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Title:      The Chief Witness
Author:     Herbert Adams
eBook No.:  0500771.txt
Edition:    1
Language:   English
Character set encoding:     Latin-1(ISO-8859-1)--8 bit
Date first posted:          August 2005
Date most recently updated: October 2007

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Title:      The Chief Witness
Author:     Herbert Adams





I. COINCIDENCE

"I WONDER," said Sir Christopher Bennion, "how many of us really become
what in our youths we hoped to be? Very few, I imagine."

"You could not have a male population entirely of railway guards and
airmen," his son Roger remarked.

"I was not referring to nursery fancies," replied the father, "but to a
young man's ideas when he begins to take life seriously."

"I always wanted to be a millionaire-philanthropist," said Gordon Lisle.
"I became a journalist. The next best thing, of course."

"Better," said Roger. "Your millionaire-philanthropist can only give away
what he himself possesses. The journalist can dispose of what everyone
owns anywhere."

"What is your experience, Inspector Goff?" asked the baronet, turning to
the fourth of the party, a burly clean-shaven, full-faced man who was
smoking a big pipe and enjoying his drink.

"Well, Sir Christopher," he replied, removing his pipe from his mouth,
"if few men become what they hoped to be, I am an exception. My father
was a policeman; I always wanted to be a policeman; I am a policeman."

"Born with a whistle in his mouth," murmured Roger, "and protesting
loudly when his mother diluted the bottle with more than the statutory
proportion of water."

The others laughed. It is always funny to picture a very big man as a
baby. Actually they had met together in Goff's honour. Sir Christopher,
knowing that his son had worked with the eminent detective in several
important cases, had expressed a desire to meet him. So Roger had
arranged the little party at his Sloane Street flat, asking Gordon Lisle
to complete the number. Lisle, a fair-haired young fellow of about his
own age, was the "crime editor" on a popular Sunday newspaper. It was up
to him to see that its readers got the fullest possible details of all
the nastiest happenings of the week, and he did his job well. He and Goff
had met before, though never perhaps on such amicable terms.

"A policeman's life," Sir Christopher said, "must offer more interest and
variety than most."

"I don't know," drawled Lisle, "one drunk and disorderly must be very
like another, and even smelling motorists' breath to swear they are
incapable of driving must pall after a time."

"There is a lot of routine work in the ranks," said Goff, unruffled, "but
I have no complaint on that score."

"Murder, arson, robbery, treason, alien spies and the I.R.A.," murmured
Roger. "Sheer joy all the time."

"The detection of crime," observed Sir Christopher, "is largely a matter
of hard work and persistence, we all know that. But how often does
coincidence come into it?"

"Rather depends, sir, what you mean by coincidence," said the inspector.

"Shrewdly put," nodded Lisle.

"Coincidence, according to Euclid," said Roger, "is falling together, or
occupying the same space. He taught us how to prove it, but there I
generally stuck."

"I was using the word," explained Sir Christopher, "in the customary
sense, implying the unexpected. A combination of events that could not be
foreseen or counted on."

"Life is made up of coincidence," Lisle declared. "John Brown on holiday
stays at the same boarding house as Janet Smith, and Janet Smith becomes
Mrs. Brown and the mother of the little Browns, if any. Had John Brown
gone elsewhere he would have married Ethel Jones, while Janet would have
become Mrs. Robinson. In after years Mrs. Robinson might meet Mrs. Brown
and say, if only she realised it, 'What a queer coincidence! If your
husband had gone to Bella Vista and mine to Ocean View, instead of the
other way about, I should be the mother of your children!'"

"Circumstances shape our lives," agreed Sir Christopher, "but that is
hardly what I meant. If this Mrs. Brown had some valuable diamonds and
left her safe unlocked for the first time on the very night a burglar
visited her, that I should call a very unfortunate coincidence."

"I should enquire about the insurance policy," grunted Goff, relighting
his pipe.

"Meaning you do not believe in coincidence?" Roger asked.

"Not quite that, but a burglary in such circumstances generally means an
inside job. Someone sees the open safe and fakes a fictitious entry."

"But suppose the burglary is genuine," said Lisle, "and while searching
for something else you come across part of the loot and so catch the
criminal?"

"That happens, but if we want a thing there are a thousand men up and
down the land on the lookout for it. It is not surprising if one of them
finds it, even if he was looking for something else at the time."

"But coincidences do occur," said Roger. "The other day I saw car JT 6001
standing next to car TJ 6001. The owners were complete strangers; I was
curious enough to ask. The odds against such a thing must be enormous."

"We are told it is billions to one against a card-player being dealt a
complete suit," Lisle said, "but we read about it fairly frequently."

"The most curious coincidence I ever experienced," remarked Sir
Christopher, "happened before I was married. I was staying at a hotel and
was told I was wanted on the telephone. I went, and a lady's voice said,
'Is that you, Chris?' 'It is,' I replied, 'who are you?' 'Julia, your
sister,' was the answer. 'I think you must want someone else,' I said.
'But you are Christopher Bennion? I am Julia.' The weird thing was that I
had had a sister Julia, and had attended her funeral only a few weeks
before. It gave me quite a shock."

"Was it a badly-timed joke, sir?" asked Lisle.

"No. It was all perfectly genuine. Another Christopher Bennion had been
at the hotel a few days previously, and his sister Julia had rung up to
see if he was still there. Not common names, but it happened."

"The oddest case I know of," said Roger, "and I believe it is well
authenticated, was of three men, a Canadian, a New Zealander and an
Englishman, who were in hospital together in 1918 and became very good
friends. Twenty years afterwards the Canadian brought his wife to London
for the first time, and on the night of their arrival, sitting at the
next table in a restaurant, was the New Zealander, who had brought his
wife, also for the first time on a similar visit. They decided to go
somewhere together and the commissionaire who called a taxi for them was
their old friend the Englishman."

"I hope they took him with them," said Lisle.

"They certainly arranged a meeting."

"I can cap that," Goff observed. "One of our fellows was on holiday at
Brighton, and the photographer who snaps you as you pass along the front
took a picture of him and handed him a card saying where it would be on
view. He had vanity enough to go along the next day to see what he looked
like. There was a display board with dozens of them, and close to his
photograph was one of a man we had badly wanted for some time. We had no
idea where he was, but that snap put us on the trail and he was arrested
the same night. An embezzlement case. He got five years."

"That shows I was right," said Sir Christopher. "Coincidence catches
criminals in fact as well as in fiction."

"I am not denying that, sir. I only say if we waited for coincidences a
lot of criminals would escape."

The talk went on for a long time, and each had more stories to tell. At
last Sir Christopher decided he must be going, and that was the signal
for the others also to depart. Roger went down to see them off.

"Still raining," said Lisle. "What a summer!"

The baronet offered him and Goff a lift in his spacious car, which was
gladly accepted.

When he returned to his room, Roger saw that Goff had forgotten his pipe.
A well-bitten briar, left on the little table beside an empty glass.

A very trivial thing. But, had Goff taken that pipe with him, a curious
crime would never have been cleared up and an innocent man might have
hanged.

II: IN DEATH TOGETHER

Inspector Gory was frowning over the usual pile of official papers when
Roger called on him the next morning at Scotland Yard.

"Surprised you did not miss it," the visitor said, handing over the pipe.

"I did, when I got home," the detective replied. "I was pretty sure I had
left it at your place, but I might of course have dropped it."

"An easy scent to follow! It is time you had a new one."

"Thanks for bringing it. I don't like new pipes."

He spoke rather shortly and Roger turned to go, not wanting to interrupt
the work of a busy man. Goff, however, stopped him.

"We were talking last night about coincidences. If two men, brothers,
committed suicide in almost identical circumstances, and at precisely the
same moment, half a mile apart--what would you call that?"

"If it was by agreement, I suppose I should call it insanity. If they did
it entirely independently of one another, it would be the queerest
coincidence on record."

Goff grunted in his characteristic way and frowned again at the paper on
his desk.

"Did it happen?" Roger asked.

"It did. At two minutes to eleven last night. Just when we were talking
of such things."

"People of position?"

"An apparently well-to-do solicitor and an apparently equally well-to-do
accountant."

"Generally hard-headed people," said Roger; "not the suicide type. But if
they were jointly concerned in some financial affair that failed, it
might account for it."

"I am awaiting a reply to enquiries as to their finances, then I am going
to look into things. It all seems simple enough, but the Chief is not
satisfied. Like to come with me?"

"I would," Roger replied. "To be in on such a case from the start should
be very instructive, however straightforward it might be. May I ask who
the people are?"

"The solicitor is Alexander Curtis, of Morant and Curtis of Lincoln's
Inn. Age about fifty. He lived in a service flat in Hans Avenue, not far
from Sloane Street, with his wife. No children. The body was found at
seven this morning by a maid who came in to tidy up the living room."

"The wife was away?"

"No. But she says she knew nothing about it. Greatly shocked, of course.
The man was shot in the head and the revolver was at his feet."

"Finger-prints in order, I suppose?"

"Being verified."

"Any sort of letter of farewell or explanation?"

"Not in either case," replied Goff, "so far as is at present known."

"Curious. How was the time fixed?"

"In falling he apparently knocked over a clock that stands on his desk
and it stopped at two minutes to eleven. The doctor who was called
directly the body was found gave that time as about right."

"You may find he has been ill or depressed," said Roger. "What about the
other case?"

"Frederick Curtis, practising as an accountant in London Wall. A widower,
living with his daughter Delia in a small house in Egerton Square, off
the Brompton Road. A year or two younger than his brother Alexander. Shot
in the head in precisely the same way at two minutes to eleven."

"Did he also knock a clock over?" asked Roger.

"No. When he fell he broke the glass of his wrist-watch, and that put it
out of action. Doctor certifies the time of death as correct."

"When was this body found?"

"The story there is a bit different. Delia, the daughter, rather a gay
young person, came in from a night club or a bottle party or something of
the sort, with a bunch of her friends at about three a.m. She apparently
promised them another drink and went to her father's room to get it,
thinking he would have gone to bed. She discovered the body and gave the
alarm."

"In each case the men were at home alone?"

"Apparently."

"And no one heard a shot?"

"Not so far as we know. But my enquiries have not yet begun. We have just
had the preliminary reports."

"It may prove simple enough," said Roger, "when you learn what sort of
men they were. I should look for pre-arrangement rather than coincidence.
For one man to die in such a way, with no note of explanation or
farewell, would be curious; but for two to do it at the same moment seems
hardly credible, unless they were faced by some common disaster. You are
sure Frederick was a year or two younger than Alexander?"

"That is my information. Why?"

"One hears odd stories of twins who fall ill together and share each
other's sensations in a remarkable way, although it would be a very
extreme case of telepathy for one to commit suicide because the other was
doing so--except of course by previous agreement. But as the Curtis
brothers are not twins you must look for something less fantastic."

At that moment the telephone bell sounded, and Goff listened with brief
interjections to a fairly long statement.

"That's that," he muttered, replacing the receiver. "From enquiries at
the banks and business houses of both the men their affairs are perfectly
in order, and, so far as is known, there is no financial difficulty in
either case."

"Insanity in the family?" asked Roger.

"That remains to be seen. We had better get going."

Inspector Goff decided to call first on the widow of the solicitor,
Alexander Curtis. The journey did not take long and neither he nor Roger
said much on the way. There were probably many questions that each of
them could have asked, but it would be time enough for that when they
faced those who might be able to answer them.

The block of service flats was at the corner of Hans Avenue and close to
Sloane Square. A noisy position, but a very convenient one for a man with
an office in Lincoln's Inn. Roger noted that the lift was automatic. They
shot swiftly up to the top floor, on which was the flat for which they
were bound.

Goff pressed the bell and the door was opened by a policeman in uniform,
who saluted on seeing him.

"Who is here?" asked the inspector.

"Sergeant Queen, sir. Waiting for you. The others have gone."

"Mrs. Curtis in?"

"Yes, sir. In her bedroom."

Roger followed Goff into the sitting-room from which the body had not yet
been removed. Sergeant Queen, a thin, alert-looking man, spoke in a
subdued tone of voice.

"The photographers and the finger-print men have finished. They have
taken the gun to test it. Otherwise nothing has been disturbed."

It was a comfortably furnished room that apparently served as a study as
well as a general sitting-room. A costly Persian carpet, some well-padded
easy chairs, and, by the window, a flat-topped dark oak desk with a
leather writing chair were its most notable appointments. The body of the
dead man lay on the floor near the desk. A few feet away was a small gilt
clock. It was face upwards and the hands still pointed to two minutes to
eleven.

Goff bent over the body and looked at the wound in the side of the head
near the right temple.

"Gun held close to head," he muttered. "Must have been standing up, or he
would have remained in the chair."

"Clock tested for finger-prints?" asked Roger.

"Not yet, sir," Queen replied. "We thought if we moved it, it might start
going again. We left it for Inspector Goff to see."

"Do you know where on the desk it stood?"

"No, sir. Mrs. Curtis may be able to tell us that."

Goff made a careful examination of all the things that he thought might
be of interest. He noted that the few papers on the desk were not
disordered and that an opened book, a historical novel, lay face
downwards as though the user of the room had recently been reading it.

"What is there about Charles II and his ladies that should make a man put
the book down and shoot himself?" Roger enquired.

No one was prepared with a reply, and Goff, having finished his
examination, asked: "Is there another sitting-room?"

"Yes, sir," said Queen. "The place where they eat."

