Chapter III: Part 3

A motor-car stood at the door. While they were detaching hats and sticks in the hall, they could hear some one being told that Lady Lunt was not leaving her room. Then, being shown out, came a bulky man muffled in a fur coat with a big Astrakhan collar. He had a large head and a long face of unhealthy complexion. Across the forehead from right eyebrow to hair was a red furrow. He had prominent, pale eyes.

“Who is the sportsman with the scratched face?” Reggie said, as the door shut on him.

“Oh, that’s Victor Lunt. Been inquiring after Lady Lunt, I suppose.”

“Bright and brotherly,” Reggie murmured.

There appeared briskly a man of grave and military aspect, who was presented to Reggie as Radnor Hall, Sir Albert Lunt’s secretary. Radnor Hall (in a faintly American accent) was very glad to see Mr. Fortune; hoped for Mr. Fortune’s company to lunch; after which, Lady Lunt was most anxious to see Mr. Fortune.

“I want to see the body,” Reggie said gruffly.

So to the body he was taken, and saw that Gerald Barnes was right enough: there could be no doubt of the cause of death. A pistol bullet, fired from some little distance, had entered the chest and lodged in the spinal vertebræ. Sir Albert Lunt might not have died on the instant. He could not have lived long. But that mortal wound was tiny. What made the dead man look horrible was the gash in his forehead and the bruise round it. And over that Reggie frowned and pondered. “Showy, isn’t it, very showy?” he complained. Such a hurt a man might get by falling on a stone. But Sir Albert Lunt had fallen on his back on the turf. If some one had hit him with a stone or some such jagged thing--but why should any man take a stone who had a pistol and was not afraid to use it? “If there was any sense in it, I’d say it was a fake,” Reggie grumbled.

He gave up the wounds at last and moved round the body.

“Oh, you’re looking at the wrong hand,” Barnes said.

“Am I though?”

“Yes, this is the one where the thumb’s sprained--the right hand.”

“Well, you know, he seems to have been busy with his hands. What did you make of this?”

Barnes came to look. The fingers of the left hand were bent towards the thumb as if the dead man had been plucking at something.

“Not much in that, is there?”

“What was he wearing?”

“Rough brown overcoat--brown tweeds.”

“Oh, ah!” Delicately Reggie extracted from the stiff fingers some little curly, black tufts.

“Well, that’s queer,” Barnes said. “Looks like a nigger’s hair.”

“You know you’ve got imagination.” Reggie put the stuff very carefully in his pocket-book. “Some oppressed nigger from the compounds at Johannesburg--came all the way to Prior’s Colney for vengeance--threw a stone at him--shot him--and then butted him. Thorough fellow, very thorough.”

“What is it, then?” Barnes said sulkily.

“Seek not to proticipate. Hallo!”

The interruption was the Hon. Stanley Lomas, Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department, dapper and debonair.

“Ah, Fortune, good man. Why didn’t you ask for me? I’m at the inn in the village.”

“That’s very haughty of you. Why not in the house? Have you put Lady Lunt’s back up? Or has she put up yours?”

“Oh, best to have a free hand, don’t you know? Well, what do you make of it?” Reggie shrugged. “Curious features, what? What I want to know is, was that blow on the head before the shot or after?”

“What you want is not a surgeon, it’s a clairvoyant. Anyway, you don’t want me. You’ve got your man.”

“Have I?” Lomas put up his eyeglass. “You mean Cranford? Now how did you know about Cranford?”

“Sorry, Lomas. Nothing doing. I’m the independent expert this time.”

Lomas frowned. “My dear fellow! Oh, my dear fellow! Unless you’re acting for some one, you’ve no business here, don’t you know.”

“I’m acting for some one all right--for V. Cranford.”

“Hallo! You’ve made up your mind?” Barnes cried.

Lomas dropped his eyeglass. “Ah! Well, well. Things must be as they may, what? It’s a pity. Afraid you’ve made a bad break this time, Fortune. It’s a straight case.”

“I wonder,” Reggie said.

“My dear fellow, I’d hate you to be at a disadvantage.” Lomas seemed suddenly to have become older, paternal, protective. “Well--it’s not strictly official--but I may tell you we’ve found the pistol. It was in Cranford’s rooms.”

“A Smith-Southron .38? Fancy! I don’t suppose there’s more than half a million of them in circulation. It’s a good gun. I’ve got one myself somewhere.”

“My dear fellow!” Lomas was young and jaunty again. “Why try to bluff me? Lunt was killed by a particular kind of pistol. And we find the particular man to whom all suspicion points owns one of these pistols. It’s quite simple, don’t you know?”

“Yes, oh, yes, ‘Doosid lucid, doosid convincing.’ But I wonder why you want to convince me?”

That was the first skirmish over the Lunt case, and Reggie, Gerald Barnes discreetly excusing himself, ate a little _tête-à-tête_ lunch with Radnor Hall--not in the silver panelled dining-room. When the servants were gone, “I don’t want to hear anything under false pretences, Mr. Hall,” Reggie explained. “I shall act in this case for Cranford.”

“Is that so?” Radnor Hall rubbed his back hair. “I guess I’ll take you right in to Lady Lunt.”

Lady Lunt stood in front of the fire with a cigarette in her mouth. She was a big woman, a little flat of figure and gaunt of face, but still handsome. She thrust a hand on Reggie, gripped his hand, and shot a “Glad to see you,” at him. Reggie was sorry he could not act for Lady Lunt, but had to consider that Cranford had the first claim on him. “I don’t mind,” she cried. It seemed her habit to be explosive. “If you’re against the police, that’s good enough for us. Eh, Radnor?”

“Sure,” said Radnor Hall, who was watching Reggie closely.

“I want you to hear what we’ve got to say about the case,” the lady explained. “We think it matters.”

“Quite a lot,” said Radnor Hall. Lady Lunt nodded at him, and he began. “You see, Mr. Fortune, Sir Albert left everything to Lady Lunt.” Reggie murmured that it was very natural. “As Lady Lunt regards the proposition, it’s up to her to see that justice is done about the murder.”

