I
Chief-Inspector Andrew MacMorran, of New Scotland Yard, listened attentively to the story which the Commissioner of Police was unfolding to him. Anthony Lotherington Bathurst sat at his side. Sir Austin Kemble was reciting the events which had gone to make up what the Press had already labelled as ‘the Remington sensation.’
“Colonel Henderson is the Chief Constable down there and he happens to be a very old friend of mine. We were in the Service together. Directly he realized what the case meant, he called in the ‘Yard.’ Got through to me here at once. I only wish other people in similar circumstances to Henderson would do the same. Would save us no end of trouble.”
“Ay, sir,” replied MacMorran. “I’m in direct agreement with that.”
Mr. Bathurst intervened. “And you say that Mrs. Warren Clinton has disappeared?”
“That’s so, Mr. Bathurst. Vanished into thin air. Nobody has set eyes on her since she said ‘good night’ to her guests that evening in the Royal Sceptre Hotel, Remington.”
“Of course—that’s as far as you know.”
“Of course. As far as is known.”
“It’s conceivable,” said MacMorran, “as I see things, that this Mrs. Clinton may well be the guilty party. After all, according to the story which we’re asked to believe, she invited these people down to Remington in the first place. Who is the woman and what is really known about her?”
The Commissioner told MacMorran.
“Nebraska—eh?” returned the Inspector.
“I know her by name,” supplemented Anthony, “her reputation for riches has been well exploited in the Press for some years now. She’s been described by many of the American journalists in that singularly illuminating phrase, ‘a definite character.’”
Sir Austin Kemble nodded. “Quite so, Bathurst. I’ve read such accounts of her myself.”
“It’s all rather fantastic, Sir Austin. Don’t you think so?”
“Perhaps it is. At the moment. But we don’t know all, do we? In fact, on the contrary, we know very little. When we begin to dig into things a bit we may well find a very different complexion put on the matter.”
Sir Austin pursed his lips after he had delivered himself of this judgment. MacMorran coughed discreetly. Anthony Bathurst rubbed his hands.
“It’s an attractive case, I admit. I think the Inspector and I should pass a hearty vote of thanks to your friend Colonel Blimp for having tossed it into our laps. At any rate, that’s how I’m feeling about it.”
“His name’s not Blimp—it’s Henderson—Colonel Henderson—I imagined that I made that clear.”
“I’m sorry,” murmured Bathurst. “I meant to say Henderson.”
Sir Austin glared at him suspiciously. Then he seemed to remember the terms of what had been his original intention. “I want you and MacMorran to go down there, Bathurst. Down to Remington. Today, some time, if it’s at all convenient. There’s a fast train from Paddington somewhere about midday.” Sir Austin consulted a slip of paper. “12.14 actually. Colonel Henderson told me. Can you do it?”
“Yes. I’ve nothing on that can’t be put off.”
“Good. That’s settled then. There’s one thing—you won’t find the scent stone-cold. Henderson says that his men have the matter well in hand. That is, of course, up to a point.”
“Right,” replied Anthony, picking up his hat. “I’ll meet you at Paddington, Andrew, as the clock is striking twelve.”
II
In the train with MacMorran, on the journey down to Remington, Anthony read many newspapers. Their accounts of the double tragedy at the Royal Sceptre Hotel were extremely varied. Past Reading, Anthony tossed the papers over to the Inspector.
“On the whole, Andrew, not very illuminating. I shall steadfastly refuse to come to any conclusion whatever.”
“I entirely agree, Mr. Bathurst.”
“Who’s the man in charge of the case at Remington? Any idea?”
“An Inspector Legge. I’ve never met him that I can remember. To all accounts, he’s an excellent man. This affair, though, is probably too big for him. Taken him out of his depth a bit. That’s why they asked the ‘Yard’ to take a hand.”
Anthony nodded. “I suppose so. But tell me, Andrew—I’m interested to know—how does the affair strike you?”
“In what way—exactly?” McMorran was nothing if not cautious.
“Well—do you see anything behind it—beyond the mere fact of murder? And—shall we say, the somewhat sordid infraction of the seventh commandment?”
MacMorran puffed solemnly at his pipe. At last he ventured an opinion. “Well—to tell the truth—I do—and that’s a fact.”
“What do you see, Andrew?”
“Don’t know—quite. But something big. That’s the only way in which I can describe it. I feel that there must be big interests at stake. The feeling’s in my bones.”
Anthony nodded almost as though he were in complete agreement. “Go on, Andrew. Expound. Tell me more—you’ve started something in my mind.”
MacMorran pressed down the burning tobacco in his pipe. “Well—in the first place, what’s behind this American woman? Why did she decide to come over here,? A very rich woman at that. What’s the real truth behind her visit? She must have been up to something. Take these so-called party invitations to start with.”
The Inspector paused. Anthony took things up from where MacMorran had left them. “Yes. I could bear to know a great deal more concerning them. So far I have but the haziest of notions as to what they were all about. I’ve read the notes that you gave me on the case and I’ll frankly confess that they left me completely puzzled. By the way—what is Mrs. Warren Clinton’s age? I don’t remember that I’ve run across it anywhere in your notes.”
MacMorran thought. “In the early sixties, I believe—sixty-two.”
“Thanks. Her husband, I fancy, died in the October of last year. Am I right?”
“You are, Mr. Bathurst. In Nebraska, U.S.A.”
“Well—I’m keeping an open mind. In many respects I’m inclined to regard it as the strangest case that has ever come our way. If I’m asleep, wake me up, Andrew, when we run into Remington.”
III
Anthony Lotherington Bathurst sat with Inspector Legge of the Remington police and Chief-Inspector MacMorran of New Scotland Yard. Legge had recounted the details of the murders in the ‘Nonpareil’ suite of the ‘Royal Sceptre.’ They sat in the manager’s office on the ground floor of the hotel. Legge was talking when Anthony intervened with a question.
“You say that there is a patch of blood on the carpet in this buffet room?”
“Yes. Doctor Morton, the Divisional Surgeon who was called in directly the bodies were discovered has tested it and is satisfied that the stain on the carpet is human blood.”
“I should like to visit the rooms,” said Anthony, turning to MacMorran.
Legge led the way to the ‘Nonpareil’ suite. He explained how the bodies of Denver and Angela Ramage had been found.
“What clothes were they wearing?” asked Anthony.
“None,” replied Legge curtly. “Each body was nude.”
