and that shred was strongly impregnated with
moth-balls. At some time or another the films
had been carried in the overcoat pocket of the
man who was killed in the Tube. Was it he
who had dropped them here? Hardly. His
movements were all accounted for.
No, it was the other man, the "doctor." He
had taken the films when he had taken the
paper. It was he who had dropped them here
during his struggle with the woman.
I had got my clue! I would have the roll
developed, and then I would have further
developments to work upon.
Very elated, I left the house, returned the
keys to Mrs. James and made my way as
quickly as possible to the station. On the way
back to town, I took out my paper and
studied it afresh. Suddenly the figures took
on a new significance. Suppose they were a
date? 17 1 22. The 17th of January, 1922.
Surely that must be it! Idiot that I was not to
have thought of it before. But in that case I
must find out the whereabouts of Kilmorden
Castle, for to-day was actually the 14th.
Three days. Little enough—almost hopeless
when one had no idea of where to look!
67
It was too late to hand in my roll to-day. I
had to hurry home to Kensington so as not to
be late for dinner. It occurred to me that
there was an easy way of verifying whether
some of my conclusions were correct. I asked
Mr. Flemming whether there had been a
camera amongst the dead man's belongings. I
knew that he had taken an interest in the case
and was conversant with all the details.
To my surprise and annoyance he replied
that there had been no camera. All Carton's
effects had been gone over very carefully in
the hopes of finding something that might
throw light upon his state of mind. He was
positive that there had been no photographic
apparatus of any kind.
That was rather a set-back to my theory. If
he had no camera, why should he be carrying
a roll of films?
I set out early next morning to take my
precious roll to be developed. I was so fussy
that I went all the way to Regent Street to the
big Kodak place. I handed it in and asked for
a print of each film. The man finished
stacking together a heap of films packed in
yellow tin cylinders for the tropics, and
picked up my roll.
He looked at me.
68
"You've made a mistake, I think," he said,
smiling.
"Oh, no," I said. "I'm sure I haven't."
"You've given me the wrong roll. This is
an unexposed one."
I walked out with what dignity I could
muster. I dare say it is good for one now and
again to realize what an idiot one can be! But
nobody relishes the process.
And then, just as I was passing one of the
big shipping offices, I came to a sudden halt.
In the window was a beautiful model of one
of the company's boats, and it was labelled
"Kenilworth Castle." A wild idea shot
through my brain. I pushed the door open
and went in. I went up to the counter and in a
faltering voice (genuine this time!) I
murmured:
"Kilmorden Castle?"
"On the 17th from Southampton. Cape
Town? First or second class?"
"How much is it?"
"First class, eighty-seven pounds——"
I interrupted him. The coincidence was too
much for me. Exactly the amount of my
legacy! I would put all my eggs in one basket.
69
"First class," I said.
I was now definitely committed to the
adventure.
70
8
(Extracts from the diary of Sir Eustace Pedler,
M.P.)
IT is an extraordinary thing that I never
seem to get any peace. I am a man who
likes a quiet life. I like my Club, my
rubber of Bridge, a well-cooked meal, a sound
wine. I like England in the summer, and the
Riviera in the winter. I have no desire to
participate in sensational happenings. Sometimes,
in front of a good fire, I do not object
to reading about them in the newspaper. But
that is as far as I am willing to go. My object
in life is to be thoroughly comfortable. I have
devoted a certain amount of thought, and a
considerable amount of money, to further
that end. But I cannot say that I always
succeed. If things do not actually happen to
me, they happen round me, and frequently,
in spite of myself, I become involved. I hate
being involved.
All this because Guy Pagett came into my
bedroom this morning with a telegram in his
71
hand and a face as long as a mute at a funeral.
Guy Pagett is my secretary, a zealous, painstaking, hard-working fellow, admirable in
every respect. I know no one who annoys me
more. For a long time I have been racking my
brains as to how to get rid of him. But you
cannot very well dismiss a secretary because
he prefers work to play, likes getting up early
in the morning, and has positively no vices.
The only amusing thing about the fellow is
his face. He has the face of a fourteenthcentury
poisoner--the sort of man the Borgias
got to do their odd jobs for them.
