Philip Woodley-Foxe looked exactly like his photographs. Tall, heavily-built, tanned, and balding, with a pair of piercing blue eyes and a bushy salt-and-pepper moustache. He was dressed in a smart Donegal tweed suit and he held a lit pipe in his hand — a rather unusual meerschaum pipe whose ivory bowl was carved in the shape of a dragon’s head. It was, George knew from his reading, a souvenir of the time the detective had single-handedly tracked the gangster Singapore Charlie through the opium dens of San Francisco’s Chinatown.
George gazed at him in admiration. But the detective was in no mood for small talk. He was arguing with Eddy.
‘I haven’t got time to sit here answering damn fool questions from the local constabulary! Every minute spent on trifling details is a minute taken away from true investigation. Don’t you see, I’ve been following The Shadow’s trail for weeks, but this is the first time I’ve come so close …’
‘Too close for comfort, sir, I would say,’ said Eddy, stolidly.
Eddy had absolutely no idea just how lucky he was to be in this man’s presence, thought George, desperately. If he hadn’t told George very sternly that he had to remain silent and not interfere when he was questioning witnesses, he’d have broken in. He itched with the desire to do so now.
‘I have my own methods, which the uniformed police cannot understand,’ said the detective. His accent was English, overlaid with a thrilling American twang, a reminder of the fifteen years he’d spent in the States. ‘You proceed according to the book. But you don’t understand the leap of genius that enables one to crack a case!’
‘I am sure you are right, sir,’ said Eddy, woodenly.
‘Now, for instance, you have wasted your time taking down dull interviews with those other people in the house party, who saw and heard nothing. You have interviewed the servants, who are old and feeble. You have asked me a whole lot of useless questions at least twice, and you haven’t even started applying your mind to what it might all mean! You see the piddling little details, and not the full picture, man!’
Eddy’s colour rose. ‘If you are sure you have told me all you remember, sir …’His voice was neutral, but George knew exactly what his brother-in-law was thinking. Damn, he thought. Damn, damn and triple damn!
‘Of course that’s all.’ Woodley-Foxe puffed on his pipe, his keen blue eyes narrowing. ‘Now, if you’ve quite finished, I’d like to get back to my investigation. I’m leaving this afternoon at four-thirty and there are still many notes I must make before setting out.’
Eddy stared. ‘Lady Eleanor has put it in the hands of the police, now, sir. I’m afraid I must ask you to …’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, man!’ The detective sprang to his feet. ‘This is not the only place The Shadow has robbed. I am on a long-term investigation, Constable, not some small detail.’ And with that, he turned superbly on his heel and stalked out, banging the door behind him.
There was a silence, then Eddy shook his head. ‘Well, lad, that’s a private detective for you,’ he said. ‘Arrogant, opinionated, reckless, and incompetent to boot.’
‘That’s not true!’ burst out George. ‘I mean,’ he added, as Eddy glared at him, ‘Mr Woodley-Foxe isn’t really like that. I think his pride’s been hurt, a little, and he is furious that The Shadow got away. But you should read about all the cases he’s solved, Eddy; he has been right so many times, and has solved mysteries the police would never …’ He trailed off as he saw Eddy’s expression. ‘I mean, he’s solved really difficult cases, you see.’
‘Bah,’ said Eddy, ‘I don’t believe a word of it, I bet he’s made it all up.’
‘You sound just like Daisy,’ said George, exasperated. Eddy gave a sudden grin. ‘Sensible girl,’ he remarked. George shrugged, but said nothing more. There was no point, not at the moment, anyway. But he’d had an idea. An exciting, amazing idea!
After lunch back at Betty and Eddy’s, George excused himself, saying he was going for a walk. Eddy and Betty, he knew, liked to listen to a Saturday afternoon radio serial, sitting side by side on their chintzy sofa, holding hands. They’d be quite happy he’d be out of the house.
George hurried to the edge of the woods and followed the track that led to the back of The Hall. He was only just in time. A gleaming black Riley saloon car was parked outside the stable that now served as a garage. And beside it, drawing on his driving gloves, was a familiar tall figure in a rather dashing leather coat.
‘Mr Woodley-Foxe! Mr Woodley-Foxe!’ called George, stumbling across the uneven cobblestones of the yard. ‘Please, sir, before you go, there’s something I’d like to tell you!’
The detective turned. An impatient expression crossed his face. ‘You,’ he said, coldly. ‘Didn’t I see you with the local constabulary?’
‘Yes sir, well, that’s my brother-in-law, Eddy, sir. I just … you see, sir, Eddy’s a good policeman, but he has always worked in quiet places, like Upper Charlton, and he just doesn’t really understand what …’ Woodley-Foxe was looking more and more impatient, so George gabbled, ‘I just wanted to say, sir, how very much I admire your work. I read about your cases every month, sir. It’s my dream to become a detective just like you …’
The detective raised his eyebrows a notch, but his impatient expression had disappeared. ‘Not like your brother-in-law then?’
