MILKCHURN MURDER

IT was commonly said in the bar of the Three Horseshoes at Tolsham that Farmer Hollybud was easy enough to get on with, if you took him the right way. This carried the implication that you might find him difficult if you took him the wrong way. And, every now and then, the little hamlet of Tolsham was excited by tales of Farmer Hollybud having quarrelled with somebody or other, usually to the accompaniment of language bad even to the tolerant countryside.

On the last occasion when Mr. Hollybud had had a difference of opinion it had been with Mr. Godfrey, of Godfrey and Sprot. Although he called himself a farmer, Mr. Hollybud's agricultural activities were confined to milk producing. To the older inhabitants of the village this was a matter for regret. They remembered when Starvesparrow Farm, despite its name, which must have been bestowed upon it out of sheer contrariness, had produced some of the finest corn in the West of England.

That had been in the days of Mr. Hollybud's father. Hollybud himself, faced with a decline in the price of wheat and aware of the growing demand for milk in the large cities, had sown the farm down to grass. He saw in this a double advantage. Arable farming involved the employment of labour, and Mr. Hollybud hated paying out wages. Now the family, consisting of himself, his wife and two strapping daughters, could run the farm with the assistance of a single “chap", Walt Jeffers by name, who was docile and obedient, though scarcely more than half-witted. Besides, routine was enormously simplified. Apart from looking after the meadow land and disposing of the calves, a sometimes profitable by-product, all that was necessary was to milk the cows. The rest was automatic. The milk was poured into churns, which were then carted for five hundred yards from the farmhouse to a wooden stand on the road. Twice a day, morning and evening, the lorry from the milk factory collected the full churns and deposited empty ones in their places.

There were two rival milk factories in the neighbourhood. The largest was the Park Lane Dairy, beside the railway station at the market town of Yonderhill. The other was a smaller concern, owned by two partners, Godfrey and Sprot, and situated in the village of Chanterford.

Mr. Hollybud had for years sold his milk to the latter firm, under a contract renewed annually. Mr. Sprot was an old friend of his, and they got on very well together. The renewal of the milk contract was always the occasion for a jollification between the two of them. But Mr. Godfrey he never could abide. It was most unfortunate that Mr. Sprot should have been in bed with influenza when, on one occasion, the time came to renew the contract.

There would have been no difficulty if Sprot had been able to deal with the matter. Certainly the price would have to come down. Too many people had followed Mr. Hollybud's example and taken to dairy farming. All the babies in the land seemed unable to absorb their insipid product. The Milk Marketing Scheme had not then come into operation, and the producers and wholesalers were engaged upon a complicated scheme of bargaining.

Sprot would have known how to manage Mr. Hollybud. He would have lain in wait for him at the Yellow Dragon at Yonderhill on market day. Then, over a drink or two, and after much friendly wrangling, the price for the ensuing year would have ultimately been arranged. But Godfrey was a man of a different stamp. He liked to consider himself as a keen business man who never wasted time beating about the bush. The dilatory methods of the west country farmers were a perpetual source of irritation to him. These contracts must be settled, and settled quickly. He took out his car and called upon his clients. And in the course of his rounds he reached Starvesparrow Farm, about three o'clock one afternoon.

Sprot could have told him that this was an inauspicious moment. Mr. Hollybud was very fond of a quart or two of his own special cider in the middle of the day. This led to a certain lethargy, a condition which was met by an hour or two of profound slumber in a massive armchair before the kitchen fire. Mr. Hollybud, suddenly awakened by the arrival of Godfrey, whom he disliked at any time, was in no conciliatory mood.

However, he prepared to bargain. But Godfrey, to his indignation, refused to play the game. He was a tall thin man, with sharp features, a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and a bowler hat. His very appearance exasperated the newly-awakened Hollybud. “It's like this, Mr. Hollybud,” he said incisively. “That's our price, and you won't get a better. It's up to you to take it or leave it.”

Mr. Hollybud was a little man, powerful and wiry, with a very red face. He opened his eyes wide and stared at Godfrey. Never, in all his experience, had he been spoken to like this before. For a moment he was so taken aback that he could only breathe heavily. Then he sprang from his chair and literally danced with rage. He looked like nothing so much as a game-cock about to attack. Godfrey, appalled by this manifestation, retreated towards the door.

Then Mr. Hollybud found his voice. “By —then I'll leave it!” he roared. “I wouldn't let you have another pint of my milk—no, not if you was to beg for it on your bended knees. D'ye think that I'm a blasted beggar that you can squeeze between your dirty fingers? Whatever Sprot was about to go into partnership with a twister such as you is more than I can tell. Now, you get out, and don't darken my door no longer.”

Godfrey went. The progress of his car from the farmhouse to the road was followed by a stream of imprecations, bellowed out with the full force of Mr. Hollybud's lungs. They were overheard by Walt Jeffers, who was loading dung in the yard nearby. His repetition of them before a delighted audience at the Three Horseshoes that evening was a howling success.

His quarrel with Godfrey is of interest as throwing a light upon Mr. Hollybud's character. It also accounts for the fact that next day he drove into Yonderhill and interviewed Mr. Bainbridge, the manager of the Park Lane Dairy, and arranged a contract with him. The price agreed upon was perhaps no better than he might have got from Godfrey and Sprot. But the pleasurable feeling that he had got his own back on that swine Godfrey was as good as a bonus.

The hamlet of Tolsham lay on a wide curve of what had once been the main road from London to the West. The Three Horseshoes had once been a coaching inn of some local repute. Quite early in the Age of Petrol it had displayed a notice “Motorists Catered For.” The sign still remained, but few were the motorists who saw it. A magnificent piece of concrete road-engineering had short-circuited the curve, with its ancient avenue of elms, its scattered cottages and the Three Horseshoes, set proudly like a castle among them. Tolsham was by-passed; its peace was disturbed only by the distant roar of the traffic on the new road, half a mile distant.

The gate leading to Starvesparrow Farm stood roughly in the centre of the curve. By the roadside, just outside it, was the wooden stand upon which Mr. Hollybud was wont to place his churns. The farm-house was invisible from the gate, being hidden by a fold of the ground. A rough track, intersecting the meadows, connected the two.

The routine of the farm, as far as the supply of milk was concerned, was this: early in the morning, all hands set to work to milk. The result of their labours filled three churns, which was the extent of Mr. Hollybud's contract. But nearly always there were several gallons left over. This was dealt with according to circumstances and the time of year. It was set aside for cheese-making, fed to the pigs, or put in a fourth churn to be sent to the factory as ” surplus milk,” for which a very low price was allowed.

When filled, the churns were loaded on the farm cart and taken to the stand, to await their collection by the lorry belonging to the Park Lane Dairy, which was due at eight o'clock. If it happened to be near that time, the cart waited at the gate and took back to the farm the empty churns unloaded by the lorry on its arrival. If, however, the milking had been finished early, the cart went back empty and returned for the empty churns later in the morning.

The evening routine was similar, the lorry being timed to arrive at six o'clock. In the morning it was almost invariably Walt who drove the cart. In the evening Mr. Hollybud himself performed this duty. He timed himself to arrive at the gate about the time the lorry was expected. He then had a word with Bert Mayfield, the driver, and took back the empty churns, ready for the morning's milking.

One exception entered into this routine. Wednesday was market-day in Yonderhill. Every Wednesday, whether he had any particular business there or not, Mr. Hollybud drove his rather aged but still serviceable car the eight miles in to market, starting about half-past eleven in the morning. He washed down the Farmers' Ordinary at the Yellow Dragon with a considerable quantity of liquor and spent the afternoon in the smoking-room imbibing with his friends. It was usually six or seven o'clock before he could tear himself away and drive home, the car leaving a tortuous track upon the road. Upon arrival, he had supper and went to bed.

On these days, the afternoon milking was done early. The full churns usually reached the stand soon after five o'clock, long before the arrival of the lorry. Walt, who drove the cart, did not wait for the empties. They were not, in fact, collected that night. Walt fetched them next morning, first thing, as soon as he came to work.

The routine of Starvesparrow Farm would have been of no possible interest to anybody but its occupants, had it not been for the events of March the fourteenth and fifteenth. These led to a discovery which caused a sensation throughout the country and, incidentally, set the police a problem which at one time it seemed they would never solve.

So far as they appeared, the events which led to the discovery were these: March the fourteenth was a Wednesday, and therefore market day at Yonderhill. It had been freezing lightly for some days, occasionally threatening snow, but so far no more than a few scattered flakes had fallen. Mr. Hollybud left the farm shortly before midday, warning his household that he might be later than usual coming home, since he wished to arrange for the disposal of two calves.

During the afternoon the sky began to look very threatening. Mrs. Hollybud, left in charge of affairs during her husband's absence, made an early start with the evening milking. The usual three churns were filled and the remainder set aside for the pigs, of which there were at that time a number in process of being fattened. The horse was put in the cart, the churns loaded upon it, and it was driven to the stand by Walt. Mrs. Hollybud happened to notice that it was a few minutes before five by the kitchen clock when he went off. She heard him come back with the cart a few minutes after the hour.

Bert Mayfield, the driver of the lorry, was delayed a few minutes that evening by having to wait for the milk at one of the farms from which he collected. It was ten minutes past six by the time he reached the gate of Starvesparrow Farm. A few flakes of snow had begun to fall, and he was in a hurry to finish his round before the fall became serious. He found four churns on the stand. Three of these were full, and he rolled them on to the lorry. The fourth, when he came to lay hands upon it, was so light as to be apparently empty.

He shook it, and satisfied himself that it was so. It was no part of his duties to collect empty churns. He supposed it was one of four empties which he had left there that morning. For some reason, the people at the farm had not removed it. Having loaded three full churns, he put three empties on the stand in their place and drove off. Mr. Hollybud did not return from Yonderhill until half-past seven. By that time, although no considerable amount of snow had yet fallen, it was pitch dark. He did not notice how many churns were on the stand. To be quite candid, he was not by any means in an observant condition. He had some difficulty in opening the gate, and even more in driving the car through it. As he was bound to confess later, he was fairly well sozzled. Soon after midnight the snow began to fall slowly but persistently, and continued at intervals until the morning, by which time the country was covered to the depth of a couple of inches.

Just before half-past six on the morning of the fifteenth, Walt got out the cart and drove to the gate to fetch the empty churns left by Bert Mayfield on the previous evening. By that time the sky had cleared and it was a fine, bright morning, though still freezing. On reaching the stand, Walt found four churns there. Three of these were empty, and he swung them on to the cart. But, to his astonishment, the fourth resisted his easy efforts. On putting his back into the job, he found it so heavy that he knew it must be full.

He scratched his head over this fourth churn. Quite obviously it had no business there. But even his not very acute intelligence soon solved the problem. Bert had had no room for it on his lorry the previous evening, and would pick it up with the others when he came round at eight o'clock. That had been known to happen before. With the weather as cold as it was, the milk would come to no harm through waiting overnight. Walt drove back to the farm with his three empties, thinking no more about the full one which he had left on the stand.

The morning milking was now in full swing, and he turned to and helped. There proved to be considerably more milk than would fill the three churns. Mr. Hollybud frowned over the remainder. Cheese-making had not yet begun. There was already more milk in the pig-pails than these creatures would consume during the day. “Best send it in as surplus,” growled Mr. Hollybud, whose temper was none the better after his potations of the previous day. “'Tis little enough it'll fetch, but little's better than nothing. Slip round to the dairy, you, Walt, and bring up that empty churn. We'll tip this lot into it, and send it along.”

Walt fetched the empty churn, which was the fourth left by the lorry on the stand the previous morning. The surplus milk was then poured into it, and filled it to two-thirds of its capacity. Mr. Hollybud then lent Walt a hand to lift the four churns into the cart. The latter then drove them to the stand, and rolled them upon it. It was now twenty minutes to eight, and, since the lorry had not yet called, the full churn seen by Walt earlier in the morning was still there. Walt decided that it was too cold to hang about waiting for the lorry. He could come and fetch the empties later. Besides, he wanted his breakfast. So he drove back to the farm.

Bert Mayfield with the lorry reached the stand at five minutes past eight. He was surprised to see five churns upon it. Four he had expected, since Mr. Hollybud usually sent up four in the morning. The fifth must be the empty one he had seen on the previous evening. That half-witted chap Walt had been too lazy to take it away, he supposed.

He tilted the churns one by one to roll them on to the lorry. The first, he could tell was full. So was the second. The third was not quite so heavy. Considerably more than half-full, though, he guessed. The fourth was certainly full. The last one must be the empty one, then. He tilted it, and discovered to his astonishment that it too, was full. On to the lorry with it, then. But he only had four empties to leave in return.

