Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 4, No. 2, March 1943

Thirteen Lead Soldiers by H. G. McNeile

We welcome the first appearance in “Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine” of Bulldog Drummond — detective, adventurer, and nemesis — who knows how to lead even toy soldiers to victory...

“You mustn’t touch them, Uncle Hugh, because they’re still wet. Mr. Stedman is going to paint some more when he comes back.”

Hugh Drummond — uncle by courtesy — looked down at the small boy on the floor. Around him was strewn the litter inseparable from small boys, be it trains, airplanes or hairy bugs. In this case the central motif consisted of toy soldiers, with paints and brushes and pools of multi-colored water. In addition there were boxes of infantry, and cavalry, and guns all of a dull gray color, whilst on a tray, resplendent in scarlet, stood some freshly painted heroes.

“Mr. Stedman says it’s far more fun to paint them oneself,” explained the proud owner. “He says it doesn’t matter if there is no full dress no more.”

“I quite agree with Mr. Stedman, Billy,” said Drummond. “Red looks much better than khaki, doesn’t it. That’s a good looking Highlander next door to the General on the horse.”

“Yes. I’ve got some more of those. They’re Cameron Highlanders.”

“Not Camerons, old man. They might be Gordons.”

“Mr. Stedman said Camerons,” persisted the boy. “Didn’t you?”

He looked up as a tall, dark man entered the room.

“Didn’t I say what, Billy?”

“Say these were Cameron Highlanders. Uncle Hugh says they’re Gordons.”

“Only after they’re painted, son,” said Drummond. “Before they’re painted they might be any Highland regiment.”

“But Mr. Stedman painted him and he said he was a Cameron. Why can’t he be a Cameron?”

“Because he’s got the wrong colored kilt on, old man. I might stretch a point and say he was a Seaforth, but I can’t allow Cameron, I’m afraid. You see that kilt gives the general impression of being dark green, or even black, whereas the Cameron kilt strikes one as red.”

“The complete Scotchman, I see,” said Stedman with a smile, and Drummond glanced at him. There was no friendliness behind the smile.

“Even to the extent of always saying, ‘Guid nicht the noo’,” he answered placidly.

“The color of a kilt seems a somewhat trifling matter to worry the child’s head with.”

Drummond raised his eyebrows and laughed.

“I don’t suppose that it would materially affect Billy’s future career if he was told that the Archbishop of Canterbury always preached in purple pajamas,” he remarked. “At the same time if you are painting soldiers and thereby giving the child a little lesson in things military, it does no harm to get such trifles as facings and kilts correct.”

He lit a cigarette and strolled over to the window.

“The rain has stopped: I think I shall take exercise. I suppose the great ones are still conferring?”

“They are,” said Stedman shortly, and with an amused glance at him Drummond lounged out of the room. One of those tedious individuals, he reflected, who hate to be found wrong in anything. And yet able, presumably, or he wouldn’t have his present job.

“Algy, you noxious blight,” he remarked to Longworth, whom he found in the hall, “you may accompany me to the village. The evening paper should be in by now, and I want to see if I’ve backed my fifteenth consecutive loser. Tell me,” he continued as they walked down the drive, “what do you think of the man Stedman?”

“I don’t,” said Algy, “if I can help it. Why?”

“I just wondered. We have been chatting on kilts and things, and I don’t think he was amused. Incidentally, painting toy soldiers is a new one on me.”

“Same here. But the kid seems to like it. And I suppose it was decent of the fellow to go all the way to Manchester to get unpainted ones. What’s this about kilts?”

“Nothing of importance,” answered Drummond, halting for a moment and looking back at the house. “What a magnificent old pile it is.”

Outlined against the westering sun the towers and battlements of Oxshott Castle stood out dark and somber. Trees as old as the house flanked it on each side: in front lay a lake, placid as a sheet of glass. And as they looked, four men came through the front door and strolled across the drive.