Anthony nodded. “I see. Was Mrs. Ramage an attractive woman, can you tell me? I’ve seen her photographs, especially since she entered Parliament, but I always think that photographs give you very little real idea of what a person is like—particularly with regard to a woman.”
“I asked the same question,” said Legge. “I am informed that Mrs. Ramage was a distinctly attractive woman.”
“Thank you, Inspector. Mrs. Ramage’s husband was also a member of Mrs. Clinton’s party, I understand?”
“That is so, Mr. Bathurst.”
“Now tell me this, Inspector. What success have you had in tracing Mrs. Clinton?”
“None at all. All the enquiries we have made so far have yielded nothing.”
“I see. So that we start by being properly up against it.”
Legge smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid that is so, Mr. Bathurst.”
“Ah—well—we won’t be discouraged on that account.”
“I should suggest,” ventured MacMorran, “that our first step should be to interview, one by one, the various members of Mrs. Warren Clinton’s guest party.”
“I entirely agree, Andrew. Eminently sound idea! Have you considered the order in which we should interview them?”
MacMorran looked puzzled. “No. I hadn’t considered that point at all. Quite frankly, Mr. Bathurst, I don’t know that I get you.”
Anthony smiled. “I don’t know that I get myself. But it struck me that we should interview Ramage last of all. He was with Suddards when the bodies were discovered and he also happens to be the husband of one of the victims. I feel that we should have the opportunity of hearing the accounts of the various other people before we hear his story. Do you agree, Inspector?”
MacMorran accepted the position. “Yes. I accept that. Have you any preconceived ideas as to the order in which the others should be interviewed?”
Anthony shook his head. “No, none at all. In your hands, Inspector.”
“Good. Then we may as well have them in here. And to show there’s no favouritism, I’ll see them in strictly alphabetical order. Let me glance at the list.”
MacMorran ran his eye down the list of names before speaking to Inspector Legge. “Ask Sir Edward Angus to come in, will you, Inspector Legge?”
Sir Edward was quick to obey the summons. His face was familiar to Anthony, and when he took the seat that Legge offered to him he polished his horn-rimmed spectacles with a silk handkerchief and nodded genially to the three men he saw confronting him. Before he questioned him, MacMorran made him aware of the rules with regard to the submission of any statement he cared to make. Sir Edward Angus smiled affably at the Scotland Yard inspector.
“I understand thoroughly,” he declared. “Please ask me any questions you feel you would like to.”
“Thank you, Sir Edward. You are, of course, a Member of Parliament?”
“Conservative member for Holme. Rigby Division. Have held the seat for more years than I care to remember.” Sir Edward’s brown, bird-like eyes twinkled with good humour as he made the statement.
“Tell us the circumstances which brought you here as Mrs. Warren Clinton’s guest—will you, Sir Edward?”
Angus related the receipt of the invitation from the missing lady.
“May I see this letter?” asked MacMorran.
“I regret that I didn’t keep it,” answered Angus. “As a matter of fact I did retain it until yesterday. When, however, I got here and was introduced to the lady who had sent it, I destroyed the letter. I didn’t see, to be perfectly candid, what useful purpose would be served by my continuing to keep it. But I think that I can repeat its terms, almost word for word. This is what Mrs. Clinton’s letter contained.”
Sir Edward Angus repeated aloud the terms of the letter as he claimed to remember them.
“Just a moment, sir,” said Anthony—“but when did you receive this letter?”
Sir Edward thought over the question. “About ten days ago. Certainly not more.”
“Thank you, Sir Edward.” Anthony nodded to MacMorran and the latter carried on from the point where he had been stopped.
“You accepted Mrs. Clinton’s invitation?”
“Naturally—seeing that I’m here now.” Again the Member of Parliament smiled.
“What was the intention behind the invitations? Can you tell us that, Sir Edward?”
Sir Edward Angus shook his head. “No. I don’t know that I can. I’m afraid that the only person who can satisfactorily do that is Mrs. Warren Clinton herself.”
Anthony smiled to himself at the neatness of the reply. But MacMorran was by no means perturbed. He went straight to his point.
“What happened during the time you spent at this hotel, up to the moment of the crimes being discovered?”
“We were received by our hostess, given light refreshments and then asked to sit down to dinner. After dinner a curious thing happened.” Sir Edward proceeded to recount the test which Mrs. Clinton had outlined to them. Anthony evinced keen interest when he heard Sir Edward describe this. Angus went on. He recited the conditions of Mrs. Clinton’s first examination of them all.
“And what were these ‘test’ words, Sir Edward? Can you remember them?” The question came from Anthony.
“Oh, yes. They were certainly unusual: I can say that without fear of contradiction. Let me see now. The words were: ‘Orpheus, Mazikeen, Premonstratensian, Iphicles, Roup, Edyrn, Ulema, Reldresal and . . . er . . . dear me, what was the last one . . . oh, I remember—Eagle (Two-headed)’.”
Anthony looked puzzled. “Were they given to you in that order, Sir Edward?”
“Oh—no. I’ve mixed them up . . . I named them as they occurred to me.”
Anthony wrote the words down. “From the point of view, Sir Edward, of Mrs. Clinton’s marking, how many correct answers did you give?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. Not the foggiest. That’s one of the most remarkable features of it all. Mrs. Clinton collected my answers as I had written them, immediately after ten o’clock, and quite frankly—that’s the last I either heard or saw of them.”
Anthony shook his head wonderingly. “Extraordinary—all of it, I agree. But you referred, Sir Edward, to a second test which the lady imposed on you. What form did that take?”
“A barrage of questions. Put to me privately, of course. In this very apartment. Concerning my individual attainments and powers.”
“Give me an example, please, Sir Edward.”
“Certainly. With pleasure. Was I a good shot? An accomplished swimmer? Able to ride a horse? Did I understand the mechanical parts of a motor-car and a tank? There were several others, but those are representative.”
Anthony smiled. “How were you able to answer? In the main.”
“My answers were mixed, naturally, but I can swim and I can ride. I suppose, on the whole, I put up a ‘fifty-fifty’ performance.” Sir Edward Angus chuckled as he made the statement.
“What happened after that?” asked Anthony.
“I was dismissed after being thanked very charmingly for having taken part in the proceedings. By the way, I was the first guest to be questioned. I rather fancy she saw us in alphabetical order.” Sir Edward paused, to go on again almost immediately. “At eleven o’clock, Mrs. Clinton came back to us and announced that she had made her selection. She had chosen Denver, the actor chap, and Mrs. Ramage, the lady M.P. for West Markham.”
