blowing a smoke ring. "You don't like Fred Manning much, do you?"

"No, I don't like him." Byles clasped his big hands on the table. "We're members of the same club, and I've never liked him. The first time I saw that fellow, I knew he was a crook."

"How'd you know that?"

"He was too suave. Too dignified. Too smooth. I don't trust that kind of man and I never have. For weeks weVe heard rumours that his Foundation was rocky; but you can't act on that Never mind. Now," said Byles, clenching his hands more tightly, "now, by God, we've got him."

"So? How?"

"This Foundation of his..."

"Stop a bit, son!" interrupted H.M., making bothered gestures with his cigar. "They may have these 'Foundations' in England, but burn me if I ever heard of one. What are you talkin' about?"

Byles spoke with the same quietness, hands clenched.

"The Frederick Manning School," he said, "is a kind of extra-curricular support for the big universities. If s independent, but students get credit at the universities for work done there in writing, painting, music, and the rest of it The Manning School is supposed to be non profit-making, which it is for everybody except himself.

"He goes around to various very wealthy men— who are genuine philanthropists, interested in projects like that—and he persuades them to ladle out a lot of money. Can't you see Manning doing that? The Manning School has a lot of scholarships, and quite a number of fellowships. A fellowship here means almost the same as it means in England; a man both studies and teaches, and gets paid for it."

Byles leaned forward and tapped the table.

"Now I’ll give you facts, without names. Some time ago a young man in Michigan got a letter written and signed by Manning, who runs everything. 'We are pleased to inform you,' says the letter, 'that you have been chosen for the Heinrich Heine Fellowship in Satiric Verse.' I'm just inventing the terms, but you get the general idea?"

H.M. nodded drowsily.

"Yes, son," he said. "I'm following you."

"'This fellowship'" Byles continued his play of light mockery with the imaginary letter—'"carries a stipend of twenty-five hundred dollars a year. Unfortunately, our funds do not permit payment at this time. Would you consider accepting the honour and foregoing the stipend until the following year?'"

Byles paused. His eyes burned with the resentment of one who has had to work his way, and work hard, through college and law school.

"This poor devil in Michigan," he continued, "was between Satan and deep water. He'd got his B.A. and his M.A., and he was working towards his Ph.D. Men in the academic profession aren't there to make money; as a rule they know as much about business as I know about Sanskrit Here was a chance for him to study for a year without paying; and next year, it seemed, the 'stipend' too."

Again Byles paused, and smiled without amusement

"Uh-huh," nodded H.M. "And this bloke accepted?"

"Yes. You see the set-up?"

"The money," mused H.M., "goes straight into Manning's pocket? And the books show if s being paid out?"

"It's only a very small way," Byles admitted, "of milking the Foundation. There are far bigger ways. But this particular man in Michigan"—and Byles tapped the table—"got an anonymous letter. It said the whole business was crooked; and, if he didn't believe it, let him write to another man in West Virginia.

"Well, he did. The West Virginia man had received exactly the same letter, only this time it was the Something-Something Fellowship in music. They were mad. I don't blame them. They came straight to New York, and somebody sent 'em to the Complaints Bureau of my office. Now do you mind if I tell a little personal adventure?"

"About Manning?"

"Yes."

Byles got up, tall in the grey suit of "our best-dressed D.A.," against the three oak walls of old books, and the fiery sun at the two screened windows facing front Then he turned round.

"I told you, didn't I, that Manning and I belong to the same club?"

"Uh-huh."

"He had lunch there yesterday. He didn't see me, but I saw him. He had a brief case against his knee; didn't even leave it at the checkroom. During lunch,"—and Byles smiled a peculiar smile—"he was so absorbed with an envelope, writing or figuring, that the waiter couldn't wake him up. When the waiter did wake him up, he crumpled up the envelope and threw it away and hurried out"

"Well?"

"I was curious." Byles raised his eyebrows. "When I followed him, I did pick up the envelope. I found it had (among other things) a series of figures arranged for a profit of just over a hundred thousand. Ye-es, H.M.! It was time to move in."

"You knew he was going to do a bunk, hey? And a hundred thousand soakers..."

"Smackers," corrected the smiling Byles.

There was a terrible silence.

To correct H.M.'s American slang, which he believes to be more than merely perfect is a far deadlier insult than to say he has cheated atcards or been seen shaking hands with Sir Stafford Cripps. It was instantly smoothed over by the watchful, tactful Byles.

"Sorry, my mistake," the District Attorney assured him. "I believe the most up-to-date version is 'soakers, now I come to think of it" "Haaah!" breathed H.M., sitting back in his

bathing suit and continuing to puff voluptuously

at the stogy. "There's only one thing," said Byles, "I don't

understand." "What's that?"

"I can't understand Howard Betterton." Byles frowned. "Come on,H.M. You're a barrister. Didn't you notice it?"

