Mask for Murder

Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.

MAX DALMAN

MASK FOR MURDER

First published by Ward, Lock & Co., London, 1940

This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2025
Version Date: 2025-07-28

Produced by Matthias Kaether and Roy Glashan

All content added by RGL is proprietary and protected by copyright.

Click here for more books by this author

One foggy evening, as air-raid sirens wail across the common, Pamela Norwood and her friend Mr. March stumble upon a corpse. But this isn't a casualty of war—it's a murder victim, killed with a poisoned gas mask.

Chapter I. Raid Warning
Chapter II. False Alarm
Chapter III. A Knock-Out
Chapter IV. A Witness Lost
Chapter V. Bang Goes Saxpence
Chapter VI. The Superintendent Suspects
Chapter VII. In Confidence
Chapter VIII. A Discovery in the Canal
Chapter IX. Stolen Clue
Chapter X. Out of the Mud
Chapter XI. The Impatience of Mr. Sparrow
Chapter XII. An Encounter with the Press
Chapter XIII. Evidence From Mr. Elder
Chapter XIV. More About Masks
Chapter XV. News of a Will
Chapter XVI. Words from a Night Watchman
Chapter XVII. An Afternoon Out
Chapter XVIII. Inspector Portland Takes Tea
Chapter XIX. A Matter of Mathematics
Chapter XX. Vanishing of a Valet
Chapter XXI. Trouble at the Office
Chapter XXII. A Colour Problem
Chapter XXIII. Gas Attack
Chapter XXIV. Portland Draws Blank
Chapter XXV. The Phone Rings
Chapter XXVI. Explanations>

CHAPTER I
Raid Warning

THE fog was growing thicker as Pamela Norwood turned past the Ambulance Post and emerged into the open space of the Common. Although it was her quickest route from the station by some minutes, if she had not known the place like the palm of her hand she would have hesitated; for dusk was already falling, and she had to go, not along the macadamed road which crossed its irregular oblong from end to end, but by one of the various vague side tracks. With the unfenced canal on one side, and the scarcely less perilous depths of the derelict A.R.P. trenches on the other, it was no way to be taken by a stranger in the growing darkness, and as she reached the point at which it should have diverged she herself stopped to make sure.

By her reckoning, she should have come nearly halfway, and, if it had been possible to see anything at all, she should have been able to look straight across the muddy waters of the canal to the factory just opposite. But the mist made everything different; the grey wreaths eddied queerly, thickening and thinning, and though the path at her feet should have been the one which she wanted, she could not be certain.

Her gas-mask case was wriggling round under her arm-pit, and she hitched it back irritably. She carried it neither from caution nor principle, but solely in obedience to her Uncle John, who was also her employer. John Hawthorne was a man of principle and authority; and if he feared anything, it seemed to be asphyxiation. He himself would as soon have gone out without his trousers as unprotected against a possible attack, and his example was followed perforce by his staff. What had started as a joke had passed one when his precautions infringed on light, ventilation, and convenience; but the staff could only suffer in silence, except for Sparrow, his less rigid and younger partner, who sneered openly and defiantly went maskless.

She stood for a moment hesitating; and though it was useless her eyes automatically turned in the direction of the factory whose black mass against the sky had before served her as a mark. An eddy in the mist for a moment showed her a few yards of rough grass, but that was all. She was on the point of turning away when on the very edge of the clearer space something moved.

Mere curiosity made her look again. She was not the only person wandering on the Common in the mist, for someone was evidently walking over there, though whether man or woman she could not distinguish. And like herself, the stranger seemed to be lost; for, by her judgment, he should be somewhere very near the canal, and heading in a direction which led nowhere except to a corner of blank walls. The thought crossed her mind that perhaps he did not know the place, and might fall in, but it was still light enough to distinguish the water if it were at one's feet. Then, as she looked, he vanished, quite suddenly as though the earth had swallowed him.

She was startled. It was not that the mist had covered him. He had vanished in a downward direction. It seemed only too likely that the canal was responsible, and she made a hesitating step to go to his rescue. But the water was shallow enough at the edge. If any such mishap had overtaken him, he would be wet and muddy, but he could scarcely drown. There had been no cry for help. She hesitated for a moment longer, then turned along the path which she hoped was her own.

After all, it did not greatly matter. If it was not the track which would take her to Fair Lane, it was one in something like the right direction. It would merely be a matter of walking along a little way behind the houses of Wood Street. She comforted herself with that thought as the conviction grew on her steadily that she had gone astray. And then the siren sounded.

The noise seemed to come from all sides at once. She stopped dead. For a second she was merely amazed. Then it dawned upon her. It was the 'undulating note' devoted to air-raid warnings. Even when she realised, she scarcely believed it. Up to that time the small town had been apparently immune from the attentions of enemy aircraft, and only an occasional and scarcely heeded practice had brought home to them the possibilities of war. But this could be no practice, at that time of day, and without any notice given. It must be the real thing.

For a single instant she was conscious of a wave of something like panic. At the office she would have retired quite calmly, perhaps even reluctantly, to the basement which her uncle had duly strengthened, gas-proofed, and generally prepared for the purpose. At home she would have been too busy looking after her mother to worry unduly about possibilities. But the loneliness frightened her. She felt horribly exposed and unprotected. The mist made it worse. One could not even see how near danger might be. She started to run blindly while the siren still shrieked its warning.

She had gone only a few paces before her sanity asserted itself. Probably several minutes would elapse before the attackers arrived. Possibly they would never come at all. And she was as safe there as anywhere, she told herself. If bombing started, she could lie down. She slowed to a quick walk, and then stopped altogether.

A thought had suddenly struck her. There were air-raid shelters quite near, somewhere just beyond the derelict trenches which, with a beautiful disregard for water levels, had been dug in the excitement of the first war scare. She was no longer frightened. The siren had stopped, leaving everything unnaturally still. From a long distance to her left came the faint noise of shouting. In all probability that was her own proper direction, for the right thing to do was obviously to make for a shelter. If she could find it. For now she had lost the last vestige of her bearings, and had no idea which way she was heading.

The shouting was louder. A little hesitantly, she turned towards it. What she wanted was less a protection against bombs than the reassuring presence of her fellow creatures. She had gone only a few yards when the sound of running footsteps behind made her turn hastily. With a little sigh of relief she saw the shadowy figure of a man coming towards her.

He was without hat or coat. He was also without gas mask. He saw her and raised his hand with a grin, and in the same instant she recognised him. At least, she had certainly seen him before, though she could not recollect his name. He shouted to her as he ran.

In spite of their cheerful good humour, the words startled her a little. Then the young man saw her face, and his jaw dropped.

"Oh, I say!" He came to a stop six feet away, and there was consternation in his voice. "I'm fearfully sorry I was so rude... I thought it was my sister—"

"But—but am I?" she asked, and smiled her forgiveness. "I mean am I heading for the ditch?"

He nodded. "The borough's best and stickiest effort. Two feet of mud if there's an inch... That is, I think you are—"

He looked round doubtfully. In the presence of a human companion Pamela's fears had vanished.

"I was making for a shelter," she said. "Or I thought I was... It—it really is a raid?"

"It really was a warning," he said dubiously. "But maybe the wardens on duty have gone daft; or the man with the siren's drunk... Incidentally, I ought to be on duty myself. If I knew where it was—"

He made a gesture of resignation; then grinned. As he did so she realised where she had seen him.

"It—it's Mr. March, isn't it?" she asked. "Of Finch and Son, Elder, and March?"

"It is. 'Mortgages neatly executed. Summonses arranged. Your will is our pleasure.' It's a pity we aren't allowed to advertise, isn't it? I say, you don't happen to be a client, do you?"

"Oh, that's where I've seen you. Hawthorne and Sparrow. Chartered accountants... 'Really, Mr. March, it is the duty of every citizen to carry his gas mask.'... By George, you've got yours!"

"I'd forgotten for the moment. Let's hope they confine themselves to H.E. and incendiary—preferably on the town hall. That place needs blowing up... Well—" He looked round again. It was nearly dark. "If we walk this way we should get somewhere—"

He thought for a moment. "Perhaps I have... But we'd better get somewhere. And if we do hit the ditch— Good Lord! What's that?"

From somewhere close in front of them had come the muffled sound of an explosion. They stood listening. There was the faint sound of shouting, but that was all.

A shade of disquiet passed over the young man's face. "That's not H.E. anyway," he said. "Just my luck—"

Even as he spoke the noise of the rattles reached them, at first from just ahead, then taken up somewhere behind them. Pamela looked at him and went pale.

"Let this be a warning to me," he rejoined quite cheerfully. "Now, Miss Hawthorne. Bring the case round to the front with the left hand. Grasp the mask firmly with the right, taking care—I say, I suppose your name is Hawthorne?"

"It—it's Pamela Norwood." She smiled in spite of herself. "But you must get somewhere—"

"Just what I was saying. If we hit the ditch, we can follow it up and reach the Ambulance Post. Once there, I've a duty mask awaiting me—a better one than you've got... Incidentally, I hate to suggest that you should hide your face, but hadn't you better—"

"Not a smell," he said. "No garlic, no geranium, no pear-drops—yet... I always forget the rest, anyhow. Oh! 'Phosgene smells like musty hay.' No musty hay, either. D'you prefer putting that thing on your head now and stifling, or waiting until something turns up?... There's a smell now—no, that's the canal. All the same, perhaps you'd better try it on... Let me adjust the straps and so on. Now, at the word 'one' remove the headgear smartly, placing it between the knees—"

"The regulations don't say anything about that. It certainly isn't a helmet with strap, which is the sole exception... Hullo! Dash it all, we've struck the road, not the ditch—"

Someone was running towards them. Unexpectedly a shadow loomed out of the darkness ahead. For a second, Pamela was startled as two vast eyes and a rounded snout peered at her from beneath a helmet.

Meekly Pamela drew her container into the ready position, sniffing as she did so. She could smell nothing.

"My dear old boy," March said soothingly, "I haven't got a mask. Luckily the percentage of fatal cases—"

"March? It's you, is it? You idiot, it's thick by the bridge there. I smelt it. Mustard... Get the girl under cover—"

He dashed off into the darkness. March sniffed again and shook his head, as Pamela handled her mask hesitantly.

"No good... That man," there was a thoughtful note in his voice, "that man owns a tannery. One of our clients asked him to abate the nuisance caused by the hides, and he swore he couldn't smell a thing. He's also my landlord. When the drains went wrong, there was a smell to knock you down. Just the same then... If he can smell it, it must be bad... You'd better put yours on. Insert the thumb of the right hand into the head harness and let the mask dangle. Insert the left thumb beside it—"

"I'm not going to," Pamela said decidedly, "until I smell something... Or something happens—"

Someone was running up behind them. This time two men appeared in tin helmets, and with their haversacks at the ready position, but not wearing masks. They slowed as they drew level.

"I say, what the devil is this?" one of them asked bewilderedly. "There was no warning. And then the siren goes, and the rattles—"

"Bombs? Hell... Sorry, Miss—Miss Norwood, isn't it?... Those weren't bombs. More like a kid letting off fireworks—"

"Might be gas? Old Wisden swore it was thick by the bridge. Didn't you notice it? Mustard, he said."

"Gas?" The younger of the two men exploded into laughter. "Gas? Mustard? Smell of garlic or onions? Oh, Lord!"

March looked from one to the other. "What's the joke?" he demanded. "Isn't there a smell?"

"There's a smell of onions by the bridge all right," the warden admitted. "Comes from the pub. Old Pear's having a supper of tripe with the usual accompaniments... We were just having a quick one—"

Another gas-masked figure plunged towards them from the mist. He stopped as he saw the group, gesticulating with his hands, and emitting through the facepiece a mumble of excited but unintelligible sounds.

"At the words 'test for gas'," March suggested, "draw a deep breath. Insert two fingers of the right hand inside the face-piece, and raise slightly. Smell cautiously. Allow the face-piece to return to its position and breathe out. Now! 'Test for gas!'"

The young man in the mask bellowed excitedly, his voice rising to a shriek; but only a few of the words were distinguishable.

"I say, old boy," March said soothingly. "If you've used the anti-dimming compound on your eye-piece, and will now use your eyes, you'll see that these aren't masks. These are our natural faces. It's an insult to the lady to suggest otherwise. I mean, there isn't any gas. You may safely inhale the night fog and cool down. And spit out whatever's on your mind. Now. At the words 'remove gas masks'... Here! You don't take the mask off. You test for gas—"

"My—my God!" The words came from the young man in something like a scream. He tugged at the gas mask, tearing it from his head. In the dim light they could see the pallor of his face, and the sweat running down his forehead. "Shut up, you fool! There's a man—over there! He's lying down. I think—I think he's dead!"

"Just—just a few yards along." The young man turned and led the way. "I—I fell over him. He didn't—didn't move. Thought he'd fainted. But—he's not breathing. At least, I don't think so. I couldn't feel his pulse—"

"There's something damn' funny about this gas. Not to say phoney." The older air-raid warden's voice was dubious. "That siren, now. Didn't sound to me like the gas works. Came from the wrong direction, I thought—"

The young man had stopped. They could make out the white shadow of his hand pointing downwards at something dark which lay at the side of the road. March and the older man stooped.

There was an interval of silence. Then March's voice reached them, and his flippancy had suddenly vanished.

"Smell what? He's dead all right... Still warm. Better get him to the post... Half a minute—"

He fumbled in his pocket. A torch gleamed dully in his hand. Then a beam of light cut a white path through the fog.

Half in the roadway and half on the grass verge lay the body of an elderly man, with the limbs sprawling awkwardly. He wore a dark overcoat, beneath which a pair of striped trousers were visible. His hat had evidently fallen from his head and lay beside him, near the gas mask which March had just removed. As the torch shone on his white face and staring eyes, the girl gave a cry of horror.

"Hawthorne?" the warden asked, and shifted the torch. "Good Lord! So it is... He's dead?"

"He's dead," March said, and there was a curious note in his voice. He drew the gas mask gingerly towards him and sniffed at it. "Yes, he's dead," he repeated softly.

"But—but—" Pamela faltered, "he—he was quite all right. We came home on the same train. He left me at the station to call at the office. As usual... He—he wasn't ill—"

"But he hadn't. Dr. Lincoln saw him only a day or two ago. He said that, for his age—"

"A stroke, maybe," the older warden contributed. "My wife's father went off just that way. In his chair—"

There was the sound of heavy footsteps behind them. A voice boomed out of the blackness, and March recognised with relief its official ring.

The sergeant thrust his way between the young man and Pamela, and knelt beside March.

"We don't know... This young man found him. And, Sergeant, I'd like a word with you a minute."

Still holding the gas mask gingerly by the straps, March drew the policeman aside, followed by the curious eyes of the rest.

"Sergeant," he said in a low voice, "he was wearing this when we found him. I caught a whiff as we took it off... Smell it."

"Gassed, you mean?" The sergeant's voice was puzzled, but he took the mask obediently. "I don't get this gas business... Good Lord! Almonds?"

"You'd better keep that... He was gassed, all right, but it wasn't any air raid. Cyanogen."

"You mean, sir—?" the sergeant asked dubiously. He knew March well enough from his appearances in the local court, and was prepared to treat his views with respect. "He was poisoned, sir?"

CHAPTER II
False Alarm

IN the bomb-proof, gas-proof basement of White Gables Mr. James Berchell was having a crowded hour of glorious life. The big cellar, once the resting place of choice vintages, and more particularly the exceptionally stuffy cubby-hole walled with three-ply which was Mr. Berchell's sanctum, could be reckoned, for A.R.P. purposes, the nerve centre of the town. It had taken a war to find any use for the derelict mansion which the spreading houses had engulfed, and peeling wall-papers and raw woodwork testified to twenty years of neglect and a month's hasty adaptation. And the cellar at that moment was a scene of activity, such as it had never presented in the century and a half since it was dug.

As town clerk, Mr. Berchell had found the responsibility of air-raid protection arrangements wished upon him, and in the face of obstacles, disappointments and annoyances he had with his usual conscientiousness produced at least a semblance of order out of chaos. At the cost of weeks of hard work, he and his assistants had reached a stage when they had thought that any emergency which might arise would find them not unprepared.

And now, the particular crisis which had arisen was of a kind which had never been foreseen at all.

At intervals, more or less indignant people would ring up and ask Mr. Berchell what the hell was happening. And Mr. Berchell's staff, considerably hampered by the fog and darkness, returned evasive but reassuring answers while it was trying to answer that question itself. There was no panic, and, in fact, no occasion for it. But there was a great deal of bewilderment, and not the least bewildered man was Mr. Berchell himself. He was trying, with Superintendent Locker, to find an answer to the problem.

"We can say definitely, Superintendent," he said precisely, glancing over his spectacles at a small pile of memorandum sheets, "we can say definitely that no official warning was given of any kind. No planes whatsoever have been reported at any point. No instructions to sound the siren were issued from headquarters or any post. The official siren, at the gas works, was not in fact sounded at all—"

"Seemed to come from the other side of the canal," Locker suggested. "Thought it was queer at the time, but you can't tell with this fog... There's only a couple of places there it could have been. I've sent to find out."

"Probably the wardens' reports will be in by then... But, to proceed, there were certainly three mild explosions, coming, so far as we can tell, from the vicinity of Wood Street. Almost immediately afterwards, a gas warning was sounded which was audible to the men on duty at the gate here. From somewhere on the Common, in fact—"

"There was more than one," Locker said grimly. "They sounded all over the town."

"Yes. Apparently what happened was that various wardens—and police—hearing the original warning, and the explosions, passed on the signal, thereby spreading the alarm... I must say that, in view of the difficult conditions prevailing, the arrangements functioned excellently. We have had, as it were, a real test of our preparedness, and we have emerged not without credit... At the same time, there is no evidence that any enemy machines were in the neighbourhood, or that any poison gas was in fact detected. The one report of mustard gas which we received, and which helped to give credence to the alarm, has since been ascertained to have emanated—er, from another source."

"So that, in spite of our gratification at the way the bulk of our organisation has emerged from the trial, we are faced with a serious position. Some unauthorised person has taken it upon himself to sound a warning without foundation which has caused considerable alarm and annoyance—"

"In fact, sir," Locker said grimly, "it's been a damned hoax. And I'd like to get the joker that did it."

"That, of course, comes within your province. I shall be pleased to afford any assistance I can. One moment—"

He lifted the receiver of the telephone as the bell rang, not without a certain nervousness. Evidently he was receiving some kind of report, for he himself answered only in monosyllables. Locker watched him with impatience. He nodded his head as he rang off.

"As we thought, Superintendent. That was a report from Post C2. They are quite definite there that the warning came from the south. That would make it the tin-plate factory, I believe? Arberry's, on the other side of the canal."

"Very likely, sir. We're searching there. Though I'm practically sure that Mr. Arberry had that siren put out of order. In case of accident, sir."

"Then, in all probability, it was merely disconnected at some point. Anyone with the necessary knowledge could restore it."

Locker thought for a moment. "You've no exact evidence regarding the explosions?"

"We can place them with comparative accuracy. Almost certainly they occurred in that block of houses scheduled for slum clearance—Cranmer's Row. At the back of Wood Street."

"Whoever it was chose his place well," Locker commented with unwilling admiration. "There are eight or nine houses there, all empty. With the fog to blanket things, it's a question of searching the lot. It's the same with that factory. Right on the edge of the town—the other side of the canal. Comparatively isolated, in fact. Wait a bit. There's a night watchman, surely?"

"In fact, I believe he is a warden? I'm almost sure—no. It's the First Aid Section... There's one thing which occurs to me, Superintendent. Though of course I have no intention of interfering in any way with your investigation—"

"It must have been the work of a gang. Two, or three persons at the least. One, to sound the siren. The second to cause the explosions. Either the second man, or possibly a third, could sound the gas alarm."

Locker rapidly worked out the distances. The two bridges across the canal were each at some distance from the tin-plate factory. Certainly if the man who had sounded the alarm used one of them he could not have been responsible for either of the other manifestations.

"He might have swum the canal?" he suggested. "Then, perhaps, he could just have done it. Though I doubt it. Probably you're right, sir."

"Still, it might be worth while to make inquiries for any man in wet clothing? I think we may take it that he would not have had time to strip and dress again?"

Locker thought. "Yes, I should say so," he said a little doubtfully. "Too risky, too."

"And, I suppose, it would be worth while trying to discover what suspicious persons were in the vicinity of White Gables... Again, the fog—"

"Yes, sir," Locker agreed. "But there's a bigger difficulty than that. As soon as the alarm sounded, all the wardens, first-aid men and so on, on duty here started to come along. There must have been plenty of people—"

The ringing of the phone again interrupted him. With an expression of resignation Berchell lifted the receiver. Then the Superintendent saw his face change.

From his face it was so obvious that something exciting had occurred that Locker longed to take the receiver from him.

He hung up. There was a shocked look on his face as he turned to the impatient Superintendent.

"It—it's incredible!" he said exasperatingly. "Quite incredible. That, Superintendent, was from the First Aid Post—here, you know. Mr. John Hawthorne has just been brought in dead—"

"He was with those that found the body. He mentioned something he noticed to Sergeant West, who arrived soon afterwards... There's evidence that death was not natural. Accidental, I should have said."

"You mean, sir—?" Locker jumped to his feet. "You don't mean he's been murdered?"

Locker did not wait for him to finish. Impolitely, he dived for the door immediately, but Berchell was close on his heels as they hurried through the crowded cellar. Activity was dying down, though phones still rang at intervals, and any number of people with no very urgent business except a desire for information were having to be turned away. Curious eyes followed them as they went. They passed through an improvised doorway pierced through what had been a partition wall, and at last emerged into the yard at the back of the house.

Quite a small crowd had collected outside the door of the emergency ambulance station, but they were kept at bay there by a constable whom West had found on duty outside. Locker pushed his way through without ceremony, and as the door closed behind them gave a quick glance round the room.

Sergeant West was standing in an attitude which suggested that he was on guard over the little group of people who were talking in hushed voices in one corner of the improvised ward. The body itself had been laid on a bed at the far end, and with satisfaction Locker noted that the doctor had already arrived and was examining it, assisted by the chief of the St. John Ambulance Brigade. For the moment, Locker left them to it. He beckoned West aside.

"The doctor was here, sir," the sergeant began to explain hurriedly, "and as there was some doubt of his being dead, sir—that is, we hoped he might come round—"

"Yes, sir. I left a man watching the spot, sir. One of the wardens. I've sent a constable since to rope it off."

His eyebrows rose as he listened to the few bald facts which West had so far been able to gather.

"Yes, sir. At least, Mr. March suggested that. There was certainly a queer smell about the mask, sir."

Locker glanced up the room. Evidently the doctor had given up all hope of resuscitation. He had taken up the gas mask and was sniffing at it with a caution which suggested a certain nervousness. Locker glanced at the waiting group.

"You've got their names and so on?" he asked. "Good. Keep them there a minute. I'll have a word with the doctor."

Dr. Verrill nodded briefly as the Superintendent came up. He was turning the gas mask over between his hands, apparently engaged in an examination of the container, particularly the perforated disc at the end. He sniffed at it again; then held it out.

"You'll want this, Superintendent," he said. "That's what you might call the weapon."

"Unless Hawthorne staged a peculiarly complicated suicide, or there was an accident too preposterous to imagine... Smell."

"The gas... I've not examined it, of course, but I think I can give you an idea of how it was arranged. My theory is that someone had taken the container to bits, removed the stuff inside—"

Berchell had followed and lingered in the background. Locker frowned a little. He would have been just as glad to have had the doctor to himself.

"Exactly. Or some of it. And then, I should say, they put in its place some preparation of potassium cyanide—perhaps just the pure stuff. And then they just put it back."

Locker looked at it dubiously. "That would do the trick? It would give off the gas? But I suppose only for a limited time?"

"Yes," Verrill said grimly. "But the point about it is this. There's no gas given off as long as it's dry... Maybe you've used it to destroy a wasps' nest?"

"Of course, Doctor. Of course... You buy it, if I remember rightly, in a white stick or powder, and insert it into the hole, or as near as possible. Then you apply water—"

"And you can tell what the gas is like. You'll see a wasp fly over it and drop down. Just like that."

"In this case, I'm inclined to think it happened after it was put on," Verrill said. "You might almost say Hawthorne did it himself."

He need hardly have asked the question, for the fog had penetrated the room, casting a soft halo round the lamps. Locker frowned; then looked at the doctor quickly.

"I'm inclined to think so. Of course, there might have been some more complicated arrangement, but I believe that would be enough. You're drawing in all the time. The valve prevents your blowing out that way. And whatever is being given off, you're getting it all. If the mask fits properly. And probably Hawthorne's did. He was fussy enough."

Locker pondered for a minute or two on the implications of this information, and his frown deepened.

"This stuff, then, might have been put in at any time, so long as the mask was kept dry?" he asked.

"Yes. It depends how careful Hawthorne was about the storage of his gas mask. Of course, there's generally a certain amount of moisture about in the air, and there would be some deterioration. But, if he obeyed instructions, and kept the thing dry—"

"But he did!" Berchell burst in eagerly. "Mr.—Mr. Hawthorne, I remember, was always most particular about precautions against gas. He has admirably proofed rooms, both at his house and at his office. He was never without his gas mask. If there was anything about which he was nervous, Superintendent, I should say that it was gas. Why, he even held weekly practices—"

"As a means of ascertaining how long the stuff had been there?" Verrill shook his head dubiously. "I can't tell you. I suppose it could be ascertained by experiment, though I shouldn't advise you to try it personally... I should imagine that what I said before applies. If the air of the room was dry enough, he might not inhale any, or not enough to cause serious damage."

"Certainly. You'd better keep it in an air-tight box—and don't lean over the box when you open it."

"Within a few minutes. That's one of the troubles with this as a poison. You've no time to treat anyone, except in very abnormal cases."

"I should say, under the half-hour. I imagine that when they found him he could only just have dropped... But, in fact, he would hardly put the mask on until he heard the rattles. He'd be dead a few minutes later."

"I'll have to make one. But it won't tell us any more. There's not the least doubt what happened."

Locker stood looking at the body, and there was a worried expression on his face. He could grasp the possibilities of the method. If Hawthorne were as careful as Berchell seemed to think, it might have been weeks or months since the stuff was placed there. And during that time, who could have had access to the mask? The answer seemed to be an enormous number of people. So far as he could see, the poison might have been inserted when the mask was first assembled. And then a horrible idea occurred to him. He turned to Berchell.

"Supposing there were more? Perhaps a lot more? Just waiting until people put them on in a damp atmosphere—"

"But—but, Superintendent—!" Berchell stared at him in blank horror. "You mean—there might be other cases? Good heavens—"

"I'm praying there won't be," Locker said grimly. "They might be scattered all over the town, over the whole district—"

An extension line had been run from the main cellar to the ambulance ward. The ringing of its bell interrupted them. Berchell happened to be nearest, and answered it hesitantly.

"It—it's for you, Superintendent," he said shakily. "Something—something else has happened. My God, if—"

The phone cackled aggravatingly as the other two men stood waiting. Berchell produced a cigarette-case with a shaking hand, then glanced at the corpse and put it away hurriedly. Locker slammed back the receiver with a brief affirmative.

"Something's happened at Arberry's," he said briefly. "Sounds pretty bad. You'd better come along, Doctor."

CHAPTER III
A Knock-Out

BY daylight it would only have been a few minutes' run from White Gables to Arberry's factory, in spite of the considerable detour necessitated by the widely separated canal bridges. But the fog and the black-out combined to make them crawl at a snail's pace, sometimes slowing almost to a dead stop, and once or twice nearly running down incautious pedestrians. Locker, after glancing out at the roped-off spot where the body had been found, sat back in a miserable silence, fuming at the delay. They were nearing the point where the road crossed the canal before Verrill ventured a word of comfort.

"I've been thinking—about your idea that there may be a whole lot of masks dosed like that. It's very improbable."

"Consider the probabilities. That scheme could only work in the case of a person who really looked after the gas mask carefully. Now, Hawthorne did. But if there'd been a lot, dished out haphazard by some madman at one of the assembling centres—or more probably stores—some of them would have gone to people who were careless. And a lot of people are—damned careless. Children, say. Nothing they like better than to drop 'em in the river... You'd have had trouble before."

"That's true," Locker admitted, and his face brightened a little. "It's certainly probable, at least."

"Again, take to-night. Those damned rattles sounded all over the town. Lots of people put their gas masks on. I did myself. I expect you did? Don't you see, to-night they'd all got to meet the same atmospheric conditions as poor Hawthorne? We'd have had not one case, but as many as there were treated masks."

"I think you're right," Locker said thoughtfully. "And, anyway, come to think of it, apart from the maniac, or even a sabotage idea, it's hard to see how many masks could be dealt with in that way, if you think of working conditions... So this show was staged just for Hawthorne's benefit?"

"I mean, that if that was the only poisoned mask, it looks as if the whole of this fake was got up to make Hawthorne put his mask on!"

The doctor tried to digest that. "But that's ridiculous?" he said a little doubtfully. "Why take all that trouble and risk—"

"I'm not so sure about risk... We might not have tumbled to it at all. Supposing, say, that Hawthorne's body had lain there all night, and the damned stuff had exhausted itself. Could you have diagnosed cyanide without anything to guide you?"

"I wouldn't like to swear to it," Verrill admitted. "I might or might not... But it was unlikely it would."

"Perhaps, sir. But look what we're up against anyhow. We've got to find out when the stuff was put there—and that means who had a chance at any time for weeks, so far as I could make out from what you said... Let's assume that the murderer has somehow managed to get hold of the poison on the quiet. I mean, without signing the poison book... The stuff is used for commercial purposes, isn't it?"

"Photography, I think," Verrill answered. "And, yes—in electro-plating, I believe... or is that silver cyanide?"

"Well, let's suppose that he's got hold of it somehow. How on earth are we going to find out who did it?"

Verrill thought. "It's a job which would take some time," he said. "And I should say that you'd need more privacy than you'd get in any store or factory. The number of people who had the chance must be limited."

"It's our only limit up to date. And how limited? Where did he keep his gas mask at the office? Could any of the staff have done it? Or was it at home? Or was he issued with that particular mask? You can see we've got a good deal of work before us—"

"Yes... I'm dreading what we'll find at Arberry's, but I'm hoping too in a way... Aren't we nearly there?"

Verrill looked out. "Just getting to the bridge," he announced. "But what bothers you about Arberry's?"

"It's all locked up. Not a sign of the night watchman, and he generally makes a point with the policeman about now. And, in the yard, there's blood."

There was silence for a full minute. Then Locker glanced out for the twentieth time. He reached for the door handle.

As Locker himself had said, the tin-plate factory had been well chosen from the point of view of anyone who wanted to be undisturbed. A rambling, half derelict place which had been several things in its time, and had only lately been reopened, it lay on the very edge of the town, with the canal on one side, and open pasture fields on two more. Even on the side towards which a poor-looking row of houses crept untidily, a tumbledown barn and cowshed separated it from any actual contact; while beyond the canal lay the open common. Once the night watchman was disposed of, there was no reason why anyone should interrupt whatever was going on, except perhaps the constable on beat, who once or twice in the course of the night met the watchman by arrangement.

He, and the two motor-cycle police Locker had sent to investigate, were waiting for them by the rusty iron gates. The Superintendent looked his question. It was the constable on beat who volunteered the answer.

"We don't know what's happened, sir," he said. "The light's burning as usual, but there's no sign of Renskill. I've never known him to be so late before. He's only too glad to see someone—"

"Yes, sir." The motor-cyclist sergeant answered. "Looks like it, anyhow... It's all locked, sir, but I flashed my torch through the gate—"

The sergeant led the way to the gateway, thrust his torch between the bars, and directed the beam towards a corner of the building. The yard was cemented, and wet with the fog; but that was only a dampness which barely reflected the light. But by the corner there was certainly a pool of something dark, an actual pool, on which the rays gleamed. Locker frowned at it.

"I climbed up, sir," the sergeant said. "When you look down from above, you can see the reddish colour, sir."

Locker thought. "We've got to get in," he said. "Smash a window. We'll have to take the responsibility. And Arberry won't raise any fuss."

"That's no good, sir," the sergeant said. "All the ground-floor windows are barred. And there's no smashing the doors without tools—"

"This gate?" Locker asked, and shone his torch up it. There was a bar about five feet up, on which the sergeant had presumably climbed; but it was topped by an archway, and the vicious spikes of the gate came to within a few inches of it. That way was hopeless. He turned to the motor-cyclist constable. "Get to the phone," he snapped. "Get Arberry, or whoever has keys. Hurry!"

The constable started his engine as he answered, and in half a minute was roaring down the road. Locker turned to the others.

"That's the very reason why he probably got in there!" Locker snapped. "A murderer isn't afraid of wet feet—if a policeman is. We'll look." He turned to the constable. "You lead. You know the place."

"Yes, sir!" the constable answered hastily, still smarting under the implied reproof. "Along here will be best, sir."

He moved to the end of the building, ducked under a broken railing, and turned towards the canal. Locker moved his torch along the wall as they went, with the doctor following unwillingly in the rear. So far the sergeant's report was justified. Mostly there was blank brickwork; for there were few windows on this side, and those high up. All of them were barred, and the iron, though rusted, was massive enough to give trouble. They reached the point where the building touched the canal-side without having seen a chance of entering.

He stepped a little gingerly on to the crumbling edge of the bank, steadied himself with one hand against the wall corner, and peered round. The fog allowed the torch to reveal only a few yards, and what it showed was not encouraging. The wall rose practically sheer from the water, only a coping of stone a few inches wide showing the ordinary bank level. Locker scrutinised it. In spite of his words to the sergeant, he was no more anxious than anyone else to wade in cold and muddy water.

It might be practicable. A good many of the stones were loose, and some had actually fallen, leaving sloping gaps in the narrow pathway. But, helped by the roughness of the brickwork, an active man might sidle along it so far as they could see. Only, the days of the Superintendent's greatest activity were over, and he had not the figure of an acrobat. If one slipped, if one failed to realise that a stone was loose, there was an unknown depth of the brown water to break one's fall. Locker set his jaw grimly.

He started. It was not even as easy as it had looked. A good many of the stones wriggled disconcertingly under one's feet, and the bricks had a maddening way of having been repointed just when one most wanted a finger grip. But he got safely about half-way, and stopped, not without relief, clinging to the sill of a little window which was set in the wall just too high for him to peer into.

The light from the sergeant's torch was already dimmed by the mist. That officer, having no orders to follow other than the "we" which he preferred to think was used in an editorial or kingly sense, had obeyed his instructions to show a light from a safe position. It was true that once started he could certainly not have shown it and kept on the ledge. As Locker clung with one hand and felt for his own torch with the other, a shadow blotted out what light there was, and he looked round. Evidently Verrill was made of sterner stuff, or he suffered from a layman's insatiable curiosity. He had discarded his coat and was following, his slim figure making possible a speed which excited Locker's envy when he thought of the way back.

The window was high and narrow, divided into two parts midway. Locker craned his neck, not without risk. His eyes were just level with the sill. Then he gave a sharp exclamation.

It was only a crack, just enough to insert a finger; but still it was enough—if one could reach it. Locker tried, but it was stiff, and he could get no leverage. He had just decided that it was hopeless by the time Verrill reached him. Then an idea came into his mind. He looked from the window to the doctor.

"Is this where they got in?" Verrill asked. He had not noticed the significance of the Superintendent's look. "Pretty difficult."

"Not so bad," Locker rejoined. "If you've the figure... No, I don't think they got in this way. There are no marks, and they'd have knocked a few stones in... But we might?"

Verrill looked from the window to the Superintendent, and smiled faintly. It was too suggestive of trying to get a quart into a pint pot.

"If I gave you a hand up, Doctor," Locker said winningly, "you could easily push the window up and crawl through. Then you could probably let us in... You'd be as safe as houses, if I didn't slip."

"And if you did?" Verrill's tone suggested that he did not relish the prospect. In fact, it was asking a good deal to expect a respectable doctor to force himself through an opening not much more than a foot square, with the prospect of falling six feet into a canal if he failed, and if he succeeded, the possibility that a murderer was waiting the other side. Not unnaturally, he hesitated.

Locker noticed it, and pressed his point. "I wouldn't ask, Doctor, if—" he pleaded. "There may be a man dying—"

Locker gripped the ledge of the window with one hand, offering the other for Verrill to climb on, taking a stance with legs wide apart on the safest stones he could find. Verrill placed his foot with a little hesitation and felt for the sill.

After all, it was easier than one had thought—if Locker did not slip. He got his fingers in the crack and heaved. To his relief, the window went up quite easily. He got his arm over, and was independent of the Superintendent's support.

Locker released his grip on the doctor's left foot and handed up the torch. Verrill looked into an untidy boiler house about fourteen feet square, and threw the torch beam about. The place was empty. Just opposite a door seemed to lead into the interior of the building, and a little further along there was a second, and larger, window. He wriggled himself through, clutched at a pipe on the wall while he disengaged his legs, and dropped to the floor.

He moved across the room to the door leading into the building and tried it. Apparently it was locked. It was only then that he noticed a second door in the extreme corner behind the boilers which were presumably used for heating the place. He moved towards it.

This door was open. There was, in fact, no lock to it. But it led only into a brick-walled store place half filled with lumber, and obviously offering no possible means of egress. He was on the point of closing it again when his eyes lit on something which protruded from beyond a broken packing case. He stared at it for a moment. It might have been only an old boot, and yet— He saw the trouser leg above it and jumped forward with a cry.

Beyond the case lay an oldish, clean-shaven man who somehow had the look of a retired soldier. He was absolutely motionless, lying awkwardly crumpled, as though he had been flung down anyhow, and the glass of the time clock gleamed in fragments beside him. Verrill bent closer. It was only then he noticed the side of the head. The grey hair was matted and soaking with the dark red of half-clotted blood.

For a moment he felt shaken. He was used to wounds, but not this. Then he bent down a little hesitantly and felt the wrist. It was still warm. His fingers found the artery, and the action seemed to restore his professional coolness. He felt for the pulse. At first he could distinguish nothing; but it was there.

Suddenly he was aware that Locker was shouting to him from outside. Probably he had heard him cry out.

"Doctor! Doctor!" The Superintendent's voice was anxious. "You all right? Doctor!"

"All right!" he shouted, and his voice echoed hollowly from the bare walls. "Coming!"

He hurried back towards the window. Locker's hat and his eyes were just visible above the ledge as he clung with both hands, vainly trying to haul himself up. Even at that moment there seemed something ludicrous in the top of a face showing like that.

"He—he's in there," Verrill said. "The night watchman, I think. In the store room. And—"

"Not yet. Pretty bad. There's no way out here. The inner door's locked... He needs help—"

"Help me up!" Locker suggested; then realised the absurdity of it. "Oh, blast! Isn't there any way?"

This window had certainly not been opened for ages. Its larger size would offer plenty of room even for Locker, if he could reach it, and it was a good eighteen inches lower. But the catches were rusted; there was no moving them. His eyes lighted on a fire-rake; and he gripped it. It was a long, stout bar of iron, pointed at one end, and no ordinary woodwork could stand against it. Pushing the point into the crack, he worked it with all his strength, and the full power of some eight feet of leverage.

It was not the catch which gave. The whole frame crashed with an appalling noise, and Verrill fell backwards. By the time he had regained his feet, Locker was already pulling himself with difficulty into the opening.

"In here." Verrill led the way. "It's a hospital case, I'm pretty sure. We've got to get him out of that at once—"

"Wait!" Locker said, and took the torch. Its beam wandered restlessly round the lumber before returning to the injured watchman. He grunted. "Nothing here. Right. We'll shift him—"

It was no easy task to extricate him from the rubbish; but Locker was as strong as a horse. They lifted the senseless body carefully and backed into the first room, laying him gently on the floor.