"I will see Mrs. Curtis there."

III: THE WIDOW

It would be unjust to judge any woman's looks by her appearance a few
hours after she had suddenly heard of her husband's suicide.

Helen Curtis was seated in a low chair when they entered her room, and
she made a motion to them to sit down. She was about forty years of age.
As a girl she had undoubtedly been attractive, with that fair-haired type
of prettiness that comes from a fresh colour and an animated expression.
She had coarsened with the passing years, and her blue eyes were hard.
She seemed shocked at the tragedy that had befallen her, yet there was no
signs of deep personal grief.

"This is a very distressing business," Goff began in his most soothing
manner, "but I am sure you will help me in every way you can."

"Of course I will," she said. Her voice was low and not unpleasing.

"How long have you and your husband lived here?"

"About four years. We have a cottage in Gloucestershire as well."

"Had your husband been in good health lately?"

"He had not complained. His digestion was a little troublesome
sometimes."

"He had not been depressed?"

"Not that I was aware of."

There was little sympathy in her tone. Roger, who was listening to all
that was said, formed the impression that she and her husband had not got
on too well together. Probably Goff thought the same. He led up to it
with his usual tact.

"What is the accommodation of this flat?"

"You can see over it if you like."

"I will, but perhaps you would describe it to me."

"It is really two flats thrown into one. The whole of the floor. So there
are two bedrooms, two sitting-rooms and two bath rooms."

"This is the dining-room?"

In the modern way it was not a room designed solely for meals. There was
a table against the wall that folded into a very small space and there
were four chairs of a suitable design to go with it, but, for the rest,
the furnishing was that of a lady's sitting-room. It had a low couch,
padded seats and small tables with a superfluity of ornaments.

"If we have meals up here," Mrs. Curtis said in reply to his question.

"Is that unusual?"

"There is a restaurant downstairs, and we were out a good deal."

"What did you do last night?"

For a moment the woman hesitated. Then she spoke more quickly.

"My husband brought home two tickets for the theatre, which his partner
Mr. Morant had given him. He did not wish to go, so I telephoned to my
sister to meet me and have some dinner first. We went to the Trocadero
because that is near the theatre. Afterwards I came home alone."

"Your husband seemed in normal health and spirits when you left him?"

"I--I think so."

"He had his dinner up here, or in the restaurant?"

"I don't know. When he was alone he generally had something up here."

"To what theatre did you go?"

"To the Cardinal. It was the second night of a new play. I think Mr.
Morant, or clients of his, have an interest in it."

"At what time did you get home?"

"I do not know exactly. Plays generally end about eleven. Mr. Morant
spoke to me before I went out and asked me what I thought of it. I was
talking to him for a little time. I suppose I was back between half-past
eleven and twelve."

"I notice it is an automatic lift. You brought yourself up and went
straight to your room?"

"That is so."

"You and your husband have separate rooms?"

"We have."

"Did you look into his room, or his bedroom?"

"I did not. I thought he would have gone to bed and did not wish to
disturb him."

"Would that be usual when you had been out?"

"Quite usual," she said in the same hard tone.

"When did you first know what had happened?"

"When the maid came up this morning to straighten the rooms. She saw--she
saw him, and she told me."

"Thank you, Mrs. Curtis. Can you account in any way for your husband
shooting himself?"

"I cannot."

"Had he ever threatened to do such a thing?"

"Never. He seemed to enjoy life, in his own way." There was bitterness in
her tone and Goff paused a moment before he went on again.

"Was he expecting any visitors last evening?"

"He did not say so."

"If he had any, I suppose they would come up in the lift as you did, and
he would admit them?"

"Unless they rang for the porter to bring them up."

"I did not see a porter," said Goff.

"You would not, unless you rang for him."

"So visitors might come and go without being seen?"

"Most likely."

"You have of course heard that his brother, Mr. Frederick Curtis, also
shot himself at apparently the same time last night?"

"Mr. Morant told me so."

"When did he tell you?"

"He telephoned a little before you came here. He said you had sent
someone to the office who had told him about it. He was very kind. He
said he would come round as soon as he could, in case he could be of any
help."

"I see. Were the two brothers, your husband and Frederick, on good
terms?"

"Very."

"Had they many interests in common?"

"How do you mean? They both played golf, and they had business together."

"What I mean is, could some common disaster or disappointment have led
them both to end their lives in that way, and at the same time?"

"I cannot account for it anyhow else. But I have no idea what the
disaster could have been. Mr. Morant told me there was no trouble of that
kind. He could not explain it at all."

Her emotionless way of speaking was really remarkable. Roger found
himself wondering whether she did not care, or whether she restrained
herself with a strong will-power that would sooner or later fail her.

"You have no children?" asked Goff.

"No."

"Had your husband any other relations besides Frederick and Frederick's
daughter?"

"There is another brother, Marmaduke. He is on the Stock Exchange."

"The Stock Exchange? Might the brothers have speculated through him?"

"I never heard of it. I do not like Marmaduke."

Her likes were of no particular moment and it did not seem that Goff
could get much further.

"Frederick could have come here last night," he said, as though thinking
aloud, "or they might have telephoned one another. We can enquire about
the calls." Then he asked the name and address of the sister with whom
Mrs. Curtis had spent the evening.

"Mrs. Farr, of Colston Court, Kensington," was the reply.

"Were you and your husband on good terms?" asked Goff bluntly.

Mrs. Curtis did not seem to resent the enquiry. She shrugged her
shoulders. "As good terms as many other people."

As Goff had apparently nothing more to ask, Roger enquired if he might
put a question.

"Your husband was a studious man, Mrs. Curtis?" he said pleasantly.

"He read a good deal," she replied. "Though he had other amusements."

"Was he of what I would call fixed habits?"

"What do you mean?" She looked at him as though wondering what lay behind
the question.

"Some of us, and I believe it becomes more pronounced as we grow older,
like to have the things we use always in the same place. Pipes, slippers,
papers, just where we know we shall find them."

"Oh, yes, he was very much that way."

"He would wish the things on his desk always arranged the same--the
inkpot, the ash-tray, the reading lamp, and so on?"

"Yes. He was quite fussy about it."

"Where did his little clock generally stand?"

"His clock? At the back of his desk, to the left."

"Always there?"

"I never remember seeing it anywhere else."

"If he was standing in front of his desk when he shot himself, could he
have knocked over the clock?"

She stared at him, and some of the colour faded from her cheeks.

"I do not quite understand," she muttered.

"Unless he fell across the desk," said Roger gently, "he could not have
reached the clock. From the position in which he was found, and the
orderly condition of his papers, I do not think he fell across the desk."

"Perhaps--perhaps I was wrong. The clock was not always at the back of
the desk."

"Had you ever known it stand anywhere else?"

"I--I think I had."

"You told Inspector Goff that you thought your husband enjoyed life in
his own way. What exactly did you mean?"

She stared at him for some moments.

"I meant he liked books and that sort of thing."

"But you said he had other amusements?"

"No one can be reading all the time."

Before Roger could say any more the constable entered the room to inform
his superior officer that a Mr. Morant had called and was wishing to see
Mrs. Curtis.

"Bring him in," said Goff.

IV: THE PARTNER

VICTOR Morant, partner of the late Alexander Curtis, was a
striking-looking man in the mid-fifties. His silver-white hair contrasted
vividly with a smooth, fresh complexion, and strong black brows. He was
slightly built, of barely medium height, but his was a personality not to
be overlooked. He was obviously a man who knew his own mind and acted
promptly in the way he saw right. He was neatly dressed with a black
jacket and dark striped trousers.

When he entered the room he went straight to Mrs. Curtis and took her
hand in both of his.

"You know how distressed I am," he said simply. "Please rely on me to
help you in every way I can. I take it these gentlemen represent the
police?"

"They do," she said.

She did not appear to return his greeting with any particular warmth.
Roger's impression was that the offer to help her was from sympathy and a
sense of duty, not because of any strong friendship between them.

Goff introduced himself and said he had intended to call on Mr. Morant at
his office.

"Certainly," the solicitor said. "Or if you prefer it, and Mrs. Curtis
permits, I can answer any questions now."

"It would save time," said Goff.

"Have you asked Mrs. Curtis all you wish to know from her?"

"For the time being," the Inspector replied.

"Then might I suggest she be allowed to retire to her room? We do not
wish to cause her unnecessary distress."

"It might be best," said Goff.

Without a word Mrs. Curtis left them. She moved slowly, and Roger, who
opened the door for her, thought she would have preferred to stay, to
hear what was said. But she could hardly ask to be allowed to do so.

"I suppose you knew both the Curtis brothers very well?" Goff began.

"I knew Alexander very well indeed. He was my partner for twenty years.
We started together. I need hardly say what a gap in my life his death
will mean. With his brother Frederick I was not so intimate, though we
met fairly frequently."

"Can you in any way account for their killing themselves last night?"

"Indeed I cannot. When one of your men called this morning and told me
about it, I could hardly believe him. It seemed incredible, impossible. I
am still bewildered and find it hard to adjust my thoughts to it."

He showed more emotion than the widow had done. Partners for a number of
years may become almost more than brothers.

"Was Alexander Curtis subject to fits of depression?"

Morant considered the question for some moments before he replied.

"I do not think his private, or business affairs depressed him. He was
perhaps inclined to take world affairs too seriously."

"How do you mean?"

"He regarded war as inevitable and he saw in it the destruction of our
civilisation. He visualised all too clearly the suffering and desolation
it would entail. Alternatively, if by some miracle war could be avoided,
he was convinced that over-taxation and unemployment must bring about
revolution and economic ruin."

"He was a shrewd business man?" asked Goff.

"Most decidedly."

"Yet you say these fears for the future led him to suicide?"

"On the contrary," said Mr. Morant. "These things weighed on him very
much, yet I find it impossible to persuade myself they could account for
so desperate an act. We often discussed public affairs, but unfortunately
I could never get him to adopt my views as to the real remedy for our
troubles."

"What is your remedy?" Roger enquired.

"Are you asking that as a policeman?"

"I am not a policeman," said Roger. "I have no official standing. I want
to help Inspector Goff if I can."

"Mr. Roger Bennion," said Goff tersely.

Morant nodded. "Not by any chance related to Sir Christopher Bennion?" he
asked.

"My father."

"Then I am delighted to meet you," the solicitor declared warmly. "I have
met Sir Christopher and have a great respect for him. He might not
approve of what you call my remedy, but it can be given in two
words--capital levy. Not a new idea. It has been talked about, but never
tried here. I do not think there will be a war but, whether there is or
not, our financial position can only be remedied by the most drastic
action. Our colossal debts must be wiped out by compulsory contribution
from all classes according to their means. It will be painful, as all
severe operations are painful. I shall be hit, as your father and every
well-to-do person will be hit. But our generation, must suffer if we are
to survive. I am standing for Parliament as an independent candidate and
that is my battle cry."

He stopped abruptly and turned to Goff with something of a smile.

"I am sorry, Inspector. This young man started me on my pet subject. I
must not waste your time with it. Except for despondency as to the
future, I should say Alexander Curtis was in every way a normal
hard-headed man."

"Did he take an active part in politics?" asked the Inspector.

"No. He read a lot and, unluckily, he seemed always ready to believe the
worst."

"His own affairs were in order?"

"Undoubtedly. I think it will prove he died a wealthy man."

"Was his home life happy?"

Morant hesitated.

"I should say he and Mrs. Curtis understood one another. I would prefer
to leave it at that."

"How long had they been married?"

"About ten years."

"Had he been married before?"

"No."

"He was at his office yesterday as usual?"

"Yes. I was out most of the day and did not see him until the late
afternoon. Then I went to his room and offered him some tickets for the
theatre for the evening."

"Did he accept them?"

"I suggested he should take his wife, but she came without him. I saw her
when the show was over and was rather disappointed he was not there, as I
had a special reason for asking him to go. But that will not interest
you."

"It might," said Goff, "if we knew why he did not do so."

"It was a new play, Labour of Love, at the Cardinal Theatre. The night
before was the first night, and it was not very well received. I have an
interest in it, and had spent a good deal of the day with the principals
and other parties concerned suggesting cuts and improvements. I wanted to
get my partner's view of it; not as a theatrical expert but as that of an
ordinary intelligent playgoer. So I was disappointed when Mrs. Curtis
came without him."

"Was she alone?" asked Roger.

"I do not think she was, but I really did not notice her companion."

"Did her opinion interest you?"

"Not so much as her husband's would have done."

"Except for this sort of feeling of bad times ahead," said Goff, "you can
suggest no reason for your partner ending his life?"

"None whatever," Morant replied, "and I do not want you to think I regard
that as having been acute enough to account for it. It is just that I
cannot imagine anything else."

"Then as to Frederick, the brother. I have not been into that very fully
yet, but is there anything you can tell me about him? When did you last
see him?"

"Two days ago he called at our office and I saw him and Alexander
together. I should have said he was perfectly normal. He was a reserved
man, especially since his wife died. Our young people knew one another
better than he and I did."

"What young people?"

"He has a daughter, Delia," explained Morant, "and I have a niece, Margot
Watney, who lives with me Delia and Margot are great friends. Frederick
Curtis also has a nephew--I suppose I must say he had a nephew--Wilfrid
Mounsey. The two girls and Wilfrid are, I believe, very friendly, and
they have a group of other young people round them. They like to rush
about together in the modern way, but it is all innocent enough. A lot of
noise, but no mischief."