Anthony started. Sir Edward noticed the movement.
“I can see that you’re thinking what I’m thinking. Coincidence, isn’t it?”
“More than that, I’m afraid, Sir Edward.” Anthony shook his head gravely. “The whole business may be fantastic—but I’m afraid that these are deep waters. But tell me—what happened after Mrs. Clinton had made the announcement of her selection.”
Sir Edward moved easily in his chair. “Well—we more or less accepted the position, wondered whether we were the victims of something in the nature of a practical joke, talked together for half an hour or so, and then gradually drifted off to bed. It was about all we could do.”
“I see.”
MacMorran put a question. “What was the number of your bedroom, Sir Edward?”
“Number 54.”
The Inspector referred to his list. “Thank you.”
“May I glance at that, Inspector?” said Anthony.
MacMorran handed the document to him. Anthony thanked him. MacMorran had more questions.
“Did you hear anything in the night, Sir Edward?”
“Not a thing. As you will have seen, the bedroom I occupied was some considerable distance from Mrs. Clinton’s suite.”
“And you saw nothing, I suppose, during your stay with your fellow-guests that aroused any suspicion on your part?”
“Nothing at all. As a matter of fact I thought it was a distinctly distinguished gathering. There was no discord of any kind. I think that we more or less regarded ourselves as fellows in the same boat.”
“One question from me, Sir Edward.” The speaker was Anthony Bathurst.
“Yes. I shall be delighted to answer it. That is, if I can, of course.”
“Who was responsible for the allocation of the various bedrooms? Can you tell me that, Sir Edward?”
Sir Edward thought carefully. “No. I can’t tell you that. The number of my bedroom was given to me by the receptionist. But I don’t know by whom the arrangements were actually made.”
Anthony nodded. “I understand the position. Once again, thank you, Sir Edward.”
MacMorran rose. “I don’t think I shall need you any more, sir.” Sir Edward bowed and made his departure.
Anthony looked at Inspector MacMorran. “Notice the coincidences, Andrew? Nine guests invited. Nine words included in the test. Two successful people nominated by Mrs. Clinton. The same two found murdered. In the wrong bed. Distinctly interesting, Andrew, to say the least of it. Who’s next on the list?”
“Lord Esmond Curte,” replied MacMorran.
IV
Lord Esmond Curte entered almost on the heels of Sir Edward Angus. His attitude was both cynical and supercilious.
“Sit down, my lord,” said Inspector MacMorran.
Curte obeyed without saying a word. At a nod from MacMorran, Legge took charge of the preliminaries. This accomplished, he told Curte what lay behind the interview. Curte moved his head, giving the indication that he understood everything perfectly. MacMorran questioned him with regard to his original invitation. Curte gave a terse explanation. It coincided with Sir Edward Angus’s statement. Other questions followed to which Esmond Curte gave similar replies to those Angus had given. Anthony listened rather lazily until MacMorran brought Curte to the point of the ‘test’ examination.
“Mrs. Warren Clinton called out a list of nine words. Some of ’em I’d never heard of before. Most of ’em in fact. Don’t mind confessing as much.”
“Can you remember any of the words?” asked Anthony.
Curte looked annoyed. “I might be able to. If I tried hard enough. ‘Eagle (Two-headed), Orpheus, Iphicles, Roup, Ulema’ . . .” Curte came to a somewhat abrupt conclusion. “How many’s that?” he asked.
“Five. You want to think of four more.”
“I don’t. You’re quite wrong, believe me. Five only—eh? Let me see if I can improve on five.” Curte wrinkled his brows “Edyrn . . . Mazikeen . . . no, I’m afraid that finishes me. My mind’s a complete blank as regards the rest. Sorry—but what the hell’s it matter—after all? There’s no need to make the business any more ridiculous than Mrs. Clinton made it.” Curte made a quick gesture of annoyance. Anthony smiled at him.
“What were you supposed to do with these words?”
Curte explained as Angus had before him.
“And how many correct answers did you give, my lord?”
“Good Lord, I don’t know. Haven’t an earthly. The old girl never let on. Didn’t breathe a word.”
“How do you think yourself you got on?”
For the first time the faint flicker of a smile flitted across Curte’s face. “I don’t think that I set the Trent on fire. Far from it. Let’s leave it at that.”
MacMorran glanced at his notes. “After that, my lord, I understand that you had a private interview with your hostess. Is that correct?”
“Entirely. We all did. She sent for us one after the other and ‘chin-wagged’ at us rather relentlessly.”
“What happened during this interview?”
“Oh—she asked a number of damn fool questions. Candidly—I wish to God I’d never accepted the invitation. Serves me right, I suppose.”
“Can you give us any idea of the nature of these questions?”
“Naturally I can, since I was asked them. Could I row a boat? Had I any knowledge of jiu-jitsu? Was I a fluent speaker of German? I remember that to that particular question I answered that I wasn’t. Anyhow—I didn’t satisfy the good lady’s demands, so why the hell should we worry? Denver seemed to fit the particular bill that she wanted fitted—and then, evidently, paid the penalty.”
Anthony seemed interested by this last remark. “Tell me, sir, do you connect the two events? Do you think that Denver was murdered because he was chosen?”
Curte regarded him almost contemptuously. “Why, man, wasn’t Mrs. Ramage killed as well? Can there be any reasonable argument about it? The two people chosen by Mrs. Clinton and then a few hours afterwards found murdered in their beds!”
“Bed,” said Anthony simply. Curte seemed a trifle taken aback.
“Er—yes,” he corrected himself . . . “bed. I was forgetting for the moment.” His face looked ugly.
“Some people would argue, you know, that it’s a distinction with a big difference.”
“I suppose so. From my point of view, though, it doesn’t affect the point. I’m simply dealing with the fact that the two people were murdered—not with the reason that took them to the same bed.”
“Exactly,” said Anthony drily.
MacMorran sailed in with his normal questions. Lord Esmond Curte replied to them all with a direct candour.
“The number of my room was 61. I heard nothing whatever in the night that aroused the slightest suspicion and I’m afraid that beyond what I’ve already told you I cannot be of any assistance to you in your investigations.”
MacMorran thanked him for his attendance.
“Do you want any more of me?” asked his lordship.
“For the time being, sir,” replied the Inspector, “I don’t think so.”
Curte stood up before lounging out. “See you again, then,” he remarked with a nod.
When he had closed the door behind him the Inspector looked at Anthony with a question. “What did he mean by that exactly?”
