Revelation and the Sparrow
1
His meal over, he left the flat, going first to a District Messengers’
office and then back to the garage for his car.
He knew the road to Marling so well by this time that he could almost
have driven blindfold, and he has said that on this morning he once or
twice found himself to have been sleeping at the wheel. It is certain,
anyhow, that he barely saw where he was going. Such thought as his
tired brain could compass was not of murders and murderers, but of
Love, a Lover and a Lady.
It was, if one is to believe him, at the cross-roads beyond Beachmere
that he made up his mind to see Her, to drive straight to the house on
the bank of the Marle.
He looked at his watch. The hands pointed to ten. He settled down in
his seat. The needle on the speedometer jerked to twenty, to
twenty-five; then gradually crept on till it hesitated between
forty-five and fifty.
His spirits mounted with the speed. The car tore her way into Marling
and down the cobbled slope of the High Street, swung to the left, took
the little bridge at a bound, raced on, turned the corner next on the
left after the river bank on two wheels, ploughed up the little lane,
and pulled up at the gates of the house which was graced with Her
presence.
Or should have been. For the parlourmaid informed him that her
mistress and her mistress’s sister were out. For the day, she thought.
She was not sure, but she imagined the ladies to have gone to London.
Anthony, his fatigue heavy upon him, walked slowly back to his car.
For a moment he sat idle in the driving-seat; then suddenly quickened
into life. Though their ultimate destination might indeed be London,
the women would surely stop on their way through Greyne. For in
Greyne’s jail was Deacon.
So to Greyne he drove at speed. He missed them by five minutes.
Had Anthony Gethryn been a man of common sense he would have returned
at once to his Marling inn, fallen upon his bed, and let Sleep have
her way with him. But he was not, so he stayed with Deacon. Deacon was
obviously—in spite of his flippancy—delighted at this visit. Anthony
stayed with him until two o’clock, when the great Sir Edward Marshall,
K.C., arrived in person for consultation with his latest case, and
then set out for Marling. This he did not reach for two hours, fatigue
and preoccupation having cost him no fewer than three wrong turnings.
At the inn was waiting the reply to the letter he had sent by District
Messenger that morning. It had come, this reply, in the form of a
seemingly ordinary message over the inn’s telephone. It was what he
had expected, but nevertheless it made it necessary for him to think.
And think he did, sitting on the hot grass bank at the edge of the
little bowling-green behind the inn, for as long as it takes to smoke
one cigar and two pipes. Then he sought the bar, to slake a savage
thirst.
He ordered a meal to be served at seven. To pass the hour that must
elapse before this and to throw off the lassitude brought on by his
fatigue and the oppression of the day’s heavy, airless heat, he sought
the bathroom and much cold water.
After the bath he felt better. He returned to his quarters whistling.
Crossing his sitting-room to get to the bedroom which opened out of
it, he saw something he had not noticed when going bath-wards. The
whistling ceased abruptly. On the table in the centre of the room lay
an envelope. His name was on it, in hurried, pencilled scrawl. The
writing was feminine.
He ripped it open, read, and jumped for the door. The pink-cheeked
chambermaid came running. She would not have believed this quiet
gentleman could shout so loud, nor so angrily.
Anthony, his lank black hair dishevelled, his long, lean body swathed
in a bath-gown, towered wrathfully above her.
“When did this note arrive?” He waved the envelope in her face.
The girl fingered her apron. “Oh, sir! It came this morning, please,
sir. Lady left it, sir. Just after ten, it was. Mrs. Lermeesherer,
sir.”
“I know, I know!” Anthony snorted. “But why in Satan’s name wasn’t I
told about it when I got back this evening?” He went back into his
room, slamming the door and feeling not a little ashamed of himself.
The little chambermaid clattered downstairs to discuss with her
colleagues the strange effect of a note upon a gentleman before so
pleasant.
Anthony clad himself with speed; then ran downstairs to the telephone.
The answer to his first call was disappointing. No, Mrs. Lemesurier
was not back; would not be, probably, until eight.