It was easy to recognize them even at that distance. Slim and upright, their seventy-year, silver-haired host, Lord Surrey, came first with the Frenchman, the Comte de Dinard: behind them, the smoke from their cigars almost motionless in the still air, were the Belgian, Monsieur Meteren, with Sir Charles Dorking. And as they disappeared round a corner of the house Drummond gave a short laugh.

“It’s quaint, Algy, you know, when you think of it,” he said. “At this moment the fate of Europe is quite possibly being settled: Stedman is painting toy soldiers for Billy, and you and I are going to see who won the two-thirty.”

Algy looked at him anxiously.

“You’ll be quoting Ella Wheeler Wilcox in a moment, my lad,” he remarked. “What you want is beer in a large can. And what has stung you now?”

Drummond, his eyes narrowed, was staring down the drive towards the lodge.

“I’d know that walk anywhere,” he said. “If that isn’t our old friend Andrews of Scotland Yard, I will consume my headgear. Now what the deuce is he doing here?”

They strolled on, and a few moments later the three men met.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” cried the jovial-faced Inspector cheerily. “I was hoping I might meet you.”

Drummond glanced at him in surprise.

“Very kind of you, old lad,” he remarked, “and the same to you and all that. But may I enquire how you knew we were here?”

“Because I suggested that you should be asked,” answered Andrews calmly. “When discussing the house party with his Lordship it transpired that he knew both you and Mr. Longworth very well. So, as I say, I suggested that he should send you invitations for the week-end.”

“Again very kind of you,” said Drummond, looking even more surprised. “But why?”

“Because I may want your assistance,” replied the Inspector. “What about a pint at the Barley Mow, and I’ll tell you the lay of the ground.”

“A brave thought, bravely spoken,” said Drummond. “By the way, d’you know what won the two-thirty?”

“Moonlight. Sharpshooter second.”

“Hell!” grunted Drummond. “Another fiver down the drain. I shall soon be known as the bookmaker’s friend.”

They entered the bar, and found it empty.

“What about that table over in the corner?” suggested Drummond. “I am frankly very curious, Andrews, to hear why you should have discussed the party with Lord Surrey.”

“I suppose you’re aware, Captain Drummond,” said the Inspector, as they sat down, “that some very important discussions are on foot at the present moment between England, France and Belgium.”

“I am,” replied Drummond.

“That being the case, has it struck you as strange that a reporter isn’t lurking behind every bush at Oxshott Castle?”

“It had not struck me up to date,” admitted Drummond. “But now that you mention it, I get your meaning.”

“The reason why they’re not here,” continued Andrews, “is that this conference has been kept a profound secret. The Press, of course, know that Meteren and the Comte de Dinard are in England. They know further that they are not over here to enjoy the English climate, but for the express purpose of meeting Sir Charles. And since the one thing the statesmen wished to avoid at the present stage of affairs was publicity, this week-end was arranged at Lord Surrey’s suggestion. The whole plan was kept completely dark, and the very fact that there are no reporters here proves that we succeeded.”

He paused and took a pull at his tankard, while the others waited.

“Yes, Captain Drummond,” he repeated, “We succeeded — so far as the reporters are concerned — which, believe me, is no mean feat. But we have not succeeded entirely. Some unauthorized person knew of this conference four days ago.”

“At any rate he seems to have kept the information to himself,” remarked Drummond. “Incidentally, how did you find out that somebody knew?”

“I’m coming to that,” continued Andrews. “Four days ago when I went to my office in the morning I was as certain as a man could be that everything was all right. The only people who knew about the week-end were Lord Surrey himself: the three statesmen and their confidential secretaries — Mr. Stedman and the other two — and, of course, myself. I had fixed all the staff work over cars and, as I say, I felt quite confident that all was well. You can judge then of my consternation when I received a letter by the second post that blew my optimism sky high. It was undated, bore no address, and naturally was not signed. And it ran as follows.