“I fancy, Andrew,” said Anthony, “that he was simply repaying you in your own coin. In a way, you know, you asked for it.”
MacMorran frowned. “I don’t see why. I only gave a plain answer to a plain question.”
His frown deepened. Turning to Legge, who had continued to hold a watching brief, he said: “Get Garnett in, will you, do you mind—Mr. Cedric Garnett.”
V
Anthony Bathurst was perhaps more interested in Garnett than in any of the other members of Mrs. Clinton’s guests, That is to say, more personally interested. Not so much from the standpoint of the crimes and who had committed them, but because of Garnett’s many-sided distinctions in the world of sport.
When he came into the room, piloted by Inspector Legge, Anthony saw at once that physically Garnett was a magnificent specimen. Well over six feet in height, finely-proportioned, his straw-coloured hair a trifle unruly, these features helped to suggest that here indeed was one who might have been a Viking of old. A few feet from the doorway Garnett stopped and surveyed the two men who awaited him.
“Come in, Mr. Garnett,” invited the Inspector, “come in and sit down.”
Garnett took a step or so forward, thrust out a leg, crooked it round a chair, pulled the chair towards him and sat in it. A debonair giant who had looked on life and found it good. MacMorran put the usual questions to him with regard to the genesis of the gathering at Remington. Garnett, in a soft and pleasing voice for so big a man, gave the same answers as those of the guests who had preceded him. Anthony watched him with increasing interest, He knew Garnett’s outstanding record in the realm of sport and secretly held him in the highest admiration. MacMorran proceeded by a series of steps to the first Clinton ‘examination.’ Garnett tossed his fair head back and laughed happily.
“Examination! I’ll say! I have a job to spell ’believe’ and ’receive,’ so you can guess how brilliantly I fared. To tell the truth, I wasn’t able to answer a single one of the questions. Most of the ruddy words I’d never even heard of. Don’t mind admitting it. Erudition has never been my long suit.”
Anthony smiled at Garnett’s frank admission. “So there’s no need for me to ask how many marks Mrs. Clinton awarded you?”
Again Garnett laughed with boisterous good humour. “None at all, I should say. A complete and utter ‘blongey.’ I can assure you that the hour which Mrs. Clinton allowed for that ridiculous business was completely wasted as far as I was concerned. God’s good time at that! Time, alas, that will never come to me again.”
Garnett smiled, showing his white even teeth. MacMorran decided to go ahead on the normal lines.
“Then, I take it,” he said quietly, “you were sent for to undergo a second inquisition?”
“That’s right. Had to sit for my viva voce. What a scream! The old cow kidded us all right when she enticed us down here. Well—they say there’s a mug born every minute. I’ll say it’s true—and none better.”
“Mrs. Clinton questioned you?”
Garnett nodded. “She did—and all. My hat—the questions that dame put. Could I pilot a plane? Could I play a musical instrument? Had I any knowledge of curling and ski-ing? Did I know anything about the combinations of safes? These—and several others.”
“Can you do any of the things mentioned?”
Garnett shrugged his shoulders. “I can pilot a plane, with moderate skill. That was about the one question to which I could truthfully answer ‘yes.’”
Anthony cut in. “What was your opinion, Mr. Garnett, when this interview with Mrs. Clinton was over?”
“Opinion?”
Garnett looked at Anthony blankly. “As to what?”
“With regard to the inner meaning of the whole business. A business which I feel bound to point out has ended in a peculiarly horrible double murder.”
“Oh—I get you! Why—that the whole thing was ‘nuts’! ‘Haywire’! The old girl was ‘dotty’ all right—not a doubt of it.”
“You are aware, of course, that Mrs. Clinton herself has disappeared?”
“I’ve heard as much,” replied Garnett with an almost elaborate carelessness.
MacMorran came back. “You don’t feel, I suppose, Mr. Garnett, that you can assist the police in any way?”
“Can’t offer a thing, Inspector. Sorry and all that.” Garnett swung one leg over the other.
Suddenly and somewhat surprisingly, Legge, who had been unnaturally silent, put a question to him. “Had you ever met Mrs. Clinton before, Mr. Garnett?”
“Never. Here—take a squint at this. Here’s the original letter the old girl sent me.”
Garnett fished in his pocket and eventually produced a letter. He hesitated evidently as to whether he should hand it to Legge who had put the question to him, or to MacMorran who was obviously conducting the inquiry. The latter solved the difficulty. He held out his hand for the letter. After the slightest of pauses, Garnett gave it to him. As MacMorran took it, Anthony leant over towards him and whispered something. MacMorran wasn’t sure of what Mr. Bathurst had said to him. He would have raised the question had not Anthony moved away from him and towards Inspector Legge. Instead, therefore, MacMorran contented himself with reading the letter which Garnett produced as having been written to him by Mrs. Warren Clinton. The Inspector read it carefully and then passed it over to Legge with the remark, “Let Mr. Bathurst have it after you.”
Legge nodded his agreement. When Legge gave the letter to him, Anthony felt a strange thrill of interest. Here in his hands was one of the beginnings of an affair which had culminated in the deaths of two people. People to whom life had not been unkind and who were entitled to think and believe that in their futures it might prove to be even kinder still. Anthony felt that Garnett was watching him closely as he read the letter. More closely perhaps than he had watched either MacMorran or Inspector Legge when he had read it. Garnett turned his head and carefully regarded his finger-nails.
Anthony noted the insistence of the physical in the terms of Mrs. Clinton’s letter. Also the somewhat extravagant phrases—particularly towards the conclusion of it. ‘You are the one man who can save the country.’ Anthony folded the letter, replaced it in its envelope and returned it to Cedric Garnett.
“I’ll tell you what strikes me as strange,” he remarked.
“Yes,” replied Garnett. “I shall be pleased to hear.”
“Why—this. In the letter which Mrs. Clinton writes to you, in which she introduces herself to you as it were—she pays you the highest tribute and applies the most flattering descriptions. With which condition I, of course, can find no quarrel.”
Anthony smiled as he spoke. Garnett bowed—with the suspicion of a smirk on his lips. Anthony went on.
“Yet—despite this complete nomination and acceptance of you as the potential saviour of the British Empire—when you arrive in response to her own invitation you are subjected with the others to what may be fairly described as a searching test of your general abilities. From my point of view, the two conditions, to be perfectly candid, don’t fit.” Anthony looked Garnett straight in the eyes. But all Garnett did was to move his head in agreement.