“Justice, see?” Lady Lunt broke in vehemently. “And not have some poor devil hanged because the police think he’s an under dog and don’t count.”

Radnor Hall frowned at her. “Mr. Fortune will realize when we make the position clear.”

“Sorry, Radnor. You go on.” Lady Lunt threw her cigarette away and dropped into a chair.

“Well, sir, to commence.” Radnor Hall smoothed his black hair. “This firm never was Albert Lunt. It was Lunt Brothers. The late Sir Albert he was sure master. He put in the git up and git. But quite a lot of the head work came from Mr. Victor Lunt. And lately, Sir Albert having largely relapsed into living on his rents, Mr. Victor Lunt has had considerable control. Now, sir, speaking as man to man, I would wish to say that the methods of Lunt Brothers have been complex--highly complex. I conjecture that in early days Albert and Victor were both out for scalps. But in my time, Sir Albert having mellowed, largely mellowed--under prosperity and certain influences----”

“Oh, don’t blether, Radnor,” Lady Lunt exploded.

“Well, Mr. Fortune, Sir Albert has lately showed a tendency to more conservative methods of finance. Mr. Victor Lunt has gone on putting in his sharp head work. There has been friction, sir--some friction. Now in this affair of Cranford’s--without prejudice, I would like to say that Mr. Cranford has been hardly used by Lunt Brothers.”

“He’s been damnably cheated,” said Lady Lunt.

“There’s a point of view,” said Radnor Hall. “Lady Lunt had put her point of view to Sir Albert. Well, sir, the Cranford case was largely handled by Mr. Victor Lunt. I wouldn’t say Sir Albert disavowed the methods used. But he considered Mr. Victor was taking too much control. Words passed. And we find Sir Albert shot. That’s the proposition, Mr. Fortune.”

Reggie smiled. Reggie put the tips of his fingers together and over them looked very blandly at the military face of Radnor Hall. “Your view is that Sir Albert was murdered by his brother Victor,” he said.

Lady Lunt started and looked at Radnor Hall.

Radnor Hall gave no sign of surprise. “Pitch up another, doctor,” he smiled back. “No, sir. Your guess, not mine. I’m giving out facts.”

“Oh, cut it out, Radnor,” said Lady Lunt.

“Well, well.” Reggie surveyed her benignly. “And so Sir Albert’s death leaves Victor in control of the firm?”

“Sir Albert’s share comes to me,” Lady Lunt said. “Five-eighths. I’m master now.”

“A responsibility,” Reggie murmured. “If I understand one cause of quarrel between the brothers was that Victor resented your influence, madame, which Sir Albert encouraged you to use?”

“Yes, that’s the proposition,” said Radnor Hall.

“You know it’s not,” Lady Lunt cried. “They both hated me to meddle.”

“Is that so?” Reggie said dreamily. “And you were asking me to find out who murdered Sir Albert?”

“No, I wasn’t,” Lady Lunt flashed at him. “I was asking you to save this poor boy Cranford.”

“Ah well, let’s hope it’s the same thing.” Reggie stood up. “I can play about in the park, I suppose? Many thanks.”

And he did play about in the park till dusk, and when he went back to London, Sam, the factotum, was not with him.

In the evening Donald Gordon rang him up. Donald Gordon thought Cranford was a bit of a tough, but was going to act for him. It would be a fruity case. He had arranged a consultation with Cranford at the prison to-morrow, and hoped Reggie would be there. What did Reggie think of the case? “Rotten,” said Reggie, and rang off.

The fact is that from first to last the Lunt case annoyed him. He never saw his way through it, and has always called it one of his failures. The one thing which he did, he will tell you, was to grasp that the police were mucking it--to divine that whoever killed Sir Albert and however he--or she--did it, it was not a simple, common bit of pistolling. He was right about nothing else. His apology is that he has no imagination.

At this stage he was prepared to believe anything. When he went gloomily to bed it was with the conviction that if he were Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department he could make it--or fake it--into a hanging matter for “any one of the bally crowd”. The unknown Cranford, the enigmatic Victor, Lady Lunt, Radnor Hall, you could put each of them in the dock--or several of them together. Lady Lunt stood to gain most by the death--or perhaps Radnor Hall--what were her relations with Radnor Hall? Cranford had the worst quarrel with the dead man--or perhaps brother Victor. In favour of Cranford was only the oddity of the business, and nice Nurse Dauntsey . . . a lamb. . . . Comfortable visions of her sent him to sleep.

Seen in the gaunt room at the prison, the unknown Cranford came up to expectation. He was a dark fellow, lean and powerful, with a decisive jaw. The little Jewish solicitor, Donald Gordon, became nervous before him. “Miss Dauntsey says I’m devilish obliged to you, doctor,” said Cranford sharply. “So I am. You understand I admit nothing.”

“That’s the best way,” the little Jew lisped.

But Cranford told his story and admitted a good deal. He had offered his discovery of copper to Lunt Brothers, and been sent out to Mozambique with a party of their men. On the way up country he had gone out of camp to shoot for the pot. Out of the bush came a native spear and broke in his thigh. By the time he struggled back to camp, there was no camp. The party had gone on with the food and the baggage, his baggage too, in which was the map of his copper belt. He was left wounded and alone in the bush. After some desperate days he struggled into a native village, and lay there a month before he could travel. When he came back to Mozambique he found that Lunt Brothers were enrolled as the owners of all the copper belt.

He sailed for England. There was in him, he confessed--no, proclaimed--the single purpose of getting his own back from Sir Albert Lunt. And so his first day in England took him to the office of Lunt Brothers. Victor Lunt received him. Victor Lunt had been civil, even sympathetic, but had nothing to offer. Victor Lunt admitted that they had jumped his claim, did not conceal that the trick had been planned by Sir Albert Lunt, agreed that Cranford had been damnably swindled; but gave him no hope that Sir Albert Lunt would do anything.

“You didn’t kill Victor, anyway?” Reggie said.