“ ‘Guard the Comte de Dinard at Oxshott. Guns are useless.’ ”

He took another pull at his beer.

“Short and pithy — you’ll agree,” he went on, “and it gave me the devil of a jolt. To trace the writer was, of course, an utter impossibility even if there had been time. And there we were confronted with the fact that what we thought was a jealously-guarded secret was nothing of the sort. So I went off post haste to see Lord Surrey. Should we alter the arrangements: postpone the conference or what? Well, postponement was out of the question: Mr. Meteren has to be back in Brussels on Monday. To alter arrangements would have been difficult since the Comte had just flown back to Paris and was only returning that night. So we decided to carry on, and do as the anonymous writer had suggested — guard the Comte. And it was then that I took the liberty, when I found out that his Lordship knew you both, of asking him to invite you. Your methods, Captain Drummond, may at times be irregular, but there are few people I would sooner have beside me if there’s any trouble about than yourself.”

He made a little bow.

“Very nice of you to say so,” said Drummond. “I should like to play.”

“The trouble is,” continued Andrews, “that I have no idea whatever as to what the game is likely to be.”

“It’s just possible,” put in Algy, “that the letter is a hoax.”

“Possibly, but not likely, Mr. Longworth. And even if it were, it doesn’t alter the fact that somebody, inadvertently or otherwise, has spilled the beans. Because it’s preposterous to think that any of the other seven people in the know could have sent me that note. No: I don’t think that letter is a hoax. It is, I believe, a definite warning, sent by someone who has found out about this week-end, who knows that an attempt may be made on the Frenchman’s life, and whose conscience has pricked him. You see, there’s no secret about the fact that there is a large section of people in France, and in other countries too, who would rejoice if the Comte was out of the way.”

“Has he been told about it?” asked Drummond.

“He has. And pooh-poohs the whole thing. Takes up the line that if people in his position paid any attention to threats of that sort they might as well chuck up the sponge straight away. Which is quite true. But the last thing I, or Lord Surrey want, is that the chucking up should occur here.”

“Naturally,” agreed Drummond. “You’ve got some men down, I suppose?”

“Four,” said Andrews. “They’re in the grounds now; they’ll be in the house tonight.”

“ ‘Guns are useless.’ I wonder what that means. Poison?”

The Inspector shrugged his shoulders.

“Possibly. But unless he eats or drinks something different to everybody else the whole house party is in for it.”

“Thanks,” said Drummond with a grin. “What about the servants?”

“Been with his Lordship for years. Besides it is inconceivable that one of them should have sent the note, or given the show away. It would mean that Lord Surrey himself had been indiscreet, otherwise they could never have known.”

“Still somebody has given it away,” remarked Drummond. “And assuming what you’ve said to be correct it must be one of you eight.”

“My own belief is that it’s the Comte himself,” said Andrews. “Quite unintentionally, of course. He’s one of those men who is reckless to the point of foolhardiness where his own safety is concerned. For all that, he’s got to submit to some safety measures tonight, whether he likes it or not.”

“Are they hush-hush?” asked Drummond.

“Not from you,” said the Inspector, “though I don’t want you to pass them on at present. But he is not going to sleep in the room he occupies now. He will dress for dinner there, and then just before he goes to bed a strange defect will be discovered in a fuse. Or else Lord Surrey will tell him the truth point blank. He will sleep in another room, with one of my men outside his door, and I shall spend the night in his present one. Which may lead to us finding out something.”

“You evidently take this as serious,” said Drummond.

“I do. But in any case it’s just as well to be on the safe side. And I think my arrangements, simple though they are, give the maximum of security with the minimum of inconvenience. If trouble comes from the outside it finds me; if it comes from the inside it has to pass one of my men.”

“And what do you want us to do?”

