4

 

 

When James Donkin was seventeen years old, his father decided that the time had finally come for the lad to learn the facts of life. To this end, therefore, he led the lad to the village pub one evening after high tea and arranged seats for them in an isolated corner well removed from the normal dart-game traffic. The owner of the pub, having known Jimmy since birth, was well aware that the boy was under age, but this all took place in a small Tyneside settlement where all law was considered with suspicion, and laws dealing with age and closing hours were treated with downright scorn. Besides, the local mines were closed and the shipyards were slow, and any new custom—even under-age custom—was more than welcomed.

The lad stared about himself wide-eyed. It was his first visit to a public house, and the ancient carved woodwork faintly visible through the smog of cheap gaspers, the cry of the dart players, the fine yeasty aroma of warm ale set out in battered pewter mugs, plus the generously endowed barmaid with the low-cut blouse bending over their table to serve them two beers, all combined to entrance him. His eyes followed the swaying hips as their owner returned to the bar; strange and exciting thoughts bubbled through his consciousness. Had he been less preoccupied with the boundary mark left by underclothing against a too tight skirt, he might have noticed his father dosing one of the glasses of beer with a more than generous portion of cayenne pepper.

“James,” said his father.

“Aye, Pa?”

“I think it’s time,” said his father, “for you to learn some of the facts of life.”

“All right, Pa,” said James.

“You trust me, don’t you, Jimmy?”

“Of course, Pa,” said James, wondering a bit.

“Then drink up!” his father said heartily, and immediately gulped his mug of unpeppered beer. James responded at once by lifting his own draft and attempting to duplicate the Herculean feat of finishing a pint in one swallow.

The results were quite disastrous. As the pepper bit into James’s tender young throat, his alimentary system seemed to be of two minds. One demanded the automatic finish of the swallow as being the natural and habitual thing to do. The other categorically rejected all thought of accepting this potent fare. The final and almost immediate resultant of these diametrically opposed forces was an explosion which sprayed beer over a large portion of the adjacent area. One of the distant dart players, going for a double three to clean off, missed the board completely, and favored their corner with a most malevolent frown.

The pain was intense. With his throat in agony and tears welling from his eyes, James turned in mute confusion to confront his smiling father.

“The first, last, and most important fact of life,” said his father in a kindly manner. “Don’t ever trust anyone!”

And James Donkin never did. He never drank beer again, either.

Now, seated across the quartered-oak director’s table that separated him from Mr. Carruthers, his entire person spelled suspicion—suspicion of Mr. Carruthers, of the advertisement in the Times; of everything and everybody. His small wary eyes traveled up and down that portion of Mr. Carruthers which was visible above the polished table top as if each succeeding voyage might unearth some new and startling bit of scenery.

“I’m not easily taken in, you know,” said James Donkin menacingly.

“I shouldn’t imagine so,” said Mr. Carruthers, glancing about the richly appointed offices equably.

“I wouldn’t have gotten where I am,” Mr. Donkin continued belligerently, “if I could be had by the lorry-platform pitch of every market boy who came out of the East End selling chalk.”

“Indubitably,” Mr. Carruthers agreed.

“So now that you know that,” said Mr. Donkin, leaning forward and eying his visitor sharply, “I imagine you want to be on your way?”

“Why, no.” Mr. Carruthers denied the charge gently, his bright eyes fixed upon the florid face of his host in something akin to pity. “I’ve only just arrived, so to speak, and as yet we really haven’t had a chance to discuss our business. Those personal traits of yours which helped you in your rise to fame and fortune are most interesting to hear related, but—” he shrugged, and one hand brushed lightly to remove an invisible mote from the bright surface of the table—"I can’t honestly feel that they contribute greatly toward the solution of your problem.”

Mr. Donkin digested this in silence, and then attempted a second tack. “Say, you!” he growled, almost brutally. “Just what’s your angle?”

