Hangman's Holiday

A Montague Egg Story

............

'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 today? 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 ease 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 192s. 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 today 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 to 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 fingernail, '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 whitewash 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 named 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.'

SLEUTHS ON THE SCENT

A Montague Egg Story

............

The commercial room at the Pig and Pewter presented to Mr Montague Egg the aspect of a dim cavern in which some primeval 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 today 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 tonight,' 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 judgement 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 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, so 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 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 Faggots?'

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.

MURDER IN THE MORNING

A Montague Egg Story

............

'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 there 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 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 today 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 certify the smallest fact."' He replaced the diary and drove on, overhauling 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.'

ONE TOO MANY

A Montague Egg Story

............

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 an 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 Bowler, 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 be 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 mail-boat 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, nonexistent 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 mail-boat 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 enquiry 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 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 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 whiskey-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 to 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 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 haircut. 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 on 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 reentering 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?'

MURDER AT PENTECOST

A Montague Egg Story

............

'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 Radcatt 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 Literoe Humaniores will naturally be under suspicion, but, personally, I believe Flathers did it himself. You may have heard him informing us that judgement 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 cannot 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, end 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--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 its 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 about 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 arm-chair, 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 lodging 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 doorkeeper. 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 medieval 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 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, today of all days? If he was once a Fellow of the 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?'

MAHER-SHALAL-HASHBAZ

A Montague Egg Story

............

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 worry. Always the gentleman, that's Monty Egg. King 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 this 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 too 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 goodbye 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, its 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 today--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, but 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.

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 manoeuvre 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 a 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 acknowledgement 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 goodnight 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 when 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 becoming 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 turned 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, at any rate 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 cr�pe 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 neat 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 legpuller. 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.'

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 the 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 it 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 there 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 this 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 man 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 the 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 clock. 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 storey 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 man-servant, who stood in a respectful attitude beside him.