“Keep your eyes open during the evening for anything that strikes you as being suspicious. I shall be on hand in one of the sitting rooms, if you want to get hold of me. And if the phrase ‘Guns are useless’ means anything in the nature of a rough house, you won’t want any prompting,” he added with a grin as he rose. “No, I won’t have another, thanks. I must go and inspect my myrmidons. Probably see you later.”

“So that’s why we were honored, Algy,” said Drummond as the door closed behind the Inspector. “I had hoped that my advice was going to be asked on high matters of state, but life is full of disappointments. However, if we’ve got to do the Sherlock Holmes stunt more beer is indicated. And then we’d better toddle back. But one wonders,” he continued as another tankard was put before him, “why the letter writer was so cryptic. Having gone to the trouble of saying what he did, why the dickens didn’t he say more? Didn’t he know himself, or what stung him?”

“It’s that that made me suspect a hoax,” said Algy.

“You frightful liar,” remarked Drummond dispassionately. “You never thought of the point till I mentioned it. Now mop up your ale, and wipe your chin, and then you must go back and change your dickey. And for heaven’s sake don’t tell old Dinard that French story of yours or all Andrews’ precautions will be wasted. Though I admit,” he added brutally, “that death could only be regarded as a merciful release from listening to it.”

Any setting less suggestive of violence or murder than Oxshott Castle that night it would have been hard to imagine. They had dined in state in the large banqueting hall, a dinner which reflected credit on even Lord Surrey’s far-famed chef — and the conversation at times had been amazingly indiscreet. It had taken the three diplomats a certain amount of time to understand the reason for Drummond’s and Algy’s presence, since by tacit consent no mention was made of the threatening note. The Comte especially appeared to think that Algy was mental — a skeleton in the family cupboard and Drummond his keeper — but the fact did not prevent him making one or two remarks that Fleet Street would have paid thousands for. And Meteren was not far behind in frankness.

It was a dinner to remember.

No women were present, and no other guests had been asked in. And as the meal progressed, Drummond found himself so absorbed in the glimpses — the human, scandalous glimpses — that lie at times behind the wheels of state that he almost forgot the real reason for his presence. And then, the drawn curtains — drawn ostensibly to keep out the mosquitoes — with the motionless bulges behind them on each side of the open window would bring him back to reality. For the bulges were two of Andrews’ men, and two more were outside the door.

He was sitting between the Belgian minister and Mark Stedman, who seemed to have recovered from his temporary irritation of the afternoon.

“I had no idea, Captain Drummond,” he said over the port, “that you were such a friend of Lord Surrey’s.”

“Hardly the way to put it,” smiled Drummond. “His eldest son, who married my first cousin, and I were at Sandhurst together, and the old boy has asked me to shoot several times. Hence grandson Billy calls me uncle.”

“Quite. I thought you were a sort of unofficial bravo brought in to help to protect our guest.”

“You’re perfectly right: I am. I should not be here but for that anonymous threat.”

“What is your opinion of it?” asked Stedman.

“I haven’t one,” said Drummond frankly.

“I saw Inspector Andrews before dinner, and he seems equally at sea. However he is neglecting no precautions. Would it be indiscreet to ask what is your role?”

“Not at all,” answered Drummond. “Since neither Andrews nor his merry men can actually join the party, my job is to keep my eyes skinned in the room itself for anything unusual that may happen.”

“But what could happen?” said Stedman with an amused smile. “It sounds like the thriller of fiction: a secret death-dealing ray or something ridiculous of that sort.”

“It does rather, I admit,” agreed Drummond. “Certainly nothing could appear more removed from anything of that sort than the table at present.”

“And yet,” said Stedman thoughtfully, “it is an amazing thing how science has helped crime, though it sounds rather as if I was contradicting myself.”

“It has helped the detection of crime just as much,” Drummond argued.

“I wonder. I agree with you, of course, over crude commonplace crime, but in those cases the criminal is not availing himself of science, whereas the detective is. The crime I am alluding to belongs to a higher category, and of necessity must be murder.”