“I’m entirely with you. As a matter of fact, that’s just what I thought myself. And for two pins I’d have told her so. I felt that she’d won the toss and put me in on a real ‘sticky dog’—if you know what I mean.”
Anthony intimated that he did. “What was the number of your bedroom, Mr. Garnett?”
“Fifty-eight, Inspector. And a very comfortable spot at that. I’ve no complaints on that score.” Garnett smiled and his eyes twinkled at the savour of reminiscence.
“I take it you heard nothing unusual in the night?”
“The only sounds I heard in the night came from that big clock which stands at the foot of the main staircase. It has a particularly arresting chime which attends to the quarters, the halves and the three-quarters. To say nothing of the forwards. I mean the hours.” Garnett grinned at his little joke.
MacMorran had one further question for him. “And you feel that you are unable to help us in any way, Mr. Garnett?” MacMorran waited, pencil poised over note-book for Garnett’s reply. But Garnett found no inspiration.
“Sorry, Inspector, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Only too delighted—if I could.”
“Thank you. That will be all, then, for the time being, Mr. Garnett.”
Garnett rose from his chair. Anthony leant over and spoke to MacMorran in a low tone.
“Yes,” replied the latter. “I’ll get Legge to attend to it. Legge! Ask Lord Curte to come back, will you? There’s something we forgot to ask him when he was in here.”
Inspector Legge followed Garnett out of the room to return within a few minutes with Lord Esmond Curte.
“Sorry to trouble you again, my lord,” opened MacMorran, “but there’s something else I’d like to ask you. Have you in your possession the letter which Mrs. Clinton sent you in the first instance?”
Curte looked surprised but nodded and answered ‘yes’ without the slightest hesitation. Thrusting his hand into his pocket, he produced the letter in question.
“Here you are, Inspector—you can look at it.”
Curte gave MacMorran the letter. After the latter and the local inspector had read it, it came to Anthony. He soon saw that it was couched in similar terms to that which had been sent to Garnett. Curte smiled as he watched Anthony reading it. His blue eyes sparkled with mirth and the almost hawk-like fierceness of his face softened temporarily under the influence of the smile.
“Chucks bouquets at me, doesn’t she? Quite embarrassin’.”
“And yet you were not the selected candidate.”
“No, that’s perfectly true. But Denver may have appealed to the old girl more. There’s always that possibility, you know.”
Anthony handed back the letter. “Thank you.”
MacMorran added his thanks to Anthony Bathurst’s. Curte made his second departure. MacMorran turned to Legge again.
“Ask Miss Kingsley to come in,” he said quietly.
VI
When Rosamund Kingsley came in, Anthony felt that here was a really outstanding woman. Beyond her physical attractiveness there was an indefinable quality about her to which it would have been excessively difficult to put the right name. No fault could be found with Mrs. Clinton’s judgment as far as the selection of Rosamund Kingsley was concerned. With her corn-coloured hair and her blue eyes she suggested to Anthony the sagas of the Northland.
“Sit down, Miss Kingsley,” said Inspector MacMorran, “and tell us all about this unpleasant business. Go back to the start of it all.”
In a rather cold but beautifully modulated voice, Rosamund Kingsley related how she came to receive the letter of invitation from Mrs. Warren Clinton.
“Do you happen to have that letter with you, Miss Kingsley? If so, we’d like to have a glance at it.”
“I had anticipated that request. Here it is, Inspector.”
The three men read the letter in turn, Anthony last of the three. “Very similar to the others,” he remarked as he returned it to the girl.
“Go on, Miss Kingsley,” said MacMorran, “tell us what happened to you after you arrived in Remington.”
Miss Kingsley obliged. Her story was on all-fours with those of the others. When she came to the account of the examination, Anthony listened carefully. He wanted to see the details, if any, of differences between her account and the accounts of the men. He was remembering that this was the first woman they had interviewed. Indeed it would be the only one, for of the other two who had come to Remington, one was dead and the other missing. But as far as he was able to see, as he listened, Rosamund Kingsley’s story of the Clinton examination was subsequently identical with all the others. He questioned her.
“How did you get on with those words that were submitted to you, Miss Kingsley? I’m interested.”
Rosamund laughed happily. “I was pretty hopeless, I’m afraid. If you ask me, I should probably have filled the bottom place. Many of the words were entirely unknown to me. Who’s ever heard of such etymological monstrosities as ‘roup’ and ‘ulema’? All I know is that I haven’t.” She laughed again and her eyes remained merry.
“What was the number of your bedroom, Miss Kingsley?” asked MacMorran.
“Seventy-two. That’s on the floor above the room where the murders were.”
“You heard nothing during the night?”
“Nothing at all. Not a sound. But don’t attach the slightest importance to that. I invariably sleep like a top. Many of my best friends say that I can sleep standing up. You probably know that I’ve slept in the oddest places and among the quaintest people.”
Anthony nodded and smiled at her. “You’ve no contribution of your own to make, I presume, that will help us in any way? You noticed no incident or episode that seemed to you suspicious or abnormal?”
Miss Kingsley considered the question. “Certainly not suspicious and perhaps not abnormal, but . . . strange. And that was this. It occurred when Mrs. Clinton announced the results of her tests and the names of the two people she had selected. Mrs. Ramage and Wilfred Denver. Denver looked complacent. I mean by that, as though he had expected to be selected, whereas Mrs. Ramage looked to me as though she were absolutely astounded at Mrs. Clinton’s choice. I mean—choice of herself.”
Anthony saw her point. It was useful. Perhaps the most valuable contribution which had so far come to them.
“Thank you, Miss Kingsley. Information of that kind can’t be over-valued. Up to the moment we have been almost startlingly unsuccessful. Yours is the first ray of light to pierce the darkness.”
“I am glad,” she replied. “Will you be wanting me any more?”
MacMorran looked at the two others. Anthony and Legge shook their heads in response to the unspoken question.
“No, thank you, Miss Kingsley. If I require you again we’ll let you know.”
Rosamund Kingsley made her exit.
“Ask Dean Langton to come in, Inspector.”
Legge went to the door and Anthony prepared himself for another of the more interesting interviews.
VII
Anthony knew Langton from his Press photographs. Directly the Dean entered Anthony felt that he was primarily an incongruity—that he should never have been dans cette galère. The Yard Inspector, almost unconsciously, or so it seemed, became ultra-deferential. MacMorran evidently had the true Scotsman’s deep regard for the Manse and the cloth. Langton’s account of the affair was like all those which had preceded it. As before, MacMorran asked to see the letter from Mrs. Clinton which had brought the Dean to the gathering at Remington.