Bert completed his round, and, with his lorry full) loaded, made his way back to the Park Lane Dairy Here he backed the lorry against the unloading stage and the gang set to work to remove the churns. The foreman, book in hand, stood by to check them “Here, Bert!” he exclaimed. “Here's one without' a ticket. Where did you pick that up?”

The lorry driver thought for a moment. It struck him that he had not seen a label on the fifth chun which he had collected from Starvesparrow Farm “That's an extra one I picked up at Mr. Hollybud's place,” he replied.

“An extra one?” demanded the foreman. “What do you mean, an extra one?”He looked more closely at the churn. “Why, bless my soul, where are your eyes this morning?” he continued. “This isn't one of our churns. It belongs to Godfrey and Sprot of Chanterford. Can't you see their name stamped on it?”

“I'm not paid to read the names stamped on churns,” replied Bert sulkily. “My job is to pick 'em up and fetch 'em here. Think I've got nothing else to do but read when I'm on my round?”

The foreman was not disposed to quarrel. He was far too interested in the churn before him. It looked very much as though Mr. Hollybud was selling milk to Godfrey and Sprot, contrary to the terms of his contract with the Park Lane Dairy. “What game's that bloke Hollybud up to?” he muttered. “We'll have a look into this.”

He undid the fastening, and threw open the lid of the churn. After a glance at its contents, he threw back his head and roared with laughter. “You're a bright one, Bert!” he exclaimed. “Look what you've gone and done! You've picked up Farmer Hollybud's pig-wash. Lord, if that isn't the best thing I've heard this many a long day!”

Bert stepped forward and peered into the churn. It appeared to be full of a curious liquid. He sniffed at it tentatively, and screwed up his face. “Pigwash!” he retorted. “I never knew pig-wash to stink like that. Reminds me of a hospital, that it does.”

He looked at the churn irresolutely for a moment or two, then dipped his hand into the liquid. His fingers touched something solid, submerged beneath the surface. He clutched it, with a queer sensation of repugnance, and drew it out.

It was a human arm.

CHAPTER TWO

THAT same afternoon Inspector Arnold of the Criminal Investigation Department arrived at Yonderhill. The Chief Constable of Wessex had immediately decided that the aid of Scotland Yard should be called in. He met Arnold upon his arrival, and drove him to the police station, where Inspector Bradlaw, of the Wessex Constabulary, stationed at Yonderhill, was awaiting them.

“I'll give you an outline of this affair, Mr. Arnold,” said the Chief Constable. “Then I'll leave you and Bradlaw to talk it over. There is a concern in this town known as the Park Lane Dairy Company. Their business is to collect milk from the farms round about, and, after cooling it, and so forth, to send it up to London in tank-wagons.

“This morning, about eleven o'clock, one of their lorries, regularly employed in collecting milk, arrived with a load. Some discussion arose between the foreman and the lorry-driver over one of the churns which the latter had brought. It was opened, and found to contain not milk, but a very strange looking liquid. The lorry-driver pushed his hand into it, and fished out a human arm. I'm told that he dropped it again pretty quickly.”

“I don't blame him, sir.” replied Arnold.

“Nor do I. Nasty thing to find in what the foreman thought was pig-wash. After that experience, nobody about the place seemed disposed to explore any further. They informed the manager, Mr. Bainbridge, of what had happened, and he telephoned here. Bradlaw went down, had a look at the churn, and fetched it up here.

“He turned it out into a tub, and found that it contained quite a lot of wholly unexpected things. In the first place, there was the dismembered body of a man, complete but for the head, which is missing. The other things are being dried. You can look at them presently. They consist of an old leather wallet, falling to pieces from being soaked in the liquid, a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, with the lenses missing, a railway and omnibus guide for the city of Exeter, the key of a room in an hotel, and an ivory-handled carving-knife. These last two objects were wrapped up in a flannel vest, which is badly stained, apparently with blood, and has a gash in it behind.”

“That sounds an interesting collection, sir,” said Arnold.

“I'm hoping you'll find it so,” replied the Chief Constable dryly. “The police surgeon here has examined the body. He says it is that of a man of about thirty, probably about five feet eight, small-boned, but inclined to stoutness. Dark rather than fair. He can't say how long he has been dead, owing to the nature of the liquid in which the body was put. This, he thinks, consists of milk and water, with the addition of a quantity of formalin, which, as you may know, is a preservative. The formalin, he says, would arrest decomposition for an indefinite period. The liquid is tinged pink, apparently with blood.

“The cause of death is apparent. There is an incised wound in the back, over the region of the heart. There can be no doubt that the unfortunate man was stabbed from behind, possibly with the carving-knife found in the churn.

“That's about all I can usefully tell you, except that, so far as we can discover, nobody answering to the description of the body is missing from the neighbourhood. The rest is up to you, Mr. Arnold. I need hardly say that we are entirely at your disposal. Bradlaw, I'm sure, will help you in every possible way. The best thing I can do now is to leave the two of you to talk it over quietly.”

The Chief Constable made his exit. Bradlaw, a youngish man with a pair of keen grey eyes, seemed a trifle nervous at finding himself alone with the man from Scotland Yard. “I hope, Mr. Arnold, that you will approve of the steps I have already taken,” he began formally.

But Arnold interrupted him. “Look here, Bradlaw, let's get down to brass tacks from the very beginning,” he said. “We fellows from the Yard are not a set of little tin gods. We're only poor devils who try to do our best in a hard world. We happen to have a lot of very useful machinery behind us, that's all. So don't let there be any formality between us. Let's talk it over as man to man.”

Bradlaw seemed greatly relieved. “It's good to hear you talk like that,” he said. “The first thing I did, after I had got the churn brought up here, was to trace it back as far as I could. There is very little doubt that the Park Lane Dairy lorry picked it up at Starvesparrow Farm, eight miles from here. I went over there, and this is what I was told.”

He gave Arnold an account of his interviews with Mr. Hollybud and Walt, which established the facts as set out in the last chapter.

“Now, I'm inclined to accept their statements as correct,” he continued. “Of course, you'll like to see these people for yourself, and you'll form your own opinion. There's one thing I would like to point out, about the churns being full or empty. You'll observe that none of them were opened. But these fellows, who are used to handling churns everyday, can tell whether they are full of empty almost the moment they touch them.

“If you'll allow that, and the correctness of the statements, this seems to be the position. I've jotted it down on a bit of paper, it seems to make things clearer.”

He handed Arnold a sheet of paper, on which were the following notes.

March 14th. About 8 a.m. Bert Mayfield collected four churns from the stand outside the gate of Starvesparrow Farm. On arrival at Park Lane Dairy, three of these churns were found to be full of milk, and one half-full. Mayfield left four empty churns on the stand.

March 14th. About 10.30 a.m. Mr. Hollybud took the cart to the stand, and fetched back the four empty churns. These he put in his own dairy.

March 14th. About 5 p.m. Walt Jeffers took three full churns in the cart, and placed them on the stand. Walt is perfectly certain that at that time there was no other churn on the stand, full or empty.

March 14th. 6.10 p.m. Mayfield calls in the lorry to collect the churns. He finds on the stand three full and one empty. He loads the full ones on to the lorry, and leaves the empty one. Being in a hurry, he does not examine it closely. He cannot say whether it belonged to the Park Lane Dairy or not. He unloads three empty churns from the lorry on to the stand. Thus, on his departure, the stand held four empty churns.

March 15th. About 6.30 a.m. Jeffers goes to the stand with the cart to fetch the empty churns left overnight. He finds three empty, and one full. He takes the empties and leaves the full one where it is. He does not examine the full churn, thinking it no business of his. He takes the empties back to the farm.

March 15th. About 7.40 a.m. Jeffers returns to the stand, and puts four churns upon it, three full, one two-thirds full. The full churn which he had seen previously is still there. Thus, on his departure, there are five churns on the stand.

March 15th. About 8.5 a.m. Mayfield finds these five churns and loads them on the lorry. He leaves four empties in their place. He completes his round, and delivers his load at Park Lane Dairy.

March 15th. About 10 a.m. The fifth churn, discovered to be the property of Godfrey and Sprot, arouses suspicion. It is opened, and its contents are revealed.

March 15th. About 11 a.m. Mr. Hollybud takes the cart to the stand to fetch the empty churns. He finds four, the normal number, and takes them back to the farm.”

Arnold studied this paper, and nodded approvingly. “That's a very clear statement,” he said. “The first thing it shows is this. Yesterday, between 5 and 6.10 p.m., an empty churn appears on the stand. Are there any suggestions as to how it can have got there?”

“Not so far,” replied Bradlaw. “I've questioned everybody at Starvesparrow Farm, and they all swear that they know nothing about it. The only thing I can think of is this. The lorry belonging to Godfrey and Sprot collects in that district. It is just possible that the driver left one of his churns on the stand for some reason. It might be worth while to ask him. I'm supposing that was the churn in which the body was found this morning.”

“Right. We'll start our investigations in that direction. If that was our churn, then the body was placed in it between 6.10 p.m. yesterday and 6.30 a.m. this morning. If it was not, then it must have been removed during that period, and the one with the body in it substituted for it. So far so good. Now, what about having a look at the exhibits? I'm not interested in the body. That's a job for a pathologist. I'll put a call through to the Yard, and arrange for one to come down.”

Having sent his message, Arnold, under the conduct of Bradlaw, adjourned to the room in which the objects found in the churn had been laid out to dry. The dismembered body was covered with a sheet, and this they left undisturbed. On a mat in front of the fire lay the other things mentioned by the Chief Constable.

The first of these was a leather wallet, measuring about six inches by four. It was very much worn, and the stitches of the pockets had given way in many places. It contained nothing but half a sheet of notepaper, folded in four and torn at the creases. It was covered with writing, but the ink had run and the words were completely indecipherable. Only, right across the writing, the words GEORGE STREET, OBAN, had been printed in bold letters with an indelible pencil. Thanks to this, they were still clearly visible. On the outside of the wallet, some initials had been stamped in the leather at one corner. Arnold was enabled to decipher these as A.L.S.

The next thing was the frame of a pair of spectacles with horn rims and sides. This, at first glance, did not seem very promising. But Arnold, examining them closely, saw that something had been scratched on one of the horn sides, apparently with the point of a pin. Taking the frame to the light, he made out that they were initials, roughly scrawled. And these initials were once more A.L.S.

He pointed this out to Bradlaw. “That's worth noting,” he said. “Who is A.L.S., I wonder? The dead man, perhaps? We may find a clue there. What's this, a time-table?”

It was, or rather had been. Immersion in the liquid of the churn had turned it nearly to a mass of stained pulp. As it had dried, many of the leaves had stuck together, and it was impossible to separate them. The title printed on the cover was, however, still readable. “Cobley's Railway and Bus Guide to Exeter and the West of England.” Arnold, turning over the pages, found that one section of the guide was devoted to train services to and from Exeter on the A.B.C. system. One entry referred to Glasgow. A cross in indelible pencil had been made against the train leaving Exeter for that city at 2.40 p.m. Was this a possible link between the railway guide and the fragments of paper in the wallet? The natural route from Exeter and Oban would be via Glasgow.

The key next came under Arnold's notice. It was an ordinary hotel bedroom key, with a circular brass disc attached to it. On this was embossed in raised letters, “Please leave this key at the office.” On the reverse side a number had been stamped, 253. There was nothing to indicate the name of the hotel, or its locality.

The carving-knife had a blade of stainless steel, twelve inches long and tapering to a point. By its appearance, it had recently been sharpened with a carborundum stone. The marks of the stone were confined to the point, and were not visible along the edge of the blade. This seemed to suggest that whoever had sharpened it had intended it for use as a thrusting, rather than a cutting tool. Rather unusual, in the case of a carving-knife, Arnold thought.

Finally, the flannel vest. This was a heavy, oppressive-looking garment. It was well worn, and a gash in the back about an inch long. Arnold compared it with the width of the blade of the carving-knife, and the two corresponded. Round the neck of the vest was a narrow linen band, and on this was clearly visible, printed with marking ink in block letters, the initials, A.L.S.

A curious assortment of objects, Arnold thought, but with a distinct if slender thread uniting them. The wallet, the spectacles, and the flannel vest had all belonged to the same person, apparently, the unknown A.L.S. The wallet contained the piece of paper with the words “George Street, Oban” written upon it in indelible pencil. The time-table was marked, also with indelible pencil, at an entry referring to a train from Exeter to Glasgow, the most likely route to Oban. It was of recent date. January of the same year. No doubt it had been bought in Exeter, and probably by A.L.S. Was the key that of the room in which he had stayed in Exeter? Arnold already began to foresee the line which his inquiries should follow.