Verrill's expert fingers were exploring the extent of the injury. He did not answer at once.

"Don't know," he said at last. "There's a hope... We must get him away. At once."

Locker frowned. "Arberry should be here, or someone—" he began; then realised that the sergeant was shouting something. He was moving towards the window when the sound of footsteps on the bare boards outside made him turn hurriedly. The next moment the door was flung open.

CHAPTER IV
A Witness Lost

IT was only with difficulty that Sergeant West finally persuaded Pamela Norwood that the room where her uncle's dead body was lying was scarcely the best place for her to wait. He was feeling his responsibility, and was reluctant to take his eyes either off the corpse or off his witnesses. March persuaded him at last, backed more vigorously than he would have supposed by the agitated young man, and it was in the room devoted to the fitting and storage of babies' gas masks that they were actually required to answer such simple questions as the sergeant needed for his report.

March and Pamela Norwood the sergeant knew by name and sight; the two wardens were respectable tradesmen; but the young man had been unnecessarily irritating: he objected not only to the corpse, but to being detained altogether. West concentrated on him, and elicited not without difficulty the unsatisfactory information that his name was Smith, that he was not a native of the town and knew no one, and that he had an important engagement immediately. The sergeant's suspicions increased, and he was on the point of carrying his inquisition further when the appearance of Mr. Elder afforded his victim a temporary respite.

Mr. Elder, as usual, looked as though he had just stepped out of a bandbox. Fog, an air-raid warning, and even the news that a respectable client had just been murdered had done nothing to mar his sartorial perfection. Very properly he carried his gas mask; a closer observer would have noted that his boots were rubber soled, and showed signs of the application of some white substance which a closer investigation would have proved to be bleach ointment; and if the inquiry had been pursued further, it would have been found that his pockets contained, in addition to a tin of the same, two triangular bandages and sundry accessories, stowed carefully so as not to spoil the cut. For Mr. Elder was attached to the First Aid Post, and believed in being prepared for emergencies; and with a characteristic, if on that occasion unnecessary, zeal, he had reported for duty within three minutes of the gas alarm.

For once his face showed more signs of perturbation than March had ever seen on it before, and he beckoned his junior partner aside with an air which was more than a little furtive, and which instantly caused the transference of the sergeant's attention from the unfortunate or unreliable Smith. West, in fact, carefully edged himself into position behind a rack, in time to hear at least an interesting part of the conversation.

"...can't be too careful," Mr. Elder was saying in an admonitory tone. "I think, at present, we should say nothing even to the police. I thought that I had better warn you—"

"As I don't know anything, I can't say anything," March rejoined a little impatiently. "You forget, sir, that you've handled all Mr. Hawthorne's business yourself. I know nothing, except that he was a witness at that assizes case—"

"That, of course, has no connexion with it," Elder answered. "It is just as well that you do not know. Though I fear very much that, in view of what has happened, it must all come out. Particularly on the publication of the will." He frowned. "A scandal, I fear—an unpleasant scandal. And one which Hawthorne himself was most anxious to avoid. Indeed, as I advised him on one occasion, he came perilously near allowing himself to be blackmailed—"

March very often found his senior partner irritating; but he had schooled himself to endure him. In the customary way of such firms, Finch and Son had long since departed, and Elder practically ran matters to suit himself.

"Well, sir," he suggested, "if we have any evidence, surely it's our duty to communicate with the police—"

Elder frowned again, dubiously. "Under the circumstances, it may or may not prove necessary," he said. "But this is an old affair. I fail to see that it can have any bearing upon the present tragedy. I believe, however, that it might be as well to mention to the sergeant that assizes case. Possibly they will not associate it with Hawthorne."

"Mawley?" There was a note of surprise in March's voice. "But he was gaoled, wasn't he? He'll still be inside."

Sergeant West recollected the case. It had been mainly on Hawthorne's evidence, following his audit of the accounts, that Charles Edmund Mawley had been found guilty of the embezzlement of a considerable sum about eighteen months previously. He pricked up his ears for he was also aware of the fact which formed Elder's next remark.

"He was released three months ago. Not that it is likely that he could have had anything to do with this, of course, but he was distinctly vindictive, I recollect, at the trial. Yes, I think the police should be reminded of that." He hesitated. "This other affair," he said after a considerable pause. "Perhaps I ought to tell you. In Mr. Hawthorne's will there is a legacy of £1,000 to a young man of the name of Paverley... I am afraid that there is consequently very little doubt that they will make inquiries into that; though I trust they will be discreet—"

"Paverley?" March wrinkled his brows. "I seem to have heard the name... It's that chap with an obsession against Freemasons, isn't it? Got a month, because they couldn't find him certifiable?"

"That is the man." Elder had lowered his voice, and West, who had himself suffered at Paverley's hands at the time of the arrest, incautiously moved a step or two nearer. "You are not aware, of course, that Hawthorne paid the cost of his defence. But he also paid out an annual pension, and from time to time considerable sums for other purposes."

"Not exactly... One might say that, in a way, Paverley had a claim. He was—well, to put it bluntly, it was suggested that he was Hawthorne's natural son."

"What? Old Hawthorne's?" March looked his amazement. "I should never have thought—"

"The matter was kept quiet—very quiet. It was never taken to court; and, to be candid, I do not think that the woman had a case. But Hawthorne practically admitted liability by paying, perhaps out of a mistaken pity... Now, I am afraid—"

Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of the sergeant, who, though his gaze was fixed vacantly on the shuttered window, had by now edged into a position which left little doubt of his intention. He gave a significant glance at March and shook his head. If what he had been speaking about was a matter for the police at all, his manner suggested it was certainly one which should be communicated only to the highest authorities.

Sergeant West, who had sidled a little further away, cleared his throat and turned an innocent look upon them. He was on the verge of some heavily diplomatic questioning which would certainly have put his eavesdropping beyond all doubt when the opening of the door saved him. It was Mr. Berchell who entered, busy but apologetic, followed by another man.

"You'll excuse us?" he asked. "There is no time like the present. Some people are so extremely awkward in the matter of gas masks... This alarm may even have produced a good result. The far shelf, I think? Yes, there they are. Children over two... When the people are actually present, even the unfortunate circumstances—"

West eyed him sourly as the assistant crossed the room to the opposite corner and dragged down a couple of boxes. It was typical of the town clerk's mentality, he thought, that he should interrupt a murder investigation in order to issue gas masks to People who should have been properly fitted weeks before.

His eyes had followed the man automatically, and he failed to see the expression of astonishment on Elder's face. The features of Berchell's companion were obscured by a tin helmet and chin strap, and the light in that part of the room was none too good. He saw nothing to arouse his interest, and was only waiting for their departure before he turned again to the solicitor.

"Now, sir," he began, "I believe that you handled the business affairs of the deceased—legal business, that is—"

He broke off at the look on Elder's face. The solicitor was staring at the closing door with the air of a man who cannot believe his eyes. He turned excitedly to the policeman.

West had seen nothing of any interest. He looked round the room a little bewilderedly, and then he did see, or rather failed to do so. His jaw dropped.

"Where is he?" he asked of the world in general. "He's gone! That Smith chap—"

It was unpleasantly true. Momentarily the other occupants of the room had been too much occupied in watching the conference between the two solicitors to be paying much attention to anyone so insignificant. Sergeant West jumped for the door, and almost before the others realised what was happening was running down the passage.

Smith could not have a big start. He had seen him only a moment before the unlucky appearance of the town clerk had diverted his attention. But the old house was a maze of rooms, and the sergeant's acquaintance with it was imperfect. He reached the entrance hall to find Berchell benignly dismissing two mothers complete with gas masks without having seen a sign of his quarry.

"Sir!" he interrupted. "That young chap—who found the corpse—he's bolted! He'd come this way?"

"But perhaps he didn't, Sergeant?" Berchell suggested. "If he'd turned to the left, instead of to the right—"

But the sergeant had himself remembered. In fact, coming from the rear of the house where the ambulance station was situated, they had actually ascended that way. As he made a dive for the door leading to the kitchen he cursed himself for a fool. He might have known, if he had thought for a minute, that the fugitive, not knowing the premises, would have had to take the less direct route with which he was familiar. The mistake must have considerably increased his lead; for the back stairs led directly down to the servants' quarters.

A couple of sleepy-looking men on duty at the yard entrance looked at him in surprise as he dashed breathlessly up.

"Just gone out... Two or three minutes ago." The warden looked his surprise. "That chap that found the body, wasn't it?"

The wardens considered. Apparently they had noticed the young man only up to the point at which he had disappeared through the gateway and had had no interest to watch his further progress. West gave one glance out into the street and groaned. The fog and the absence of street lamps combined to make an utter blackness rendered all the worse by the fact that he had just come out of the house. Smith might have been within a yard of him and he could not have seen.

He flashed his torch a couple of times hopelessly in each direction, and as two constables hurried up despatched them on what he knew would be a fruitless errand before retracing his steps to the room. He was feeling extremely exasperated with himself, and more than a little puzzled. It had only been the man's furtive manner that had made him take any greater interest in him than to ascertain his name, where he could be found when wanted, and a brief account of what had happened. And now he found himself in the position of knowing only a name which was probably assumed, a lodging-house address to which, if it was genuine, the man would probably never return, and a few details which were almost certainly false.

But why should the man have run? The thought of what might be the answer to that question added to his self-reproach. If he had been the murderer, surprised near the body of his victim, the most sensible thing he could have done if without obvious motive was to come boldly forward. And West was conscious that his own manner had been largely responsible for the evasion. He had let the man see too clearly that he suspected something, and probably made him run when in other circumstances he would have held his ground.

There was not much to be done. He had despatched what force he could muster, and had sent word to such police as might have any chance of heading him off. He was feeling the reverse of cheerful when he reascended the stairs, to be met by Berchell and Elder, both obviously as excited as two grave legal gentlemen could permit themselves to be. He hurried forward.

"Bolted, sir." Sergeant West frowned worriedly. "Of course, we may pick him up, but in this fog... And why should he bolt, if there was nothing wrong with him? It was him who said he'd found the body. And you could see he was upset—"

Elder raised his eyebrows. "You think he might have been the murderer?" he said. "Now, that's very remarkable, isn't it, Berchell?"

"Well, sir, murderer or not, I ought to produce him before the coroner and magistrates," West said unhappily. "He was the first on the scene—"

"Come, come, West," Berchell said with a comforting but unconvincing optimism. "Probably you'll find him at his address. No doubt he gave one? In any case, I don't think he's your man. Mr. Elder and I have made an interesting discovery—"

Elder, who had made it entirely himself, nodded confirmation as the sergeant looked his question.

"It's a fact, isn't it, Sergeant, that Mr. Hawthorne probably met his death as the result of some poison administered by means of his gas mask?" he demanded.

"Well, sir." West hesitated; then reflected that Berchell at any rate was perfectly informed about the circumstances. "That's what we suspect, sir," he admitted.

"Yes, sir," West assented, and his face gave no indication of the fact that he had been reminded of the fact only a few minutes previously. "An embezzlement case, sir. And Mr. Hawthorne was the chief witness—"

"Hardly saw him, sir. I was down with the 'flu when he came before the magistrates—"

"That accounts for it. Of course, prison's changed him, and he's disguised and using another name. But I recognised him at once when he came into the room with Mr. Berchell—"

"I'd swear to him anywhere. And, Sergeant, does it interest you to know that for the past few months he's been employed here? Helping to keep the stores and fit gas masks?"

CHAPTER V
Bang Goes Saxpence

PROBABLY the events of the evening had had some effect on even the Superintendent's hardened nerves; for he had more than half expected the opening door to reveal an armed murderer, and as he turned to face it automatically assumed an attitude of defence. Then he lowered his hands rather shamefacedly.

It was no one more exciting than the factory owner whose name had been on his lips a few minutes before, followed by his own constable.

"Lord!" Normally Arberry's eyes popped from an over-fleshy face; but now they nearly started from his head. "You startled me, Superintendent. That you did. What's wrong?"

"Sorry, sir—" Locker began; but Arberry's eyes had lighted on the prostrate form of the night watchman. His jaw dropped.

He bent forward to peer, and in his expression curiosity and a horrified shrinking were oddly mixed. Then, at the sight of his night watchman's head he turned away very hastily, with a shudder and a sudden paling of his ruddy cheeks. Locker gave him time to recover. He had known tougher people than Arberry affected in the same way by the sight of blood. He turned to the constable.

"Got one, sir," the constable rejoined with some pride. "Some of them A.R.P. chaps were running round, sir. I thought that, with the blood and all that—"

"Good man... Get the stretcher." He turned to Verrill. "You'll want to move him at once, Doctor?"

"I'll have to," Verrill said grimly. "If I don't he'll die, and if I do it may kill him. That's how it stands."

"Right... Stretcher's coming." He moved to Verrill's side and lowered his voice. "Doctor, will he talk?"

Verrill nodded. In a way it seemed hard to leave things at that point after his experiences with the window, but the patient had to come first. He moved towards the stretcher party as it entered, and supervised the removal of the injured man.

"Now, sir." He turned to Arberry, who seemed to be recovering. "I'd like you to tell us a few things—"

"You've made a fine old mess," Arberry said rather aggrievedly. "Or was it them?"

"We had to break in," Locker admitted, retaining his politeness with an effort. "The man was dying, perhaps."

"We're trying to find out, Mr. Arberry... And the first thing is, where's your siren?"

"Siren? I heard that cock-and-bull yarn, but it won't wash," Arberry rejoined with an indignation which showed a fine disregard of mixed metaphor. "I put a stop to that. After you fined me... It's right out of action. You can't get me for that again."

"There'll be no summons this time, sir," Locker said grimly. "Don't you see, whoever used it probably hit Renskill, and murdered Hawthorne—"

"Hawthorne murdered?" Arberry's jaw dropped. He had a face which made any emotion comical. "Old John? You're pulling my leg!"

"It's true, sir." Locker realised that it might have been better to have kept the fact secret for a little while longer; but it was probably all over the town already. "On the Common. Poisoned."

Locker nearly swore. He knew Arberry. He was not in the least interested in the exact location of the siren's mouthpiece; nor in the recollection of how Arberry had been fined for an early offence against the Act. On the other hand, Arberry could be awkward, and he was connected with people who could be more awkward. He decided on a judicious firmness.

"Now, sir," he said firmly. "There's been murder committed. The evidence is strong—very strong, that your siren was used. Of course, I don't suggest that you had any connexion with it-—"

"I don't suggest anything of the kind, sir," Locker frowned. "But you aren't going to hinder us in our investigations?"

"Right. Then, sir, where's the control of your siren? How was it dismantled? How did it work?"

"The control's in the room back there," Arberry said, looking a little scared; for the Superintendent's official manner could be impressive. "That's the cable—or was—running right behind you."

Locker turned and looked at the wall he indicated. It was the one adjoining the small window by which they had entered, and upon it could still be seen the marks of the wire.

"This bit of it. Wasn't risking another £5 touch. That's where it came in—and that's where it left. See?"

Locker saw. Enough wire had been removed to prevent any accidental use of the switch; hardly enough to prevent anyone from replacing it.

"Why, what the hell d'you think would be the use of a night watchman who hadn't? Of course he had."

"I suppose so... But why should they? I'm not fool enough to keep valuables here."

Locker thought for a moment. He was tired of Mr. Arberry, and wanted time to think. Also to examine the traces in the yard. He was praying that the night watchman would recover consciousness and talk. It would save him a great deal of trouble in tracking and deducing. And Locker had a profound distrust of deductions. If he had been a bit longer at school, he would have said they were all right, assuming the accuracy of your premises.

He handed over Arberry to the constable. That man, secure in the praise he had already won, could be relied upon to watch Arberry one degree better than the traditional cat and mouse. The idea was that Arberry should see if anything valuable was missing. Arberry protested that he would have no idea. But Locker knew better. If Arberry had had a thousand pounds and a farthing in his pocket, in farthings, he would have known if he lost the odd one.

He himself took the rather disgruntled sergeant. Locker's reproof had hurt him. He had loyally stood by orders in showing a light, while his subordinate shepherded Arberry. He was feeling a little hurt, and was very anxious to excel; which is a good working mood.

They went out into the yard. It could hardly be dignified by the name, for it was little more than a space into which lorries could back to be loaded. The buildings surrounded it on three sides. Locker had kept his eyes on the ground, but he had seen nothing. In books, he reflected gloomily, the passage and rooms would be thick with dust, showing every footprint. In actual fact, a dozen, or two dozen or four, must have trodden that way in the day; for the door leading into the works gave straight upon one of the big, silent machine-rooms where the stamping engines stood unnaturally quiet as if asleep.

The Superintendent was concentrating his attention on the pool of blood and its immediate neighbourhood.

It was certainly blood. Unless Arberry and the constable found a few more corpses, the presumption was that it was Renskill's. He studied it carefully, so long that the sergeant felt bound to display his own powers of observation. He was diffident, but determined.

"I'd say, sir," he suggested, "the thief—I mean, the man who used the siren, sir, didn't force an entry at all. He got in somehow, before this man—I mean, Renskill, had locked up the outer gate... He'd wait somewhere until everyone had gone and then just lay for him—wait for him to come out."

Locker nodded assent. He had already made sure that whoever had entered had not had to face the difficult passage of the small window which Verrill had negotiated. And besides, what the sergeant had suggested was in many ways the best means of entering premises guarded by a night watchman, unless a careful watch was kept on the workpeople. Probably this was not the case. He made a mental note to ask Arberry a few questions on that subject.

"And yet that window was open," he said more to himself than to his subordinate. "Had been opened recently, after being closed a long time—"

"Signal?" Locker looked dubiously at the fog about them. "You couldn't see any distance."

"You could see a torch flashed from the other side of the canal, sir. And that might be what was wanted."

That suggestion, Locker thought, was reasonable enough. If two or more people were concerned, they would want some means of knowing what was happening, and above all, those responsible for the rattles would need to know that all had gone well about the siren. He frowned thoughtfully down at the pool of blood. It was just about in the place where a man's head would have fallen, if he had slumped forward from the doorstep. Probably the night watchman had even seen his assailant, and had had no chance to defend himself.

"Here, sir... They're not so plain as when we rang you up. But you see that they point in the direction of the fire-hole, sir."

The Superintendent thought for a moment. "I think we'll have another look there," he said. "There and in the time office, I mean. I rather doubt if he went to any other part of the building. It was just the siren he was after, of course, though we'll have to look... Let's see. Mr. Arberry said that the switch was in here—"

It was easily enough located by the line of the cable which led through into the fire-hole. Locker bent over it holding his torch close, and examined it carefully.

"Well, the point is that the undulating note used for air-raid warnings isn't a kind in regular use by most firms. You can produce it on most sirens by switching on and off at the right times; but apart from that you'd need an automatic switch. This isn't one."

"You think, sir, that he'd have to stay here while the siren was sounding," he said vaguely. "A bit risky?"

"Not very. It took us more than two minutes to get in—a good bit more. And, you must remember, he'd got Renskill's keys, and could both lock himself in and let himself out, say, by that small side door... But that wasn't quite what I meant. This switch is in the 'on' position. Why is that?"

"He switched off by means of the main power-switch, sir? I expect he'd have had to switch that on in any case. You see, most of these firms with a power-cable as well as light turn that off to avoid accidents."

It was only after a little trouble that they found it, in an insulated control-box which obviously served the whole works. The switches were clearly labelled, and Locker saw at once that the sergeant's theory had been wrong. Both the light- and the power-switches were turned on. He frowned at them for a moment; then the explanation occurred to him, and his eyes sought the fuse-boxes.

"You mean the fuse blew out, sir? While he was sounding the alarm? But it must have been right at the end, sir."

It was after a careful examination of each end of the disconnected cable that he turned to the sergeant.

"I think the reason why both switches are 'on' is clear enough," he said. "Whoever it was, didn't use them to turn off at all. He simply hauled out the piece of cable that he'd put in. And, in doing so, something or other short-circuited... But why the devil should he do that? On the face of it, it's neither sensible nor safe."

The sergeant had no explanation to volunteer. Together they made a more careful search of the room, but without finding any further traces of the attacker's presence.

"There are two things we ought to search for," Locker said at last. "You'd better see to it first thing in the morning. First, there's the weapon. Something like an iron bar, I should say. Actually, a bit too heavy for the job—not a regular cosh. And the other's the wire."

"The cable to reconnect the siren. The obvious place for both those is in the canal, of course, and with the mud there is they'd sink and it'll be a job... Besides, probably he didn't choose the obvious place. Still, we'll have to search... I'm inclined to think he didn't leave any finger-prints. Too careful. We'll test for those too... And in the morning, you'd better inquire whether there was a porter or anyone who noticed any strangers coming in."

The sergeant duly noted the suggestions. He could see himself being distinctly busy in the next day or two.

"People living near might have seen someone, sir?" he suggested. "At the cottages, say?"

It was the ringing of the telephone bell somewhere inside the building. They met Arberry hurrying down to answer it, but the second constable had already lifted the receiver when they arrived. He handed the instrument to Locker.

Obviously Arberry would have liked to know what was happening; but Locker did not gratify his curiosity. There was nothing to be learnt from his face as he listened.

He replaced the receiver and stood for a moment thinking before he turned to Arberry.

"I'll take my oath there isn't... About the explosions, eh, Superintendent? Found where the bombs dropped?"

Locker smiled. "I don't think they exactly dropped anywhere, sir," he said cautiously. "Well, sir, we'll do all we can here to-night, so as not to interrupt you in the morning. We shouldn't want much, except to question a few people... Sergeant, you'll carry on here. I'll be back or ring you in an hour."

The Superintendent had come in the doctor's car; but the sergeant's motor-cycle combination driven by the patrol constable solved the transport problem. It was not a comfortable solution for a man not dressed for the part. Locker's feet were like ice before they reached the outskirts of the town in the Wood Street direction, and he leaned forward to shout a direction to the constable.

"The empty row behind Wood Street," he said. "Number five... They'll be waiting."

It was in an upper room of the derelict cottage that the police had found the first indications of how the explosions had been caused. In the front bedroom a big pile of soot had tumbled from the chimney and lay in the hearth; and a constable, already blackened about the face and hands like a chimney-sweep, was still searching among it. He had retrieved a piece of lead-piping, split at one end, and some odds and ends that looked like wheels from some kind of mechanism. Locker looked the collection over and nodded.

"That's as I thought," he said. "Anything in the other houses? You've searched?"

"Nothing that we've found, sir. Besides, this is the only one into which there's any sign of an entry having been forced, sir."

"But there were four explosions," Locker said reflectively. "And so far only one bomb. What's that?"

He pointed to a small trap-door in the ceiling leading to the loft, and the blackened constable from the fireplace nodded a gloomy approbation.

"I ought to have thought of that, sir," he admitted. "It would be just the place—"

The constable bent under Locker's weight, but with surprising agility the Superintendent pulled himself up through the narrow opening, and a second constable followed. The loft was not an easy place to search, but their quest was not a long one. Locker stopped with his torch beam directed on something that stood in the extreme angle of the eaves, almost hidden by the joists.

"Yes... One of them didn't go off. You see the idea? Get a clock—any sixpenny-halfpenny affair will do—set the alarm and put a little glass tube of acid over the right stuff. When the hands reach the right place, the acid tube is tilted or broken and—"

He ducked just in time as something whizzed past his head, stumbled, and fell backwards. There was a flash of light and a burst of smoke from the place where the clock had been. Locker picked himself up.

CHAPTER VI
The Superintendent Suspects

THE disappearance of the elusive Mr. Smith, for whom the police of a dozen counties were eagerly searching, weighed very little with Mr. Berchell. No parental love is stronger than that which a man feels for the child of his brain, and the Mawley theory, though actually Mr. Elder's, had been kidnapped so near its birth by the town clerk that he believed it to be his own offspring. The Superintendent might waste his time at the canal or factory if he would; Berchell had no other idea than to prove the ex-cashier guilty, and luckily a great part of the matter came within his own department.

He started work early next morning, after having brooded over the idea for a large part of the night. Certainly there was motive. Hawthorne had brought about Mawley's conviction and ruined his life by doing so. It was only reasonable to assume a desire for revenge. The fraud had shown a certain ingenuity; so had the murder. And, to a man of the town clerk's rigid financial integrity, there was no great gulf between the crimes of murder and embezzlement. Finally, the method of the crime indicated at least some familiarity with matters of which Mawley had some expert knowledge, and which offered to him exceptional opportunities.

At some little trouble to himself and the rest of the A.R.P. personnel, he set himself to investigate the questions of means and opportunity. The matter of the actual poison was best left to the police, who could easily circularise or interview the limited number of chemists in the district. But the mask itself and what Mawley had been doing at the time of the alarm were matters for Mr. Berchell; for, as luck would have it, Mawley, under the name of Higson, had actually been on duty that evening. By the time March sought out the town clerk, more out of curiosity than from the urgency of the business which was his excuse, he had succeeded so far that he felt the need of a confidant, if not of an accomplice, and in the secrecy of his office unbosomed himself of the news which he had intended should confound the still absent Locker.

"The police are wasting their time, Mr. March," he said with a mingled air of triumph and reproof. "We in this department have not been idle—in fact, I have been taking a hand in the matter personally. And to me the gas mask is the vital point. Who issued it? Who fitted it?"

March repressed a smile. The town clerk frequently amused him, and in the role of amateur detective he seemed to be particularly comic. But it was obvious that he had something to say.

"It wasn't very well fitted," March suggested. "Too loose. Not gas-tight at all, really. The head-harness—"

Berchell frowned. The suggestion savoured of criticism of his own department, and the mere fact that the man responsible was probably a murderer did not prevent him from resenting it.

"That is beside the point," he said a little stiffly. "No doubt Hawthorne himself tampered with the fitting after issue. You can have no conception, Mr. March, how even intelligent people complicate our work by interference... Besides"—the idea had only just occurred to him, and the fact that it conflicted with his previous explanation did not prevent him from thinking it a brilliant one—"and besides, Mr. March, there is the human factor—the feeling of even the most cold-blooded murderer when committing his crime... Imagine his position. The mask is ready. Hawthorne comes in, and sits down ready for the mask. The murderer comes forward. Is it to be wondered if his hand trembles, so that he fails, perhaps, to adjust the straps to their proper tension? Remember that he may even be nervous of recognition—"

March stared at this dramatic outburst. "You mean," he said as the town clerk paused for a moment, "you mean that the murder was done here—I mean, the mask prepared and so on? And by someone whom Hawthorne knew?"

"I do," said Mr. Berchell gravely. "By Higson, the assistant storekeeper. The man who came in with me last night. Or, if you prefer it, by Mawley, the cashier whom Hawthorne convicted!"

"Yes. Following his release from prison, Mawley seems to have changed his name. I am still inquiring into the problem of how he secured employment here; but as you are aware at that time matters were being arranged very hastily. And I must admit that his work for us has been beyond reproach... But, as assistant storekeeper, and on occasion in actual charge of the storeroom, I need hardly point out how easy it would be for him to tamper with the mask, or that he would have the necessary knowledge to replace the contents of the container.

"Hardly the same opportunities. And certainly not the motive. We must bear in mind that Mawley had that. Now, he could, of course, have arranged to issue the mask to some other warden to be fitted. I believe that in all probability he contemplated doing so; for there was always the risk that, in spite of the changes he had effected in his clothes and appearance, Hawthorne would recognise him... But circumstances were against him. At that time we were very rushed and short-handed. Hawthorne came among the first—and as it happened it was actually Mawley who fitted him!"

"We can. We have, of course, records of the issue of gas masks to everyone. By looking up those we can find out when Hawthorne came. It was not long after Mawley started work here; but long enough for the purpose of altering the contents of the container."

Mr. Berchell hesitated. "No doubt he hoped to have the opportunity and he had at least an even chance," he said a little weakly. "And, as I say, I can prove he fitted it... The storekeeper remembers it perfectly. Hawthorne was in a hurry. Mawley, or Higson, should have fitted him, but for some reason he held back. We can guess the reason now. There was some unpleasantness. And, in consequence, the storekeeper was able to recall the incident."

March pursed his lips dubiously. "Rather a coincidence?" he suggested. "And, even if Mawley hadn't poisoned the mask, he might have thought that Hawthorne would recognise him and tell you... But that's only half the opportunity. How about last night? He'd have to fix the siren and so on."

"That, I admit, is not proved," Berchell admitted. "He was checking equipment in one of the storerooms, and is not known to have left. On the other hand, there is no proof that he stayed there... He was, of course, seen shortly after the alarm sounded."

"No doubt. But they are there largely as a precaution against interruptions by people who have no legitimate business here. And, of course, it would have been perfectly possible for Mawley to have gone over the wall in the fog—perhaps even to have blown the alarm whistle from the end of the garden. The explosions could, of course, have been arranged earlier."

"Mawley only came on duty at seven. He could have done that first. And as for the sounding of the siren, perhaps some automatic attachment—"

The ringing of the telephone interrupted him. There was a smile on his face as he turned to March and replaced the receiver.

"If you will excuse me, Mr. March?" he said. "Superintendent Locker is waiting—"

Superintendent Locker nodded to the young lawyer with something very like a scowl as they met in the entrance. For one thing, Locker was tired out, and not in the best of tempers. He had been busy most of the night at Arberry's factory and at the cottages, and had achieved no result whatever; in the canal from early morning they had fished and caught nothing, or nothing material to the case; and of Smith there was still no trace. Finally, he had just received an intimation from the Chief Constable that Inspector Portland, of Scotland Yard, would be arriving early in the afternoon to assist in the case.

Actually, the Superintendent had only himself to blame for the last of his grievances. Barring the disappearance of Smith, for which he could hardly be held responsible, he had done, perhaps, as much as could be expected, and had it been only a matter of Hawthorne's death might have been left in charge. His suggestion that a number of gas masks might have been treated had been fatal. After his conversation with Verrill he himself now rejected it; but he had told Berchell, and the town clerk had not been slow in communicating the idea to headquarters. The risk of a whole district being poisoned had been more than the Chief Constable could stomach. And now, as Locker reflected gloomily, when he had done so much of the routine donkey work without result, and was on the point of starting on a new line, for all practical purposes the investigation was taken out of his hands.

He listened to Berchell's account of his discoveries in a depressed and depressing silence. It had no effect on the town clerk, who, having already rehearsed his theory and found answers to some of the objections, was almost word-perfect, and went on without any prompting whatever.

"That's very interesting, sir," he said without the least trace of enthusiasm. "And you think he'd take the risk? Being employed here, and knowing that we'd have to make inquiries about the mask?"

"Naturally he counted on his identity remaining a secret. If I had not happened to recognise him—"

"You recognised him, sir?" Locker was feeling in a mood to take it out of someone. "I thought—"

"Well, actually, Mr. Elder—" Berchell frowned. "But it is a point of no importance. He couldn't imagine that Elder would come in then."

"I don't quite understand your explanation about the siren, sir. How is he supposed to have removed the apparatus which sounded it?"

"Perhaps a confederate—" Berchell suggested weakly. "Perhaps even that young man—Smith—"

"Well, sir," Locker said dubiously, "I'm grateful to you for the trouble you've taken. It's a point we should certainly have had to look into, and what you've discovered may be important. But I hardly think we've any case to justify an arrest just yet. And I hope, when Mawley comes on duty, you'll let things go on just as usual—"

"He'll come—if he's innocent. And if he's got any sense, even if he's guilty... I'll put a man on to pick him up, and make sure he's still here. In fact, I believe the sergeant has already done so. And we'll go into it as far as we can... In the meantime, there's another matter I'd like to ask you about. You've a warden named Wisden? Does he happen to be available?"

Mr. Berchell thought for a minute, went through a list on the wall beside the desk and lifting the telephone receiver made the inquiry. He looked up and nodded, covering the mouthpiece.

"I'd like to see him, sir, if you don't mind." Locker hesitated. "It may be nothing, but it may be important—"

"They have gone to find him," he said. "He will be here in a few minutes. Surely you don't think that he—? He's a most respectable man—"

"It's like this, sir," Locker said a little hesitantly. "The gas alarms went pretty well all over the town. Of course, most of the people sounding them had nothing to do with the murder at all. But the point is, who sounded the first one?"

"Well, sir, so far as I've been able to check up the times, the first rattle heard was in the neighbourhood of where Wisden seems to have been. And, you see, even if he isn't guilty—"

The appearance of the man they were discussing interrupted the explanation. Certainly there was no trace of guilt in the new arrival's manner; but there was evidence of an even worse temper than that from which Locker himself was suffering.

"You wanted me, Mr. Berchell?" he asked. "As a matter of fact, I was coming to see you. I'm resigning—chucking it in. I can take a joke as well as anyone, but I'm damned if I'll stand all these yapping fools—"

Locker almost grinned. He could well imagine that the mustard gas which turned out to be boiled onions had caused a certain amount of chaff in view of the rather panic-stricken excitement Wisden had shown. But he schooled his face to an official gravity.

"As a matter of fact, sir, I wanted to see you," he said respectfully. "It was about that gas alarm—"

Wisden looked as though he was going to burst. "And what the hell do you want to know about that?" he demanded. "I've explained till I'm tired. The alarm had gone—the siren, I mean. Then there were the explosions, and I smelt those—those—"

"It was perfectly natural, sir," Locker assured him sympathetically, "and of course you couldn't afford to take any risk. I think you acted very properly There's only this point, sir. You heard the siren, and the explosions... But had you heard any previous gas alarm?"

"No!" Wisden said violently. "And I suppose you want to say I started the darned show? Is that it? Well, I don't care a damn if I did. I'm through with this, Berchell. You can take that as final."

Without waiting for his dismissal he turned and the door slammed behind him. Berchell looked at the Superintendent with shocked eyes.

"I don't know... But he's the first of 'em we've struck yet, sir, who didn't sound the alarm after having heard someone else sound it... Now, the Wood Street people thought it came from the Common. They thought, I admit, that it came from this end. But suppose they were mistaken? Fog affects sound quite a bit. Suppose Wisden did sound it?"

"Or he might have saved the murderer trouble. Of course, the murderer would have to be there to give the alarm himself. But if someone else gave it for him, it wouldn't be necessary for him to do it, the way it was taken up... I met Mr. March coming out. I suppose, sir, you didn't happen to tell him all this?"

"I may have mentioned something—" Berchell began uncomfortably. "But really, March was with Miss Norwood, wasn't he? He has an alibi?"

"If he had to sound the rattle? Yes. But what's bothering me is, did Wisden do it for him?"

"Good heavens!" Berchell said bewilderedly. "You can't suspect people like March—"

"He was in the neighbourhood for no apparent reason... And, as for that, sir, just now I'm prepared to suspect any kind of person."

It might have been an accident that he looked up to meet the town clerk's eyes. And Mr. Berchell paled visibly.

CHAPTER VII
In Confidence

IT was apparently by the merest accident that March overtook Pamela Norwood on her way back to the office after lunch; though actually he had waited twenty minutes with that aim in view, and there was at that moment a client waiting for him in his own office. The girl was looking tired and depressed, but she smiled in answer to his greeting and he fell into step beside her.

"Been through the inquisition?" he asked cheerfully. "A sinister business, isn't it? Even if your conscience is as pure as the driven snow—which of course mine is—"

"Inquisition?" she echoed. "Oh, you mean the Superintendent? Yes, he came this morning... But he was quite nice. And there wasn't anything more I could tell him—at least, I don't think so. I've been wondering—"

She did not answer immediately. "It's—it's difficult," she said at last. "I don't know what I ought to do—"

"Have you a problem? Confide in Auntie Ada. Strictest secrecy guaranteed if a stamped addressed envelope is enclosed... Seriously, I suppose I can't help?"

"I don't know if I ought to tell even you." The words escaped her without thinking, but March thrilled a little at their implication of friendship. "You see, Uncle particularly told me not to mention it at all—even in the office. It wasn't office business—or I suppose it wasn't... I don't think Mr. Sparrow knew anything about it."

March waited for a moment. "Your uncle's murder rather alters things, doesn't it?" he suggested finally. "I mean, I'm not trying to force any confidences or anything of that kind. But just because it was some kind of secret, mightn't it have something to do with—with what happened?"

"That's what I've been wondering... But I don't see how it could. It was only a list of some shares and a few odd notes he dictated. I couldn't make anything of them... But I was to have typed them out at home. Not in the office. He told me particularly. And then—then it happened—"

"Yes... I might as well tell you the rest now. We went to Lazer and Horde's. Uncle saw Mr. Lazer himself, and they were together quite a long time. I wasn't present for most of the interview, but it struck me that he was worried—"

"Excited?" March raised his eyebrows. Excitement of any kind was an emotion which he would hardly have associated with the accountant. "How d'you mean, exactly?"

"As though he was going to find something out. It's a little hard to explain... Of course, he never showed his feelings, but if you knew him you could see it."

"Find something out? I don't quite understand. Clear up some swindle or other, you mean?" he continued.

"Not necessarily. It might be anything, perhaps something quite unimportant. But if it had been troubling him and he saw what was wrong he had certain little mannerisms... You see, it may be nothing at all."

"No. Mr. Lazer seemed to think it might have. But when I went in, Uncle was just saying, 'I can assure you, Mr. Lazer, that there is absolutely nothing wrong so far as your firm is concerned. I am very grateful for the favour. Of course you will understand the need for avoiding any publicity until the matter is absolutely proved.' That was all. And then he dictated a list of shares and numbers and so on and we came away."

"I have it at home. Of course I didn't do it... But I don't think anyone could understand from it—"

"The police might... It seems to me that you ought to tell them. Your promise to your uncle could hardly be considered binding... But hadn't they seen Lazer?"

"Oh, yes. I think so. But he doesn't seem to have told them very much. That is one thing I cannot understand. Why didn't he?"

"I'm almost sure he doesn't. Especially since Uncle told me not to do the work in the office. I was wondering, could it have anything to do with him?" she asked.

"Why should it?" March raised his eyebrows. They were nearing the pretentious block of buildings of which the accountant's office occupied the first floor, and he slowed his pace a little. Up to the present the interview had hardly gone as he had hoped. "You don't mean there's anything wrong there?"

"I oughtn't to suggest it. But I had wondered... You see, it was Mr. Sparrow who last audited their books."

March frowned thoughtfully. Even so there did not seem much reason for suspicion. The only curious thing about the business so far was the secrecy which Hawthorne seemed to have desired even from his partner. That might, of course, mean that it was some irregularity on Sparrow's part. And then another thought crossed his mind. It might even be that it was not Sparrow but Hawthorne who was at fault, and in that case the revelation, if it were made, might be unpleasant for the girl. And, after all, he had practically forced her to confide in him.

"Look here," he said, and there was a note in his voice which made the girl glance at him a little anxiously. "Probably, as you say, there's nothing in this. And if there is it may not have anything to do with the murder, but I don't see how we can just leave it... Would you like me—well, just to look into it a bit before we go to the police? Not that I want to push myself into your business, you know. But if I could help—"

"Oh, if you would!" There was a relief in her voice which suggested that some such suspicion as had occurred to him had probably been in her own mind. "And in the meantime—"

"I shouldn't say anything to anybody. Unless the police ask you, of course... I say, I'd like to have a look at those notes. Could you show me them tonight?"

"I've not typed them yet... I'm afraid you couldn't read my shorthand. No one can but me.... If you come round about seven, I could have them ready."

There had been a startled tone in his exclamation which made her look at him curiously. They had just turned the corner of the building towards the main office entrance, and in the almost deserted street there seemed nothing that could have been responsible for it. But March was staring after the receding back of the solitary man on their own side of the pavement, and there was a dubious look on his face.