George felt a little disloyal as he said, ‘Oh, no, sir. Like you.’ What Eddy didn’t hear couldn’t hurt him.
‘Well, I am glad that you think so, er …’
‘George, sir. George Dale.’
‘Well, then, George Dale …’ Philip Woodley-Foxe reached into the car, took out an attache case, clicked it open and took out a folder. Inside were a number of photographs of himself, in different sizes. He selected one, took a fountain pen from his inside pocket and signed the photo with a flourish: ‘To George Dale, best wishes from Philip Woodley-Foxe.’ He handed it to George with the air of a man handing over a great prize. ‘Here you are, lad.’
‘Thank you very much, sir,’ said George. He shuffled his feet. ‘Er … I …’
‘I’m sorry, lad, but I haven’t got a copy of one of my books available to give you, just at present. There’s a new one coming out in September, though: Murder Will Out, it’s called, and it’s an account of some of the more sensational murder cases I’ve handled, and how even the cleverest and most depraved of these fiends was not a match for my scientific detection work and razor-sharp intuition. You need both, you see, in this line of work — a rigorous, scientifically-trained intellect, and a brilliant imagination, if you want to see the full picture. Give me your address, lad, and I’ll send you a signed copy through the post.’
‘Oh, thank you, sir,’ said George; then, desperately, ‘but what I really wanted to ask you is this: do you ever require the services of an assistant, sir?’
The detective stared at him. ‘I’ve always been a lone wolf, son,’ he said, slowly. ‘There have been other detectives I’ve worked with, though, like Big Jim Cowley from the New York Police Department, and Inspector Marchand from the Paris Surete, and …’
‘Yes,’ said George, who knew all this like the back of his hand, ‘but what I mean, sir, is an assistant — a much humbler being than an actual detective, someone who will do the donkey work for you, sir, gather the er … piddling details, and free your keen thoughts to range more widely. Someone not only to make your appointments and check facts and run errands, but someone you can test your great wits against. Like Dr Watson and Sherlock Holmes, sir, or Captain Hastings and Hercule Poirot.’
‘Hmm,’ said Woodley-Foxe. ‘You may have something there. In America I employed a couple of people to do the donkey work. But I haven’t found anyone satisfactory here. I had almost given up, I have to say. But it’s true I do require an ordinary brain to assist me in certain routine tasks. My intellect is too rarefied to deal with the psychology of ordinary criminals.’ He looked more closely at George. ‘But I would have to trust such an assistant. I would have to trust him not only to follow directions, but also not to go off wild-goose chasing, or thinking he is cleverer than me. Are you suggesting someone, son?’
‘Er …’ George swallowed. ‘I’d like … well, sir, I’d like to suggest myself, actually.’
‘Ha! I was beginning to wonder as much.’ His eyes raked over George again. ‘And what makes you think you could do such a job?’
‘I’m quick, quiet, very ordinary, and I’d never try to er … to thrust myself forward,’ said George, who’d been actually about to say ‘upstage you’. He added, shrewdly, ‘And I’m such an admirer of yours, I’d not ask for much money, either.’
‘Good,’ said Woodley-Foxe, briskly. ‘I don’t believe in paying young people too much. Takes away their initiative. Keep ’em keen as mustard on the smell of an oily rag, I say!’
‘Oh, I quite agree, sir,’ George lied shamelessly.
‘You have excellent opinions, young man. I feel I’m going to like you. Very well, I’ll give you a try, then. When can you start?’
‘Monday, sir,’ said George, at once.
‘Good. Where do you live? In the village?’
‘No. Charlton Wells, sir.’
‘Very well. You can meet me in Greater Charlton, at the Red Rose Hotel, where I’ll be staying, at ten-thirty sharp on Monday morning. We will leave immediately for London, and thence to Paris.’
‘To make enquiries about the special cigars The Shadow smokes, sir?’ said George, eagerly.
‘Quite so, quite so,’ said Woodley-Foxe, looking slightly put out. ‘As you may be aware, I have made a special study not only of tobacco ash, but of brands, of tins, even of advertisements for tobacco. I have forgotten more about such things than most police inspectors have even begun to know. I suppose it is no wonder a mere constable should not understand the ramifications! Now, then, young man — get on with you, and be sure to be at the Red Rose at ten-thirty sharp.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said George, exulting inwardly, and resolutely not thinking about what Eddy would say. As to Miss Grantley’s job, well she could have it, and good riddance. He was paid a pittance there anyway for dull and tedious work. Who cared if Woodley-Foxe paid scarcely more, at least he’d be doing the work he’d always dreamt of. Imagine what Daisy would say when she heard what had happened! She might well have her nose put quite out of joint — for being a famous detective’s assistant sure beat into a cocked hat being a typist for some bossy old widow.