“Victor? Poor beast, there’s nothing to him. He’s all talk,” said Cranford. “Albert ran that show. Victor as good as told me so. Said he was just a clerk in Albert’s office. So I told him a few things about Albert. Poor devil, he was in a funk. He got cold feet. Said I had better go right on to Albert. Albert was down at Prior’s Colney. Would I go to Albert? I would so. And I did.”

“Yes. By train. You got to Colney Road Station 12.20,” Reggie said. “You came back by the 2.5.”

“That’s so.” Cranford stared at him. “You know something, doctor. I walked up to Prior’s Colney. Flunkey said Albert was out. I walked back and caught the 2.5.”

There was silence for a moment. Then the little Jew said, “That’s the story. You’ll have to tell it in the witness-box, you know.”

“Can do,” said Cranford.

“That’s nice,” the little Jew lisped. “Now you know some fellow will ask you--don’t you tell me if you don’t want--did you murder Albert Lunt?”

“I did not, sir.”

The little Jew rubbed his hands. “That’s nice, ain’t it, doctor? That gives us a free hand.” He got up. “Well, doctor, any questions?”

“I wonder what coat you were wearing, Mr. Cranford?” Reggie said.

“Coat? Brown raincoat. Devilish cold it was too. Only coat I’ve got. I’ve not had time to fit out for an English spring.”

“Quite. We’ll carry on, then.” Reggie got up too. “It’s shaping all right, Mr. Cranford. Shouldn’t worry.”

“Not me. Tell Miss Dauntsey,” Cranford said.

Outside in their car, “What’s the verdict, doctor?” Gordon said.

“He’s telling the truth,” Reggie said.

“Fancy!” And they became technical.

On the day of the inquest Reggie went down to Prior’s Colney, but the inquest he did not attend. The Hon. Stanley Lomas noticed that, and remarked on it with surprise to Donald Gordon. It was the one thing in a successful day which gave Mr. Lomas concern. But at the close of that day Mr. Lomas, going back to the inn for his car and his tea, found Reggie eating buttered toast. “I envy you. Fortune, don’t you know.” Lomas sat down beside him.

“Oh, Mr. Lomas, sir,” Reggie mumbled. “Go along with you.”

“I envy your stomach,” Lomas explained, put up his eyeglass and surveyed the buttered toast more closely. “O Lord! And after a bad day too! You’ve heard the verdict. What? Wilful murder against Cranford.”

“And all is gas and gaiters. And hooroar for Scotland Yard. And you shall pay for my tea.”

“It was the pistol did for him you know.” Lomas smiled as a man who can afford to smile.

“Childhood’s years are passing o’er us, Lomas,” Reggie murmured. “Soon our schooldays will be done. Cares and sorrows lie before us, Lomas. Hidden dangers, snares unknown. I’ve found the real pistol, old thing. Good-bye.”

Lomas caught him up outside. “I say, Fortune. Without prejudice--what’s your line?”

“Seek not to proticipate,” Reggie smiled. “This gentleman is paying for my tea, Mary. You would be so hasty, you know.”

Mr. Lomas drank whisky and soda.

That was the second skirmish in the Lunt case.

The general action was fought at the assizes. The interest in it began with the cross-examination of Victor Lunt. Victor Lunt, called for the prosecution, made a good impression. He looked harassed and in ill-health, affected as a good brother should be by a brother’s death. But he had command of himself, proved that he had brains as well as the heart displayed by his dull eye and flabby face, he was lucid and to the point. He showed no malice against Cranford. Cranford had called on him on the morning of the murder, complained bitterly of his treatment by Sir Albert Lunt, used violent language about Sir Albert, demanded to know where Sir Albert was, and gone away. Such was Mr. Lunt’s evidence in chief.

Then arose a small and pallid barrister with a priggish nose. He would ask Mr. Lunt to carry his mind back to some earlier transactions. So the story of the expedition to Mozambique was brought out and, such was the simplicity of the priggish little man, the harassed mouth of Mr. Lunt was made to explain that Lunt Brothers had annexed Cranford’s discovery, and that the expedition of Lunt Brothers had left him to die in the bush.

“Are you justifying the murder?” said counsel for the Crown.

“You will understand my friend’s uneasiness, gentlemen,” says the little barrister, and pinned Mr. Lunt to the statement that it was Sir Albert who had planned this iniquitous scheme. “And when Cranford had gone, Mr. Lunt, of course you warned your brother at once this desperate fellow was on his track. No? Curious. Yet you went down in your motor to your own house at Colney Towers, not much more than a mile away. You reached the house between 12 and 12.30? Perhaps? Oh, don’t begin to forget things now. What did you do then?”

As far as he remembered Mr. Lunt took a stroll.

“On your oath--did you not go and meet your brother?”

Mr. Lunt (who had sat down) started up to deny it. He had not gone outside his own park.

“Would it surprise you to hear that on the path from your house to Sir Albert’s there were found next day fresh footprints which your boots fit?” Mr. Lunt often walked that way. “What clothes were you wearing?” Mr. Lunt could not remember. He went as he was. “You don’t deny you were wearing a coat with an Astrakhan collar?” Mr. Lunt could not say--he had such a coat--he did often wear it. “Very well. And, as you were saying, you have had quarrels with your brother about the policy of the firm?”

“Not quarrels, no,” Mr. Lunt protested eagerly, and struggled to explain them away.

“On the day after the murder you had a large scratch on your forehead which was not there before the murder?” Mr. Lunt could not remember the scratch. Anybody might have a scratch. He was let go. And the jury looked at each other.

After lunch, first witness for the defence, came Lady Lunt to say that the scheme to trick Cranford had been Victor’s, and that on many subjects there were bitter quarrels between Victor and Albert. Radnor Hall corroborated. Reggie followed, and brought the crisis of the battle.

Mr. Fortune, eminent in his profession, had examined the body. Clutched in the left hand were some black tufts--fragments of Astrakhan. When he visited the scene of the crime he had found on the brambles close by other tufts of Astrakhan. He had traced recent footprints which corresponded exactly to the size of a pair of Mr. Albert Lunt’s boots. He produced measurements and casts. In the depths of one of the neighbouring coverts he had found a Smith-Southron .38 magazine pistol, from which three shots had been fired. And a vigorous cross-examination could do nothing with these facts. Then came other witnesses to prove that Victor Lunt had been wearing Astrakhan, and Cranford a raincoat.