"See him? There?" As if the man in front had overheard them, or their thoughts had somehow been conveyed to him, he looked back over his shoulder as March spoke, and to the girl there seemed to be something furtive in the gesture. But the face was harmless enough, even mild, though it bore the marks of illness or worry and the hair which was visible beneath the rather shabby bowler was already white. So far as Pamela knew she had never seen him before. He met their eyes, seemed to start guiltily at the sight of March, and turned his head away again, quickening his pace. A moment later he crossed the street, and choosing a narrow alleyway between two buildings, next moment had disappeared.

"Yes." March bit his lip and frowned thoughtfully at the entrance to the alley down which the man had disappeared. "It's Mawley! And what on earth would he be doing coming out of your office after what's happened?"

"Yes. It was him all right... I think I'll leave you, Miss Norwood. I'll be round at seven."

His departure was so abrupt that for a moment Pamela stood staring after him in bewilderment. Then, as she saw him cross the road, following in the direction of the man who had just vanished, she understood. Evidently for some reason March had decided to follow the ex-cashier. As he in turn disappeared, she slowly mounted the steps, only realising as she caught a glimpse of the clock in the porter's lodge that she was a good twenty minutes late.

Mr. Sparrow had evidently been aware of the fact before she had. He was not in the best of tempers; in fact, he had been worried and irritable all day, perhaps because his senior partner had been inconsiderate enough to get himself murdered just at a rush period of business. After her conversation with March, Pamela might have felt a little guilty about him, but he did not give her much chance to work out her feelings. She had scarcely taken off her hat and coat before he had despatched the second typist in search of some documents or other in the files, and came across towards her.

"About yesterday," he began without preliminary, "you went to Lazer and Horde's?"

Pamela was unprepared for the question. She had expected only a reproof for being late; for Mr. Sparrow shared with her uncle a belief in punctuality which even the death of Hawthorne might not have shaken. For a moment she hesitated, looking at him. The junior partner's face at no time impressed her favourably. There was a suggestion of timid sensuality about it which repelled her, and though he had never ventured a flirtation to her knowledge, she felt that it was courage rather than the will which was wanting. But now his cheeks were flushed, and the weak blue eyes were bloodshot. As a whiff of his breath came to her she was given a possible explanation. Mr. Sparrow, generally one of the most abstemious of men, had certainly been drinking a considerable amount of whisky.

"You went to Lazer and Horde's?" he demanded again more savagely. "Yesterday afternoon. What was it about?"

"I—I really don't know." There was a suppressed violence in his manner which was more than a little frightening, but her eyes met his steadily. "I don't think it was office business, Mr. Sparrow."

"I really can't say, Mr. Sparrow." Pamela's own rising temper gave her courage. Whatever might be the reason, there could be no doubt that his manner was intolerable. If it had anything to do with the firm, I should have thought my uncle would have told you."

"He didn't." Sparrow frowned, and now there was no doubt about it. He might be angry, but he was also worried. "I suppose you took some notes? Where are they?"

Pamela hesitated. If she told a direct lie, it would be useless, because the only possible reason for her having accompanied her uncle was to take shorthand notes.

"I don't think it had anything to do with the firm's business, Mr. Sparrow," she repeated. "But, in fact, I was not present during the greater part of the interview. I have no doubt that, if it concerns you, Mr. Lazer would be able to give you any information."

For a moment she thought that he was going to burst out violently, but he controlled himself with an effort.

"You've no idea what it was about?" he demanded. "That's nonsense... It's your duty to tell me."

"It is my duty, Mr. Sparrow, to follow my uncle's orders," Pamela said calmly, and only after she had done so realised her mistake. Sparrow suddenly whitened. She continued: "And I really don't know—"

"To anyone, Mr. Sparrow. And, really, I have no idea what it was about... About some shares. That is absolutely all I know."

"Shares?" Sparrow scowled at her dubiously. His colour had returned. "But your notes? You've got them here?"

"I have them at home, Mr. Sparrow. And I shall, of course, hand them over to the proper quarter. Since it is not office business, I imagine that would be to my uncle's executors."

Sparrow stood staring at her and for a moment she thought he was going to lose his temper completely. Perhaps it was the return of the other typist which stopped him.

"Very well, Miss Norwood," he said with a calm which was obviously assumed, "no doubt you are right... In the meantime, I must point out that you are very late... In view of your uncle's death, I suppose one must find some excuse. Don't let it occur again. You can get on with what I gave you this morning."

The door leading to the inner office slammed behind him noisily, and the girl on the other side of the table looked across at Pamela and made a grimace. But Pamela had already settled herself to her typing, and the rattle of the keys discouraged any attempt at conversation. Just at that moment she did not want to talk, and least of all to discuss anything connected with her uncle's death with Miss Caldwall, whom she knew to be an inveterate gossip. She wanted time to think. In her own annoyance at Sparrow's rudeness, she had certainly given away more than she meant, and she was wondering how much. Sparrow had known where they had been. That was surprising enough. After what her uncle had said, it was unlikely that her uncle had said anything during his brief visit to the office on their return. Then, who had told him? For a moment she thought of Mawley, but Mawley could not possibly know anything about it.

And, after all, what had she told him? Only that the business was private, and that her notes were at home. And that it was about shares. She need not have said that. But if anything that seemed to have reassured Sparrow rather than otherwise. On the other hand, he had obviously disliked the idea of her notes being handed over to the executors. In any case, who were the executors? She knew nothing about her uncle's will, except that she had always understood that some provision had probably been made for her mother and herself. Probably March would know, for the two firms handled each other's legal and financial affairs, and in all probability her uncle's will was at the solicitor's office.

At intervals through an afternoon which seemed to drag like an age, she stole surreptitious glances through the glass partition to the desk where Sparrow was seated. He seemed principally to be busy telephoning, and judging by his expression the results were the reverse of satisfactory. Perhaps he had rung up Lazer, and had received a rebuff. But he had certainly put through several calls. Suddenly to her surprise she realised the tendency of her own thoughts. She was thinking of the head of the firm as her uncle's murderer.

The idea was sufficiently startling. Why should sparrow have murdered her uncle? She did not like him, but it had never occurred to her before that he was anything but scrupulously honest, and he was certainly an excellent accountant. But he might have become a murderer just because he was an excellent accountant. Perhaps, like the unfortunate cashier, he had exercised his talents in the wrong direction. Somehow she could not quite see how it might have happened, and then a possible explanation occurred to her. If Sparrow was worried now, Lazer had certainly seemed anxious the previous day, and it had been Sparrow who had dealt with Lazer's books. Suppose there had been some irregularity which Sparrow had been bribed to conceal? She realised suddenly that it was all mere speculation, and put the subject forcibly from her mind.

It was a relief when the time came for going home, Sparrow had not waited until then. A quarter of an hour before he had put on his coat and bowler hat and strode through the office. She had heard the door open and had thought he had gone when she glanced round automatically. He had stopped in the doorway, looking back hesitantly towards her, and as he met her eyes he started guiltily; then scowled. As the door slammed behind him, Pamela concentrated more vigorously on her typing, to the great annoyance of Miss Caldwall, who, now that any fear of interruption had passed, would obviously have liked to go into the whole situation thoroughly. Pamela positively had to snub her before she could make her escape into the street.

It was still full daylight, and this time there was no mist to complicate things, but she found herself shrinking from the short cut across the Common. Instead she turned down the narrow main street, comfortingly crowded with office workers on their way home. And yet, as she went an uncomfortable feeling grew in her mind. She was being watched. Several times she looked back quickly in the hope of seeing whoever was following her; but the thronged pavement made any identification hopeless, though once she stopped and waited, looking into a shop window in the glass of which she could see the passers-by reflected without appearing to watch.

She was half inclined to think that she was the victim of her own imagination by the time that she turned off the main road into the quieter street leading to the residential district on the outskirts of the town. Here, if there had been anyone, she should be able to see him, but the road wound awkwardly, and if she had a shadower she failed to catch him. It was not until she had actually entered the gate that her efforts were attended with any success. Sheltered by the high hedge, she waited for a moment, then looked suddenly out.

This time she was more fortunate. It was growing dusk; but the end of the avenue could still be seen fairly distinctly. And as she looked, a man appeared for a moment on the pavement, looked up the road and hurriedly dived back. She had only seen him for a few seconds, and in that time he presumably had seen her, and by now would be out of sight. His face had not been visible. She had no more than a dim impression of a dark coat which might have been any colour, and a bowler hat. For a moment she hesitated; half tempted to try to follow him. But he would see her coming, and she would alarm him without achieving anything. Reluctantly she turned towards the house. As she opened the front door, she found herself thinking of the bowler-hatted man whom March had followed.

CHAPTER VIII
A Discovery in the Canal

IT was not, after all, so very early in the afternoon that Inspector Portland arrived. Superintendent Locker had been waiting for a good two hours before the Scotland Yard man appeared, and his spirits and temper had both suffered. For in that interval nothing vital whatsoever had happened in connexion with the various lines of investigation which he was trying to follow up, and while it had been too much to hope that it would, he would have liked to have something more positive to offer a man whom he was rather inclined to regard as a rival.

It took the Inspector little more than a quarter of an hour to abolish any feeling of animosity which Locker might have had. He possessed a delicate tact which conveyed his understanding of the Superintendent's difficulties, and in his manner there was a suggestion of a heavy gloom beside which Locker's own outlook seemed like bright optimism. Normally his gaunt, large figure and rather thin face expressed nothing whatever but a gentle melancholy mixed with surprise at an eccentric world; though Locker was to learn later that his face could register, to order, as many emotions as a film star's. By a perverse fate, the sergeant he had brought down with him was his direct opposite. Sergeant Plum inclined to put on weight; it sometimes worried him, but not enough to make him lose it or to moderate the operations of a hearty appetite. He liked to talk as much as his superior liked to be quiet; and his general attitude could be summed up in the words "God's in His heaven, and Sergeant Plum at Scotland Yard; all's right with the world, or if not it soon will be."

The three of them were seated together over a cup of tea, and Plum had been making up by the copious taking of notes for the conversation which the presence of his senior officers forced him to restrain. Portland had hardly said a word during the whole of Locker's outline of the case, and all that the Superintendent had gathered about his opinions was that his general pessimism regarding humanity included a particular pessimism about the female sex. He was beginning to feel a little desperate by the time he finished. Perhaps that was what induced him to unlock a drawer in his desk which was rarely opened.

"Have a cigar?" he suggested. "Had 'em given to me at Christmas. They're not bad."

"Thanks. I don't smoke," Portland declined, rather to Locker's surprise, and suddenly came to life. "Now, I'd just like to see if I've got everything clear... Your suspects to date are Mawley, on the ground of motive, means, and possible opportunity; Paverley, on the ground of possible motive; Wisden, because of sounding the rattle first; Arberry, because he owned the factory, and could have arranged things... That's all?"

"Yes, I suppose so." Locker wrinkled his brows. "Though I wouldn't say that I really suspect Wisden and Arberry. I don't see why either should do it... And there's young March—though he's pretty unlikely. And the elusive Mr. Smith, who, so far as we know, had no motive either. Only he was wandering about the Common."

"Yes. Now, all things considered, it's quite probable that the murderer isn't in that list at all." Portland made the remark with a resignation which was equalled by Locker's own nod. "The only really likely one is Mawley, and in a sense he has an alibi. I don't know if we can prove that he could have got out, much less that he did, and he'd have to run the time very close. So, the question is, where do we look for our other murderers?"

"I don't know," Locker admitted. "There's the hope the night watchman will speak. Or we might trace the cyanide and wire and so on."

"Yes. I believe we must certainly investigate the means, because that's the one concrete thing there is. First, the cyanide—though I don't expect for a moment we shall trace that to a chemist."

"Why not?" Locker demanded. The Inspector's pessimism was beginning to get on his nerves. "It must have been bought at one."

"What I mean is that a murderer who is ingenious enough to stage a killing of this kind wouldn't overlook a point like our circularising chemists. If he bought it at a chemist's he did it in some way that we couldn't trace."

"But we don't know its previous history, or its subsequent history well enough. If possible we want to know who made that container; who assembled the mask; who handled it right up to the time that Mawley put it on... Of course, that's highly unlikely. But we must bear in mind the possibility that it was mere accident that Hawthorne and not someone else was killed."

"We want to know all we can about what Hawthorne did with his mask. I mean, who had access to it at home, in the office, anywhere. And, if possible, we want to fix a time limit beyond which the cyanide couldn't have been there."

"Well, it's been a nasty, damp winter. Hawthorne, I gather, was the kind of man who would be likely to try some gas drill. Did he, on any occasion that we can find out, put on the mask under circumstances which would have poisoned him if the cyanide had been there?"

"We can try," Locker said without enthusiasm. He could see a great deal of hard work in that which would probably be completely unattended by any result. In desperation he lit one of the cigars that Portland had rejected, ignoring the envious eyes of Sergeant Plum. He puffed at it for a moment or two, waiting for Portland to continue. "Then there's the wire and the weapon—I mean what was used to knock out the night watchman."

"Of course. But you could get a weapon that would do that almost anywhere, and the wire is too common a thing to be noticed, if the murderer was even moderately careful. There's one point. That undulating note—"

"I've arranged to go into that," Locker said with some pride. "You mean the sale of automatic switches?"

"But he may not have used one," Portland rejoined. "Strictly speaking, the weapon in this case is a bit complicated. I mean the real weapon is a combination of the siren, the fog, the bombs, the gas mask and the cyanide, with the gas warning as a final blow."

"You're not suggesting the murderer was a meteorologist?" Locker asked, not without sarcasm.

"Ah." Portland shook his head as though it was no more than he had expected. "Well, there's opportunity. The murderer, if we assume there's only one, had to have the opportunity not only to put the stuff in the mask, but to knock out the night watchman, blow the siren, and sound the rattle. Whenever we get a suspect we've got to try and find out what he was doing at all three times."

Locker drew a very deep puff at his cigar. He began to like murder less and less.

"And finally, about motive. It might be a personal or a business motive. I mean, in the first class, someone like Paverley, or even Mawley, who was actuated by a real or imaginary grievance. Or it might be someone who was fearing exposure as a result of Hawthorne's professional activities.

"That's a point, of course... And there's one other thing. What—if anything—actually precipitated the murder? I mean, was there any reason why it should be done at a particular time?"

"I shouldn't think so," Locker answered thoughtfully. "I mean, you couldn't positively count on a fog."

"Any damp day would do, I imagine. In this country you can usually count on those... And, of course, we want to find out all we possibly can, not only about our suspects, but about firms whose books Hawthorne had audited or was going to audit. And I think that's all for the present."

"That's fine." Locker was heavily sarcastic. Secretly he was disappointed by the Scotland Yard man's summary. He had half expected some brilliant piece of deduction; instead of which, Portland had merely extended the list of details which he himself had been investigating. "And where would you like to begin?"

"I suggest we follow Hawthorne's movements as far as possible for the whole afternoon before he died."

"Good Lord!" Locker said in dismay, and glanced at the clock. "But we can't. Lazer and Horde will have closed. So will Hawthorne's office. We're twenty minutes too late."

Locker rose to his feet unwillingly. It was a long way to the station; for the town had been built before railways were seriously thought of, and the track was compelled to keep to the higher ground, while the town, for some reason best known to its founders, occupied the swampy valley. It proved even worse than he feared. Portland was a quick walker, and the Superintendent had all he could do to maintain his breath and dignity by the time they reached the station.

At the station itself there was very little they need do. They had the evidence of Pamela Norwood for what happened with regard to their arrival and their walk down so far as the office. Locker was inclined to be annoyed when Portland merely looked at the station clock, compared it with his watch, and turned round.

"Now, we'll go back again," he said calmly. "And this time, I am Hawthorne, and you are Pamela Norwood. We do exactly as they did."

The Superintendent grinned. But the change of identity was certainly preferable; for in his new character Portland walked at quite a comfortable pace, glancing now and again at his watch as if to make sure that he was keeping to schedule. Locker was inclined to think it was a lot of nonsense. There might be some point in having an accurate time table, but the girl could supply that.

"He'd see some people he knew on the way, I suppose," Portland suggested as they passed the canal bridge.

"He must have done. We'd better get all their names. And that," Portland sighed, "will probably be a big job. Lots of people would know Hawthorne in this place?"

"Pretty well everyone," Locker agreed. They had reached the block of buildings where Hawthorne had his office. Portland glanced at his watch and nodded.

"Just right," he said. "Now, he was in here five minutes. We needn't wait, I think... Which way to the Common?"

The Superintendent jerked his hand. He was mentally deciding that if Portland was going to do this kind of thing again to-morrow, on an even more extensive scale, he himself was going to have business at the police station which would keep him there all afternoon. A bright idea struck him.

"Wouldn't it be better to get the girl to go along with you?" he suggested. "Then you could do exactly as they did."

"I don't believe anybody's unsupported story. Up to the time she met March, she was alone on the Common—she might have been able to sound the siren, say."

"By swimming the canal?" Locker laughed. "But she was quite dry. And she certainly didn't knock out the night watchman."

He indicated a narrow passage between the houses which turned off just the other side of the block of buildings in which White Gables was situated. Locker looked his surprise.

"That? Oh, it's just for the back doors. Makes a sort of right angle and comes out on the Common again. Why? They didn't go that way, but along the road."

"The murderer might have done," Portland suggested. "If he left the office and hurried, as soon as Hawthorne had gone—"

Portland glanced at his watch again before gazing down for a moment or two at the uninspiring piece of tar macadam which the barrier enclosed.

"You wouldn't expect any," Locker said a little impatiently. "And now, what'd you like next? We'd have to get the keys of the factory. There are the cottages where the bombs exploded."

"I think," the Inspector said after a pause, "we'd better see White Gables. If Mawley could have got out—"

The Superintendent had had enough. He was actually pleased to see Berchell, who had been on the point of going home, and handed over the Inspector to him while he himself lit a pipe and waited, regretting the half-smoked cigar he had abandoned at the police station. Berchell, for his part, was only too pleased to have such an attentive visitor. Portland had thrown off his gloom, and expanded into a bland appreciativeness which was calculated to make the town clerk believe that, of course, A.R.P. arrangements in London might be pretty good, but they were nothing to his own.

Locker rejoined them as they went out into the yard. Evidently the Inspector was even viewing the temporary ward to which the body had been taken. A group of gas-masked figures round a doorway in one corner excited his attention.

Portland eyed the group gravely, without apparently seeing what Locker had intended as a hit at his pessimism.

"Oh, yes!" Berchell answered with enthusiasm. "Mr. Hawthorne was very keen. He took both his Warden's Examination and his First Aid Certificates."

"Why, you mean—?" Locker suddenly saw the light. "But that's no good. He'd go through the gas chamber in a civilian duty respirator—not his own... I suppose you were thinking that the doctored gas mask wouldn't keep out the tear gas? I suppose you're right. But I'm afraid that's no good."

"I'd like to know the date, if you could find out, sir?" Portland had got the town clerk into a state of mind when he would have found out anything at the cost of turning the entire department upside down. "Just to make—"

With Berchell's promise to ascertain this vital fact, they left White Gables. The Superintendent was getting distinctly weary. Of course, the Scotland Yard man had to be taken over the ground, but there seemed to be no point in going over it with quite such meticulous care. It was getting dark, and the evening was chilly. With the beginnings of rebellion in his heart he led Portland to the point on the canal bank opposite Arberry's factory, and waited while his colleague gazed his fill at the outside of the building from across the water.

"What's that?" Portland had glanced down the towpath to where a little group of men seemed to be on the canal bank.

"That? Oh, the gang I put on to drag the canal. For the wire, you know. I thought he might have chucked it there. They've had no luck. I should think they'll be about packing up... Shall we go over and see?"

The Superintendent had established the bridge which spanned the canal as the point beyond which dragging could not usefully be done, and evidently the searchers had decided at least to make some pretence of carrying out a task they were by then fairly certain was hopeless to the limit before giving up for the night. They were just under the arch, where the towpath bent sinuously inwards, and were evidently taking matters very easily until the sight of the Superintendent brought a burst of activity.

"Anything doing, Sergeant?" Locker demanded. "You seem to be working very hard."

The sergeant eyed him a little dubiously. He was not at all sure that they had spotted the Superintendent's approach in time.

"Nothing, sir," he said. "Or rather, sir, every blamed thing but what we want... We were thinking of giving up, sir—"

"I suppose you'd better," Locker said reluctantly. He had really had some hopes of finding the wire; the weapon, if it had been thrown in, would almost certainly have sunk too deeply into the mud. "Just go under the arch— What's that?"

"Dead dog, I expect, sir," the sergeant said resignedly. "We've found two already."

Certainly the drags had caught something; but unless it was attached to the bottom it occurred to the Superintendent that it must be a very large dog. He flashed his torch on the water in defiance of lighting regulations.

It was the sergeant who had exclaimed, and he had every justification. From the muddy surface of the disturbed water there had suddenly emerged a human hand.

CHAPTER IX
Stolen Clue

IT had completely escaped Pamela Norwood's memory that her mother had been going out that night, and that it was also the night out of the solitary maid which their rather reduced income allowed them to keep. In one respect it was a relief. Quite probably her mother would have been curious about the work she had to do, and, fond as she was of her mother, she was aware that she was not an expert at keeping secrets. Besides, although the unchaperoned visit of a young man would certainly scandalise the rather Victorian neighbours, it would make things a great deal simpler if she could be alone when March arrived and could explain the notes to him without any parental interference.

Rosamund, whose name was curtailed to Rosa by Mrs. Norwood for general use, was obviously in that state of dress and mind which indicated that her young man was probably waiting for her. Pamela was only too pleased to get rid of her. She had never seen the young man in question, but he appeared, from the maid's account, to be a Phoenix among the species, with, moreover, a considerable sum accumulated in the bank which probably indicated that they would shortly have to find a new household assistant. Apart from that she wished him no harm, but she could have smacked him twenty minutes later when, just as she had finished her tea and settled down to her typewriter, the telephone bell rang.

A voice she had never heard so far as she knew uttered one or two exasperating 'hullos' before putting the plain question:

"Miss Mine?" She echoed the words. For a moment she did not associate them with Rosa. "Who?"

With difficulty Pamela repressed a giggle at the appropriateness of the name coming from that source. It seemed a pity that the result of his admiration would be to transform it to Hogge.

"I'm afraid she's just gone out," Pamela answered. "She won't be back until ten."

"Can I take a message?" Pamela asked with a mischievous intention. "Who is that speaking?"

"Oh, you can just say George, miss," the voice answered hesitantly. "She'll know. I'm sorry, miss, I took the liberty—"

George, she was reflecting as she returned to the typewriter, had a more cultured voice than she would have expected from a builder's labourer. Suddenly the thought crossed her mind that it ought to have been Harry. It looked very much as though Rosamund believed in having two strings to her bow, and she was quite certain that her mother would not have approved. Personally, as she settled herself to the machine again, she was rather inclined to sympathise with the girl, in view of Harry's rather monotonous virtues. But George must be very much an also-ran; for she had never heard Rosa mention his name.

She had just reached that conclusion, while inserting paper and carbons, when the phone rang again. She permitted herself a mild, unladylike expletive as she rose to answer it.

"If this is Harry," she said to herself, "I'll set George on him!... But suppose it's Bill?"

The first words indicated, however, that it was not this time one of the victims of Rosamund's fatal beauty.

"This is the secretary of the Animal Lovers' Help League speaking," the speaker at the other end informed her winningly. "Might I speak to Mrs. Norwood?"

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid Mrs. Norwood is out," Pamela apologised. She had never heard of that particular good cause before, but her mother was inclined to be a collector of leagues and associations, and might well have acquired one devoted to helping animals, or animal lovers. "Can I take a message?"

"Oh, no. Please don't trouble. It is of no importance whatever. I'm so sorry to have troubled you."

As she again went back to her work, Pamela was wondering why anyone should waste twopence on a matter of no importance whatever; for this call, like the last, had certainly been from a call box. She was rather inclined to regret that her mother, though a great lover of animals in the abstract, would have neither cat nor dog in the house.

This time she had actually managed to do half a sheet before the next interruption came, but she was no nearer to understanding what exactly she was doing. Her uncle seemed to have selected from the list of securities held by Lazer and Horde as a reserve a mixed bag of share certificates, of which he had given the numbers, with a few comments on their past history and dates so far as Mr. Lazer had been able to supply them. She herself could make nothing of them. They all seemed to be good, reputable concerns, of an undoubted solidity, and in any case, why had only certain certificates been selected? She could quite understand that if her uncle had sought Mr. Lazer with a request for information of that kind he might easily find it disturbing, and probably only the fact that he had audited their accounts for years had led to its being granted.

But then, the thought crossed her mind, he had not audited their accounts that year. He had been suffering from influenza, and Sparrow had done it. There might be something significant in that. For a moment an unpleasant suspicion crossed her mind that whatever it was might reflect rather upon her uncle than upon Sparrow; but she did not seriously believe it. Her uncle had always been a model of financial integrity, though, like many such models, better at looking after money than at giving it away. She herself had been on the point of going to college when her father died, and her uncle could well have afforded to send her. Instead, she had gone into his office to learn the business, and had certainly learned enough to have a hearty dislike of the life of a business woman.

Unexpectedly she found her thoughts turning towards Paul March without quite following the mental connexion. Then all at once she did, and she flushed as she hurriedly inserted a new sheet. Of course, there was nothing of that kind in it really—

This time it was the front door. There was a knock of that peremptory, official kind which latterly suggests that one has left a light unobscured within a building. Pamela jumped up guiltily. She had been upstairs before tea, and it had not been quite dark enough to need the curtains, though dark enough to make a light desirable. She was ready with an apology which would probably be useless as she flung the front door open.

There was no one there. The light from the open doorway fell across the path in a way which, if the policeman she had half expected had been there, would certainly have aggravated any offence, but there was no sign of whoever had knocked. A little puzzled she stepped out and glanced up and down the path. She could just make out that the front gate was now open, whereas she had certainly left it shut; but then, Rosamund might have gone that way. On the other hand, Rosamund would probably have shut it after her; for it was a point on which her mother was particular, being, however much a lover of dogs, still more fond of the herbaceous border they were inclined to desecrate.

But there was no one there. Puzzled and a little annoyed, she closed the door and went back to the typing. There was only about a quarter of an hour left if she was to finish before March arrived, and there would be no more than time. The thought crossed her mind that perhaps it was March himself who had arrived early; but he would never have knocked like that, or gone away before seeing her.

But she had scarcely seated herself before the knock came again, this time on the back door. She understood now what had happened. Whoever had come to the front had got tired of waiting for her to answer, or had rather abruptly decided that his errand was one more suited to the tradesmen's entrance. Instead of going out by the gate, when she looked out he must have rounded the corner of the house. But this time she was in no apologetic mood, whether it was policeman, or A.R.P. warden, or anyone whatsoever. The fourth interruption was too much for her temper, and she opened the door with every intention of being thoroughly unpleasant to whoever it was who had knocked.

She could hardly believe her eyes. The small yard appeared to be absolutely empty, as empty as the front path had been. In spite of her temper she felt a little thrill of nervousness. There was something queer about those two loud knocks coming out of the darkness with no visible sign of whoever had made them.

"Who's there?" she called a little tremulously, then drew comfort from the sound of her own voice. "Who knocked?"

There was no reply. It came upon her that she was probably the victim of a joke. Probably the idea was to keep her running between front door and back; but if it was, the joker was due to be surprised. This time she was going to make sure, although she still shrank a little from the gloom outside. There was a carpet-beater on the wall over the table. She seized it determinedly, switched off the light and stepped outside, banging the door as if with an annoyance which she certainly felt to convey the impression that she was still in the house. Then, very quietly, she crossed the yard towards the gate leading to the front garden.

She shivered a little and told herself that it was only the night air. The feel of the carpet-beater in her hand was comforting, and she was fully determined to use it on the slightest provocation. But it was horribly dark. She could just make out the silhouette of the trellis-work fence against the sky, and a black triangle which showed her that the gate was partly open. Very gently she pushed it back, remembering too late that the hinges creaked. But by now whoever it was was probably by the front door ready to resume operations. If it was a joke? But suppose it wasn't? Her courage suddenly evaporated. She stood hesitating in the gateway, and peered up the path. It seemed to be absolutely deserted.

Then a twig snapped. She turned just in time to see a dark, uplifted arm above the hedge, and instinctively raised the carpet-beater. It was all that saved her. The blow came crashing down, but its force was partly broken, though savage enough to beat her to the ground half stunned.

It must have been nearly a minute that she lay there dazed and helpless. Then a light showed in the backyard. She realised dimly that her attacker had opened the back door and switched on the kitchen light, or perhaps flashed a torch. With an effort she sat up. Oddly enough, it did not occur to her to cry out. Pulling herself up by the trellis work, she stood there for a moment weakly; then started to cross the yard.

If she had not been thoroughly dazed by her fall she would have realised that the one thing to do was to get help as soon as possible; to call out and alarm the neighbourhood. As it was, she hardly thought of the danger attached to confronting an armed burglar alone in an empty house. It had suddenly flashed through her mind that this was not an ordinary burglar, and she remembered the note-book and typing she had left on the table. Without any thought for her own safety, and with her mind obsessed by the thought of saving the papers, she pushed the door weakly open.

The light was still burning in the drawing-room. She could see the glow of it in the hall, but the kitchen itself was in darkness. Vaguely conscious that her strength was going, she started to cross the room. She was nearly at the door when against the light wallpaper of the entrance hall a huge black shadow moved as if threateningly. Her fear suddenly revived. With a cry she started back, stumbled against a chair and sent it crashing to the ground, falling herself with it.

There was a startled exclamation from the drawing-room. Then with a click the light vanished. There was a rustling of paper; then on the tiles not more than a dozen feet away from her she heard a stealthy footstep. Her heart came into her mouth at the thought that the intruder was coming back the way he had entered, through the kitchen where she was lying. Terror gave her a momentary strength. She dragged herself to her feet and stood staring into the darkness.

There was the click of a lock. All at once she was aware of a cold breath of night air blowing on her face, and of the grey slit of the opening door. A black shadow momentarily obscured it; then the door slammed.

With a cry she started forward. It came to her suddenly that by her own folly she had allowed the man to escape when she could have called for help and trapped him inside the house. But her determination was greater than her strength. She reached the door, fumbled helplessly for a moment with the catch, and finally got it open. She could go no further, but stood there weakly clutching at the post with everything swimming round her. It must have been a minute before she could force herself even to cry out:

There was a sound of running footsteps on the gravel. Then a torch flashed. With a wave of infinite relief she heard Paul March's voice:

"He—he's got—them—" she said feebly, and for a moment could only cling there. Then everything went black.

March must have carried her inside. She was lying on the couch when she came to herself, and opened her eyes to the light which blinded them painfully.

"Outside. I followed him in... The notes— He must have come for those—on the table."

She raised herself a little; but sank back again immediately. March turned and looked towards the table where the typewriter stood. Except for the newly opened ream of plain paper it was empty.

Before he had finished the sentence there was the click of a key in the lock and the front door opened.

CHAPTER X
Out of the Mud

IT was only for a few seconds that the hand showed. The next instant the hooks slipped or something tore, and the men who had been pulling on the rope nearly fell backwards.

"Lord!" Locker's voice was shaken. "We've found something all right! But who—" He broke off. "Get those drags going again! Show a light there!"

Inspector Portland had said nothing. He was standing there in the dusk like a gloomy statue, only once moving his head to glance up at the bridge above them and the steps leading to it. Locker, having got the drags going again, came over to his side.

Inspector Portland had fallen back on his old rule of silence. He only shook his head. There was no sense in speculating about questions which a very short time might see answered. But it was some minutes before the drags caught again, and this time held firmly. Even so, it took the united strength of the party to pull the body ashore. As it emerged from the water it was so smothered in the slime that it was scarcely recognisable for what it was.

"Weighted?" gasped Locker, and wiped the sweat off his face as they finally brought it to the bank.

"Mud," Portland corrected. "No, it wouldn't have sunk like that very far. But I'm inclined to think the drags pulled it in and it stuck."

He knelt down beside the body, and unexpectedly took off his hat. After all, it was not out of respect for the corpse. He handed it to the sergeant, who, with a muddied hand, took it and stared at it bewilderedly.

With the help of what started as a spotlessly clean handkerchief and douches from the hat, he set to work upon the dead man's face. It was a minute or two before he sat back on his heels to allow a clear view.

The sergeant seemed more doubtful. "It's Smith?" he asked. "Seems to me his hair's lighter somehow. Black, Smith's was."

"It's him," the Superintendent snapped ungrammatically. "But how the devil did he get here?" He frowned down at the body for a moment. "Get an ambulance and see about a doctor before those damned reporters get here!"

So far as that was concerned they were already too late. It was natural enough that the Press should have been keeping an eye upon the dragging operations, and the bridge across the canal carried one of the main roads through the town. A crowd was already gathering, and even as Locker spoke there was a blinding flash from above. For a moment the Superintendent was startled. Then he swore luridly.

"Sergeant, get hold of that fool with the flash," he snapped. "And head off these other idiots!"

It was perhaps as well that Portland took it upon himself to intervene; for Press and police have infinite powers of annoying each other in the absence of a good understanding. More accustomed to the ways of London reporters than the Superintendent, he tried no violence, but shepherding together the increasing group dismissed them, if not satisfied, at least eager to telephone. Even the camera man's scoop photo he arranged to have submitted to censorship, with the delicate hint that, if it was not, its owner would certainly find himself faced with a very considerable fine, if only for showing an exposed light in the black-out. Before he had finished the ambulance had arrived, and the body was speeding on its way to the mortuary.

"Damned impertinence!" he growled as they started forward. "Some of those fools have neither sense, nor reverence, nor respect for Law. I'd have shown 'em!"

Inspector Portland said nothing. Probably he was thinking that if Locker had carried out his threat they would have had no peace at all throughout the investigation, and have been hopelessly hampered. But he only preserved a massive silence.

"This is a bad business," said Locker after a pause, and his voice was worried. "How did he die? How did he get there?"

"What?" The Superintendent looked his surprise. "Then you don't think he was murdered?"

"He could have fallen in all right, in the fog," Locker admitted. "Seeing he didn't know the place, and besides he was probably in a hurry. But why didn't he get out again? If he could only swim a stroke or two... Perhaps he couldn't, though. Lost his head, couldn't see the bank? But he didn't cry out either."

"Well, things were a bit confused last night," Locker admitted. "I don't say he would have been heard. And he might have hit something... But why did he run? Did he kill Hawthorne?" he went on presently.

Inspector Portland shook his head. "That's unlikely," he said. "If he'd the nerve to pretend to find the body of the man he'd killed, I hardly think he'd have bolted like that. Besides, he does seem to have been a stranger to the place."

Locker did not notice that his first question had been ignored. Actually, the Inspector had a fairly definite idea of the reason for Smith's disappearance from White Gables, but he was not a man who liked to speak without being sure, and it was a point which could easily be verified.

"You don't think, then, that he had anything to do with killing Hawthorne?" Locker persisted. "It might have been suicide?"

Portland did not answer that at all, and there was silence until the car drew up outside the mortuary. The police surgeon was already there and had started his examination as they entered. He looked up and nodded.

"You'd better look at his coat, Superintendent," he said unexpectedly. "There's something queer about it."

"It's damned heavy. I'd say that's why he didn't get out—if he fell in of his own accord... No, it's not mud. You can feel the stuff. Chunks of lead, I should imagine."

Locker accepted the garment which the mortuary men had just removed. He almost dropped it, and his eyebrows rose in surprise. Without a word he handed it to the Inspector, who weighed it thoughtfully, then spread it out upon a convenient trestle, and started exploring its folds with his long fingers, regardless of the mud. It was not long before he located one of the lumps of which the doctor had spoken. Drawing a small penknife from his pocket, he slit the material delicately along the seam, and extracting an irregular fragment of metal held it out for the Superintendent's inspection.

"Lead?" Locker asked in surprise. "But why the devil should a man quilt lead into his coat?"

"Ladies used to, in the name of decency." The doctor looked up quite calmly from his task. "Don't see why he should, though."

From his pocket Portland had extracted another spotless white handkerchief and was wiping the slime from the specimen. When he had finished he weighed it thoughtfully in his hand for a moment, and felt in his breast pocket for a piece of paper. He seemed to be idly denting the paper with one edge. Locker watched him with growing impatience; then turned to the doctor.

"About the right time—for you, I mean." The doctor did not look up. "Say twenty-four hours. Ever since he disappeared from White Gables, I should say."

"You think he went straight off and fell into the canal?" Locker frowned. "Or jumped in? Or was helped?"

"I've found no marks of violence. There wouldn't need to be. Once in the water with that coat on him, and he'd never get up."

"Then maybe that's why he wore it?" Locker glanced at the Inspector. "So that, if he were trapped, or made up his mind to kill himself—"

Portland shook his head. "I don't think so," he said. "He'd a better reason than that. You couldn't carry that stuff in your pocket. It would be through in no time."

Portland did not answer at once. "You've got the files of the Illustrated at the station?" he asked. "We'll have a look at them later."

"I think I know who he is. Yes. I'm inclined to think that when he tumbled across Hawthorne's body he rather lost his head, and forgot all about how unpleasant it might be for him to have anything to do with the police. Then he had time to think it over, and took his chance. And it looks to me as though he had some hide-out here."

For the moment Portland seemed to be unusually communicative. "Because he was crossing the Common away from White Gables when he found the body, wasn't he? Or so we suppose. Well, he'd hardly like to try the Common road again, but he probably thought he could slink up by the towpath. That's how he fell in... We'd better get him photographed."

"But if he's in the Illustrated—" Locker shrugged his shoulders. "Very well. I'll rope in our tame photographer. You think, then, that he was making for somewhere just the other side of the Common?"

"Not much... He's aged about thirty-five—not very well developed. I'm inclined to think he's been starving lately—we'll know that later. His hair's been dyed. Not very well. The water's washed some of it out. Used to be red, I should say... There are no marks of violence except a few post-mortem scrapes. Probably you did those. He was certainly drowned and, as I said, he's probably been dead about twenty-four hours."

"You'll let us have a full report later, Doctor? Right. Then we'll leave you to it for the moment... When we've just gone through his pockets—"

It was a messy business, and when they had done it the results were singularly meagre. There was not a scrap of paper, except a crumpled tram-ticket which Locker seized and vainly tried to decipher. There was money. A few loose matches and a curious pulp which seemed upon examination to resolve itself into a mixture of bread and tobacco, a broken penknife, and a stained handkerchief constituted the whole of their finds, and the name tabs had been removed from the clothing. Locker eyed the collection gloomily.

"I hope you are right—about being able to identify him," he said gloomily. "This won't help us much."

"This will." Portland held up one of the pieces of metal. He had extracted several more from the coat, making up the half-dozen. "Poor devil! Fancy starving—with this!"

Locker eyed the lumps distastefully as the Inspector carefully wrapped them in his handkerchief, tried them in one coat pocket which sagged excessively, and finally decided to carry them in his hand. The Superintendent scented some mystery about the lead, but he could not solve it, and Portland, after a momentary outburst of pity which the Superintendent would hardly have expected from him, had lapsed again into an irritating silence.

"The lead explains why he didn't cry out," he said. "He'd sink at once—probably head first, too."

Portland did not trouble to answer that. "Besides, you saw me rub it on the paper?" he said. "Well it didn't mark. I mean, it didn't leave a grey mark. Lead does. And I believe that lead's the only thing that does."

In fact, it was quite a long time before he found what he was looking for, and he had to plough through several numbers of the illustrated supplement issued by the police containing the photographs as well as the descriptions of wanted men. At last he pushed over one opened at a page, covering the inscription below it with his hand.