“I’m sorry,” replied, Langton, “I haven’t it with me. Had I known that you would have . . .”
Anthony cut in: “Tell us what it said, sir. Doubtless your memory will be equal to the occasion.”
“Oh—quite.” The Dean furrowed his brows. “The terms of the letter were these. The lady was good enough to emphasize the spiritual influence which I have been privileged to exert for some little time now . . . and er . . . called attention to what she described as my . . . er . . . undoubted powers of leadership. Because of these things, she invited me to Remington for this weekend. I accepted the invitation. I accepted it . . . er . . . from the highest possible motives. I think I am justified in making that much clear. The fact that Mrs. Clinton offered me what she called an ‘alluring and attractive’ proposition did not weigh at all. Not an iota.”
The Dean of Mannington caressed his cheek, with his long, sensitive, tapering fingers. Before MacMorran could speak Dean Langton went on.
“And I’m going to say here and now, in order that you may understand clearly how I think and feel about things, that I bitterly regret ever having come here. I feel that in some obscure way which I am unable to explain I have been tricked.”
The Dean looked supremely indignant as he gave expression to his protest. Anthony attempted to temper the wind to the troubled Dean.
“We’ve heard a good deal, sir,” he said quietly, “about a curious test which Mrs. Clinton imposed on you who were her guests. Will you be good enough to give us some account of it? I should value your version of this incident very highly.”
Dean Langton nodded gravely. “I shall be pleased to do as you wish. Mrs. Clinton announced to us a number of words. The whole affair to my mind bordered on the fantastic. I was familiar, as you may guess, with the whole of the words. But whether I was able to fulfil the conditions of the ‘association’ words, putting in a nutshell Mrs. Clinton’s conditions as she explained them to us, I cannot say.” Anthony moved his head as an indication that he understood. He had already heard of this particular point and had given some attention to it.
“At my second interview,” went on the Dean, “she asked me if I had ever played hockey. I hadn’t.”
MacMorran continued with his customary questions. “What was the number of your bedroom, sir?”
“No. 62. I was allotted the bedroom next to the one occupied by Lord Esmond Curte.”
“You were not disturbed at all during the night, I suppose?”
Dean Langton showed surprise. “Disturbed? Dear me—no. Why should I . . . oh—you were referring to the murders. Why, no. I can safely say I didn’t hear a sound. I was tired, I was in a highly critical state of mind and I was extremely annoyed. I went to bed with those emotions in conflict in my mind and I slept. I can say no more than that, gentlemen.”
The Dean looked gravely resolute and as though the Hound of Heaven were trotting sedately along at his side. MacMorran’s eyes met Anthony’s. What he saw satisfied him.
“Thank you, sir,” he said to the Dean of Mannington. “You will not be required any more.”
VIII
“Capt. Playfair,” said MacMorran, “please sit down.”
Playfair accepted the invitation easily and comfortably. ‘Oh—yes,’ though Anthony as he looked towards him, ‘there is certainly something about you. And, what is more, you know it.’ Playfair’s eyes were taking a quick and comprehensive survey of the room and its occupants. All that emanated from him suggested to Anthony high-tempered courage.
MacMorran commenced to question him. The questions were by now all too familiar. As were the answers. Playfair ran true to form.
His account of the Clinton adventure contained nothing different from the many accounts which had preceded it. He described the initial letter which Mrs. Clinton had sent him, and the flattering expressions which had accompanied it. He produced the letter. He spoke of the introduction to Mrs. Clinton upon the arrival of the guests. Eventually he came to the moment when Mrs. Clinton announced that the examination would take place.
“Of course,” he declared, by way of explanation, “most of the stuff she put over to us was definitely very far from being down my street. Directly I realized what was coming I knew it didn’t interest ‘yours truly.’ So I just folded up.”
He shrugged his neat compact shoulders with an eloquence that couldn’t be ignored. “I just sat there and accepted the inevitable.”
Anthony determined to put a question to him immediately. “What, in your opinion, Capt. Playfair, was behind it all?”
It seemed to Anthony, as he asked the question, that Playfair hesitated. For perhaps something like a split second.
“In my opinion,” he replied, “for what it’s worth, Mrs. Clinton was a fervent patriot. There are some, you know. Not enough of them really. With her, the salvation of the British Empire had become an obsession. Better than that, let me say—more like a crusade. A cause to which she had solemnly dedicated herself. When her husband died and she found herself controlling a huge sum of money, she resolved to take certain steps in support of this overwhelming allegiance of hers. What actually those steps were to be I am unaware.” Playfair paused. Before he could go on Anthony intervened.
“Having those ideas, then, Capt. Playfair, you have something definite to suggest to us with regard to the murders.”
“Oh—yes, undoubtedly. Look at it logically. Admitted that Mrs. Clinton thought as I have just described and that she chose from the ranks she had assembled at her side the two people whom she regarded as the pick of the basket. She had examined us according to her lights, remember. Well—isn’t it likely that the people against whom her effort was directed took a hand in the game for self-protection, very likely, and wiped out the two people she had chosen? It certainly seems so to me.”
Playfair leant back and took a deep breath. He had spoken quietly and almost as though he were labouring under the stress of a deep emotion. MacMorran wrote in his note-book. Anthony saw clearly the lines on which Playfair was thinking. He resolved to ask Playfair another question.
“When you were called in, Capt. Playfair, for your second interview with Mrs. Clinton, what particularly did she ask you?”
“She asked me three questions. I was unsatisfactory at each of them. One—had I any experience as a ‘parachute-jumper,’ two—had I ever bred canaries, and three, had I ever studied the causes of sleeping-sickness? I was no good for any one of them, so I was turned down. I wasn’t disappointed. I expected it. As things turned out, I may have been luckier than I thought.”
Playfair grinned ruefully. Anthony smiled back at him. By a coincidence, Playfair, coming almost last, had contributed more than any of his predecessors.
“What was the number of your bedroom?” asked MacMorran.
“My bedroom? No. 55. Next to the room where Sir Edward Angus was. I remember that I said ‘good night’ to him as I went in to bed. He was standing just outside his bedroom door.”
MacMorran carefully noted the answer. “No suspicious noises in the night?”
Playfair grinned again. “Sorry, Inspector. None at all. If I could produce one for you—believe me, I’d be delighted.”
Anthony looked at him quizzically. “Nothing more to help us? Such stuff, for example, as dreams are made on?”
