All Fall Down

CHAPTER TEN

The first person they saw, on emerging from the high yew hedges that flanked the winding narrow path, was Rattray’s invalid wife. Her chair stood in the shade of a little verandah in front of the house.

A small dog came from under the chair and barked vigorously, wagging his tail. His mistress looked up with a start. Her face contracted at once in peevish dismay: she picked up a tiny hand-bell and rang it vehemently.

“Coming,” sang a tuneful baritone from somewhere unseen: and after a very short interval Rattray appeared. He was in shift sleeves, smoking a pipe, and they noticed that he did not hurry. Evidently such a summons was nothing out of the ordinary.

“Yes, dear?”

She made a helpless gesture, but he had seen the visitors. He stared, then took out his pipe and advanced to meet them. Coming closer, he recognised Bradstreet.

“Hallo, Bradstreet. I didn’t spot you. Can’t see a thing these days, without my glasses.”

He looked enquiringly at Ellis and Gilkison. Bradstreet introduced them, omitting to mention Ellis’s position, and styling him plain Mr.

“How d’you do. How d’you do.”

Rattray gave each a firm handshake, looking him straight in the eye. His smile was cordial, but with something of the professional glad-to-meet-you of a lay preacher or a social worker.

“Let me introduce you to my wife. Ursula, dear: Inspector Bradstreet has brought two gentleman from London to see us.”

She screwed herself into an attitude of pathetic appeal, and smiled weakly, disclosing long yellow teeth. The bones of her face were good, and her eyes had long lashes, but any looks she might have possessed were ruined by the deep lines in her forehead, the slack invalid’s mouth, the dead skin, and the general expression of resentful self-pity.

Her presence cast a restraint on the conversation. While Bradstreet was hesitating how best to raise the subject of their visit, Rattray himself plunged into it.

“A terrible business, this, about Mr. Baildon. Quite sudden, I’m told.”

Bradstreet looked up in surprise, to be met with a pursing up of the lips and a slight but definite gesture in the direction of Mrs. Rattray.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes. Er—there are just one or two points on which we would like to consult you. Mr. McKay is here with Mr. Gilkison about the books.”

“Oh yes.”

He looked blank for a minute, then caught Bradstreet’s wink.

“That is,” Bradstreet said, “if Mrs. Rattray will excuse us.”

Her face contracted with disappointment. She tried to smile.

“Of course,” Rattray said. “We can go down to the end of the garden. You’ll be all right, won’t you, my dear? I’ll be in sight, if you want anything. Then we shan’t bore you, talking business.”

She gave her sickly smile again, and followed them with murderous eyes as Rattray led the way.

“David,” she called thinly, after he had gone a few yards.

He stopped.

“Yes, dear?”

“Hadn’t you better put on your coat, if you’re going to sit still? You don’t want to catch a chill.”

“I’ll be all right.”

She uttered a forlorn little cry, and he turned again.

“I’m quite warm, truly. Look—I’ll get it, and have it by me. Then I can put it on if I want it. Excuse me,” he said to the others, and ran off, with stiff self-conscious strides, leaping a flower bed. She watched him go, turned to the three men with her pretence of a smile, then stared at the corner of the house till he came back, a brown sports coat over his arm.

He waved it at her. She called a pet name softly: they could only tell what it was from her expression.

“Now, gentlemen.”

He came up with them, energetic and manly, and conducted them to a white painted seat at the garden’s end. It was semi-circular, comfortably low, and backed by several clumps of lavender, on which the butterflies were ceaselessly busy.

“Nice garden you’ve got here, Mr. Rattray,” Ellis said.

“I could make it much better, if I had more time. A schoolmaster’s days are pretty full. And, what with other activities—well, I can’t give it all the attention I should like.”

“You do a lot in the village, I understand.”

“I do what I can,” Rattray answered shortly, looking straight in front of him at the grass border. “What with the Scouts, and the Institute, and a weekly lecture at the camp, I’m kept pretty busy. Those are in my spare time, of course.” He cleared his throat. “In times like these, I feel that each of us must contribute all he can to the common cause. If we do nothing for our fellow creatures, how can we expect them to do anything for us—to put it no higher than that? We can’t take more out of life than we put into it.”

Having uttered these sentiments, he looked briefly and earnestly in the face of each in turn, as if to see whether they agreed with him.