Locker hesitated. "Yes, I should say it was," he said a little hesitantly. "He's fatter there, and he's got a moustache, of course, and his hair's done differently... But it's him all right. Who is he?"

Portland uncovered the caption below. Locker's lips pursed to whistle as he read.

"Theft?" he said. "Jeweller's assistant?" Then something like a light shone into his mind as he remembered seeing a piece of that same grey metal in a very different shape. "Then that stuff?" he said. "It's not lead? It's platinum?"

"Platinum," Portland agreed. "You'd better put it in the safe. It must be worth quite a bit... But of course, it's not stuff you could sell anywhere. Not even as easily as gold. I don't know how he meant to get rid of it. Probably making for London."

"That's just it. I think that someone must have been ready to shield him. It's out of his way... He was lucky to get so far."

Locker raised his eyebrows. "Well, if you call this luck—!" he said. "Shall I take that?"

He was in the act of closing the safe door when the telephone bell rang. Portland glanced across at him for permission, then lifted the receiver.

There was no change in his face as he listened. But some instinct must have warned Locker. He slammed the safe door to and hurried across.

"I don't know," Portland said deliberately. "Someone's knocked out Miss Norwood!"

Even as he put the receiver to his ear the thought crossed Locker's mind that that was carrying misogyny too far.

CHAPTER XI
The Impatience of Mr. Sparrow

MARCH had come through two difficult explanations with only moderate success. In some ways his first, when Mrs. Norwood burst in upon the tableau in the drawing-room, had been the most awkward. In moments of strain he was used to having his mind take incongruously frivolous paths, and worried as he was about Pamela, he found the situation taking form in his mind as a social problem. "A., having met the day previously the girl whom he hopes to marry on the occasion of the murder of her uncle, is discovered by his prospective mother-in-law, B., whom he has never met, unexpectedly in the drawing-room of her home with the girl who has just been robbed and knocked unconscious. What does A. do?" For that matter there was the alternative, what should B. do? And he was bound to admit that for a woman of old-fashioned and conventional ideas she had taken it very well, and at the end had even thanked him for rescuing her daughter which, in fact, he had not done.

But the police interview had been in another way equally disturbing. The Scotland Yard man had bothered him most. Portland had an awkward habit of sitting for a long time in silence, and then coming out with some question which was particularly hard to answer properly, just when one had flattered oneself that one was getting along nicely with the Superintendent. Actually, Locker, knowing his position in the town, would hardly have ventured to suspect him if it had not been for the Inspector. And, of course, he and the girl were definitely at fault on one point. There was no question that he should have insisted on her going straight to the police with the information about Hawthorne's interview with Lazer, and there was no doubt that by not doing so they had lost what might very well be a vitally important clue. Just how important it must have been had been shown by the risks the murderer had run in order to get the notes. He had heard from Pamela what had happened, and in a way he had to admire the burglar's precautions. He had, by the two phone calls, ascertained that the maid and Mrs. Norwood were out, and by his knock at the doors had drawn the girl out into the darkness where she could not see him, even though her defence with the carpet-beater had prevented his blow from having its full effect. And as he wondered what the full effect might have been intended to be, March was distinctly worried. For he had no doubt the burglar had also been the murderer.

The same point was worrying Locker and the Inspector, and, woman-hater or not, it had been Portland who had stressed the need for safeguarding Pamela Norwood, if only because she might prove to be a valuable witness.

"She thinks she doesn't. But she might, if she saw the full list, be able to pick out some at least of those which seemed to interest Hawthorne. You can never tell with women."

"Well, she can hardly be feeling her best," Locker said reasonably. "After being knocked silly like that."

"She's got herself to blame," Portland said. "If she'd have behaved sensibly we'd have stood a good chance of getting him."

"Of course, she had been knocked out," Locker said dubiously. "And yet it was queer that she didn't raise the alarm. You don't think that she thought she'd been struck by someone whom she didn't want arrested?"

"Meaning, in plain English, Mr. March? It's possible, though you'd hardly think any reasonable person would want to save someone who'd just tried to murder them. Still, a woman isn't. Of course it was queer not to shout out, and to go back into the house after him was just sheer plain daft."

The Inspector had spoken with unwonted heat. Locker looked at him significantly.

"It might be... But some women don't seem to be scared by physical violence—especially if they've not had experienced any. Look at the silly way shop assistants tackle armed smash-and-grab men, and get away with it... It's as I say, you can't tell with women."

Locker found the repetition exasperating. "Well, March is certainly in the running this time," he said. "By his own account, he found that he was going to be early and just mooned around for a bit. Which means that he could have done all that the burglar did, and then turn up as the rescuer."

Portland shook his head. "If he's smooth enough for that he'd have got the papers without all this fuss," he said. "She'd have given them to him... But there are other suspects. Now, supposing the burglar was the murderer, how would he know that the girl had the papers? Who knew?"

"He might have done—without knowing it. Then there's Sparrow. The girl seems to have let pretty well everything out to him when he tackled her to-day, and then followed things up by threatening him with the executors. If he was the murderer he'd have to do something."

Locker thought. "Not so far as I can see," he said. "Lazer would know about the notes, but not that the girl had them. Unless Sparrow told someone?"

"Mawley and so on? Well, it might affect Mawley. I mean he has had something to do with stocks and shares, and that kind of thing. But I'm inclined to think that Paverley can't have anything to do with it after all. I think that story's nonsense."

"And I shouldn't be surprised if it was very important. There's Arberry. He might have had dealings of that kind. But Wisden wouldn't."

"Don't think so. But we'd better see where he was too... I suppose Sparrow comes next?"

"Yes. Because we know definitely that he did know all about it, and if he hadn't got anything to do with it himself, might have given the show away to the real murderer... We'll tackle him at once."

It seemed at first as though they were going to be unlucky in that. The servant who opened the door in answer to their ring explained that Mr. Sparrow had been out all evening, and had said that he might be back late. They were just on the point of leaving when a car entered the drive, and drew up outside the door.

Sparrow descended and when he saw who his visitors were he scowled forbiddingly.

"Sorry, Superintendent," he said in a tone which suggested that he was exactly the reverse. "Can't see you to-night. No, I don't care what it is. I'm done up."

The accountant certainly looked it. Worry, hurry, and considerable doses of neat whisky taken upon a foundation of inadequate meals are hardly calculated to make anyone feel his best, and the two detectives diagnosed his trouble even quicker than Pamela Norwood had done. Locker looked at the Inspector, who nodded behind the accountant's back.

"I'm afraid we must insist, sir," he said ponderously. "No doubt you've heard what happened to-night?"

"That damned body business? Of course. Well, I don't know anything about it. Never set eyes on the chap to my knowledge, and I don't believe Hawthorne had."

"I wasn't referring to that, sir, but to the attack on Miss Norwood and the burglary at her house."

"Miss Norwood?" Sparrow sounded genuinely startled. He put his hand to his eyes for a moment. "Very well. Come in... But don't be any longer than you can help."

He helped himself to a dose of whisky which startled Locker and gulped it down before he thought of offering them one. Both refused, and his lips tightened a little as though he could guess a possible reason.

"Well," he said, a little more amiably as the whisky began to take effect. "Miss Norwood's been attacked, eh? What happened?"

"She doesn't really know, sir," Portland intervened unexpectedly. "She's still dazed. But we understand some papers have been stolen which might throw a good deal of light on Mr. Hawthorne's death."

"We understand that they were some notes Miss Norwood took when her uncle visited Mr. Lazer just before his death."

"Oh," said Sparrow, and stopped. There was quite a long pause. "Well, I don't know anything about the damned things. I asked Miss Norwood this afternoon, because I'm trying to clear up the mess left by Hawthorne's death, and she was damned impertinent about 'em. Said she would only hand over to the executors, or something of the kind. It's no business of mine if they're lost."

"It's like that, is it?" he asked. "Well, I didn't know what was in 'em, and if they're not office business I'm not interested."

"Naturally. I didn't know Hawthorne had taken her off on some jaunt of his own. Seeing how pushed we are, I think it was pretty damn' cool."

"But, you see, sir, seeing that the papers were the only things stolen, it's only reasonable to suppose they were the motive for the attack." Portland's voice was positively honeyed. "And, you see, sir, very few people could have known of their existence."

Sparrow sat up little straighter. "It's like that, is it?" he said a little thickly. "You want me to provide an alibi, eh? Maybe I can... I've been at the office since I went back there just after tea."

"Yes. Well, I was with Berchell up to the time I went in, and he saw me go... I ran into a couple of other chaps when I left a few minutes ago, and we went and had a drink."

"Of course I can't prove that. But Berchell knows my light was burning. He rang me up just before I came away to warn me that my black-out arrangements weren't adequate. Officious old fool. You can see my windows from White Gables."

"I see, sir." Obviously the alibi was full of holes, but Portland was not inclined to pursue it just then. "There's another point, sir. I suppose you didn't happen to mention to anyone else about Mr. Hawthorne's visit to Mr. Lazer?"

"I rang up Lazer himself. When Miss Norwood was making such a damned mystery of the business. Lazer couldn't help me much. Said it was something to do with shares."

Sparrow made an effort to think, and it was plain that thinking was now becoming an effort.

"Well, I rang up old Elder too," he said. "I wondered if it was anything to do with him. He does a good deal of trustee business and so on. But he didn't know anything about it either. And then I rang up the stockbrokers—what's-its-name in the square, damn it! I've forgotten. You know... That was the lot. Look here—"

"There's one more question, sir," Portland intervened in time to prevent what was obviously an attempt to dismiss them. "Did you tell Mr. Lazer Miss Norwood had the notes at her house?"

Locker's reflection as they took their leave was that Mr. Sparrow had quite obviously had a good deal more than enough, and would have a nasty head next morning. He looked inquiringly at the Inspector.

Portland considered for a moment. "And now," he said, "I think we'd better see Mr. Elder."

CHAPTER XII
An Encounter with the Press

DURING the whole day March had successfully avoided the attentions of the reporters who had descended upon the town when the first news of the murder reached London, and just at that moment he was less anxious to see them than ever. As one of the first people to find the body, he had been much sought for, and as he turned into the private bar of the Black Bull it occurred to him that if the newspapers knew what had happened that night he would be more in request than ever.

The gentlemen of the Press had concentrated on the Golden Lion, with two teetotallers at the Temperance Hotel. That was why he chose the Black Bull, and even so he glanced round suspiciously as he entered. Certainly there were two strangers there, playing dominoes at the little table in the corner, but neither of them looked like a crime reporter to March. With a sigh of relief he put them down as commercial travellers, and ordered a pint of beer.

He needed a drink. The interview with Mrs. Norwood had not been soothing, even if he had not been horribly anxious about Pamela; but it was his talk with the police which was on his mind. Quite obviously they suspected him, and though the idea was ridiculous he found it disquieting. As he filled his pipe, he found himself going over in his mind the kind of case they might be building up against him, and he was surprised how strong it was. There was no motive. That was its chief weakness. Of course, Hawthorne's firm audited their books, but the police were not likely to find anything wrong there. But he had opportunity for nearly everything, except sounding the rattle for the first gas alarm. He was even acquainted with Arberry's factory and its hooter, for the firm had appeared for Arberry when he was summoned. And if there was one person who had the necessary knowledge and chance to attack Pamela Norwood it was he.

He smiled a little grimly at the thought. Of course they could do nothing, but the very suspicion might be inconvenient just then. On the whole he was disposed, like others before him, to believe the police were behaving like a lot of asses. Why had they done so little about the ex-cashier? Mawley certainly had motive, knowledge, and the best opportunity in the world, and it had certainly been Mawley whom he had followed home from the accountant's office. That had been all there was about it. Mawley had simply gone home; but that did not explain what he had been doing at the office. And where had Mawley been that night? Instead of wasting time on him, surely the police should have looked up a man who was clearly the most obvious suspect; whereas apparently on the strength of his dubious alibi at White Gables they seemed to be ignoring him altogether.

As he finished off his beer the resolution was forming in his mind that he would go and look up Mawley himself. Partly it was due to a feeling of resentment; for the police in their interview had not been too polite about the withholding of information: partly it was due to the detective instinct which lingers in most people. He was just on the point of leaving when a softly spoken word from the domino players made him change his mind. It was his own name.

They had finished their game. Now they were talking in low voices, so low, in fact, that he would probably have heard nothing else but the one thing which always attracts a man's attention. He looked at them surreptitiously. One of them had produced a note-book, and was glancing at it. He caught his name again, and sipping at his empty tankard, moved a little nearer on the pretence of glancing at the evening paper which lay on an adjoining table.

"I tell you I've tried the office and his own home," the younger of the two men was saying almost plaintively. "He wasn't there—or they said he wasn't. Probably lying."

Actually, March was well aware, they had been. He had issued stringent "Not at home" instructions so far as reporters were concerned. The older man frowned a little.

"We ought to get him," he said. "Or the girl... After all, he might have a motive even. Looks as though he's keen on the girl, and she's her uncle's heiress, I expect. He might be hard up."

March started at that. It was quite true that the money attached to being a very junior solicitor was not so much that it made him a millionaire. They could hardly know that he had seen Pamela Norwood only for the second time on the night of the murder. It was a curious feeling hearing oneself discussed as a possible murderer, and it occurred to him that he would probably have a case for a slander charge against them.

"We can bother him till he's glad to!" The older man laughed. "I'll try his home again now... You'd better have another shot at Mawley."

He finished up his beer and went out. The younger man still lingered, evidently none too keen on setting out on another of those forlorn hopes which journalism imposes on its servants. March thought for a moment. If Mawley had been out all evening it was all the more reason why someone should find out where he had been. At any rate he could go and have a look. Incautiously he put down the paper which had masked him and rose to his feet, and as he did so met the reporter's eyes.

It seemed to him that the man gave a slight start of recognition. Cursing himself for his carelessness, he gave a curt "Good night" and made for the door. Luckily the reporter seemed uncertain. As March glanced back, he had risen a little hesitantly to his feet.

It was only a short way to Mawley's house, situated in a very different street from that which he had lived in before his fall from grace. March could almost have found himself pitying the man. There had certainly been extenuating circumstances for his previous crime. But if he was a murderer? He hardened his heart as he stood outside the gate of Number 18 and looked at it consideringly.

Naturally the windows were blacked out. Equally naturally there were chinks. There were chinks, for example, round the sides of the blind of the front bedroom window. There were even bigger chinks, he saw as he looked along the side of the house, at the window of what was presumably a kitchen or living-room, and one a chink of such bigness that it was a wonder it had not attracted the attention of the police. It would even be possible to look through it. The gate stood open, and March was tempted. He slipped inside, and, thanking heaven for his rubber soles, crept stealthily up the tiled path.

The gap between the curtains was right in the middle, and gave a good view of the room. The first glance showed March that his guess had been right. It was a kitchen used as a dining-room, and a meal for three was laid upon the table. Again his heart smote him as he noted the poor furniture; but the next moment he forgot his scruples. Thrown on a chair by the fire, as if he had just discarded them, were Mawley's coat and hat. Evidently their owner was at home.

The room seemed to be empty. But even as he looked, a door just out of his sight opened, and someone entered, passing too close to the window for March to see the face; but it was certainly a woman. Again he was conscious of scruples. It had never occurred to him that the ex-cashier was a married man, and perhaps with a family. He straightened himself abruptly. Spying like that was a beastly game, and he had had enough. He could hardly find any good reason for wanting to see Mawley; but the evidence of the coat and hat was good enough for the present. He made his way noiselessly back to the gate, feeling that he had behaved very little like a detective, and very much like a cad.

He had hardly gained the street when he almost collided with a dark figure which seemed to have been waiting just outside. The beam of a darkened torch flashed full on his face. A voice came from behind it.

March could have kicked himself, or the speaker. He ought to have taken more care. The voice was certainly that of the younger reporter in the inn, and equally certainly he must have followed March to the house.

"No!" he snapped furiously. "I've nothing to say. Nothing at all. You can go to the devil!"

"To-night?" March echoed the word. For a moment he thought that the reference must be to the attack on Pamela Norwood; then its real significance dawned upon him. The reporter had seen him peeping in at the window. It was a nasty situation. Respectable solicitors do not play at Peeping Tom, and with the police in their present mood the fact that he had visited Mawley's house could be relied upon to make them believe the worst. "What d'you mean?" he demanded. "To-night?"

"I can spare you ten minutes," he conceded with as much dignity as he could muster. "Not here... Come and have a drink."

It was a little, half-derelict beer-house that received them, solely for the reason that it was the nearest, and rather to March's surprise the beer was good. Also, the little, low room was deserted, and the aged landlord, having frowned at them dubiously, as not being among his regular clientele, disappeared into his own quarters at the back.

"I suppose you wanted to know about finding the body?" March said without cordiality, as he put down his mug. "Well, I think I can tell you that—"

He told it without inspiration, and saying just as little as he could. The reporter scribbled in his note-book apparently by touch, keeping his eyes on March's face. The young man's expression, March decided, was pleasant enough, and he had only been doing his job. The best thing he could do was to make an appeal.

"Look here, about to-night," he said as he finished his account of the air-raid. "I'd better explain. You'll think me an ass, but I was doing a bit of detecting on my own account. You see, I heard you say Mawley had been out all evening—"

"Guessed it was something like that," he admitted. "But I thought it wouldn't sound well—for you... Sorry, and all that—"

March laughed. "I don't mind saying my respected senior partner wouldn't like it at all," he confessed. "And the town would be very interested. You see, I just wanted to find out if Mawley was in to-night, or if he'd been doing what I've been doing. Dodging you, I mean."

March hesitated. "Look here," he said, "I can't very well tell you, unless the police let something out. I should get myself in a hole. I might put you on to getting something—if you'll give me a promise."

"Wasn't thinking of doing it. She's probably gone to bed... All right." The reporter glanced at him keenly. Like most people unused to being interviewed, March was hardly aware how much he gave away by the things he did not say. "Well?"

"You know Miss Norwood's address? Well, you might ask some of the neighbours what happened there to-night."

"Honestly, I'm not in a position to. I'll tell no one else as much. You might get it yourself."

"I'll have to hurry, then." The reporter drained his beer. "Thanks very much... I say—"

Like many other people, March preferred other people to do the dirty work. But he hesitated.

They had to wait a full minute before a pale-faced, elderly woman opened the door and stood looking at them dubiously.

"May we see Mr. Mawley, please?" the reporter demanded with a confidence which he probably did not feel. "He's in now, I think?"

"He's not in." She faced her tormentor determinedly, and once again March felt ashamed of himself. "He wouldn't see you. He doesn't know anything."

The woman had been on the point of shutting the door in their faces, but she hesitated.

"I'm not sure I ought to say... I suppose the police will be here soon... I was speaking about the attack on Miss Norwood to-night."

"You mean—they'll think—?" She stopped; then burst out hysterically. "You—you devils! You—you've made me say it... He's been here all the time—here, don't you understand? He couldn't have done it. You're trying—trying to hang him because he stole once. And he stole for me... He's ill, I tell you—ill... You'd drive him mad. You shan't see him. You shan't... But he's been here—all the time—"

The door shut suddenly. March was certainly not feeling proud of himself as they went down the path, and perhaps the reporter was not either. He drew a deep breath as they reached the street.

"That," he said expressionlessly, "was not so good... Wonder which time she lied."

"I wouldn't have your job for a fortune," March said with distaste. "I'd rather rob church poor-boxes!"

"Oh, I don't know... How about solicitors trying to tie up some poor uneducated devil who can't afford a lawyer... There's dirt in most trades."

"I didn't—then... I made a guess at it, though. Whatever had happened concerned Miss Norwood, or Miss Norwood's house. You particularly didn't want me to bother her to-night. That suggested she was the person I particularly ought to see... Among other things, that might mean she was hurt or suffering from shock... So, now, we can reconstruct a burglary at the Norwoods' house. Miss Norwood tackles the unknown intruder—because, you didn't know whether it was Mawley or not. So no one got a good view. You were on the scene at the time, or soon after, weren't you?"

"I hope I'll get a chance for a return match one day—on my own ground," he said vindictively. "And I shouldn't be surprised if I did!"

The reporter laughed. "The dock, eh?... I must get a line through. Thanks very much for your help. I'll see you again, perhaps."

As he let himself into his rooms, March was making a mental vow that he would never again play at being a detective. He had scarcely seated himself and was changing into slippers in front of the fire when the phone rang. He lifted the receiver. It was Elder speaking.

"That you, March?" The senior partner seemed to be distinctly upset about something, March thought. "I've been trying to get you for half an hour. There's some bad news. I thought you'd better hear... Great shock—"

Irritatingly, the telephone seemed to develop an attack of whooping cough. When the spasm subsided, March asked:

"But I've just told you!" Elder snapped irritably. "Mrs. Boolby's dead—died to-night."

CHAPTER XIII
Evidence From Mr. Elder

THERE was no waiting outside the massive doorway of Elder's house when the rather weary Superintendent pressed the bell. The manservant who ushered them in received them as welcome, and almost as if they were expected, guests.

"Mr. Elder's been expecting you, sir," he assured the Superintendent, "he was beginning to think you might not be coming."

"Expecting me?" Locker echoed; then remembered. "Oh, I did say I might be looking round later to-night... I hope I've not kept him in waiting for me?"

"He's been in all evening, sir... No, sir. He had no engagement to-night... Excuse me, sir."

As he departed to inform the solicitor of their arrival, Locker looked round the entrance hall. Elder, he knew, was a bachelor, and apparently he was a bachelor of the type which likes to do itself well. He himself was, in a humble way, a collector of old oak and mahogany, and was modestly proud of some of his bargains. Looking at Elder's, he felt like the Queen of Sheba visiting Solomon. There was no spirit in him. He reflected a little bitterly about the difference in remunerations attached to different branches of the law.

"It's not like the tradesman and the artist," he said absently, half aloud, "because most artists don't make money—till they're dead—"

"Oh, nothing... Incidentally, that settles Elder's alibi, doesn't it? Sounds as though the servant can witness that he never left the house."

"Still, we'd better see him about the will... And ask him if he spoke about that share business to anyone else, I suppose. D' you think he—?"

The return of the servant interrupted him. Elder rose to receive them as they were ushered into a particularly comfortable-looking library, and came forward with a smile.

"Glad to see you at last, Superintendent... And you, Inspector. I was giving up hope, and thinking of going to bed... A glass of port?"

Locker eyed the decanter wistfully. If ever a ruby kindled in the vine it was then, for he had had a tiring day. Of course, he ought not to drink on duty. But with a respectable solicitor, whose alibi was proved, one might almost stretch a point... Portland's refusal came as relentless as the trump of doom.

Locker echoed it more faint-heartedly, and also refused a cigar, feeling a little irritated that his non-smoking companion did not share that part of the ordeal. Elder lit one himself.

"Well, Superintendent," he said, "I suppose it's about the will you want to know? Strictly speaking, I suppose, I shouldn't tell you about it yet. But I can give you a rough idea of its provisions. They are quite simple."

Locker looked inquiringly at the Inspector. Portland cleared his throat, and as if that action was responsible simultaneously assumed an expression of bland innocence.

"We should certainly like to hear about the will, sir," he said. "But there's a little matter we might clear up first. You've probably not heard about it, sir, if you've been in all evening?"

"I have," Elder answered, but his eyebrows rose. "No, I've heard nothing... You mean that something has happened?"

"Can you prove that, sir?" Portland gave him a winning smile which one would hardly have thought his features could compass. "I'll explain why in a moment... It would simplify things."

"Prove it?" Elder looked his surprise; then he laughed. "Do I understand that you're actually trying to make me prove an alibi, Inspector?"

"I believe I can... I'm almost certain I can. You see, Inspector, there's no way out of this room except the door you came in by. You can verify that, if you like. The windows are barred. And I assure you the books don't mask any secret passages or anything of that kind."

"Well, I've been here all evening, except for dinner. But the servant could swear to that time, and the time immediately before."

"Good heavens!" he said as the Inspector finished. "Miss Norwood attacked? It's incredible... She's not badly hurt?"

"No, sir," Portland answered, and for a moment his real sentiments showed themselves. "Which," he added, "is more than she deserves."

"Now, sir," Locker broke in, tired of letting Portland do all the talking, "did you mention those shares and Mr. Sparrow's ringing up to anyone else?"

"I? Of course not... As a matter of fact, I could hardly make out what he had been saying. I was inclined to think that he was—well, not quite—?"

"I can. You mean, of course, that only Mr. Sparrow, Mr. March and myself knew about the papers and that we could go to Miss Norwood's to find them? Yes."

"And Mr. Lazer, sir," Portland corrected, and paused for a moment. "And you can't suggest any explanation about any of them?"

Elder thought. "I cannot, Inspector," he said with an air of conviction. "And really, in any case I should hardly feel justified in doing so... I'm sure that I told no one. My only visitor that afternoon was Mr. Berchell. That was after I finished telephoning. We were discussing the evidence against that man Mawley. I suppose he is hardly on your list for this?"

"We shall see him, sir," Portland assured him. "And now, about the will... I understand that Miss Norwood gets the bulk of the property? And that Paverley is also among those who benefit?"

"Miss Norwood is the residuary legatee," Elder said precisely. "Of course, I cannot say exactly, but I should estimate that she will inherit something like £40,000. A comfortable sum."

"Distinctly." Locker's eyebrows rose. "I shouldn't have thought there was all that in accounting."

"Mr. Hawthorne was very fortunate in his investments... Or rather, I should say, he was a man of sound judgment, for he never speculated... That will be the residue. None of the other bequests are large."

"Mr. Sparrow, as his partner, benefits to the extent of £1,000," Elder said, and paused as though to let that sink in.

Locker inclined his head in assent. He was rather fascinated by the attitude of a man who could regard a thousand pounds as smallish.

"I have already told you about Paverley," Elder said. "Then there is an annuity of £50 payable to his housekeeper. And bequests of ten pounds each to his servants... None of them, of course, had been long in his employ."

"There is a sum of £500 payable to the James Street Meeting House... But you would scarcely suspect the Rev. Matthew Ralphe of murder, even in a good cause?"

"Hardly, sir!" Locker grinned. "And the servants' bequests hardly seem large enough. Even the housekeeper's."

He broke off, evidently realising that it might be improper for him to draw the obvious conclusions. Locker had no such qualms.

"Exactly, sir... It's between Miss Norwood, or someone interested in Miss Norwood—"

"I mean, sir, if anyone wanted to marry her—" Locker began, and broke off. "We have to consider all possibilities, however fantastic—"

"Really, Superintendent," Elder said a little stiffly. "Miss Norwood is a charming girl. I see nothing fantastic—"

"I didn't mean that. But any such person would be a suspect once removed, if you understand me... Then there's Mr. Sparrow and Paverley. And that's the lot."

"So far as the will is concerned... But I think, Superintendent, you should direct your attention towards—" He broke off as the telephone on the table beside him gave a subdued "burr-burr."

A shocked expression came on his face. It actually seemed to Locker as though his naturally pale face turned a shade paler, and there was no doubt his distress was genuine.

"It—it is a great shock to me," he said at last. "I hope you will accept my deepest sympathies... Yes I will inform him... Yes. You may leave all formalities of that kind to us... I cannot express my regret. She was one of our oldest clients. It is unbelievable... I hope you will let me know."

His voice by the time he finished speaking was almost as though he was pronouncing a benediction, and he had quite recovered his composure when he turned to them.

"Terrible," he said. "Terrible... One of our oldest clients... Mrs. Boolby. You know her, of course—"

"A heart attack... It's unbelievable. I should have thought she would have lived for years—"

Portland's face had assumed an expression of gravity which was rather overdone, Locker thought.

"'In the midst of life we are in death,'" he quoted solemnly, and rather to his surprise Locker had the idea that he really meant it. "We all have to go, sir. Some sooner than others—"

"Yes, yes," the solicitor assented hastily. Perhaps he resented his own funeral manner being so much surpassed by the Inspector's. "There seems to be no doubt about it," he said a little hesitantly. "The heart was greatly diseased, I gather. It was a miracle she could do so much—"

"Why should there be any doubt, sir?" Portland's manner changed, and he eyed the solicitor keenly. "I understand she was getting on."

"Sixty-eight, I believe... No, of course I am not suggesting for a moment—" He broke off and smiled deprecatingly. "I am afraid, Inspector, that this unaccustomed atmosphere of murder and sudden death is playing tricks with my imagination. Of course there is nothing wrong... Can I help you any further?"

"Servant," Elder corrected, and raised his eyebrows a little. Then he smiled. "My alibi, of course. I had forgotten... I will ring for Boulder immediately. Or would you rather question him alone?"

"Perhaps it would be better, sir," Portland said, and rose as the solicitor pressed the bell.

Evidently the Inspector attached to the examination of the manservant a much greater importance than Locker did, or perhaps it was his natural thoroughness. With great pains he elicited from Boulder exact confirmation of Elder's account of his evening, before going into further details of the solicitor's domestic arrangements. Apparently Elder shared Portland's own attitude towards women, regarding them as necessary evils, at least in the home. Normally only the butler and valet slept in the house, and the butler was away on holiday. The cook and two maids came only during the day, the former departing when she had finally got Elder's dinner ready for the table, and, in any case, never emerging from the kitchen regions.

Elder came to meet them as they emerged from the dining-room, where they had conducted an examination which, to Locker, seemed to have proved nothing whatever. There was a slightly troubled look on his face, and he hesitated before he spoke.

"Can you spare me a moment longer?" he asked. "There is something which has just occurred to me—"

Even when they were again seated in the library he seemed to have some difficulty in coming to the point.

"Your examination of Boulder was satisfactory, I trust?" he asked with a rather forced humour. "I may take it my alibi is secure?"

"Perfectly, sir," Locker assented, and waited for a moment. "Was that what you wanted us for, sir?"

"Hardly... Not at all... The fact is, something has occurred to me. As you know, Superintendent, Mrs. Boolby was comparatively well-to-do?"

"I have good reason to know it," Elder assured him drily. "I can say so much at least without any breach of confidence... Now, in the absence of any eccentricity in her will, who would be her heir?"

Locker thought. "Well, young Boolby was killed in that smash, wasn't he? And I think I heard that the baby died?"

"It did," Mr. Elder said. He seemed to be waiting for Locker to draw some conclusion. "Yes?"

"Exactly. Mr. Sparrow would be the natural person to benefit under her will... And I might say he is the actual person. That, of course, in confidence."

Locker's lips pursed to a whistle and he glanced at his colleague. Portland's face was absolutely impassive.

"That's very interesting, sir," the Superintendent said. "And thank you for telling us. You may be assured that we shall look into it."

He could hardly wait until they had got outside before he turned to the Inspector.

"Good heavens, this is a development," he said. "D'you think we ought to get a post-mortem?"

Portland considered. "It may be difficult, without exciting suspicion," he said. "If the doctor has been in attendance and is satisfied of the cause of death—"

"Yes. There are plenty of poisons which produce symptoms which might be mistaken for heart disease. But then—" He paused for a moment. "There is plenty of heart disease which isn't attributable to poisons."

"So far we know nothing very much against Sparrow. Except that he had motive—or might have had—in both cases—"

"We must certainly look into it," Portland said with a sigh. "We must look into it very carefully. We must, of course, find out what the doctor has to say. I do not know how amenable your coroner—"

"Hullo!" Locker had flashed his torch as they approached the gate and he suddenly exclaimed at what its beam revealed. He held it steadily on the figure that stood there. "What the devil—?"

Certainly both the attitude and the dress of the man standing at the gate were unusual. With an odd sartorial effect, he had combined riding breeches and leggings with a long black coat and voluminous dark felt hat which suggested a poet down to the waist and below a groom, or, perhaps, a Fascist. And he was standing with his face uplifted to the sky looking towards Elder's house, while he slowly waved his arms in sweeping gestures now in one direction, now in another.

All at once he seemed to become aware of their approach. He lowered his arms and faced them as they emerged into the roadway.

Portland was more than half inclined to think he did, though there was no smell of alcohol. But Locker had recognised his man.

"Yes... He's one of them, of course. They're after me—day and night... I felt his magic, while I was having tea. But I am safe now. I acted in time."

"That spell is removed... Of course, you are aware that they all practise black magic? And they may very well be lying in wait for me on the way home. But I am armed. Look!"

Locker flashed his torch down. A heavy riding crop had been thrust into the belt apparently to give the wearer freedom to use both arms. The Superintendent eyed it dubiously.

"Maybe we'd better walk along home with you, sir?" he suggested. "We're going your way."

"By all means... I am safe, I assure you. But I may be able to afford you some protection. You may unwittingly have offended them."

They walked for some little distance without speaking. It was the young man who finally broke the silence.

"You know that they killed Hawthorne?" he said, as one stating a commonplace fact. "Actually, it was Elder, I think."

"Was it really, sir?" Locker said sympathetically. "But Mr. Hawthorne was a Freemason, wasn't he?"

"Of course. It was a ritual murder... Though it may have been the Rotarians. They are nearly as bad."

Locker grinned in spite of himself. As a secret society, however benevolent in its aims, one could imagine a madman having sinister ideas about the Freemasons' Order. To include the Rotarians seemed to him to be going rather far even for a lunatic. But he was actually a little worried. Perhaps he ought to take the young man in charge. Then, quite unexpectedly, the Freemason-hater started to talk about the next week's racing prospects, and his talk was not merely intelligible, but sound. The Superintendent even made a mental note of a horse he tipped. And as he bade them good night and entered one of the houses a little further down the road, he was as sensible, at least, as anyone else who backs horses.

The Superintendent heaved a sigh of relief as they turned to retrace their footsteps to where they had left the car.

"Yes. That's him... We might have questioned him to-night, but he was only just getting over a bad spell. It might have come back."

"Poor devil," Portland said with more feeling than he had so far shown for anyone or anything. "I wonder you haven't locked him up?"

"We've tried... But, you see, the trouble with these borderline cases is the fact that the doctors won't certify. So, when he smashed up Jackson's windows all we could do was to give him a month, and let him out again... We've got to wait until he does something really bad, or until he goes absolutely."

"Come in and have a drink?" Locker suggested. "I've some Scotch there—for emergencies. I think this is one."

"Come in anyhow, if you like," he said a little faintly. "One of the boys will make you cocoa."

CHAPTER XIV
More About Masks

IT was perhaps as well that Sergeant Plum was naturally of a cheerful disposition. To his lot there normally fell all the minutiæ of detective investigation which Portland did not feel inclined to handle personally, and his superior expected from him the same meticulous care and accuracy as, to do him justice, he himself displayed.

That morning, Sergeant Plum was interesting himself in Hawthorne's gas mask, and it was proving quite as troublesome as he had expected. What he really wanted to know was precisely who could have had access to it since it was issued, or at least since some occasion, if one could be found, on which it had been proved innocuous.

He started with Hawthorne's home. Here the housekeeper was positive. Where Hawthorne's gas mask was, there was Hawthorne. It was not precisely accurate to say that he slept with it under his pillow, because it hung normally on a special hook beside his bed. As the result of an enormous amount of trouble, Plum satisfied himself finally that it was practically impossible for anyone to have abstracted it even for ten minutes. Hawthorne even took it to the bathroom with him.

That bothered the sergeant for a little. The steamy atmosphere of the place might have been expected at least to deteriorate the cyanide, if not to poison the mask's owner in his bath. He rang up the station and found that the case was apparently air-proof and dampproof, and that was presumably the solution. Of course, there remained the possibility that the housekeeper might herself be guilty, and might have exaggerated the care which Hawthorne took. Plum did not think so. Apart from the fact that she seemed perfectly honest, she had actually lost by the accountant's death, even taking the annuity into consideration, and she did not seem in the least the kind of person who would be acquainted with the properties of potassium cyanide. Besides, to a great extent the maid and cook confirmed her.

Some other points came to light. Every Saturday evening, Hawthorne had duly donned his gas mask, after making any necessary adjustment in the head harness and applying anti-dimming compound in the form of toilet soap. Somewhat to the evident annoyance of the housekeeper, whose style of hairdressing was not suitable for gas masks, and to the vast amusement of the servants, he had compelled them to do the same. Plum wondered whether this gave him a time limit, and whether the poison must have been applied since the previous Saturday. On the whole, he was inclined to think it did not follow. The atmosphere of the house was probably dry enough not to have much effect; the moisture from Hawthorne's breath was prevented from entering the container by the valve.

One month previously, Hawthorne had had an influenza cold. On his recovery he had proceeded to disinfect not only his own gas mask, but those of the household, by immersing the face-pieces in a 2 per cent. solution of Formalin for 30 minutes and washing under running water. That sounded more hopeful. But the containers had been removed previous to this operation, and according to the rules should not be replaced until the face-piece was perfectly dry. And by now Plum was perfectly convinced that if there was a rule about gas masks Hawthorne was the man to observe it. And then the first ray of light dawned upon him.

The housekeeper was getting a little tired of answering questions. She considered for a moment; then shook her head.

"I couldn't say, sir," she said gloomily. "I shouldn't think so. But I can't remember to be positive... Mr. Hawthorne hadn't many visitors, sir. Mr. Sparrow, sometimes, or his niece. Mr. Elder once or twice. Mr. Berchell when he was taking his gas courses. One or two business gentlemen."

"After lunch, sir. They were dry enough by teatime for the drill as usual, sir." She sniffed. "So we had it."

Still, the sergeant decided, there was a possibility. For a whole afternoon the containers had been divorced from their face-pieces, and reposing in the study. If a visitor who knew what was happening was alone in the room even for one minute, he could easily switch one container for another. Only he had to find a visitor. A difficulty struck him.

"What exactly did Mr. Hawthorne do with the containers?" he asked. "He couldn't be sure of putting the right one back to the right face-piece, could he?"

"Oh, yes, sir. Mr. Hawthorne was careful. He put them on that little table by the door, sir, with a card by each... We each got our own, sir... There might have been germs, you see."

Sergeant Plum did see. But his difficulty was going to be to find who else would know what was happening on that particular Saturday afternoon. And yet it would have been easy enough, say, for Berchell, to say, "Disinfected your masks yet, Hawthorne?" and outline the proper way to do it. If only he could prove there had been a visitor.

That was precisely what he could not do. He left the house feeling like an angler from whom a very big fish has just got away, and transferred his attentions to the office. Here a very similar state of things existed. Hawthorne and his gas mask had been together as constantly as Mary and her little lamb, and he had not even lost it. There had been gas drills, again in a dry atmosphere, and, owing to pressure from Sparrow, only every fortnight, instead of weekly. The fact that the junior partner had insisted on that might or might not be significant. To the office there had been, of course, more visitors; but there seemed even less chance of any of them having effected the substitution.

When he reported to Portland he was as depressed as his naturally buoyant nature allowed. The Inspector listened in silence.

"Trace the history of the mask for yourself at White Gables," he said. "Inquire about the gas-mask case. Where it was bought, whether they stamped his name and address on it, if possible whether anyone recommended that type to him or was with him when he bought it... Make quite sure about those gas examinations and passing through the gas chamber. You can try and trace unobtrusively any callers that Saturday, but I've not much hope... When you've done that, I've another job for you."

His task at White Gables was easy enough, though boring. It was merely a matter of checking up every item of the evidence already supplied by Mr. Berchell by the personal testimony of those who had handled the masks, and carefully though he went into it, he could find no flaw in the town clerk's conclusions. Certainly a number of people could have obtained access to the mask, and it would have been impossible to trace them all. But only Mawley, under his alias of Higson, could possibly have arranged for Hawthorne to be given a particular mask.

His chief difficulty was to avoid giving offence to Berchell, but he succeeded in doing so. Just at that moment, public interest in gas masks was waning, owing to the temporary failure of gas bombs to materialise, and the town clerk was not sorry to find someone who seemed to treat them as objects worthy of attention. Not only from the town clerk's evidence, but from that of the man who had given the gas courses, he learnt that Hawthorne had twice attended series of lectures, once for the wardens' course, and once for First Aid in gas, the second only a fortnight before his death, and at the end of each had passed through the gas chamber.