But there was more to be learnt on the spot before those inquiries could begin. “I think I should like to see the churn itself,” he said. This was standing in the yard, and Bradlaw took him out to see it. There was nothing remarkable about it, it was just an ordinary churn with the words “Godfrey and Sprot, Chanterford,” stamped upon the metal. It was neither very new nor very old, and seemed in good condition.

“You couldn't tell it from one of the Park Lane Dairy's churns,” said Bradlaw. “Both firms buy them from the same makers, and they are of standard pattern. The only difference is in the name stamped upon them when they are made. That accounts for neither Mayfield nor Jeffers noticing anything unusual about this one.”

“I think we ought to begin by trying to trace it,” Arnold replied. “How far is Chanterford from here?”

“Twelve miles. Say half an hour's run in a car. It's nearly a quarter to six now. If we start off at once, we should catch Godfrey and Sprot's lorry-driver when he comes back from his evening round. And we could go through Tolsham. That would give you some idea of the lie of the land.”

Arnold thought this an excellent idea, and they started off in the police car, Bradlaw driving. He followed the main road westwards, but on approaching Tolsham he took the old road through the village, thus passing the gate leading to Starvesparrow Farm. On the stand stood three churns, but they did not stop to see whether they were full or empty. Four miles farther on they reached the large village of Chanterford, and pulled up beyond it at the premises of Godfrey and Sprot.

These were on a humbler scale than those of the Park Lane Dairy at Yonderhill. Incidentally the business transacted was not so extensive. But there was an air of considerable bustle about the place, in expectation of the lorry which had not yet returned from its evening round. Bradlaw saw Mr. Godfrey, whom he knew, and made his way up to him. He introduced Arnold, and asked for a few minutes conversation in private.

Mr. Godfrey raised no objection, and they strolled across to a deserted corner of the buildings. “We're making inquiries about a matter that you'll hear all about soon enough,” said Bradlaw. “You may be able to help us, if you'll be so good. Have you lost a milk churn recently?”

Mr. Godfrey frowned. “We're always losing them,” he replied. “You'd be amazed at the way some of our clients treat them. They aren't their property, so they don't care. They knock them about till they aren't fit to look at. We're always having to replace the blessed things. It's a continual expense.”

“I didn't mean that, exactly,” said Bradlaw. “Do you ever have them stolen?”

“Not often. They've all got our name stamped on them, you know. But it's rather curious that you should ask that question. One disappeared a week or two ago, and the only way I can account for it is that somebody took it from our loading stage outside here. It's never happened before.”

“Would it be possible for any one to take a churn from the stage?”Bradlaw asked.

“Well, I shouldn't have thought so. I'll tell you what we do. Last thing at night, we put out on the stage the number of empty churns that the lorry will want for its morning round. There's a chain fixed to a staple in the wall. This is run through the handles of the outermost churns, and padlocked to another staple in the wall. Since the churns are packed tightly together, it would be impossible for anybody to remove one of them without unfastening the padlock or breaking the chain. Either my foreman or I keep the key overnight.

“One morning, it was a fortnight ago on Monday, the foreman came to me for the key, as I had locked up the churns the previous evening. He said afterwards that the churns did not seem to be packed as tightly as usual. The number of churns to go out that morning was fifty-eight. The foreman and the driver set to work to load them on the lorry, and found there were only fifty-seven.

“Now the trouble is that nobody could swear to fifty-eight churns having been put out on Sunday evening. The foreman says he is almost certain he put out the right number. I counted them later, rather hurriedly, and made the number fifty-eight. But it is quite easy to make a miscount. The chain had not been broken, and the padlock was in perfect order. If any one took a churn that night they must have had a key. And it certainly wasn't my key, for that never left my possession from the time I locked the churns on Sunday evening until Monday morning, when the foreman came for it.”

“Is there another key to the padlock in existence?”

“Yes, my partner, Mr. Sprot, has one. He keeps it locked up in the desk in the office. I thought of that, but the key was in its proper place when we looked for it, and the office certainly hadn't been broken into. Of course, given a key that would open the lock, it would be quite easy for anybody to take a churn. As you probably noticed, the stage is right on the road, and there is nobody here after ten o'clock at night, in winter.”

“Have you lost any other churns lately, Mr. Godfrey?”Arnold asked.

“Well, we're short of one, but I can't say we've lost it, because I've a pretty shrewd idea where it is. We had at one time a client, a very difficult man to deal with. In fact, I might say a man with a most ungovernable temper. I dare say you know him, Mr. Bradlaw? Hollybud of Starvesparrow Farm, Tolsham.”

“I know him,” replied Bradlaw imperturbably.

“Well, Hollybud broke away from us at the beginning of the year, and signed a contract with the Park Lane people. I wish him joy of it, I'm sure. At the time, he had one of our churns in his possession. I wrote to him repeatedly, asking him to put the churn on his stand, and let us know when he had done so, in order that we could instruct our lorry to collect it. We had no reply from him, but my partner, Mr. Sprot, happened to meet him at Yonderhill market, and asked him about it. He said that he had put the churn out long ago, and that our lorry must have picked it up, for it had gone.”

“When was this conversation between Hollybud and Mr. Sprot?”Arnold asked.

“Let me see. Two or three weeks ago. Yes, it was the week before that other churn disappeared. I can give you the dates if you want them.”

He took a diary from his pocket and continued, “A fortnight ago last Monday was February the twenty-sixth. That's when we missed the churn from the stage. The market day before that was the twenty-first, and that's when Sprot saw Hollybud. I don't believe that Hollybud ever put it out at all. He certainly never advised us that he had done so. I haven't a doubt that he is keeping it for his own use.”

“Does your lorry go past Hollybud's stand on its regular round?” asked Bradlaw.

“Not now. It uses the new road. That's why I asked Hollybud to let us know when he put our churn up. I should have told the driver to go through Tolsham and pick it up.”

A sudden ferocious din announced the arrival of the lorry from its evening round. Bradlaw and Arnold drew the driver aside and questioned him. Since the termination of Mr. Hollybud's contract with his firm he had not collected a churn from his stand, nor had he deposited one. In fact, since his final visit to Starvesparrow Farm at the beginning of the year, he had not driven along the old road through the village at all.

This seemed to be all the information they could gather for the moment. Arnold and Bradlaw drove back to Yonderhill, the former negativing a suggestion that they should call at Starvesparrow Farm on the way. “You'd better tackle the fellow himself to-morrow,” he said. “You know him, and you'll get more out of him than you would if I was with you. What about getting something to eat, and having a nice chat about milk churns and their habits?”

Arnold, upon Bradlaw's advice, installed himself at the Yellow Dragon. That night, when Bradlaw had left him, he wrote a letter. It was addressed to Desmond Merrion, an old friend of his whose restless spirit could not rest content with a charming wife and an adequate income. He had served in the counter-espionage service during the war, and had acquired a passion for detection which nothing could slake.

The inspector's letter was as follows:

DEAR MERRION, I assume that you are at home, since I have not heard from you for some time. Not since that affair which began in Devereux Court, you remember. If you are at home, and have nothing better to do, why not come and spend a few days with me? I am staying at the Yellow Dragon at Yonderhill.

Quite a good pub, and very pretty country. I'm sure you would enjoy it. As an added attraction, I may as well tell you that the queerest things happen to milk churns in these parts.

Send me a wire if you're coming, and I'll book a room for you. I shouldn't wonder if the pub filled up unexpectedly in a day or two.

Arnold smiled as he stuck down the envelope and addressed it. “That'll fetch him,” he muttered. “Especially if he keeps his eye on the newspapers.”

CHAPTER THREE

THE investigation proper began next day. Bradlaw set out in the morning to interview Mr. Hollybud. After a tactful conversational approach, he reached the subject of the missing churn. “For some time after you terminated your contract with Godfrey and Sprot, you had one of their churns, hadn't you, Mr. Hollybud?” he asked casually.

The farmer's face darkened. “That blasted Godfrey's put you on to that,” he replied violently. “I told Sprot that if I heard any more of it, I'd have the law on him. D'you think I've stolen one of their rotten churns? Is that it, eh?”

“I don't think anything of the kind, Mr. Hollybud,” said Bradlaw soothingly. “I only want to know what happened to it, that's all.”

“That's soon told. I had one of their churns in the dairy here, and it got overlooked somehow when I sent the rest back. And then Godfrey began to write about it, telling me to put it on the stand and let him know when I had done so. Yes, that was all very well. But who was going to pay for the stamp? He didn't send one, and I wasn't going to spend money—no, not so much as a penny. Why should I, after the way he'd spoken to me in my own kitchen?”

Bradlaw uttered a vague sound, which might have been interpreted as an expression of sympathy. He was inwardly marvelling at the frame of mind of anybody who would grudge the cost of a penny post-card to save an infinity of trouble.

“Well, after a bit I found that churn was cluttering up the dairy,” Hollybud continued. “So I says to Walt one morning, ' Walt,' I says, ' load up that churn on the putt when you take the others down to the stand. And if Godfrey and Sprot want it their chap can pick it up. I don't want it lumbering about here any longer! ' So Walt took it out and put it on the stand, and there it stayed for a day or two. But they must have picked it up after that, for I never saw anything more of it. And that's what I told Sprot. And if you think it's still here, you can look about for it and welcome.”

Bradlaw disregarded the invitation. “I'll take your word for it that it isn't here,” he replied. “Can you tell me when it was put out on the stand?”

“Not within a week or two. Somewhere about the beginning of last month, it must have been. I never thought no more about it till Sprot spoke to me.”

Bradlaw returned to Yonderhill, to find that Arnold had gone by train to Exeter, and that the pathologist from London had arrived and was busy with the body. The inspector in charge of a country district is usually a busy man, and Bradlaw was no exception to the rule. The affair of the milk-churn had already taken up an undue proportion of his time. He shut himself in his office, and devoted his attention to the arrears which had accumulated.

Arnold had been to Exeter before, and knew his way about the city fairly well. He made a list of all the hotels likely to have keys with brass discs attached to them. These he visited in turn. Only three had rooms numbered 253, and in none of them was this particular key missing, nor had it been replaced within the memory of anybody about the place. This was discouraging. Examination of at least a dozen visitors' books was even more so. Nobody with the initials A.L.S. appeared to have stayed in Exeter for the past year or more.

“Cobley's Railway and Bus Guide to Exeter and the West of England “ he found to be a very popular publication. It was sold at every stationers and newsagents, and was to be found in all the hotels that Arnold visited. He saw at once that it would be impossible to trace the particular copy found in the churn, especially since it was so badly damaged as to be unrecognisable.

At Queen Street Station, while waiting for a train back to Yonderhill, he interviewed the stationmaster on the subject of the 2.40 p.m. train from Exeter to Glasgow.

“There's a through coach on that train, all the way,” he was told. “It is detached at Westbury, and then goes via Swindon and Oxford to Banbury. There the London and North Eastern take it over, and it goes by Rugby, Sheffield and York to Edinburgh, and so on to Glasgow. I can show you the route on the map, if you are interested.”

Arnold followed the stationmaster's pencil. He saw that, after leaving Taunton the train passed through Chanterford and Yonderhill on the way to Westbury. That seemed to him a point worth noting. “Does the train stop between Exeter and Westbury?” he asked.

“Only at Taunton,” the stationmaster replied. “It is due at Westbury at five-two. Is there anything else I can tell you?”

“No, that's all, thanks. My train will be going in a minute or two. I'm much obliged to you.”

Arnold returned to Yonderhill in a very thoughtful mood. His first attempt to trace A.L.S. had failed. On the other hand, there was the curious fact that the train marked in the railway guide actually passed through Chanterford and Yonderhill, and, therefore, presumably, within a reasonable distance of Starvesparrow Farm. Was there any significance in this, and, if so, what was it?

He found that the pathologist had completed his task, and was awaiting him. “I can't tell you very much about the man's identity beyond what you have already heard from the police surgeon,” he said. “I have examined the body very carefully, and I can find no marks or deformities which would help towards identification.

“In my opinion, the deceased was a man of about thirty, in good health though showing signs of leading a somewhat sedentary occupation. He certainly did not earn his living with his muscles, which were distinctly flabby. His hands are smooth and well cared for. I should say that he was accustomed to a fairly luxurious standard of living.”

“There is no doubt that he was killed by being stabbed in the back, I suppose?”Arnold asked.

The pathologist smiled. “I am afraid that there is room for doubt,” he replied. “There is certainly a deep wound in the back, which penetrates the heart to some distance. Such a wound would of course be fatal if delivered during life. But certain appearances of the wound make me somewhat doubtful if it was so delivered. I should not like to have to give a definite opinion on that point. This I can say, without fear of contradiction. If the wound was not delivered while the deceased was alive, it must have been dealt very shortly after his death. The body is almost completely drained of blood, and this could only have been effected by bleeding immediately after death.