"Another brother, isn't there?" asked Goff. "You know him?"

"Marmaduke, the youngest of the three. He is on the Stock Exchange. I
meet him occasionally, but I do not know him as well as I knew his
brothers."

"Is there any taint of insanity in the family? Has Marmaduke ever shown
any queer kinks?"

"I have never heard any suggestions of insanity," said Morant, "and
Marmaduke certainly never displayed it. The three brothers, though not
unlike in appearance, were curiously dissimilar in character. Alexander,
my partner, I should describe as of the domesticated type. He was a keen
lawyer, of course, but when his work was done he liked a quiet home life.
If there was any friction at all between him and his wife it would have
been on that account; she desiring to enjoy society in a way that did not
appeal to him. He liked his evenings at home; she did not. I often
thought they would have been happier if they had had children."

"So they were not happy?" said Goff.

"Happiness is a relative term. There are many stages between perfect
contentment and continuous quarrels. He was not a quarrelsome man."

"Well--Frederick?"

"I should call him austere," Morant replied. "He was deeply religious and
never joined in his young people's fun. While not forbidding it, he often
showed his disapproval. That, at least, is the impression my niece has
given me. His wife died a few years ago, as I told you. Since then he
became more of a recluse."

"Would that account for his suicide?"

Morant made a gesture expressive of uncertainty.

"I cannot account for it in any other way," he said. "I some times tried
to interest both him and Alexander in other things. I like to live every
moment of the day--my work, the theatre and politics--but they had few
outside interests."

"The surviving brother, you say, is a different sort of man?"

"You will, no doubt, see Marmaduke and judge of him for yourself," Morant
replied. "If we had business on the Stock Exchange we sent it to him,
just as we sent accountancy work to Frederick. He is more assertive than
his brothers. Sometimes, perhaps, a little too assertive. If they were
home lovers, he was not. But I do not think there is any point in my
discussing him. He will, of course, be able to tell you more of his
brothers than I can."

There were a few further questions, but although Morant spoke freely he
was unable to throw any real light on the twofold mystery.

"One suicide," said Goff at last, "might be explicable, but for two
brothers to kill themselves apparently at the same moment, and for no
known reason, is something new in my experience. There must be some
explanation for it."

"It baffles me completely," said Morant. "Apart from the distress it
causes me, I should be happier if I could in some way account for it. I
hope your enquiries may have such success as is possible. You may rely on
me for any assistance in my power."

As he was remaining to see Mrs. Curtis, Goff and Roger decided to visit
the other house of tragedy.

"I am interested in your scheme for curing our social ills," Roger said
as they parted. "Some day I would like to hear more of it."

"Certainly, my boy, certainly. You must come to one of my meetings. I
would like you to meet my niece."

V: THE DAUGHTER

EGERTON SQUARE IS not a square; it has only two sides. Its houses do not
face a garden; they back on one. A site once occupied by stables and
workmen's cottages had been cleared and two rows of non-basement
residences erected upon it, with a strip of garden between them. Their
accommodation is small but their price high. They combine the last word
in labour-saving convenience with an attempt at "old-world" charm. They
are seldom empty.

On arriving at No. 3, where Frederick Curtis had lived, Inspector Goff,
Roger Bennion and Sergeant Queen found officers in possession waiting for
them. The tragedy there had been discovered during the night and,
although it had been duly reported, it is probable it would not have
fallen to the chief-inspector to investigate it had it not been for the
death of the brother, of which the news was received some hours later.

Morant had described Frederick Curtis as an austere man. The room in
which he worked, or amused himself, and in which he had died, was a
pleasant one. It had glass doors opening on to a narrow tiled portico
which, with two steps, led into the garden. It should have been quiet,
but the rumble of traffic never quite ceased.

The furnishing of the room was simple, though not severely so. There was
indeed a distinct air of comfort about it. A finely polished mahogany
desk, a writing chair in padded leather, two deeply cushioned
easy-chairs, shelves with a number of serious books--these were the first
things to strike the eye. Or they would have been were it not for the
stiffened body that lay on the thick Turkey carpet close to the desk.

"We were rung up soon after 3 a.m.," said Inspector Groves from the local
station, "and came round at once. The doctor came too. It seemed simple
enough, and we arranged for the ambulance to call about 9 o'clock. Then
news came through of the other case, so we left things as they were."

"Quite right," said Goff, and for some while he devoted himself to his
grim duties.

The wound was in much the same place as in the case of the brother, above
the ear, but it was on the other side of the head.

"Shot on the left side!" exclaimed Goff.

"Yes, sir. He was a left-handed man. His daughter said so, but I made
sure of it. He has a bag of golf clubs in the hall and they are
left-handed clubs. That seemed to make it pretty certain."

Goff did not reply. He was staring at the revolver which lay close to the
body, and at the dead man's hand extended palm downwards on the carpet.

"Finger-prints taken?"

"Not yet, sir. Expecting them now."

"Time fixed by this?"'

Goff pointed to the wrist-watch, the glass of which was badly broken.

"Yes, sir. Stopped at two minutes to eleven. The daughter said it had
always kept good time."

"Were those glass doors open or shut?" asked Roger Bennion, pointing to
the way to the garden.

He was standing still, but his eyes had been scanning every object in the
room. He had scrutinised the desk and had bent over the carpet where the
body lay.

"Shut when we got here," Groves replied, "but not locked or bolted."

"Would that be usual?"

"I have not questioned the young lady about it."

"Find out if she can see me," said Goff. "I suppose there is another
room?"

There was a room in the front, facing the street, and in it not one, but
two young ladies were waiting for them.

"Miss Curtis?" questioned Goff.

"I am Delia Curtis," said the taller of the two. She was fair, with
little make-up, and she looked as though she had been crying. "This is my
friend, Miss Watney."

"Margot Watney?" asked Roger, looking with some interest at the shorter
dark girl, who was decidedly pretty. Both she and Delia might have been
about twenty years of age.

"How did you know that?" she demanded, her brown eyes showing her
surprise.

"We have just seen your uncle, Mr. Morant. He told us you were Miss
Curtis's friend."

"I can tell you almost as much as she can," said Margot. "I was with her
last night when--when she came home. It was ghastly for her, so I hope
you will let me do most of the talking."

She was a brisk young woman and, like her uncle, seemed to know her own
mind.

"I think Miss Curtis can probably tell me what I want to know," answered
Goff. "Had your father been in good health lately?"

"Much as usual," said Delia. Then she burst into tears.

"Oh, it is horrible!" she sobbed. "It must be my fault. But I didn't
know--I never thought…"

"It isn't your fault, darling. He wasn't himself. You couldn't have done
anything."

As Margot said this she put her arm round her friend's waist and tried to
comfort her. Then she turned to Goff.

"Delia thinks because she went out a little her father was lonely, and
that made him do it. Can't you tell her she is wrong? No girl can spend
her whole life indoors, can she? It is not as though he was
ill--physically ill, I mean."

She looked at Roger and Goff as though demanding that they should help
her in her task of compassion.

"It may be as you say," replied the detective. "If she can answer a few
questions I shall know better."

He paused a moment. Then as Delia seemed to be getting a little more
composed, he began again.

"At what time did you go out last night?"

"Eight o'clock."

"That is quite right," added Margot. "Rhoda and Jimmie Durrant and I came
and fetched her and we all went to the theatre."

"To Labour of Love?" asked Roger.

"No. That is Uncle Victor's play. We were there the night before. Last
night we went to the Jollity."

"So you got home a little after eleven?" said Goff to Delia.

"No," Margot began.

"Please let her speak for herself," said Goff a little sharply. "I can
give her time."

"After the theatre," Delia murmured in a low tone, "we went to the Golden
Fleece for supper, and we stayed there till about three. Then we came
home."

"Yourself, Miss Watney, and those two she mentioned?"

"Yes--and my cousin."

"Who is he?"

"Wilfrid Mounsey," put in Margot.

"Then you discovered what had happened? I do not want to distress you,
but please describe it as well as you can."

"They--they brought me home," said Delia shakily, "and I--I asked them
in. They were only here a few minutes and--and when they went I noticed a
light under the door of my father's room. I looked in and I--I saw him. .
."

She broke down again.

"Why did I go?" she moaned between her sobs. "Why did I go?"

"When she saw him," went on Margot, "she ran to the door and called us
back. We were just starting. She said her father was dead, and then she
fainted. We all went in and we telephoned the police."

"The nephew, Wilfrid Mounsey, does not live here?" Roger asked.

"He lives in rooms off the Cromwell Road."

"What is the exact address?" asked Goff.

"Queens Terrace," said Margot.

A note was made of it, and with a glance at the inspector as though
asking for permission, Roger enquired: "Did you notice that the wrist Mr.
Curtis was wearing was broken?"

"Of course I did not," Margot replied a little indignantly. "Nor did
Delia. Do you imagine we should think of anything like that?"

"I dare say you would not, but you may be able to tell me this. Mr.
Curtis would not have gone on wearing a watch with a broken glass, would
he?"

"Who would?" she retorted.

Roger turned to Delia, who was again more controlled. "You, of course,
knew your father's wrist-watch? Was it in good order?"

"It was in perfect order and he always said it kept good time."

"One thing I can tell you," said Margot suddenly, "since you want to fuss
about everything. When we came in the wireless was on."

"After 1 a.m.?" asked Roger.

"I didn't say it was playing. I said it was on. The direction disc was
lit up. I switched it off."

"Why did you do that?"

"I don't know. While we were waiting it caught my eye, and it seemed the
sensible thing to do."

Roger made no comment and Goff resumed.

"You did not find, then or since, any letter of explanation or farewell?"

"No--nothing," replied Delia shakily.

"What servants have you?"

"A married couple named Russell."

"Where were they last night?"

"It was their night out."

"What time are they due in?"

"No time, really. I mean they are married and want to go to the theatre
like other people."

"They came downstairs while we were waiting," supplemented Margot. "They
told me they got in about twelve. They saw nothing and heard nothing."

Goff ignored her, though what she said was no doubt true. "Do they
generally come in at the front of the house or through the gardens?"

"At the front. There is a door to the gardens, but servants and
tradespeople do not use it."

"Had they used it they would have seen the light in your father's room
and would have gone to him?"

"I do not think they would have gone to him," said Delia. "They were off
duty till the morning."

"You have to be considerate in these days," Margot added, "even if it is
damned uncomfortable."

"Can you account for it," Goff still addressed the daughter of the house,
"that no one heard the shot? No one in the street or in the gardens, or
in the next-door house?"

"I cannot."

"I think that is a silly question," said Margot. "How do you know no one
heard it? What happens if you do hear a shot? You say to yourself, 'What
is that?' If there are more shots you may get excited; if there are not,
you think it was a back-fire or a door slammed."

Goff looked at her with some disfavour, but Roger guessed she was trying
to do her best to make things easier for Delia.

"You went out at eight. Did you suppose that your father would be at home
alone, or was he expecting visitors?"

"I thought he would be alone, except--"

Then she again burst into tears.

"Can't you see you are torturing her?" cried Margot furiously. "She is
blaming herself that she left him. What the hell is the use of rubbing it
in?"

"If you speak to me like that," said Goff, "I shall order you to leave
the room."

"And if I refuse to go?" she returned defiantly.

"I shall put you out."

Their eyes met. Goff could be grim enough when he chose. Her eyes
dropped.

"I am sorry," she muttered. "I guess I'm a bit on edge, but I only wanted
to help."

"Now, Miss Curtis," Goff went on patiently, "you were saying your father
was likely to be alone except--except what?"

"Except that I thought my cousin might come in."

"Wilfrid Mounsey?"

"Yes."

"Did he come?"

"Yes."

"At what time?"

"I don't know exactly, but he had said he would come in, and Margot was
to be there. Then Margot telephoned that her uncle had given her the
tickets for the Jollity and she had fixed up a party afterwards with the
Durrants. I was to leave a message for Wilfrid to come on to us at the
Golden Fleece, after the show. My father didn't want me to go. He asked
me to stay with him. If I had ... if I had ... it ... wouldn't have
happened."

Once again she was overcome with sobs. What she said was no doubt in one
way true, and her unhappiness was very understandable. Had she stayed
with her father, he would not have shot himself. But it would be an
entirely unwholesome and unreasonable situation for a girl to have to
give up all her normal pleasures under a threat of suicide. It might be
that her indifference to her father's wishes, not that night but for many
nights, had lessened his desire to live; yet if his mind was so unhinged
that self-destruction was possible, the girl might be blaming herself
unduly. It would only have been a question of time.

"He had never threatened to harm himself?" Roger asked gently.

"No, n-n-never," was the quavering reply.

"If you want to know about Wilfrid," burst in Margot, "I can tell you.
Seeing that he and I are practically engaged to be married, in that at
least I know more than Delia."

"What can you tell me?" asked Goff.

"He had a class from eight till nine. He got here about half-past nine,
and Mr. Curtis gave him our message. He came along and joined us at
supper. He was waiting at the theatre when we got out."

"He had a class?" repeated the detective.

"He is in his uncle's office and is going up for the final in
accountancy."

"Thank you," said Goff coldly. "Then, so far as we know at present,
Wilfrid Mounsey was the last person to see Mr. Curtis alive, and that
would have been about an hour and a half before he shot himself."

He paused a moment, and added as an apparent afterthought: "When you say
you are practically engaged--?"

Margot flushed.

"I mean we are really engaged, but I am not allowed to marry before I am
twenty-one, and Mr. Curtis would not hear of anything before Wilfrid was
through his final."