Mr. Carruthers provided the very picture of patience. “A very simple one,” he said quietly. “You want a man killed. We kill people. For money, that is. Really, could anything be more simple than that?”

Donkin pounced. “And who said I wanted a man killed, eh?”

Carruthers shook his head sadly. “Please! You answered our advertisement. You saw me as soon as I was announced. You sit there attempting to lead up to the subject with every evidence of quite normal nervousness. Of course you want a man killed. If it will make you feel any better, I can tell you that most people want somebody killed.” His attitude also gave the faintest hint that these other people weren’t so devious in admitting it.

Mr. Donkin hesitated and then adopted still a third ploy. He wanted so desperately to believe, but that youthful lesson of suspicion loomed too large in his subconscious to be subdued in one moment.

“G’wan,” he said sneeringly, reverting for a moment to the language of his youth, “yer havin’ me on!”

“I assure you that I am not, as you put it, having you on at all. I am merely stating a fact. Unfortunately, our group is not in a position to offer testimonials from satisfied clients. You must take us on—” He paused. He had been about to say “trust,” but seemed to sense that this was the wrong word to use with Mr. James Donkin. “You must take the results of our efforts as proof of our sincerity,” he finished smoothly, wondering exactly how effective this ambiguity would be.

Mr. Donkin blinked. His nervous fingers fell still on the table, like spiders pausing before attack. “Assuming,” he said slowly, “just for the sake of argument, assuming for a joke that I wanted to have somebody killed. I don’t mean killed for a joke,” he added hastily. “I mean assuming for a joke. Do you really mean you’d do it?”

“Our organization would. You must understand that I am but an individual; the financial secretary, you might say. Or the advance man, if you prefer. We would do it. Certainly; it is precisely why our organization exists. As I said, at a price.”

“At what price?” asked Mr. Donkin, drawn in despite himself.

“One thousand pounds, plus any incidental expenses, which I believe we could guarantee not to exceed ten per cent. If the victim is in London, that is, or near enough so that excessive travel is not required.”

Mr. Donkin pondered this.

“Look,” he said at last. “Even if you’re pulling my leg, let me tell you that the price is good. My partner, may he burn, robs me of more than that every month.” He sat brooding.

Mr. Carruthers shrugged and waited.

“Tell you what,” Mr. Donkin finally said, “I’ll put it this way. If, by some happy accident or blessed miracle, my—this person I’m talking about just happened to—drop dead, let us say, I’d be most happy to contribute the sum of one thousand pounds, plus expenses, to your favorite charity. Would that be satisfactory?”

Mr. Carruthers heaved a discouraged sigh. This was like trying to draw a tarpon from the Thames with a bit of shop string.

“I’m afraid that we do not clearly understand each other. Our group does not depend upon fortuitous accidents, happy or sad, to accomplish our purposes. Nor, since we are a business organization, can we exist on contributions which depend for their donation on miracles, blessed or otherwise. Allow me to put it this way: for one thousand pounds plus expenses, we will kill your partner—for I have gathered, somewhat laboriously, that it is he whom you wish eliminated. The thousand pounds is to be paid in advance; the expenses are to be paid within one week of rendering a final account.”

“In advance?” Despite Mr. Donkin’s control, this came out as a muffled scream.

“In advance. And in cash, Mr. Donkin. Our refusal to accept checks is as much for your own protection as for our own. I’m sure you can understand this.”

“But I don’t even know who you are!” Donkin’s tone indicated that the suggestion was the most shocking proposal he had yet encountered in a life spent in a recognizably naughty world.

“True,” Mr. Carruthers agreed. “But then, one can scarcely discuss the murder of one’s partner with one’s closest acquaintances.”