He rang off, swore, bethought him of his work, made sure that the door
of the telephone cabinet was closed, lifted the receiver and asked for
another number.
It was ten minutes before he left the cabinet and went slowly to his
dinner. He ate little, fatigue, preoccupation, and the stifling heat
of the evening combining to deprive him of appetite. Over coffee he
re-read his letter. It is a tribute to his self-restraint that he had
delayed so long. It was a short letter, running thus:—
“Dear Mr. Gethryn,—I am sorry you were out: I wanted to apologise
for my unpardonable behavior. I can’t think what made me so foolish;
and quite see now that you had to talk to Jim and also that he was
none the worse for the interview—in fact I hear from Mr. Hastings,
who rang up early this morning, that he is ever so much better!
“If you are not too busy and would care to, do come and see us this
evening. I would ask you to dinner, but we shall probably be late
and have a very scrappy meal.
“Yours gratefully,
“Lucia Lemesurier.”
“P.S.—You were rather hard on me, weren’t you? You see, I had asked
Dot and she had urged me to go to town!”
There is a peculiar and subtle and quite indefinable pleasure that
comes to a man when the woman he loves first writes to him. Soever
curt, soever banal the letter, there is no matter. It is something
from Her to him; something altogether private and secret; something
She has set down for him to read; something not to be shared with a
sordid world.
Anthony lost himself in this sea of subtle delight, varying joy with
outbursts against himself for having exhibited such boorishness and
for being so insanely, so youthfully in love. “For, after all,” he
told himself, “I haven’t known her for a week yet. I’ve spoken with
her not a dozen times. I am clearly a fool!”
Unpleasant thoughts broke in upon him. He looked at his watch; then
jumped to his feet and made his way upstairs to his rooms. He reached
them mopping his forehead. He could not remember a day in England so
oppressive.
He took his hat and turned to leave the room. As he did so a rush of
wind swept in through the open window, and a long, low angry mutter of
thunder came to his ears. Then, with a rush, came the rain; great
sheets of it, glistening in the half-dusk.
Anthony put on a mackintosh, substituted a cap for the hat, and left
the inn. He did not take his car. Even as he turned out of the yard
into the cobbled street, the thunder changed from rumble to sharp,
staccato reports, and three jagged swords of lightning tore the black
of the sky.
Anthony strode on, hands thrust deep into pockets, chin burrowed into
the upturned collar of the trench-coat. Incredibly almost, the volume
of rain increased and increased.
2
Mr. Poole the butler—Anthony once said that he sounded like a game of
Happy Families—was in a state of nervous agitation verging upon
breakdown. The events of the past few days had shaken him, for some
time an old man aged beyond his years, to such extent that he would
not, he was sure, “ever be the same man again.”
He sat in the little room opposite that which had been the master’s
study. He shivered with age, vague fears, and fervent distaste for the
storm whose rain beat upon the windows, whose sudden furies of wind
shook the old house, whose flashes of lightning played such havoc with
the nerves.
Mr. Poole was alone. Miss Hoode had retired. Sir Arthur was reading in
the billiard-room at the other end of the house. Belford was on three
days’ holiday, his wife, it seemed, being an invalid. The other
servants were certainly either in bed or huddled together moaning as
women will at the violence of the storm.
Mr. Poole was alone. All manner of lurking terrors preyed upon him.
There were noises. Sounds which seemed like the master’s voice. Sounds
which seemed like the rustling of curtains, whispering and soft
footsteps. Elusive sounds as of doors opening and shutting. Mr. Poole
trembled. He knew, his fears groundless; imaginings born of the
roaring rattle of the Universe. But nevertheless he trembled.
Suddenly there came a knocking on the great front door. This knocking
was not loud, yet it seemed to the old man the more terrible for that.
For there is always something terrible about a knock upon a door.
For a full minute he strove to leave the shelter of the little,
cheerful, glowing room. At last he succeeded, struggling through the
beastly mysteries of the dimly lighted hall to open with trembling
hands the great oak door.