Last witness for the defence--Cranford himself. Last question for the defence--“On your oath, did you murder Albert Lunt?”

“On my oath, no.”

The once-confident counsel for the Crown went delicately now. It was plain enough that he thought his case did not justify him in pressing the prisoner hard. “When you were told Albert Lunt was out you made no further attempt to see him. Why?”

“I thought it was a plant. I thought the two of them were putting me off.”

“So you went straight back to town?”

“Yes. I caught the 2.5. You know that.” Counsel for the Crown gave it up.

A speech of sledgehammer logic from the priggish little barrister, exhibiting Cranford as a man much wronged, and Victor Lunt as the villain of the piece--a speech the more effective from its studied absence of passion. A summing up from the judge dead against Victor Lunt. A quick verdict of Not Guilty. Cheers in court. Nurse Dauntsey crying and laughing and feeling blindly for Reggie Fortune’s hand.

In the corridor outside, “That’s a case, my boy, that’s a case.” The little Jew solicitor jumped and gurgled. “Some sensation! What, Mr. Lomas, some sensation in the Yard.”

“Baddish break, Lomas. ‘Zeal, all zeal, Mr. Easy,’” Reggie grinned.

“Why the devil couldn’t you give it me?” Lomas thrust by in a hurry. “Get on, Bell--get on.” Superintendent Bell, his lieutenant, shook his head at Reggie.

That night after dinner a card was brought in to Reggie Fortune. “For God’s sake see me,” was scrawled above “Mr. Victor Lunt.” Reggie went down to his consulting-room.

Victor Lunt was in distress. The fat face which in the morning had been pale was now crimson and sweating. He breathed heavily; he seemed swollen.

“You must expect nothing from me, Mr. Lunt. I have done with your case,” Reggie said.

“You’ll hear what I’ve got to say. You must hear my side, doctor. It was you who set them on me. My God, there may be a warrant out for me any moment. Doctor, for God’s sake--you don’t want to send me to the gallows. I never did it. I swear I never did.”

“I have said nothing but the truth about what I found. The facts are the facts, Mr. Lunt. Defend yourself against them. I can do nothing for you.”

“But the facts lie, doctor. God love you, you wouldn’t go to hang an innocent man. I’ll tell you the truth, by God I will.”

Reggie sat down. “I can’t take up your case, Mr. Lunt. I am committed. Anything you tell me is at your own risk. If you can convince me that you’re innocent it’s my duty to do what I can for you. But I advise you to hold your tongue.”

“Don’t you see?” Victor Lunt was almost screaming. “If they hang me it’s you that’s done it. Will you listen now?”

“Go on, sir.”

Victor Lunt mopped his face, tried to speak, and stuttered. “I did go out that day.” The words came in a half-articulate rush. “I wanted to see what Cranford had done to Bert. And in the park I found Bert lying shot. He had a pistol in his hand.”

“Do you want me to believe he shot himself?” Reggie frowned.

“O God, I don’t know. I swear it’s the truth, doctor. He was lying there shot with a pistol in his hand. When I bent over him he grabbed at me. “You swine,” he said, and he lifted his hand to shoot. Then I bashed his face with a stone. But he shot and it cut my head. That was the scratch, doctor. My God, you do see things. I grabbed the pistol and wrenched it away from him.”

“The sprained thumb,” Reggie muttered.

“Then I heard the death-rattle.” Victor Lunt shuddered, and again he could not command his speech. “I lost my head, doctor. I ran away. I chucked the pistol away. I don’t know what I did. Doctor, I swear it’s God’s truth.” He started up. “What do you mean to do now?”

For Reggie sat silent looking at him. “If it’s the truth, Mr. Lunt, I advise you to tell it.”

“It is the truth. Don’t you know it’s the truth? O God!”

“I am not God, Mr. Lunt.”

Victor Lunt screamed. Two men had come into the room. “Mr. Victor Lunt? I am Superintendent Bell. I hold a warrant----” Victor Lunt fell upon the hearth.

They rushed at him, dragged him out of the fire. . . . “Apoplexy,” Reggie said. “I thought it was coming.” The detective’s eyebrows asked him a question. Reggie shook his head.

“This warrant won’t run,” said Superintendent Bell. “What was he doing here, sir?”

“Asking for mercy,” Reggie said. “He’s taking the case to a higher court. I wonder. I wonder.”

And that night Victor Lunt died. . . .

A few days afterwards Reggie gave a little dinner to Cranford and Nurse Dauntsey, and Nurse Dauntsey in a shy evening-frock was adorably happy. And in due time, “Have another peach,” Reggie said.

“Do you want to see me blush, Mr. Fortune?” But she took another.

“You can do pleasant things with the stones--he loves me, he loves me not.”

“It’s not interesting any more,” said Nurse Dauntsey, and looked demure.

“I’m off to British Columbia next week,” Cranford announced.

“Alone?” said Reggie, with his eye on Nurse Dauntsey.

“This year, next year,” Nurse Dauntsey counted. “May I have five peaches, Mr. Fortune?”

“I’m sure you know what’s good for you. So you’re dropping the Mozambique copper claim, Cranford?”

“Lady Lunt offered to turn it over to me. I couldn’t touch it.”

“Of course not,” said Nurse Dauntsey.

“Good thing for me Victor Lunt didn’t stand his trial,” Cranford said.

“Yes. It would have kept you in England.” Reggie lit a cigar.

“I should have had to tell the whole story.” Reggie stared at him. “Yes. That’s the proposition, sir. It was the case you put up against him got me off.”

“I put up nothing,” Reggie cried. “Everything I had against Victor was true, and he knew it was true. That’s what broke him. He had a queer story of his own though,” and Reggie told them Victor Lunt’s version of the crime. “I’ve wondered how much of that was true. He wanted me to believe Albert committed suicide, you see. And that’s impossible.”

“Maybe it was all true,” Cranford said. “Poor beggar. He went through it.”