Mr. Donkin bit his lip, twisted his fingers violently, loosened his collar, wiped his face, scratched his head, and grimaced fiercely at the ceiling. He then shook his head from side to side, rubbed his nose, pulled his cravat around to the left, scuffled his feet, twiddled his fingers, and stared angrily out the window. He then shoved his tongue tight against his cheek, crossed his legs, yanked his cravat to the other side, uncrossed his legs, drummed on the table, and breathed heavily. Then, to his own utter surprise, and against all the principles so burningly inculcated in him by his fond father, he came to a rather startling decision.

“D’you know what?” he cried excitedly, amazed to hear his own words fall from his own lips. “I’ll do it!”

“I was rather hoping you would,” said Mr. Carruthers with just the faintest touch of chiding. “First, then, the money.”

“Naturally! Of course! Of course! Certainly!” Mr. Donkin said with complete understanding, and bustled to the tall safe that filled one corner of the office. He counted out a number of bills, hesitated momentarily, and then shook his head. He sighed happily, handed over the money, and, for the first time in twenty-five years, smiled.

“You’ll never know what a pleasure it is,” he said, his voice warm with honesty. “What a real pleasure! To trust someone again, I mean. After twenty-five years.”

“I understand.” To his own surprise, Mr. Carruthers actually did. “’What does it gain a man to win the world …’” He floundered. “You know?”

“Exactly!” cried Mr. Donkin enthusiastically. “I couldn’t have put it better myself! People seldom realize the pure pleasure of just trusting other people!” His face fell as sudden dark thoughts entered his mind. “Of course, if I could have trusted that robbing, stealing, cheating, lying, miserable partner of mine—”

“And speaking of your partner,” Mr. Carruthers interrupted smoothly, placing the bank notes with care in his pocket, “a few facts might be in order. Facts about his person, his habits, his appearance, his whereabouts.”

Mr. James Donkin wrinkled his lip viciously. It was plainly seen that whatever milk of human kindness had momentarily entered his soul had instantly curdled at mention of his partner.

“His person? He’s a drunk. His habits? Drinking. His appearance? Drunken. His whereabouts? Wherever people drink. But mainly,” he added honestly, in an effort to be factual, “at the Lizard and Something down at the corner.”

He thought a moment. “And in his spare time—that is, when the pubs are shuttered—he robs people. Anyone he can, but mainly me. He is a thief, a liar, and an absolute blot!” He leaned forward, opening his heart to this savior who had brought the wonderful peace of trust and faith once again into his warped life.

“Look, sir, do me a favor. Poison him by dropping something into his beer. Poisoned pepper or something.”

His head fell heavily upon the table and he wept. Mr. Carruthers used the time to rise and sharpen his pencil at the apparatus for that purpose located on a desk in one corner. He then returned to his place, took out his notebook, and waited patiently for their client to pull himself together.

“In our next advertisement, should we require one,” said Mr. Carruthers firmly at the end of his review of the day’s events, “we must absolutely put in a few qualifying statements. I feel this to be essential. Things like ‘If you don’t trust us don’t call us in the first place.’ And, even more important, ‘When speaking with our representative, kindly control yourself.’”

His companions nodded absently, their minds already busy with the problem of earning the fee Mr. Carruthers had shown them.

“You know,” Simpson mused thoughtfully, “that’s really not a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all.”

“Of course it’s not a bad idea,” Carruthers replied a bit testily. “You didn’t see the tears this man shed. Cost another four or five shillings at the most to insert, and in the long run it will undoubtedly save—”

“I didn’t mean about the advert,” Simpson interrupted with more than a touch of impatience. “I mean Donkin’s idea of poisoning his partner’s beer.”

“It really shouldn’t be too difficult,” Briggs agreed. “I remember I had the notion all during the late Forties that the beer was being systematically poisoned by the brewers, but the thought never stopped me from drinking it. Turned out later they were only watering it, but the principle remains.” He expanded upon his theory. “If you have a suspicion there’s something wrong with your drink, you finish it if only to convince yourself you were wrong. It’s only natural.”