“Once the heart had stopped beating, the wound in the back would not be sufficient to cause such extensive bleeding. I am therefore inclined to think that the body was dismembered immediately. This was done effectively, but without any attempt at scientific jointing. The limbs are cleanly severed, and not hacked about in any way. It seems to me to have been effected by a sharp axe, wielded by a powerful man with a sure eye.”

“Can you give me any idea as to how long the man has been dead?”

“It is almost impossible to do so, owing to the action of the preservative contained in the liquid Speaking very roughly, I should say that the body had been in the liquid for at least a week, am possibly much longer. It was certainly placed in the liquid very soon after death, before decomposition had time to set in. The discolouration of the liquid by blood favours this idea.

“I propose to take back with me to London a sample of the liquid, and certain organs of the body It is important that we should make every effort to determine the cause of death, though, in the absence of the head, this may prove impossible.”

The pathologist returned to London, taking with him certain sealed jars, packed in a large suitcase. The next visitor was Mr. Godfrey, whom Bradlaw had summoned by telephone to the police station On being shown the churn, he gave it as his opinion that it was the one about which he had had the difficulty with Hollybud. “It's one of an old pattern, which we are gradually replacing. I certainly is not the churn we lost more recently. All the churns on the stand that night happened to be of the newer pattern. But you will understand, Inspector, that I cannot possibly swear to one particular churn out of some hundreds.”

The remainder of the day was employed by Arnold in the re-examination of the articles found in the churn. He was not successful in discovering anything fresh, and he began to realise that the problem with which he was confronted was an extremely complex one. A telegram from Merrion on Saturday morning brought him a grain of comfort. “Driving to Yonderhill arriving this evening.” He spent the intervening hours in preparing a voluminous report of the case, and detailed descriptions of the various exhibits. The inquest, which in the nature of things could only be a purely formal affair, he did not think it necessary to attend.

Merrion turned up just in time for dinner. Arnold's hint that the Yellow Dragon was likely to fill up rapidly had proved correct. On the first whisper of the facts, a horde of reporters had descended upon Yonderhill. A battery of alert ears were trained upon the table at which sat Arnold and Merrion. They discussed the prospects of the finalists in the Association Cup, a subject upon which they shared a common ignorance.

Not until after dinner, when they had sought the seclusion of Arnold's room, was the cause of Merrion's visit touched upon. And then it was Merrion who broached the subject. “Nice country, jolly pub, and all that,” he said. “Just the place to spend a few days quiet holiday. Lucky the full glare of publicity doesn't make you feel shy, though. Well, I've seen the papers, of course. ' Mutilated Body found in Milk-Churn.' And I've read all that you've allowed to leak out. Anything more to tell me?”

“Quite a lot, but nothing very helpful,” Arnold replied. “Ring the bell, and let's send for something to drink. It's going to be a long yarn and a thirsty one.” '

They supplied themselves with liquid refreshment, and Arnold began his story. Merrion listened carefully, putting in an occasional question here and there. His grasp of the essential facts was rapid, as the inspector knew from past experience. The end came, and Arnold studied his friend's expression anxiously.

“Jolly interesting little affair,” Merrion remarked.” Its chief fascination to me is the complete lack of anything to go upon. For instance, you don't even know yet that anybody has been murdered.”

“There's not much doubt of that,” Arnold replied. “If you want to be convinced on the subject, I'll take you to view the remains to-morrow. They aren't a very pleasant sight, I warn you.”

Merrion brushed the suggestion aside with a wave of his hand. “I don't question the remains, nor what your friend the pathologist said about them. You've just told me that he wouldn't commit himself as to the cause of death. Until you know more upon that score, you can't say definitely that the man was murdered. He may have died as the result of an accident, for all you can tell. However, we'll assume murder, if you like. Whether it was murder, accident, or suicide, does not affect your preliminary investigations. You want to find out who he was, and why he was dissected and put in the churn.”

“The most reasonable explanation is that the man was murdered,” Arnold replied. “We'll say by being stabbed in the back. The murderer was then faced with the old problem, the disposal of the body. He hit upon the idea of cutting it up, and putting it in the churn.”

“No doubt,” Merrion agreed. “And he then filled the churn with milk and water, so that it would have the correct weight of a full churn. But hismethod suggests to me several questions. Let's see if we can answer them between us. To begin with, why did he add the preservative, formalin, or whatever it was, to the liquid?”

“Why, to prevent the body from decomposing, of course!”Arnold exclaimed.

“Yes, but that wasn't his sole aim. The sooner the body decomposed, the sooner it would cease to be recognisable, a factor in his favour. His real reason for wishing to arrest decomposition was to make it impossible for anybody to say when the man died. If you knew that within a day or two, your task would be a lot easier. As it is, you haven't even got that piece of knowledge to work upon. Next why did he select a milk-churn for his purpose?”

“Because it was a receptacle of convenient size, and he knew how to get hold of one.”

“Yes, and for another reason as well. In these parts a milk churn is a familiar object of the countryside. It could be transported from place to place, or deposited by the roadside, without attracting any attention. Finally, when it was convenient for the body to be discovered, it could be placed on a milk stand and left to the natural course of events. Next, why wasn't the head put in the churn?”

“That's easy!”Arnold exclaimed. “To prevent, or delay, identification of the body.”

“I'm not so sure about that,” Merrion replied. “The weapon with which the body was dismembered could have been used to make the features unrecognisable. I'm inclined to think that the head must have been a bit of a nuisance to the murderer. Of course, a head by itself is not a very difficult thing to dispose of. Still, there is always the danger of somebody running up against it. I think he would have got rid of the head in the same way as he got rid of the body, but he knew that if it were to be found it would furnish an additional clue.”

“Just what I say. A clue towards identification.”

“No, I don't mean that. A clue towards the cause of death, perhaps. It seems to me that the murderer is a pretty cunning bloke, who is fond of red herrings. Your pathologist won't say for certain that the man was killed by being stabbed in the back. The probabilities are that he was. But supposing he wasn't? Suppose, for instance, that he was shot through the head?

“You see the idea? The homicidal gentleman shoots his friend, when they are out together after rabbits, let us say. Now, if your experts have a chance of looking at the head, they can tell you quite a lot. ' Ah! ' they say. ' A twelve-bore at short range. Look at the powder-blackening, and the singeing and all the rest of it.' You then go sleuthing round for a man who owns a gun and knows how to use it.

“But suppose, having shot his pal, he immediately stabs him, and conceals the tell-tale head. Off you go in a totally different direction. You concentrate on looking for a man with a knife, instead of a man with a gun. And, talking of knives, why do you suppose that carving-knife was put in the churn?”

“As a convenient means of disposing of it, together with the body,” Arnold replied.

“Perhaps. But just look here a moment. The means of disposal of the body ensured that the police would find it, sooner or later. The churn was bound to be opened, and then you would naturally be called in. You agree to that?”

“Why, yes, I suppose so.”

“The murderer must have known that perfectly well. Doesn't it seem to you a bit odd that he deliberately made you a present of the weapon with which the crime was committed? Why didn't he go the whole hog, and chuck in the hatchet with which the body was dismembered? There are a thousand other ways in which he might have disposed of the knife. And yet he takes great care that you shall find it. Why? Because he's trying to mislead you. And what about the other things you found in the churn?”

“They were the things the victim had about him when he was killed, I take it.”

Merrion roared with laughter at this. “No, that won't do!” he exclaimed. “That means that you must imagine the victim clad only in a flannel vest and a pair of spectacles with no lenses in them. A curious get-up, you'll admit. Yet, in this scarcely-clad state, he manages to secrete about his person a wallet, a large key with a brass label attached to it, and an Exeter time-table.”

“I don't see that at all,” Arnold replied. “Why shouldn't he have had the rest of his clothes on, and the wallet and other things in his pocket?”

“Where then, are the rest of his clothes? A child's question, you'll say. The murderer destroyed them. Right! Of course he did. Burnt them, probably. But why didn't he burn the wallet, the spectacles, the vest and the time-table with them? I except the key, as not being readily inflammable. They could all have been destroyed as easily as the clothes. Why did he make you a gratuitous present of them?”

This defeated Arnold. “I'm blest if I know,” he said. “I hadn't thought of it that way. Still, he did make me a present of them, and I'm going to use them, you may be sure of that. They are valuable clues, and you can't deny it.”

“I don't deny it. But I'd be careful not to rush to conclusions about them, if I were you. Take the vest, for instance. It's a perfect piece of evidence. The initials on the neck-band, the bloodstains, the highly suggestive gash in the back. It almost proves of itself that somebody with the initials A.L.S. was stabbed to death with that carving-knife. So much so, that it strikes me as being just a bit too obvious. However, perhaps I'm labouring that point a bit too much. You've formed some sort of theory, I suppose?”

“I was hoping that you would help me with that,” Arnold replied. “Your imagination is a bit more lively than mine, as I've often noticed.”

Merrion smiled. “Meaning that you suspect me of some pretty daring guesswork. Well, let's see if we can construct anything between us. We'll start on the basis of an unknown victim, an unknown murderer, and an unknown method of murder. Too many unknown quantities there. Where's our starting point?”

“The churn,” Arnold replied. “We do know something about that. It is the property of Godfrey and Sprot. It is probably the one retained by Hollybud for some time at Starvesparrow Farm. If so, it disappeared early last month.”

“How did it disappear?”

“That we can't say for certain. If we accept Hollybud's statement, he put it out on his stand, without notifying Godfrey and Sprot. It remained on the stand for a day or two, since Godfrey and Sprot's lorry does not now use that particular stretch of road. Then it disappeared. Either some unauthorised person removed it, or Hollybud quietly brought it back to the farm. He could easily have done that without the knowledge of anybody else.”

“Just a moment. Do you suspect Hollybud of being concerned in the affair?”

“I haven't made up my mind about that. So far, I have refrained from making his acquaintance. I'm not quite ready to cross-question him yet. Bradlaw, the local inspector here, tells me that he's got a quick temper, but that in all other respects he's just an ordinary, easy-going sort of chap, with a cheerful habit of drinking a drop too much on market days. There are dozens like him round about. From that description, he doesn't strike me as being a likely murderer. And, if he's the murderer, where did the victim come from? There are no dark men of thirty missing from these parts, I'm assured.”

“Hollybud certainly doesn't seem a likely candidate for the role of murderer,” said Merrion. “I imagine the man you want to be of a totally different type. Let's consider the other alternative, that the churn was removed by some unauthorised person. Incidentally, that suggests that the crime was contemplated as early as the beginning of last month. What became of it after its disappearance?”

“It was presumably taken away and hidden somewhere. It reappears on Hollybud's stand, empty, between 5 and 6.10 p.m. on March 14th. That's another point in Hollybud's favour. Bradlaw has spoken to people who are prepared to swear that during that period he was in the smoking-room of this very pub.”

“Did anybody see it put there?”Merrion suggested. “Might be worth while making inquiries in that direction.”

“I've thought of that. You and I will pay a visit to the Three Horseshoes at Tolsham to-morrow. That will be the place to hear local gossip. The next thing we know about the churn is that it was seen full, by Walt Jeffers, at 6.30 and 7.40 a.m. on the fifteenth.”

“Meaning that the body, the liquid, and the other trifles were put in it during the night?”

“Undoubtedly. That is one thing of which we can be perfectly sure.”

“There's the question of the other churn. Look here. For simplicity's sake let's call the churn retained by Hollybud A, and the one believed to have been stolen from Godfrey and Sprot's place B. The one you have got at the police station is X. That gives us an equation, X == A or B. The most probable solution of the equation is X = A. Then what about B? Has it any connection with the case? And, if so, where is it now?”

“That hardly concerns us for the moment, does it?”Arnold replied.

“I think it does. I don't altogether agree with your idea that the empty churn on Hollybud's stand was filled during the night. What was it filled from? The body had been in the liquid for at least a week, remember. It must then, have been contained in some sort of receptacle. Is it possible that that receptacle was never changed?”

“I don't follow you.”

“Put it this way, then. Both churns, A and B, were available for the murderer's use, we will suppose. On the afternoon of the fourteenth, B was put on the stand empty. I don't quite see why, but that doesn't matter. Meanwhile, the body and the liquid had been for some time in A. During the following night A was substituted for B, and the latter removed. How does that appeal to you?”

“It's a possibility, anyhow. But, unfortunately, it doesn't get us any nearer to when and where the murder was committed. The only clues that can help us to that are the others things found in the churn. And the trouble about them is that they are all fairly common things, and, therefore, extremely difficult to trace.