I wouldn't mind so much if Pagett didn't
make me work too. My idea of work is
something that should be undertaken lightly
and airily--trifled with, in fact! I doubt if
Guy Pagett has ever trifled with anything in
his life. He takes everything seriously. That is
what makes him so difficult to live with.
Last week I had the brilliant idea of sending
him off to Florence. He talked about Florence
and how much he wanted to go there.
"My dear fellow," I cried, "you shall go tomorrow.
I will pay all your expenses."
January isn't the usual time for going to
Florence, but it would be all one to Pagett. I
could imagine him going about, guidebook in
72
hand, religiously doing all the picture
galleries. And a week's freedom was cheap to
me at the price.
It has been a delightful week. I have done
everything I wanted to, and nothing that I did
not want to do. But when I blinked my eyes
open, and perceived Pagett standing between
me and the light at the unearthly hour of
9 a.m. this morning, I realized that freedom
was over.
"My dear fellow," I said, "has the funeral
already taken place, or is it for later in the
morning?"
Pagett does not appreciate dry humour. He
merely stared.
"So you know. Sir Eustace?"
"Know what?" I said crossly. "From the
expresion of your face I inferred that one of
your
near and dear relatives was to be
interred this morning."
Pagett ignored the sally as far as possible.
"I thought you couldn't know about this."
He tapped the telegram. "I know you dislike
being aroused early—but it is nine
o'clock"—Pagett insists on regarding 9 a.m.
as practically the middle of the day—"and I
thought that under the circumstances——"
He tapped the telegram again.
73
"What is that thing?" I asked.
"It's a telegram from the police at Marlow.
A woman has been murdered in your house."
That aroused me in earnest.
"What colossal cheek," I exclaimed. "Why
in my house? Who murdered her?"
"They don't say. I suppose we shall go
back to England at once. Sir Eustace?"
"You need suppose nothing of the kind.
Why should we go back?"
"The police——"
"What on earth have I to do with the
police?"
"Well, it was your house."
"That," I said, "appears to be more my
misfortune than my fault."
Guy Pagett shook his head gloomily.
"It will have a very unfortunate effect upon
the constituency," he remarked lugubriously.
I don't see why it should have—and yet I
have a feeling that in such matters Pagett's
instincts are always right. On the face of it, a
Member of Parliament will be none the less
efficient because a stray young woman comes
and gets herself murdered in an empty house
that belongs to him—but there is no
accounting for the view the respectable
British public takes of a matter.
74
"She's a foreigner too, and that makes it
worse," continued Pagett gloomily.
Again I believe he is right. If it is
disreputable to have a woman murdered in
your house, it becomes more disreputable if
the woman is a foreigner. Another idea struck
me.
"Good heavens," I exclaimed, "I hope this
won't upset Caroline."
Caroline is the lady who cooks for me.
Incidentally she is the wife of my gardener.
What kind of a wife she makes I do not know,
but she is an excellent cook. James, on the
other hand, is not a good gardener—but I
support him in idleness and give him the
lodge to live in solely on account of
Caroline's cooking.
"I don't suppose she'll stay after this," said
Pagett.
"You always were a cheerful fellow," I
said.
I expect I shall have to go back to England,
Pagett clearly intends that I shall. And there
is Caroline to pacify.
Three days later.
It is incredible to me that anyone who can
get away from England in winter does not do
TMITBS6 75
so! It is an abominable climate. All this
trouble is very annoying. The house-agents
say it will be next to impossible to let the Mill
House after all the publicity. Caroline has
been pacified--with double pay. We could
have sent her a cable to that effect from
Cannes. In fact, as I have said all along, there
was no earthly purpose to serve by our
coming over. I shall go back tomorrow.
One day later.
Several very surprising things have
occurred. To begin with, I met Augustus
Milray, the most perfect example of an old
ass the present Government has produced.
His manner oozed diplomatic secrecy as he
drew me aside in the Club into a quiet corner.
He talked a good deal. About South Africa
and the industrial situation there. About the
growing rumours of a strike on the Rand. Of
the secret causes actuating that strike. I
listened as patiently as I could. Finally, he
dropped his voice to a whisper and explained
that certain documents had come to light
which ought to be placed in the hands of
General Smuts.
"I've no doubt you're quite right," I said, stifling a yawn.