“Briggs is right,” Simpson affirmed. “And a busy bar just before closing, with everybody trying to get in enough to last until ten the next day, or eleven some places! And waiters and barmaids rushing about like crackers! You ought to be able to put a pail of poison in a man’s glass without a soul being the wiser!”

“If one happens to have a pail of poison about,” Carruthers said dryly.

“Well, maybe a pail was an exaggeration,” Simpson conceded. “But I certainly have enough around my digs to handle the problem of one small business partner!”

“And if you don’t, I do,” Briggs said, and snorted. “Do you remember some of the silly stories we used to write? Where the killer was caught because he was traced through a packet of Winifred’s Weed Killer purchased in Harrod’s basement on a Friday?”

“Or discovering he had enough chemical laboratory equipment in his house to distill pure hemlock from tree branches?” Simpson grinned. “Good Lord! We were really innocent. In those days our idea was that the human body was resistant to almost everything except exotic compounds obtained by third-degree distillation from rare plants.”

His grin faded; he shook his head. “In my bathroom at this moment I have enough poison—under honest trade names—which, used injudiciously, could keep at least three quarters of the undertakers in the West End busy for months!”

“That may be,” Carruthers said in a tone that indicated his doubt. “But in this case, where an inquest and subsequent autopsy could well result, you would require a material that would evade analysis. And one which,” he added after due consideration, “the drinker would manage to get down, curious or not. Now, do either of you have anything like that?”

“But of course!” Simpson stared at Carruthers curiously.

“Certainly!” Briggs said, absolutely amazed. “Several, in fact. Don’t you?”

“As a matter of fact, I do not. Or, if I do, I am unaware of their potency,” Carruthers admitted. “But that is neither here nor there. If either of you do, that is all that is required. No,” he added, holding up his hand abruptly, “don’t tell me. The day may come when the minutes of these meetings may be disclosed, and it would not do to place such a dangerous weapon in the hands of a public which has so often demonstrated its complete irresponsibility. Besides, we might be courting competition.”

“Well, all right,” said Briggs grudgingly. “But it seems incredible to me that in the course of treating your scalp you have never even considered the possibility of—”

“No,” Carruthers insisted firmly. “I do not want to hear.”

“Or,” Simpson said, “that when combating an occasional attack of itching toes, you have never noticed—”

“Please! No more! Let us drop the matter. Suffice that you gentlemen feel that no problem exists in this direction.”

“Well, if you insist,” Briggs conceded, in a tone that clearly indicated his surprise at this sturdy aversion to learning. He shook his head in wonderment. “All right, if that’s the way you want it. Now, just who is this person, what does he look like, and which pub is it in which I shall put an end, once and for all, to his terrible thirst?”

Simpson’s lanky frame almost ejected itself from his chair in outrage.

“You?” he cried. “Do you want them all?” He lifted his eyes skyward in pleading supplication. “How do you like the nerve of the man?” he inquired of the chandelier.

The fixture refused comment, but Carruthers did not. “All right!” he said sharply. “Enough of these petty scenes! One successful murder seems to have turned your heads! We still have a minimum of nine more to go, and you both insist upon hogging the footlights.” His white head swung about, measuring the mood of his companions. “At the risk of appearing dictatorial,” he said softly, “I am afraid I must suggest a central direction to our group, and since the original idea was mine, I must insist upon assuming this responsibility. Democratically, of course.”

Silence greeted this statement. He spread his hands apologetically. “Believe me, I do not like taking this attitude, but it does seem that we have struck upon a good idea, and it would be a pity if we lost the advantages simply because we have each become too selfish, or too bloodthirsty.”

The silence continued. He studied his two friends quietly and then, satisfied by his inspection, went on as if no discussion had taken place. “In this case I agree with Clifford. Not only is it his turn, but it would not do for Tim to appear at the scene of too many accidental deaths in too short a space of time. We agreed at the outset that there is no sense in compounding our risk. So Cliff it shall be.” The other two continued to watch their new commander in chief owlishly. “Now. Where were we?”