“The rough idea I propose to work on is this. The initials A.L.S. represent the victim. They are stamped on the wallet, scratched on the spectacles, marked on the vest. That is a pretty valuable clue. We know that A.L.S. was a man of about thirty, dark, five feet eight inches tall, and probably in comfortable circumstances. The key and the timetable suggest that he was staying at a hotel in the West of England, and contemplated a journey to Glasgow. The slip of paper in the wallet hints at the possibility that this journey was to be continued as far as Oban. That's something to go upon. And there's the fact that the train marked in the timetable passes fairly close to Starvesparrow Farm.”

“How close?”Merrion asked.

“I bought the one-inch map of this district this afternoon,” Arnold replied. “Here it is, you can see for yourself.”

Merrion took the map, opened it, and studied it closely. He found that the main line from Taunton to Westbury passed through Chanterford and Yonderhill, running roughly parallel to the road, but a mile or more from it. In the neighbourhood of Tolsham it ran upon an embankment. The distance from Starvesparrow Farm to the nearest point of this embankment was less than half a mile.

“I see,” said Merrion, as he pushed the map aside. “Do you think there is anything in that?”

“I don't know. But it suggests a possible theory. Suppose that A.L.S. was pitched out of the train as it passed along the embankment? Then, if churn A was at Starvesparrow Farm all the time, the rest would be easy. But that, of course, involves Hollybud.”

Merrion yawned. “I'm tired after my drive,” he said. “My brain won't function properly till I've had some sleep. But there's just one thing I should like to suggest. Take the public completely into your confidence about that queer collection of yours. Let those chaps downstairs see them. Have photographs of them taken. See that the papers publish the photographs, with full descriptions. It's just possible that some reader may recognise one or other of the objects. Anyhow, it's worth trying, and it can't do any harm. And now, with your permission, I'm going to bed.”

CHAPTER FOUR

ARNOLD took Merrion's advice. On the following morning the delighted journalists were escorted to the police station, and shown the objects found in the churn. A series of photographs having been taken, the party returned to the Yellow Dragon to write up their copy.

The inspector left them to it. He and Merrion drove in the latter's car to Tolsham, and pulled up at the Three Horseshoes. Being Sunday morning, it was not yet opening time, and the place was empty. The landlord, a middle-aged man of the name of Frant, appeared, and placed himself at their disposal.

“Trade?” he replied, in reply to Arnold's opening question. “My trade here's barely a barrel a week, since the by-pass was made. I don't get anybody but the chaps in the village, and there are precious few of them, and they haven't much money to spend. When the traffic used to pass my door it was different. You might see a dozen cars and more drawn up outside, especially at holiday times. Now it's only one in a thousand, that knew the house in the old days, that find their way here. The brewers talk of shutting this house up and building a new one on the by-pass, but I don't know if it will ever come off.'

“Then you don't see many strangers?”Arnold suggested.

“It's a rare thing for a stranger to come to Tolsham, these days. You mightn't believe me, but you gentlemen are the first I've had inside the house for a week and more.”

“You didn't happen to hear of any strangers being seen about last Wednesday?”

“Last Wednesday? That would be market-day at Yonderhill. Let me see now. Was that the day that the chaps were speaking about the fellow who had a barrow with rugs for sale on it? Yes, it was.”

“What time was he seen?”

“Round about five o'clock, or maybe half-past. At least, I think that's what they said. I didn't see him myself, but I heard them talking about it.” The landlord turned round and looked out of the window. “There's one of them outside now,” he said. “Waiting for twelve o'clock to strike. Maybe if you was to ask him in, he could tell you more than I can. You being in the police, there wouldn't be no harm in it. Joe Balch, his name is. Works for Farmer Brown, at the far end of the parish. Young Joe, they call him.”

Arnold went out, and returned followed by Young Joe. “It's a few minutes early, landlord,” he said. “But you might serve drinks round. I'll make it all right, if anybody says anything. Now then, Joe, I want to talk to you. Do you remember last Wednesday?”

Joe grinned. “Aye, I remember it, well enough. Farmer Brown went to Yonderhill market along of Farmer Hollybud in his car. And pretty well lit up he was by the time he got home. He'd been making a day of it, from what I could see.”

“What were you doing between five and six in the afternoon?”

“Fetching a load of hay from the far meadow, where the stack is, to the farm.”

“That would bring him right through the village,” Mr. Frant explained.

“Did you meet any strangers while you were doing this?”

“I did so. It was just as I was leaving the meadow with my load. Half-past five, say, or maybe a few minutes later. That's not far from where the new road breaks off, on the Yonderhill side of the village.”

“Can you describe this stranger?”

“Aye, for I had a good look at him. He was a great big chap, with an old straw hat on his head, a coat and trousers not fit for a scarecrow, and his toes coming out through his boots. And hairy, you never saw anything like it. Tangled black hair all over his head, and a big black beard and whiskers. Even his blessed eyebrows hung down right over his eyes. And he was pushing a little barrow, regular flimsy sort of thing, just a frame hung between two bicycle wheels. And on it was a big pile of dirty rugs. I caught sight of him as he was coming along from Yonderhill way.”

“You didn't speak to him, I suppose?”

“Well, he spoke to me. He came up to me as I was shutting the gate out of the meadow, and hollered out something. I couldn't make out what it was. Didn't seem to be English, somehow, and I put him down as one of them foreigners. But I did catch the name Chanterford, and it looked as if he was asking his way there. I told him to go back to the new road and then keep straight on, but he didn't seem to take it in. He just shook his head and grinned, and then sat down by the side of the road and lit a blessed great cigar. So I went on and left him. I did look behind once, and there he was, pushing his barrow along some way behind me. Following me, like, if you understand.”

“Did you see him again?”

“No, for I turned into the farm. He must have passed along the road, though, but I couldn't see him from where I was working.”

“One or two of the other chaps saw him go by,” volunteered Mr. Frant. “They all said the same. All hairy, like, looked like a foreigner, and smoking a cigar. Old Fred, who knows a thing or two, said he must have been one of them Bolsheviks. Come over here to spy out the land, as you might say.”

“Did he call at any of the houses and try to sell his rugs?”Arnold asked.

“Not that I heard of. He must have gone straight through the village and on to Chanterford, if that's where he was bound.”

Merrion rather ostentatiously finished his beer, and put his mug down on the counter. Arnold glanced at him. “Going to have another?” he asked.

“Presently. What do you say to taking a short walk? We can leave the car outside here and come back and fetch it. A bit of exercise won't do us any harm, and we shall enjoy that second pint all the more for it.”

Arnold nodded, and they went out together. “There's a footpath over the fields that may be worth exploring,” said Merrion, when they were outside. “I noticed it on the map you showed me yesterday evening. Come alone, and I'll find it for you. Well, what do you make of the hirsute foreigner with the barrow?”

“I'm blest if I know what to make of him,” Arnold replied. “He sounds a pretty queer customer. And I can't get away from the idea that if I wanted to disguise a milk-churn on a barrow, I should get hold of a few rugs and chuck them over it.”

“Great minds think alike. I thought of the churn as soon as our friend the landlord mentioned the rugs for sale. And the time corresponds nicely with the first appearance of the churn. I should try and run that fellow to earth, if I were you.”

“There won't be any difficulty about that. It's a job for the local police, and I'll talk to Bradlaw about it when we get back. Fellows answering to his description and smoking cigars can't be so common about these parts that people wouldn't have noticed him. We'll find him soon enough. You needn't worry about that.”

Merrion nodded rather absently. He was evidently thinking of something else. “He's a bit of a puzzle to me, that fellow,” he said, after they had walked for some little distance in silence. “We'll suppose that he's responsible for the appearance of the empty churn on Hollybud's stand. Where did he get it from? I don't mean originally, but on Wednesday last? He can't have been perambulating the country with the confounded thing ever since it was stolen.”

“I suppose the churn was hidden somewhere in the neighbourhood,” Arnold replied. “That's rather an important point. The mobility of a man with a barrow is distinctly limited. I don't suppose he could cover more than twenty miles in a day, at the outside. Wherever the churn was hidden, it was somewhere inside that radius of here.”

“A circle with a radius of twenty miles includes an area of a hundred and twenty-five square miles. Rather an extensive area to search. You'll want a closer indication than that before you find the place where the churn was hidden. But perhaps we can get a stage further. Wait a minute, though. This will be the gate of Starvesparrow Farm, if I remember the map correctly.”

They had reached a gate, with a rough track leading over the fields, and a strongly-built wooden stand beside it. Merrion sat down on the stand, lighted his pipe, and looked about him. “It's a curious thing,” he remarked. “This seems to be the one point on this stretch of road that isn't overlooked from anywhere. The farm, presumably, lies on the other side of that fold in the ground. On the other side of the road, opposite us, there's that belt of trees, and you can't see beyond it. If you look to the left, the way we've come, you can't see anything but a roof here and there, and the chimneys of the Three Horseshoes. To the right there I can just make out the blank wall of a barn through the trees. And that's all. As long as there was nobody actually in sight, our friend could have deposited his churn here without being observed.”

“Yes, that's true,” Arnold agreed. “I wonder if he was really a foreigner? Country people call everybody a foreigner who doesn't speak their own particular dialect. It's struck me that some foreigners, Italians and Spaniards, for instance, are more handy with knives than Englishmen, as a rule.”

Merrion laughed. “You'll find out what nationality he is when you get hold of him. Come along, we don't want Farmer Hollybud to catch us. He might resent inquisitive people sitting on his milk stand. We'll have a look at his domain from another point of view in a minute or two.” They continued along the road until, a few hundred yards farther on, they came to a stile, on the same side as the gate. “This is our way,” said Merrion. “According to the map, a footpath leads straight from here to the railway embankment. We may just as well explore in that direction. There may be something in your train theory, for all we know.”

They climbed the stile, and followed the footpath, which at first rose steeply from the road. As soon as they reached the summit, a wide expanse of rolling country lay spread before them. The path ran straight before them to the railway embankment, and burrowed under it through a small tunnel-like arch. To the right of the path was a grey stone house, surrounded by a group of buildings. This was evidently Starvesparrow Farm. Between the farm and the railway was nothing but a series of meadows, in one of which a herd of cows was grazing.

“I don't think we need go any further just now, ' said Merrion. “We can see all we want to from here. You'll notice that if Farmer Hollybud feels in need of distraction, he's only got to sit at his own back door and watch the trains go by. And if he wants to see them closer, he's only got to walk across the fields, which are probably his own property, until he reaches the line. Upon my word, Arnold, I'm beginning to feel a bit more interested in that theory of yours.”

“If there's anything in it, what about the man with the barrow?”Arnold replied. “Where does he come in?”

“I'm blest if I know. We have no evidence yet that he had anything to do with the affair. And yet he must have had. It can't be sheer coincidence that he was prowling around at that very time. And if he deposited the empty churn, did he exchange it for the full one later, after dark? That brings me back to what I was going to say just now, about limiting the radius. Let's get back to the pub, it's cold standing here.”

They turned back, and Merrion proceeded to elaborate the point. “If we adopt the theory that the hairy foreigner deposited the empty churn, and that he did so in connection with the crime, then we must assume that he was concerned in it. He may not have been the actual murderer, but he and his barrow seem to have been responsible for the transport of the body. If he carried the empty churn about, it is at least reasonable to suppose that he carried the full one, too.

“It's quite obvious that some form of wheeled transport must have been employed to convey the full churn to the stand. And, when you come to think of it that barrow of his was singularly well adapted to the purpose. It was mounted on bicycle wheels, we are told, and these, presumably, had rubber tyres of sorts upon them. If the man himself wore rubber-soled shoes, he would move in almost complete silence. As for being seen, there was very little chance of that. The night was pitch dark, and it was snowing at intervals. The falling snow would cover the tracks of his wheels.

“Now, let's consider where this man was coming from when he was seen by Young Joe. He was coming from the place where the empty churn had been hidden. Now I refuse to believe that whoever organised this affair left churns, full and empty, scattered about the countryside. It's much more reasonable to suppose that he worked from some definite and single base of operations. That base may or may not have been the scene of the murder. But it was undoubtedly the place where the churns were hidden, both the full and the empty one. Any objections to that theory?”

“No, it sounds reasonable enough,” Arnold replied. “Very well, then. We can proceed to deduce the movements of the man with the barrow. He started from his base with the empty churn, and deposited it on Hollybud's stand. Then he went back to the base, and picked up the full churn. This he took to the stand, unloaded it there, and took the empty one back to the base.

“We've agreed already that he could hardly be expected to cover more than twenty miles a day. But, in the course of his journeys, he covered the same route four times. If my arithmetic is correct, twenty divided by four is five. That means that the base can't be more than five miles from here. A circle of five miles radius covers an area of thirty-one square miles. A considerable reduction in the size of the haystack in which you've got to look for your needle.”