Anthony stepped over the threshold; stripped off dripping cap and
mackintosh.
“A dirty night, Poole,” he said.
“It is indeed, sir! Indeed it is, sir!” The old man’s voice was
hysterical with relief.
Across the hall to them came Sir Arthur, sturdy, benign, hair as
smoothly brushed as ever.
“Oh, it’s you, is it, Gethryn?” he said. “I wondered who was knocking.
You must have very pressing business to bring you up here on a night
like this. Aren’t you wet?”
“Nothing to speak of. I wanted to talk with you. It’s important—and
urgent.”
Sir Arthur grew eager. “My dear boy, of course. Where shall we go?
Billiard-room?”
“All right.”
They turned, but before they had crossed the hall,
“Tell you what,” Anthony said, “the study’d be better. Not so near the
servants, you know.”
“You’re right,” Sir Arthur agreed.
The study had that queer stillness which comes to a room at one time
in constant use and then suddenly deserted save for the morning
activities of a servant with duster and broom. It had an air of almost
supernatural lifelessness, increased, perhaps, by the fact that now
everything was in its accustomed place; the same pictures on the
walls; the table; the chairs; the very curtains cutting off the alcove
at the far end of the room hanging in the old slightly disordered
folds.
A silence fell upon both men while they found chairs and drew them up
to the table, under the light.
Sir Arthur spoke first. “Out with it, now, Gethryn. You’ve excited me,
you know.” He rubbed his hands. “I’ve always thought you’d do
something; go one better than those damn’ fools of policemen!”
Anthony leant back in his chair. “This,” he said, “is a most unusual
business. I said so at the beginning, and, by God, I say so now! You
might say that I have solved the mystery. After I’ve told you, that
is. And in another way, as you’ll see, it’s more of a puzzle than
ever.”
Sir Arthur leant forward. “Go on, man, go on! Do you mean to say you
actually know who killed John?”
“I do not.” Anthony laid his head against the back of his chair and
closed his leaden, burning eyes.
Sir Arthur started to his feet. A crash of thunder drowned his words.
Followed a zig-zag of lightning so vivid as to seem more a
stage-effect than an outburst of nature. Outside, the rain fell
heavily, solidly—a veil of water. The furious blast of wind which had
come hard on the heels of the great peal died away in a plaintive
moan.
Anthony opened his eyes. “What did you say? Before that barrage, I
mean.”
Sir Arthur paced the room. “What did I say?” he exploded. “I said that
if you hadn’t found out who did it, I couldn’t see the use of coming
here and gabbling about mystery. Damn it, man, we’re not in a
two-shilling novel! We’ve got to get Deacon off, that’s what we’ve got
to do! _And_ find the murderer! Not sit here and play at Holmes and
Watson. It’s _silly_, what we’re doing! And I expected great things of
you, Gethryn!”
“That,” Anthony said placidly, “was surely foolish.”
Sir Arthur made impatient sounds in his throat; but lessened the pace
of his prowling. Under the graying hair his broad forehead was creased
in a tremendous frown.
Anthony lit a cigarette. “But I may yet interest you,” he went on.
“You said, I think, that you wished to lay your hands on the
murderer.”
“I did. And by God I meant it!”
Anthony looked up at him. “Suppose you sit down and then I’ll tell you
all about it.”
“Sit down!” Sir Arthur shouted. “Sit down! God above, you’ll be
telling me to keep calm next!” He flung himself into his chair. “Here
I am then. Now get on!” He buried his face in his hands; then looked
up to say: “You must forgive me, Gethryn; I’m not myself. I’ve been
more on edge the last few days—a lot more—than I’ve let any one see.
And to-night, somehow, my nerves have gone. And when you came with
news I thought it meant that you’d caught the real murderer and that
the boy would get off—and—and everything!”
“I was going to tell you,” Anthony said, “that the murderer of John
Hoode will never be caught. To get him is impossible. Please
understand that when I say impossible I mean it.”
“But why, man? Why?” cried Sir Arthur.