“His picture,” Simpson reminded him quietly. “And the name of the pub where he spends half his life.”

Carruthers delved into his pocket and came up with a small copy of an extremely clear portrait photograph, which indicated a person quite pleased to be himself, although to the casual observer the reason for this enthusiasm might have remained obscure.

“You see him,” he said simply. “His name is Wallingford Lynch, if you can possibly accredit such an appellation. He can be found each day from ten-thirty until one in the afternoon, and from five until eleven in the evening, at the Lizard and Something in Bixby Street. He is rumored to drink anything, but since the source of this information is undoubtedly prejudiced, I should not necessarily assume this to be fact. Anything alcoholic, possibly; but even this may be carrying assumption too far. All I can say is, I would not attempt to poison his chaser, should it be water. Nor would I slip any deadly dose into an idle orange drink on the offhand chance that he might drink it. Beyond these impressions, Cliff, you are on your own.”

With little Briggs hovering behind him, Simpson studied the picture. They found themselves facing the miniature likeness of a rather coarse-looking but handsome man whose nose, even in the nonchromatic scale of black and white, seemed suspiciously darkened. The photograph presented him seated in a trellised bower of artificial flowers, clutching his trilby manfully, but it was easily seen that a beer mug would have reposed with more naturalness in the heavy fingers.

Simpson thrust the picture from him sufficient distance to bring it into focus, and then twisted it to allow all manner of shadow to distort the frozen image. When the puffy features of Mr. Wallingford Lynch were indelibly engraved upon his memory, he returned the copy to Carruthers.

“He’s mine,” he said simply, but with a conviction that brooked no denial. “Whether I see him in the Lizard and Something, or in the Wild Gnu and Something, or merely staggering down the street, he’s mine. I’ll know him.”

He glanced at his timepiece with theatrical impatience. “My digs, with my medicine cabinet, are less than five minutes from here, walking briskly, and a Swiss Cottage omnibus can get me to the pub before festivities have advanced too far.” His appraisal of the other two was questioning, albeit in a slightly condescending manner. “I can see no good reason to waste time on this assignment?”

The other two seemed a bit taken back by the sudden businesslike tone of Simpson’s voice; they nodded in a slightly dazed manner.

“In that case,” said Simpson, rising and stretching his gaunt frame, “if you’ll pardon me…”

They watched him thread his way across the room, past the secretary’s office, past the southeast corner without a glance, and disappear around the half-opened door that hid the view of the stairwell.

“If I were a gambling man,” Briggs said softly, “I would be willing to wager at fairly decent odds that we will have earned our money before someone calls ‘Time, gents!’ tonight.”

“We are gambling men,” Carruthers pointed out. “However, in this case I should judge our optimism to be well founded.”

He took a last, sad look at the photograph of Mr. Wallingford Lynch, and then, with a deep sigh, tucked it back into his wallet. It was not a face that particularly pleased him, but then, he thought charitably, de mortuis nil nisi bonum.

The Lizard and Lion (for that is what it finally turned out to be) nestled comfortably in Bixby Street between a greengrocer’s and a tall building used by strange people for mysterious affairs such as business. These odd folk occasionally disturbed the even tenor of noontime custom in the pub, ordering such queer concoctions as Pims 6, or martinis, or even gin and Swiss. However, by six in the night they were long gone to their semi-villas in Golder’s Green or St. John’s Wood, and the premises were then free for the more accepted clientele, the drinkers.

These began to sidle in at five o’clock sharp, wearing the air of people who, having nothing better to do at the moment, might—just might, that is—have a quick one while deciding. These first arrivals could easily be identified by the feverishness with which they waited for the barman to put on his apron, and the eagerness with which they gulped his first offering. About seven, the residents of the area made their appearance; tea behind them and the overwhelming desire to let off the accumulated steam of the day before them, they sprawled in the more desirable seats, catching at the sleeves of all potential listeners. These were more the leisurely type, more the kind to sip between pronouncements.