Playfair shook his head. “Beyond what I’ve handed you re motive, I’m as puzzled as you are. Honest Injun.”
The Inspector decided to dismiss him. “Well, many thanks, sir. These inquiries may be tedious but they’re very necessary. If I want to have another word with you, I’ll let you know.”
Capt. Playfair bowed and made his way out. MacMorran spoke to Legge. “That leaves Mr. Ramage, Inspector. Husband of the murdered woman. Ask him to step this way, will you?”
Inspector Legge departed on his errand.
IX
Ramage came in and sat down. His scholarly face showed signs of the tragic ordeal through which he was still passing. MacMorran expressed official sympathy in a few words.
“Thank you, Inspector,” returned John Ramage.
Ramage, under the Inspector’s direction, told the usual story of Mrs. Clinton and her invitations. He produced the letter which she had forwarded to him. The two police inspectors and Anthony read it.
“And your wife had a separate letter, I understand?” said MacMorran.
“That is so. I was away at the time and rather surprised when she told me, but my wife was, of course, a Member of Parliament and highly successful in her own sphere—medicine—so I gave the matter a little reflection and decided that perhaps things weren’t quite so surprising after all.”
“Now proceed, Mr. Ramage, and tell us what happened after you arrived at Remington.”
Ramage described in detail what had occurred. MacMorran picked up a point.
“Am I to understand that you and Mrs. Clinton had met before, Mr. Ramage?”
“Yes. We had been fellow-passengers from America on the Myrobella. But I had spoken to her on but few occasions. She struck me as being a woman of undoubted personality and certainly one who knew her own mind.”
“I see. Go on, please, Mr. Ramage.”
Ramage continued. His voice was low and inclined to be toneless, but he spoke without a tremor. He came to a description of Mrs. Clinton’s examination.
“How did you fare yourself?” asked Anthony.
Ramage shook his head with a hint of sadness. “Well—that’s rather difficult for me to answer. I knew most of the words Mrs. Clinton gave us, naturally, but I’m by no means sure that I discovered the ‘companion’ words in accordance with the terms that the lady laid down to us and which I tried to explain to you just now.” Ramage proceeded to describe what followed.
“What questions did Mrs. Clinton ask you at the interview?”
“Well, to tell the truth, rather extraordinary ones. I was extremely surprised. There were three in all. Firstly, had I ever grown chives; secondly, was I interested in numismatics, and, thirdly, was I at all acquainted with the Black Forest?”
“How did you answer, Mr. Ramage?”
“‘No,’ to the first two questions, and ‘yes’ to the third.”
Anthony noted the terms of his reply.
“Well,” continued Ramage, “as you know now, Denver and my poor wife were the successful people. Mrs. Clinton chose them and announced the choice to the rest of us.”
Anthony thrust a question at him. “Mr. Ramage—forgive me asking you this. You knew Mrs. Ramage’s capabilities better than anyone else. Were you surprised at Mrs. Clinton’s choice?”
Ramage thought a moment before he answered. “Well, I’ll endeavour to tell you exactly how I felt about that particular point. At first, when I heard Mrs. Clinton’s announcement, I was, frankly, definitely surprised. But when I came to think it over more carefully I was inclined to revise my original opinion. My wife,” his voice faltered for a second, “was an exceedingly capable and well-informed woman. Quite likely she distinguished herself with her answers to the ‘word list’.”
Anthony was in again immediately. “Did Mrs. Ramage give you any idea as to how she had got on?”
“No. We scarcely had time to discuss details of that kind very closely. That discussion, no doubt, would have come later. Now, alas, it will never come.” Ramage stopped but quickly recovered himself. “I can tell you, however, what my wife did tell me. The details of her interview with Mrs. Clinton. As with me, Mrs. Clinton asked her three questions. My wife informed me what they were. The first was: ‘Could she speak German well enough to pass muster as a German.’ The second was: ‘Had she a sound knowledge of economics.’ The third was: ‘Had she any training or experience in “Map-reading”.’ As it happened, she was able to answer ‘yes’ to all three of them.” Anthony nodded. “So you see, therefore, that when I came to think things over with closer consideration, my wife’s selection as one of the two successful candidates was by no means so surprising as it had seemed to me at first.”
John Ramage passed his hand across his forehead. It was the gesture of a tired, almost broken man. MacMorran made certain notes before putting a further question.
“Had your wife ever met Mr. Denver?”
“You mean—before coming to Remington?”
“Yes—that was my meaning. I’m sorry if I wasn’t clear.”
“I believe she had. It was one of the first questions I asked myself when I first heard of the tragedy. I suppose it was natural that I should ask it. But a stray chord of memory tells me that she and Denver had met once before. It was in London last summer at the Theatrical Garden Party. My wife attended it every year. I think I can just remember her telling me on the last occasion she went that she had been introduced to Wilfred Denver.”
MacMorran wrote again—quickly and energetically. Anthony waited for him to finish. At the appropriate moment he questioned Ramage again.
“When did you last see your wife, Mr. Ramage?”
“I think it would be as well if I told you all that happened. When Mrs. Clinton announced to us all that Angela and Denver had been chosen by her, I formed the opinion that Denver looked pleased at the decision, whereas she did not To my mind she looked a trifle shocked. Yes, I think ‘shocked’ is a word which fits the condition quite satisfactorily. Anyhow, I went over to her and congratulated her. But before she could reply to me and assist me in my diagnosis, Denver came sailing up and she went off with him somewhere. But not for long. For my wife came back. She had evidently left Denver and was talking to Sir Edward Angus and Dean Langton when she spotted me and joined me. We agreed that we were both tired and decided to go to bed. So we had a final drink and a few minutes later went upstairs to bed.”
“Just a minute, sir,” said the Inspector, who for a few seconds had been in whispered conference with Legge, “but what was the number of your bedroom?”
“My wife and I had been allotted separate bedrooms, with a communicating door. Neither she nor I, I may say, had any voice in that arrangement. It had been made for us. The numbers were 45 and 46. Well, there isn’t very much more for me to tell you. As I said just now, Angela and I were both very tired. We went to our respective beds and I went to sleep, I should imagine, almost immediately. At least, I have no memory of lying awake. When I woke up in the morning I went to my wife’s apartment. She was not there. And she wasn’t in the bathroom either. Her bed indicated to my eye that she couldn’t have slept in it for very long. After a time, and due consideration of almost every probability and even possibility—and you must bear in mind that by this time I was desperately worried—I came to the conclusion that I must report to the manager the stubborn fact that my wife was missing. You more or less know the rest.”