76
"But how are we to get them to him? Our
position in the matter is delicate--very
delicate."
"What's wrong with the post?" I said
cheerfully. "Put a two-penny stamp on and
drop 'em in the nearest letterbox."
He seemed quite shocked at the suggestion.
"My dear Pedler! The common post!"
It has always been a mystery to me why
Governments employ Kings' Messengers and
draw such attention to their confidential
documents.
"If you don't like the post, send one of your
own young fellows. He'll enjoy the trip."
"Impossible," said Milray, wagging his
head in a senile fashion. "There are reasons,
my dear Pedler--I assure you there are
reasons."
"Well," I said, rising, "all this is very
interesting, but I must be off--"
"One minute, my dear Pedler, one minute,
I beg of you. Now tell me, in confidence, is it
not true that you intend visiting South Africa
shortly yourself? You have large interests in
Rhodesia, I know, and the question of
Rhodesia joining in the Union is one in
which you have a vital interest."
77
"Well, I had thought of going out in about
a month's time."
"You couldn't possibly make it sooner?
This month? This week, in fact?"
"I could," I said, eyeing him with some
interest. "But I don't know that I particularly
want to."
"You would be doing the Government a
great service--a very great service. You would
not find them--er--ungrateful."
"Meaning you want me to be the
postman?"
"Exactly. Your position is an unofficial
one, your journey is bona ride. Everything
would be eminently satisfactory."
"Well," I said slowly, "I don't mind if I
do. The one thing I am anxious to do is to get
out of England again as soon as possible."
"You will find the climate of South Africa
delightful--quite delightful."
"My dear fellow, I know all about the
climate. I was out there shortly before the
war."
"I am really much obliged to you, Pedler. I
will send you round the package by
messenger. To be placed in General Smuts's
own hands, you understand? The Kilmorden
Castle sails on Saturday--quite a good boat."
78
I accompanied him a short way along Pall
Mall, before we parted. He shook me warmly
by the hand, and thanked me again effusively.
I walked home reflecting on the curious byways
of Governmental policy.
It was the following evening that Jarvis, my
butler, informed me that a gentleman wished
to see me on private business, but declined to
give his name. I have always a lively
apprehension of insurance touts, so told
Jarvis to say I coul
d not see him. Guy Pagett,
unfortunately, when he might for once have
been of real use, was laid up with a bilious
attack. These earnest, hard-working young
men with weak stomachs are always liable to
bilious attacks.
Jarvis returned.
"The gentleman asked me to tell you, Sir
Eustace, that he comes to you from Mr.
Milray."
That altered the complexion of things. A
few minutes later I was confronting my
visitor in the library. He was a well-built
young fellow with a deeply tanned face. A
scar ran diagonally from the corner of his eye
to the jaw, disfiguring what would otherwise
have been a handsome though somewhat
reckless countenance.
79
"Well," I said, "what's the matter?"
"Mr. Milray sent me to you, Sir Eustace. I
am to accompany you to South Africa as your
secretary."
"My dear fellow," I said, "I've got a
secretary already. I don't want another."
"I think you do. Sir Eustace. Where is your
secretary now?"
"He's down with a bilious attack," I
explained.
"You are sure it's only a bilious attack?"
"Of course it is. He's subject to them."
My visitor smiled.
"It may or may not be a bilious attack.
Time will show. But I can tell you this. Sir
Eustace, Mr. Milray would not be surprised
if an attempt were made to get your secretary
out of the way. Oh, you need have no fear for
yourself—I suppose a momentary alarm had
flickered across my face—"you are not
threatened. Your secretary out of the way,
access to you would be easier. In any case,
Mr. Milray wishes me to accompany you.
The passage-money will be our affair, of
course, but you will take the necessary steps
about the passport, as though you had
decided that you needed the services of a
second secretary."
80
He seemed a determined young man. We
stared at each other and he stared me down.
"Very well," I said feebly.
"You will say nothing to anyone as to my
accompanying you."
"Very well," I said again.
After all, perhaps it was better to have this
fellow with me, but I had a premonition that
I was getting into deep waters. Just when I
thought I had attained peace!
I stopped my visitor as he was turning to
depart.
"It might be just as well if I knew my new
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