Ninish was the hour for the crawlers. The Porpoise and Something down the road having given of its all in entertainment, the crawlers now came to the Lizard and Lion. Within moments they would be on their way to the Elephant and Something around the corner, poor lost souls who would keep up this odyssey until financial embarrassment, closing hours, or possibly even the police would put an end to their sad routine.

One exception to this ever-changing kaleidoscope could be noted. This was Mr. Wallingford Lynch. This worthy entered at five with the sidlers, but thereafter remained in one corner through the residents and the crawlers, drinking steadily. The barman, from long practice, and when other custom did not demand his immediate attention, saw to it that an empty mug never remained before Mr. Lynch for very long; Mr. Lynch not only paid promptly, but also tipped well. This barman-to-Lynch-to-throat combination worked wondrous well; it had all the appearance of one machine being fed parts-in-progress by another. To Mr. Simpson, seated beside his intended victim and nursing a pint of ale, the operation was disturbingly rhythmic; the continuous up-and-down elbow action had a hypnotizing effect, and he found he had to shake his head several times to clear his brain and return his thoughts to his mission. And it was during one of these head-clearing shakes that he suddenly discovered he was being addressed by his neighbor.

“Headache?” asked Mr. Lynch solicitously. “Or twitch?” He immediately went back to his drinking, made the required number of swallows to allow another pause, and returned to the conversation. “Ale!” he said, glancing contemptuously at Mr. Simpson’s drink. “Does it every time!”

Despite the serious nature of his assignment, Mr. Simpson could not help but be intrigued by this new theory. “Which?” he inquired with polite interest.

“Which what?” Mr. Lynch asked between gulps.

“Which does it do every time? Headache or twitch?”

“Both. It’s the truth. Used to happen to me before I switched off. Also carry pills with me for it. Works every time.” He drank and paused once more. “Want one?”

With blinding suddenness a new plan replaced the one which Mr. Simpson had been considering. “Carry my own,” he said lightly. “Never without them.” He fumbled in one of his cavernous pockets and finally unearthed a small pillbox, from which he extracted a tiny pellet. “Care to try one of mine?”

“Trade you,” said Mr. Lynch abruptly, with typical British fairness. He examined the pellet critically. “Really ought to give you two of mine, though; they’re smaller.” Mr. Simpson denied the necessity of carrying equity to this extreme. His eye traveled swiftly to the bar; the clamor of outthrust arms with empty glasses was increasing, and the barman’s frantic eye at the moment was elsewhere.

“Tell you what,” Mr. Simpson suggested softly. “Let’s take them together and see which works better, yours or mine.”

Mr. Lynch ran a suddenly sober and expert eye over the aging figure of his companion; his examination seemed to satisfy him. “Fair enough,” he agreed. “Good show.” He noted that his mug was not only empty, but was not being refilled. Irritated by this breakdown in the conveyor system, he rapped sharply upon the table and found himself in a reasonable time in possession of additional liquid.

“Need to drink, you know,” he said morosely. “Have a partner I couldn’t stand sober.” He suddenly blushed. “Sorry,” he added contritely. “No problem of yours. Don’t usually talk to people here. Don’t usually have the time. Too busy drinking, as a matter of fact.” He demonstrated his usual occupation and then set the mug once more upon the table. “Wake up every morning with a head like a tumor. Teeth feel like they’re wearing little sweaters. Terrible.” He lifted the mug again and quaffed. “This partner. Suspicious chap. Checks expense accounts and things of that nature. Awful.” He was about to raise his mug again when he remembered something. “Oh, yes. The pills. Here’s how.” And, slipping the pellet into his mouth, he immediately washed it down with another draught of his drink.