"But that would not interest you, Sergeant," Berchell suggested. "Naturally candidates wear the civilian duty respirator, one of which is issued to them for the occasion. Not, of course, that it is any more efficient for the purpose than the other—"

"Excuse me, Mr. Berchell, he didn't," the instructor contradicted. "Didn't use the civilian duty respirator both times."

"No. The second time he thought he might as well try out his own gas mask. I gather there'd been some argument whether or not it was efficient. Of course it was. For a brief exposure they're just as good as the others—"

"Of course we do!" The instructor was irritated. "The trouble was the masks were so good that as people couldn't smell anything they thought we were kidding them. Now, when they've been in with their masks on, we always make them take a sniff with them off again. That's enough to settle the point."

"Well, the lectures were held on Thursdays, and the last was a fortnight last Thursday. As it happened, there'd been rather a bother over the tear gas, so they went in the last week instead of the week before."

"Then, sixteen days ago, Hawthorne wore his own gas mask in the gas chamber when it was full of tear gas?"

"Well, he took it out of his own case, anyhow." The instructor did not see the point of the questions. "I remember asking him where he got it, and I had a look at it then. It had his name and address on it."

With the name of the shop in his possession, Sergeant Plum's spirits revived. He had fully expected to have to make a round of all places which sold gas-mask cases, and it was so much trouble saved. And at the shop his luck still held. The assistant knew Mr. Hawthorne, as everyone in the town did; he remembered supplying the case, but they had not stamped the address upon it. A great many of that type of case had been sold, and he could furnish no list of buyers which would be anything like complete.

Returning to the Inspector, who was looking if anything more gloomy than ever, the sergeant devoutly hoped that his task was ended. But Portland listened without speaking until he had finished, thought for a moment, and finally said:

"Find out if he has recently purchased another... And collect the stamp from the house. We must verify whether that stamp actually made that lettering."

There were only two shops in the town where stamps could be purchased. It was at the second that Sergeant Plum discovered that Hawthorne, for some mysterious reason, had bought another stamp only ten days previously. Sergeant Plum was puzzled, and the reason for that particular inquiry dawned upon him.

The assistant thought for a moment. "No. It was ordered by telephone... He sent the office boy round for it when it was ready."

"Of course not." The assistant was getting a little tired and there were several customers waiting. "But he must have received it. There was no complaint."

Sergeant Plum felt that he was really on the trail at last. The whole proceeding was sufficiently dubious to make it likely that the stamp had never been ordered by Hawthorne at all; but before returning to report again, he duly interviewed the office boy, and ascertained that as a matter of fact Hawthorne had an account with the alternative shop, and bought most of his stationery there. This time he felt that his task was really done, and even Portland seemed to cheer up a little.

"You see the point of all this, Sergeant?" he asked. "The mask may have been tampered with before it was issued or while in Hawthorne's possession. Or, a different mask already prepared might have been substituted in Hawthorne's gas-mask case. Or, case and all might have been substituted. Now, the fact that he wore it just over a fortnight ago in the gas chamber rules out the idea that it was tampered with before issue—and, incidentally, abolishes a great part of the case against Mawley. From what you have found out, it seems extremely unlikely that anyone could have abstracted the mask from his possession either at his office or his home long enough to insert the cyanide, or even put on a new container; though we can't be certain of that. It would, of course, have been simple enough for a visitor to have substituted a new container when he disinfected them; but even if we knew of a visitor, the gas-chamber test rules that out. The faked purchase of the stamp seems to make it quite certain that the substitution was one of case and all—and that's really the simplest way... What I wanted you to do can wait. You'd better go on with this... See if you can find out anything about the 'office boy' who collected the mask; and ascertain the size of hats of all the people on this list."

He scribbled the names on a sheet of paper. There were half a dozen of them, and the sergeant's cheerful round face lengthened as much as it could.

"But, sir, it's hopeless!" he said. "I mean the boy. There are hundreds of children here—and someone told me that there are 1,500 evacuees extra!"

The two men's normal expressions seemed to have been exchanged when the sergeant again took his departure. Momentarily, Inspector Portland was feeling more cheerful than during the whole time he had been there; though he had had a depressing morning with Paverley, who had raved about Freemasons, and who certainly seemed to have been wandering about the streets at the time of the attack on Pamela Norwood; with Berchell, who had been dashing busily between various posts, and whose movements could certainly not be checked to within a quarter of an hour; and looking for Arberry, who was always one jump ahead of him, flitting from home to factory, from factory to club, and from club to some place unknown.

Now, at last, they seemed to have fixed one definite limit for the placing of the cyanide in the mask, and it must have been done within the past sixteen days, probably by substituting a prepared mask in a faked case. It was not too good, but it was certainly better. He explained the position to the Superintendent, who, like himself, had fished all morning and caught nothing in his investigations at the house.

"In the last fortnight, eh?" Locker said thoughtfully. "Even so, hundreds of people might have done it."

"Not so many. We must try and find out on what occasions Hawthorne was likely to take off his gas mask. Of course at home or in the office, but there may have been other times."

Portland ignored the question. "We must try and narrow it down still further," he said. "There's a chance—"

He was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Arberry, and Mr. Arberry was not in a very good temper. His air of joviality was distinctly strained, and there was a rather ugly look in his eye.

"Here, you've been on my trail, haven't you, Inspector?" he demanded. "What's on your mind? Pinned the murder on to me yet?"

Portland smiled. "Well, sir, just as a routine inquiry, we just wanted to know where you were last night. I inquired at your home—"

"Well, I wasn't there... Having a spot at the club, you know. That's all about it... Lord, you're not suspecting me of anything?"

"No, sir," Portland said respectfully. "You weren't at the club. I inquired there."

"The hell you did!" Arberry's normally florid face flushed, and his little eyes gleamed at them savagely. He laughed, and this time the effort was obvious. "Sorry. My mistake... I'd a bit of business to attend to. Saw some men about a contract—"

Arberry hesitated; then burst out angrily. "I'm damned if I will! I've had enough of this—making a lot of talk at my home and club with your fool inquiries. And now you expect me to tell you all my business too. You can just find out for yourself!"

Arberry took three steps across the room, then stopped. He was frowning, but he seemed less angry than worried.

Portland looked at him for a moment. "I only ascertained that after leaving your house, sir," he said.

This time Arberry flung out of the room, Locker following him with bewildered eyes.

Portland shrugged his shoulders. "He seems to have had dealings with Hawthorne," he said. "And the firm's books were to be audited soon."

"But that's nothing—" Locker began; and then the phone rang, and he lifted the receiver. He listened for a moment, snapped a brief assent, and jumped to his feet.

"It's from the hospital," he said. "Renskill's coming round. They think he may talk."

CHAPTER XV
News of a Will

IT took March all the courage he could muster to call at the Norwoods' house after the events of the previous night; but he found Mrs. Norwood in a gracious mood. She had gone into the questions of his parentage, profession, income and prospects with a care worthy of Inspector Portland himself, and the results had proved satisfactory. She believed that, though marriages might be arranged in heaven, a dutiful mother could be of material assistance to Providence; and March was a handsome enough young man.

"It's so good of you to call, Mr. March," she assured him. "I am glad to say that Pamela is a great deal better... She insisted on getting up, though I am sure it must have been a great shock to her. But then girls are very wilful nowadays. I do not know what would have happened if you had not come."

March was only too well aware that she had to thank him for practically nothing; but he was not inclined to stress the point. He was, in fact, a little surprised at the warmth of his reception.

"It was certainly an unusual business," he said, and realised as he did so that it sounded like a grotesque understatement.

"Of course, it was a very serious blow," Mrs. Norwood said with emphasis. "Fortunately it was on her head." Perhaps she noticed March's surprise, for she hurried on.

"Let's hope the police catch him," March said seriously. "I really think, Mrs. Norwood, that Miss Norwood should take every care for a day or two. I don't want to alarm you—"

"Oh, the police were most particular about that," Mrs. Norwood broke in. "Particularly that kind Inspector—you know, the one with the sad eyes. Just like a cocker spaniel my sister Lucy once had. You know, I adore dogs, Mr. March, but about the house they are encumbrances, aren't they?"

March agreed politely. He was thinking that, during their last interview, Inspector Portland's eyes had very much more resembled those of a bull terrier which had once removed a considerable piece of his left calf, but he was not prepared to argue.

"He assured us of the fullest protection.... we have a policeman in the wash-house."

"You see, in the kitchen it would have been awkward—and our maid is already engaged... Though I understand that he is a most respectable married man, and a member of the Church of England. But it will be a nuisance on Monday."

"Miss Norwood hasn't gone to the office?" March asked. He was wondering just how he could most tactfully ask to see her, but Mrs. Norwood's conversation made it difficult.

"Oh, no. I believe she's in the garden. Though at this time of year even the warmer days are treacherous, don't you think? She has been helping me. I have been getting out my subscription list—for the Dog Licence Fund. An excellent cause, Mr. March, but people are so reluctant to subscribe."

"If I might be permitted to subscribe?" he said diffidently, extending a pound. "I'm very fond of dogs myself—"

"That's so good of you, Mr. March." But she hesitated. "You're not really in my area—but Mrs. Ranley ought to have approached you before now. I am afraid she is sometimes just a little remiss... Thank you so much. Now, I wonder where I put my receipts?"

There was a litter of papers on the table, and March was on the very verge of indicating the book when she spoke again.

"No doubt Pamela will know. I think—I'm almost sure... If you would excuse me for a moment, Mr. March? And really it is time she came in."

March was thinking the same himself; all the more so since it was his last pound note but one, and Mrs. Norwood was president of a great many societies. He straightened his tie in front of a mirror, and turned a little hastily as Mrs. Norwood returned. His spirits rose as Pamela followed her.

"On the table, darling?" Mrs. Norwood said incredulously. "So it is. I'll just scribble you a receipt, Mr. March... Let me see, what is the initial?"

"I had rather a headache," Pamela admitted. "But I think I was frightened more than anything. I didn't know how frightened I was—"

"There, Mr. March... and thank you so much. Now, if you will excuse me for a moment. Rosa is an excellent maid in some ways, but all maids need watching, don't you think?"

She was gone before he could express any opinion on the subject. Pamela looked at March and smiled. She was still pale, but as her mother had said, the blow on the head had been in no way disfiguring. March suddenly felt tongue-tied, an unusual experience for him.

"That," Pamela said mischievously, "was tact... Mother only recognises one reason for a man to call upon a young girl."

"You mean about the shares?" Pamela said innocently. "I couldn't tell you much last night... Mother and the police... They're gone—all the notes and the typing and everything."

"I understand so from the Inspector," March said a little grimly. "I'm half inclined to suspect they wanted to search me!"

"I believe Portland had a sort of idea that I might have done the business myself. The worst of it is, you know, I might. They've got quite a good case against me."

"That's absurd... and you were certainly with me on the Common when the alarm went... He seemed to think the shares might be frightfully important. I ought to have taken your advice—and gone to the police at once, I mean."

"Yes. I told Mr. Sparrow." Pamela frowned a little. "You know, I don't like him. But surely he isn't a murderer?"

March hesitated. Privately his opinion was that of the candidates he could think of the likeliest were Sparrow and Mawley.

"The trouble is to think of anyone who can be," he said without any great brilliance. "About those shares. You can't remember any of them, I suppose?"

Pamela shook her head. "I suppose I ought to be able to, after noting them down once and then typing them... But, you know, to a professional, typing becomes so automatic. You're just a sort of missing link between the notes and the copy—"

"Are you a professional?" March asked. "I mean, I thought you might be just with your uncle, sort of learning the business?"

"Oh, no. I had to do the job... I'm not really very good, of course. And I really hate it... I suppose if I was really modern I should simply long for a career. But in any case, I don't think it would be as a typist."

March smiled. "I believe domesticity is to some extent returning to fashion," he said. "The time when women really longed for careers was when no one expected them to have them."

"That sounds a little cynical... Like Inspector Portland. He's a misogynist, you know. The Superintendent warned me!"

"Well, I'm to go on an excursion with him this afternoon. I suppose the Superintendent didn't want me to expect a joy-ride." Her face clouded a little. "It's rather horrible, really. A sort of reconstruction of—I mean we're going to Lazer and Horde's to do exactly what we did that afternoon."

"I'm quite all right, really... But I'm not looking forward to it... Inspector Portland thinks it might bring things back—"

"About the share numbers, he means, I think... And, of course, it might— Who's that?"

March glanced through the window, and started a little guiltily. Mr. Elder was coming up the path. It was a surprise to him that the senior partner should have chosen that morning for a call; and his presence would certainly be a surprise to the senior partner, because theoretically he was somewhere entirely different. But there was no escape. The door-bell rang as he was still wondering what exactly he should do. He grinned a little ruefully at Pamela.

"I'm supposed to be calling on someone else," he confessed. "I'm afraid this will surprise Mr. Elder."

"Strictly speaking, my business is with your daughter," Elder was saying, but I should say it would certainly be desirable if you were present... I am glad to hear she has not suffered severely—" He broke off a little abruptly as they entered the room, and his face expressed more surprise than he normally allowed to appear.

"Of course you know Mr. March?" Mrs. Norwood said a little obviously. "He was kind enough to call and inquire... You see, he really saved my daughter—"

"About the shares, you know—but I mustn't say anything. I particularly promised the Inspector that I wouldn't say a word... We were so surprised that it was in the papers at all. The Superintendent rang us up about it. But of course we hadn't said anything."

"You consulted Mr. March?" Elder asked. "He most certainly should have told you to go to the police."

March had been colouring even before, and the rebuke was fortunate as giving an excuse.

"But he did," Pamela said quickly. "I was just typing them out. Mr. March came just too late as the burglar left."

Elder looked at March in a curious way which the young man did not like at all. He inclined his head gravely, and dismissed the subject.

"I came really, Miss Norwood," he said, "to inform you of the provisions of your uncle's will. Perhaps Mr. March has forestalled me?"

Elder ignored him. "Ordinarily, Miss Norwood," he said precisely, "I might have postponed this unpleasant duty. But there are circumstances which make it desirable—" He hesitated. "It had occurred to me," he said carefully, "that perhaps Miss Norwood might not wish to continue at the office. We should, of course, be pleased to advance any reasonable sum... Miss Norwood, I should tell you that you will benefit under your uncle's will to the extent of some £40,000."

"No doubt you are surprised," Elder continued. "It was, I believe, your uncle's intention to keep this matter from you, so that you should not be deterred from a business career by your expectations. And, of course, the full sum will not be available until probate is granted. But since it may be desirable for you to leave the office—"

Elder looked at him, and hesitated. "Mr. Sparrow—" he began, and stopped. "I'm afraid I can't commit myself—under the circumstances."

"I have said nothing of the kind," Elder denied without enthusiasm. "But I am not sure that Miss Norwood would find Mr. Sparrow a congenial person to work with.... Indeed, in that respect, the will is most—"

"Mr. Sparrow is appointed an executor with Mrs. Norwood and yourself," Elder said almost reluctantly. "However—"

He left to be imagined, though his tone somehow suggested, the possibilities which might obviate this inconvenience. And yet, March reflected, his animosity against Sparrow was quite recent. It could only be that he believed him to be the murderer. Or perhaps it was the fact that the previous day Sparrow had certainly been drunk.

There had been a brief uncomfortable pause. "Possibly you have heard the bad news about Mrs. Boolby?" Elder suggested. "She died last night—of a heart attack, it is supposed—"

"Dear Mrs. Boolby?" Mrs. Norwood echoed in a shocked voice. "But she is on our committee!"

Elder ignored that reason for the suspension of the laws governing human mortality.

"I merely wished to say, Miss Norwood, that if you should feel it desirable to terminate your work at the office, we shall be pleased to help you to the best of our ability. And now, if you will excuse me—" He glanced at March. "I should particularly like a word with you, March, if you can spare me the time."

CHAPTER XVI
Words from a Night Watchman

LOCKER disliked hospitals almost more than mortuaries. In the latter, it was all over and done with; but the Superintendent was a much more tender-hearted man than he would have liked to admit and hospitals oppressed him with a feeling of his own helplessness in the face of suffering. Perhaps, too, he resented the fact that even the claims of the law have to yield to those of medicine; and the particular surgeon with whom they had to deal was not a man to spare them in that respect. He had had a very busy morning and was going to have a busier afternoon.

"Then you think when he comes round we shall be able to question him about what happened?" Locker persisted.

"I'll take damn' good care you don't.... The man's been within half an inch of his grave, and it's no time to bother him yet... When he comes round it's just possible he may say a few words. What they'll be about is another matter. Maybe about his poor old mother or giving a tip for the Grand National. You can listen to what he says. That's all."

The doctor had already turned away, but there seemed to be something compelling in Portland's voice to which even he responded.

Locker's eyebrows rose in surprise. To his knowledge there was no question of any woman being even suspected. The doctor shrugged his shoulders.

"That's a damn' silly question. I've met women who could put you on your back, Inspector."

"I've been put there," Portland admitted with a trace of melancholy humour. "I meant a woman of average strength, sir."

"What's that idea of yours about a woman?" he asked. "There aren't any women in this case."

"Miss Norwood, £40,000; Mrs. Norwood, the same—for her daughter. The housekeeper—an annuity and—we don't know. Maybe she just couldn't stand him. And there's always the Unknown Woman."

"There's nothing of the kind in connexion with Hawthorne—" Locker began, and stopped. "Of course, there's Paverley."

Portland looked at him curiously. "The odd thing seems to be that there isn't," he said.

"I had Plum make a few inquiries. And there doesn't seem to be any very good foundation for the story at all, except that Hawthorne helped the mother out."

"Christian charity," Portland said quite seriously; but the Superintendent looked at him with suspicion and snorted.

"Well, you can rule Miss Norwood out," he said. "She didn't attack herself. And she couldn't have attacked Renskill." He frowned. "But it's a lot of darned nonsense."

Portland seemed quite content to let him think so. Locker glanced at the clock. They had only been there ten minutes, but the waiting seemed interminable. He looked restlessly up and down the corridor and once again found himself envying the Inspector, who did not want to smoke.

Suddenly his face brightened at the sight of a man who was coming down the stairs which led to the upper wards. He jumped to his feet.

Portland, who had no idea who or what Daltone was, followed him at a more leisurely pace, and came up just as Locker intercepted the newcomer.

"About Mrs. Boolby? Yes. I didn't quite understand. The death was perfectly natural. I had been expecting it for some time."

Dr. Daltone had a very supercilious pair of eyebrows, if the term is allowable. He was using them at that moment with what should have been a devastating effect; but Locker was too hot on the trail.

Locker was not prepared to say on the spur of the moment. In the circumstances, even if he approached the coroner the result would simply be to confirm the doctor's decision. Daltone was looking at him with a sort of scornful amusement.

"You're not suggesting, Superintendent, that she died as a result of cyanide poison through using a gas mask? I can assure you that she did not die of cyanide poison and that, since I was present, it is certain she was not wearing a gas mask. I should have noticed it."

Locker flushed. "I'm not suggesting anything of that kind, sir," he said. "But there is one circumstance in connexion with Mrs. Boolby's death which might link up with the Hawthorne murder... I can't quite explain. But someone might have murdered her—"

Daltone looked at him very coldly. "Somebody might not," he said. "I am perfectly certain of my diagnosis. Mrs. Boolby was not murdered... Or possibly you have in mind some subtle Oriental poison which defies detection, administered over a period of, say, the last ten years?"

"Even policemen... And you, not having attended the case, and knowing nothing of medicine, are naturally more qualified to judge the cause of death than myself. I mustn't waste your valuable time, Superintendent, by any repetition of my own immature conclusions... Good morning."

Locker's answer more resembled a growl than anything else. He stood there for a moment with a very red face; and then his good sense asserted itself.

"Well, I asked for it—and I got it," he admitted ruefully. "Sarcastic devil... but I don't see what we can do about it now."

"Nothing," Portland said simply. "The coroner wouldn't give an order—or anyone else. We've no evidence at all."

"And yet it must be linked up somehow," Locker persisted. "Elder seemed to think—"

The Inspector sighed. "Elder has produced three murderers up to date—Mawley, Paverley, and Sparrow. He seems a most suspicious man."

"Are they? Now, there is no case against Paverley, except a possible motive in the will, and a piece of gossip which I am practically certain we can prove to be a lie. Since we know it wasn't the poisoned mask which was issued to Hawthorne, there's nothing but motive against Mawley, and that motive assumes that a convicted man always burns with revenge against the man who got him convicted. They don't all. Why, I've known a man I got six months come to me with tears in his eyes and thank me. Said it had led him to a new life—"

"It is," Portland replied simply. "I wrote it." If he had wanted to silence the Superintendent he could have found no better way. Locker said nothing more for some minutes. In his own mind he was saying, "He doesn't smoke; he doesn't drink; I'll bet he teaches in Sunday school and doesn't bet or go to the pictures... Of course, it's all right, but—" It would have been no comfort to him to know that he would have won his bet. The thought of writing tracts about a man you had gaoled rankled. It seemed to be adding insult to injury. The appearance of the sister to summon them to the ward where Renskill was lying was a relief in more ways than one.

But they were not to go without further interruption. They had just started up the stairs when the sound of footsteps behind made Locker turn round. Arberry was hurrying towards them from the direction of the porter's lodge.

"Hello, sister," he said a little breathlessly. "Hear he's come round. That's good... said anything yet? I may see him, I suppose?"

Locker positively scowled. If Renskill was going to talk, it was not at all desirable that a possible suspect should hear what he had to say, and anyway he was not feeling at all amiable towards Arberry.

"Damn it, why shouldn't I?" Arberry turned on him. "He's my night watchman, isn't he? I've a right to call and see how he is, I suppose? What are you getting at now?"

The sister intervened with that calm authority which makes nurses capable of dealing with anything from delirium to general awkwardness.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said. "The doctor's orders are quite positive. He can't possibly allow any more visitors just yet."

"I'm afraid he's busy at the moment, sir... I'll tell him you'd like to see the patient as soon as possible, shall I?"

Arberry would have braved a police prohibition; but he quailed before the sister's eye.

"I'd be glad if you would," he said sulkily, and hesitated. "He's not said anything yet? Who did it or anything?"

"Oh, no, sir. He's only just come round. I'll speak to the doctor... And I'll tell the patient you inquired—as soon as he's fit."

Arberry nodded surlily. He stood watching them as they mounted the wide stairs with a frown on his face.

"Well, sir, not really. I just caught a word or two. He seems worried about going to church. Is he a Catholic, sir?"

"Roman Catholic?" Locker asked; for he was sufficiently a member of the Church of England to object to the monopolisation of the term. "I don't know. Why?"

From a trace of brogue Locker guessed that she was Irish and Roman Catholic herself. In principle he disapproved of Romanist priests, though he liked Father O'Brien.

She silenced him with a gesture as she opened the door on the left. The surgeon intercepted them inside, evidently with a view to keeping them as far as possible out of sight and as quiet as possible.

"Something about masses, that's all... He's not that bad. We'll pull him round yet."

Renskill did not belong to the type which makes a good, pale, interesting invalid. In the ordinary way, he was too rubicund and fleshy, though now his whole body seemed to have shrunk, and he was a sickly yellow, which was not improved by a flourishing growth of beard. Locker noted the bandages on the head; then bent forward as the lips moved stiffly. For half a minute he could catch no sound. Then he caught a word repeated twice after a considerable interval:

Obviously, Locker thought, there was nothing to be made of that. From the half-closed eyes it was impossible to tell whether the man was really sensible or not. After all, the surgeon had warned them that he might talk about anything if he spoke at all. And yet the Superintendent had the idea that he was trying to tell them something.

"Mass..." Renskill said again, and then, more distinctly, "Round... corner... mass..."

That sounded more intelligible. Whoever had knocked out the night watchman must have lain in wait round the corner. Perhaps he really was trying to tell them. Locker strained his ears to catch every syllable.

For a long time the sick man lay without making further effort. Then an expression which might have denoted either pain or irritation crossed his face, and his lips moved again.

"Mass... mass—" he said again, and scowled. Then, more distinctly, "Gas... mass... Gas mask—"

Locker started. He almost held his breath waiting for the next words, but none came. With a sigh the night watchman closed his eyes, as though his last effort had exhausted him. The sister moved quickly forward to the bedside and listened; then nodded reassuringly to the surgeon.

He shepherded them out in person. When the door had closed Locker gave vent to his surprise.

"I can't say... He certainly wandered off into football and racing part way. I suppose you heard?"

"When he comes round properly, will he remember?" Locker had a hazy idea about mental blanks following concussion.

"Possibly not, at first. It's not uncommon for a patient to forget completely what happened just before an accident."

They descended the stairs in silence. Arberry seemed to have taken his departure, but Locker glanced round suspiciously before he voiced the thought which was troubling him.

"But what's he got to do with gas masks?" he demanded. "He was knocked out long before the alarm ever sounded—or wasn't he?"

CHAPTER XVII
An Afternoon Out

PAMELA NORWOOD had been dreading the prospect of her trip with Portland. She did not pretend to be prostrated with grief by the death of an uncle for whom she had never felt any great affection, but there was something more than a little ghastly in the idea of re-enacting the events of the afternoon which had led up to the tragedy. But she was also curious, and all the more so following Locker's warning about the Inspector's woman-hating tendency.

In fact, he gave little enough indication of it. Having ascertained that she had only joined Hawthorne at the station, he enlivened the way there by a discourse on wild flowers. Presumably he chose it as a suitable and safe subject for the entertainment of a young lady; but Pamela must have disappointed him, for he merely plumbed the depths of her ignorance. Having passed from real rarities to common but local plants of the fritillary and grass of Parnassus order, he had descended with a sigh to such ordinary ones as primroses when they reached the station.

Here he changed abruptly. What had Hawthorne said to her? Who had been on the station that she knew? Had Hawthorne spoken to anyone? And all the time his own eyes were extremely busy with the dozen assorted passengers the platform held. To these questions Pamela could give only the most unsatisfactory answers. She had already told him that she and her uncle had hardly spoken at all, and then only on most casual subjects, and of their fellow travellers she could only recall a couple of local business men and the rector, none of whom seemed to have the remotest connexion with the case. But he seemed satisfied, and when they were seated in the train condescended to explain.

"It isn't that one expects anything, miss," he said sadly, "but one has to make sure. And coming like this might have brought something back."

Having ascertained that she and Hawthorne had had the carriage to themselves and had again talked about nothing in particular, he turned his conversation to farming, estimating with something nearer enthusiasm than he had yet shown the condition of the stock and the prospects of crops in the fields they passed.

"You know a great deal about farming, Mr. Portland, for a Londoner," Pamela said at last.

"Londoner?" The Inspector looked positively aggrieved. "I was brought up on a farm, miss. Right till I joined the police."

He lapsed into a silence apparently devoted to regretful reminiscence. Pamela stole surreptitious glances at him. Certainly he did not look like a farmer; but then, neither did he look very much like a detective. Then quite suddenly he put a question.

Pamela hesitated. "You see, I only saw the coat and bowler hat really," she said. "I tried to think of people who wore them—"

Reluctantly she found herself forced to tell about their encounter outside the office. Inspector Portland was obviously displeased.

"There you are, you see, miss. You don't half tell me things. That might be very important."

"I'm sorry," Pamela said penitently. "But Mr. March said that nothing happened. I mean, he just went home."

"But he'd been to the office," Portland said. "And it was only after that that Mr. Sparrow asked you about Lazer and Horde, wasn't it?"

"I don't know. I was a little late—" She coloured. "You see, I'd met Mr. March—"

"Oh, no. He called once at the office. It was just by accident I met him in the fog. And, of course, I was glad to see anyone—"

"Yes... no, not exactly. But it's hardly worth bothering about. I did see someone—I don't know who it was though—over by the canal just when I left the road."

"You didn't tell me that either, miss... And what did Mr. March say when he saw you?"

Pamela smiled. "Well... he thought I was his sister. She was on the Common taking the dog for a walk."

"Oh? His sister was there too?" Portland's voice sounded quite conversational, but it seemed to Pamela that she detected a rather sinister note in it. Suddenly she surprised herself by flaring up.

"That's utterly ridiculous! You're not suggesting for a moment that Mr. March and his sister—"

Pamela did not answer. Presumably the Inspector had eyes of his own, and she was feeling angry. There was a long pause.

Pamela stared at him for a moment. He was caressing his own greying locks reflectively. She laughed.

Pamela struggled with her laughter. "I've never tried it," she said. "I believe it's well spoken of."

Portland ignored that. "He wouldn't be a man for pictures—the cinema, miss? Or swimming?"

"My uncle took his pleasures sadly," Pamela answered with a smile; then sobered abruptly at the thought that he was dead.

Possibly it was that which evoked a frown on Portland's face. He said no more until they drew up at the station; and then the questions began again. But here Pamela could help him still less. The township where Messrs. Lazer and Horde had their business was more populous and go-ahead; but for that very reason she hardly ever went there. She herself knew no one; and she could not remember her uncle having recognised anyone. Only one incident interrupted their progress to the office, when Portland stopped suddenly before a shop window. It proved to be full of the latest dance music, rather to Pamela's surprise, and he remained in rapt contemplation of it for about two minutes.

"You're fond of dancing, Mr. Portland?" she asked innocently as they resumed their way.

Mr. Lazer, when he received them, was obviously a very worried man. Following the strict lines of what had happened when her uncle took her, Pamela was left to wait while Portland and Lazer went through the same programme as Hawthorne had done. But Mr. Lazer showed no disposition to play the part. He only waited until they were alone before he burst out.

"Look here, Inspector, what's wrong with those shares? Why did Hawthorne want to see them? Why are you interested?"

"That's just what we're trying to find out, sir," Portland said soothingly. "Mr. Hawthorne said there was nothing wrong, didn't he?"

"He was most emphatic upon that point," Lazer said and frowned. "So emphatic that I wondered—"

"You have no right to put words into my mouth, Inspector... But I certainly wondered what was behind his rather extraordinary request. And I was naturally uneasy."

Lazer considered for a moment. "I suppose I had better tell you everything," he said at last. "Though I should explain that Mr. Hawthorne particularly impressed upon me the need for perfect secrecy. I gave him my word that I would divulge nothing—"

"To Mr. Sparrow, of course. He is a partner in the firm, and in view of Hawthorne's death he will naturally have to deal with all the business... Why not?"

There was a trace of anxiety in his manner as he put the question. Portland eyed him for a moment.

"Well, sir, perhaps I shouldn't tell you, but there is reason to believe that Mr. Hawthorne wanted this matter to be kept quiet—even from his partner."

Lazer stared at him for a moment. "Good heavens!" he said in a startled voice. "You don't mean there's anything wrong there?"

"We don't know anything yet, sir. I'm just warning you that at the moment it might be better not to confide too much in Mr. Sparrow about this business. Probably there is nothing wrong—"

"But there must be... Hawthorne would never have caused all this trouble—" Lazer broke off. "Besides, what could Sparrow have done? Unless there was someone in the firm helping. He only audited the accounts—"

"About ten days ago," Lazer said after a slight pause, "I had a letter from Mr. Hawthorne making a rather extraordinary request. It was that he should be allowed to inspect the actual certificates of certain stock which we hold in connexion with the reserve fund. Naturally, I was surprised, and I don't mind admitting I was uneasy. With any other man, I should certainly have hesitated, and probably refused. However, after consultation with my partner I finally agreed. It was arranged that I should have the certificates for inspection on the day Hawthorne fixed—the day he—died."

"Yes... Hawthorne came, accompanied by his niece. I had the certificates there... Of course, there was no question of their being stolen, but even so, I observed every precaution. And I may say that I was present all the time that Hawthorne was examining them."

Obviously Mr. Lazer, whatever might be his opinion of the accountant's honesty, had experienced doubts.

"Examining them, sir?" Portland asked. "What exactly do you mean by that? He examined them—say, as if he expected to find them forged?"

Lazer hesitated. "I shouldn't say that he did," he said slowly. "I'd almost been expecting that. I mean, it was the only possible explanation I could think of. Besides, the shares were bought through reputable firms, and have been in our possession for some years. The interest upon them has been duly paid. There can be no question of forgery—"

"Or of substitution?" Portland asked. "I mean, since the last interest was paid?"

Lazer shook his head. "I looked through them at the same time as Hawthorne," he said. "I am prepared to swear that some of them are the same—I mean, by various small differences. Creases and so on. And, as I say, Hawthorne did not really examine them. He merely took down certain numbers, and I furnished him with particulars about when and through whom they were bought. Miss Norwood took notes of this. And Hawthorne assured me that there was nothing wrong, and apologised for troubling me. That was all."

"I'm afraid I couldn't. They seemed to be taken quite at random. I can only give you the names of the companies... In fact, I have them here for you."

Portland accepted the list. "And he gave you no indication of why he had ever wanted to see the certificates, sir?"

"And your books would be audited again shortly?" he said at last. "By Hawthorne's firm?"

"Now, sir," Portland said slowly. "I don't want you to think for a moment that there's anything against Mr. Hawthorne's character. There is not. But we have to consider every possibility. Are you sure it would not have been possible for some substitution to have been made while he was examining the certificates?"

"Inspector, I don't mind admitting I had asked myself the same question," Lazer said uncomfortably. "Of course I was always sure that Hawthorne was honest, but the request was so extraordinary. Frankly, I don't see how there could have been. I was watching all the time."

"That's what one thinks, sir," he said. "But a really smart crook can 'ring the changes' on you even when you're watching him. Not that I can imagine Hawthorne in that part, sir—"

"Why, we've known him for twenty years—and his father before him as well," Lazer said irritably. "It's absurd."

"I agree with you, sir... Well, sir, I don't think there's anything wrong. But I suggest from your point of view it might be reassuring to have that stock examined by an expert, and make sure. I could arrange for that, if you like?"

"I should be grateful if you would." Lazer's relief was obvious. "Though I'm positive it is the same—"

Portland rose to his feet. "I'll see to it, sir," he said. "And now, if you've no objection to Miss Norwood's glancing through the certificates, there's a hope that she might be able to recall the particular ones which interested Hawthorne—"

Lazer hesitated. "I'm afraid I'm not ready for you there, Inspector. You see, normally these securities are kept at the bank. It's too late now to get them out—"

Portland glanced at the clock. It was only just after three. The manager would certainly be there, and nothing would be simpler than to approach him with some explanation of the circumstances. He looked at Lazer for a moment and decided not to make the suggestion.

Lazer frowned. "But there's one thing I'd like to say, Inspector. We are extremely anxious that there should be no avoidable publicity in this affair. Of course, there is nothing wrong. But the whole business is so mysterious that it is obvious people might think there was. So I can trust you not to let even the impression get abroad—"

"It can't have anything to do with it really," Lazer said with marked hesitation. "But, in connexion with Hawthorne's murder, I have heard the name of a certain man mentioned... I mean, Mawley."

"Mawley, sir?" Portland echoed, and paused. "Well, sir, a good many names have been mentioned. You know what people are when a murder is committed. But I'll admit that Mawley's name has been suggested as a possible suspect."

"Well, I think I should tell you, Inspector, that Mawley was at one time employed here."

"Not when he committed the offence for which he was imprisoned. He left us, in fact, to go there. Some six years ago."

"And while he was here his work was satisfactory, sir? You've discovered nothing wrong?"

"Nothing whatever. He was an excellent worker, and we were sorry to lose him. But we could not offer him the salary and prospects—as we thought—" He broke off. "But it was Hawthorne who found Mawley out—"

Portland shook his head. "It's very unlikely, if there was any fraud, that it would remain undiscovered for such a length of time... These—" He held up the list. "These have been in your possession so long?"

"Some of them. You will understand that the reserve fund is allowed to accumulate, until it is needed. There has been no reason to alter these investments, or, until lately, any prospect of our having to use it. But you will find I have given you those particulars on the list. I mean about when the shares were purchased." He rose to his feet. "If that is all, Inspector—?"

Portland accepted his dismissal, though it occurred to him that Lazer seemed suddenly anxious to get rid of him after having been perfectly willing to delay him even longer than he had meant to stay. And two words in the concluding speech had not escaped him. He took a grateful leave of Mr. Lazer, mentally deciding to make an investigation of the firm's position at the first opportunity.

Pamela Norwood was by this time thoroughly bored. She had at least expected to be called in to see the shares, but Portland seemed to have forgotten all about it. There was a rather absent look in his eyes as they left the office, and they walked for some distance in silence.

"I suppose, Inspector, you just brought me along for company?" she suggested at last. "Of course, I was awfully interested in the wild flowers, but—"

"I do, miss," Portland said apologetically. "I'll ask you to go through it as soon as we get back. The shares weren't available, miss, but I have the numbers."

He seemed all at once to have lost interest in Hawthorne's movements. Once again he stopped to look in a shop window, this time a florist's. For a moment Pamela had a wild idea that he might be going to buy her some; upon reflection, it seemed more likely that he was considering the order of a wreath. If so he thought better of it; for in a moment they resumed their way. Pamela's temper rose steadily. She was on the point of being very rude to Inspector Portland when, as they turned a corner near the station, he suddenly stopped.

"I wonder, miss, if you'd mind going home alone—" he began a little hesitantly; then as she smiled he broke off.

She had not smiled at him. She was looking across the street, but for a moment he did not see the reason for it. Then as a young man raised his hand and started to cross towards them he frowned a little. It was March.

Pamela smiled a greeting as he came up to them. March seemed a little embarrassed at the sight of the Inspector, and volunteered an explanation.

"Had to see a client," he said a little unconvincingly. "Never thought for a moment I should meet you."

"I'm glad you did, sir," Portland said quite heartily. "If you're going back, perhaps you wouldn't mind taking Miss Norwood?"

"Quite the reverse, sir," Portland said gloomily. "Miss Norwood doesn't recognise any of the numbers. And anyhow, I'm inclined to think that we're on a false scent. There's nothing in this."

He did not meet Pamela's surprised gaze. Considering that she had not even had a chance of seeing the list, his remark struck her as being a lie deliberately told without much point. He cast a quick glance backwards.

"Excuse me, sir," he said a little hurriedly. "And thank you, miss. Perhaps I'll call to see you tonight—"

March watched him in amazement as he turned and started back in the direction from which they had come.

"No." Pamela laughed. "He was just getting rid of me when you came. And I can't say it's been an exciting time... How did you come to be here to rescue me?"

March did not answer. His eyes were following the figure of the detective as he went down the crowded pavement. About thirty yards away he stopped so unexpectedly that a woman behind him almost collided with him. They saw him lay his hand upon the arm of a man in a grey hat who was studying a bus time-table.

CHAPTER XVIII
Inspector Portland Takes Tea

MAWLEY jumped like a trapped rabbit as Portland's hand touched his shoulder. His mild face was as white as paper, and the eyes behind the glasses were full of terror.

"Good afternoon, sir," the Inspector greeted him. "It's a surprise seeing you here."

The ex-cashier licked his dry lips. He seemed to be struggling for a reply, but no words came.

"At least, it is and it isn't, sir," Portland went on in an expressionless voice. "It surprised me you should be in the town. But as I saw you following us to Lazer and Horde's, waiting outside, and following us back, I'm not just bowled over to see you here, sir."

Passers-by were casting curious glances at the two men; but Mawley did not see them. He was staring at the Inspector.

"I'd like a few words with you, sir." Portland glanced round. "And I think the best thing would be to have a cup of tea. There's a café over there."

He took Mawley's arm with almost a familiar air and started to shepherd him across the street. For a moment the ex-cashier hung back; then he surrendered.