Ellis uttered a purr of approval, causing Gilkison to glance at him in wry apprehension. It was usually the prelude to sarcasm or hilarity: a device to encourage the victim to further excess, until he should have exposed himself beyond hope of recovery. In spite of their long friendship, Gilkison could never bring himself to trust in Ellis’s restraint or common sense. However often he assured himself that too much hung on a moment or an interview, he always trembled lest Ellis ruin everything by some irresponsible outburst of levity. He could never accustom himself to the practice of a mind so unlike his own.

“Indeed,” Ellis concurred. “Indeed.” He sighed. “I wish more people felt as you do, Mr. Rattray. It would make all our problems easier. The Inspector and I might have nothing to do, it’s true; but what would that be, compared to the interests of the community?”

Careful, oh, careful, you ass, groaned Gilkison inwardly, looking in terror to see Rattray draw himself up, offended. But the schoolmaster replied in perfect seriousness.

“I see you are an idealist, Mr. McKay. Rather an optimist, too, if you will allow me to say so. I fear that wrongdoing will not be so easily rooted out. No.”

He shook his head, then looked up sharply at Bradstreet.

“Am I to gather that Mr. McKay is also connected with the police?”

“Yes.” Bradstreet completed the introduction. “I did not give the full particulars just now, for fear of alarming Mrs. Rattray.”

“I appreciate your thoughtfulness,” Rattray. “Thank you. That was indeed kind.”

He gazed at Bradstreet, then turned to the others.

“And what can I do for you, gentlemen?”

Bradstreet got up.

“Detective Inspector McKay would like to ask you a few questions,” he said. “If you don’t mind, now that I have introduced you, I’ll go back to the station. I’ve a good deal on my hands.”

All three watched him as he went towards the verandah. He stopped for a few moments by Mrs. Rattray’s chair, and they heard the kindly rumble of his voice, sympathetic, reassuring. She turned her face up to him, shielding her eyes against the light, and her tones followed his across the grass, unsteady, overcharged, squeaky with pleasure.

Rattray breathed out strongly through his nose.

“A fine chap, Bradstreet,” he said. “It’s a privilege to know him.”

“I only made his acquaintance yesterday,” Ellis said, “and I feel already as if we’d been friends for years.”

“I wouldn’t say he was altogether an easy man to know. A great deal is obvious at the first meeting, but there are depths beyond.”

“I’m sure there are.” Ellis looked at him respectfully. “I see you’re a student of character, Mr. Rattray. That’s splendid. Because,” he went on, in answer to Rattray’s stare of surprise, “it’s on questions of character that I wish to consult you.”

He repeated, almost word for word, what he had said to Eunice Caunter about his desire for a general picture of the situation at the Baildons’, and their relationship towards the chief figures in their circle.

To his surprise, however, Rattray did not bite. He nodded two or three times while Ellis was speaking, and continued to look at him fixedly for some seconds when he had finished.

“Quite,” he said. “Yes. I can see the value to you of a general survey of the position. But, surely, you are looking for something with a particular bearing on what has happened? It appears to me, for instance, that an analysis of Mrs. and Miss Baildon’s attitude towards Mr. Baildon can interest you only if you have reason to suspect one or other of them. I trust that is not the case?”

“Inspector Bradstreet and I suspect no one, Mr. Rattray. We cannot yet even be positive that there is anything to suspect. But to suspect no one is to suspect everyone. That is to say, if Mr. Baildon’s death was not an accident, the only people we can competently declare to have had nothing to do with it are Inspector Bradstreet and our two selves. At least—I think we may also exclude Mrs. Rattray.”

He smiled, but got no answering smile. Rattray evidently thought the pleasantry in bad taste.

“It’s all very well for you, Mr. Rattray. You live here, and know the people intimately. I don’t. You can decide at once, on your knowledge, that A and B and C may be eliminated. I can’t. What’s more, I’m not allowed to. For me, nothing is allowed to count but sheer, hard, police court evidence. But look what a lot of time I can be saved, if someone who knows will give me a hint or two and stop me from looking in the wrong direction.”

“But, Mr. McKay, you have just made it plain to me that you are not allowed to rely upon hearsay evidence.”

Ellis rubbed his hands, and gazed at him admiringly.

“I see I have come to the right man,” he said. “Look, Mr. Rattray. I’ll put it this way. Let us imagine that you have just been appointed to the headmastership of a new school.”

He stopped, for Rattray had started violently. However, he said nothing, so Ellis continued:

“A week after you arrive there to take up your duties, there are several cases of theft. Now: you can’t convict your thief except on material evidence. But do you mean to tell me you aren’t going to consult the teachers who have been there all the time, and shape your conduct with some reference to what they tell you about the various pupils?