“Why, of necessity?”

“Because in burglary or forgery, let us say, however much science is employed in the committing of the crime, the criminal can only obtain his reward by a process where science is of no avail. He must go to a fence: he must pass his dud fivers. And it is in the disposal of his goods, a thing over which the technique is much the same as it was last century, that he gets caught. That does not apply to murder.”

“Perhaps not. But since the time of Cain and Abel there is one thing that has always applied to murder, and no science can alter that.”

“And supposing there is no motive.”

“Then the murderer is a madman,” said Drummond. “Or someone of the Jack the Ripper type.”

“I will amend my remark. Supposing there is no motive that points to any particular individual.”

“I don’t quite get you,” remarked Drummond.

Stedman hitched his chair a little nearer and lowered his voice.

“Let us take an academic case,” he said, “our friend over whom the precautions are being taken tonight. Now the reasons why anyone desires his removal are nothing whatever to do with his private life. There is no question of love, or jealousy, or personal hatred pointing at a specific being, and saying, ‘Thou art the man.’ The reasons are purely public and apply to his political views, which are intensely unpopular amongst thousands of people. That is why I say that if the Comte was murdered tonight, though the motive would be obvious, it wouldn’t help the police to find the murderer.”

“That is true,” agreed Drummond. “And provided the crime was committed with such skill, that the criminal made a clear getaway and left no obvious clues behind him, doubtless he would never be discovered.”

“Which is what I was getting at in the first place,” said Stedman. “Fifty years ago, with the precautions that have been taken tonight a getaway would have been impossible, because the methods of committing the crime were so crude. Short of a gang of men overpowering the police and shooting him, or someone poisoning his whiskey, there was no method of doing the deed. Today that is not the case. And that is where science has helped the criminal more than the detective.”

“I wonder if the Yard would agree with you,” remarked Drummond with a smile.

“Somewhat improbable,” grinned Stedman. “Though it doesn’t alter the fact that it’s the truth. I am firmly convinced that given time, brains and a sufficiency of money it would be a comparatively simple matter to commit an undiscoverable murder.”

“A good many people have thought the same thing and found they were wrong,” said Drummond as they all rose from the table.

“And quite as many have found they were right,” replied Stedman as they moved into the hall. “However let’s hope there’s no question of its being put to the test tonight. I’ve promised to finish two more soldiers for Billy, and high art of that sort requires a steady hand.”

Certainly there had been no question of it when the house party reassembled about midnight prior to going to bed. The three statesmen had disappeared with their host into secret conclave; Stedman, refusing to join the others at drink, had devoted himself to things military in a corner of the billiard room. And now, as everyone helped himself to his own particular night cap, he pointed with pardonable pride to the result of his labors.

Ranged in single file on a tray were the twelve gallant infantrymen and the field marshal on his prancing black horse. The command was small, Stedman admitted, for such an exalted officer, but any attempt to reduce him in rank had been firmly vetoed by Billy. And his actual position on parade was hardly according to the drill book. Instead of leading his army into action the cowardly old gentleman very nearly brought up the rear. Behind him strode a Greenjacket, a stouthearted warrior leading an Army mule, and the sanitary squad in the shape of an R.A.M.C. orderly. The remainder of the force led by the drum major stretched out in front, glistening in their scarlet tunics.

“Don’t touch,” warned Stedman. “They’re still wet.”

“I don’t envy the Highlander,” laughed his Lordship. “It seems to me that the off fore of the Field Marshal’s charger is down his neck.”

“Specially arranged by Billy, sir,” said Stedman. “The Highlander is the Field Marshal’s own private guard.”

He put the tray on the window sill, and glanced at Drummond.

“We compromised on the Black Watch,” he laughed. “So honor is satisfied. Hullo! What has stung the Comte?”

He was gesticulating freely by the fireplace, and Lord Surrey was soothing him down.