“I didn’t feel merciful,” Reggie said. “Whatever was the way of it, he meant to get his brother murdered. He worked you up and sent you off to do it. He meant the murder. No, I didn’t feel merciful. And yet--I wonder.”

“I always meant to put you wise,” Cranford said. “You’ll pardon me. I couldn’t afford to give anything away. And I told you no lies. I didn’t murder Albert Lunt. But I killed him. Fair and clean, sir. On my soul it’s as good a bit of work as ever I did. He was a yellow dog. It was up to me to wipe him out. This is the way of it, doctor. When they said he wasn’t at Prior’s Colney I laid to wait for him, and then I saw him coming across the park. I met him and I told him off. I had it all cut out. He had to have his chance, though he gave me none. I had two guns. One for him, one for me. I offered him the pick, and he snatched and fired at me while I had the other gun by the muzzle. He was sure trash. Then he put in another miss and I stretched him. That’s my tale, sir.”

“And it’s just as well you didn’t try it on a jury,” Reggie said.

Cranford started up. “Mr. Fortune, sir, I’m considerably in your debt. But if you call me a liar----”

“Oh, no, no.”

“D’you call me a coward, then? I would have it all out if Victor had come to trial.”

“You’ve run straight,” Reggie said.

“I sure have,” Cranford fumed.

“Do sit down, dear,” said Nurse Dauntsey in her nice, gentle voice.

On her Reggie turned. “And you knew all the time!” He shook his head at her.

“Yes, of course, Mr. Fortune.” She looked surprised.

“Cranford, my congratulations,” said Reggie. “Never trust a really nice girl unless you’re marrying her. Perhaps you knew that.”

CASE IV

THE EFFICIENT ASSASSIN

There was a silence that might be felt. The judge put on the black cap. The prisoner gave a queer cackle of laughter. And Mr. Reginald Fortune, the surgeon whose evidence had convicted him, yawned and stole out of court. The Sunday School murder, one of the most popular crimes of our generation, had bored Mr. Fortune excessively, and now that the Sunday School Superintendent was safely on his way to the hangman Mr. Fortune desired to forget all about it at once.

He stood on the steps of the Shire Hall, lighting a cigar. A large young man, who had been struggling to get in, detached himself from the guardian policeman and ran at him. “Fortune! My God!” he said emotionally. “I thought I’d never get at you. I say, come somewhere where we can talk.”

Mr. Fortune looked down through his smoke with sleepy eyes. “One moment. One moment,” he murmured. “Oh, ah. You’re Charlecote--Beaver Charlecote. Well, and what’s the best with you, Beaver?”

“It’s murder, old man,” Charlecote muttered.

“Everybody’s doing it.” Mr. Fortune frowned at him. “Who’s slain now?”

“It’s my father.”

“My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap!” Mr. Fortune was startled into sympathy.

“I say Fortune--for God’s sake----” Charlecote gasped.

“Quite. Quite,” said Mr. Fortune, linked arms with him, and marched him off.

When Reggie Fortune ambled through his four years at Oxford, Geoffrey Charlecote was one of the great men of his college, a cricket blue, socially magnificent, and even suspected of brains. The Charlecote family dated from the Victorian age. When the building of railways began, Geoffrey’s grandfather was a navvy. He became a contractor, made half a million, and died. Shares of his practical ability, his originality, his driving power, and his disdain for the ten commandments (he was a mean old sinner) were inherited in different proportions by his three descendants. Stephenson Charlecote, his son, had one child, Geoffrey, and was also the guardian of an orphan nephew, Herbert. Stephenson Charlecote was a capable man of business. In his hands the family wealth increased. His only ambition was that the family should get on in the world. So it was Eton and Oxford for Geoffrey, Harrow and Cambridge for his cousin Herbert. Herbert emerged elegant and ordinary. In spite of Eton and Oxford, Geoffrey disturbed his father by showing signs of originality. He was bored by the big house in Mayfair, he would not bother himself with society, he scoffed at going into Parliament. This freakish obstinacy roused the hereditary temper in Stephenson Charlecote, who was the more angry with his son because his nephew Herbert obeyed him in all things, and was successful in the most pompous drawing-rooms. The breaking-point came when Geoffrey discovered that he wanted to go abroad and be a sculptor. Stephenson Charlecote raged and decreed that he should not. And Geoffrey went.

All this Reggie Fortune, who never forgot anything when he wanted it, knew at the back of his mind. The rest Geoffrey told him as his car took them back to London.

“My God, Fortune, it’s ghastly! I found him lying dead in the street outside my place. I stepped in his blood. The old guv’nor!”

“Quite. Quite,” said Reggie Fortune. “Now begin at the beginning.”

“What is the beginning?”

“Well, you quarrelled, didn’t you?”

“He quarrelled. Oh, that sounds blackguardly. I dare say it was my fault. Yes, we had a big row. Damn it, man, what do you mean? Do you think I---- Oh, I say, this is loathsome. I believe that’s what the police think. The old guv’nor!”

“Yes. But this don’t help him,” said Reggie Fortune placidly. “From the beginning, please.”

Geoffrey Charlecote stared at him, gulped, and became more coherent. “Well, after the row I went abroad. Paris, Rome, Munich. I kept up a little place in Chelsea, too. I never saw the old man, and we didn’t write. I suppose I’ve been a brute.”

“Hard stuff in the Charlecote family. What?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, Fortune--I swear I’m sorry.”

“Gut it out,” said Reggie Fortune.

“Well, in Munich I married.” He flushed. “You know, she’s an angel, Fortune.”

“Quite. German angel?”

“No. She’s Italian. She came to Munich singing. And we met, and in a month we were married. I tell you, Fortune, I’ve been a different man since. It’s as if she’d given me a soul, you know.”

“Did you tell your father that?”