“Because,” said Anthony slowly, “he doesn’t exist.”
“What?” Sir Arthur was on his feet again at a bound astonishing in its
agility.
Anthony lay back in his chair. “I can’t bear it! I can’t bear it!” he
said plaintively. “You know, you’re very violent to-night. I can’t
talk if you will jump about so.”
The elder man groaned apology and sat again in his chair. His eyes,
bewildered, sought Anthony’s.
Raising his voice to carry above the increasing roar of the storm,
Anthony said: “Sorry if I seem too mysterious. But you must let me
elucidate in my own way. Here goes: I have said that the murderer of
John Hoode doesn’t exist. I don’t mean that the murderer’s dead or
that Hoode committed suicide. I mean that John Hoode was never killed;
is not, in fact, dead.”
Sir Arthur’s lips moved, but no sound came from them. His chair was
outside the circle of light and it was by the vivid violet
illumination of a quivering glare of lightning that Anthony saw the
pallor the shock of his revelation had caused. Following that
lightning came peal after peal of thunder.
As it died away, Anthony saw that the other was speaking. He had not
moved in his chair, but his strong, square hands were twisting about
each other to testify to the intensity of his emotion.
“What are you telling me?” he whispered. “Are you mad? John not dead!
John not dead! Why, it’s idiocy—stark idiocy to say what you have
said!”
Anthony shook his head. “It isn’t. Whatever it is, it isn’t that. Wait
till I have told you more. It’s a long tale and strange.”
Sir Arthur moistened his lips with his tongue but did not speak.
Anthony’s words had carried conviction; his words and a way he had of
commanding attention.
The thunder, after the outburst of a moment before, seemed to have
ceased entirely. No sudden furies of wind shook the house. The only
sounds in the oppressive room were the tick-tick of the grandfather
clock and the soft hish-hish of the rain against the closed windows.
Anthony drew a deep breath, and began:—
“My first impression of this affair was, as you know, that it was a
straightforward murder, committed by some member of this household.
Later, I had good reason to search this table here, and it was
from the time of that search that I began to revise my theories.
In this table I found—as I had expected—a drawer hidden from the
casual eye. From that drawer I took some letters, a collection of
newspaper-cuttings, a memorandum book, and other papers. You shall
see them all in due course.
“The letters gave me my first inkling that there was something more
obscure about the case than I had thought. So I went to the lady who
had written those letters. From her I got the first pieces of the
story, not without difficulty. I also went to see a man who had once
been Hoode’s secretary. He was obliging and clever. He had seen
things, heard things, while he served Hoode, that had set him
thinking. He thought so much that he employed, on his own initiative,
a private detective. I have seen the detective. The detective, even
after he was told to drop the business, went on detecting. You see, he
had become interested. He is not a nice man. He smelt scandal and
money. He, without knowing it, has helped me to piece together the
whole amazing story—the story which shows how it was that John Hoode
was not killed.” Anthony paused, taking a last puff at his cigarette.
Sir Arthur, gray of face, hammered with his fists on the
leather-padded arms of his chair.
“But the body!” he gasped. “The body! It was there!” He glanced wildly
over his shoulder at the fireplace. “I saw it! I tell you I saw it!”
His voice gathered strength. “And the inquest, the arrests, the
identifications! And the funeral! Why, you fool!” he cried in a great
voice, “the funeral is to-morrow. All England will be there! And you
tell me this absurd story. What in God’s name has come to you that you
can play pranks of this sort? Haven’t we all suffered enough without
this?” The man was shaking.
Anthony sat up. “Wait!” he said. “And let me finish. I said that John
Hoode had not been murdered. I did not say that no murder had been
done. Murder was done. I know it. You know it. The world knows it. But
what you and the world do not know is that the body upon which the
inquest was held, the body which is to be buried to-morrow, is not the
body of John Hoode!”