“In any case, Mr. Rattray,” he sat up abruptly and changed his tone, “if you can’t trust me not to waste your time, you can trust me not to waste mine. I have my own reasons for coming to you and asking you certain questions. Naturally, you’re under no obligation to answer them. If you’d prefer not to——”

He got up. Rattray at once put out a restraining hand.

“Not at all, not at all. You misunderstand me. I was merely curious to know just in what way——”

“Perhaps you would sooner talk to Inspector Bradstreet?”

“No, no. Please sit down, Mr. McKay. I am more than ready to answer any question you may care to ask.”

Ellis sat down, still looking ruffled. He put his hands on his knees, and cleared his throat.

“Inspector Bradstreet has given me a clear picture of the Baildon ménage. Yesterday afternoon, Mr. Baildon was in his room for two and a half hours. It appears from their statements that Mrs. Baildon spent this time with a friend, Miss Jenkinson, and with her sister: and that Miss Joan Baildon sat at the bottom of the garden, reading and sewing, except for ten minutes when she went to get some biscuits for her father which she had forgotten to put on her mother’s shopping list. Mrs. Baildon’s statement is susceptible of proof: the girl’s isn’t. The ten minutes away can be checked all light, and at one time during the afternoon she was seen by, and exchanged words with, Mr. Pawle, who left the newspaper. When I tell you that the” list of possible suspects—possible suspects, mind you—includes Dr. Carter, an American gentleman who came earlier in the afternoon to see some books, any tradesmen who may have called, anyone in fact who could have got in unobserved during those two and a half hours and got out again, you will see that character and motive are of the first importance in this case, and you will, I hope, lose any doubts you may have upon the validity of my enquiries.”

“My dear Mr. McKay—please—let me assure you, I entertained no doubts which you yourself did not raise. I was fully prepared to answer each and every question.”

One for you, Ellis, Gilkison thought to himself. You were too clever for once.

Ellis proceeded to put a number of obvious questions about the principal personages, concentrating on Dr. Carter, Mrs. Exworthy, and Treweek. He carefully kept away from the Baildons, and, to Gilkison’s surprise, made no mention whatever of Eunice Caunter.

Then, without warning, he jumped straight into the Baildon household.

“You have been giving Joan Baildon Latin lessons, I understand?”

Rattray’s right foot, which had been tapping rhythmically, stopped.

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“For——” he considered, head tilted back. “For close on ten months.”

“Do you find her an apt pupil?”

“An extremely conscientious and willing one.” He flushed. “If she had had normal opportunities, she would have experienced no difficulty whatever. But, as I expect you know, her eyesight has been a grave handicap. And—to tell you the truth—I don’t think the teaching she had previously was of first rate quality.”

“Let me see. She has also been having lessons from a Miss Caunter, has she not?”

“Miss Caunter does not teach Latin,” Rattray said quickly. “Her subjects are English, French, History and Needlework.”

“I see. None of Joan Baildon’s shortcomings are to be laid at her door, then. As a matter of fact, Miss Caunter has been of very considerable help to the girl, hasn’t she? Dr. Carter gave me to understand that she had done a great deal for her.”

“She has given freely of her time. No genuine teacher could fail to do so, in such a case.”

“Good. It’s highly important for me to know this, when I come to interview Joan Baildon. She is in a highly nervous state, and—well, you can see how carefully I must go with her.”

Rattray inclined his head. He moistened his lower lip with his tongue.

“Mr. Rattray, I’m going to ask you a very direct question.”

Watching him closely, Ellis fancied he saw him brace himself.

“Joan Baildon strikes me—I admit the circumstances in which I met her were unfavourable, and she was naturally agitated—all the same, she strikes me as a girl suffering from severe inner conflict. Probably from more than one conflict. Now, Mr. Rattray, judging from your knowledge of her, what would you say these conflicts are?”

Rattray considered before replying. His foot resumed its tapping.

“There is always, of course, the conflict with her immediate environment. She and her mother on one side, and her father on the other. Then there’s her longing to get out of the house and out of the village into a wider world. I suppose those are the chief two conflicts in her life.”

“I had wondered if there was anything else. It struck me that she was a girl who had been emotionally over-stimulated.”

The foot stopped.

“In what way?” Rattray asked, after a pause.

“I hoped that you could tell me. She has the look of a child who has borne burdens far beyond her years.”