"Has he been up before?" Roger asked.

"Twice," replied the girl shortly.

A good deal might lie behind that. When a young man fails in his exams
his relatives are apt to be critical if he shows undue fondness for the
joys of night life. But Wilfrid had evidently attended his class.

"I shall of course be seeing him," said Goff. Then he turned to Delia.
"There is nothing more you can tell me?"

"Nothing."

"Your father had not complained of sleeplessness, or anything of that
sort? He had not, so far as you are aware, consulted a doctor?"

"I thought he was all right. We never had a doctor."

"Had he any interests outside his home and his business--public affairs,
politics and so on?"

"I don't think so," said the girl. "He seldom went out."

"Was he alone in his business?"

"He had Mr. Foyle and some clerks."

"Is Mr. Foyle a partner?"

"He had no partners. Mr. Foyle is his head clerk."

Goff paused a moment. Then he said: "You know, of course, that your
uncle, Alexander Curtis, appears to have shot himself at the same time?"

She nodded.

"They were good friends?"

"Yes. Very good friends."

"You cannot suggest any explanation for their both acting in the same way
at the same time?"

"N-no," she replied with a sob.

"Anyway," declared Margot stoutly, "it shows Delia has no need to blame
herself. There was something we do not know about. There must have been."

Goff made no reply to her comment, for at that moment the constable on
duty outside tapped at the door and told them Mr. Marmaduke Curtis had
arrived. He wished to see Miss Curtis and also the inspector.

"May we ask him in?" Goff enquired politely of the girl.

"I suppose so," she said.

"Before he comes," Roger remarked, "there is just one thing I would like
to know. Was your father keen on the wireless?"

"He generally listened for the news and the more serious talks," she
said.

"He hated the music, except the symphony concerts," added Margot, "and
Delia loved it. So you can judge."

Apparently she meant that for Delia to have to remain at home with her
father when their tastes were so dissimilar was more than it was
reasonable to expect.

She however said nothing more and Roger asked no question. The door again
opened and Marmaduke Curtis came in.

VI: THE BROTHER

ALEXANDER the home-lover, Frederick the austere and Marmaduke the
assertive. That had been Victor Morant's brief summary of the
characteristics of the three brothers. Roger Bennion watched with special
interest as the sole survivor entered the room.

He was not unlike his brothers, but was rather stouter, his face was
fleshier and his eyes were closer together. Roger had only seen the
brothers with the pallor of death. Marmaduke had a high colour and gave
the impression of one who lived well. He walked across to his niece Delia
and kissed her.

"Sorry, my dear, very sorry," he whispered rather huskily. "It is a
terrible shock for all of us, but you must be brave."

He shook hands with Margot.

"I know you will try to help her," he said.

Then he turned to the three men, Goff, Roger and Goff's assistant who had
silently been taking down everything of importance that was said.

"Which of you is Inspector Goff?"

"I am," Goff replied.

"Mr. Morant telephoned to my office and told me what had happened. He
said you were here and that you would wish to see me. So I thought it was
best to come along at once. I need hardly say how appalled I am at what
has happened. It seems almost too terrible to be true."

"You cannot account for it in any way," Goff asked, "in either case?"

"Indeed I cannot. Of course there were peculiar circumstances, but I
should have regarded my brothers as the last men to end their lives in
that way."

"What do you mean by peculiar circumstances?"

Marmaduke looked at him and then glanced at the two girls. "That is why I
wanted to see you at once," he said, "but what I have to tell you should,
I think, be confidential, at any rate for the time being."

"He wants us to go," said Margot to Delia. She was not slow in the
uptake, and the two girls moved towards the door. Goff made no motion to
restrain them.

"I will see you later, my dear," said Marmaduke to his niece.

The girl gave no reply. She gave the impression that she had no
particular affection for her uncle.

"You have, I presume, seen Alexander's widow?" he said as the door
closed.

"I have," Goff replied.

"Did you make sure that she was his widow?"

"What do you mean?"

"You did not enquire when and where they were married?"

"Naturally I did not."

"A pity. Helen is ingenious. Her reply might have been interesting."

There was a look of positive malice in his narrow eyes as he said it.
Goff's reply was crisp.

"I've no time for riddles. Please tell me plainly what you have to say."

"I will. Alexander and Helen were never married."

"You wish me to believe that a solicitor in his position was living with
a woman he had not married."

"It happens to be true," Marmaduke replied, "but it is a very curious
story. Of course if Helen can show when and where they were married that
is another thing. Though it might be unfortunate for her."

"What is the story?"

"You will understand I am only speaking from a sense of duty."

"Of course," said Goff dryly.

"Ten years ago Alexander told Frederick and myself that he had met a
woman he would like to marry. Her name was Helen Robson. But he could not
marry her as she had a husband in a lunatic asylum. The husband was
incurable, and Alexander spoke very bitterly of the cruelty of the law
that tied a young and attractive woman to a hopeless lunatic. He said he
meant to regard her before Heaven as his wife, and he asked Frederick and
myself to accept her as such."

"You agreed?"

"What could we do? It was his affair, and if we accepted her no one else
was likely to question it."

"Did his partner, Mr. Morant, know?" enquired Roger.

"That I cannot tell you. I should doubt it. It was a domestic, not a
business matter, and the fewer who heard of it the better. Morant never
spoke of it to me, and Frederick and I agreed not to talk about it.
Alexander went abroad on holiday and wired that he was married. He
brought Helen home and no question was ever raised."

"She is really Mrs. Helen Robson?"

"She changed her name from Robson to Curtis. By deed poll, I believe they
call it. That is all the marriage they ever had."

"The husband is still alive?" asked Goff.

"Absolutely potty, but likely to last for years and years. At times I am
told he thinks he is a scarecrow. He will tear his clothes to rags and
stand on one leg with his arms at odd angles. He can keep it up for
hours. That, of course, is harmless enough. But at other times he thinks
he is a schoolmaster and everyone he meets wants caning. Then he is
really troublesome. I believe he started it on Helen, so she had to get
him put away."

There was no doubt Marmaduke relished the story he had to tell, and he
watched his listeners to judge its effect.

"Under the new Act," Roger remarked, "a divorce can be obtained in such
cases."

Marmaduke leered at him. "That is quite true, and that is where the
trouble arose. I asked Alexander what he was going to do about it, and
there seemed to be two difficulties. The first was that it is one thing
to grant a divorce to a poor suffering wife, the victim of a marriage
broken by lunacy, and quite another to give it to a woman who has taken
the law into her own hands and lived for years with another man. The
court might exercise its discretion in such a case; on the other hand it
might not. The other difficulty was rather worse."

"Well?" said Goff.

Marmaduke leered more broadly. "Suppose you lived with a woman and were
not happy with her; if the chance came along to make that unhappiness
permanent and official, would you jump at it?"

"You say they were not happy?"

"I am sure they were not. Alexander was a quiet, home-loving sort of
fellow, but he had a streak of what the writers call romanticism in him.
I believe it was pity more than anything else that made him do what he
did. He thought he loved her, but I always say choosing a wife is like
choosing boots. You ought to be able to try 'em to see if they fit. If
they don't, they give you hell. She wasn't a wife, but the same applies.
While the old law stood, he would never have let her down. When it was
changed and she demanded marriage, he didn't see it that way. Not with
her."

It was a curious story. Those who framed the new law giving relief where
it was so urgently needed can hardly have foreseen that such
circumstances might arise.

"Not with her," Goff repeated. "Do you mean he wanted to marry someone
else?"

"I have ideas about that," said Marmaduke, "but I would sooner keep them
to myself. You can take it that Alexander was the sort of fireside man
who wants a wife, and Helen was not the sort of wife he wanted. It may be
he would have liked a family, and that in the circumstances would have
been awkward."

It was not a nice smile that Marmaduke gave them. If what he said was
true, the tragedy would perhaps have become more understandable--had not
both the brothers died.

"Who was the other woman?" Goff asked bluntly.

"That," said Marmaduke, "is a question I must decline to answer."

"So you have nothing more to tell me?"

"On the contrary, there is the most important thing of all. When he took
Helen to live with him, Alexander made a will in her favour. This will
set out their true relationship and his reasons for what he had done. He
called for a change in the law to prevent such things happening again. He
thought when he had gone it would be published and would create enough
sensation to bring about that change. When the new law was passed his
will became silly. So he destroyed it."

"Did he make another?" Roger enquired.

"No."

"You mean a lawyer died without making a will?" demanded Goff.

"Nothing odd in that," shrugged Marmaduke. "Other lawyers have done the
same. What do they say about the cobbler's wife being ill-shod? But don't
you see the special reason?"

"What special reason?"

"What I have been telling you. Before he made a new will he wanted to
come to some arrangement with Helen. He offered her reasonable provision
if she would leave him. But she was difficult."

"How do you know this?" Roger asked.

"He told me, a week ago."

"He had the whip-hand," said Goff.

"You might think so," replied Marmaduke, "but it was not so simple as
that. Unless he did things her way, Helen threatened to sue her lunatic
husband for divorce and to tell the world she had been living with
Alexander for ten years. Not a nice prospect for a family solicitor to
have it broadcast that he was living in sin!"

Marmaduke gave the impression that the living in sin was a pretty good
joke. But he went on: "Naturally Alexander was worried out of his mind.
He must either go on living with a woman he had ceased to care for, to
marry her perhaps, or the dirty linen would be washed in public."

"You mean," said Goff, "that is the explanation of his suicide?"

"Seems so to me," answered the brother. "He was that sort."

There was a pause. The story became more remarkable, and even if
Marmaduke gloated over the telling of it, it was hardly likely he had
invented it.

"If what you say is right," Roger remarked, "and he died intestate, his
wife, so-called, would get nothing."

"It is right enough," said Marmaduke with obvious satisfaction.

"Who would get what there is?" Goff asked.

"Failing other blood relations," said Roger, "everything would go to his
brothers. Or rather, Marmaduke Curtis would get one half and Frederick's
daughter, Delia, the other half."

"Is that really the case?" queried Marmaduke.

He tried to sound surprised, but there was little doubt he was well aware
of the fact.

"Of course," he went on, "Helen has only herself to blame, but I do not
doubt we shall act fairly by her."

Again there was a pause. Goff gave a characteristic grunt.

"You hadn't seen Alexander for a week?"

"That is so," replied the brother, after a moment's hesitation. "He might
have made a will during that week without telling you?"

"He might, but in the circumstances it is not likely. I sounded Morant
when he rang me up. He knew nothing of such a thing."

"Will or no will," said the detective, "your suggestion is that his
suicide is due to worry between the alternatives of living with the woman
he disliked and possible scandal if he ceased to do so?"

"Seems that way to me," said Marmaduke. "I cannot think of anything
else."

"You realise that I must check up on what you say? I must ask Helen
Curtis about it?"

"Of course you must. She ought to have told you."

"Huh. It may all be true, but it does not explain why your other brother
Frederick should have shot himself at the same time and in the same way."

"It does not," agreed Marmaduke, "but need there be any connection
between the two affairs? Very odd that they should happen together, but
things are like that sometimes. Perhaps there is a queer streak in the
family. I hope it has missed me."

"You have no theory as to Frederick's suicide?"

"I was not as friendly with Frederick as with Alexander. I don't mean we
quarrelled, but we saw less of one another. Frederick's wife died five
years ago, and he has not been the same man since. When you marry, as I
said just now, you never know how it will turn out. Alexander was
miserable because his woman wanted to live with him; Frederick was
miserable because his died. He never got over it, and that girl of his
and the nephew gave him a lot of trouble."

"In what way?"

"I'm not blaming Delia. She wants to see a bit of life; that is natural
enough. But Wilfrid Mounsey is an idle young fool. I am all for a fellow
having a good time, but he must earn it. Work doesn't suit Master
Wilfrid. He is in his uncle's office, but from what I hear when he was
sent out to do the books for some firm they audited, he would let the
other chap get on with the job while he went off and played cricket. He'd
cut his classes to run around with Delia and Morant's girl, Margot. He
was damned impertinent too. But that's not the point. All I mean is that
Frederick had a sort of melancholia and they did not help him."

"You know nothing about Frederick's will?" asked Roger.

"Delia gets everything," shrugged Marmaduke, "sure to. Except the Pratt
money."

"What is the Pratt money?" Goff enquired.

"There were three sisters, pretty girls all of 'em. One married
Frederick, one married Mounsey, and the third married Pratt. Pratt left
her a tidy bit, and when she died she left it to her sisters and their
husbands for life, and after that to be divided between the nephews and
nieces--that is Wilfrid and Delia, there are no others. That may be why
Wilfrid doesn't work. Bound to have money someday."

"Much?" asked Roger.

"Half of about thirty thousand."

"He gets it now, on the death of his uncle?"

"I suppose so."

"When did you last see Frederick?" Goff enquired.

"That also was about a week ago."

At that moment the door opened and Margot came in. She crossed to Goff.
"I telephoned Wilfrid and said you would want to see him. He has just
come and can spare you half an hour."

"Can he indeed?" returned Goff. "Very good of him. Send him in."

VII: THE NEPHEW

"I SHAN'T want you," said Goff sharply to Margot when she returned with a
tall curly-haired fellow of about four and twenty.

"You won't want me either," said Marmaduke. "Come along, Margot. Let us
see if we can do anything for Delia."