Arnold nodded. “I've thought all along that the crime was committed locally,” he replied. “The fact that the churn in which the body was found belongs to a local firm points to that. The victim may very well have been a stranger, which would account for nobody being missing hereabouts. A stranger who happened to be travelling in a train, perhaps.”

By this time they were nearing the door of the Three Horseshoes. They went in and had another pint, but no further reference was made to the business which had brought them there. They drove back to Yonderhill, and after lunching at the Yellow Dragon, Arnold took Merrion to the police station and introduced him to Bradlaw.

“I'd like Mr. Merrion to see our collection,” he said. “Meanwhile, I've picked up a bit of information which will interest you.”

Bradlaw was impressed with the story of the man and the barrow. “I'll put a call through to all the police stations round about,” he said. “The local men shall make inquiries straight away. Somebody is bound to have noticed the fellow. He must have passed along the main road to reach Tolsham; there's no other way of getting to the place. We'll hear something of him before this evening; you may be sure of that.”

Arnold left Bradlaw to telephone and rejoined Merrion, who was already examining the exhibits. He had begun with the slip of paper found inside the wallet and was studying this intently. As Arnold approached him he looked up. “As you may know, I had quite a lot to do with handwriting, and things like that, during the War,” he said. “This bit of paper is very interesting. It is stained, of course, and the ink has run. But the original was written with a very fine pen, which, in the heavier strokes, has penetrated the surface of the paper. If you'll allow me to carry out a simple experiment, I think we may be able to make out a word or two here and there.”

“I don't see any objection, as long as you don't do any damage,” replied Arnold.

“There's no risk of that. All I want is some ink, water, a soft brush and some good blotting paper. You can produce those? All right, then.”

Merrion spread the slip of paper very carefully upon a sheet of blotting paper, smoothing it out as much as possible without tearing it any further. He then poured out a small quantity of ink and diluted it with water to about three times its original bulk. With a quick sweep of the brush he spread this diluted ink over the surface of the paper and then immediately applied a clean sheet of blotting paper, pressing it down evenly over the surface of the paper.

“You see the dodge,” he said. “The ink hasn't time to soak into the surface of the paper where that is unbroken. It can only get into the substance of the paper where it has been scratched by the pen, and at the creases. So we get an inkstain only in these places. Now, let's see the result.”

As Arnold examined the paper he could see that some of the strokes of the original writing were considerably more distinct than before. In fact, he could make out a letter here and there, but could recognise no familiar word. Merrion, however, was more successful. “This seems to be part of a letter written in Italian,” he said. “I can't make out the sense of it, but it's Italian right enough. And the paper has a foreign look about it to me. I don't think I'll try to make it any clearer. You had better let your own accredited experts try their hands at it. If I were you I would send it up to the Yard straight away.”

“I will,” Arnold replied. “But I'd like to hear your opinion about it.”

“Subject to official confirmation, as they say, this is what I think: That scrap of paper is part of a letter, written, I should think, some years ago. You can see for yourself that the paper has been folded in those creases for a long time. It has broken away practically all along them. The wallet looks pretty old, too. I shouldn't be surprised if the fragments of the letter had been kept in the wallet since it was received, and was overlooked when the wallet was emptied. As for the address scribbled across it in indelible pencil, I can't quite make that out. It looks to me comparatively fresh and recent. Perhaps this fragment of paper was the only thing the owner of the wallet could find at the moment. He wished for some reason to remind himself of George Street, Oban, and wrote it down on the only thing available.”

“It was the same pencil that was used for marking the time-table, I suppose?”

“Let's have a look. The colour is the same, certainly, but I couldn't swear to it being the same pencil. Your experts may be able to decide that. Now, let me see that vest.”

Merrion examined the vest inch by inch. “There's no doubt about the gash in the back and the stains surrounding it,” he said. “Whether the stains are due to blood—and, if so, to human blood—of course, I can't say. I should have a proper test made, if I were you. But there are several other things about the vest which are worth taking notice of. To begin with, it is very old, and not by any means made of the best quality flannel. It has been worn away under the armpits and patched. Do you see that? And about the shoulders it has worn so thin that you could poke your finger through it. Another thing, it's all frayed round the lower edge. A.L.S. must have been very much attached to his old clothes, it seems to me.”

“That's a characteristic which may help us to establish his identity,” Arnold remarked.

“I shouldn't count too much upon that. Here's yet another rather curious thing. Look at this neck-band. It isn't the original one, I'll swear. It seems to be a strip of new, or comparatively new, linen sewn on with coarse thread and rather clumsy stitches. On the other hand, the patching under the arms has been very neatly done. That suggests the work of two different people.

“Now, look at the marking of the initials on the linen. A.L.S., in good bold block letters. Compare them with the address on that scrap of paper. GEORGE ST., OBAN, also in good bold block letters, of much the same size. There are two letters in common, the S and the A. If you look closely at these two letters you'll see that they are very similar in both cases.”

“Well, isn't that what you would expect?”Arnold replied. “A.L.S. noted down the address, and there seems no reason why he should not have marked his own linen.”

“Oh, none at all. I'm only pointing out my observations. You might notice that the initials are the only coincidence of identification on the neckband. There's no laundry mark, for instance. Either A.L.S. had his clothes washed at home, or this vest has not been to the wash since the new neck-band was sewn on. All these little points may come in useful, some day. Now, let's look at the spectacles.”

These were of yellow horn, clumsy, and of antiquated pattern. On the left-hand side, where the horn was bent down to extend behind the ear, the initials A.L.S. had been scratched with the point of some sharp instrument. “Block letters, again,” Merrion commented. “And obviously an amateur job. An optician would have done it far more neatly. Did A.L.S. do it himself? I'm not going to compare letters scratched on horn with others written with a pen on linen or with a pencil on paper. But there is a certain resemblance. You can't get away from that.”

“I'm not trying to,” Arnold replied patiently. It seemed to him that his friend's observations were not revealing anything very startling.

“You don't seem thrilled. But all these points are worth remembering. They may come in useful some day. Now for this key. It's a hotel key, right enough. There oughtn't to be much difficulty about that. Somebody is pretty sure to recognise it as soon as they see the description published in the papers. The brass disc hasn't got any initials scratched on it, I suppose? Apparently not. Any maker's name on the knife? No, just the word ' stainless.' But it is a good knife, and the handle is quite a decent bit of ivory. I expect that it and the fork belonging to it were originally sold in a leather case. The sort of thing one gives as a wedding present, you know. You'll be lucky if you're able to trace it, I fancy. Do you know Arnold, your collection is most extraordinarily interesting.”

“I thought you would find it so. How does it affect your theories of this morning?”

“I can't tell you yet until I've had time to think things out a bit. At present, this case seems to me to be full of contradictions. Let's get back to the Yellow Dragon and have a cup of tea.”

That evening, after dinner, Bradlaw came to see Arnold. “It's a very queer thing about that rug merchant of yours,” he said. “I can't get any trace of him. If young Joe is telling the truth, the man must have reached the point at which he saw him by the main road. There are no side turnings within a mile on either side of Tolsham.

“Now, that particular stretch of road is in the Chanterford Rural District. I've just been talking on the phone to the sergeant stationed at Chanterford. He tells me that on Wednesday the council's road men were working on the main road, about a quarter of a mile from the point where the new road breaks off from the old, on the Yonderhill side of Tolsham. He knows them all, of course, and has been round to see them.

“They all tell the same story. They didn't knock off that afternoon until six o'clock, as the surveyor wanted to get the job finished. There were ten of them at work, including the foreman, and two of them were employed as traffic signallers, and so saw everything that passed. And not one of the ten saw anybody in the least like your description. In fact, they all swear that nobody pushing a barrow passed them all day.”

“That sounds rather strange,” said Arnold. “The man must have come from the other direction, along the by-pass, and turned back through Tolsham.”

“Wait a minute. The sergeant did not stop by the roadmen. He had a chat with the Automobile Association scout, who patrols that section of the road. The scout was actually in the by-pass from soon after five until half-past, helping with a car which had developed magneto trouble. When he had got this right, he rode into Chanterford, stayed there for a few minutes, then rode half-way to Yonderhill and back again. He saw nothing of the man with the barrow, either. And, what's more, half a dozen other constables have been making inquiries all the afternoon, and they can't find anybody who could tell them anything. I'm inclined to wonder whether Young Joe was pulling your leg this morning.”

“We'll make an excursion to Tolsham to-morrow, and get to the bottom of this,” said Arnold. When Bradlaw had gone he repeated his information to Merrion, who did not seem unduly surprised.

“I suspected something of the kind,” he said. “I thought at the time that the man with the barrow was just a little too picturesque to tramp the roads for any distance.”

“You think that Young Joe was lying to us, then?”

“No, I don't think that,” Merrion replied slowly. “I think that his hairy acquaintance did not trundle his barrow beyond the limits of Tolsham Parish on Wednesday afternoon.”

CHAPTER FIVE

MONDAY was spent by Arnold and Bradlaw in a meticulous search of the village of Tolsham. They entered every farm and cottage and interviewed practically every member of the community, including Mr. Hollybud and his family.

Their inquiries were directed mainly to the presence of strangers, and to obtaining news of the man with the barrow or the milk churns. At the end of the day they returned weary and disappointed, having learnt nothing fresh. The existence of the man with the barrow was established beyond any possibility of doubt. He had been seen, not only by Young Joe, but by half a dozen others, who gave independent and identical descriptions of him. That he had actually passed through the village between half-past five and a quarter to six on Wednesday afternoon was an undoubted fact. He had spoken to nobody but Young Joe, nor had he made any attempt to sell his wares. He had suddenly appeared and suddenly vanished, and he had not been seen before or since.

The inquiry into the churns was even less satisfactory. Milk churns were as common in Tolsham as blades of grass by the roadside, and they were as like one another as peas in pod. Two churns, or any reasonable number, for that matter, could have been deposited in one of a dozen places without attracting any particular attention, especially if they had been moved about from time to time. It was impossible to pick up the slightest clue which seemed to point to the churn holding the body.

“I can't make it out,” said Arnold, as they returned to Yonderhill. “That chap with the barrow must have had something to do with it. Where did he come from, and where did he go to? I can understand his disappearance, for he might have hidden himself somewhere and cleared off after dark. But when all these people saw him it was broad daylight. The sun didn't set till six o'clock. He can't have fallen from the skies.”

“Well, he didn't come along the road,” Bradlaw replied. “And I don't see how he can have wheeled his barrow across the fields. If he had, somebody would have been bound to see him. I'm glad my chief called in the Yard over this case, Mr. Arnold. It rather seems to me that we are up against it.”

Merrion, left alone to ponder the facts, was suddenly struck with an idea. He took out his car and drove to Chanterford station, where, under the pretext of inquiring about the train service, he engaged the station master in conversation. He gradually brought the subject round to the point where he could put the question that was in his mind. “Have there been any extensive repairs to the line in this district recently?” he asked.

“Oh, the gang is always busy at one place or another,” the station master replied. “There's a lot of fast and heavy traffic over this section, and that makes constant work, tightening up chairs and replacing wedges, and what not. Then the sleepers have to be renewed every few years. There was a long stretch of the up track relaid only last month.”

So Merrion's guess had been a happy one, after all!”What particular stretch was that?” he asked.

“On the embankment the other side of Tolsham box from here. They were working at it for the best part of a fortnight. It was a Sunday they started, the eleventh of February, I recollect.”

“It's always a wonder to me how they relay a line and yet keep the traffic running over it all the time,” Merrion remarked.

“Oh, precautions are taken, of course. Sometimes, during the quieter periods, they use single line working, run the up trains over the down track, that is. But most of the time they manage to keep the track under repair fit for traffic. The drivers are warned, of course, and they go over the stretch dead slow, and make up time where they can. You'd have seen the express just crawling over that embankment if you'd been there to watch. They might have been a minute or two late passing through Yonderhill but they had mostly made up by the time they got to Westbury.”

After a little further talk with the station master, Merrion drove back to the Yellow Dragon, with a fresh fact to add to his store. This was that for about a fortnight from February the eleventh the 2.40 from Exeter, normally fast between Taunton and Westbury, had to slow down to a crawl on the embankment near Starvesparrow Farm.

Was there any significance in this? Could, for instance, a man or men have taken advantage of this slowing down to alight from the train unseen? He found by reference to the almanack that the sun set just after five on that date. If the sky were overcast, it would already be growing dark when the train reached the embankment. The platelayers would be assembled on the down track to let the train go by. A man might not be observed if he slipped out of the train on the up side and hurried down the embankment. He might not. But the chances were that he would be, even under the most favourable circumstances. Only some desperate purpose could induce him to face the odds.