“That is true of most young people, in my experience,” Rattray said, more confidently. “We tend to forget the intensity of young people’s difficulties. They can suffer terribly. And, nowadays——”

“I know that,” Ellis interrupted him. “But usually what they feel intensely are their own problems, their own sufferings, the sufferings proper to youth. Miss Baildon has the look of someone who has been forced to feel prematurely the pains and difficulties of older people.”

“I was about to say, that can happen too, nowadays.”

“If it is true in her case, you don’t know what the special problems are?”

“No. I don’t think I do. She—— No.” He shook his head. “I can’t say.”

“When you are with her, is the conversation confined to the lessons, or does it cover wider grounds?”

“We talk, sometimes, of the events of the day. And of her future hopes and prospects. I have once or twice confided in her my anxieties about my wife. It is flattering to young people to be consulted in such matters.”

“Were you trying to flatter her?”

The question was rapped out so sharply that Rattray blinked.

“No, no. You misunderstand me. I genuinely wanted to know how the matter might look to another woman. Joan is young, I know, but she has an air of maturity which now and then makes one forget how young she is. My dear wife suffers a great deal, and needs humouring: and it is always a problem to know how far one should go. One does not want to enervate her character, to give in more than one should: and yet one’s instinct is to yield in everything.”

“Quite. You mean, then, that you consulted Joan for your own sake, and at the same time reflected that it would please her to be consulted.”

“Exactly, Mr. McKay. That is exactly what I mean.” He looked down at the grass, then up again. “Possibly I have been to blame, in laying upon her some of these older problems we have been talking about. I hope not.”

Ellis’s next question was completely unexpected to both listeners.

“Mr. Rattray. Did you go into the Baildons’ house at any time yesterday afternoon?”

There was a moment of complete silence. Then Rattray swallowed.

“Yes,” he said. “I did.”

Ellis leaned forward. His voice seemed to express no more than a friendly interest.

“What took you there, Mr. Rattray?”

Rattray’s face had flooded with colour. He jerked up his head and answered firmly.

“I had borrowed a book of Mr. Baildon’s, in order to verify some facts I needed for a talk I was going to give my scouts.”

“Oh.” Ellis’s eyes opened wide. “Matt would lend, would he?”

“Some books—to some people—but always for a stipulated time. If you said you wanted a book for a day, or two days, or a week, then you had to bring it back punctually at the end of that time, or there was trouble. I had promised to bring the book back yesterday, and, as I was going to pass the house, I took the opportunity to leave it in on my way.”

“Why,” asked Ellis softly, “did you not leave it there in the morning, when you were passing the house with Mrs. Rattray?”

Rattray’s flush, which had been fading, deepened.

“You forgot it, perhaps?” Ellis prompted him. “You hadn’t it with you?”

“No,” Rattray said. “I had not forgotten, and I had the book with me. I—— It sounds foolish, I know; almost incredible, perhaps. But Mrs. Rattray has not been very well these last few days, and, when she is like that, she gets foolish fancies. She doesn’t like me to take her into the Baildons’ place.”

“Why?”

Rattray raised his brows.

“I can’t tell you, I’m sure. Once she heard Mr. Baildon screaming in one of his rages, and that was very painful to her. Her hearing is abnormally sensitive. It may have been that. More probably, there was no rational basis. So often, there is none. At any rate, she wouldn’t let me wheel her in; and, when I went to put her chair by the gate, and go in alone, she became frightened and said that I must not leave her. So I had no choice but to obey, and bring the book up again in the afternoon.”

“She doesn’t mind being left at home?”

“There is always someone with her. I never leave her otherwise. Either it is the girl from next door, or the woman who does the house, or another neighbour. Mrs. Rattray is never alone in the house.”

Ellis regarded him with speculative eye.

“Did you give the book back to Mr. Baildon?”

Rattray stumbled in his speech and swallowed, shaking his head in his haste to deny this.

“I left it on the table just inside the door. I did not see Mr. Baildon at all.”

“I can understand that one wouldn’t exactly seek an interview with him. What book was it, by the way?”

“The Cruise of the Cachalot, by Bullen.”

“Good book. First edition?”

“Yes. In mint condition.”

“Anyone see you on your way in or out?”

“No one. Wait—yes. There was, I think, someone in the road when I came out.”

“Anyone you knew?”

“No.”

“You didn’t see Mrs. Baildon? Or Joan?”

“No. I just went straight in and out again.”

“When would this have been?”

“I can’t say, within a few minutes. I think I left home soon after three. Yes. That would be it. The girl came in about three.”

“Right, Mr. Rattray.” Ellis got up. “That’s all for now. We shall be in again soon, I expect.”