"Oh, I might have. But your law, when it was founded on our law just before the British Common Law got changed for the better, has gone some very rummy ways. Be quiet, dammit! Tell me about Betterton."

Byles returned to the table, sat down, and again interlocked his fingers.

"Howard's shrewd," he admitted. "He was all fuss and feathers this morning. Buthe didn't even try to throw chairs in my way. Howard must have known"—here Byles tapped his breast pocket—"I got this subpoena through White Plains, in this county, so I could take the swindling s.o.b. to town in a way he wouldn't like. Howard must have known another subpoena was served, at nine o'clock this morning, on the man in charge of Manning's office in New York. And yet—no games."

H.M. merely grunted. But there was a curious look in his eyes which Cy Norton could not interpret.

"You were the one who phoned him last night, eh?"

"I did. But I hardly thought he'd make a break and admit he was guilty." A twinkle appeared in Byles's eyes. "Probably you can see why I don't give two hoots about your swimming-pool mystery?"

"Sort of dimly, yes. It's not your baby. It's the police's. But if they catch Fred Manning..."

"When they catch Manning," corrected Byles, "it won't matter a damn how he got out of the pool. There he is; I can stick him in front of a jury! But, my God, in the meantime! That's where you come in.

"Me?" exclaimed H.M., in sudden alarm. Gilbert Byles's voice became low and persuasive.

"The good public," he said, "won't care anything about Manning until he's caught. But this swimming-pool mystery—that’s different! That’s the public's meat Every city editor in town will be delirious."

"I thought you said," interposed Cy, "that the swimming-pool mystery was only a corporate lie."

"I still think it is. But if it isn't, all the better. Now listen, H.M.! You're pretty well known in this country as a locked-room buster and a debunker of miracles. The newspapers love you, - because you're good copy. Your job is to hold 'em off, and solve the mystery if you can."

"Now wait a minute!" bellowed H.M., and his feet came down from the table with a crash that shook the room. "I can't stay in New York, I tell you! Even as it was, I got kidnapped."

"What do you mean, kidnapped?"

H.M.'s voice became plaintive.

"Well, practically kidnapped. And as I keep telling everybody," he went on with deep earnestness, "I got to visit a family in Washington."

Byles smiled.

"H.M., this is really important." He continued in the same low tone, "If you phone these people in Washington, and explain the circumstances, I'm sure they'll understand." Byles was all for action. "What's their phone number?"

"I dunno the phone number," H.M. confessed. "But I expect you could get it. They live at a place called the White House."

"The White..."

For a moment Byles only stared at him. Then Byles put his elbows on the table, lowered his half-bald head, and knocked his knuckles against it

"Is this straight?" he presently demanded, looking out between his arms. "From what you said about the Labour Government, as quoted in last night's and this morning's papers, I shouldn't think they'd send you on a diplomatic mission. I should think they'd want to hang you."

"Oh, son! This is no diplomatic mission. I'm simply carryin' a letter to the President from an old friend of his in England. There's nothing secret about it; you could read it over the radio. Still, do you think it's polite to keep the President waiting"

Byles groaned.

"I tell you what I'll do, though," H.M. volunteered after a pause. "I'll make a little bargain "with you."

"Oh?" said Byles, raising his head with instant suspicion at any bargain proposed by H.M.

"I mean it, Gil. Have you got any accountants at your office?"

"Accountants? The District Attorney's office has a whole staff of accountants, six of 'em, just to deal with cases like this!"

"The Manning Foundation," said H.M., "don't look very big or very complex. Could you prove to me that Fred Manning's a crook in twenty-four hours?"

"Twenty-four hours! We-el! I..."

"Scotland Yard," sneered H.M., "could do it in one afternoon."

Now of all the whoppers he had ever told, and the name of them was legion, this ranked among the highest But it had its effect Gilbert Byles was stung as though by a rattlesnake.

"I should like to point out" he retorted coldly, "that American efficiency..."

H.M. got up and whacked the palm of his hand on the table. Byles also got up.

"Could you prove Manning's a crook in twenty-four hours?" demanded H.M., sticking out his unmentionable face. "I dare you!"

"Could you solve this mystery in twenty-four hours?" demanded Byles, also sticking out his face. "I dare you!"

"All right I'll do it!"

"So will I"

"Shake hands!"

"Shake hands!"

It was in this heroic if somewhat unusual attitude, like a group of statuary, that they were discovered by Bob Manning, followed by Jean and Crystal, who rushed into the library and stopped short

H.M. and the District Attorney somewhat guiltily dissolved their hand grip. But all three newcomers were too emotionally overwrought to notice anything, with the possible exception of Crystal. Bob, sandy-haired and gangling, in khaki shorts and an open khaki shirt seemed to grope for firmness and even fierceness. Jean and Crystal, the one still in her white beach robe and the other in her black, seemed to be urging him on.

"Now look!" Bob began in aggressive voice. Then he stopped and looked at Byles. "Excuse me, sir, but who are you?"