"Not at the moment, sir." Portland's voice was comparatively reassuring in spite of the words. "I'm just asking for an explanation... We'll sit over there in the corner."

The table he had chosen was out of sight, as well as out of hearing, of the few occupants the tea-shop contained at that early hour. Portland waited until a rather haughty waitress, who conveyed the impression that her afternoon siesta had been disturbed, had taken his order before he spoke.

Mawley had regained some of his composure; though there was still a hunted look in his eyes.

"I didn't, not exactly," he said after a pause. "I mean, I didn't follow you on the train—if you came by train. I was here already."

"I know you didn't, sir," Portland assured him. "You picked us up near the station. I suppose you were on your way back?"

"Yes." Mawley's thin eyebrows rose in surprise. "Then—then you saw me all the time?"

"I saw you take the turning to Lazer and Horde's. I wondered—whether you were going there."

Mawley hesitated. "I knew—I knew Hawthorne had been there—that afternoon—" he said, and stopped.

Portland waited for a moment. "Don't you think, sir, you'd better make up your mind whether you're going to tell me or not?" he suggested. "It would save a lot of questioning... You were interested because you used to work there. Isn't that it?"

The arrival of the waitress with the tea interrupted him. Portland waited until she had taken her departure, and handed a cup across to his guest before he spoke.

"Of course, sir," he said, "you can please yourself whether you make a statement or not. And I can understand that you think I'm trying to trap you, and to get you to say something incriminating you in connexion with the murder... But if I were, sir, I shouldn't be sitting here having tea... And if I were going to charge you, I should have to warn you... Perhaps I can help you out."

He took a sip at his tea, gazed longingly at the wartime ration in the sugar-bowl and sighed.

"Mr. Hawthorne's death must have come as a great shock to you," he went on. "Because, of course, as soon as you heard that it was the gas mask that poisoned him, you knew perfectly well that you'd fitted him with that mask. I expect you worked things out to see if you'd got an alibi. But you couldn't bring anyone forward who'd actually seen you during that time. And I imagine you noticed that Mr. Berchell was interested in you. Also, you had a motive. You might have wanted to get your revenge on Hawthorne—"

"Before God, I didn't!" Mawley broke in almost violently. "I was savage enough at the time. But I had plenty of time to think—in gaol. It was my own fault. I was in a position of trust, and I abused it. Hawthorne only did what he'd got to do... When I came out, I'd no idea of revenge. I only wanted to try and make the best of things."

He drew a deep breath and paused for a moment. Portland's eyes were fixed upon him, and his expression was almost sympathetic.

"It was worse than I thought," Mawley went on with an effort. "I'm a good accountant. But no one was ever going to let me have anything to do with figures and money again. You've got to have someone whose honesty is beyond suspicion, and mine—mine never will be again... They got me a job, of sorts. But what was the use? It was nothing I could do. I worked at it hard enough, but I was no good. I never should have been. Boys from school, men I should have classed as half-wits could beat me... I lost that. And there was more trouble in my family—"

"I'm not excusing myself." There was something almost ludicrous in the emphasis of his manner coming from a man with so mild a face. "Everything went wrong. I think I should have killed myself but—but just then someone helped me. The last man I should have thought—"

"Mr. Sparrow," said Portland with an air of one who states an indisputable fact.

Mawley started. "You—you know?" he asked. "I wasn't going to tell you that. I don't want to do him any harm. And I suppose you think we might be in league or something... I may as well explain how it was. Mr. Sparrow sent for me. I didn't know whether to go or not, but I was desperate... He'd been drinking, I'm afraid. And to tell the truth, I nearly went away again. An accountant ought not to drink—and I'd never liked him. I thought—I thought—"

"You thought he was going to propose something dishonest," Portland suggested. "Maybe you'd had other offers?"

"I—I had... Well, he didn't beat about the bush, and didn't pay me any compliments either. 'You're a silly devil,' he said to me, 'but that's no reason why you should starve. Pretty well down, aren't you?' Well, I was, and I admitted it. But I still wondered what he was going to suggest... And he didn't really suggest anything. 'Here's five pounds,' he said, and handed me a note. 'You can pay me back if you get on your feet... I may be in gaol myself by then!...' I—I took it. I needed it too badly not to. And I started to thank him, and he swore. 'I'm doing it to spite that wretched old fossil Hawthorne,' he said, 'who hasn't the heart of a moneylender, or the soul of a rabbit We'll see about a job.'"

He paused for a moment, and looked a little anxiously at the Inspector, as if doubtful whether or not to continue.

Mawley gulped at his cup. "That—that was how I came to get the A.R.P. job," he said a little hesitantly. "Sparrow said that they were in such a damned muddle and panic they'd take on anything. Only I'd have to change my name. I didn't like that, but by then I'd found that out for myself. And prison had changed me a good deal... Even Berchell didn't recognise me, or the police... He gave me a reference."

Portland nodded. In his expression there seemed to be nothing but approbation for Sparrow's charitable impulses; but a whole host of suspicions was passing in review through his mind.

"It was something I could do," Mawley went on. "I mean, I could keep books and check stores and so on. And it was three pounds a week. My wife had been an invalid and hadn't been out much—and we lived in—in a different part of the town. Everything went on all right. I just had that one shock—about Hawthorne. Somehow, I felt sure he'd know me, but he didn't—"

"Well, I didn't really do anything—not for a bit. Of course, I didn't know right away that it was the gas mask, or see just what sort of a hole I was in. It was only later I realised that, as I'd fitted him and everything, people were bound to believe that I'd done it. How else could anyone have put the stuff there?"

Portland shook his head. "I don't mind telling you," he said, "that that doesn't count against you any more. We know the mask was all right long after it was issued."

"Thank heaven... And, of course, people would say I had a motive. But what worried me most was what Mr. Sparrow would think. I'd no idea at first that anyone knew I was Higson. I thought Mr. Sparrow would believe I was guilty and tell them... You see, things were even worse than you know. I'd been over here that very afternoon—"

"By accident?" Portland asked. His keen eyes were on the other's face, and he noticed hesitation. "Why did you come?"

"I—I'd a friend here. I wanted to speak to him. I can't tell you... I'm not going to get anyone into trouble. He believed in me—"

Portland waited for a moment. "You had a friend," he suggested. "At Lazer and Horde's... Somehow he had got to know about Hawthorne's investigation into the shares. He thought you might have had something to do with it. He gave you the tip."

There was a look of utter horror on Mawley's face. "But—but—" he faltered. "You—you won't—you won't—"

"I won't bother to find out who the friend is—just yet. Perhaps I won't at all. Obviously only a very few people could know about Hawthorne's visit, and we could easily find out. It's not my business just now to decide between the claims of business morality and friendship. That's what happened?"

"Yes," Mawley admitted. "And then—then I went to see Mr. Sparrow at his office—"

"Yes. That's what Mr. Sparrow said. He was angry and sent me out at once—or almost at once. I was a bit surprised at the way he looked—"

"Yes. I told him pretty well everything. And he seemed to be angry about that. He asked me a lot of questions; but I couldn't tell him much. All I knew was that Hawthorne had been interested in the shares, and that my friend had advised me, if there was anything wrong, either to get out or make a clean breast of it before they found me."

Portland nodded. As an act of friendship it was commendable, and the advice was sound enough; whatever one might say about it from the point of view of Lazer and Horde.

"There wasn't anything wrong," Mawley pleaded, "not so far as I was concerned. I suppose I could have done something, but it would have been found out long before. What would be the good of stealing the shares? I couldn't have done anything with them without being found out." He flushed. "And, anyway, I wasn't a thief—then."

There was a pathetic droop at the corners of his rather weak mouth. Portland stirred a little uneasily.

"Yes. Somehow they'd found out who I was—the reporters and police. Though Mr. Berchell was pretending that he didn't know. And yet he'd obviously found out something. They'd been on to me. And I couldn't stand any more. My wife told them that I was out. That was just to keep them away. I was upstairs in the bedroom."

"Yes... Nearly all the evening. I was out for a little while. About half an hour—"

"I think—just about seven. I hadn't noticed really. I was longer than I had expected."

"I—I went out to buy some chips," he said, and flushed. "They—they'll tell you at the shop. Rigley's, on the corner."

Portland inclined his head in assent. He was sufficiently acquainted with the contradictions of human nature to know that a man who stole from the firm which employed him might still be ashamed of being seen in a chip-shop. In his own mind he was thoroughly convinced that the man sitting before him could certainly never have been a murderer; even if the suspicion attaching to him for having issued the gas mask had not been removed. But what he had said in some ways increased the evidence which already existed against Sparrow. He thought for a moment.

"Nothing—so far as I'm concerned. I believe you've told me the truth... As for Berchell, unless he's an ass, I don't see why he should do anything. You can't steal the gas masks."

He saw the other wince, and realised that the last remark had been a little cruel.

"More tea?" he asked. Mawley shook his head. "Then you'd better get home to your wife." He thought for a moment. "I just want to telephone," he said. "Then I'll come with you."

CHAPTER XIX
A Matter of Mathematics

MARCH and Pamela Norwood had also sought a café and over the tea March listened with puzzled interest to the unexciting history of her afternoon with the detective. It might have been the reaction from the solemn company of the Inspector which made Pamela feel positively cheerful. She smiled as she recounted the Inspector's peculiarities; but her companion did not respond to her mood. A worried frown deepened on his face as she proceeded.

"So, there's the whole mixture!" She laughed as she concluded. "Botany, agriculture, barbers, cinemas, shops and the mysterious stranger who parted us... I wonder who it was?"

"I wish I knew." March wrinkled his brows. "I'd have followed, but he'd certainly have spotted me... Someone he didn't expect, and someone whom it was important to see at once, obviously."

"Because if he'd been able to avoid it, he'd never have suggested your going home alone; or handed you over to me. He wouldn't want to leave you unprotected."

"But that's absurd!" Pamela objected indignantly. "I can surely look after myself in broad daylight?"

March slowly shook his head. "After last night, I think he felt that you ought not to go about alone."

"That increases the danger." March frowned at his cigarette. "You see, now the papers are gone, your remembering is the one hope the police have of making something of those shares. If anything happened to you—"

"You don't mean—he might attack me? But that's impossible. Besides, I'm quite sure I never shall remember those numbers."

"The murderer wouldn't know that," March said seriously. "And last night shows it must be desperately important."

Pamela thought for a moment. "But why—why did the Inspector tell that unnecessary lie about it? Saying that I'd seen the shares and didn't recognise them, and that he didn't think they mattered."

"Yes. As I was there, he couldn't very well warn you not to tell me what had happened. He told the lie for you, and hoped you'd see he meant you to follow that line."

"How perfectly ridiculous... But if he'd thought that, he wouldn't have asked you to take me home."

"I don't know." March considered. "If I were going to do anything, I couldn't very well do it when it was known you were in my company. And he might think I should take it as a sign I wasn't suspected... Besides, he may have taken his precautions."

He looked round the restaurant. It was beginning to fill up and there was a fair sprinkling of both men and women, but no one who looked in the least like a plainclothes detective. Of course, there might be one outside, waiting at the station. He turned to meet Pamela's bewildered gaze.

"I could—that's the trouble. Everything except sounding the gas alarm. And for attacking you last night I had the best chance of anyone... You'd be surprised what a good case they could make out against me!"

He smiled mirthlessly; but Pamela sensed the underlying bitterness in his tone and looked at him a little anxiously.

She shivered a little. "Don't—don't let's talk about it... But what did the rest mean? The shop windows, and all the talk about cinemas and so on?"

"I think it's pretty obvious about the shop windows. At some point, he must have found out that he was being followed. He didn't want to look round, so he looked at the reflection in the glass."

"And I thought he might be going to buy me a bouquet or the latest swing number!" Pamela essayed a smile, not quite successfully. March's manner troubled her, and she was conscious of a momentary doubt. "He was followed by the man he spoke to?"

"I don't know," March admitted. "But it seems to me that perhaps one item in that list was important, and he just threw in the others to confuse you."

"He seemed to be most interested in the hairdresser's. What is there about that place? It isn't run by a demon barber, is it?"

"I hope not!" March really smiled this time. "I go there myself. But practically everyone does. It's easily the best in the town. So that doesn't get us much further."

Pamela thought for a moment. There had been two other things in which Portland had been particularly interested, but with March in his present mood she decided not to refer to his following of Mawley.

"That other man on the Common," she said. "He seemed quite angry because I hadn't told him. But what could he have had to do with it? The whistle came from the other direction."

"Some minutes later. He could have circled round." He smiled wryly. "I could have circled round, for that matter... The point about that is that where you saw him was just opposite Arberry's factory."

"You mean that he sounded the siren? But that is on the other side of the canal. He could never have got round by way of the bridge in time—"

"Then he'd have been wet through. And muddy. No one was. But then, we didn't see Arberry and Sparrow—"

"Elder?" March looked at her in amused surprise. "You aren't suspecting my respected chief of murder? Why on earth should he do it?"

"I don't know," Pamela admitted truthfully. Elder's name had slipped out before she thought about things at all; now she began to look for reasons. "Uncle—uncle audited your accounts too, didn't he?"

"Yes... Another nail in my coffin! But if we're going to work on those lines, we'd have to suspect every prominent business man in the place."

"Which is just where, as a dutiful warden, it was his business to be. He was on the spot within five minutes of the alarm, I believe, complete with gas mask and ready to do or die."

"But, don't you see?" Pamela's earnestness almost surprised herself. "If he was there so soon, he must have been somewhere quite close, and he could have started the gas scare. Where did he come from? Where was he just before? What was he doing when the night watchman was knocked out?"

March laughed. "I don't know, but I expect the police do. One thing he didn't do was knock you out. The police asked him for an alibi and questioned his servant. He was in the house all evening."

"Yes. Seemed quite amused by the whole thing. Well, since it was obviously the murderer who attacked you, it looks as though he couldn't be the murderer... Why are you suddenly vindictive against him?"

"I don't know." Pamela hesitated. "I thought—when he came about the will—his manner was queer. As though he'd got something on his mind, or was keeping something back—"

"He was!" March assented grimly. "I got it all when we left you. He read me a thorough curtain lecture about neglecting my work."

"A very junior partner. I suppose it's his business to bring me up in the way I should go. Besides—"

"Yes," he said briefly. He paused for a moment and reached for his hat. "Shall we go? We'll just get a train."

He was unwontedly silent as they made their way towards the station. Pamela was hurt and a little puzzled. She could understand that he might be a little on edge owing to the police suspicions about him as a possible murderer, but she was sure it was not that. Whatever Elder had said must have something to do with her; but the expression on March's face prevented her from asking him. It was not until they were in the train that she broke the long silence.

"Your client?" She had only just remembered. "Hadn't you someone you had to see?"

March looked a little uncomfortable. "I hadn't really," he admitted. "To tell the truth, I hadn't any business here at all. But I wasn't sure how things would turn out—if Portland might try to bully you, or if it would be too harrowing. I thought I'd be on hand—just in case, you know."

"That was nice of you." She smiled forgivingly, but March did not seem to notice it. He was frowning out of the window as the train started. "But mightn't the Inspector think that was another point against you?"

"He might think you'd followed him. Like the man he spoke to... I wonder whom he really suspects? There is something queer about Mr. Sparrow—"

"Well, his drinking. And then Mawley calling at the office... I wonder if Mrs. Boolby did die naturally? I can't help feeling that that has something to do with it."

"The doctor said so. I don't see what it could have to do with Sparrow... Of course, he comes into a good chunk of cash through her death. That's suspicious in a way, but it's no proof of anything wrong—"

"But so do I." Pamela's brows wrinkled. "I can't quite understand it, you know—that uncle should leave everything to me. I'd never expected anything like that. When he was alive he didn't allow us anything except what I earned at the office. Though he knew what a pinch it must be—"

"Well, he couldn't take it with him," March said grimly. "And there wasn't anyone else to leave it to, was there? You were his only surviving relative?"

Pamela nodded. "And, of course, he'd never got on well with Mother. I believe he was opposed to Daddy's marrying her in the first place... I wonder why he never married?"

"I suppose he didn't?" The words slipped from March's tongue before he thought. "I mean—"

Pamela flushed. "You're thinking about those horrible stories," she said indignantly. "I know what you mean... But they're just lies. About Paverley and all that—"

"Well," March hesitated. He had never meant to raise such a delicate subject at all; but he was not quite prepared to accept that explanation. "It's generally believed. And Elder said—"

"That's just it!" Pamela broke in. "That's what is so horrible about him. And suspicious, I think. He's so eager to put the blame on someone else. On Mawley, Paverley, Sparrow—or even you— But I'd heard all about it from Mother. Mrs. Paverley was the widow of Uncle's best friend, and he helped her. That was all."

March inclined his head in insincere assent. It was possible that the explanation might be true, and he was well enough acquainted with the town's capacity for sensational gossip to believe that it was capable of making a mountain out of a mole-hill and putting a sinister construction upon an innocent action. But on the other hand, it was also the kind of explanation which might well be given to a girl about an awkward piece of family history; and he could scarcely imagine his cautious senior partner laying himself open to a charge of slander. Incautiously he voiced his doubt.

"I shouldn't have expected Elder to repeat a story of that kind without some reason," he said a little hesitantly. "After all—"

"That's just it. He must have had a reason... He wanted to concentrate suspicion on someone else—on anyone else. He wanted to distract attention—from himself!"

March smiled irritatingly. The idea of Elder as a murderer amused him. He would as soon have suspected the town clerk or the Superintendent himself. Pamela saw the smile and flushed, but she went on.

"It was just the same when he came about the will... He tried to make us suspect Mr. Sparrow. Why should he come then? I thought—I thought they generally waited—"

"If Sparrow was the murderer, naturally you couldn't go on working there. It seems to me it was only decent of him to offer the advance."

Pamela was silenced for a moment. Certainly she did not like Sparrow; but her newly born suspicion of the solicitor was strong. There was a long pause, and when she spoke again the current of her thoughts had changed.

"It's—it's rather horrible getting money like this. Oh, I've hated being badly off, but now—I almost wish I hadn't got it, and had to go on working. I shan't know what to do with it."

"You can get away from this hole, anyway. That's more than I can." March scowled. "Even before the war it was bad enough, but now... Not that it matters. I suppose I shall be in the Army in a few months. In the next batch—"

Pamela felt her heart contract a little. "I thought—I thought you'd been rejected?" she said at last.

"Not really. They were only enlisting technicians—and law isn't a technical job in this war. If it goes on—"

He broke off. They were nearing their destination, and Pamela struggled to find something to say; but there was too much in her mind.

"I—I shan't go away," she said at last. "I don't—don't want to leave—everyone here."

"Oh, you will... What you've to do now is to find someone with £60,000 and marry him. Then, between you, you'll have £100,000—and that should mean luxury—"

"You're being—very—very mathematical, and rather—rather unkind." Pamela had flushed a little. "Why should I?"

"If you've got money, the proper thing to do is to get a husband who's got more money. In fact, there's nothing else for it... If you marry anyone who hasn't money, everyone will think he's a fortune-hunter. And he'd feel it and you'd feel it. And no decent man would ask you—"

Neither of them spoke again until the train was slowing down. Suddenly March was moved to an apology.

"Pamela," he said contritely. It was the first time he had used her Christian name, but neither of them noticed it. "I'm sorry. I expect I've been a beast—"

"This was what Mr. Elder said to you?" Pamela asked with a sudden flash of intuition.

"Anyway, I'm sorry." March ignored the question. "Of course, I'm awfully glad that you're going to be well off—"

"Are you?" Pamela asked, and this time the pause lasted until the train drew to a halt.

It was almost with relief that March saw the stolid figure of Sergeant Plum waiting at the barrier; then, as the probable reason for the sergeant's presence occurred to him, he felt a wave of irritation. Evidently Portland did not trust him very far. Quite possibly they had been watched before boarding the train; their reception had certainly been arranged for. He frowned at the sergeant's beaming smile as he stepped forward to intercept them.

If anything, Sergeant Plum was more cheerful than usual. He had had surprisingly good luck in what might have been a very tedious bit of investigation, and though his present errand had no direct connexion with what he had been doing, the presence of March made it possible to check the last on his list for hat sizes. He met the young man's glare equably.

"The young lady, sir. Inspector Portland would like to see her at the station as soon as possible."

Sergeant Plum smilingly ignored the question, and it flashed across March's mind that the sergeant's good humour was just as much a mask as Portland's gloom, and perhaps a better one. The detective looked at Pamela.

"I've a car waiting, miss," he suggested. "The Inspector thought the sooner you came the better. If you don't mind—" He looked at March. "Can we have a lift, sir?"

He refused to look at the girl. In his mind he was unpleasantly aware that he had made a fool of himself in the train and he had counted on the walk from the station as an opportunity to make his peace with her. In the presence of the sergeant he could do nothing to repair the damage, and he might easily make things worse.

He was irritably aware of the curiosity in Plum's bland face as they walked across to the waiting car. Still without meeting Pamela's eyes, he leaned forward to open the door.

It seemed as though Sergeant Plum had had the same impulse at the same moment. He moved with a clumsiness which in spite of his size was no part of his normal manner, and collided forcibly with March, knocking off his hat.

Ordinarily, March would have accepted the collision as an accident, and he would certainly not have noticed the quick glance at the inside band which the sergeant gave as he held it out. He accepted it grimly.

"If you want a hatter, I'll recommend you," he said. "If you wanted the size, why not ask? Nothing else I can tell you? Collar? Chest measurement?"

March shrugged his shoulders. The atmosphere of suspicion was beginning to get on his nerves, and though he did not understand the reason for it, he had no doubt of the object of the sergeant's manoeuvre.

"Well, sir," the sergeant said a little hesitantly, "I should like to ask you something, if you don't mind... I believe it was you who actually removed Mr. Hawthorne's gas mask?"

"Yes," March said briefly. He felt puzzled and more than a little suspicious. "Why?"

"Fit?" March echoed the word. The recollection of his conversation with the town clerk flashed across his mind. He had actually commented on the point, but since then it had slipped his memory completely. "Why—"

"It struck me at the time it was a bit loose," March said slowly. In his mind the question connected itself with the sergeant's scrutiny of his hat-band and he flushed with annoyance. Hawthorne had had a small head, almost certainly smaller than his own. "It might have been loosened by the fall," he suggested lamely.

He regretted his words next moment at the momentary expression which passed over Plum's face.

March shook his head. He raised his hat to Pamela without a word as the door slammed and the car started forward, and stood looking after it with a frown until it turned the corner and was lost to sight.

As he started slowly down the hill his mind was a chaos of mixed emotions. Somehow he would have to make his peace with Pamela. Although his sulkiness had persisted up to the last moment and he had been abominably rude, that was almost the first thought that occurred to him. And yet, what was the use? Even in ordinary circumstances, as Elder had pointed out, he could hardly propose to her in view of the legacy and his own income. The police suspicions made things worse. There was no doubt what people would think. He winced as he remembered the conversation between the two reporters. Any suggestion of marrying the girl would provide the motive which at present he lacked so far as the police were concerned. It might even mean his arrest.

He laughed abruptly. That was ridiculous, and yet the atmosphere of suspicion was getting on his nerves. But even apart from the police, the position was bad enough. The money ought to make no difference, since he loved Pamela, but it would. His own income scarcely justified his marrying; and if the war went on another few months would see him in the Army. It was absurd even to think of it, and yet he could not help it.

Abruptly there cut across the current of his thoughts the recollection of Pamela's absurd suspicions of Elder. But, after all, were they absurd? The senior partner's respectability made one think him the last man capable of a violent crime, but that very respectability might be the reason; the murder might have safeguarded it. Of course, on those lines one might equally well suspect Berchell or a dozen other people. And who did the police really suspect? Himself? Thinking it over, he came to the conclusion that they were still at the stage when there were a number of possibilities, and he was one of them. But Portland seemed to be working on some definite though tortuous line. Through his mind the disconnected oddments of the Inspector's conversation with the girl ran confusedly. Unexpectedly the details took shape. He stopped short with a muttered exclamation.

He had to make sure. For his own sake, he had to make sure. And as he started down the road again, he was thinking that if he were to avoid very serious trouble he had to act at once.

CHAPTER XX
Vanishing of a Valet

SUPERINTENDENT LOCKER was by no means sorry to be left alone for the afternoon. He assured himself that he was in no way jealous of the Scotland Yard man, but there was still a lingering regret in his mind that he had not been allowed to handle matters on his own. Portland's secrecy was as exasperating as his attitude to life was depressing; and, with no idea whom his colleague suspected, he was inclined to doubt if the Inspector knew himself. Certainly he, or rather the sergeant, had done well about the gas mask; but to Locker a great deal of his excessive care over detail seemed time thrown away, and he was almost convinced that that was the case about the trip with Pamela Norwood.

Over an after-lunch pipe which derived an added fragrance from the fact that Portland would have disapproved of it, Locker thought things out thoroughly. It looked as though his colleague was concentrating on the shares as a motive, and that pointed to Sparrow. In another mood, he himself might have considered the accountant the likeliest; but just then the idea that Portland thought so was enough to turn him the other way. Out of an unsatisfactory list against whom there seemed very little, he found himself thinking of Mawley.

After all, Mawley was not excluded. He might not have doctored the mask before issuing it. No one but a fool would, knowing he must be suspected. But Hawthorne had often been at White Gables. Mawley in all probability had had just as much opportunity for effecting the substitution as anyone else. That was a fact he had to verify. He was on the point of setting out in search of Berchell when the Chief Constable came.

The Superintendent received him unwillingly. He would have preferred to have more to report, and his superior's attitude did not help matters. For one thing he was obviously disappointed at the absence of the Scotland Yard detective; and as Locker finished his account of the position he was moved to make the one comment which was most likely to exasperate his subordinate.

"Pretty smart about the gas mask. We ought to have worked that out for ourselves."

Locker flushed. "We'd hardly time, sir," he said a little stiffly. "If you remember, I thought we'd been a little precipitate in asking for help—"

"No," the Chief Constable interrupted decisively. "The mere fact we haven't found the murderer yet shows that we weren't... Besides, we had no option under the circumstances. Thank heaven, there's nothing in your idea of a wholesale poisoning scheme. We've had reports from all the depots and there's no sign of it."

Locker felt still more irritated. It was true that the idea had crossed his mind in the heat of the moment; but he had rejected it almost at once. It had been Berchell who had raised the scare; but he knew the Chief Constable well enough to waste no time in denial.

"Even that gas mask stuff doesn't get us much further, sir," he said after a pause. "It may even be misleading—"

"No, sir!" Locker said so warmly that the other looked at him in surprise. "It only shows he didn't poison it before issue. Since then, he's had as much chance as anyone. He's got an even stronger motive, and the opportunity—"

The Chief Constable shook his head. "He'd know that the facts would point straight to him—"

"No, sir. He'd know that the real facts didn't, and that he could prove it... Of course, we can't accept the evidence of his wife—"

Locker had no answer ready for that. His best suggestion was that the attack and murder had no direct connexion, and he himself thought that was a little too thin. He hesitated.

"You haven't thought of Arberry?" the Chief Constable wet on. "It seems very suspicious that he should give a false account of his movements that evening."

Locker grinned. "I've a good idea why that might be," he said. "Mr. Arberry is a bit fond of the ladies—though Lord knows why they should be fond of him. It's possible he was out that night."

"But you don't know. You mustn't take things for granted, Locker. Look how Portland verified even Elder's alibi—even though there's no real evidence against him."

The Chief Constable did not reply to that. He himself was hardly inclined to suspect the town clerk.

"Anyway," he said in a tone which definitely implied criticism, "we must try to pull our weight, Locker. Look what we know about the murderer... He's a man of imagination, able to plan carefully and work out details. He's well up in A.R.P. work; he has a knowledge of chemistry and explosives—and electricity. There's the siren... And we surely ought to be able to trace the cyanide and potash, the clocks and the wire... Well, I shall be along to-morrow. I hope—"

Locker was in a very much worse temper when his superior left after a wasted three-quarters of an hour. One thing he had learnt in his years of experience was not to argue with Chief Constables; otherwise he would have pointed out that the murderer need know no more of A. R.P. work than what they had tried to instil into every ordinary citizen; that the potash bomb was a thing most schoolboys could make, and cyanide to most detective story readers the merest commonplace. As for tracing the various articles, that was precisely what Locker could not do. The clocks could have been bought one by one without attracting the least attention; the wire had probably not been bought at all. And the cyanide, it seemed certain, had either been bought outside the district, or some chemist had been careless and would not admit it.

The town clerk was not in his office nor even at White Gables. No one seemed to know for certain where he was, except that he was in all probability doing something about air raid precautions. In his irritation, Locker found himself wondering if, after all, Berchell might not be guilty. The way in which he dashed rapidly from point to point might easily be an alibi masking some other use of portions of his time, and just at that moment the Superintendent would have charged him quite cheerfully. He found himself wondering how the normal business of the town managed to go on at all, in view of the attention its chief official lavished upon his latest charge. It was in the garage of the ambulance department that the Superintendent finally ran him to earth, in animated conversation with the chief of the First Aid section.

Locker hesitated for a moment in the doorway. After Sergeant Plum's inquiries that morning, it had struck him that Berchell had viewed the police with a certain coldness, and he was inclined to think that Portland must somehow have offended the town clerk's dignity. He himself had no desire to make matters worse by bursting in on a private conversation. Also, he wanted Berchell alone. He decided to wait. Berchell and his companion were making sweeping gestures at intervals towards the whitewashed roof, and for a minute or two he was puzzled. Perhaps they were talking about the blacking out of the skylights. Then he caught a word or two.

"I assure you, the specifications only called for two," Berchell said firmly. "Admittedly three were originally intended. But the committee decided—"

"Anyway, it's needed. And there's wiring for three. The job's practically done—"

"You must be mistaken," Berchell said stiffly. "The instructions were definitely given—"

"Look for yourself." The First Aid officer grabbed a pair of steps which leaned against the wall and reared them under one of the beams; then, as Berchell eyed them dubiously, and showed no signs of accepting the invitation to ascend, duly mounted himself. "It's not fixed, but—"

He lifted something and held it a foot or two above the beam, but for a moment Locker did not understand. Then its significance burst upon him. He jumped forward with a shout.

Berchell jumped round with a queer little cry. The man on the ladder stood transfixed with his mouth open, staring at Locker in blank amazement. Locker was too excited to notice them. He looked up towards the beam.

The First Aid officer descended obediently without a word. Locker mounted the shaky steps and grasped the end of the cable which the other had let fall. He pulled gently. As he had heard, it was not fixed. The loose wire yielded at once to his pull, and the far end dropped from the beam which had supported it and hung dangling. Locker began carefully to coil it as he drew it towards him.

"Super—Superintendent!" Berchell positively stuttered. Looking down Locker saw that his face was as white as a sheet. It might have been the suddenness of the apparition of the Superintendent; but it flashed across Locker's mind that it might also be something else. "Superintendent! What—what is the meaning—"

"Sorry I startled you, sir," he said contritely. "I was excited. I've an idea—"

"The wire?" The truth seemed to burst on Berchell suddenly. "The wire used for the siren?"

"Perhaps, sir," Locker assented with a caution he did not feel. He glanced significantly at the First Aid man. "I'm sorry I startled you, sir. I just wanted a word—"

"That?" The First Aid man interrupted him. Obviously he knew all about the wire, either through Berchell, or the police questioning. "Nonsense! That's too long. There must be forty feet of it—more."

The point had not occurred to Locker, but it was certainly true. He eyed the coil in his hand dubiously, and glanced towards the end of the long building, estimating the distance. Probably it was quite fifty feet.

"It would bear the load all right," the other went on. "But I thought you were looking for a piece about twelve feet?"

Locker nodded a little gloomily. There could be no earthly reason for the murderer to burden himself with four or five times the amount of wire he needed.

"He might have cut it from here," he said to himself. "It doesn't reach the whole way—"

"But how did this get here? It's not the same as the other wire. There's no point in it as it stands."

Locker frowned. Berchell seemed to be recovering from his surprise. He cleared his throat.

"That is perfectly correct, Superintendent," he said carefully. "Only two lighting points were ordered for this building. Or rather, there were originally three—"

"But the committee cut one out in the interests of economy. If you care to consult the engineer, Superintendent—"

"Later, sir," Locker assented. "I've no doubt you're quite right. Though, in that case, why this is here is a bit beyond me... It must have something to do with it—"

He broke off, remembering the presence of the First Aid man who was obviously drinking it all in. Berchell noticed the look.

"You wanted to speak to me, Superintendent?" he suggested. "If you'll come along to my office we should be undisturbed—"

In the stuffy little basement cubby hole which the name dignified, Berchell visibly expanded as Locker explained the purpose of his visit. He leaned back in his chair with a slightly superior smile and put his fingers together.

"You know, Superintendent," he said with a suggestion of satisfaction in his voice, "I was sure I was right. It can be nobody but Higson—I should say Mawley. I felt so from the beginning. If I may say so, I was surprised at the attitude of the police—by their apparent neglect of the most obvious suspect. And only this morning, Sergeant—Plum is the name, is it not?"

"Yes, sir," Locker assented. "The sergeant seems to have established the fact that the mask was all right when issued. But what I'm trying to find out is whether Mawley could have substituted another when Hawthorne was here."

Berchell considered. "I should say, almost certainly," he said at last. "Hawthorne would naturally hang his mask with his hat and coat on the pegs provided. Indeed, I seem to have a recollection of his doing so. In the event of an air raid it would have been sufficiently accessible. But if Mawley had had a similar gasmask case—"

He broke off with a shrug. Locker looked at him quickly. The idea that case and all had been substituted had not been made public so far as he knew. Perhaps Portland had spoken of it to Berchell, or the latter had guessed for himself. All the same, a momentary suspicion flitted across his mind.

"I suppose so," Berchell admitted unwillingly. "But no one else had the motive—"

Locker left that subject. If Berchell had any reason for killing Hawthorne, he did not know it, and it was unlikely that the town clerk would tell him.

"I think not." Berchell's voice sounded regretful. "But there has been a great deal of electrical work in connexion with the conversion of the premises. Mawley might have taken it at some time."

Mentally, the Superintendent again added "or anyone else who was here." And almost certainly Berchell had been there. He frowned, and was suddenly aware of the town clerk's look of curiosity.

"But that wire," Berchell said hesitantly. "I understand it was a much shorter piece?"

"Yes, sir. But it's the kind that might have been used. If we could trace this piece, it might help... Obviously the murderer thought so, or why should he hide it?"

Berchell thought for a moment. "The garage is, of course, on the way to White Gables for anyone coming from the canal bank... But the murderer did not swim the canal?"

"Probably not, sir... Now, I expect you've been keeping an eye on Mawley since the murder. I wonder how his attitude has struck you?"

It was a subject on which Berchell seemed ready to enlarge. When Locker escaped some quarter of an hour later, he had the impression that, so far as Berchell was concerned, every action of the ex-cashier had shouted his guilt. But Locker felt dubious. The very eagerness of the town clerk revived his preposterous suspicion. And, after all, every point which he had just made against Mawley equally counted against Berchell.

There was a message from the hospital waiting for him when he returned to the station. He swore under his breath. It was to the effect that the night watchman had been talking again, and it had arrived almost as soon as he had left to look for Berchell. But that was threequarters of an hour ago, and it was too much to hope that the invalid was still talking, or even in a condition to do so, and he had no desire to waste his time. After a momentary hesitation he reached for the telephone.

On the whole he was relieved to find that the doctor was not present. It was the ward sister who finally came to the phone, and he gathered from her first words that he had not missed a great deal.

"No... That is, I don't think so." There was uncertainty in her voice. "Most of it was just nonsense. But there was one bit—I noted it down—"

"You did?" Locker mentally thanked heaven that she had had sense enough. "What was that?"

"He repeated what he had said before—'round the corner' and 'gas mask'... Then he spoke a little more plainly. 'Came round the corner... In gas mask... Hit me.' That was all, really... The rest was mostly football—"

Locker was conscious of a certain elation as he thanked her and rang off. The night watchman's talk of gas masks had bothered him, since it was against all his ideas that the night watchman should have been conscious after the air raid, and much less after the gas alarm had sounded. Now it was explained. The attacker had worn his gas mask to escape any possible recognition. Locker was inclined to admire the scheme. Not only did a gas mask provide perfect cover for its wearer's features, but in the momentary glimpse which the injured man would have had it would have been the one thing which immediately focused his attention. Probably he would not be able to give any description of the man's body or clothes. The thought was not comforting; but one puzzle was solved.

He stood by the telephone for a minute thinking. What he had just heard did not specially implicate Mawley or anyone else. It flashed across his mind that he was allowing the pursuit of Mawley to obscure his judgment, and that there was one routine step, probably useless, that he had omitted to take. It was partly with the thought of Portland on his mind that he rang up White Gables for a list of helpers normally using the garage.

He had just hung up the receiver when he was aware that someone was standing quite close behind him and turned to face Inspector Portland.

Locker felt distinctly annoyed. He had not realised that it was so late, and he had certainly intended to spring his discoveries, such as they were, upon his colleague as a surprise. But there was no saying how much he had overheard. He decided to make a virtue of necessity.

"Any luck?" he asked. "I've found out one or two things myself while you've been away—"

Portland listened in silence while the Superintendent recounted, not without a certain pride, the results of his afternoon's work.

"But Mawley's out of it," he said as Locker finished. "He told me everything, and I think he spoke the truth."

Locker received the account with scepticism. He was inclined to wonder whether the Inspector had not let his taste for writing tracts influence his judgment. After all, Mawley had been discovered in a suspicious action. He had to give some explanation, and perhaps he had been cute enough to find the Inspector's weak spot. A constable entered with an envelope from White Gables just as Portland finished.

Locker answered his look of inquiry. "The list from White Gables," he said. "About the wire—"

"The wire?" Portland echoed the word with an enthusiasm which surprised the Superintendent. "Might I see it?"

But when it was produced he was not content with that. He looked at it, certainly, even through a magnifying glass. He fingered it carefully, but it was when he finally smelt it that Locker grinned.

Locker ripped the envelope and spread it on the desk. The two men ran their eyes down it together.

"No one here," the Superintendent announced. "I just had the idea that perhaps Arberry or someone—"

Portland's finger shot out, indicating the last name but two. The Superintendent stared at it for a moment uncomprehendingly.

"I don't gather—" he began, and then illumination came. "Boulder!" he exclaimed. "Elder's servant!"

The Inspector nodded with his eyes still on the list. There were no other names which meant anything to them.

"That was why you questioned him?" Locker demanded. "You meant that in giving Elder an alibi he gave himself one too?"

Portland did not answer the question directly. "It's true that that would be so," he assented. "Perhaps now we should question Elder about Boulder's alibi... Will you ring him?"

Locker reached for the receiver obediently. In his own mind there was a doubt. There could be no conceivable motive that he could see for Boulder to murder Hawthorne. And, in any case, surely he was cleared of the attack upon the girl. His answers to Portland's questions had been precise, and Locker could see no possible gap.

"Superintendent Locker speaking, sir." He glanced up at Portland. "You'd like to speak to him?"

The Inspector shook his head, and Locker bent to the mouthpiece again in response to the "hullos" which were being repeated impatiently from the other end.

"I'm sorry to trouble you, sir," he said. "Probably it's of no importance. We just wanted to ask you about your man Boulder—"

"I was just going to ring you up. But I wasn't quite sure. There may be some perfectly simple explanation, only it's rather odd—"

"Only, Superintendent, that I can't find him... rather looks as though he had left."