“Any help I can give, at any time,” Rattray assured him earnestly. “I’ll be only too glad. I feel convinced, you know, that you will find the whole thing was an accident.”

“It would be much simpler for all of us, wouldn’t it?” They walked up together towards the house. “What splendid lupins. Do you do anything special for them, or is it just the soil?”

“I tend them carefully; but I haven’t given them any special fertiliser, if that is what you mean.”

“Wonderful. Wonderful. You must have a green thumb. Well—here we are, Mrs. Rattray! Thank you for lending your husband to us all this time. We won’t keep him from you any longer. You must so seldom get him all to yourself for a whole day.”

“Yes, indeed.” She responded at once to the warmth of his voice, with a moue of self pity. “He’s out so much. And in the evenings, too.”

“In the evenings. Well, well: that is hard, Mrs. Rattray. But then, you know, he’s such an important man here. So much depends on him.”

“Yes.” Her voice was a faint wail. “Three nights a week. Till ten o’clock.”

“Ah well. One of the penalties of marrying such a useful and popular man. At all events, Mrs. Rattray, we won’t steal any more of your time. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” she said. Gilkison, taking his leave, saw the momentary animation fade from her face.

The schoolmaster walked them to the gate.

“Well,” Ellis assured him, “we’ll be meeting again. Any chance of seeing you at the Plume of Feathers? Or do you give pubs a miss?”

“Not at all. I take a glass of cider every now and then. I’m not at all narrow-minded. I find, too, one can have far more influence with the men if one does not hold aloof from their pleasures and pastimes. And exercise, too, perhaps, a restraining influence at times.”

“Good. Well, if you’ve nothing better to do any time, look us up. We’ll be there most evenings.”

“My evenings are rather mortgaged.” Rattray smiled wanly, and inclined his head towards the house. “But we will meet soon, I hope. Good day. Good day, Mr. Gilkison.”

He gave each of them the same vigorous handshake, then turned and strode manfully back to his wife.

“Well”—Ellis let out a long breath—“what do you make of that?”

“Wouldn’t it perhaps save time if you gave your opinion? I notice you only use mine in order to correct it.”

“Inaccurate, Gilk. Not so at all. But never mind.”

A stone lay in the road. Ellis kicked it neatly into the ditch.

“That man,” he pronounced, “is in a hell of a funk about something. Talking to him was like a doctor sounding a sore abdomen. The whole thing’s tense and alert: the fingers go about, prodding, until the patient winces. ‘Sore just there, eh?’ Prod about some more. ‘There too, eh?’ And again. And all the time the patient keeps saying with a hollow ring in his voice that he’s sure there’s nothing wrong really, and it’s only a trifle, isn’t it, doctor, and he’ll be all right the next day.”

“Very apt,” Gilkison commented drily. “Only I didn’t notice very much collaboration on the patient’s part.”

“You know, Gilk, as I’ve often said, you’re nothing like the fool you let on to be. Oh, all right, all right. The general impression which you give is misleading. There—is that better? And now, if you’ve done sparring, we’ll get back to business. Shut up. I know you didn’t. Good God, man, I don’t have to wait for you to put your thoughts into words.”

“I admit it is much more convenient for you to invent them. Then you have some chance of providing an answer.”

“Rattray,” Ellis said, “has something on his conscience. That’s the general bellyache. Did you observe the sensitive spots? Did you see how he shied off and his foot stopped tapping when we got on to Joan? And t’other wench? No likee proddee. Now—just what’s up, I wonder?”

Knowing no answer was required, Gilkison said nothing.

“Nothing specific, perhaps. A man who is obviously vigorous and healthy and a prig and a bit of a flesh-mortifier, and married to that poor wretched scrap of human wreckage—he might well be in a state of tension, and tighten up at the mention of any girl, particularly a girl he knew. There’s always the risk of reading too much into a symptom. We’re too apt to find the sort of thing we’re looking for. I’ve seen chaps in a situation like Rattray’s madly jumpy over nothing but the general strain of it. All the same, I think there’s more to this bloke. I have the feeling there is something specific here. He’s worried about a definite thing, wouldn’t you say?”

“I should have thought so, certainly.”

“You get that artificial, pumped-up manner with lots of ’em when they’re not sure of themselves. Plummy voice, false emphasis, heartiness, and so on. He’s married above him, socially, and in a village I dare say that still matters.”

“Or he thinks it does.”

“Same thing, for him. My guess is that there’s a girl somewhere.”