Byles introduced himself. He was as courteous, in a completely adult way, as he would have been to the Governor.

"What I want to say," blurted Bob, "is that-well, I'm the head of the family now." This, as Bob heard himself saying it seemed to make him completely incredulous until he rushed on: "And we—I thought if there's any kind of conference that concerns us, I ought to be there."

Byles was about to turn them away, smoothly and easily, when lie caught H.M.'s glance. Before the District Attorney could agree, Bob spoke again.

"First" he went on doggedly, "the whole place is full of cops. Down at the swimming pool." "I'm afraid, Mr. Manning," Byles soothed him,

"I had to phone the police at White Plains. Just answer their questions; they won't trouble you more than is necessary."

Then Bob's freckles seemed to stand out against his skin.

"Next," he said, "I didn't see what happened this morning. I was sitting up practically all night; I mean—thinking about something."

He had been thinking, Cy knew, about the garage—the garage he would now never have.

"But listen," Bob was continuing. He did not now seem sheepish; he looked formidable. "If there's any man who says my father took money," he swallowed, "and that includes those cops down at the pool too, I’ll knock his damned face off whenever I see him. And I mean that"

Cy sprung up. "Who's dealing with the cops at the pool?"

"Dave is," Jean answered promptly, and her fair complexion flushed with admiration. "I think it was magnificent, the way he just took charge of things. Commanding. I suppose it was the Army."

"I seem to forget, darling," lied Crystal, wrinkling up her brows. "Was Dave overseas?"

"You know he wasn't!" Jean said hotly. "He was in that department, you know, it's so terribly important nobody knows what it is. Did you ever see Dave in a uniform? He looks wonderful."

"Won't you all sit down?" invited Byles. "It's true this happens to be a secret conference"—Cy noted their instant response to this, and H.M.'s sour look—"but on this occasion I won't object You may even be able to help us."

Gingerly they sat round a long oak refectory table. Crystal, with a careless air, seated herself near Cy.

"What do you mean, help you?" Bob's voice was still hoarse.

"Oh, we can never tell. Information, maybe..."

"I know a good deal," said Jean, with her eyes far away. Then her broad mouth tightened against the faint golden tan. "But I'm not talking, thanks."

"Not even to me?" Byles's smile had the craft of the serpent

"No! Not to anybody!" cried Jean. "Because, even if Dad has taken all this money (oh, be quiet, Bob!), they'll never find him. Never!"

Byles hesitated.

Cy Norton could have sworn that his next remark was not guile, but an honestly sincere effort to prepare them.

"I wish you hadn't said that, Miss Manning."

"Why not?"

"Because I'd better warn you, so that you don't get a shock, They'll catch your father in a matter of weeks,; perhaps a little more. He can't get away. To show you I'm not bluffing, shall I tell you a few of the methods they'll use?"

"Yes!" said Crystal, with her eyes lowered.

"It's curious, but it's a fact," Byles went on, first looking at the table and then raising his head, "that most persons, when they bolt from New York, try to get as far away as they can. It's more curious, but still true, that most of them make for California or Florida."

"Y ou're not bluffing about that, either?" asked Crystal.

"No," Byles answered truthfully. "Now yesterday, at lunch, your father crumpled up and threw away an envelope covered with figures. It wais found. On this envelope he twice wrote, 'Los Angeles,' then he scratched out both and wrote 'Miami.'"

A rustle went round the group, evidently uneasy.

"Finally," said Byles, "let me tell you just one more of many things that will trap him. It will never occur to him; that's the beauty of it. Certainly it won't occur to you. Now take a look around you!"

Puzzled, three faces turned and twisted inquiringly. They saw the tall walls of books, the tapestry furniture; and, in the northern wall, the nearly closed double doors which showed the edge of a chess board beyond in Manning's study. The two rear windows were bright with sunshine; the front windows blue-white.

"I'm afraid I don't understand this one," Crystal murmured.

"You don't notice anything?"

"No!"

"Yet ever since I've know your father," said Byles, "he's haunted second-hand bookshops. All the books here are second-hand; he won't buy any other kind. He can no more keep away from those bookshops than a dipsomaniac can keep away from a bar."

Byles paused, letting his narrow eyes rove.

They'll circularize every second-hand bookshop in this country," he added. "With photograph, description, reward. Wherever he goes, and in whatever direction, they'll be certain to get him."

"Oh, no, they won't!" flashed Jean's triumphant cry. "They won't recognize him! The plastic surgery will..."

Dead silence.

Jean stopped dead, both hands pressed over her mouth, her light blue eyes full of horror.

"What plastic surgery?" asked Byles sharply.

(Pure accident, or merely guile?)

And at the same moment, shoulders very straight, officer. O'Casey marched into the library carrying a pair of large shears. Without deigning to look at Sir Henry Merrivale, he nevertheless placed the shears on the table at H.M.'s elbow, and spoke to Byles.

"I've got exactly twelve feet of hedge trimmed, sir," he said.



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