Ramage paused, his face working with emotion, MacMorran coughed. It was his cough of official discretion. “You will forgive me, Mr. Ramage, if I put a painful question to you. Had you before last night’s tragedy any suspicions as to your wife’s relations with Wilfred Denver?”
Ramage’s voice, when he answered, came like the crack of a whip. “None, Inspector. None at all. And what’s more, I have none now. I desire you to make a special note with regard to that.”
The veins in John Ramage’s forehead and temples quivered and throbbed. Anthony felt strangely attracted to him. Ramage attempted to fortify his previous statement.
“I know full well of the unhappy circumstances in which my wife’s body was found. I know even better of the construction which will be placed upon those circumstances by the majority of damned good-natured people.” His voice was tinged with scorn and he paused for the merest fraction of a second. “But I am certain that, when the time comes for the truth to be told with regard to this appalling tragedy, no stigma will be left attached to my wife’s name and reputation. There will be both a convincing and an adequate explanation.” Anthony looked at him and put yet another question. “Can you tell me what clothes of Mrs. Ramage’s are missing?”
“As far as I can say, Mr. Bathurst, some underclothes and a silk-wrap. You know what I mean, I expect, an affair of the dressing-gown type.”
Anthony noted Ramage’s answer. “I don’t think we need detain Mr. Ramage any longer,” announced Inspector MacMorran, “unless, of course . . .” he looked enquiringly at Legge and Anthony. The former shook his head.
The latter said: “No, Inspector, I have nothing more to ask Mr. Ramage for the time being.”
X
Anne Assheton was en route for Hollywood when the news of her husband’s death came to her over the radio. Other details of the Remington murders followed. There had been a time when she had been genuinely fond of Wilfred Denver, and the news of this murder, conveyed to her as it was down a channel which she invariably associated with dance-music, shocked her. She was dabbing her eyes with her lace square of handkerchief when Captain Lovell of the Myrobella came to assure her of his sincere regret and overwhelming sympathy. The gallant skipper had an eye for a pretty girl, and when Beauty was in the trappings of Distress he always felt that it made an even greater call upon his gallantry.
“I shall have to go back to England, Capt. Lovell,” sobbed Anne. “I simply must. I’ve no option. Though I don’t know what Benny will say about my contract. He worked so hard to get me signed up with him. Had to fight Scrawner Brothers tooth and nail to pull it off.”
Anne’s sobs developed dangerously. Capt. Lovell murmured more appropriate sympathy. He went so far as to pat the incomparable Miss Assheton’s hand. After a time Anne’s tears subsided. Capt. Lovell had been at his own superb best. She repaired her ravaged complexion, and whilst this operation was in progress she began to wonder what she had best wear for dinner. In the circumstances, with a haste perhaps that bordered on the indecent, she decided that black would be most becoming. Besides, she always looked her best in black. It must be recorded that Anne at dinner that evening put up an extremely able performance. All her gestures and all the movements of her eyes and head were just right. As she got into bed that night she didn’t know which part she wanted to play the more, ‘St. Joan’ or the ‘Second Mrs. Tanqueray.’
XI
The days that followed brought Anthony and the Inspector nothing that might have been reasonably regarded as a relative of success.
Enquiry succeeded enquiry, questions were asked of nearly every Remington inhabitant—but all these efforts were of no avail. At the end of the week MacMorran returned to the ‘Yard.’ Anthony, however, made up his mind to stay in Remington (for the time being at least). Legge was also on the spot, ready to give Anthony any assistance should he need it. Anthony decided to lie low, to watch points and generally keep himself in the background of the case as far as possible. He therefore booked rooms at one of the smaller hotels—the ‘Raven’ to be precise—and prepared himself to settle down there with Remington and district as his diocese for the next week or so.
He made it his business to watch the various steps and actions taken by that miscellany of Mrs. Clinton’s guests and knew at the same time that this duty was not his alone, but was being looked after also, at the various other ends, by certain men under the command and orders of Chief-Inspector Andrew MacMorran. This knowledge gave him an added confidence, with the result that his time at the ‘Raven’ passed much more pleasantly than it otherwise might have done.
The first item of importance occurred on the third day after MacMorran had returned to London. Anthony had a visitor. The visitor was announced as Capt. Ronald Playfair. Anthony received him with a warm cordiality. Playfair sat down. He seemed uneasy, Anthony thought, as he looked at him. It was unlike Playfair to be off his stroke. Anthony let him take first knock.
“I say, Mr. Bathurst,” he said, “I’m a bit scared about worrying you like this and I wouldn’t have done so if that Policeman Johnny had stopped on here instead of skedaddling back to the ‘Yard.’ But since he did, and you’re here alone, I’m afraid you’ll have to have it coming to you.”
Anthony smiled at him. “Go ahead.”
Playfair leant forward towards him. “I think I’ve discovered something. I’m ‘on to something,’ I think, as you chaps usually put it.” His eyes were eager—almost enthusiastic. Anthony saw and recognized the signs.
“Good man,” he declared encouragingly, “let’s have the whole story.”
Ronald Playfair lowered his voice. “I’m taking an extra slice of care,” he remarked, “as part of a deliberate policy. I believe in looking ahead and I believe in keeping your eyes skinned. Don’t you agree?”
“I most certainly do,” returned Anthony.
At that precise moment the telephone rang in Anthony’s room at the ‘Raven.’ “You’ll pardon me,” he murmured to Playfair as he reached forward and lifted the receiver.
“Certainly.”
“What’s that?” Playfair heard him say. “Where?” he said, and then immediately followed up that second question with “When?” Playfair waited. “That puts a different complexion on matters,” said Anthony. “I’ll await more news—in the meantime, many thanks, Andrew, for ’phoning me. And ring me if you want to, by all means. . . . I’ll make it my business to be in.”
Anthony replaced the receiver. Then he turned to Playfair. “It may interest you to learn. Captain Playfair,” he said, “that the body of Mrs. Warren Clinton was discovered this morning in a trunk at Waterloo Station. And there is every evidence, I am given to understand, that the body had been in the trunk for some days.”
It was abundantly clear that Playfair was taken aback by the news that Anthony gave him.
“Another murder, I suppose?”
“It would appear so.”
“How was she killed?”
“She has been shot. I understand there’s a bullet-hole in the temple. An entrance wound only. The police hope to find the bullet.”
Playfair sat and stared at Anthony. For once his habitual sangfroid had temporarily deserted him.