Years before, when Mr. Simpson had obtained this particular preparation from his doctor, the latter had warned him to dissolve it in plenty of water before applying it to some stubborn warts he wished to remove. “And,” added his doctor, “don’t leave them lying about where someone might pick them up, because, believe me, they’re powerful.” But, even remembering this warning, Mr. Simpson was scarcely prepared for the rapidity with which the tiny pellet went to work. Mr. Lynch did not have time to do more than raise a finger to indicate reciprocity; he barely had time to cast a reproachful glance toward his seatmate. He half rose in his chair, leaned lightly against the table a moment in the manner of one indecisive about leaving, and then tumbled heavily to the floor. It was, perhaps, unfortunate that Mr. Lynch was right-handed. Had he been left-handed, his drink might well have been discharged on the floor, or on one of the noisy threesome at the next table engaged in a violent discussion of the relative merits of Nottingham and Newcastle. As it was, it flew neatly across the enclosed space and drenched Mr. Simpson from head to foot.

The babble of the bar slowly faded as more and more people suddenly realized that tragedy had struck in their midst; when the last of them had swung about to stare at the sprawled figure, dead silence reigned. The barman came hustling from behind his counter with the shocked air of a maintenance man faced with the inexplicable stoppage of an apparatus that had functioned faithfully for years and years. His eyes traveled from the still corpse on the floor to the ashen complexion of Mr. Simpson, still dripping foamy suds.

“What happened?” demanded the barman.

“Haven’t the slightest,” said Mr. Simpson, his mind racing in search of a proper attitude to assume, and his problem further complicated by the dampness which was beginning to seep down his collar. “Was sitting here, minding my own business, when this chap suddenly turned to me, started to say something about his partner, and then pitched over.” His ever imaginative brain suddenly saw a possible benefit in his dousing, and he continued, “Chap sprayed me with his drink, too, he did. And who’ll pay to have my suit cleaned, I’d like to know!”

The barman dismissed this as being of minimum importance. “I suppose we’ll have to have the police in,” he said glumly, staring down at the body of his ex-customer resentfully. But before he could kick it (if that was what he was contemplating) he found himself shoved aside by the police themselves in the person of one P. C. Winters, who had been on point duty nearby, and who had been called by one of the quicker thinkers among the bar’s custom.

“Here, now!” said P. C. Winters, his small eyes sweeping the silent crowd accusingly. “What’s all this?” He unholstered a notebook and pencil and glared about. Everyone seemed reluctant to answer. “I said, what’s all this?”

“Man dead,” someone answered, and there was a nervous snicker from somewhere behind the crowd of faces.

“Ah!” said P. C. Winters, happy that the first step of the inevitable ritual was over. He had been taught to say “Here-now-what’s-all-this” in police school, but he must have been dozing when they explained why. “Now, then, what the devil happened?”

“I was sitting here,” Simpson began modestly, “when this chap sitting beside me suddenly up and chucked his drink all over me. Well, of course I started to remonstrate with him, because one doesn’t do that sort of thing, and then I noticed he wasn’t even paying any attention. As a matter of fact, he was down on the floor, still as could be, and I shouldn’t be surprised if he were dead right then.”

“Ah!” said P. C. Winters. He had also been taught this important ploy in police school, and that day he had been awake. It was to give him time to think. He had often felt they might have picked a more time-consuming phrase. “Now, sir, if you’ll just let me have your name and—”

“And dead or not,” Simpson continued, impervious to the constable’s furrowed brow, tongue between teeth, or extended pencil, “what I want to know is, who’s going to pay to have my suit cleaned?”

“Your name, if you please, sir. We’ll need it for—”

“I don’t claim the suit as being new,” said Simpson reasonably, appealing to the crowd. “Nor am I asking for a new suit in return. Although,” he added pensively, “I’m not so sure I couldn’t collect if I made an issue of it. Have to look into that with my solicitors. Depends, I suppose, on the ease of removing stains from this type of material. Beer stains, that is.”