Sir Arthur glared at him. “What does this mean?” he said, and his lips
trembled. “What is all this? I don’t understand! I—I——”
Sleep was creeping insidiously upon Anthony. He wished that the storm
had not ceased. Its violence had at least helped to keep one awake,
helped to conquer this deadly fatigue which made talking so great an
effort.
He began again: “The story is this. And though it’s as mad as Hatta
and the King’s Messenger, it’s true. John Hoode’s mother, as you
probably know, was, before marriage, a Miss Monteith. His father, as
you must know also, was John Howard Beauleigh Hoode. Now, do you know
that your John Hoode is very like—to look at, I mean—one of his
parents and not the other?”
“Yes, yes. He and his father were—well like twin brothers almost.”
“Exactly. John Howard Beauleigh Hoode had a way of passing on his
features. John Howard Beauleigh Hoode was married to Miss Adeline Rose
Monteith in ’73. In ’72 John Howard Beauleigh Hoode’s mistress, the
daughter of Ian Dougal—he was a smith in Ardenross—gave birth to a
son. That son, named also John, was maintained and educated at his
father’s expense; but he turned out as complete a waster as any man
well could be. John Hoode—your John—didn’t know of his half-brother’s
existence until John Howard Beauleigh Hoode’s death. When he did find
out—from his father’s executors, I imagine—John—your John—was good to
his bastard brother; and when first he saw him, he marvelled
exceedingly at this bastard brother’s likeness to him, for to look at
his face was almost like looking into a mirror.
“The result of his kindness was the expected. Ingratitude, surliness,
constant demands for money and yet more money; finally threats and
blackmail——”
“No, no, no!” groaned Sir Arthur, his face in his hands. “It’s all
lies, lies! I knew John. He told me everything, everything!”
“Not he,” Anthony said. “I’ve all the papers. Some of them here.” He
tapped his breast-pocket. “Birth certificates. Copy of John Howard
Beauleigh Hoode’s will, and so on. It’s all by the book. Well, things
went from bad to worse and from worse to intolerable for John—your
John. These threats—I’ll show you some letters later—wore his nerves,
his health, to shreds. He tried every way of kindness—and failed.”
Anthony paused to moisten with his tongue his parched lips.
“Finally,” he went on, “John—your John—found his work for the State to
be suffering. He is, as I see him, an upright, conscientious, kindly
man, but determined. He made up his mind. He would help once more, but
once more only. He sent for the other John. He told him when and how
to come, how to approach the house, to get into this room by that
window, all without being seen.
“The other John came at the appointed time and knocked on the window.
Your John helped him in. The other John, as always, was rotten with
liquor. Your John told of the determination he had come to that this
was to be the last time if the other John did not amend his ways. Then
came trouble. Perhaps half-brother was more drunk than usual. Anyhow,
he attacked your John. Sodden with drink though he was, he was the
more powerful man. But John—your John—managed somehow to tear himself
free. Not knowing what he did; he picked up the heavy poker and
struck, not once, but many times——”
“But what—— Good God——!”
Anthony overrode the interruption. “Wait. Don’t speak till I’ve
finished. Appalled at what he had done, he stood looking down at his
bastard half-brother’s body. It sprawled there on the hearth in its
untidy, shabby, mud-stained clothes. It was not, I conceive, a pretty
sight. Then John—your John—did what better men had done before him. He
lost his head. Completely he lost his head. And he thought at the time
that he was clever!
“He locked the door, quietly, as the struggle had been quiet. Better
for him had the struggle been noisy! He stripped to the skin. Then,
naked as he was born, he stripped that sprawling thing which had been
his brother. He donned the foul linen and musty clothes, the worn-out
boots. More horrid still, he clad the body in his own good clothing.
Carefully he did it, even to the tying of the black bow. And all the
time, beneath his horror, was wonder for the amazing likeness of the
thing’s face and body to his own. For half-brother John was not one of
those who carry the stamp of their dissipations.
“Then John—your John—hurried away. Through that window he went. As he
crouched outside it, he heard the door of the room, which he had
unlocked, open. He peered, and saw his sister. He saw her hand fly to
her bosom. He saw her rush to the thing on the hearth. And he knew
that his sister took that Thing for the brother she had known and
loved and cherished all her life.