“But, my dear fellow,” cried the Frenchman, “it is absurd. I appreciate greatly your care for my safety, and the precautions of the good Inspector. But to change my bedroom, because some madman has written a crazy note — it is surely ridiculous. You will be asking that I look under the bed next, like a hopeful old lady. However — if you insist I can only obey my so charming host. I will go, I think, now, if I may.”

“What’s all the excitement?” whispered Stedman to Drummond.

“One of Inspector Andrews’ precautions,” answered Drummond. “Even the servants don’t know. The Comte’s bedroom has been changed, and Andrews himself is occupying the one he had originally. What on earth is the matter?” he added with a laugh. “You seem quite distressed about it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Stedman. “Why should it distress me? Though I’m inclined to agree with the Comte as to its being most unnecessary.”

“Perhaps. Still it’s as well to be on the safe side.”

He turned away: why had Stedman registered any reaction at all on hearing the news? It had only been momentary — gone in a flash: but to a shrewd observer like Drummond it had stuck out a yard. And how could it possibly affect Stedman personally if the Comte slept in his own bedroom or the coal hole, unless...

He sipped his drink thoughtfully, the conversation at dinner came back to him. Also Stedman’s annoyance over the matter of the kilt. Could it be possible that they were two widely different manifestations of the same failing — conceit? The kilt — irritability because he had been proved wrong; the other, a sort of inverted pride in something planned, and which he could not resist bragging about even though his audience should be unaware of the fact.

“ ’Old ’ard,” muttered Drummond to himself. “You ain’t even trotting: you’re galloping. You’re accusing this bloke Stedman of being the thorn in the flesh. And that’s rot.”

“Then why,” came the reiterated question, “should he care the snap of a finger which is old Dinard’s bedroom? And he did. Of that there’s not a shadow of doubt.”

He turned round to find Algy at his elbow.

“Coming to bed, old bird?” remarked that worthy. “I thought of taking up one of the pikes out of the hall in case a general action occurs during the night. The only thing against it is that a man impaled on the end of a pike would be a dreadful sight at three in the morning. He wouldn’t go with my yellow pajamas at all well.”

He looked at Drummond curiously.

“What’s stung you, Hugh? You seem devilish thoughtful.”

“I’m just wondering, Algy, if I’m being a complete half-wit, or if I’m not. By the way, Andrews did say, didn’t he, that one of his minions was going to be on guard outside Dinard’s door tonight?”

“He did and there he is. Further there is one on guard in the corridor. I’ve just been up to fill my cigarette case and I saw ’em.”

“Good. Then let’s go to bed. I’ve probably got the mental jitters.”

It was half an hour later that the door of Algy’s room opened. He had just smashed his tooth glass with his slipper, in an unsuccessful attempt to swat a mosquito, and was engaged in picking up the fragments, when Drummond came in.

“Unless I’m much mistaken, Algy,” he remarked quietly, “strange things will be abroad tonight.”

The other one stared.

“What sort of things?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Drummond. “So the curtain goes up on a completely unknown play.”

“You annoying blighter,” cried Algy. “Can’t you be a bit more explicit?”

“I can’t,” answered Drummond simply. “I give you my word of honor I’m completely in the dark.”

And he still was the following morning, when by ones and twos the guests drifted into breakfast. For nothing had happened in the night, except that, in common with most of the others, he had been bitten by a mosquito. Once in the distance he thought he had heard the sound of a motor being started and driven away; beyond that nothing had occurred. And with the coming of dawn he had slept.

Breakfast over he strolled out of doors followed by an openly derisive Algy. And outside the open window of the billiard room he paused and looked through at Billy arranging his army, now dry, in new formations, whilst fresh victims were being prepared for Stedman’s art. Then, still in silence, he walked on with Algy beside him.

“What did you think was going to happen, old boy?” asked that worthy for the tenth time. “Or what made you think that anything was going to happen?”