Margot looked mutinous. She obviously would have liked to stay with the
young man to whom she said she was engaged, but Goff remembered her
previous interruptions and waited for her to go.

"You are Wilfrid Mounsey, Mr. Frederick Curtis's nephew?" he began, as
the door closed.

"That's right. This is a ghastly business, isn't it? I can't understand
it at all."

"You were in your uncle's office?"

"I was--or I am, whichever way you ought to put it. If you have been
talking to smarmy Marmy about me you probably know the worst."

He was dark, with laughing eyes, but a weak mouth. His voice was not
unpleasing, though he was perhaps less assured than he wished to appear.
Goff continued in his official tone: "I am told you called here last
night. If that is right, please let me know just what happened."

Wilfrid considered for a moment, and then he began. "Of course I'm
frightfully sorry about Uncle Fred. I can't think why he did it, but I am
sure Delia has no need to blame herself as she is doing. He was as hard
as nails, and if he meant to shoot himself nothing she or anyone could
have done would have stopped him. He didn't enjoy life, so I suppose he
found it wasn't worth going on; but the fact that she had a bit of fun
sometimes didn't make it any better or any worse, did it?"

"I am asking what happened last night," said Goff.

"Sorry. I thought you wanted to know why I supposed he had done it, and
anyway it wasn't Delia's fault. I got here about half-past nine. I asked
where Delia and the others were. He told me they had gone to the Jollity,
so I pushed off to meet them."

"How long were you with him?"

"About ten minutes; perhaps a quarter of an hour."

"What did you talk about?"

"I told you. I asked where Delia…

"That did not take ten minutes."

Wilfrid grinned. "Rather not. Uncle Fred, as usual, improved the shining
hour. He wanted to know just what we had done at the class, and if I
meant to get through the exam this time. I said I hoped I would, but it
would be far better if he let me do what I really wanted to do."

"What is that?"

"Well--I can sing and dance a bit. I want to have a shot at the films. I
know there are crowds who can't get on, but aren't there crowds of
accountants, too, who can't get on? If you are going to be a failure,
isn't it as well to fail at something you enjoy? I don't think I should
fail, but I hate figures and all the blasted debits and credits and
balances forward."

"You told him that?"

"More or less."

"And he said?"

"Same as usual. We'd been through it all before. He said my desire to act
was just a crazy notion I should grow out of. He had a fine business to
hand on and he wanted me to have it."

"You did not quarrel?"

"Quarrel? No. I was itching to get away. I said I would do my best."

"Did he seem depressed, or in any way different from the usual?"

"Not a bit. He was never very gay, you know. He took things too
seriously. If accountancy does that for you--and I guess it must--what is
duller than sticking indoors over other people's balance sheets?--I did
not want to grow up like it."

"I see."

Goff paused a moment and Roger put a question.

"How did you get into the house?"

"From the garden. The side door. I always do. I went to Delia's room but
there was no one there. So I went to his room."

"You just walked in? Is the garden door always open?"

"We generally use it."

"Isn't that rather dangerous? Thieves might get in."

"If they knew about it, but they don't. Besides, they would be seen in
the garden."

"Are there people in the garden at night?" Roger asked.

"When it is fine. And there are lots of windows looking on to them."

"But it was not fine last night?"

"Precious seldom is," said Wilfrid.

Then Goff began again.

"You returned with your cousin and the others at about 3 a.m. Is that
right?"

"Quite right."

"What happened?"

"Delia asked us in, but we kept quiet as we did not want to disturb
anyone. We were only here for a few minutes. Then, as we were getting the
car to go, she called us back and said her father had shot himself. She
fainted. We went in and found it was true. So I telephoned to the
police."

"Except that your uncle was dead, things were just the same as when you
were there before?"

"I think so. He was lying on the floor and the revolver was by him. I am
afraid I did not look at much else."

"Huh. You know his brother Alexander shot himself at the same time?"

"Margot told me. I cannot understand it. I liked Uncle Alec."

"When you and your friends found Delia's father," Roger enquired, "did
you move anything or take anything away?"

"We certainly did not take anything away--why do you ask? It was all
pretty ghastly. Delia had fainted; I half-thought she was dead too."

"Did you move your uncle?"

"I--I suppose I did. I guess we lost our heads a bit. I hoped he wasn't
really dead."

"How did you know he was dead?" asked Goff.

"He was stone cold--and the wound with the blood on his face--and the
revolver."

"Did you know he had a revolver?"

"No."

"Who," Roger enquired, "first noticed the broken wrist-watch?"

"Was it broken? I didn't see that."

"I suppose you didn't see what condition it was in when you were with him
at half-past nine?"

"Curious you should ask that," said Wilfrid, "for as a matter of fact, I
did. There is no clock in the room and I wasn't sure of the time. I
wanted to get away, but I didn't like to look at my own watch while he
was talking, so I tried to peep at his."

"Could you see what it said?"

"I might have done, but he saw what I was after and he said in his rather
sarcastic way, 'I mustn't keep you.' Made me feel rather an ass, and I
was glad to get out. I suppose that sounds heartless. I am fearfully
sorry for what happened afterwards, but that is just how it was."

"Had the watch glass been broken," asked Roger, keeping to the point in
hand, "would you have noticed it?"

"I think I should."

"Your uncle said he must not keep you," remarked Goff. "You do not think
from that he was expecting someone else?"

"It didn't occur to me that way," said Wilfrid.

"Was the wireless on?" asked Roger.

"No."

"You're sure?"

"Quite sure. Our talk didn't exactly ripple, you know. There were pauses.
The wireless would have suggested something for me to say."

"Margot Watney told us the wireless was on when you came in at three
o'clock. No transmission of course, but the light burning. Did you notice
that?"

"Afraid I didn't. I was only thinking of him and Delia."

"Had he been worried or overworked at his office?" Goff enquired.

Wilfrid shook his head. "I should not say so. He left things pretty much
to old Foyle, it seemed to me."

There were a few more questions, but, except for his account of his call
at nine Wilfrid's story confirmed that told by Margot and Delia and did
not add appreciably to it.

"What now?" asked Roger, when he left them.

"I am not satisfied about things," frowned Goff. "Not one little bit.
Coincidences up to a point I can accept. For brothers to shoot themselves
at the same time might happen. But for them both to do it without
adequate reason and without a word of explanation takes a hell of a lot
of believing. There must be something in it we don't know."

"You have heard reasons--of sorts," said Roger.

"Being?"

"That Frederick never recovered from the loss of his wife, and Alexander
was unable to get rid of his."

"I think my next job," decided Goff, "is to find out if what Marmaduke
told us is true. If that woman and Alexander were not married it might
make a lot of difference."

Helen Curtis was surprised to see them back so soon. Mr Morant had left,
and with the assistance of a maid she was packing when they arrived.

"I cannot stop here," she said. "I am going to a hotel."

Goff saw that the door to the room was closed. Then he put his question.
"When were you and Alexander Curtis married?"

The colour faded from her somewhat blotchy cheeks.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Just that. When and where were you married?"

It was some moments before she replied. "I suppose Marmaduke has been
talking to you?"

"Does that matter? I am asking for facts."

"You mean you know we were not married?"

"I would like you to tell me about it yourself. It would have been better
if you had done so at first."

"What difference does it make? It doesn't alter the fact that Alexander
shot himself."

"It may explain the reason," said Goff patiently.

She looked at him with an expression far from pleasant. Then she
muttered: "If you tell me what Marmaduke said, I will let you know if it
is true."

"He said that your husband, a Mr. Robson, is alive and is in an asylum.
Is that right?"

"It is right," she replied defiantly.

"He also said there had been some difference between you and his brother
as to what you should do as a result of the new Act that would allow you
to divorce Mr. Robson."

"Well?"

"Is that true?"

There was a longer pause. When she replied her voice was bitter.
"Marmaduke always hated me. He made mischief whenever he could. When he
spoke to me there was always that devilish grin of his as though he
wanted me to know he could give me away if he chose. Now he has done it."

"I am not discussing Marmaduke," said Goff. "I have to find out why
Alexander shot himself, and I want to know how things were between you
and him."

"Is it wrong of me to want to marry when the law says I can?" she
demanded more passionately. "Alexander had the best years of my life. Was
it likely I would give him up to some other woman? Hadn't I suffered
enough? Eight years of hell with Radnor Robson before they put him away,
then ten years of Marmaduke's mockery. Was I not entitled to a square
deal at the finish, or is that only for men?"

"Alexander Curtis did not wish to marry you?" commented Goff quietly.

"He said it might cause scandal!" she cried a little wildly. "I promised
him all the scandal he wanted if he didn't!"

"So things were strained between you? That may be why he shot himself."

"If it is, it won't do him or anyone else any good to make it public,
will it?"

"That may be unavoidable," said Goff. "Do you know anything of the
provisions of his will?"

"Not yet. I asked Mr. Morant, but he doesn't know either. There was a
will; I suppose that stands."

"Unless he destroyed it."

"Unless he destroyed it," she repeated. "Why do you say that?" There was
fear in her eyes and her face was paler than before.

"Marmaduke said so."

"Marmaduke--that devil! Where shall I be if there is no will?"

"That is for the lawyers to ascertain," Goff murmured.

"Oh, the cheats! The devils!" Tears began to flow and she became almost
hysterical. "Yes! We quarrelled! He wanted to get rid of me after all I
had been to him! He offered me something, but it was not enough. And I
wanted to be straight. Was that wrong? Marmaduke was behind it all. I am
sure he was. He always hated me."

She sobbed for some moments, hard, angry sobs. It did not seem she was
sorry for the man she had lost, only for herself.

"You say there was another woman?" said Goff quietly. "Will you tell me
her name?"

"I don't know why I shouldn't. Dreda Costello. Calls herself an artist.
Pretends she would enjoy the stodgy life he wanted to lead."

"Where does she live?"

"In Chelsea. Beaufoy Studios."

"Did he wish to marry her?"

"He did. I was to be thrown on the scrap-heap! But if he made no will she
gets nothing either. Thank Heaven for that! Who does get it?"

"That is not my affair," said Goff, "and the facts have to be verified.
If they are as stated, his brothers or their heirs might get it."

"That means Marmaduke! The devil looks after his own!"

Other calls had to be paid. Goff liked to cover as much of the ground
himself as he could. A brief visit to Colston Court, South Kensington,
seemed happily timed. Mrs. Parr was just going out when the inspector
with Roger arrived.

"You are related to Mrs. Helen Curtis of Hans Avenue?" he began, after he
had explained who he was.

"She is my sister."

Evelyn Parr had never been beautiful. She was apparently older than
Helen, but had grown thinner, not stouter, with the years. Her flat was
small and rather shabby, but she herself was smartly dressed with the
latest oddity in hats on her head. She seemed a blunt, matter-of-fact
sort of woman.

"When did you last see her?"

"Last night. We went to the theatre together."

"What theatre?"

"The Cardinal. She had some tickets, so we dined at the Troc and then saw
the show. Why are you asking me these questions? Helen telephoned me that
Alexander had shot himself, but I do not see that I can help you."

"It is a matter of routine," explained Goff; "you will understand that.
When did she telephone?"

"This morning. I was just going to her--poor thing. Wasn't it awful for
her? I think suicide is so cowardly. It is all right for the one who
goes, but he thinks nothing of the shock for those who are left behind."

Goff did not digress into discussion. "You knew her husband?" he asked.

"Of course I did, but I have not seen him for more than a year."

"You were not friendly?"

"He was--well, he is dead, so I won't say it. We had no use for one
another."

"Was the marriage a perfectly normal one?"

"Just what do you mean?" asked Mrs. Parr.

"Were you present at the wedding?"

"I was not."

"Where did it take place?"

The sister looked hard at him for some moments. Then she said: "Either
you have put these questions to Helen, or you haven't. Which is it?"

"I have," replied Goff calmly.

"Then she has told you. Why ask me?"

"It is my job to confirm what I am told. Please tell me what you know
about it."

"Helen has been unlucky. She married Radnor Robson when she was young. He
was a brute and is now in a lunatic asylum. She and Alexander have been
married in name for ten years."

"They were not happy together?"

"She would have been a good wife if he would have let her."

"But they were talking of separating?"

"Were they? All I know is that Helen wanted to marry him now that it is
legal to do it."

"But he refused?"

"That shows the sort of man he was. Not normal. That is why he shot
himself."

VIII: THE MANAGING CLERK

Later that day a visit was paid to the London Wall offices of Frederick
Curtis the accountant. Inspector Goff and Roger Bennion were received by
a man who introduced himself as Charles Foyle, and said he was Mr.
Curtis's managing clerk.

"How long have you been with him?" asked the detective, a little
surprised perhaps that the holder of so important a position was not of a
more venerable appearance, especially as Wilfrid Mounsey had called him
old Foyle.

"I might almost say all my life," said Foyle. "I came here when I was
fourteen. Later on Mr. Curtis gave me my articles, and last year, when
Mr. Singleton retired, he made me manager. I have been here twenty-four
years. I owe everything to him and I am inexpressibly shocked by what has
happened."

"Can you explain it?" asked Goff crisply.

"Indeed I cannot. When I had the message I could not at first believe
it."

"The business is flourishing?"

"Never more so. Only yesterday we got an important new account, the
Woodfall Packing Company Limited. There are several matters on which I
need direction at this present moment. It is very distressing. The whole
staff feels it just as I do. He was very good to all of us."

"His health and his manner latterly had been normal?"

"Had you asked me that a day ago," Foyle replied, "I should have said
yes, without hesitation. In view of what has happened, one naturally
tries to account for things."