“He heard her scream. He saw her sway and fall. For an instant sanity
returned, and he thought of going back to help her. Then fear got him
by the throat again; fear of arrest; fear of publicity; fear of the
hangman. He saw it all. And he drifted silently away through the
darkness. And next morning, while the world read about his death, John
Hoode lay in a Whitechapel doss-house. Later, an officious policeman
found a carpenter’s wood-rasp and on it some blood and some
finger-prints. So Deacon was arrested for the murder of a man who was
still alive. The blood on that wood-rasp was not the dead man’s, nor
were the finger-prints Deacon’s. The explanation is long, but I will
give it if you like.” Anthony half closed his eyes and lay back in his
chair.
A silence fell upon the room.
Sir Arthur shattered it. He leapt to his feet, his virility returned
uncannily, a thousandfold. The light-blue eyes held fire in them.
“It’s a lie!” he roared. “It’s a lie!” He smashed his fist down upon
the table. “A lie, I tell you! What’s that?” He turned sharply to face
the end of the room.
“What?” Anthony rose to his feet.
“Nothing, nothing.” He came close to Anthony. “What you tell me is
lies! All lies! Lies and more lies, you——” His voice rose with each
word.
Suddenly, amazingly, Anthony shouted too. “It’s true, and you must
believe it! Your help is wanted.” He thrust his thin, dark face at the
other’s. “It’s the truth! Truth! D’you understand? I know! I know
because, because _Hoode told me himself—to-day! He’s coming here
to-night! Now!_”
Sir Arthur flung his arms above his head. “Lies, lies, lies!” His
voice rose to a harsh, unnatural scream. “All lies! God rot him!
Christ torture his soul in hell! He’s dead! He’s dead! You fool! _I_
know, _I_, _I!_ You know nothing!” His hands seemed to be reaching
higher, clawing, as if they would tear holes in heaven. “You fool!” he
screamed again. “He’s dead. _I_ know! _I killed him!_ I climbed down
and killed him——”
Anthony sat down on the edge of the table. “That’ll be all, I think,”
he said.
The curtains over the alcove at the end of the room parted. From
behind them came three men: the first tall and of middle-aged
immaculateness, the second an obvious detective-inspector, the third
negligible save for the pencil and notebook he carried.
Sir Arthur turned, crouching like an animal, to see the invasion. In a
flash he whipped round and leapt at Anthony’s throat, his arms
outflung, his fingers crooked. Anthony, still sitting, had little time
to avoid the rush. He raised a knee sharply. Sir Arthur fell to the
floor, where for a time he rolled in agony.
The obvious detective-inspector bent over him. There was a click of
handcuffs.
The immaculate man advanced to the table. “Very good indeed, Gethryn,”
he said.
“Thanks,” Anthony said. “I suppose you’re satisfied now, Lucas?”
“Eminently, Gethryn, eminently!” Mr. Lucas beamed.
“Then that’s all right.” Anthony’s tone was heavy. “Now what about
young Deacon? Can you unwind the red tape quickly?”
Mr. Lucas leant forward. “If you like,” he whispered, “I can arrange
for him to get away to-night. It’s all very wrong and most unofficial;
but I can manage it. Speak to the chief on the phone and all that sort
of thing, you know.”
Anthony’s face relaxed into a smile. “Good for you. You might have
Deacon told that if he likes I can arrange for the Bear and Key to fix
him up for to-night.”
“I’ll tell him myself,” said the other. “You’re really rather a wonder,
Gethryn! We ought to have you as a sort of super-superintendent. Or you
might do well on the stage. At one time just now you almost took me in
with that grisly tale and manner of yours. And what a yarn it was, too.
Just enough to make that half-crazy devil think he’d killed the wrong
man. Enough, I mean, to make him wonder whether you hadn’t got half the
tale right and had only gone astray about who actually did the bashing.”