“The Cameron Highlanders,” said Drummond. “Anyone who is sufficiently interested in toy soldiers as to paint them, ought to know the color of their kilts. Hullo! what has Andrews got hold of?”

Coming towards them was the Inspector with one of his men, holding in his hand what seemed to be a long thin twig.

“Good morning, Captain Drummond,” he cried cheerfully. “What do you make of this?”

On closer inspection it proved to be part of the top joint of a salmon rod, snapped off about three feet from the end. But the interesting thing was the small attachment. About an inch below the top of the rod was a small muslin box, fastened securely to the rod. The box was about two inches square, and the framework was made of wood with the fabric stretched taut between. To one side was tied a piece of fine string which passed through the top ring of the rod in the fashion of an ordinary fishing line, and now hung trailing on the ground.

“As you can see,” said Andrews, “when you pull that string you open the box. And unless you pull the string the box can’t open because the lid is held in position by that bit of elastic inside.”

“Where did you find it?” asked Drummond.

“Snapped off in the bush which is Jenkin’s hiding place by day. Moreover it was not there yesterday, or he’d have seen it then.”

“Which means it was broken off last night. Any footprints?”

“None. But with the ground like a board one wouldn’t expect any help in that direction.”

“What do you make of it, Andrews?” said Drummond.

“Since it obviously didn’t get there by itself, there must have been someone prowling around last night carrying the rod of which this is the top. In the darkness it got tangled up in the bush and snapped off, and whatever was inside here escaped. It was something, Captain Drummond, that he intended to poke up from outside through a window in the Castle and allow to escape into the Comte de Dinard’s room. ‘Guns are useless,’ don’t forget. But when he broke his rod, and the thing escaped, the whole plan failed.”

“Somehow or other I don’t think I’d have left that in the bush even if it was broken,” said Drummond thoughtfully. “That little muslin box is beautifully made and could be used again on another rod.”

“But he did leave it there.”

“Yes. But I wonder if it was on the way to the Castle. I wonder if by any chance he did just what you have suggested, then got alarmed or something and broke it on the way back, when the box was no longer of any use and he didn’t mind losing it.”

“Ingenious, my dear Captain Drummond, except for one point you overlooked. You forget that so far as any outsider could know, I was occupying the Comte’s room. And you may take it from me that nobody flapped boxes last night outside my window.”

“No: I hadn’t overlooked it, old boy,” said Drummond quietly. “Anyway the great point is that the Comte’s health, judging by his verbosity at breakfast, is quite unimpaired.”

The Inspector looked at him curiously.

“You’re not satisfied, sir?” he said.

“I’m not,” answered Drummond. “Though I daresay I shall prove utterly wrong.”

“But what’s stinging you?”

Drummond frowned.

“The fact that the kilt of the Camerons is reddish in hue.”

The Inspector looked at Algy; Algy looked at the Inspector.

“He’ll be better after he’s had some beer, Andrews,” he said. “Captain Drummond gets taken like this at times.”

That afternoon the party broke up, and a few days later the whole episode was beginning to fade from Drummond’s mind. He had made a mistake: his suspicions had been fantastic. In any even the Comte de Dinard was still going strong in Paris, which was all that really mattered. No harm had come to him at Oxshott Castle; the worthy Andrews deserved full marks. And, so far as he knew, no harm had come to anyone else. So it came as almost a shock to him when, returning to dress for dinner one evening, he found the Inspector waiting for him in his sitting room.

“Have you a few minutes to spare, Captain Drummond?” he said gravely.

“Certainly, Andrews. As long as you like. I see,” he added, “that something has happened.”

“Something so strange that I have come straight to you. I remember that you were not satisfied when you left the Castle, but at the time you would say nothing. Now, you must.”

“Go on,” said Drummond quietly.

“Have you ever heard of yellow fever?” asked Andrews.

“I have. A tropical disease,” answered Drummond surprised.

“And a very dangerous one. It is fatal more often than not. Do you know how it is carried?”