“It was she made me write to my father again. Lucia--she can’t bear being in a quarrel. She’s so gentle, any sort of bad feeling hurts her. So she brought me to try and make it up. I wrote to the old man and he answered--just a short, civil, formal note. But Lucia was sure it would lead to something, and so we came back to England. Then I wrote to him again, and he came to see us in Chelsea. That was a week ago--just a week ago to-day. He was pretty stiff and standoffish, but he took to Lucia. Everybody does, you know. Fortune, old man, she’s wonderful. I thought he seemed a good deal aged, but he was just as brisk and sharp as ever. He had us to dine with him on Monday. And then--well, last night he called on us again, came about four, stayed a long time. And he was so jolly and genial. And afterwards I went out to post some letters, and there he was, lying not a dozen yards from our door. He’d been stabbed. He was in a pool of blood. Good God! It was awful.”

“Yes. Yes. Seems to be a quiet street where you live.”

“Vinton Place--it’s a little cul-de-sac.”

“It was dark when he left? And you heard nothing? Yes. I wonder who his money goes to?”

“What the devil do you mean?” Geoffrey cried.

“Well, that’s quite a fair question,” said Reggie Fortune placidly. “If I’m actin’ for you, and if you like, I will, I look only to your interests. If I’m acting for Scotland Yard--and if it’s a hard case, they’ll call me in--I’m only concerned to get the truth out, whoever suffers.”

“And do you think I don’t want the truth?” Geoffrey cried. “What are you hinting at? Do you mean I murdered him?”

“Preserve absolute calm,” said Reggie Fortune.

“I’m not calm. What a beast I should be if I was calm. I want the thing cleared up, man. I want my father to have justice. Whether you act for me or act for the police it’s the same thing.”

“If you take it that way, I’ll act for the police, Beaver,” said Reggie placidly.

Geoffrey Charlecote stared at him. “That’s enough, thanks,” he said. “Stop the car. I won’t worry you any more, Mr. Fortune.”

“Mr. be blowed. Don’t be an ass, Beaver. It’s a bad business. Let’s make the best of it.”

“Will you stop the car?” Geoffrey said loudly, and stood up.

“Five miles from nowhere? Oh, go easy.” But Geoffrey turned and opened the door. So the car was stopped, and Geoffrey Charlecote left forlorn in his rage on the road.

Reggie Fortune lay back and sighed. “Poor beggar. I wonder. Poor beggar,” he said. And when he came back to Wimpole Street the first thing he did was to ring up the Hon. Stanley Lomas, the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department. As a consequence you behold him sitting under the French prints in the study of Mr. Lomas.

“I thought you’d be on to this, don’t you know?” Lomas said. “It’s a pretty case. Wealthy old gentleman, impecunious heirs, sudden death. That’s natural enough. But impecunious heirs don’t stab much--not in England.”

“Yes. You’re intelligent, Lomas. But you’re prejudiced. You always believe in the obvious.”

“The obvious is what happens.”

“Oh, Peter! If it did, we wouldn’t want a Criminal Investigation Department. Well, now, this is what I’ve got. Check it, please. Geoffrey quarrelled with the old man--went away, commenced artist, and married an Italian girl--at her wish tried to make it up with the old man--old man was willing, called on Geoffrey twice, and after the second visit Geoffrey found him stabbed and dead just outside.”

“That’s all right,” Lomas nodded. “An odd thing is, just before the murder the old man remade his will in favour of Geoffrey. When they quarrelled, he had a will drawn up which left everything to the nephew Herbert. Under this last will Herbert gets twenty thousand, and all the rest goes to Geoffrey. It was only signed on the morning of the murder.”

“There’s a deuce of a lot of unknown quantities in this equation,” Reggie said. “Silly, futile things facts are. This set will do for anything you please. As soon as he knew the will was in his favour, Geoffrey does the old man in. Or when he heard there was a new will cutting him out, Herbert sees red and knifes the old man. By the way, Lomas, I suppose the old boy was stabbed?”

“What? Oh, damme, don’t be clever. He was stabbed all right. The divisional surgeon and his own doctor, Newton, they both went over the body. Stabbed in the throat. We’ve got the weapon, too. Sort of stiletto or dagger.”

Reggie cocked an eye at the head of the Criminal Investigation Department. “Sounds Italian,” he murmured.

“It is Italian.”

“And Geoffrey married an Italian wife.”

“An Italian singer--a singer at cafes. That’s the kind she was. Yes, that’s the proposition.”

“Lomas, old thing, you ought to write melodramas. The diabolical Italian singer, she leapt out of the dark, she pulled a d--dagger from her stocking, and she fell upon the dear, kind old gentleman and left him weltering in his gore. Then she put the dagger down, so the gifted detective could find it, and went back to dinner.”

“It is silly, isn’t it?” Lomas grinned. “But there it is, don’t you know?”

“I don’t know,” said Reggie Fortune.” I don’t know anything. I was born of poor common-sensible parents, and this is all crazy. I suppose he really was stabbed?”

“You will harp on that. Go and look at him in the morning. Hang it, man, the family doctor and the divisional surgeon they ought to know if there’s a hole in him or not.”

“But why--why? Geoffrey--the Italian wife--they were on velvet anyway. The disappointed nephew--well, I suppose he still had his allowance while the old man lived. Do you know anything about Nephew Herbert?”

“Man about town--Society tame cat--usual vices, what? Plays a bit high. He’s nothing in particular.”

“Don’t sound like a lurking stabber,” Reggie admitted.

“People don’t do these things. That’s the trouble. Queer case.”

“I suppose the old man hadn’t a lurid past?”

Lomas shook his head. “Most respectable old bird.”

Reggie stood up and gave himself a full glass of soda water. “The extraordinary efficiency of the assassin,” he said carefully. “Lomas, old dear, observe the extraordinary efficiency of the assassin. Mr. S. Charlecote comes out of his son’s house. A few yards from the door somebody kills him so quickly, so neatly, that he don’t make one sound. And then this extraordinarily efficient assassin leaves his dagger for you to find.”

“Who says he didn’t make a sound?”

“Yes. Geoffrey and his angel wife. Yes. Only them and no one else. That’s a flaw. Little essays in the obvious by S. Lomas. Well, it’s me for the corpse, then.”

And so in the morning he called at the mortuary. He was slightly surprised to find the divisional surgeon and Dr. Newton waiting for him. He returned thanks. “Is there anything to which you’d like to draw my attention, gentlemen?”