“Here? Difficult to keep it secret, surely?”

“Impossible. Perhaps that’s what’s worrying him. Afraid that, with all this poking about, awkward enquiries will be made. For instance, where was he going yesterday afternoon, besides leaving a book on old Baildon? My dear Gilk, I assure you, the people who throw the temperaments and go all hot under the collar are almost always the innocent, not the guilty.”

“You talk as if I said it was he that killed Matt.”

“He might have,” Ellis conceded. “But I don’t think he did.”

“The famous intuition?”

“No hunch at all. I just don’t see why he should.”

“He felt very strongly about the old man’s treatment of Joan. That was genuine enough.”

“Yes. But why do it yesterday?”

“Perhaps he was never alone with him before.”

“What interests me far more is, why didn’t he go down the garden and have a word with Joan? He must have known she’d be at home.”

“She might have gone out with her mother.”

“A girl like that, working her eyes out of her head to get to Oxford, and given a real chance like a whole holiday? She’d be somewhere with a book. And it wasn’t far to go.”

“How do you know he didn’t? You’ve only his word for it.”

“True. But he wouldn’t lie about that. Joan might let it out. And someone might have seen him. Remember, she could be seen from the road.”

They went on speculating and arguing until they reached the police station. Here they were received by an amiable and red-faced sergeant, who ushered them in to Bradstreet.

“Don’t grin at me like that, you old So-and-So,” Ellis said to him, as soon as the door was shut. “Out with it.”

“Was I grinning?” Bradstreet asked, with mild surprise. “I didn’t know. Well—we’ve got the result of the autopsy. The cause of death was suffocation.”

“That helps us a hell of a lot.”

“Threads from the muffler were found in the mouth and throat.”

“He might have fallen with it across his mouth. Bruises?”

“Several from the books.”

“Before or after death?”

“Can’t say. As near as makes no matter.”

“H’m. So we’re no further than we were.”

“There is a slight bruising of the lower lip. Against the dental plate. But that, again——”

“Yes. Well, I didn’t expect anything. Surgeon no views?”

“Cautious. Doesn’t like the smell of it, but won’t say anything definite.”

“How was Carter?”

“Stiff. Resentful. Bit sarcastic.”

“At my expense.”

“He didn’t name anyone in particular.”

“Bless his heart. What else have you got?”

“Your American friend is at Exeter. Staying at the Rougemont. Went off this morning for the day, but said he would be back to dinner.”

“Good. Nelder?”

“Nothing yet. You know,” Bradstreet rubbed his chin, “we’ve got to go careful there. We can’t pull him in, just like that. There’s nothing to connect him with the business in hand. At least, nothing that I can see.”

“Say you want to talk to him about something else. Gilk—you can help us there. What might we want to talk to him about?”

Gilkison cleared his throat. The sound gave a prim, pedantic colour to his utterance.

“A number of things. Price agreements. The presence in his shop of copies of new books that aren’t review copies and have not been ordered from the publishers. His own publishing business.”

“I didn’t know he had one,” Ellis said.

“It isn’t run under his own name, of course.”

“What might be wrong with it, Mr. Gilkison?” Bradstreet asked.

“It’s the old game. An amateur writes a book. A retired colonel, a cook, a governess, an only daughter, a crank—anyone you like. They see the advertisement of Nelder’s company, and send their manuscripts in. Nelder writes an ecstatic letter, saying it is marvellous, but that, as the author is unknown, he or she must contribute to the cost of publishing. The contribution is duly sent. Nelder has the book printed as cheaply as he can, binds a few copies only—enough to meet the author’s needs and those of the few friends who’ll ask for copies. The book drops dead, and Nelder pockets the balance. It’s a wicked ramp.”

Bradstreet nodded.

“We get complaints about that sort of thing, but, unfortunately, it’s inside the law.”

“It is, if the publisher does what he undertook to do. If he prints and binds the number of copies specified in the contract. Very often he doesn’t. He takes the risk.”

“I’ve had cases,” Bradstreet said, “where there was no written contract at all.”

“Then, of course, you can do nothing. But, with Nelder—can’t you just say you’ve had complaints, and want to question him?”

“You see?” Ellis grinned. “Absolutely immoral. No scruples at all. And then he’ll turn on us and say the police are unscrupulous.”

“Anyway, I can give you three or four lines that’ll make Nelder think you have a right to question him. Things I know for certain.”

“But can’t prove?”

“It isn’t any business of mine to prove them.”

“We could go and see him, anyway,” Ellis said.