"What do you mean?"

Foyle seemed to find it a little difficult to express himself. He was
very neatly attired and Roger, considering him carefully, guessed that
his first action on hearing the bad news had been to send out for the
black tie he was now wearing.

Of middle height, thin, and with the sallow complexion of an indoor
worker, his eyes were quick and intelligent. There was something a little
obsequious in his manner. It may be that a professional man who has not
had a public school training seldom acquires the easy assurance of one
who has. No doubt he was a wizard with books, and that is what his
employer would have required.

"Mr. Curtis," he was saying, "was a deeply religious man. That, of
course, is hardly consistent with suicide. On the other hand he used to
study the prophecies in the Bible and he tried to fit them to present
world conditions. He would sometimes say the end was near. I remember
once he told me that it was prophesied that the stars would fall and that
everyone from kings and chief captains to common men and slaves would
hide in dens and in holes in the mountains. He said that clearly foretold
modern air warfare. He talked sometimes of the Anti-Christ."

"Hitler?" asked Roger.

"No, sir. Stalin, or Stalin's successor. Hitler, he said, would collapse
and a demoralised Germany would be swallowed up by Russia, and then would
come the Armageddon. I am afraid it did not mean a lot to me."

"Are you suggesting that these ideas turned his brain?" Goff enquired.

"I don't like to say that because up to yesterday he seemed in every
other way so shrewd and practical. He did say, when the day came, those
who lived to see it would wish they were dead. But it seemed remote; I
never took it seriously."

"Had his brother Alexander similar ideas?" asked Roger.

"I did not know Mr. Alexander very well, sir; only, I mean, in business;
but Mr. Frederick told me he and his brother used to discuss these
things."

"You heard that Alexander Curtis also shot himself?" put in Goff.

"I did. It is terrible. I regarded them both as such--I hardly know how
to put it--as such wise, well-balanced men."

"The nephew, Wilfrid Mounsey, works here, doesn't he?"

"He does."

"Was his uncle worried about him?"

Again Foyle hesitated and seemed to choose his words with care. "Mr.
Wilfrid is a very pleasant young gentleman. When he settles down he
should do quite well. His uncle was disappointed that he did not do
better in his exams."

"They were on good terms?" enquired Goff.

"Except for that, they were. Everyone likes Mr. Wilfrid, but his heart is
not in his work. This trouble may make all the difference. Mr. Curtis
used to say--but perhaps I had better not go into that."

"No harm in telling me," said Goff.

"Mr. Curtis used to say that Mr. Wilfrid had plenty of ability and that
perhaps--some day--when he was qualified, he and I might carry on
together. That is, of course, when Mr. Curtis retired."

"You were to be a partner?" Roger asked.

"Yes, sir; in a small way. I do not mean he promised it to me, but all
the clients know me, and Mr. Wilfrid would want someone of experience
with him."

"Was Mr. Curtis talking of retiring?"

"Only vaguely, sir, as men do. Perhaps it was meant more as an inducement
to Mr. Wilfrid than a promise to me. I never thought of him retiring for
a good many years yet."

"But when he did, you and Mr. Wilfrid would carry on?"

"That was the idea," Foyle replied. "Some while back I had rather a good
offer elsewhere. When I told him of it, that was what he said. It really
all waited for Mr. Wilfrid."

Foyle was naturally ambitious. From office boy or very junior clerk he
had become manager. No doubt he looked forward to the day when his
faithful service would be rewarded with a partnership. How the sudden
death of his employer would affect him, he could not tell. He was quite
frank about it.

"It is difficult to know what to do in a one-man business; there is no
one to give instructions. We have a number of very important matters in
hand. Had anything happened to Mr. Frederick in the ordinary way I should
have gone to Mr. Alexander. But for them both to die the same night--it
is such a shock. I feel so utterly bewildered. I want to do my best for
Miss Delia, but who is to give me instructions?"

"What about the other brother, Mr. Marmaduke?" enquired Roger. "Or Mr.
Morant?"

"I don't think Mr. Morant knew his private affairs. Mr. Marmaduke might,
but--"

"But what?" snapped Goff.

"Well--Mr. Marmaduke and Mr. Frederick were not such good friends as Mr.
Frederick and Mr. Alexander."

"You will soon know something," said Roger. "When the will is found there
are pretty sure to be instructions for the carrying on of the business.
You will hear from the executors. In the mean time you have a very good
excuse for keeping things waiting."

"That is true," Foyle said. "I owe so much to Mr. Frederick that I want
to do all I possibly can in his interests. No doubt Mr. Wilfrid will help
me."

IX: ROGER SUMS UP

"WE have been busy collecting facts," said Goff, "now we must see what we
make of them."

He and Sergeant Queen and Roger Bennion were finishing an evening meal in
a quiet corner of a restaurant near Charing Cross. The theatre crowd had
gone and it was too early for supper. Goff knew the place well and was
aware that he was reasonably safe from interruption.

"A day in the life of a policeman," murmured Roger. "A bit hectic for my
taste in an ordinary way."

Goff and his assistants had all been busy. The attendants at the service
flats where Alexander Curtis lived had been interviewed. So had the
Russells, the married couple who "did for" Frederick Curtis. Calls had
been made on neighbours. There had been another talk with Victor Morant
at the office of Morant and Curtis. A visit to the studio of Miss Dreda
Costello established the fact that she was in the Isle of Wight.
Examination had been made of the papers and effects of the dead men. All
the usual steps had been taken, but no further explanation had been found
that could in any way account for the simultaneous suicide of the two
brothers. Enquiries were still proceeding in many directions. Goff was
anxious to know when they had obtained the pistols they had used and what
communications, if any, had passed between them on the fatal night.

"It may have been hectic for me," said Goff in reply to Roger's comment,
as he filled the pipe he had forgotten the night before, "but I have
never known you so quiet."

"I have been watching the crime machine in action," replied Roger. "If
like the sailor's parrot I have said little, I have thought a devil of a
lot."

"Well, spill it."

"Like you, I accept coincidence up to a point, but beyond that point I
get sceptical."

"Huh," grunted Goff.

"In the first place I think you have to consider whether you are dealing
with two cases of suicide, or one case of suicide and one of murder, or
two cases of murder."

Goff looked hard at him and pulled on his pipe.

"You think there is evidence of murder?"

"I am quite sure you do," replied Roger.

"But that lands us in a worse coincidence than ever. Two murders in the
same way and at the same time! I dare say you noticed I made enquiries as
to their political activities and that sort of thing. In these days of
secret societies, people do get liquidated, as they call it, or they may
get in a jam and eliminate themselves. Such things are very rare in this
country, but so far as we can ascertain neither Alexander nor Frederick
was mixed up in anything of the sort. Very much the reverse. They were
ordinary professional men whose habits were, if anything, unusually quiet
and retiring."

It was a long speech for Goff and showed the matter was worrying him
quite a lot.

"Suppose for the moment," said Roger, "we forget about the coincidences
and regard the cases separately, each on its merits."

"Go ahead."

"In Alexander's case we have a very curious story. He met a young woman
with a husband in a lunatic asylum and, perhaps from quixotic motives,
perhaps from ordinary impulses of affection, he passed her off to the
world as his wife. As happens in a certain percentage of unions, regular
or otherwise, this was not a success. In spite of that, when
circumstances changed and it became possible for him to marry, the woman
was anxious for him to do so."

"What did you think of her?" put in Goff.

"I thought she was a strong argument for the permanence of marriage--from
the woman's point of view. Would any man, having the chance of getting
rid of her, wish to bind the shackles tighter? I admit she has had a raw
deal, but was not his worse? He took her when she was in trouble; he gave
her a home, and made her his wife as far as it was possible to do so. How
did she repay him? She was hard and selfish and was no real companion for
him. But it is not a question which of them was the more to blame. The
thing is, they decided to separate; it was only a question of terms. And
at that moment, when he had hopes of getting his liberty, and when he had
found another woman he thinks will make him happy, he commits suicide. Is
that logical?"

"I have yet to know what the Costello young woman says about it," replied
Goff. "Suppose she had turned him down?"

"Morant gave another explanation," remarked Sergeant Queen. "Depression
from war scare."

"But Morant did not regard the explanation as adequate," Roger retorted.
"I admit Miss Costello's story will be important, though Helen Curtis
seemed to have no doubt of her willingness to do as Alexander desired.
But let us leave theories and get to facts. How came that clock on the
floor?"

"When he fell," said Queen, "he knocked it over."

"Reconstruct the crime," Roger suggested. "This table is about as broad
as his desk. Helen Curtis told us his clock always stood at the back near
the left-hand corner. She pretended not to be so sure when I pressed her
on the point, but the maid who cleans the room was emphatic about it; the
clock was always there. Of course it was. Anyone having a clock on a desk
puts it at the back, out of the way of his papers. So this mustard pot is
the clock."

Roger took the article in question and placed it in the far corner. "Now,
Queen, you stand up and shoot yourself so that you fall away from the
table, where the body was found, and yet knock the clock over so that it
lies level with your shoulder."

"It is not possible," said Goff.

"It is not possible if the clock was where you say," agreed the sergeant,
"but suppose for once in a way it was not? Suppose for some reason he had
put in at the front?"

"Even then he would not have upset it if he fell away from the table."

"He might have dropped it and not troubled to pick it up."

"Or he could have held it in one hand while he shot himself with the
other," said Roger, "but is it likely?"

"I am not saying it is likely, sir," persisted Queen stoutly, "but I do
say it's a tall order to ask a coroner's jury to find a verdict of murder
just because a clock is on the floor."

"There I agree with you," Roger said. "You have to know a lot more before
you can ask a jury for any sort of verdict. It is not the fact that the
clock was on the floor that matters, but what the clock was meant to tell
us. It stopped at two minutes to eleven. Therefore the man shot himself
at two minutes to eleven. Therefore, if there is any suspicion of foul
play, the person with an alibi at two minutes to eleven must be
innocent."

"The doctor said the time of death was right," Queen observed.

"The doctor was called some time after seven the next morning. He would
know the man had been dead from seven to ten hours. No doctor would
really be much more precise. But when there is the clock to give the time
that seems good enough."

"You believe the woman did it!" exclaimed the sergeant. "I dare bet you
are right. Don't you agree, sir?"

He put the question to Goff, who had been saying very little. He had
talked a lot during the day, now he was more interested in listening.

"She got in about twelve," Queen went on, thrilled with his new idea.
"They had another quarrel and she shot him. Then she altered the clock to
two minutes to eleven, stopped it, and put it by his side. She went to
her room and had only to wait for someone to find the body and fix the
suicide for a time when she could prove she was just leaving the theatre.
It fits."

"Is that what you mean, Mr. Bennion?" asked Goff.

"More or less, it is. A man with friends and relations, and according to
accounts with a woman he loves, does not as a rule destroy himself
without leaving some sort of a message. Pens and paper were at hand, but
the only sign is the upset clock. I say it all points to murder, and the
time on the clock means nothing. But I am not prepared without a lot more
evidence to say that Helen Curtis was the murderer."

"By his death she loses everything," said Goff.

"But she did not know it!" Queen put in quickly. "She gave herself away.
She was unaware that the will was destroyed. She said so."

"That is quite true," Roger agreed. "Apparently she was trying to drive a
hard bargain with him. Knowing the terms of the old will, and believing
it still stood, she might have thought his death would give her more than
she would otherwise get. But, as things are, Marmaduke benefits and she
does not."

"You mean that Marmaduke--" began Queen.

"All I mean," Roger said, "is that I believe murder was done. Whether
Helen, or Marmaduke, or someone else did it, is for you to find out. Of
course when you get into touch with Dreda Costello you may learn
something. If, for instance, she had a letter of farewell it will prove
my ideas are wrong."

"I have been thinking myself much of what you have been saying," Goff
commented slowly, puffing at his pipe. "But what about the other affair?
You have still the queer coincidence of the time. Two minutes to eleven
in each case."

"That is not the coincidence," replied Roger. "Everyone knows the
theatres empty about eleven, so that is a good time to fix for the crime
if you have been, or are going to be, at a theatre. The coincidence is
that two brothers should be killed in the same way and on the same
night."

"That was murder too?" Goff asked

"Do you doubt it? Frederick Curtis loathed popular music. I have looked
at yesterday's programme. His wireless was tuned in to National. From
9.30 to 10 the B.B.C. dance band was performing, and from 10 to 11 the
Hot-Timers from the Hotel Superb were in full blast. Someone switched it
on, but it was not Frederick Curtis. Why they did it, I do not know.
Possibly because it made a noise, possibly because it was desired to give
the impression that he was alive and listening. It was an error of
judgment."

"But a jury will not say it was murder because the wireless was on!"
protested Queen.

"Nor would I," said Roger. "Some programmes, horrible music or morbid
poetry, might drive people to murder or suicide, but that is a minor
point. How did his watch-glass get broken?"

"When he fell," said the sergeant.

"But on what did he hit it? The only hard object within reach was the
mahogany desk. Perhaps you noticed it? A beautiful piece of wood, with a
perfect polish. Not a scratch anywhere. I looked carefully to see. Can
you break a watch-glass on polished mahogany and not leave a mark? The
chair was of padded leather and the carpet a thick Turkey. On the carpet,
beside the watch, as perhaps you noticed, were some fine splinters of
glass."

"Then how did it break?" asked the sergeant.