CHAPTER XXI
Trouble at the Office

IT was nearly eight o'clock when March closed the door of his lodgings behind him and started down the street. In his heart he was ashamed of his errand and of the suspicion which had prompted it, and it was that rather than the need for secrecy which had made him wait for darkness and an hour when he would be more secure from interruption. The interval had nearly proved fatal to his resolution. In any normal state of mind he would have rejected the idea completely; and harassed though he had been by police suspicions the more he thought of it the more ridiculous it seemed. Besides, the need for making his peace with Pamela Norwood seemed more and more urgent; more important even than that of safeguarding himself against the improbable plot which his imagination had outlined.

Of course, Pamela herself suspected Elder. He found himself going over their conversation in his mind. But Pamela's suspicions had been unreasonable and unfounded, lacking both adequate motive and supporting evidence. Perhaps they had implanted in his own mind the seed which had assumed much more tangible shape; though at the time he had laughed at them. In the end it was a small thing which put an end to his indecision. His office key was missing.

Certainly it could not have been lost. It was on the ring with the others only that morning and could not have fallen off. Someone had removed it deliberately, and he found himself trying to remember when it could have happened. He confessed to himself that he was careless with his keys. The bunch had been on his desk all morning, and he had certainly left them unguarded several times. Any of the office staff who happened to have come into his room while he was absent might have taken the key and he would have been none the wiser; and when he finally slipped the bunch into his pocket he had never noticed whether it was intact or not.

In a way it counted against Elder. But Elder had his own key. Why he should want March's was a mystery which he could not explain. It was the knowledge that he could not enter the office by legitimate means that confirmed his determination to enter somehow. He was fairly sure he could get in. For several days he had intended to speak to Elder about the defective window-catch which was now likely to prove helpful, and it had certainly not been repaired. Once inside, everything would be easy. He could get out without difficulty and without leaving a trace, for the main door had a spring lock. If his suspicions proved unfounded, there was no harm done.

Yet at the end of the road he hesitated, standing there in the darkness in the middle of the pavement. If he went to the right it would take him to the office; but the left led to the Norwood house. After all, probably there was nothing in his theory. What could the girl be thinking of him? He found himself colouring at the thought of the figure he had cut during their conversation in the train. It would be more sensible to go and apologise—"

His thoughts broke off abruptly. Too late, he caught the sound of light, quick footsteps approaching, and realised that in the black-out he constituted an invisible and unexpected obstacle in the middle of the pavement. He moved aside hurriedly and moved the wrong way, colliding violently with the person whose hurried approach he had heard.

March's heart leaped at the word as he recognised the voice. For a moment surprise held him speechless.

"That was just what I was doing... I wanted to say I was sorry. I was a perfect beast on the train. It's all this business—"

"I know," Pamela assented eagerly. "But, Paul, I'm sure you're wrong. It can't be you that they suspect—"

"It—it's a bit difficult to explain—here." March hesitated and lowered his voice. "I've just been thinking—perhaps there is something in your idea. About Elder... And it's struck me that, if there is, he might easily manage to push it off on to me."

There was a brief silence. March was conscious of her nearness to him in the darkness, and had to control with an effort the impulse to say what was in his mind, even despite the plot which he feared.

"I don't know... He may have done it, somehow. What's just happened brings things to a head. I mean Mrs. Boolby's death. If I am right, it makes things desperate—"

"No... I've an idea that her death must have been the last thing he wanted. Especially since Sparrow inherits. He needs the money, and as an accountant he wouldn't overlook anything queer in the settlement of the estate—"

"We're her trustees," March began, and realised the indiscretion of such a conversation in a public thoroughfare. "I can't explain here. But it comes to this: if there is anything wrong, one of us would be guilty, and he might have managed to make it look as though it was me. I've got to find out."

"But the police? If you told Inspector Portland, I'm sure he'd be able to help."

March laughed. "He seems to have made an impression on you. But, you see, I don't really know anything. And the whole business may be nonsense. If I cause a lot of trouble and go to the police, how shall I and Elder get on afterwards? And there really is no evidence—yet... To tell the truth, I wasn't quite sure whether to go round to your house to-night and apologise or go to the office. I've an idea— Those shares. Did you remember any?"

"That's why I was coming to see you, partly. I remembered some of those. I wasn't sure you'd be in. I wrote a note—"

He felt her hand touch his arm, and looking down could make out the white shape of the envelope.

"Besides, I can't stop. Mother will wonder—and the policeman. I had to get out without their knowing—"

March felt a wave of anxiety. "But—but you shouldn't have come," he said anxiously. "Don't you see? If whoever took the notes thought you knew—I'd better see you home."

"No. It's only a few minutes... If you really think you could find out anything, you'd better go to the office. You see, I've an idea the police have got something that Elder has told them. They were going round there when I arrived—"

"They were?" March tried to work out this latest development. It was quite possible that Elder had already made all his preparations. The visit of the police might very well mean that he proposed to give them the story he had made up, or at least the indications which would enable them to find out for themselves. There was no time to waste, and yet he hesitated. "I can't let you go alone—"

"But it's quite safe. Just because no one knows that I'm out at all. The murderer can't know either... Paul, you must go. And so must I... The shares—"

Paul took the envelope. For a moment his hand touched hers and he seized it almost greedily. It lay unresisting in his grasp, and in the darkness he heard her give a little sigh.

"I didn't mean—what I said," he confessed jerkily. "Any of it... Money doesn't matter... If I can get clear of this mess—Pamela—would you—"

"Paul... Not now... You must hurry... In the note, I suggested that you come to see me to-morrow. Will you?"

"Pamela—" Paul began pleadingly and stopped as she gently disengaged her hand. They stood there for a moment without speaking. "To-morrow," Paul said at last. "Perhaps then I shall know—one way or the other... Good-bye."

He stood listening to the sound of her receding footsteps as she turned quickly, and hurried back the way she had come. On a sudden impulse he took a pace forward as if to follow her; then stopped with an effort. After all, as she had said, it was only a few yards to her home. There could be no danger. And to-morrow he might feel himself free from the suspicions which seemed to entangle him. As the last sound died away, he set off reluctantly in the direction of the office.

It was some minutes before he could bring himself to concentrate on the business he was supposed to have in hand. But there was no need of much planning. The solicitors' office was on the first floor, and to the window at the back which he intended to use a narrow alley, dark even in peace time, and now a pit of blackness, gave access to a drain-pipe which would allow him to reach it. It was ridiculously easy, and he found himself wondering why cat-burglary was not an even more popular profession. But then, in this case, he possessed two advantages. He knew the ground, and if caught had nothing to fear.

Upon reflection he was not so sure of that. If he were discovered making a stealthy entry through an office window, even though it were his own office, it would certainly add to the suspicions of the police; and, if Elder were innocent, explanations might be a little difficult. After all, there was need for care, and as he reached the entrance to the passage he stopped to listen.

He had chosen his time well. There were still plenty of people about, enough for his presence there not to be noticeable, and at the same time under cover of the black-out he could dodge into the alley without being seen. And yet he hesitated. Once inside the passage, if he met anyone he might have to explain his presence, and he believed that at least two of the buildings which bounded it had night watchmen who might be curious. But not a sound came from the dark chasm between the buildings and it appeared to be utterly deserted. Waiting until the pavement in the neighbourhood was temporarily empty, he slipped quietly inside, his rubber soles making no sound on the tar-macadamed surface.

But it was not so easy as he had expected. Even to locate the back of the office building took him longer than he had thought, and it was only by going back to the corner and counting the doors that he finally achieved it. Though his eyes were accustomed to the gloom, he could see nothing except the towering masses of the buildings, and he dared not use his torch. The crookedness of the pathway made him invisible from the road, but there might still be someone about who would notice the flash.

He had reconnoitred the position from above several days before, but only casually, with the idea of seeing whether it could be used by a burglar, not of using it himself. Now it came to the point, he could not remember how many drain-pipes the building boasted, or where they were situated with respect to the lower windows. It was only after a good deal of difficulty that he finally fumbled his way to what he believed to be the right one.

With his hands upon it, he began to realise that a cat burglar has his trials. The pipe was old, and when first erected had never been intended to support a jerkily moving weight of some twelve stone. It might bear him; or it might not. And if it failed to do so, even if he escaped injury the noise of its fall could scarcely avoid rousing half the neighbourhood. He tested it with his hands dubiously. There was an ominous shakiness about it which was the reverse of encouraging; but it was his only hope. Gripping it firmly, he started to pull himself up.

It was a matter of only some fifteen or twenty feet, but it seemed much further. He could get no proper grip with hands or knees, owing to the nearness of the pipe to the wall, and he was forced to go slowly; for even so the pipe creaked dangerously. Twice he reached out his hand to feel the wall beside him, thinking that he must have climbed high enough; but it was not until the third time that he felt the edge of the window-sill.

A bare three feet separated it from the pipe, and by stretching out his arm he could reach it easily. But there he stuck. With one hand he had to keep his grip on the pipe; and with the other he could get no hold on the smooth stonework by which he could hope to swing himself across. Something had to be done quickly. His arms were already aching with the strain, and he could not hold on indefinitely. And even as he puzzled what to do next he caught the sound of a heavy footfall below him.

A torch flashed for a moment. March almost held his breath. It was unlikely that its holder would deliberately shine it up the wall, but an accidental movement might reveal his presence, and the least sound must betray him. He could feel the piping creaking under his hand, and it seemed as though whoever it was below must hear it. For a moment he thought that was actually the case. The footsteps below him ceased. For half a minute there was a complete silence. He heard the clicking of a key. Then a door closed.

March spared one hand to wipe the sweat from his face. He was suddenly aware that he was trembling violently. It was all he could do to hold on, and he had to act quickly. There flashed through his mind a picture of the ornamental tops to the windows in the front of the building. He wondered whether those at the back were the same. It seemed to be his only hope. Acutely conscious of his failing strength, he started to pull himself upwards again.

Even as he panted with the exertion, he was conscious of a feeling of curiosity. Who had it been below? What was even more important, where had he gone? It had seemed to March that the lock had clicked straight below him, but the reflections from the walls made sounds bewildering, and the doors were close together. Besides, so far as he was aware, the back entrance was used only by the shop-keeper who occupied the ground floor, and there was no means of access to the offices above.

In any case, he had no time to think about it. It was with a great wave of relief that his outstretched hand touched what it sought. Now, it was comparatively easy. Gripping the stone with one hand, he felt with his leg and found the sill; then praying that nothing would break he swung himself across and stood safely on the ledge. He was feeling for his knife to negotiate the catch when he started and nearly dropped it. Someone had switched on the lights inside the room.

Only a few cracks of yellow were visible round the blind. That in itself was puzzling. Normally, work at the office finished while it was still daylight, and there was no occasion to obscure the windows. Someone must have been stopping late; or perhaps Elder had returned. And the thought flashed through March's mind that perhaps he had not come alone. Even at that moment the police might be receiving fictitious proofs of his guilt from the senior partner.

He wanted desperately to look inside; but he had no means of doing so. However carefully he worked upon the catch, the sound could scarcely help attracting the attention of whoever was in the office. He could only wait, hoping that the man inside would leave before he himself became too tired to maintain his position, or that he would somehow reveal his identity.

There was the whirr-whirr of an electric bell. Inside the building a telephone was ringing, and March guessed that it must be the one in his own office. Then it stopped. Probably the man inside had answered it. In that case, it could scarcely be an ordinary burglar. It crossed his mind that, if the unknown was in his office, the room on the other side of the window must be empty. Risking the chance that there might be more than one, he slipped out his knife and pushed back the catch, raising the window an inch or two.

He was only just in time. Through the black cloth of the blind which hid him, he heard someone re-enter the room and prayed that the draught from the opened window would not be noticed. There was a rustle of paper, and drawers were opened and shut. The unknown seemed to be making a complete search of the office. It became all the more imperative to find out who it was. By now he was almost convinced that there was only one. He had heard no sound of voices. He lowered himself on to his knees, and gripping the woodwork got his head down to the opening; but the blind defied him. He was wondering whether he could possibly slit it with his pocket-knife unobserved by the man within when the light suddenly vanished.

March strained his ears to listen. From inside the room he could hear no sound. It seemed as though his chance had come. Raising the window with infinite caution, he lowered his feet over the sill and dropped into the pitch blackness of the room. Crouching beside a table which stood a little to one side of the window he stopped to listen.

All was still. Although the upper panels of the partitions separating the various rooms were of glass not a gleam of light showed. It seemed certain that whoever had been there a minute or two before must have left the building, and yet March was puzzled. He had heard no sound of the opening of the front entrance, and that was the only way by which anyone could have left. He felt his pulse quicken a little. Perhaps it was a trap. Some slight sound, or the draught which he had feared, might have betrayed the opening of the window and his presence outside. At any moment the lights might blaze up; or someone might leap upon him from the darkness. But the room was utterly silent. He felt Positive that there was no one there. Then, from just up the corridor, he caught the sound of a closing door.

In a moment he had slipped across the room, making for the exit leading to the corridor. The passage in that direction was a dead end; the only room, if it could be called a room, was the tiny cupboard-like place used for the storage of unimportant papers, stationery and miscellaneous lumber. What anyone could want there, unless he were a stranger to the building making a systematic search, was more than March could fathom; but what was certain was that he had the other man cornered. In order to escape, he had to pass the doorway in which March was standing, and the width of the passage was insufficient to admit of any possibility of his slipping past.

March strained his ears for the least sound. None came. Perhaps the other man was busy searching among the old papers; but no light showed beneath the door. He must be waiting in the darkness as March himself was waiting, perhaps in hiding, or perhaps looking for an opportunity to attack. Stealthily he began to make his way up the passage, feeling both walls with outstretched arms until his fingers touched the wood of the posts. Still he could hear nothing. With a sudden desperation, he turned the handle and flung the door of the lumber-room wide.

There was no reply. A whiff of tobacco smoke came to his nostrils. If there was no one there now, someone had been there a very short time before. He fumbled for his torch, standing a little way back in case of a sudden leap from the room; but he failed to find it. Somehow it must have fallen from his pocket, perhaps during his acrobatic efforts on the fall pipe. Edging his way forward, his fingers found the edge of the doorway; then the light switch. He pressed it down, leaping back again as the lights blazed up. Then he stood gazing in amazement. The cupboard was empty.

Empty, at least, of any human presence. The piles of papers, boxes and packages on the shelves which lined the walls from the skirting-board to the ceiling were as they had been when he had last seen them several days before; and the dust upon them showed that they had not been disturbed. Certainly no one was there, and certainly no one could have got out. Yet March could have sworn that what he had heard could only have been the closing of this door.

He realised suddenly that, with the light behind him, his silhouette against the doorway would be a perfect target. Besides, the light might be seen through the windows of the front office, if the blinds there had not been drawn. As his fingers found the switch, the blackness descended upon him even more smotheringly. He closed the door gently, and started cautiously down the corridor again.

There could be no one behind him. He was practically sure that there was no one in Elder's office, by the window of which he had entered. That left the big room and his own, and he decided to make a systematic search. The main office came first, his own opening off it on the opposite side from Elder's; but first he had to pass the entrance. The door was shut, and the lock, so far as he could tell by touch, had not been tampered with. He even unlocked and felt inside the cupboard which stood just to one side of it before advancing again.

In the main office the blinds had not been drawn. He could see the grey-black oblongs in the further wall, and he felt himself in a difficulty. Without light he could not hope to search properly a place so cumbered with tables and chairs; but first he must draw the blinds. After a moment's thought, he retraced his steps into the corridor, and moved along it to the door of his own room, which he locked before going back again and doing the same to the room which he had just left, locking himself inside. If there was anyone in the building, he must be in one of those two rooms, and there could be no escape.

But his bewilderment grew. He could not have been mistaken, he told himself, but the place felt empty. It was inconceivable that anyone could have passed him; or could remain there so quietly. He groped his way along the wall. There was the big filing cabinet. There was the table near the safe. Unexpectedly he recoiled. Something had struck him violently on the bridge of the nose, as he encountered some solid obstacle where no obstacle should have been.

He had not been attacked. So much he realised in the first second. He had simply collided with something—but what? And then it burst upon him. It was the door of the safe. Instead of being securely fastened for the night, it must have been open and standing out at right angles.

Stretching out his hand, he verified that cautiously. The safe was certainly open, and only he and Elder knew the combination. That it could be carelessness on Elder's part was inconceivable, and the alternative seemed to be robbery. He must have a light. Fumbling for his matches, he moved round to the front of the safe. Then his foot struck something soft and heavy and he fell headlong, striking his head against a chair as he did so.

For a moment he lay half stunned. Then with a wave of utter horror he realised what the obstacle had been. Nothing else could feel just like that but a human body. And it had not moved. His legs still sprawled over it. Something about that unnatural motionlessness brought the dawn of a horrible suspicion in his mind. The matches had been knocked from his hand by the fall. He struggled to a sitting position. His heart was beating quickly as he stretched out his hand in the blackness and felt. His groping fingers touched a coat; then the soft flesh of a human face. Suspicion suddenly grew to a ghastly certainty. In spite of himself, he gave a horrified exclamation.

His touch had evoked no movement. The man was dead. But the skin had been warm. For half a minute after he had snatched his hand away he sat there, straining his ears to listen. There was only a frightening stillness. He must make sure. He must get a light. The matches could not be far away. Going on hands and knees he set himself to feel along the floor for them. Then he straightened himself abruptly. Something had moved just behind him.

The beam of a torch cut the darkness blindingly. For an instant he was aware of an upraised arm above him. Then in a blaze of light his senses left him.

CHAPTER XXII
A Colour Problem

EVEN though the appearance of the servant's name on the list might in some measure have prepared him, the effect of the lawyer's announcement on Locker was to produce a dazed silence which lasted until they were speeding in a car to Elder's house. At last his feelings got the better of him.

"But what could Boulder have had to do with it?" he demanded. "He'd no reason to kill Hawthorne. I doubt if he knew Hawthorne—"

"What reason could he have? Of course, we've never tried to get an alibi from him, simply because he never seemed likely... But is there the least probability that he could leave the house at the time the siren was sounded, and when the night watchman was knocked out? Why, when he was confirming Elder's alibi, he told us—"

"No one said so." The interruption had the effect of reducing the Superintendent to a sulky silence for a time; then he broke out again. "Of course, he might have been an accomplice to someone else. That's the most possible. I never have been able to see how any of our suspects could have done the whole show... But why should he bolt? We never even gave him a thought until we got that list. You questioned him, but that was only about Elder. There was nothing in that to scare him."

Locker gave up the attempt to make his companion talk. In the few minutes before the car drew up outside the solicitor's door, he was trying to puzzle things out for himself. It seemed idiotic that Boulder should have sought safety in flight, at a time when his safety was not, apparently, threatened, and when only flight could bring suspicion upon him. The best that Locker could make of it was that not Boulder himself but the actual murderer whose accomplice he had been had felt himself threatened, and had arranged to remove a possible witness against himself. With an unpleasant shock it was borne upon him that in that case the servant's disappearance might not have been voluntary, and that it might very well be permanent.

Elder himself opened the door to them. From the first glimpse of his face, Locker guessed that he was a very worried man. He ushered them into the library without a word, and when they were finally seated seemed to have some difficulty in beginning.

"I don't understand it, Superintendent," he burst out. "It is simply incredible. If anyone had told me this could have happened—"

"Perhaps, sir, if you would tell us exactly what has happened?" Portland interposed suavely. "I understand that your servant is missing. Since when?"

"I—I don't know, exactly." Elder wrinkled his brows. "I first missed him when I went to dress for dinner. My clothes had not been laid out. Then he was not here at dinner. I could not make out what had happened and questioned the female servants—"

"At tea-time. I understand that his manner then was perfectly normal, and that he said nothing about going away... He must have left some time between half-past five and half-past six."

Elder thought for a moment. "Exactly as he was when you called last night, I imagine," he said. "But he packed a suit-case. We looked in his room. It was obvious that he had left in a hurry. And some of his clothes seem to have gone. Or so the butler informs me—"

"No one saw him leave," Portland repeated softly. "I suppose, sir, it's quite certain that he did leave?"

"Certain?" The lawyer looked at him in amazement. "You can't think that for any reason he'd have hidden himself away in the house?"

"Or he might have been hidden away," Locker supplied. "You didn't hear anything—a struggle—"

"Really, Superintendent!" Elder exclaimed. "You can't think—you don't believe he might have been murdered? Here?"

It was exactly that possibility which had crossed Locker's mind, though he scarcely knew why. Portland saved him the trouble of admitting it.

"After a fashion—yes. I am reasonably sure he cannot be hiding here. Besides, what could be his motive? Whereas, one motive for his leaving is only too obvious."

His eyes turned significantly towards the drawers of a bureau which stood against the opposite wall. For the first time the two detectives noticed the broken woodwork in the neighbourhood of the lock of the topmost. Portland crossed the room and examined it. Undoubtedly it had been forced, apparently by the use of some kind of lever. A glance showed that the two other drawers had suffered similarly.

"Did he get much, sir?" Locker asked; then his amateur's eye took in the damaged piece of furniture. "Lucky that's only a copy, sir," he said consolingly. "If it had been genuine—"

The solicitor looked distinctly chagrined, whether by the revelation of the counterfeit, or by its damaged state.

"In cash? No, not a great deal," he said after a distinct pause. "I am not in the habit, Superintendent, of keeping much money in the house. Perhaps ten or fifteen pounds—not more. Of course, I have had no time to go through the drawers properly—"

Elder nodded. "The silver, apparently, did not attract him. Luckily, my taste for valuable articles runs towards the bulky. The furniture of this room, for example, has been valued at—"

"Well, sir, he couldn't bring up a pantechnicon," Locker interrupted, and drew a slight frown from Portland. "Anything else been broken into?"

"My desk. And the drawers in my bedroom—so far as he had not the keys. But surprisingly little missing."

Portland looked at him. "You've some explanation for that, sir?" he said rather than asked.

"In a way I have... It had occurred to me that he was looking only for money." He hesitated. "I suppose the idea is absurd. But I wondered—if he had had anything to do with Hawthorne's death—"

"I don't know," Elder admitted. "Of course, he's seen Hawthorne, when Hawthorne has been here. I have no grounds for saying that there was any other acquaintance between them."

"No... But I should say that yesterday I had a much larger sum here. It is possible he was not aware that I had removed it."

"It's curious, perhaps, that he didn't wait until the night, sir?" The Superintendent frowned a little. "He must have known that you'd notice at once that the locks were forced."

"And yet, in actual fact, I did not, Superintendent," Elder pointed out. "In fact, I noticed this only after you had rung me up... And from the fact that you rang up, I suppose one may deduce that there is at least a possibility of some connexion between Boulder and the murder?"

"The very slightest, sir," Portland answered. "It was merely that his name occurred in a list of A.R.P. workers which we were looking into."

"As a volunteer ambulance driver? Yes, that is correct... But I cannot see how that implicates him?"

Locker opened his mouth to explain, then caught Portland's eye and closed it hurriedly. But he himself had just seen at least a probable connexion between the discovery in the garage and the servant's flight. Obviously Boulder had somehow got to know that the wire had been found by the police, and, knowing that the place where it had been hidden might point to him, had lost his head and bolted. Of course, there were other explanations. It might be mere fright. Or perhaps it was the actual murderer whose accomplice the valet had been who had heard the news and wished to remove a possible witness against himself. As to the actual implications of the word "remove" Locker had not made up his mind. The idea that the valet, alive or dead, could still be hidden in Elder's house struck him as being utterly preposterous; but the voice of the Inspector, breaking in on his thoughts, seemed to show that his colleague did not share this view.

"I understand, then, sir, that you have no objection to our searching the house?" he was saying with respectful insistence. "Of course, in any case, we should like to see the bedroom where the drawers were broken open. But in the circumstances—"

"Objection?" Elder echoed the word with some asperity. "Only to your wasting your time, Inspector. Of course, the man has gone."

There was a suggestion of suppressed irritation in Elder's manner as he turned towards the door.

"I should have imagined," he said, stiffly, "that your first and most obvious course would be to warn the surrounding police stations and have the fellow stopped. No doubt you understand your own business—"

His tone, at least, suggested that his opinion was the exact opposite, but Portland remained completely unruffled.

"I hope so, sir," he said, modestly. "I was about to ask you if we might use your telephone. That won't take a minute. This one, sir?"

"Perhaps you wouldn't mind?" he suggested. "It's your district, Superintendent."

Locker reached obediently for the receiver. As he gave the necessary instructions, with as good a description of the valet as his memory would provide, he felt puzzled by Portland's attitude. There was an iron-hand-in-the-velvet-glove touch about it of which he could not quite see the reason. Perhaps the Inspector even suspected Elder. He almost smiled at that. And yet he himself had been doubtful at one point about Berchell. He finished telephoning and was on the point of hanging up when he felt a touch on his arm.

"There's no reason to alarm Mr. Elder." Portland spoke in a low voice, glancing towards where the lawyer had taken up his position on the hearthrug. "But I think we should have a couple of men here. Tell them to wait for us at the corner of the street. You can spare them?"

Portland preserved a massive silence. With a shrug Locker rang up and gave the order. As he rose to his feet, Elder crossed the room towards them. Apparently he had almost recovered his good humour.

"The bedroom first, you said, Inspector?" he said, rather with the air of one humouring a lunatic. "I'm afraid you won't learn much there. I looked round myself, of course."

Locker, at least, learnt practically nothing. The only signs of anything wrong were a couple of small drawers which had been forced—not very expertly, he thought. Perhaps the room told Portland more. At least he examined it with all his customary care, tested for fingerprints, and obtained a few confused smears; and, to the suppressed amusement of both of them, duly looked under the bed and in the built-in cupboard which were the sole possible hiding-places for anything so large as a body.

Portland appeared to weigh the suggestion with a ludicrous gravity. Finally he shook his head.

"I know it isn't really likely he'd be under the bed, sir," he admitted defensively. "But still—"

He broke off and thought for a moment. "We can't afford to take chances—or miss any," he said with something like a sigh, almost to himself. "We'll start at the top and work down, sir."

Without a word Elder led the way along the passage to a narrower staircase which gave access to the attics. He was beginning the ascent in darkness when Locker pressed the switch; but no light came. Elder turned to glance over his shoulder at the click, and answered the Superintendent's look of inquiry.

"The fuse has gone," he said. "I'm afraid the whole of the top is in darkness. You see, it's not used, and we haven't troubled to replace it... A candle—?"

With a shrug Elder nodded and started up again, leaving the Superintendent to bring up the rear. Locker was not an imaginative man, and he had thought the Inspector's idea of a search was nonsense. But as their feet thudded on the worn carpet, and their monstrous shadows danced on the wall at the top, he somehow expected something to happen. Perhaps, after all, the valet had decided to hide in the very house he had robbed. Really it might be a cunning move—too cunning, he reflected, for a man of the valet's mentality, if he was any judge. He half expected to see a furtive head peer over the banisters and hurriedly draw back. Or there was the more sinister possibility. Instead of a live man hiding, there might be only a murdered body. Locker told himself that he was being fanciful. He put the idea from him irritably as they stopped on the landing.

Portland flashed his torch. Two doors stood open at the top, and as the beam lit up the empty rooms Locker's imaginative pictures faded abruptly. It was obvious almost at a glance that there was no conceivable place for anyone to be hidden, living or dead. With a patience born of resignation he and the solicitor watched the Scotland Yard man scrutinising the windows and floorboards, and peering behind the odd bits of lumber the rooms contained.

"Well, there's nothing here," Locker protested at last. "There can't be. There's nowhere to hide."

Portland only pointed. The Superintendent looked up. Just behind the door a wooden square in the ceiling apparently gave access to a space immediately below the roof. He remembered his own discovery in connexion with the bombs. After all, the murderer might have repeated himself. But if Boulder's dead body were hidden in the space above their heads, who could have put it there? Again his suspicions momentarily turned in the direction of the house's owner, and he glanced at Elder. It might have been his fancy that for the first time the lawyer showed a trace of uneasiness.

"The loft?" he said a little hesitantly. "There is a loft, of course, a small one. But it's never used. There's only the water tank—"

"Just the same, we'd better look, sir," Locker interrupted with firm politeness. "The mere fact that it is disused—"

He broke off. Portland had not waited to argue the point. He was already dragging forward a couple of packing cases. Putting one on top of the other directly beneath the hole, he climbed gingerly up, and balancing on that precarious perch pushed up the trap.

A shower of dust rewarded him. Locker had not expected it. He had been staring up at his colleague, and for a moment he was almost blinded. By the time he could see again, Portland's head and shoulders were already in the hole; then the hand holding the torch followed. Standing there in the half-darkness, Locker waited, almost expecting the announcement that Boulder had been found. He was disappointed. After a minute or two Portland lowered himself, letting the trap fall. The Superintendent looked a question, but Portland ignored it, fastidiously brushing the dust from his coat.

"Nothing," the Inspector replied; then corrected himself. "Except the water tank," he added. "And dust. Nothing at all."

The Superintendent felt a wave of exasperation. He opened his lips to speak, and he was going to be distinctly rude; but something stopped him. It might have been an undertone in the Scotland Yard man's voice; it might have been a gleam in the melancholy eyes. But the conviction was borne upon him that after all the search had not been fruitless. It was Elder who broke the silence.

"You have finished here?" he suggested, and looked round the bare room. "You'd like to do the bedrooms, no doubt."

Portland nodded, and himself led the way towards the stairs. At the foot he stopped, stood for a moment as if preoccupied; then moved towards the end of the passage as if to return to the ground floor.

"The servants' bedrooms?" Elder suggested, with a trace of sarcasm. If he really had betrayed anything in the room above, Locker thought, he had quite recovered himself. "No doubt, Inspector—"

"What?" Portland asked absently. "Oh, the beds, sir. Well... no." He sighed. "Perhaps we needn't trouble you any further just now. Except for the kitchens, sir."

Strangely enough, Elder was not grateful. Perhaps the silliness of the exception overcame him.

"The kitchens?" he snapped. "Really, Inspector—! The servants were there all the time!"

"Still, I should like to see them, sir," Portland persisted. "The kitchen, sculleries and pantry. And perhaps—"

The sound of heavy, hurried feet ascending broke in on his words. It was the sergeant whom they had left below who appeared, breathless with haste, and perhaps scarcely less with excitement.

"Sir!" He gasped and swallowed, looking from one to the other. "Sir, she's gone! The girl... They just rang up—"

"The girl?" Portland eyed him coldly. Accuracy in the reporting of telephone conversations was almost fetish with him; though it was not often that the sergeant offended. "Are you referring to Miss Norwood? Gone where?"

"That's it, sir. They don't know. Her mother rang up the station, sir, when she found she'd gone. She'd telephoned that young lawyer chap a bit before, and she'd overheard a bit of the conversation. And, sir, there are negroes in it! It sounds as though they've got her!"

"Negroes?" Locker's accumulated bad temper boiled over. "Don't be a blithering idiot! What the hell have negroes got to do with it? There's not a negro in the place... For heaven's sake get your breath, Sergeant, and talk sense. Who's telephoned? Who overheard what?"

The sergeant flushed a deeper red. "Mrs. Norwood, sir," he began; then drew a deep breath. He straightened himself and assumed something of a witness-box manner. "Mrs. Norwood rang up the station a few minutes ago—or rather, the constable on duty there did, and she spoke afterwards. According to her statement, borne out by the constable, Miss Norwood is missing from the house, sir, having apparently eluded the man on guard. She had expressed no intention of going out, and must have done so by stealth... Some time previously, Mrs. Norwood had overheard a portion of a conversation her daughter had on the telephone, apparently with Mr. March. Mrs. Norwood recognised the office number, sir. She caught the words, 'We'd forgotten the negroes. I've found them. They might tell us—' That was all, sir."

"We'll go at once," Portland intervened quietly. "Just a word with you, Sergeant."

The Superintendent did not hear what the word was. He did not greatly care. The sudden importation of the colour problem into a case which was already sufficiently complicated was a crowning absurdity which almost overcame him. And it was not until they were almost at the station that Portland spoke.

"Only the water tank," Portland answered, and there seemed to be some significance in the words. "And dust—"

Locker grunted in dissatisfaction; then a recollection of a former tendency on the Inspector's part to use scriptural idiom came to him. He gave his companion a startled glance.

"No, not 'dust to dust','" Portland rejoined solemnly. "Just plaster dust. Nothing more. Absolutely nothing... And that's queer, isn't it?"

CHAPTER XXIII
Gas Attack

MARCH came to himself with a nastily throbbing head, lying on his side in perfect blackness. For a minute or two he lay still, unable to think what had happened. There was pain in his mouth. Something was between his teeth, crushing his lips and tongue. He tried to move his head away and failed. It was only when something resisted his attempts to raise his hand that he understood. He was tied hand and foot, and the unpleasant pressure on his mouth must be due to a gag.

Abruptly everything came back to him: the open safe; the body on the floor; the flash of the torch. An explanation flashed across his mind. He groaned, not with the pain of his injured head, but at his own stupidity.

It all seemed so obvious. The man by the safe had not been dead or even unconscious. He was the stranger in the office. Just how he had got there, March could not work out; but he had simply been lying still there, waiting for his chance of catching at a disadvantage the man who was hunting him. He would have known that March would bend down to investigate in any case. And the loss of the matches had given him a perfect chance. The throbbing in March's head proved he had certainly taken advantage of it.

Still March felt puzzled. Why had he been tied up? He had been completely unconscious, probably for some minutes. The man who had hit him would have had ample time in which to make his escape. Tying up his victim seemed an unnecessary elaboration. Another question succeeded the first. Where was he? Somewhere in the office, presumably? Then his fingers touching the floor behind his back felt not the well-polished oilcloth he would have expected but gritty boards. There was a mouldy, neglected smell in the air, almost as though he was underground. It was certainly nowhere in any part of the building that he had ever been in.

He must have been carried. But where? There was not a glimmer of light to help him, but he might be able to explore. By wriggling in his bonds he found that he could move a little, though at the cost of some discomfort. Ignoring the unpleasant chafing which it caused to his bound wrists and ankles, he set himself to do so, trying to keep as straight a course as possible in the absence of anything visible to direct him.

He had not far to go. It was difficult to judge distance, but he doubted if he had gone a yard before his head collided with something hard, more forcibly than was pleasant. He felt it gingerly with the unbruised side of his forehead. It was a wall, a plaster wall, unpapered and rough, and with a painted wooden skirting board running along the bottom. For a moment that puzzled him. He had expected some kind of cellar or shed. Perhaps it was a basement? There was none, so far as he knew, in the office building, nor in the shop which occupied the ground floor. But he could not have been carried far, even in the black-out. With the wall to guide him he started forward again.

This time he had barely got going before he was stopped again. It was another wall like the first, standing at right angles to it, and he changed his direction accordingly. So far as he could judge, he had been dumped down in a corner of the room which constituted his prison, wherever it might be. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps he was quite close to the entrance, and it was possible that he was actually going away from it. But he had no means of telling, and it was just as likely to be in one wall as the other. He was still puzzling over what exactly he could do, bound as he was, if he found it, when he was brought up with a shock. He was suddenly aware that his head and shoulders had nothing beneath them.

Just in time he saved himself. He had nearly fallen headlong. How deep the drop might be he had no means of telling, but he was on the very edge of some kind of hole in the floor. He could feel the edge of the woodwork pressing against his ribs, and though he craned his head downwards as far as he dared he could feel nothing beneath. A draught of air blew coldly as he bent over, somehow giving the impression of depth, and he recoiled with a shudder. Without the use of his hands he felt horribly helpless.

A wave of anger swept over him. Perhaps it was part of his captor's plan that he should fall to his death. Anyhow, he had escaped that, and now he was warned. He lay there for a moment listening for any sound which might give him a clue to his whereabouts; but there was only an utter silence. Then, very cautiously, he began to edge his way along the side of the hole.

It seemed to be about four feet across. Then he encountered the corner of another wall, running, apparently, along one side of the hole, and turning again at right angles to the left. The room must be very narrow, or else he was in some kind of a passage or recess. Vainly trying to form some kind of mental picture of the place, he turned again and then, as his head encountered another obstacle, again at right angles, he suddenly understood. For this time it was of wood and rang hollowly. It was the first step of a staircase.

Even before he craned up his neck to feel the next tread he guessed the position. The sinister pit into which he was to fall to his death existed only in his imagination. He was on a narrow landing between two flights of stairs, one going up and the other going down, and that was all, though it did not alter the fact that he might have had a nasty fall. Nor did it explain where he was. There was, to his knowledge, no such staircase. He must have been carried into some adjoining building. And the problem of getting out remained. A very brief effort was enough to convince him of the impossibility of climbing the stairs bound as he was. If the worst came to the worst, he might be able to slide down the others; but that might mean a fall, without being any better off. He let himself slip back again to the floor level while he thought things over, and as he did so he touched something else.

It was neither wood nor stone. It was soft, and yet immovable, with the rough feeling of cloth, and even as he recoiled from the contact his mind, sharpened by fear, told him what it was. He lay there for a minute listening, only a few inches from this new obstacle. There was not a sound or movement, only a stillness which was more dreadful, for he knew that it was the stillness of death.

It was a dead man who lay there in the darkness. He had been wrong about the body by the safe. There had been no bluff on the part of his assailant. The body was at that moment lying so close to him that he could smell the brilliantine on its hair. Somehow there was something in that which added to the horror of it. He backed away until the opposite wall stopped him, and tried to think things over calmly.

Of course he ought to find out who the man was. Normally, he was not specially squeamish, but he shrank from the task. By turning round he might be able to feel the corpse's face and clothing with his bound fingers; but he could not bring himself to do it. Probably in any case, he told himself, he would learn nothing. Someone was bound to come in time— But if no one did? He remembered the mouldy, disused atmosphere of the place, and in spite of himself felt a wave of something like terror. If no one did come, that day, or the day after, or after that? He put the thought forcibly from him.

He must try to free himself, or at least to get rid of the gag so that he could call for help. Working himself into a position against the stairs, he set himself to the painful business of trying to loosen the cloth by the process of rubbing it against the woodwork. It was a sufficiently uncomfortable task, and at first he thought a hopeless one; but at least it was something definite to do. And then, to his unutterable relief, he felt it loosening. A few more minutes' work—

He stopped abruptly to listen. Certainly there had been a sound. It had come, apparently, from somewhere above him. He turned his head to look up the staircase. And as he did so a crack of yellow widened dazzlingly at the head of the short flight of steps which it revealed.

Momentarily it blinded him. His eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness. He had to close them for a minute before he could blink upwards again towards the opening through which the light shone. The crack puzzled him. It was not vertical, as one might have expected from the opening of a door. It was horizontal, running the full width of the staircase. The idea of a trapdoor had just occurred to him when his guess was proved correct. For a second or two the trap opened slowly, then was thrown backwards with a thud.

It showed him very little. Just opposite the top was a doorway, leading apparently to a passage. In contrast to the stained and dusty walls of the staircase the part of the building above was newly painted and evidently in regular use. He felt that there was something vaguely familiar about it; but he had no time to decide what it was. There was a sound of movement from above. The next instant the figure of a man stood framed in the doorway, apparently looking down at them.

The light was behind the newcomer. It revealed him only as a dark silhouette against the passage wall. March could see that he was wearing a raincoat and a soft hat pulled down over his eyes, and that was all. For something like a minute he gazed down the staircase, apparently trying to ascertain what the condition of his prisoner might be. March forced himself to lie still, and closed his eyes to a mere crack. It might be just as well to pretend unconsciousness. Perhaps the man would come down. He had some hazy idea of attacking him, bound as he was. Against the opposite wall he could see the monstrous shadow of the watching man. Then the head moved as though he was looking up the passage. March caught the low sound of voices. A few disconnected words floated down to him.

"—quiet," a voice said, and it might be his fancy that there was a note of anxiety in it. "Too damn' quiet. You don't think—?"