“I can’t say that I do,” Drummond acknowledged.

“By mosquitoes,” Andrews paused. “You may remember there were a good many mosquitoes at the Castle,” he continued.

“There were,” agreed Drummond.

“You may also remember that little muslin box?”

Drummond nodded.

“And our theory as to what it was for? To let out something — we knew not what — into the Comte’s bedroom.”

Once again Drummond nodded.

“We were right. And what is more you were right when you suggested that the rod had been broken after the owner had been to the Castle and not before.”

“I was, was I?” said Drummond softly.

“That muslin box, Captain Drummond, contained mosquitoes carrying the germs of yellow fever. And the owner of the rod succeeded in reaching the Castle and liberating those mosquitoes. Only he set them free in the wrong room. This afternoon Mr. Stedman died of yellow fever in the Hospital for Tropical Diseases.”

There was a long silence; then Drummond rose and began pacing up and down the room.

“You may further remember,” continued Andrews, “that you told me you hadn’t overlooked the point when I alluded to the nocturnal visitor coming to my window. That now requires elucidation. Have you any idea as to why he went to Mr. Stedman’s? Or was it a fluke?”

“It wasn’t a fluke,” said Drummond gravely. “I sent him there.”

“You sent him there?” The Inspector shot out of his chair as if he had been stung. “What on earth do you mean?”

“You needn’t think that I took him by the hand and led him there,” answered Drummond with a faint smile. “Until this moment I didn’t even know he’d been there. In fact I’ve never seen him or spoken to him. For all that, I sent him there. Listen, Andrews, and I’ll tell you.”

“You remember the billiard room, don’t you, with its broad window sill? Before we went to bed that night a tray of newly painted toy soldiers was placed on the sill. They had been painted by Stedman for the little boy, and we were all of us instructed not to touch them. They were arranged in single file — twelve infantrymen and one large man on a prancing horse. And one of the infantrymen was a Highlander in whom I was particularly interested, because of an argument on kilts that I had had with the artist. And my Highlander was placed so that he was just in front of the horseman.

“Then quite unexpectedly it was announced that the Comte de Dinard was going to change his room. He protested but complied and everybody went to bed — everybody, that is, except me. I wasn’t feeling sleepy, and I sat down in an alcove in the room with a book. I was practically hidden, so that when Stedman returned he didn’t see me. And he crossed to the window, remained there a second and then went out again.

“So, after a moment or two, I also went to the window, and there I noticed a very strange thing. My Highlander, in whom I was so interested, had changed places with the Field Marshal!”

“Good heavens!” whispered Andrews.

“You see it, don’t you,” said Drummond gravely. “Stedman neither knew nor cared anything about soldiers, but hearing that little Billy did, he thought of a darned original scheme for indicating the Comte’s bedroom to someone on the outside. Soldiers that had to be painted and so couldn’t be moved: a tray placed on the window sill so that any man looking in from outside could see it and see where the Field Marshal was. Thirteen bedrooms there were on our floor: thirteen soldiers there were on the tray. And when the Comte moved into the next room...”

Drummond shrugged his shoulders.

“I wonder why Stedman wanted to have him murdered,” he went on thoughtfully.

For a space there was silence whilst Andrews stared at him.

“Stedman’s bedroom was third from the other end,” he said at length.

“I know. That’s why the Field Marshal made yet another move. Just before I turned out the lights and went to bed, I placed two men in front of him. Have a drink.”

Some time ago, the eminent Mr. Orson Welles, in answering a question submitted by your Editor to “Information Please,” insisted that Arsène Lupin was not a detective. “The Lady With the Hatchet” is only one of many proofs that even Mr. Welles can be wrong. Of course, in the early days of his career, Arsène Lupin was the Prince of Thieves; but anyone who can become Chief of the Paris Detective-Service — as Lupin did under the name of M. Lenormand in the novel “813” — must be considered a detective with a vengeance.