"My suggestion," Roger replied, "is that when the hands were set to the
time selected--and perhaps eleven was chosen for the reason I
mentioned--the watch was hit with some hard article, possibly the butt of
the revolver, and that smashed the glass and stopped the works. So
another alibi was established!"

"Why did you not say this while we were there?" Goff wanted to know.

"I thought you probably saw all I saw, but in any case it was desirable
to hear all we could before we hinted at suspicions."

"I am glad you were there," said the inspector frankly. "I had my doubts
in the first case but not in the second. Who would have shot Frederick
Curtis?"

"Our police," replied Roger, "are wonderful. I am sure a little thing
like that will not baffle them for long!"

When he reached his home he was rung up by his crime-news friend, Gordon
Lisle.

"Just heard about those Curtis suicides. I am told you were with
Inspector Goff all day enquiring into them. Anything for me?"

"Possibly quite a lot," said Roger. "But you must get it from Goff. He
left his pipe here last night, so when I took it back I was rewarded with
a peep behind the scenes. But I could not say how far what I saw is fit
for publication, and I know how particular you are!"

X: MARGOT IN DISTRESS

ROGER BENNION supposed that his active concern in the tragedies of the
Curtis brothers was ended. His day in the life of a policeman had been
interesting, and he hoped his suggestions had been helpful. How far they
already occurred to Inspector Goff he could not tell; but he realised the
eminent detective would deal with the affair in his usual efficient way
and would not want to take an amateur with him when he pursued his steady
but relentless enquiries.

Nor was Roger without occupation of his own. Naturally he felt a very
keen interest in the further unravelling of the case, but he and his
father had been offered an estate in the Highlands that might afford an
opportunity for profitable development, and he had gone north to see what
could be done with it.

He was away for the best part of a week, and although he often thought of
the coincidences of the double suicide--or murder--he was out of reach of
London papers and was unaware of what was actually happening.

When he got back, late on a Friday afternoon, his man Froy told him that
a young woman had been ringing him up and seemed very anxious to speak to
him.

"Name of Watney, sir. Been through six times at least."

Watney--that must be Margot, niece to Victor Morant and engaged
unofficially to Wilfrid Mounsey, nephew of Frederick Curtis.

Roger rang the number she had given and Margot herself answered the call.

"Yes, I do want to see you," she said, in reply to his enquiry. "May I
come round?"

"I will come to you, if you like."

"Can you come now?" She indeed sounded anxious.

"I will."

Mr. Morant and his niece had a spacious and attractive flat in a
comparatively quiet position behind Victoria Street. The hum of distant
traffic could always be heard though little actually passed the building.

The door of the flat was opened by Margot.

"I was watching for you," she said. "I saw you get out of the taxi."

"I have been in Sutherland," he remarked. "Only just back."

"Your man told me. This is my room."

The whole suite appeared sumptuously appointed, with costly rugs and
genuine old furniture. The little room into which she led him, her own
"den," was as comfortable as a man's room, with its soft low chairs and
its luxurious divan; but the colour scheme of green and fawn was
essentially feminine. Roger was glad to miss the bizarre note of
brilliant clashing hues favoured by some young people.

"Did you accuse Wilfrid of murdering his uncle?" she demanded abruptly,
almost before he had time to seat himself.

"Certainly I did not."

"He has been arrested."

She flung the words at him. There was no doubt as to her strained and
nervous condition, but her manner astonished him. Why had she sent for
him to tell him something he was bound to hear within a few hours?

"I got no news while I was away," he said. "The local journal was only
interested in local affairs."

"But it was you who told them it was murder. It must have been. You asked
the questions about the watch-glass and the wireless."

"Please do not imagine Inspector Goff overlooked such things. Still less
that he would act on vague suggestions from me."

"Uncle Victor told me that you had been concerned in other cases. That
you had sometimes been right when the police were wrong. They are wrong
now, devilishly wrong. Will you be on their side or ours?"

The girl looked at him with tragedy in her eyes. When Goff had questioned
her she had answered him with spirited defiance. Her manner now was very
different. The arrest of the man she loved had indeed changed her. But
Goff did not make arrests without good reason.

"I suppose Wilfrid has a good lawyer? Is your uncle acting for him?"

"Yes. And he has the best possible counsel. But we want some thing more.
We want something more."

She clenched her little hands in her distress. Roger felt uncomfortable.

"I am sure everything that should be done will be done," he said.

"But you know what lawyers are! They squabble over words, and if things
look bad anything may happen. We must find out who really did it."

"The law does not often make mistakes."

"How can you tell that?" she cried passionately. "How can anyone tell?
Who knows how many innocent people may have suffered while we comfort
ourselves by saying the law does not make mistakes?"

He did not reply. After a moment she went on in a lower tone: "I am
sorry. You mean there is no reason why you should trouble about it, even
if it was your questions that led to his arrest."

"That is not quite fair."

"I think it is. When Uncle Victor told me how wonderful you had been I
thought you might help me. But since you say the law is always right--I
am sorry."

She broke off abruptly and got up for him to go. But he did not go. It
was not the flattery that detained him but the look of despair in her
eyes.

"I said the law seldom makes mistakes. The police often do. That is a
very different thing."

"You will help us?" Hope shone in her eyes.

"At the present moment all I know is that Wilfrid has been arrested. If
you told me all about it, I could give you my opinion--for what it is
worth."

For some silent moments their eyes met. It might well be that she was
weighing a grave decision.

"If you knew the facts, and they justified it, you would help us to find
the real murderer?"

"I would," Roger said, "as far as I could."

There was another silence. Then she began: "I told you Wilfrid and I were
to marry."

"You did."

"Wilfrid and I must marry."

Again their eyes met. Then she looked away. Did she mean what the words
implied?

"You must marry?"

"Yes. Soon."

She spoke in a very low tone, but there was no doubt of her meaning. He
showed that he understood, but he made no reply.

"You think I have been wicked?"

Still he did not speak. He realised the tragic horror of her position and
it was not for him to condemn. But what was he to say? How did her
unhappy plight affect Wilfrid Mounsey's innocence or guilt?

"Was I wicked?" she went on more passionately, in answer to her own
question. "Or was it wicked to make such a will? Have girls no flesh and
blood before they are twenty-one? What of the hundreds who marry before
they are even twenty?"

"Tell me about the will," Roger said gently. If that was the key to the
trouble he must understand it. And it would be easier to talk first of
something less intensely personal.

"My father's will. Both my parents died when I was little. I was not to
marry without Uncle Victor's consent before I was twenty-one."

"He refused his consent?"

"Frederick Curtis said Wilfrid must not marry until he was through with
his exams. Uncle Victor thought he was right."

"What was to happen if you married without consent?"

"I am not quite sure. I lose a good deal. Of course I don't get anything
till I am twenty-one."

"And Wilfrid has nothing?"

"Not yet."

"Your uncle and Mr. Curtis were not altogether unreasonable, were they?"
Roger asked mildly. "When you anticipated things, did you not realise
that this might happen?"

"I thought I was wise to it all," she said. "Anyway I did not suppose
Uncle Victor would refuse if it became necessary. Perhaps you have never
been in love?"

"I have heard a lot about it," he returned dryly. "Does anyone else know
what you have told me?"

"No. But you see what it means? Wilfrid is innocent. I know he is. But
you do see that I must prove it?"

"I do see that you are in a very difficult position," he said. A banal
remark perhaps, but his sympathy was genuinely aroused. Whether what he
had heard was to the young man's credit might be doubted, though possibly
Margot's was the stronger nature and hers was at least part of the blame.
But for an unmarried girl to find herself with child by a man who was
arraigned for murder was as terrible a thing as he could imagine.
Terrible for the girl; terrible for the child. No doubt there were
excuses for the wrong-doing. Roger regarded himself as old-fashioned in
such matters, though no one could be blind to the change in moral values
in modern thought and literature. But this presented a problem beyond
ordinary experience. If he could help, he felt he must do it. Margot had
judged him rightly in that.

"Tell me just what has happened," he said. "So far as you know, why was
he arrested?"

"He went back to the house a second time."

"He told us he called to see you and Delia, and his uncle informed him
you had gone to the theatre. He said he followed you there; but actually
he came back to the house again?"

"That is right," nodded Margot.

"Why did he do that?"

"He had bought me some chocolates. He put them down when he went in to
see Mr. Curtis and then forgot them. So he went back for them."

"Why did he not say so before?"

"He didn't see his uncle the second time," Margot explained "so he did
not think it mattered."

"Of course you got your chocolates?"

"No. He must have left them in the taxi. He does forget things. We made
enquiries and found the taxi-man, but he swears he never had them."

"He may be lying, or his next fare may have taken them. How did this come
out?"

"The police called on the other people in the square and a Colonel
Parsons who lives on the opposite side of the gardens told them he saw
someone go into Mr. Curtis's house and come out again. Then he saw him go
back. A little later he heard what might have been a shot and he saw
someone come out. You see what a ghastly muddle it is? He must have seen
Wilfrid go in the second time, but he was only there a few moments. He
went and someone else came, but Colonel Parsons must have missed that.
Then he saw that someone go and he thought it was Wilfrid."

Margot looked at him pleadingly, as though begging him to believe it was
as she said.

"It could have been that way," Roger commented. "How positive was Colonel
Parsons in his identification?"

"I don't know," said the girl unhappily. "I have not seen him. It was
what Uncle Victor learnt from the police. But two people might look alike
in the dark, across the garden, mightn't they? I mean anyone would
suppose the person who went out must be the same as the one they saw go
in?"

"If Colonel Parsons heard a shot, why did he do nothing about it?"

"He was not sure it was a shot, and then he heard the wireless. He didn't
think about it again till the police asked him."

"It is a pity," said Roger, "that Wilfrid did not tell of his return call
in the first place. Things always look so much worse when the police are
left to discover them."

"There is something else."

"What is that?"

"The police say Wilfrid's finger-prints are on the revolver."

Roger stared at her. She might well be frightened at the future. She was
calmer and more controlled, but he could see what an effort it was. He
waited a moment before he replied, and then endeavoured to speak as
though the point was not so overwhelming.

"How does Wilfrid account for that?"

"He cannot. But I can. He could, if he were not so honest."

"How do you account for it?"

"Oh, I know how damning it is!" she cried. "You need not pretend. They
say no finger-prints are alike and that the hand that touched the
revolver must have fired it. But it isn't true. Wilfrid did not do it. He
couldn't. When Delia called us in we were all so scared we did not know
what to do. We did not know what we did do. Wilfrid tried to help his
uncle and he must have picked up the revolver. He doesn't remember that
he did. We don't remember seeing him do it. But it must have been that
way. Isn't it a thing anyone might do?"

"They might," agreed Roger a little doubtfully. "It would be very
unfortunate."

"But we weren't policemen, wise to the tricks and the risks. We lost our
heads. Surely it really proves he was innocent?"

"How does it do that?"

"If he had shot him, wouldn't he know his finger-prints might be there?
If he hadn't wiped them off, wouldn't he have picked it up and let us all
see it in his hand?"

She spoke eagerly; terribly anxious that he should say she was right.

"Something might be made of such a point," said Roger, "but the position
is certainly difficult. He never mentioned his second visit until someone
else told of it. He accounted for it by saying he went back for
chocolates, but the chocolates never appeared. And his finger-prints are
on the weapon that was used."

"You believe he did it?"

"I am considering the case as Inspector Goff sees it. There is also a
motive, isn't there? I mean from the police point of view? On his uncle's
death Wilfrid gets a good deal of money--is that right?"

"It is right enough, but Wilfrid is not that sort."

"I hope not. You are sure he does not know the truth about you?"

"No one knows," she flushed. "I told you because he needs your help. I
cannot possibly tell him now; it would make him more utterly miserable."

She herself was near breaking point, but the affair had to be considered
in all its aspects.

"Whether you tell your uncle," said Roger slowly, "is for you to decide,
but otherwise the fewer who know it the better."

"I shall not tell anyone if you will help us," she muttered, "but what
difference could it make?"

"If it were known, it might be assumed that Wilfrid was aware of it. That
would appear to make the motive stronger."

"In what way?"

"He would have the further incentive to get money to enable him to marry
without delay."

"He didn't know; he mustn't know," she said in a very subdued tone. "I
only just knew myself. I was meaning to tell him and to ask if we should
get secretly married, or if it would be better to own up to Uncle Victor
when--when this happened."

Roger nodded. To blame would be easy enough, but wrongdoing seems
sometimes to escape punishment and sometimes to be punished with
excessive ferocity. If Wilfrid was in fact innocent, Margot's position
and his were indeed desperate.

"There is one thing about which I am not clear," he said. "If Wilfrid
left the house for the second time at about nine-forty, what was he doing
until nearly eleven--not driving round in a taxi with a box of
chocolates?"

"When Mr. Curtis told him we were at the theatre and might be going on
somewhere to supper, he knew we should dance, so he went to his rooms to
change. He walked there and took the taxi afterwards to the theatre."

"He didn't by any chance leave the chocolates in his rooms?"

"No. He remembers taking them into the taxi."

"Did he tell you he had had them and forgotten them?"

She hesitated. Perhaps it was a temptation to say she had been told about
them. But she stuck to the truth.

"Not until afterwards. He thought we should rag him about it. He got them
because he understood we were to be indoors with Delia. There is no point
in buying chocolates when you are going to a supper and dance. Is it
important?"