March lost the end of the sentence, and the reply of the person to whom the man in the doorway was speaking was similarly unintelligible. His heart sank. He might have been able to deal with one man. Two made it hopeless to attempt anything. He could only wait to see what was going to happen.

Whatever the answer to his question might have been, it seemed to anger the man above. He raised his voice, and to March it seemed as though beneath its protest there was an undertone of fear.

March guessed that he himself was the subject of the conversation. He strained his ears to catch the voice of the other speaker, but without result.

"Look here, I've had enough of this," said the man in the doorway threateningly. "You can't bully me... Supposing I were to go—"

The words broke off abruptly. The figure in the doorway stiffened as though he had received some unexpected shock. For a moment he stood there transfixed, staring as if in dismay at the unseen man up the passage; then he turned slowly, raising his arms above his head. As he did so, the light fell on his face. Even as recognition came to March, he started up the corridor and was hidden from view.

March felt utterly amazed. Boulder was the last person he had expected. The valet had no earthly interest in the shares; no possible reason for murdering Hawthorne or attacking Pamela Norwood. Of course the explanation was simple enough. He was merely the accomplice of someone else, and the real murderer was the man who had kept out of sight. Even though he had not heard what was said, the substance of what had happened was plain enough. Boulder had threatened the other man, probably with the police. And the murderer had answered threat with threat. March felt convinced that it had been at the point of a gun that the valet had put up his hands.

But who was the murderer? As he lay there straining his head upwards to catch any sound, and half expecting to hear a shot, the question recurred to him again and again. And he could find no satisfactory answer.

An hour ago he had been convinced that it was Elder, and that the senior partner had been driven to kill the accountant to conceal something which he had done. The presence of the valet suggested other possibilities. It might be Arberry, or more probably Sparrow, working in collusion with the servant? It might be almost anyone—even the town clerk.

There was the sound of returning footsteps. March sank down into his former position. If he were to convey the idea that he was still unconscious he must not appear to have moved. And unconsciousness seemed his one hope. As the footsteps neared the door, his heart beat more quickly. Probably this time it was the murderer himself. And then? He tried desperately to frame some plan. If the man came down—

The valet appeared in the opening. March felt a mixture of relief and disappointment. Even though it might mean danger to himself, he was conscious of an intense desire to satisfy his curiosity with regard to the other man's identity. If he could only see him— The next moment his wish was gratified. A second figure joined the valet in the doorway.

March experienced a shock of surprise. For a moment he thought it was some monstrous deformity. Then he understood. His curiosity was not to be gratified. Besides the mackintosh and scarf, and the down-turned hat, the newcomer had taken another means of hiding his features. He was wearing a gas mask.

The disguise was complete. How complete, March realised when the second man spoke. For his voice boomed from the gas mask muffled and indistinct. He could not even make out the words, much less recognise the speaker by the tone. But evidently the valet understood. He turned to face the masked man, and as the light caught his face, March saw that it was white and glistening with perspiration, and that in his eyes was a look of utter horror.

"But—but it would be murder!" he burst out. "I've done nothing of that. I can't—"

It was not a word, but a gesture, which silenced him. The masked man's hand went to his pocket. It stayed there; but Boulder seemed to know what the pocket contained. He shrank back.

"I—I'll do it," he said hoarsely. "But—but you'll let me go—before—before—"

He left the sentence unfinished, and there was no answer from the other as he set his foot on the top step. The realisation of his danger came to March overwhelmingly. Of course they could not leave him as a possible witness. There was only one way of safety for them, and that lay in his death. He felt strangely calm. It occurred to him to wonder just how they would kill him. They would not risk a shot—

The valet was descending with a painful slowness. On the third step down he paused, and made as if to turn for a final protest. He never did so. The hand of the masked man leaped from the pocket which had concealed it, and it did not come empty. The butt of the revolver crashed on Boulder's head sickeningly, with an audible thud even through the soft hat.

The valet gave a queer gasp. He did not fall so much as collapse, subsiding to a sitting position, and sliding down the first two or three stairs. There, by some odd trick of balance, he stuck, wedged precariously just above March's head, for a moment blocking his view of the masked figure.

A foot sounded on the stair. The murderer was coming down. The rounded snout of the gas mask appeared looking down; the light shone on the eyepiece. He was coming to make sure. And then, faint but distinct, there came from above the sound of three taps.

It seemed to be a signal. The masked man hesitated, not in alarm, but in a momentary indecision. Then as the taps came again, he turned and vanished up the staircase.

His disappearance seemed to bring March to himself. The imminence of his own peril came to him. It was a respite, but a respite only. How or why it had come, March had no time to think. He was struggling desperately with the cord which secured his hands. If only he could get loose before the other returned— Then a cry from above froze him to motionlessness. He drew a deep shuddering breath as he recognised the voice.

It was Pamela. Something like madness overwhelmed him. He tore at the cords furiously, utterly unconscious of his lacerated wrists. Against all probability something gave. It was the cord which bound his wrists to his ankles. Somehow he struggled to his feet, facing the stairway, still helpless but erect.

He had not cared about noise. He had not thought about it. Then the bright square of the doorway was darkened, and the masked man stood looking down at him. Perhaps he was surprised. Perhaps he could not see that March was still bound. He made no move to descend. For nearly a minute they eyed each other. With a wave of horror March realised that he had left the girl somewhere. And that meant—?

In an unhurried movement the murderer's hand went to his pocket. March could only stare in a kind of fascination. The gleaming eyepiece momentarily seemed to hypnotise him. It was not a gun which the fingers held as they emerged but something round and shining. The masked man raised his hand and threw it carelessly down.

There was a crash of glass, at March's very feet. He stared down uncomprehendingly. Suddenly he felt a pricking at his nostrils; his eyes seemed to blur and smart. He staggered back, still not understanding. Another wave of the gas struck him, for a moment reducing him to complete helplessness. His foot caught in the coat of the dead man, and he fell.

Through the tears which blinded him, he was aware of a masked figure descending. The murderer was coming to make an end of it. And March had a blurred impression of the girl he carried in his arms.

CHAPTER XXIV
Portland Draws Blank

IT was a bare ten minutes that Locker had to wait while the Inspector interviewed Mrs. Norwood, but in his anxiety it seemed at least an hour. He had reluctantly resigned that important preliminary to his colleague's sole charge through sheer necessity. Mrs. Norwood, on the verge of hysteria, had expressed with a vigour which surprised him her views on the incompetence of the entire local police; though apparently retaining her faith in the magic name of Scotland Yard.

Locker resented that. He relieved his feelings by thoroughly putting through the mill the unfortunate constable whose vigilance Pamela had eluded; though, secretly, he thought that the man was hardly to blame. The method of her evasion had been plain enough, after she had gone. She had retired upstairs with the expressed intention of taking a bath, an operation the policeman could hardly be expected to supervise, and the very wash-house roof which provided the constable with his day-time quarters had been the means of her descent. The Superintendent thought it thoroughly unladylike, and was inclined to the opinion that she should be smacked. Probably, he reflected, after all nothing had happened to her. There was no saying what girls would do, or women generally. Between mother and daughter he had been reduced to almost complete agreement with Portland's misogynism by the time the Inspector emerged.

"Practically nothing—of any importance. She doesn't know any reason why the girl should have gone out. She's not by any means opposed to a match with young March—in fact, I gather the chief danger is that she may spoil things by encouraging it. Except for the call the girl herself put through, there have been no messages. She hadn't seemed worried—"

"But the negroes?" Locker interrupted impatiently. "What did she say about those?"

"Negroes?" Portland stared at him uncomprehendingly as he echoed the word. "Oh, you mean the blacks?"

Locker felt that his colleague was holding something back. It irritated him. His feelings boiled over as the car started.

"That's just lunacy," he burst out. "About the blacks. I believe the old girl's a bit dotty. There aren't any blacks—or are there?"

"You looked?" Locker said weakly. Momentarily his feelings overcame him. "You looked—!"

He had a vision of Portland, with his usual care, systematically searching the Norwoods' house for negroes, and it was not surprising if speech failed him.

Portland apparently misinterpreted his emotion. "I couldn't make a thorough search, of course," he apologised. "I looked in all the likely places." He paused. The Superintendent felt that perhaps his own brain was going. It was impossible that anyone should seriously suggest that there would be likely hiding-places for negroes in a respectable suburban house. And Portland's next words reduced him to an apoplectic silence. "I expect she took them with her," he added, quite as though it was a matter of course.

Locker gave it up. Only when the car drew up at the station did he finally break the silence, and by that time his wrath had subsided.

"And what we do now, God knows!" he said. "Unless there's something come through here."

There was nothing. The detective who had been sent to inquire at March's lodgings confirmed the fact that the young man had left earlier in the evening, soon after dark. He had taken a key, and had said that he would probably be late. A visit to the office had shown that the place was in darkness, and there had been no response to knocking. If anything, such news as there was added to the confusion. Berchell, for example, had set out soon after tea for some unknown destination. Arberry had once again disappeared. The sole bright spot seemed to be that Mawley and Paverley, so far as could be established, had spent the entire evening peaceably indoors.

Locker was not sure that that was a bright spot. He was still inclined to think that the ex-cashier at least was among the more probable suspects for the actual murder of Hawthorne, and the more he thought of it the more obvious it seemed that Portland had been deceived by a well-calculated tale. After all, every man had his weak spot, and piety seemed to be the Inspector's.

Perhaps Portland himself had his doubts. Certainly he was no less worried than the Superintendent. He fixed a gloomy eye on the piece of wire which had been found in the garage as he sipped the cocoa which Locker, with some distaste, had provided for him; but it seemed to bring no special inspiration.

"It's been doubled, as you said," Locker rejoined impatiently. "He's all right anyhow. A cat couldn't get in."

The Superintendent stared. "You're not suggesting that he had anything to do with it?" he demanded. "He's had an alibi all the evening and one we're sure of—the police."

"Boulder? Yes... But even if Boulder has gone, that may have been true. At least he's definitely out of it to-night—if anything has really happened to the girl. I'm not so sure it has."

"And Paverley's out. And Mawley." Portland ticked them off on his fingers. "That leaves—Sparrow..."

"I've sent to look for Sparrow. He's not at home, but these last few nights it's been fairly simple to pick him up by a round of the pubs. I expect that's where we'll find him... That's funny, too. He's always been moderately sober until now. You don't think that he—"

"There are bound to be all kinds of false trails," he said almost to himself. "There always are. It's surprising, even in a place like this, when once things are stirred up, what a lot comes to light that people want to hide, and yet which has no connexion with the crime. Like that poor fellow who was drowned. Most people have something to conceal—"

"But not platinum robberies," Locker objected. "That was a bit of luck... Well, Arberry's a gay dog, I think. That may be his skeleton. But that leaves no one... You're not suspecting Lazer—or Berchell?"

Portland maintained an irritating silence. Locker thought that he was hardly playing the game. He was practically certain that there had been something significant about the loft which he had not been told. And the negroes, apparently, were as plain as daylight to Portland. The Inspector seemed to have had some fairly definite theory in his mind, though just at the moment it looked as though he had experienced some kind of a check.

"How the devil could they? It was locked. There was certainly no reason to break in. And we hadn't a search warrant. Besides, the place seemed to be empty."

"For that matter, it mightn't have been," Locker admitted. "March and the girl might have been there... But it doesn't say he was murdering her... People have been known not to answer doorbells when— Damn it all, aren't we worrying for nothing? Even if the girl has gone out to see March—"

Portland simply pointed to the clock. It showed a quarter past eleven, and he was silenced. It was at least unlikely that she would be so late, he admitted; but not impossible. The Inspector rose to his feet.

"There's only one thing to do," he said slowly. "We must search the office. We can't afford to neglect anything... No doubt Elder will give us the keys."

Locker raised no objection. He thought it very much a forlorn hope. On the other hand, he could think of nothing else to do; and after all, it would settle the question. Of course, Elder might not consent. And if he did not, that proved nothing. Probably he would have gone to bed, and would be the reverse of pleased at being roused. As they drove along, neither had much to say. Locker began to feel distinctly sleepy himself, and his weariness made him more irritable. He was at no pains to conceal his impatience when Portland stopped to question the men on guard outside the house, only to receive the answer that no one had gone in or out.

"That settles that," he said as they waited for the door to be opened. "There's a blank wall one side, and buildings the other. If no one left by the back or front, no one left at all."

Elder had not gone to bed. He had, however, donned carpet slippers, and showed a not unreasonable reluctance to being troubled again. But so far from raising obstacles to the search, he volunteered to accompany it; though obviously of the opinion that the police were wasting their time and his own.

Locker thought so too. He was convinced of it when the door opened to reveal the decorous interior. He was tired, exasperated, and he could feel a cold coming on. His one comfort was that Portland was also sniffing. Locker let him search on, satisfied in his own mind that the office was all that an office should be.

His patience was exhausted by the time they finally restored Elder to his house and turned the car round for the station.

Portland shook his head. "But I can't get anything," he said with an unusual display of warmth. "We're close to it... and I can't get it. We seem to get further away than ever."

Locker thought so too when he received such reports as had come in during their absence. There was no sign of Arberry, the girl, or March. Berchell had returned home, after having repaired a puncture while motoring back from an outlying village where he had been giving an A.R.P. lecture. Boulder was still at large. Things seemed completely at a deadlock.

"No, sir," the sergeant frowned. "He's not been seen since about seven o'clock, sir. Doesn't appear to have been anywhere... He's just disappeared."

CHAPTER XXV
The Phone Rings

MARCH'S second awakening was even less pleasant than his first. It was true that he found himself seated in what was normally the most comfortable chair in the main office; but his hands and feet were bound to it with a tightness which seemed to show that this time the murderer was taking no chances of his getting loose. His fingers were already numb with the constriction, and to the pain of his cut wrists and ankles was added a sick dizziness which was probably an after-effect of the gas. For some minutes he could only sit there, staring straight ahead at the open door which led into Elder's office.

The man in the mask was there. So much he could tell by the sound of movements, though what he was doing March could not determine. Even when the unknown appeared through the opening of the doorway and dumped an armful of paper against the opposite wall he did not at once understand. It burst upon him suddenly, and at the thought a cold sweat stood out on his forehead. He was building a fire.

Of course, it was the obvious thing to do. After the first shock, he found himself working things out quite cold-bloodedly. If the police found March's body in the burnt-out office with that of the other man they would probably believe that the man had been killed, and the office fired, in some kind of a struggle. And the other's body was there ready. It lay a little to one side of the door, with one sprawling arm still hiding the face.

He wondered who it was. Not that it greatly mattered. And where was Boulder? Presumably he too was to share the improvised funeral pyre. And then with a wave of horror the recollection came back to him. Pamela? Where was she? There had been the cry for help and then—?

It was the sound of a slight movement that made him turn. And it was Pamela who had moved. Like himself, she was tied to a chair, and her face was as pale as death. But she had moved. And looking at her he saw that her breast rose and fell almost imperceptibly. She was alive at least. Then he thought of the fire, and for a moment he lost his head completely. He tugged furiously at the ropes which bound him, almost upsetting the chair in his efforts.

The man in the mask had heard him. He crossed the inner office and stood in the doorway, watching March's struggles, not with the air of a man gloating on his victim's sufferings, but as if to make sure that he could not escape. Then he turned and disappeared into a corner of the room, without having uttered a word.

It came to March quite suddenly. It was Elder. He recognised the walk as the masked man turned away. After all, his suspicions had been correct. There was small comfort in that now. Somehow or other they had to get free, and they had to do it before the fire reached them. After the first wave of panic fear, March had become calm. There was one chance. His gag was still loose; he could free his mouth almost at will. When the murderer left, he could call for help. It was possible that someone might hear them. At least March clung to the hope. He dare not look at the girl. She seemed to be still unconscious. March prayed that she might continue so, until help came or—

He refused to think of the alternative. They were going to get free somehow. It was just a question of waiting until Elder went. He could see him again now. He was busy with his heap of papers in full view; for the place he had chosen was on the other side of the inner room, immediately opposite the doorway and just under the telephone.

March felt vaguely puzzled by the choice of that particular spot. Not that it made very much difference. The whole office building was old and as dry as tinder; the flimsy partitions would be simply fuel to the flames. Once it had started... With a great effort he forced himself not to think about it. Somehow, he had to find a way out before the flames took hold.

Elder was coming back again. This time he carried a can, a two-gallon petrol can, but as he started to pour the liquid on to the heap and the reek of it came to where March sat he recognised that it was paraffin. Perhaps he was getting a little light-headed, for it flitted through his mind that petrol rationing did not permit the use of the more inflammable oil. Spilling a trail behind him, Elder came back through the door, and as unemotionally as if he was watering the garden deliberately poured oil over the body of the dead man, and finally round the chairs where Pamela and March sat.

Hopeless though he knew the struggle to be, March tore at his bonds again. The proximity of the murderer seemed to madden him, and he was within an ace of getting rid of the gag; but restrained himself in time. An appeal for mercy would be useless; and Elder was not likely to care for anything insulting March could say. He watched his captive's struggles speculatively, as though to assure himself that they had no chance of succeeding; then turned again and left the room.

The gleam of the light on the pools of paraffin momentarily almost hypnotised March. As he stared at it, he realised that Elder's final precaution had practically taken away their last chance. If the fire was started over at the heap against the wall, it would spread almost immediately along the trail which had been laid. It would be a matter not of minutes, but of seconds, before they were surrounded by a sea of flame. He closed his eyes for a moment to shut out the horrible picture which insisted on forming in his brain, and with a feeling of utter misery it crossed his mind that it was his fault that the girl was there. If he had insisted on telling the police immediately about the shares...

Obviously Elder was making preparations to leave. They had not much longer. In another moment, he would ignite the heap. March looked at the girl. Mercifully she was still unconscious. At least she was spared the knowledge of what was going to happen. Then he turned his head quickly at the sound of a closing door. Footsteps receded up the passage; a second door opened and shut. March suddenly realised that Elder had gone.

For an instant he was completely bewildered. The fire had not been lit. There was no smell of smoke, or glimmer of flame. Then the explanation flashed upon him. No doubt Elder was relying on a time bomb of some kind. He would want to be well away before the fire started. But that meant a respite. It might not be long; a few minutes only, perhaps, but it was a chance. He set himself to work furiously at the gag. Certainly it was loosening; but it seemed an age before he was able finally to slip it over his chin. He drew a deep breath, and as he did so, he was aware of a movement in the chair where Pamela sat.

He looked round. She was conscious. Wide with fear, her eyes were fixed upon him in a look of desperate appeal, and he knew that she had realised what was going to happen. He tried to moisten his sore lips with a tongue which seemed scarcely less dry.

The fear leaped in her eyes again as she glanced at the pools on the floor, but though the gag hid the lower part of her face he guessed that she was trying to smile. She gave a little nod.

"If I call for help—" March went on; then he broke off. "If he did? Perhaps Elder was waiting just to see what they would do. And he knew just what his chances were of making anyone hear. The thick blinds of the black-out deadened sound most efficiently. He had noticed that when working in the office late, how the noise of the traffic, usually rather an inconvenience, had been dulled. He realised suddenly that even now that he had got rid of the gag he could probably call for hours without result. And yet he would have to fry. Another thought crossed his mind. "I'll try and get rid of your gag," he suggested. "Then we can shout together—"

Luckily the chair to which he was tied was a light one. By rocking it carefully, he found that he could edge in the right direction. The risk was of rolling over altogether. If he did, he would be unable to rise again, or to do anything to release the girl. Inch by inch he crossed the space which separated them, gaining confidence as he did so. If Elder had been waiting, the noise of the chair's movements would have brought him in; and vague hopes began to pass through his mind. Perhaps in the same way he could get to the windows and break one; or to the telephone. His heart sank again as he realised that from his sitting position he would not be able to reach either; but he told himself that he would manage something—if the fire did not come.

He was almost touching the girl's chair now. By craning his neck, he ought to be able to deal with the knot of the gag at least.

"Pamela, turn your head round," he instructed. "The knot's at the back... I can manage that, I think—"

She nodded, and turned obediently. As he bent down and his teeth gripped the cloth, he was aware of the perfume of her hair, and the whiteness of her throat. Again rage surged through him as he saw the red bruises upon it. Then he set himself to tug judiciously at the folds. Twice, in his over-eagerness, he nearly overbalanced. He forced himself to be careful. It was giving. With a final tug it loosened and came away in his mouth, and Pamela turned to look at him. Though the mark of the gag was still on her face and her lips moved stiffly she managed a little smile.

"It was Elder," March explained. "He knocked me out—or Boulder did. Probably Boulder. I was tied up when I came to my senses. Then I heard you arrive... But why—?"

"I—I rang you up. I knew that you'd be here. And you answered—told me to come—"

"You—he was whispering. I couldn't tell. And you were the only person who could be at the office—or I thought so. You see, I'd found the carbons—"

"The carbons I'd been using when I typed out the list of shares. The man who attacked me took the paper I'd been using. But he overlooked two sheets of the carbon. They were new sheets, and you could read it quite plainly in reverse... I brought them—"

"Yes. Of course, I thought it was you. And he told me—" She broke off, and terror showed in her eyes again. "But, Paul... The fire... We must hurry—"

"There isn't any fire—yet," March said grimly. "He's made his preparations. Perhaps he's coming back to finish the job."

He hoped she might think so. He himself was waiting at any moment to hear the sound of the bursting bomb which would mean the end. And he realised with a horrible sinking of the heart that they were no nearer freedom. He could not bend far enough to reach the knots which secured the girl to the chair, and she was equally powerless to aid him. But they must do something quickly. When the fire once began, it would be too late. An idea came to him.

"Pamela," he said, "try if you can move your chair—as I did just now. Out of the paraffin—" He broke off. "But we'll shout first. Both together. Someone might hear." He realised that his emphasis on the word had revealed his doubts and hurried on. "Ready? When I say 'three'. One... Two... Three... Help!"

The sound seemed thrown back at them by the walls. Though they called a second time, and a third, March did not for one moment believe that there was much chance of anyone hearing. At that time of night the buildings on each side and across the road would be empty, and in view of the blinds he felt that the possibility of anyone hearing in the street was remote. At last they paused for breath.

"Now," March suggested, "if you can wriggle your chair back. It would give us a few minutes longer—"

It took them some little time to edge away from the danger zone, to a point near the wall where they could hope for a respite at least. Pamela looked at him inquiringly.

March had nothing to say to that. He was quite convinced in his own mind that Elder would not come back. Probably now he was busily engaged in establishing an alibi somewhere—possibly even with the police. He strained his ears to catch the ticking of a clock which might be the mechanism to start the flames; but he could hear nothing.

"We'll shout again," he suggested a little hopelessly. "Keep on as long as you can..."

It must have been a full five minutes later that they desisted after what seemed enough noise to wake the dead, but there had been no sign that they were heard.

March turned his head quickly. From the adjoining room, there came the whirr-whirr of the telephone. For a moment March's heart had come into his mouth. He had thought it was the bell of the alarm clock which would detonate the bomb. He eyed the telephone hungrily. If he could only get there and reach it... He wondered idly who could be ringing up at this time of night.

And then he saw. After all, his fears had not been vain. A thin trickle of flame was spreading down the wooden box below the telephone bell. As he looked, it broadened into a sheet of flame, licking the edges of the pile.

"Paul—" The girl had also seen it, even before the first whiff of smoke bellowed chokingly through the doorway. "Paul—"

March turned. "Pamela," he said. "I am afraid—this is the end... Pamela, I wanted to say I loved you... in the train to-day. But I was in such a rotten position. I didn't see how I could. Now—"

He bent his head and his lips met hers as the crackling of the flames showed that the woodwork had caught.

CHAPTER XXVI
Explanations

IN the police station, Portland at last broke a silence which had lasted a long time. It was getting very late.

"I must have been wrong," he said heavily. "I was sure it was Elder. But Elder has been under observation all night... It must have been one or the other—March or Elder. Surely it must?"

"March and Boulder?" he went on as though speaking to himself. He shook his head. "Sparrow and Boulder? March and the girl?... They none of them fit—"

"But, look here," Locker interjected a little impatiently. "I admit that Boulder's having gone off like this is a bit queer. But so far as March and the girl are concerned, there may be some perfectly reasonable explanation. Or a damn' silly explanation—whichever you like. They might have eloped, or something... And Sparrow's probably tight—"

Portland shook his head. "Didn't you understand what Mrs. Norwood said about the telephone conversation?" he demanded. "She rang up March—apparently at the office—to tell him that she'd found the carbons, or carbon copies—she called 'em 'blacks'—of the share list... And she disappeared after that! She's been attacked once for the sake of that list—"

"And it might have been March?" Locker demanded. "What was he doing at the office, anyhow?"

"If he's got nothing to do with it, it's hard to see... If he's guilty—well, he might have been cooking the accounts of Mrs. Boolby's estate."

"Yes. Or most probably hers. Someone for whom the firm has been acting as trustee... I thought that from the beginning. You see, that share business of Hawthorne's was so extraordinary that it simply had to have something to do with his being murdered. Why does he suddenly want that information from Lazer and Horde? Why does he want to see the actual certificates—though he assures Lazer that his certificates are genuine? Which, of course, Lazer is in a position to prove. Obviously because, somewhere or other, he's come across some which are forged. Well enough forged, apparently, to pass muster. There's only one thing wrong with them, short of an expert examination, and mere chance shows Hawthorne what that is."

"The numbers are duplicated. If the murderer had forged shares, he'd have to put some numbers on them. It wouldn't matter what numbers he put for anyone like Mrs. Boolby. But, suppose Hawthorne, or Sparrow, had seen those numbers—perhaps made notes of them. And then suppose they see them again in the possession of someone else—and yet know that the shares haven't changed hands. Obviously one of them is forged. And that one is, very probably, the one held by the lawyers."

"It's supposition," Locker objected. "And rotten luck on Elder—or March. Their being found out, I mean... Then, he didn't kill Mrs. Boolby? He'd no motive."

"Elder—if it was Elder—or March, had every reason to pray she'd live to be a hundred. Because when she died, her money went to Sparrow who is an accountant, and not in the least likely to let the firm manage his affairs for him and just pocket the income they chose to send him... And that's what scares me. About tonight."

"Who are missing? Boulder—who proves Elder's alibi; the girl, who had seen the share list even though she didn't remember it; and Sparrow, who was probably beginning to ask for some kind of an account from Elder. If Elder was guilty—"

"He'd be the ideal scapegoat. Because he was the one other person who could have tampered with the shares." He frowned. "If I didn't know Elder was at his house—"

Locker rose to his feet and strode two or three times across the room. He was half inclined to dismiss the Inspector's theory as unproved moonshine. And, in any case, what were they to do? They had already searched the office; and neither March nor the girl had been there.

"At the club. He'd had one or two drinks already. And he seems to have been confiding the secrets of his life to the barman. According to him, he got the impression that Sparrow had been speculating and had got into some kind of a hole. Hawthorne pulled him out—on terms which, I gather, tied him up pretty thoroughly. He's inclined to think Mrs. Boolby's death is a gift from the gods, and hinted at a settlement soon... I wonder if he's got one?"

There was a grimness about the last words which did not escape Locker. His worried frown deepened.

Portland rose suddenly to his feet. "Let's go and see Elder again," he said. "There's a chance, even though he is so damned cool, that he may crack up... And besides, I want to make sure—"

He left the sentence unfinished, but ten minutes later he was making very sure indeed that Elder had not left his house that evening. And on that point the watchers he had posted were unanimous. The men at the back and front were positive that by no means could the lawyer have passed them; Sergeant Plum added his testimony that, if he had not seen Elder continuously, he had at least seen him at sufficiently short intervals to make it unlikely he could have done anything in the meantime. Locker was more than ever convinced that his colleague had made a mistake, and Portland himself was plainly shaken.

Elder was still up. He received them pleasantly. There was in his manner as he listened to the list of disappearances to date just the right amount of concern; he was reassuring on the subject of March, but with a delicate over-emphasis which perhaps suggested a doubt. Portland seemed to be playing for time. He had nothing new to ask, and the lawyer was plainly getting impatient.

"If you'll excuse me?" he apologised. "I just want to put through a call. I promised I'd ring a man up— No. It's not private. You needn't leave—"

He reached for the telephone and gave the number. Locker felt his colleague start, and turned to look at him curiously. And as he did so his own memory told him the reason. For the number Elder had given was the number of his own office. He looked a question at Portland, but the Inspector did not see it. He was staring at the man at the telephone.

For a moment Elder sat there with the receiver to his ear. It seemed as though the call was important, for his hand trembled slightly, and the fingers which were not holding the telephone tapped nervously on the desk. But after a surprisingly short interval he replaced it with a slight frown.

He looked up. Portland averted his eyes just in time. He had been gazing at the black smudge which the lawyer's coat sleeve had left on the paper where his arm had rested, and there was a look of comprehension in his eyes. He nodded to Locker and rose to his feet.

"Well, I don't think we need trouble you more at the moment, sir," he said. "But I feel obliged to warn you."

"I don't want you to leave the house, sir, for the next two or three hours. I believe you're in danger... I wonder if you'd mind the sergeant actually sitting with you?"

Elder raised his eyebrows. "By all means," he assented. "In danger? From Boulder?"

Portland did not answer the question. "In danger of your life, sir," he said seriously. "I'll give instructions—"

Locker was completely mystified. It seemed pointless on the part of Elder to ring up a number which he should know perfectly well would give no answer. And, the Superintendent had been practically sure, he had told an equally pointless lie about it. The number had not been engaged. He had heard the ringing of the bell. Even more mystifying was Portland's sudden change of attitude. He simply hustled Locker to the car after whispering a few instructions to Plum, and snapped two words to the driver which surprised the Superintendent still more.

"Elder's office?" he demanded as the car started with a jerk. "What the blazes do you expect to find there?"

"And you really think Elder's life's in danger?" Locker asked with a trace of incredulity. "With men at the back and at the front, and with Plum on the premises?"

Portland smiled a very tight-lipped smile. "All the more because of that!" he said, and lapsed into silence.

A journey which, in daylight, would scarcely have taken five minutes proved unexpectedly long-drawn-out. Mere chance seemed to delay them at every possible point, and it was nearly a quarter of an hour before they tuned the corner from the square and started up the road towards the office. As the car yet again came to a halt, Portland jerked down the window and looked out. For once he seemed to have lost his temper.

He opened the door and jumped out. The street was blocked by a crowd which was swelling every moment in spite of the efforts of the police. And as he looked, the reason for it became apparent. From a first floor window just up the street came a sudden burst of smoke and flames which lit up the upturned faces luridly for a moment and disappeared.

Locker was at his elbow. "Elder's office?" he asked unnecessarily. "But how—?"

Portland was already elbowing his way through the spectators by means which were more effective than polite. In a clear space before the building, volunteer firemen were getting hoses into action, and with a feeling of relief he noted that a ladder was already reared towards a window where the flames as yet showed only as a flickering reflection. And by the hydrant, extremely wet, and slightly singed, Mr. Berchell was obviously having the time of his life. He turned as Portland gripped his arm.

"It's all right," he shrieked above the noise. "We got them out! Just in time... Five minutes more—and the real brigade not here!"

Portland shouted a question; then looked as Berchell waved his hand at an ambulance standing just up the street, and hurried towards it. Locker found him standing there, looking from the two dead men to where Paul March was unashamedly holding Pamela in his arms. He made a rueful grimace as he caught the Superintendent's eye and glanced down at the bodies.

It was some hours later, and Elder was already lodged in the cells before Locker had a chance to hear the explanation of a whole variety of points which still troubled him. The Chief Constable made a second member of the audience, and he, at least, would have been distinctly critical, if he had not been almost stunned by the arrest of so respectable a member of the community.

"If you suspected him from the first, surely it could have been prevented?" he suggested. "Though, I confess, it still seems unbelievable that a man like Elder—with his position in the town—"

"It was to safeguard that position he did it, sir," Portland pointed out. "And at first we only suspected him among others. We'd no evidence." He frowned a little. He himself was not feeling happy about the deaths of Boulder and Sparrow. "Even now, a good deal of our evidence as to motive depends on whether his safe is as fire-proof as the makers claim. Luckily one of Berchell's firemen slammed the door. So, its contents may survive."

"Well, sir, I rather think we may find the forged certificates—probably mutilated. Or some equivalent. One of the remarkable things about the case is the care Elder showed, and he wouldn't overlook the need for some remains... He even got the fire brigade out of the way by a false call."

"Yes. About Mrs. Boolby's shares—and possibly some others. Certainly Mrs. Boolby's. That's why her death speeded things up so. Elder really was shocked by that."

"I still don't understand how he could have done it all," Locker objected. "He was near White Gables, and could have sounded the gas alarm. And, of course, planted the bombs. But the substitution of the mask? The night watchman—the siren? He couldn't have worked the siren and got round in time. And he hadn't swum the canal? Was that Boulder?"

"No. The butler's evidence is quite definite that Boulder was in the house at that time... Personally, I don't think Boulder had anything to do with Hawthorne's death—but he did find out something about it, and tried to blackmail Elder. Elder, having the more powerful personality of the two, managed to make him an accomplice, in the matter of his alibi the night Miss Norwood was assaulted... I don't mind saying I suspected that alibi from the first. It wasn't natural for a good servant to be quite so ready with the information as soon as we rang the door bell. But, I believe, apart from that, Boulder had nothing to do with the actual crimes, until to-night. Then he knocked out March."

"You yourself found out how that was done. I thought there had been an accomplice until you found that cable." He reached forward to the table where the coil lay and pulled it towards them. You see, it's a double piece of wire, partly unwrapped. And long enough—" he paused. "Long enough to stretch across the canal."

"Yes. He knocked out the night watchman as you thought, as soon as the man came on duty. He fixed his wire, and probably threw a stone over the canal with a thread attached to the end. Then, if he left the power- and siren-switches on, he could sound the siren from the other side by pulling over the wire and making a connexion. We may find some kind of switch at his house. When he had finished, he tugged. The connexion was broken; the wire came through the open window, and he left it at the garage on his way to White Gables. The whole thing would only take a few minutes. There was the fog and it was growing dark... No one was likely to see him clearly. But Miss Norwood did get a glimpse. And, of course, didn't tell us."

"I'm inclined to think at the barber's, sir. Hawthorne was very particular about his mask; and there weren't many places where he left it knocking about. But Elder and he went to the same barber's, and they both went three days before. That is particularly important. Because the mask could not have been substituted before Saturday."

"Elder's head was larger. His mask didn't really fit Hawthorne, and Hawthorne held a weekly drill. He'd have noticed it."

"The cyanide?" Locker asked. It was still a sore point with him. "Where did he get that?"

"We don't know yet... But probably he found a careless chemist in some other town. And either the man hasn't associated the purchase with this murder, or he's keeping quiet. You see, he may have had that for some time. Not for Hawthorne, but for himself. He must have known there'd be a crash eventually." He paused. "The potash and the clocks wouldn't present any difficulty."

"That's one solid bit of proof against him, sir. But we only got that to-night. It came from the lighting system in the attic of his own house."

"It was. That's what I say. He was very thorough. He'd removed it all right. And put dust on the trap to the loft. But it wasn't the right dust. He'd swept plaster dust from between the joists... I was pretty certain after I'd been up there. When I said there was nothing there, I meant it. There wasn't even the wire. That's why I left men on guard. It wasn't to keep Boulder out. I thought that Boulder had either bolted or Elder had put him out of the way. It was to keep Elder there. And I failed—"

"How did he get out?" Locker asked after a brief pause. "He couldn't slip past the men on watch?"

"Through the coal hole. I guessed when he left that mark on the paper when he telephoned." He frowned. "I should have thought of it before."

"Because he couldn't quite make out why we'd come. He was afraid we might want another look at the office. And, that time, he couldn't allow that! The whole stage was set—"

"At intervals. Actually, I think, he went out twice. Of course, the risk was colossal. But so was the risk of not doing it. The scene which we should have found in the office when the fire had burnt out was the one thing which might have given an explanation not involving Elder himself. The burnt bodies of the dishonest servant; the junior partner who needed money; the girl; and Sparrow who might have detected the fraud. Could we have got past it? I don't know. It would have looked as though March and Boulder had worked the thing between them, and got caught themselves."

"But—but it's so out of keeping with the man's life!" the Chief Constable protested.

"With his life as a lawyer, sir," Portland corrected. "But, if you ask Mr. Berchell, he'll tell you that Elder was an officer in the last war, and excellent in trench raids. Perhaps that's how he learnt to be so handy in knocking people out. The army reveals a lot of hidden talent."

Locker wrinkled his brows. "But when we went to the office it was empty," he said. "You're not suggesting a secret passage?"

"That's just what there was—a secret staircase. Or, rather, a staircase which had become secret. You see, at one time there was no separate entrance to the first floor. It was approached from the shop. When the building was converted to offices, the top of the staircase was simply covered over with a wooden flooring... Actually there was a door at the bottom, I understand, behind some old showcases."

"It was a perfect hiding-place," Locker conceded in unwilling admiration. "And when we went they were there? There wasn't a sign of them. I was sure the whole show was damned nonsense."

"There was—a sign," Portland corrected. "I saw you sniffing. So was I, and I only thought that we'd caught colds. Of course, it was that gas. There wasn't much of it in the room above, but just enough!"

"Berchell knows where that came from," Locker supplied. "There was some missing a little while ago from the gas chamber. It's a new tear gas. They use it for testing masks."

"No doubt Elder's interest in A.R.P. accounted for that. It helped him in lots of ways... I'm inclined to think that he lost his head a little there. He'd meant that as a precaution in case he was caught by the police. Seeing March on his feet, he thought he was free and chucked it."

"If we hadn't—" Portland echoed the words. "I wonder what we should have made of it—four burnt bodies and a burnt-out safe; two of the dead obviously living when the fire started. You see, that's why he kept March and Miss Norwood alive. It wasn't just cruelty. He wanted to have just the right medical evidence at the inquest."

"Thank God we were in time!" the Chief Constable said fervently. "It's bad enough as it is."

Portland nodded. "It's not been a good case, sir," he assented gloomily. "I'm not satisfied with what's happened. Don't think that. I don't see how anyone could be—"

Locker grinned. Now that the strain was over his spirits were reasserting themselves.

"Two people are," he corrected, "March and the girl. I saw 'em, and they don't care if it snows... No, three. Berchell." He grinned. "The A.R.P. have had the perfect practice!"

THE END

MAX DALMAN

MASK FOR MURDER

First published by Ward, Lock & Co., London, 1940 This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2025 Version Date: 2025-07-28 Produced by Matthias Kaether and Roy Glashan All content added by RGL is proprietary and protected by copyright. Click here for more books by this author

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER I Raid Warning

CHAPTER II False Alarm

CHAPTER III A Knock-Out

CHAPTER IV A Witness Lost

CHAPTER V Bang Goes Saxpence

CHAPTER VI The Superintendent Suspects

CHAPTER VII In Confidence

CHAPTER VIII A Discovery in the Canal

CHAPTER IX Stolen Clue

CHAPTER X Out of the Mud

CHAPTER XI The Impatience of Mr. Sparrow

CHAPTER XII An Encounter with the Press

CHAPTER XIII Evidence From Mr. Elder

CHAPTER XIV More About Masks

CHAPTER XV News of a Will

CHAPTER XVI Words from a Night Watchman

CHAPTER XVII An Afternoon Out

CHAPTER XVIII Inspector Portland Takes Tea

CHAPTER XIX A Matter of Mathematics

CHAPTER XX Vanishing of a Valet

CHAPTER XXI Trouble at the Office

CHAPTER XXII A Colour Problem

CHAPTER XXIII Gas Attack

CHAPTER XXIV Portland Draws Blank

CHAPTER XXV The Phone Rings

CHAPTER XXVI Explanations