That evening, Merrion listened to Arnold's account of the inquiries he had made. “There's only one solution that I can see,” he said. “The man and his barrow originated in Tolsham on Wednesday. He must have made his way there during the previous night, and hidden somewhere until Young Joe saw him. That rather upsets our calculations; but, as a I said before, this case is full of contradictions, and one more or less doesn't make much difference.”

“What is it that you find so contradictory?”Arnold asked.

“Why, the personality of A.L.S., if the dead man really was A.L.S., which I very much doubt. Take the evidence of the body first. A man of thirty, unaccustomed to hard work, and inclined to stoutness, in consequence. What our friends at the Three Horseshoes would call a toff, in fact. Now, would a man of that age carry about with him a threadbare wallet? Would he wear a very old and patched flannel vest? Would he mark it himself? Would he be seen in a pair of spectacles which might have belonged to his great-grandfather? I think not.”

“Well, how do you account for all those things being found with the body?”

“I can't account for it, and that's just what worries me. I'm inclined to think that the dead man and A.L.S. are two different people. Who the dead man was, we may never find out. But I shouldn't be surprised if A.L.S. turned up bright and smiling, one of these days.”

Merrion's prediction was fulfilled much sooner than any one could have anticipated. While he and Arnold were lunching next day a waiter approached the Inspector with a card on a tray. “There's a gentleman asking for you, sir,” he said. Arnold picked up the card. Upon it was engraved “Mr. Alastair L. Swanbury.” The Inspector stared at the card in amazement and then passed it over to Merrion. “All right, I'll see the gentleman,” he said to the waiter. And then, after a glance at the expectant faces at the surrounding tables, “Upstairs in my room,” he added.

He swallowed a few hasty mouthfuls and finished his beer. Then he hurried upstairs and opened the door of his bedroom. A middle-aged man, clean-shaven and with a merry, open countenance, was seated on the bed. He rose with an anticipatory smile. “Inspector Arnold?” he said.

“That's right. And you are Mr. Swanbury? You want to see me?”

“I fancy that it's the other way about, and that you want to see me. I've been following this case of the body in the milk-churn pretty closely in the newspapers. I'm an author by profession and I live near Maidstone. Yesterday, in the papers I saw a description and a photograph of a certain wallet. I think that I may be able to give you some information about it. But I'd like to see it first, to make sure.”

“There's no difficulty about that,” Arnold replied. “It's at the police station, only a few doors up the street from here. I'll take you there now.”

They left the hotel and walked to the police station. As soon as Arnold showed Mr. Swanbury the wallet, the latter nodded. “Yes, that's the one,” he said. “Well, I never expected to see it again. Queer how things turn up unexpectedly, isn't it?”

But Arnold was in no mood to discuss such abstract subjects. “What can you tell me about this wallet, Mr. Swanbury?” he asked sharply.

“It is, or rather was, mine. It was given to me some years ago by an old friend of mine. I used it until, as you see, it was pretty well worn out. I used to keep notes and stamps and odd papers in it, you know. And then my wife complained that it was a disgrace to the family, and after a bit she bought me a new one.”

“What did you do with this one?”

“I'm just going to tell you. My wife gave me the new one at breakfast one morning. I had to go up to London that day to see my agent. It was just about this time last year. I put the new wallet in the same pocket as the old one, kissed my wife and went off to catch my train. On the way up to London it struck me that the two wallets were making too much of a bulge in my pocket. So I took them out and shifted the contents of the old one into the new, which I put back in my pocket. What was I to do with the old one? No sense in keeping it. So, on a sudden impulse, I decided to get rid of it. I flung it out of the carriage window, in defiance of a printed notice staring me in the face, thereby rendering myself liable to a penalty of forty shillings.”

“You are certain that this is the wallet you threw away?”

“As certain as one can be of anything in this deceptive universe. I used to be certain that a straight line was the shortest distance between two points, but Einstein seems to have proved pretty conclusively that it isn't. To his own satisfaction, at all events.”

Arnold had only the vaguest idea of who Einstein might be. But, anyhow, he was a side issue, and therefore of no importance. “Have you ever been to Italy, Mr. Swanbury?” he asked abruptly.

The other raised his eyebrows in astonishment. “I have spent many years there,” he replied. “How did you come to know that, I wonder?”

“Oh, we manage to get a hint or two sometimes,” said Arnold. He removed the slip of paper from the envelope in which he had deposited it for safety. “Can you tell me anything about that?” he asked, holding it out for Swanbury's inspection.

The most obvious thing about it was the address in indelible pencil. “George Street, Oban?”Swanbury replied. “No, I'm afraid I can't. I've never been there.”

“No, not that. The paper itself, and the faint writing in ink upon it.”

Swanbury gazed at the paper for a moment, then smiled. “Yes, I think I can,” he replied. “It looks very like a fragment of a letter from an Italian professor whom I used to know. I think I can recognise the writing, almost obliterated though it is. And, if I'm right, I'll hazard a guess that you found it in the wallet.”

Arnold nodded. “That's just where it was found,” he said.

“Then that pretty well settles it. I kept the last letter that the old boy wrote to me before he died in the wallet for a long time. It got all torn and frayed at the edges, I remember. And I suppose that when I took the rest of the stuff out of the old wallet I left that behind. Carelessness again. My wife's always at me about it.”

“Did you make a note of that address in pencil on the letter?”

“No, I didn't. I very rarely make notes, for I only lose them if I do. And I never use an indelible pencil. And I have no interest in Oban, or any desire to go there.”

“Where was the train when you threw the wallet out of the window?”

“I couldn't tell you that with any degree of accuracy. Somewhere between Maidstone and Swanley Junction, I fancy.”

“And you have never seen the wallet since that time?”

“I have not, and I certainly never expected to see it again.”

“Do you wear spectacles, Mr. Swanbury?”

“No. I'm getting on in years, I'll admit, but my eyesight is still surprisingly good. I shall have to take to them before very long, I expect.”

Arnold produced the horn-rimmed glasses. “Then how do you account for your initials being on these?” he asked.

Swanbury shook his head. “I don't begin to account for it,” he replied. “They aren't line. I have never owned a pair of spectacles in my life. But I'm not the only A.L.S. in the world, I imagine. There must be dozens of others. And, before you show me the vest, so graphically described by our enlightened press, I may as well tell you at once that it isn't mine. I'm very faddy about my underclothes, and can't wear anything but silk next my skin. The very thought of flannel gives me the shudders.”

“Have you been to Exeter recently, Mr. Swanbury?”

“Not for years!” In fact this is my first journey to the West Country for a very long time.”

Arnold thanked Mr Swanbury for the information which he had given him and returned to the Yellow Dragon. Merrion, who had by this time finished lunch, was waiting for him. The two discussed the identification of the wallet and agreed that, far from throwing any light upon the mystery, it appeared to complicate it.

“I think we must assume the correctness of Swanbury's statement,” said Arnold. “I can't see what he could have to gain by telling a yarn like that, if it wasn't true. Of course, I shall get in touch with the Maidstone police and find out all I can about him. But he struck me as being a decent enough fellow.”

“Well, then, we've got to solve the problem of how a wallet thrown out of a train in Kent found its way into a milk-churn in Wessex,” Merrion replied. “And it seems to me that we can only do that by guesswork. For instance, the first step might be this: the wallet fell clear of the line and on to or near a road. A passer-by, possibly a tramp, picked it up and kept it. That seems well within the bounds of possibility.”

“Yes, I think it does. A tramp, or perhaps even a pedlar. The man with the barrow, for instance.”

“I think, at this stage, we had better treat him and the wallet as two entirely separate clues. It may have changed hands several times before it reached the victim, or more likely to my mind, the murderer.” *

“The murderer!”Arnold exclaimed. “What do you mean?”

Merrion lighted a cigarette and threw away the match with a gesture of finality. “As you know, there is one thing that I have been very sceptical about all along,” he replied. “Since the articles were found in the churn with the body, the assumption is that they were the property of the victim. The recurrence of the initials A.L.S. suggest that these were the victim's initials. But I have already told you why I doubt the correctness of these assumptions.

“Let's suppose that you or I set out to commit a murder. We have a victim in view, a sufficient motive for killing him, and the opportunity of doing so. The only thing that worries us is the disposal of the body. We have no means of destroying it completely, and we can't think of any place in which to hide it which seems to us sufficiently safe from discovery.

“We have to find some way of getting rid of the body with perfect safety to ourselves. We have to face the fact that it is bound to be found, sooner or later. Bodies have an inconvenient habit of revealing their presence. You know the old saying, ' Murder will out.' There's a lot of truth in it.

“Accepting the certainty of the ultimate discovery of the body, what precautions can we take to prevent the crime being traced to us? Quite a lot, I think. We can conceal the identity of the victim, the manner of his death and the time when the murder took place. We can ensure that the body is discovered at the time which suits us best. And, in addition, we can fabricate clues which will lead in the wrong direction. Personally, I should not adopt the latter course. False clues have a habit of turning out to be true ones in the long run, a fact which has often proved the undoing of the too-ingenious criminal.

“Consider the present case. The identity of the victim has been concealed in the most obvious way, by omitting the head from the contents of the churn. The means of death are at present unknown. He may have been stabbed from behind, or he may not. I am inclined to the probability that the stabbing and the thoughtful present to us of the knife with which the stabbing was effected, are in the nature of false clues. The addition of formalin to the liquid in which the body was immersed makes it impossible to determine when death took place.

“The next point is the moment of discovery of the body. The churn was placed on Hollybud's milk stand in order that the body might be found. Somebody, either Hollybud himself or the dairy people, were bound to open it and look inside within the next few hours. We may take it, then, that the churn was put on the stand when, and not before, it suited the convenience of the murderer that the body should be found.”

Arnold nodded. “That's quite a sound argument,” he said. “Unfortunately . . .”

But Merrion interrupted him. “Wait a minute, I haven't finished yet. We come now to the very delicate subject of the fabrication of false clues. As I said before, if I had been the murderer I would have left things as they were. But he seems to have been one of those people who can't resist the temptation to gild the lily. His idea was to give the police something to play with, something that would both occupy their time and lead them on the wrong scent.

“The knife, for instance. That was obviously put in to strengthen the suggestion that the victim had been murdered by stabbing. Apart from that, the wallet was the first link in the chain. The murderer had the wallet in his possession. How he came by it we don't know; but it is pretty certain that nobody but himself knew that he had it. It is very doubtful that he was aware to whom it originally belonged. Its value to him lay in the initials stamped on it. He anticipated your argument. Since the wallet would be found with the body, it must have been the property of the victim, whose initials, therefore, were A.L.S. You would start by searching for the missing Smiths, while the victim's name was really Robinson. Not a bad idea on his part, for the chances of the original owner of the wallet turning up were very slight. And, even though he has, he has not endangered the security of the murderer.”

“That's all very well,” said Arnold. “But what about the same initials being found on the other things?”

“I'm coming to that. The idea suggested by the wallet seems to the murderer such a good one that he simply can't leave it alone. You can almost watch its development in his mind. Why rest content with the wallet? What else might the victim have been expected to have about him when he was murdered? A pair of spectacles! The murderer knew where to lay his hands on a pair of old ones that could not be traced to him. Better remove the lens, in case some optical expert discovered that they were antediluvian. Scratch the initials on the horn, and you have another false clue. The victim must have worn horn-rimmed spectacles. The truth probably being that he had never worn any sort of glasses in his life.

“The same with the vest. The garment the victim wore when he was murdered! How utterly convincing! The gash in the back, the bloodstains! Put on a new neck-band and mark it with the familiar A.L.S. The victim was the sort of person who wore old and patched flannel vests, and he was stabbed to death while wearing one of them! Can't you see the growing fascination of building up false evidence?”

“I see your imagination running riot with you, as usual,” Arnold replied with a smile.

“Well, but isn't it obvious? Then the murderer has another bright idea. Not content with confusion of identity, he decides to add confusion of locality. That accounts for the Railway and Bus Guide for Exeter. He succeeded in making you waste half a day there, so he's scored a point. Then he writes ' George Street, Oban ' on the slip of paper which he finds in the wallet. With any luck, he thinks, you'll spend at least a week trying to circumvent the crafty Highlander. Oh, I can see his game, right enough!”

“It's rather a pity you can't see him in person. What is all this leading up to, may I ask? That these objects found in the churn should be disregarded as having no bearing on the case?”

“Not by any means disregarded, but accepted at their true value. Their apparent indications are misleading, but the objects themselves are of importance if they can be traced. So far, we have identified the wallet. But we can't say that we have traced it, for it is lost sight of for a year after Swanbury threw it out of the window. Had the person who had picked it up communicated with you it would have been better for us.”

“If the murderer himself were to walk into this room and confess it would be better still,” said Arnold dryly. “It seems to me that your criticism is destructive rather than helpful. What do you suggest that I do? Wait quietly until people come and tell me the origin and history of all these things? I've got to take active steps of some kind of my own, you know.”