"Little things sometimes carry a lot of weight. Those chocolates are his
explanation of why he went to the house the second time. If he had given
them to you, it would lend colour to the story. But since he did not even
mention them, and there is no trace of them, it may be contended they
were an invention to explain his return after someone had told of it."

"Can't we do anything?" she whispered tragically.

"Quite a lot," he replied, more cheerily than he really felt. "I will see
Inspector Goff, but first I think a call on Colonel Parsons might be
useful."

"Could I come with you?" she asked eagerly. "It is so ghastly to be doing
nothing."

"I think you might," he began. She interrupted.

"There is Uncle Victor. Will you see him? Of course you won't say--"

"I won't. But I would like to see him."

Margot had heard her uncle enter the flat. She went from the room and
returned with him.

"Mr. Bennion has agreed to help us," she said.

"That is splendid," beamed the solicitor. "I said you young people ought
to know one another: you seem to have managed it without my help." Then
he added more gravely to Roger, "You have heard about Wilfrid Mounsey?"

"Margot has just told me," Roger replied. "I have been away in Scotland
and have lost touch with things. Have there been any developments in the
other case?"

"Not so far as I am aware. At both the inquests open verdicts were
returned. In the matter of my poor partner it is of course still possible
that it was suicide. But I gather that is not your view, and I find it
hard to believe myself."

"If one was murder," declared Margot, "both were, and probably by the
same person or group of people. That proves Wilfrid is innocent, as no
one suggests he went near Mr. Alexander Curtis."

"I am afraid, my dear, we cannot argue that because he did not kill
Alexander therefore he did not kill Frederick," her uncle said. "But we
will do our best. I have briefed Sir Norman French, who is the finest man
for the job, and we are making all the enquiries we can. There are many
awkward features. Has Mr. Bennion any suggestions?"

He looked towards Roger as he spoke and added: "I have heard of your
success in other cases. If there has been a mistake here we are lucky to
have you with us."

"It might be useful to offer a reward for the person who took the
chocolates."

"I see the idea," said the solicitor. "It would support part at least of
Wilfrid's story. But you are asking someone to admit they were guilty of
a misdemeanour. If the reward were enough, you might get too many to own
to it."

"You never can tell," Margot asserted. "We ought to try everything."

"We will, my dear. Mr. Bennion shall draw up the advertisement. Anything
else?"

"It wants a bit of thought," Roger replied. "I cannot say what Goff may
be willing to tell me, but I might learn something from this Colonel
Parsons."

"We must not tamper with witnesses," Morant remarked, "but it is useful
to know just what we are up against. Don't you think we might ask Mr.
Bennion to spend the week-end with us at Ashcomb, my dear, if he can
spare the time? Then he can tell us what he has done and we can discuss
things more leisurely."

"Will you?" said the girl eagerly to Roger.

"It is only a little place in Huntingdon," added her uncle. "Easy to get
at. I think we can make you comfortable."

"I would like to come," said Roger.

"Oh, thank you!" cried the girl. "Now we can see Colonel Parsons. I will
get my hat."

She ran from the room and the solicitor turned to Roger with something of
a sigh.

"You see how it is? She and young Wilfrid Mounsey were getting to like
one another quite a lot. I don't think there would really have been
anything in it, and I am not sure he is the man I would have chosen for
her, but this affair has made her his champion She is so sure he is
innocent and is so anxious to fight his battles for him."

Roger thought how often it happened that those who were nearest were the
most blind to what went on around them. It was very evident that Mr.
Morant had no idea how things stood between the accused man and his
niece. Fathers, and it may be uncles, do not realise how quickly the
girl-child may become a woman. There is little change in themselves
between forty and fifty, and they sometimes seem to expect the young life
beside them to develop equally slowly. But that was no subject for
discussion.

"What is your opinion," he asked, "as to Mounsey's innocence?"

"Had I a doubt of it," Morant replied, "I would not have undertaken his
defence, in spite of Margot's pleas. Frederick Curtis was my friend, his
brother was my partner. Their murder, if there was a murder, is a
dastardly thing. The law says a man is innocent until he is proved
otherwise. That is a grand maxim, the foundation of our liberty. But
unless I was absolutely convinced that Wilfrid Mounsey was guiltless, I
should have asked him to take the case to someone who could deal with it
from a purely impersonal aspect. I believe in him. I will do my best for
him."

He said it rather finely, and before Roger could reply Margot re-entered
the room.

"I am ready," she said. "Wish us luck, Uncle Victor."

"I do, my dear, every possible luck. And we shall see you at dinner on
Saturday, Mr. Bennion."

XI: A RAY OF HOPE

Little was said on the way to Egerton Square. Margot sat by Roger's side,
meek and miserable. Only once did she start to talk.

"You think there is a chance?"

"Of course there is a chance. We may learn a lot more about Frederick
Curtis before we are through."

"But there is so little to learn! I liked him; I am sorry for him; but he
was so dreadfully stuffy!"

"I know what you mean, but even men like that have sides to their
characters no one suspects."

"Not Frederick Curtis! He was too worried about the end of the world to
have time to enjoy what there is."

"His man Foyle told us that," Roger remarked, "though he put it
differently."

"I do not think Mr. Foyle can help us much. He is worse, though in
another way."

"How do you mean?"

"He is so utterly dumb. We used to tease Delia about him at one time, but
Mr. Foyle knows his place! Wilfrid says he has as much imagination as a
balance sheet."

"There is plenty of imagination about that sometimes."

In Egerton Square the odd numbers ran along the north side and the even
numbers the south. Thus No. 3 where Frederick Curtis had lived was almost
faced, across the garden, by No. 6, the dwelling of Colonel Robert
Parsons, D.S.O.

The Colonel was a big man with a large red face and fierce blue eyes, and
he spoke in a very loud voice. But a crutch and a stick drew attention to
something else. He had lost a leg in action when he gained his
decoration, though he hated to be commiserated on his misfortune. He was
proud to do things for himself and could even put up a game of golf that
was by no means to be despised. He was at home when Roger and Margot
arrived.

"I an afraid, sir," Roger began, "we have come on rather a peculiar
errand, but I hope you will let me explain. I believe you saw Wilfrid
Maunsey call on his uncle Frederick Curtis on the night he was shot. In
consequence of that, Mounsey has been arrested."

"Who exactly are you?" demanded the soldier, looking from him to the
attractive girl by his side.

"I am only a friend. Roger Bennion is my name. This is Margot Watney who
hopes to marry Wilfrid Mounsey."

The Colonel fixed his fierce blue eyes on the girl.

"I am sorry for you, young lady," he said, more gently than was his wont.
"I have my duty to do, and sentiment does not came into it."

"But, please . . " she whispered.

"I said, sir," Roger went on, "that I hoped you would let me explain. We
know that what you have stated is true, but it diverges from what Mounsey
says, and we are hoping it may be possible that his statement is also
true."

Colonel Parsons stared at him as though wondering whether it would not be
better to order him from the house.

"Please let him tell you," Margot whispered.

"I knew Curtis. He was a good fellow and whoever shot him was guilty of a
damnable crime. I shall give my evidence, and I suppose I shall be
cross-examined on it. It will not be pleasant, but I shall do my duty."

"I am sure of that, sir," said Roger, "but your duty would not allow you
to help to condemn an innocent man and let the real criminal escape."

"What do you mean?"

"Mounsey's story is that he arrived just before half-past nine. Finding
his cousin and Miss Watney were not in, he talked for a few minutes with
his uncle and then left. He however remembered a little gift he had
brought for Miss Watney and went back for it. It was not in his uncle's
room, so he did not see him the second time and did not stay more than a
minute or two. I believe you saw someone leave at about ten o'clock. If
that was Wilfrid Mounsey, his story is untrue. But if it was someone
else, his story may be true, and that someone else is the real murderer.
So, sir, Margot Watney and I want very respectfully to ask you two
questions. The first is, were you by your window all the time? The
second, did you actually recognise Wilfrid Mounsey on each occasion?"

Roger had a very persuasive way with him and Colonel Parsons, despite his
hectoring manner, had an honest heart. He had made one or two mildly
explosive interjections, but on the whole had listened very patiently.

"You are hoping to make me say that what I told the police was untrue?
That there was no shot? That it was all a mistake? I may have been a fool
not to know it was a shot, but one doesn't expect things like that, and
there are so many damned noises nowadays. But I tell you it was just as I
said it was."

"Yes, sir. But I am asking you to consider my two questions. It was
rather wet that night and if I saw a man in a hat and a mackintosh enter
a house, and twenty minutes later a man in a hat and a mackintosh left
it, I should assume it was the same man. But if I was not at my window
all the time, and if I did not see his face on each occasion, would it
not be possible for one man to go and another to arrive and for my
assumption to be wrong?"

The soldier glared at him and at Margot for a few moments.

"You ought to be a lawyer," he barked, "but damme, sir, there is
something in what you say. See that light over there?"

He raised himself slowly from his chair and went to the window. They
followed him. He pointed to one of four lamps inside the gardens that
gave them some illumination at night.

"If anyone approaches Curtis's house or my house they pass under that
lamp and I can see their faces. I described the man I saw approach No. 3.
He came twice, and it was Wilfrid Mounsey. I know him. I have seen him
enter that way before. From my description the police recognised him and
then he admitted it. There is no possible doubt about it."

"None at all, sir," agreed Roger. "But you did not see his face as he
left. His back was towards you."

"What difference does that make?"

"I am only asking if it is true."

Again the colonel stared at him.

"You will make me say black is white presently. But you are right, my
boy. I did not see his face when he left."

"Thank you, sir," Roger murmured quietly. "It is very good of you to say
so. Were you at your window all the time?"

"I am always at my window when I am at home," barked Colonel Parsons. "It
happens to be my favourite seat."

"Exactly, sir, but one sometimes gets up to attend to the fire, to alter
the wireless, to get a book, or something of that sort."

"Look here, my boy, you are trying to suggest there were three arrivals
and three departures and I only saw two of 'em. It won't do."

"It is not quite that, sir," said Roger. "I am only asking if it is
possible you turned away from the window for just a minute or two."

"Of course I did I After the news there was a talk and then a ghastly din
they call music; I remember it quite well. I stood it as long as I could,
then I tuned in to Strasbourg. That is music. But don't imagine it helps
you. I don't fumble with the knobs; I know what I want. I may have turned
away long enough to miss young Mounsey if he left immediately, as you say
he did, but not long enough for another man to arrive and go in--unless
he and Mounsey met. And Mounsey admits there was no one else about."

There was a note of triumph in his voice, for which he was immediately
sorry.

"Pardon me, young lady," he barked to Margot, in what he probably thought
was a gentler tone. "I know how you feel, but one must face facts."

She did not reply, but Roger spoke more briskly.

"That is just the fact we wanted, sir. If Mounsey could have got away
without being noticed, it makes everything easy. The other man arrived in
the ordinary way by the front door. Mounsey had gone and Frederick Curtis
let him in. It must have been some one Curtis knew well. When he had
fired his shot and left things as he wanted them to be found, this other
man decided to get out, not the way he came, but through the garden. You
saw him go and naturally took him for the man you had seen enter fifteen
or twenty minutes before."

The soldier's blue eyes positively bulged.

"'Pon my word, young man, you do want me to say black is white, but
damme, I believe it might have been that way."

"Oh, thank you! Thank you!" murmured Margot.

"Not so much thank you, young lady! I have told my tale and I stick to
it. But if it is put to me as this young feller puts it, that the second
man might have arrived at the street door, and might have gone through
the garden, and might have been wearing a hat and mackintosh like Mounsey
wore--I won't say it was impossible."

"Hats and macs are pretty much alike on a dark night," said Roger.

"'Pon my soul, I hope you're right. I don't go back on a single word I
told 'em, but if you can show it happened your way I'll be damned glad!"

"He is rather a dear," whispered Margot as they left the house. "I
believe he means to help us."

"I was afraid you would kiss him," smiled Roger. "That might have been
corrupting a witness. But you managed very well."

"It was all you," she said. "I could see it quite clearly in the way you
put it. I am more hopeful than I have been since they took him."

"It is a start, but we still have to find the other man."

"While we are here," Margot suggested, "shall we see if Delia has heard
anything?"

It was a good idea, and a moment later they were knocking at the door of
No. 3. Russell, the man-servant, admitted them as Delia was at home.

"Mr. Marmaduke is with her, miss," he said to Margot, whom he knew as a
frequent visitor.

"That is all right," and she pushed past him, confident of her welcome.

She opened the door of the front sitting room. Roger followed, although
he would have preferred a more formal entry.

Delia and her uncle were facing one another and it was obvious they had
been having something of a quarrel. The girl's fair face was flushed and
she looked angry. Marmaduke was redder than usual and there was quite an
ugly look in his narrow eyes.

"He wants to come and live here," cried Delia abruptly, when her friend
entered the room.

"That is for you to say," commented Margot, going to her side.

"I have said!"

"It is not a matter for discussion," Marmaduke spat out, looking at the
girls and then at Roger, "but if you understand the position perhaps you
can make her see reason. Under her father's will I am her guardian until
she is twenty-one. Therefore she must live with me. It is not possible
for her to live at my chambers and that means I must take something else.
Since she has this house and we should lose money if we sold it, I have
decided to come here."

"I cannot have him in Daddy's place," said Delia tensely. She might not
have been an ideal daughter, but she had been fond of her father. She had
recovered from her first self-reproaches at his death, yet the thought of
the uncle she disliked occupying his room and using the things he had
used was utterly repugnant to her. Marm