“It’s a plain case, to my mind,” said the divisional surgeon.

“I am always glad to have a specialist’s opinion,” said Dr. Newton. “Of course, this sort of thing is rather out of my line. I confess I can hardly approach it calmly.”

“Quite. Quite. Most distressin’. I suppose you knew him well, doctor?”

“An old patient, Mr. Fortune. I may say an old friend.”

“Ah, yes. You know the family, of course.”

“They were once such an affectionate family,” said Dr. Newton. “It’s really terrible.” He sighed. He was a florid, bearded man with a sentimental expression and manner. “Poor Charlecote! He never seemed to bear up after Geoffrey broke with him. But who would have thought that strange escapade would have ended like this?”

“So you think Geoffrey did the trick?”

“I beg your pardon!” Dr. Newton was horrified. “You put words into my mouth, Mr. Fortune. No, no. A most invidious suggestion.”

“Murder’s rather an invidious business,” said Reggie placidly. “Come, doctor, what do you think of Geoffrey?”

“I have never been able to conceal from myself, Mr. Fortune, that there is an odd strain in Geoffrey, as it were something abnormal or thrawn--a certain violence of temperament.”

“In the blood, perhaps.”

“Perhaps. And yet there was nothing of it in his father. Or in his cousin Herbert.”

“Cousin Herbert. Yes. What about Cousin Herbert?”

Dr. Newton laughed. “Frankly, Mr. Fortune, you baffle me. Because there is nothing about Herbert. A very worthy young man, no doubt, but colourless, quite colourless.” Reggie nodded. “No.” Dr. Newton pursued his own train of thought. “In my own speculations on the affair--this most deplorable affair--I find myself continually confronted by an unknown quantity, a mysterious entity, Geoffrey’s Italian wife.”

“Ah, there you have it,” said the divisional surgeon heartily.

Reggie looked at them, nodded, and without more talk led the way to the body. It did not occupy him long. Two wounds had sufficed to make an end of Stephenson Charlecote. One in the throat, which had pierced the carotid artery; one in the chest, which had reached the heart.

Superintendent Bell, in attendance from Scotland Yard, produced the weapon found by the body--a long, thin dagger or stiletto, obviously capable of causing the wounds, obviously Italian in origin.

Reggie finished his examination and turned to the two doctors, who were waiting on him reverently. “Anything in particular occur to you, gentlemen?”

“Quite straightforward, I think.” The divisional surgeon shrugged. “Technically speaking, a very neat bit of work.”

“I would go even further,” said Dr. Newton. “The crime seems to have been committed with remarkable skill and determination.”

“The extraordinary efficiency of the assassin,” Reggie murmured. “Yes. Touched the spot every time.”

“It would almost seem to suggest some experience in the use of this weapon,” said Dr. Newton.

“That is indicated.” Reggie nodded at him. “Yes. Deceased been in good health lately?”

“I have been treating him for some time for gastric trouble--a persistent gastric catarrh. It was troublesome, but hardly serious.”

And upon that Reggie got rid of them and was left alone with Superintendent Bell. Superintendent Bell cocked an oldish but still bright eye. “And the next thing, sir?” said he.

“I am feeling depressed, Bell. Do you ever have feelings? I feel this is all wrong.”

“Well, sir, the evidence is thin, very thin.”

“Evidence? Oh, my aunt, we haven’t come to evidence yet. I’m uncomfortable. Everything seems wrong way up. Why did anybody kill the old man? He was making friends with Geoffrey again and anyway he had enough to live on. Herbert had an allowance and something of his own, too. Nobody else stood to gain by his death.”

“If you leave out the Italian girl, sir.”

“It keeps coming back to her,” Reggie said mournfully. “But why? Suppose he was nasty to her when he called. Would she run out and stab him in the street? I wonder. Did he know some horrid secret about her past? What is her past, Bell?”

“Pretty short, sir, anyway. She’s not more than eighteen. She was a café singer, all right. But we have nothing against her. In my experience they’re no worse than others.”

“And that’s that. Have you seen his papers?”

“Better come up to the house, sir. His solicitor will be there. But I understand there’s nothing in them. Very few private papers at all.”

“Well, well. I suppose he was murdered.”

Superintendent Bell stared. “Mr. Lomas said you were harping on that. Pretty clear, sir, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” said Reggie drearily. “But it’s all wrong, Bell, it’s all wrong.”

At the dead man’s house, his solicitor, old Sir Thomas Long, was busy in the library, and helping him, to Reggie’s surprise, was Herbert Charlecote. Herbert revealed himself as a pallid, dandyish man, punctiliously polite. Colourless--Dr. Newton hit him off to the life.

Herbert was very gratified to make Mr. Fortune’s acquaintance.

“I don’t know whether to hope you can throw any light on this miserable affair, sir?”

Reggie shook his head. “Your uncle was stabbed, and died immediately of the wounds. That is the whole case, Mr. Charlecote. I suppose you can’t help us?”

“I am bewildered. Quite dazed, Mr. Fortune.”

Reggie nodded and lingered, and Herbert discreetly left him with the solicitor.

“Well, Mr. Fortune?” Sir Thomas took off his glasses and pursed his lips.

“Nothing. Well, Sir Thomas?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Ah. That was a little odd, wasn’t it?” Reggie nodded at the door by which Herbert had gone out.

“Mr. Herbert Charlecote offered to help me. He used to act as his uncle’s secretary. It was hardly for me to point out that there might be objections, if he was afraid of none.”

“Does he know of the new will?”

“Neither he nor his cousin Geoffrey. Mr. Herbert, I infer, believes himself sole heir, and Mr. Geoffrey believes himself disinherited.”

“And yet, just after the new will is made the old man is murdered! Oh, it’s all wrong,” Reggie said peevishly.

“An odd case. A very odd case, Mr. Fortune.” Sir Thomas put on his eyeglasses again. “But I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

Superintendent Bell opened the door. But Reggie seemed reluctant to go, and on the stairs he loitered so much that the Superintendent turned--“Anything doing, sir?”