Lucas chuckled reminiscently. “I say,” he added, “it was a good thing
nobody heard us getting in here through the window. It would’ve spoilt
the whole thing. The storm effect helped everything along nicely,
though, didn’t it?”
“It did,” Anthony said. “I didn’t arrange that, you know.”
Mr. Lucas smiled. “No, I suppose not; though I’m so full at the moment
of wonder and admiration for the great Colonel Gethryn that if any one
told me you had, I don’t know that I should disbelieve ’em.” He turned
to look at the prisoner. “God!” he exclaimed. “Look at that!”
For Sir Arthur was sitting quietly at the feet of the plain-clothes
man. And he was playing a little game with his manacled hands, tracing
with both forefingers the intricate pattern of the carpet. Every now
and again he would look up at his guard and laugh. It was not a
pleasant sound, being childish and yet somehow evil.
Anthony looked, then turned away with a shiver. Lucas dropped a hand
on his shoulder.
“Never mind, Gethryn,” he said, after a moment. “It isn’t your fault.”
Anthony shook off the hand. “Damn it, I know that! Only the whole
thing is so filthy. It might be said, I know, that I sent That mad.
But it wouldn’t be true. He did that himself. Hatred, ingrowing hatred
of a better man: that’s the cause.”
Lucas was thoughtful. “It complicates things, this madness.”
“It does. What’ll happen?”
“Usual, I suppose. The case’ll be tried. He’ll be convicted—and sent
to Broadmoor, where he’ll die, or recover in a year and be let out to
kill some one else. We’re so humane, you know!” Lucas was bitter.
“Anyhow, you won’t be bothered any more, except for the trial, at
which you’ll figure prominently. Oh, yes! Great glory will be yours,
Gethryn. Think what a press you’ll have!”
Anthony grunted his disgust.
Lucas went on: “Lord! _What_ a stir this is going to make. Millionaire
M.P. arrested for murder of Cabinet Minister! It won’t be nice for us
at the Yard either. Not at all nice! Getting hold of an innocent man
and all that. Police shown the way by amateur!” He groaned. “Never
mind, _The Owl_ shall be the first to publish anything. I arranged
that before I came down. And then they’ll have that report of yours to
get out, too. What envy will tear Fleet street! Of course, that report
can’t come out yet, you know. At least, I don’t think so; not before
the trial——”
Anthony started. “Lucas,” he said, “there’s something we’ve
forgotten.” He put a hand up to his hair.
“Gad! So we have. Let’s see.”
Together they stooped over the prisoner. He looked up at them and
cackled.
“Rotten business!” Anthony grunted. “Seems almost indecent when the
man’s like this.” He put his hand on Sir Arthur’s head. His fingers
groped for a moment; then came away. With them came that immaculate
head of graying hair.
“Wonderful _toupé_!” Lucas stretched out his hands for it. “I’d never
have noticed it. And I thought they were always obvious. Well, that’s
the last confirmation of your theory, Gethryn.” He peered at Anthony.
“Lord! You look worn out, man!”
Anthony said heavily: “I am. Think I’ll get back to bed at my pub.”
Lucas glanced at his watch. “Yes, do. Get off now: it’s only ten past
eleven. Shall——”
“What time did you say it was?”
“Eleven-ten.”
“Gad! I thought I’d been here at least five hours. Only eleven-ten!
And I’m sitting here!” Anthony made for the door.
Lucas grabbed at his arm. “Here, what’s to do?”
“Got to go and pay a call.” Anthony wrenched himself free and got to
the door, paused to say over his shoulder: “Don’t tell Deacon to come
to my pub. Just let him go. He’ll get where I want him,” and was gone.
Lucas stared after him. “Fool ought to be in bed,” he muttered.
“Clever devil, though, but queer!” He turned to the business on hand.
Sir Arthur still sat on the floor, playing his game. His fingers
wandered ceaselessly over the carpet. His head, bald save for a
sand-coloured tonsure, was sunk between his square shoulders. Every
now and then he laughed that high-pitched laugh.