“I was saying, sir—”

“You were saying what?” Simpson asked querulously. “I’m not asking the police for anything. I’m not blaming them. Certainly I’m a fair man, and I’d never claim it was their fault. But it does seem to me that the pub here ought to have some responsibility in the matter. After all, if a man is injured in an airplane, or a tram, the company has to compensate. So why not in a pub?”

“You can scarcely call having some beer spilled on you an injury,” P. C. Winters pointed out, drawn into the argument despite himself. The crowd held its breath for the answer.

“No?” said Simpson triumphantly. “You get your uniforms given, don’t you? It’s easy for you to talk! Well, I don’t get my suits given, and that’s the fact!”

“Well, now, about our uniforms,” P. C. Winters returned hotly, relieving an old, old irritation, “it just goes to show that you don’t know, because as a matter of fact we have to furnish them ourselves!”

“Hah!” said Simpson, pouncing, while the breathless crowd watched this exchange with all of the excitement of tick-tocking heads at a tennis match. “Then how would you feel if some utter stranger decanted gallons of liquid over you, and you had to pay for having your uniform cleaned out of your own pocket? Eh?”

P. C. Winters shook his head as if to clear it. Had Mr. Wallingford Lynch been able to note the gesture instead of lying dead (and unnoticed) upon the floor, it is certain that he would have classified it as definitely being caused by either headache or the twitch.

“Look, sir—”

Simpson rose regally. “I am leaving,” he announced. “But do not for one moment make the fatal mistake of thinking I shall not return. First with the bill from my cleaners, and if this is not given the respect it merits, I shall be back a second time with my solicitors. It is high time,” he added, in a ringing voice that nearly had the entranced crowd cheering, “that public houses take their rightful place with companies of transport and other franchised services in assuming their just responsibilities in matters affecting their public!”

P. C. Winters was torn between the desire to strike this idiot with his billy and the desire to get enough facts on paper to satisfy his sergeant when report time came.

“But, sir,” he cried, beseechingly, desperately. “Your name?”

“Samson,” said Simpson grandly. “Of Samson, Griggs, and Crowther, Swan’s Park!” He stalked from the room amidst the admiring sigh of the throng, leaving behind both a sweating P. C. Winters, scribbling busily, and a very dead corpse.

“Sometimes,” Simpson remarked thoughtfully, sipping his brandy and champagne, “I have the feeling that we are killing the wrong people. This Lynch chap, for example. Seemed to be a rather nice fellow. However…”

He took Mr. Lynch’s pill from his pocket idly and tossed it upon the table. It rattled about a bit, finally coming to a stop against Mr. Carruthers’ restraining finger. Mr. Carruthers picked it up and examined it carefully, smelled it, and then with great caution placed the tip of his tongue in contact with it.

“I am no expert,” he said modestly, “but I should judge this is what our American cousins call a mickey.” He coughed delicately. “I should imagine that had you taken this you would have presented the very authentic picture of an extremely ill person, and that our friend Lynch would have exhibited the responsibility of aiding you to some fresh air.” His finger came up. “I do not say you would not have received this fresh air—I’m sure you would have. But I think it is safe to say you would have awakened with both a headache and a twitch, not to mention empty pockets.”

Simpson stared at him with shocked eyes. Mr. Carruthers shrugged.

“Let us be shoemakers that stick to our last,” he continued. “It takes some eight years of training to become a respectable psychiatrist; let us not attempt any shortcuts and arrive at an analysis of a person’s character in five minutes.”

He cleared his throat and smiled at his two friends. “Let our motto be,” he said gently, “’Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and—well, make people die.’”

His smile remained, but his eyes were quite serious as they passed over the two thoughtful faces before him. “Then, if we are agreed, tea. And after tea, a slight discussion of another most interesting letter we have received…”

“Strange Seizure in Pub,” said the small headline.

“Ah!” said Sir Percival Pugh, and he reached for his scissors.