“That gastric catarrh,” Reggie murmured. “Let’s see the valet.”

The valet, an oldish man, was found. He testified that Mr. Charlecote had been much upset by the quarrel with Geoffrey. Mr. Charlecote had complained a good deal about his health. But there were no particular symptoms. Dr. Newton had been attending him for a long while. But the valet did not think that he had done Mr. Charlecote any good. For one thing, Mr. Charlecote did not take his medicine. There had been a good deal of medicine. Mr. Charlecote’s instructions were always to pour it down the sink.

“And that’s that,” said Reggie as they went out.

“We don’t get anywhere, sir, do we?” the Superintendent sympathized. “Anything you suggest?”

“How does it strike Superintendent Bell?”

“Looks like a bad case, sir. One of those where the criminal has all the luck. Verdict, persons unknown.”

“So Scotland Yard leaves it at that?”

“Unless Mr. Fortune has something up his sleeve.”

“Nary card. But you know we’ve missed something, Bell.”

“Have we, indeed, sir? And where shall we look for it?”

“Oh, watch out. Watch everybody.”

“Life is short, sir,” said Superintendent Bell gloomily, and with that they parted.

The Superintendent was a true prophet. The sensational inquest upon Stephenson Charlecote ended in an unsatisfactory verdict of murder by some person or persons unknown. It was obvious that public opinion, and the coroner, as the voice thereof, directed suspicion against Geoffrey. He made a bad witness. He was agitated, nervous, and under the coroner’s hostile examination lost his temper.

When he was asked if he knew that his father had on the morning of the murder made a will leaving everything to him, he displayed a violent agitation, swore (not merely as a witness but with profane oaths) that he knew nothing about it, insulted the coroner, and roared out a declaration that he would not touch the money, which disgusted everybody as a bit of false melodrama. If distrust and dislike were grounds for hanging a man, the jury would have made an end of Geoffrey, but the evidence, as Lomas complained, could not hang a yellow dog.

And the next day, Reggie Fortune, bland as ever, called on Geoffrey. It was a very humble house in a Chelsea cul-de-sac. The aged servant who took in Reggie’s name left him on the doorstep, from which he had the glimpse of a narrow bare hall and uncarpeted stairs. He was kept waiting some time, and heard confused noises. When at last he was shown into the studio he met signs of storm. Geoffrey was flushed and visibly in the sulkiest of tempers, his wife pale and tired.

“Well, what is it now?” Geoffrey growled.

His wife smiled. “Mr. Fortune? That is so kind. If you would please sit down. Some tea, yes?”

And Reggie was saying to himself. “Oh, my aunt! She isn’t a woman, she’s a child.” For Lucia Charlecote was so frail, of such a simplicity, that she looked rather like an angel in one of the primitive Italian pictures than a woman.

“Shut up, Lucia,” Geoffrey growled. “What do you want here, Mr. Fortune? Trying a bit of your detective work?”

“You’re rather difficult, aren’t you?” Reggie said mildly. “You know, you told me you wanted to have the truth brought out, justice for your father, all that sort of thing. Well, I’m still on it.”

“Much good you’ve done, haven’t you?”

“I don’t mind confessin’ we’ve missed something.”

“Missed! Yes, you haven’t quite hanged me, thanks. You’ve only made everybody think I murdered my father. And so that don’t satisfy you! Thanks very much!”

“Well, are you satisfied?” said Reggie. “You know, you’re not fair. I’m makin’ every allowance. But you’re not fair. If you want the thing cleared up, you’ve got to give us something more. And that’s why I’m here. Now, is there anything new?”

“Oh, go to the devil!”

“Geoffrey!” Lucia, standing behind him, touched his shoulder. “Mr. Fortune is very kind. He desires to help us,” and she smiled and nodded at Reggie.

“Oh, hold your tongue, baby. Mr. Fortune’s a damned tricky policeman, and he can take his tricks to another market.”

“But you are impossible!” Lucia cried. “Mr. Fortune, you see what I have to live with. This great bear!” She rumpled Geoffrey’s hair, and he made an exclamation of disgust and dashed her hand away. “But yes, Mr. Fortune, there is something new. This great animal, he desires not to take his father’s money. He writes to the lawyer to say he will not have it. But I forbid him. I say it is mad. Say if I am right, Mr. Fortune. What is the father’s it is the son’s. And Geoffrey, he has done nothing. But if he says he will not take it”--she made a fine theatrical gesture--“people will think it is because he is guilty. Is it not, Mr. Fortune?”

“Why can’t you hold your tongue?” Geoffrey snarled at her, and turned to glare at Reggie. “There’s a pretty story for you. And what’s your beastly detective trade make of that?”

“You know, Mrs. Charlecote, he’s always in such a hurry,” Reggie said confidentially. “Very disturbin’, isn’t it? You are difficult, Charlecote, old thing. Is your mind capable of receivin’ a thought? Yes. Well just suppose that I may have refused to act for you, because it would be better for the son and heir I shouldn’t be actin’ to his order.”

“What the deuce do you mean?”

“Well, I don’t quite know, you know. Do you? Is there anything you really want to tell me?”

“I never want to see you again.”

“Geoffrey!” his wife protested.

“Oh, he’s not chatty this afternoon, Mrs. Charlecote. So sorry.” Reggie extricated himself from her offers of tea, and slid away.

But he was annoyed. Against his will, the opinion of Dr. Newton forced itself into his mind. “An odd strain in Geoffrey, as it were something abnormal or thrawn, a certain violence of temperament.” It was so. Confound the oily old family doctor. Why did Geoffrey want to give up the money? Mere quixotry? A passionate desire to clear himself from the ill-fame of profiting by the old man’s death? Probably, oh, probably. But there was a feeling called remorse found in human nature. And why did the angel wife tell Geoffrey to keep the money? She ought to want her husband clear of ill-fame. You would expect a woman to care more about that than the man himself. And you would expect a woman to share her husband’s rage with the horrid man who had not stuck up for him. Instead of which the angel wife was very anxious to keep on good terms with that horrid man. Because he represented the police? Or why else? She had a dubious way with her, the angel wife.