Merrion smiled. “Activity hasn't been very profitable so far.” he replied. “All that we have discovered, by our own efforts, is the presence of a stranger in Tolsham at the time when the empty churn was placed on Hollybud's milk stand. That, by itself, should be a very promising discovery. But so far it hasn't helped us at all. The man appears from nowhere, is seen by half a dozen astonished yokels and disappears again. He is seen by nobody, in fact, outside the narrow limits of the parish, and that only within a period of a few minutes. It sounds absurd, but there must be some explanation, if we could only find it.”

“The only possible explanation is that he had some hiding-place in or near the village. He arrived there during Tuesday night, only emerged on Wednesday evening, and went off again that night.”

“Yet, in spite of all your efforts, you and Bradlaw were unable to discover this hiding-place. I've been thinking it over, and I'm inclined to think there is another explanation. But, of course, it's only guesswork. There's no evidence in support of it.”

Arnold laughed. “We seem to be guessing pretty freely,” he said. “Lunch seems to have stimulated your imagination. What's this explanation of yours?”

“I'll start by reminding you of the mentality of the murderer. He has a positive obsession for creating false impressions. I have shown you he has achieved confusion of identity and date of murder and attempted confusion of the place of the crime. We believe that the murder was committed in this locality. Why? I'll tell you. Because the churn containing the body was found on Hollybud's milk stand, because this churn belonged to a local firm, and because the train marked in the time table passes within a short distance of Starvesparrow Farm; and, finally, because of the miraculous apparition of the man with the barrow in Tolsham. Do you know, I believe that all these things were part of the murderer's scheme, deliberately contrived to deceive us as to locality! This would be in keeping with his other actions.

“Now, let's consider the man with the barrow. He is, when you come to think of it, a very striking figure, more ragged than the average tramp, conspicuously hairy, speaking in some foreign tongue and smoking a cigar. A man like that would be bound to attract notice anywhere. But this man not only attracts notice—he invites it. He speaks to Young Joe, without waiting to be spoken to. He mentions Chanterford, only a few miles away, and gives Joe the impression that that's where he is bound for. Doesn't all this strike you as very odd behaviour on his part? His intention was to deposit a stolen churn upon somebody else's property. We can hardly doubt that the same night he substituted for this the churn containing the body. He knew that inquiries would be made and his passage through Tolsham discovered. Yet he apparently took considerable pains to attract attention to himself. Why?”

Arnold shrugged his shoulders a trifle wearily. “I'm blest if I know,” he replied. “Why?”

“Because he knew that the argument would be that a man with a barrow, especially a home-made one, could not travel very far or fast, and therefore that the investigations would be confined to the neighbourhood of Tolsham.”

“I seem to remember you demonstrating that the search might be confined to a five-mile radius,” said Arnold quietly.

“I did. But at that time I hadn't seen the other explanation. One can't always be right first time, you know. We've been making inquiries about a man wheeling a barrow. But suppose he wasn't wheeling a barrow when he arrived at and departed from Tolsham?”

“What in the world are you getting at now?” said Arnold irritably. “Where did the barrow come from, then? Did he find it in the village? And where is it now?”

“He brought the barrow and the churn and the rugs with him, of course; but he didn't wheel the barrow with all those things on it.”

“He carried them all on his head, I suppose? Curious that nobody should have noticed him.”

“No, he didn't do that. Just consider that barrow for a moment. You remember Young Joe's description of it? 'A little barrow, regular flimsy sort of thing, just a frame hung between two bicycle wheels.' Now, it wouldn't require any great exercise of ingenuity to fix those bicycle wheels on the axle so that they would be instantly detachable, would it?”

“I suppose not. But, even if they were-what then?”

“Why, the wheels and the framework could be packed away in a relatively small space, with the rugs covering them. Don't you see the dodge now? Well, then, I'll explain.

“A car, a fairly big saloon, I imagine, is driven along the main road from the direction of Yonder-hill towards Tolsham. In the back of it is the milk-churn and the barrow in sections, all covered by the rugs. At the fork, where the by-pass deviates from the old road, the car stops. Out of it jumps our hirsute friend, suitably disguised for the occasion. He fits the barrow together, loads the churn on it and puts the rugs on top. He wheels the churn to Hollybud's stand, unloads it there and goes on to the point where the by-pass rejoins the old road. The car has meanwhile been driven along the by-pass, and meets him there. The barrow is dismantled, put in the car, which drives away to some unknown destination. That night, the same evolution is repeated, but this time the full churn is substituted for the empty one. The first attempt is made merely as an experiment, to try things out and, incidentally, to suggest a local setting.”

“That's a wonderful theory of yours!” exclaimed Arnold, obviously unconvinced.

“Wonderful or not, it has the merit of accounting for the facts. And I don't think, however much you examine it, you'll be able to pick holes in it. I'll admit that it's an uncomfortable one; but that can't be helped.”

“Uncomfortable?”Arnold inquired. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that it extends the area of your search almost indefinitely. A barrow could not be trundled fast or far, as we agreed. But there's practically no limit to the distance that a car might have covered. It might have come from almost anywhere—London, for instance. And I shouldn't be at all surprised if that's where the murder had been committed.”

“But what about that Exeter time-table?”Arnold persisted doggedly.

“I should make spills of that to light my pipe with,” replied Merrion.

CHAPTER SIX

ON the following morning Arnold received two letters of importance. The first was from the pathologist who had been charged with the examination of the body. He reported that his analysis had revealed no suspicion of death by poisoning.

“This does not necessarily mean that the wound which pierced the heart was the cause of death. It merely means that the parts of the body at my disposal show no other evidence of fatal injury than the wound. It is, for instance, quite possible that the deceased died from a fracture of the skull, or other injury to the head. Until this is found, the cause of death cannot be definitely decided.

“With regard to the liquid, I find this to be a mixture of milk and water, containing a small amount of blood and other animal matter and some twenty per cent of formaldehyde, which was probably added in the form of Formalin. This is a solution of formaldehyde, and is largely used as a disinfectant, and in various technical processes. The average person would, however, find some slight difficulty in securing formalin in sufficient quantity for the present purpose. So large a purchase would almost certainly attract attention.”

Arnold passed this letter over to Merrion and turned to the second. This was from the Chief Constable of Scarborough, and was couched in official language. He had received a communication with regard to the key with a brass disc attached to it. It was possible that this key had been removed from a hotel in Scarborough. He would be pleased to give Inspector Arnold every assistance should he desire to make further inquiries.

Merrion laughed when he was shown this letter. “Have you noticed how widely separated are the places which crop up in connection with this case?” he said. “Exeter, Oban, Maidstone and now Scarborough. At this rate, we shall find that the spectacles come from Land's End and the carving knife from John O'Groats. You look like spending the rest of your life travelling about. What are you going to do about this?”

“There's only one thing I can do: go to Scarborough and see what it's all about.”

“I'll come with you as far as London. I want to spend a few days there. But there's just one thing I would do before I went. The reporters are clamouring for something fresh. Tell them that you would like to hear from any chemist who has recently sold an unusual quantity of formalin to any of his customers. There's just a chance that it may lead to something.”

Arnold and Merrion travelled up to London that morning and parted at Paddington. The Inspector, after a hasty, visit to Scotland Yard, went to King's Cross and took a train to Scarborough. He had the key with him, and on the advice of the local police he went to the Hotel Magnificent, a palatial establishment of considerable size.

Here the manager found time to see him. “Oh, yes, about that key,” he said. “It was one of my receptionists who called my attention to the matter. Perhaps you would let me see it?”

The manager examined the key deliberately and then continued: “Yes, that is undoubtedly one of our keys. I recognise our brass disc attached to it. But we can put the matter beyond any doubt. Room number 253 happens to be unoccupied at the moment. We will, if you like, go and see whether this key fits the lock.”

He led the way to the lift, which took them to the second floor, and then along a corridor which led to a door numbered 253. “Perhaps you would like to try the key for yourself?” said the manager.

Arnold inserted it in the lock, which turned at once and without any difficulty. The door opened, and he found himself in a luxurious double room, with a private bathroom opening off it. The Inspector glanced round the room appreciatively. “It looks very comfortable,” he said. “Can you tell me when this key was taken from the hotel?”

“Come downstairs again to my office and I'll tell you all I can,” the manager replied. He installed Arnold in a chair and provided him with an excellent cigar. “I got all the particulars in readiness for the Chief Constable, whom I spoke to yesterday, and he said that one of you people was certain to come along and investigate.

“As I told you, one of my receptionists started it. She was reading the paper and saw the description of this key in it. She immediately remembered that the key of room 253 had been missed some time ago, and came and told me about it.

“Now, the system we have is this: There is a sort of letter-box at the porter's office in which visitors are requested to drop their keys when they leave their rooms. The porter on duty collects the keys from this box periodically and hangs each on its proper hook, which is numbered. When the visitor returns, he asks for his key, which is given him from the hook. On leaving the hotel at the end of his stay the visitor can either leave the key in his door, when the chambermaid collects it, or hand it to the porter. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly,” Arnold replied. “Absent-minded visitors sometimes take their keys away with them, I suppose?”

“Frequently, but they nearly always return them. Now, when the day porter went off duty on January the twenty-sixth last he found that the key of room 253 was neither in the box nor on its hook. He knew that the occupants of that room had left that morning, and he reported the matter to the office. A search was made for the key, but it could not be found. In fact, it never did turn up, and in due course a duplicate, of which we always keep a set, was issued.”

“The key must have been taken away that morning by the occupants of the room?”Arnold suggested.

“So we assumed. I have the visitor's book here, and you can see the appropriate entry for yourself.” The manager turned over the pages until he came to the date January 25th. “Here you are, you see,” he continued, indicating an entry.

Arnold followed his finger. In a bold, rather florid writing was the entry, “Mr. and Mrs. John Smith, British, London.” Against this the reception clerk had written the number of the room allotted to them —253.

The manager smiled as he laid the book aside. “You'll understand that we couldn't very well write a letter asking for the return of the key and address it to John Smith, Esq., London,” he said. “It would never have reached its destination, for more than one reason, I fancy. So we resigned ourselves to the loss of the key, and thought no more of the matter until yesterday. But, curiously enough, if Mr. and Mrs. John Smith had carried off the key, they had left something else behind

“What was that?”Arnold asked.

“I have it here, and I'll show it to you.” The manager opened a drawer of his desk and took from it a silver-backed hair-brush of masculine shape. It was apparently nearly new, and bore the initials T.W.F. engraved on the silver.

Arnold looked at it in some astonishment. “You're sure this was left behind by the Smiths?” he asked.

“There's no possible doubt about it,” the manager replied. “On the afternoon of the twenty-sixth, after they had gone, the chambermaid found this brush in room 253. It had fallen down behind the dressing-table, and had apparently been overlooked. She recognised it as one of a pair she had seen the previous evening among the toilet articles on the dressing-table. It was certainly not in the room before the Smiths arrived, and it was found there after they left. The inference is that they brought it with them and left it behind. Again, their address was too vague for me to communicate with them. For some time I expected a letter asking me to forward the brush, but I have had no communication of any kind.”

“It's the initials that are puzzling me,” said Arnold. “How does a Mr. John Smith come to have a hairbrush with T.W.F. engraved on it?”

At that the manager laughed outright. “The law ordains that every hotel-keeper shall keep a register, in which his visitors are to be requested to sign their names,” he replied. “It does not, fortunately, lay upon him the onus of seeing that these names are correct. I'm always inclined to smile when I see ' Mr. and Mrs. John Smith, London,' in my register. People have so little imagination when they come to invent surnames for themselves.”

“Then you think these people registered under a false name?”

“I'm pretty sure of it. I'll give you another little piece of gossip from the chambermaid. The lady's dressing-case bore the initials O.M.N. Of course, these may have been her initials before she became Mrs. Smith of London. It's not for me to say, or to inquire. But, taken in conjunction with the initials on this hairbrush, I have my suspicions. Their name wasn't Smith, and I have grave doubts whether they had troubled to attend a marriage ceremony before they came to stay in room 253.”

“Can anybody in the place give a description of them?”Arnold asked.

The manager shook his head. “I inquired about that before you turned up,” he replied. “Nobody remembers much about them. You wouldn't expect them to, after all these weeks. The chambermaid says they were a smartly-dressed young couple, and that the woman seemed taller than the man. They seem to have kept themselves to themselves. Nobody remembers seeing them about the public rooms. They only stayed here for one night, as you can see by the book. And, as you can also see, we were pretty busy at the time. I'm afraid there's no hope of getting any sort of description of them.”

“You've no idea where they went to when they left here, I suppose?”

“Not the slightest. The porter thinks that he called a taxi for them and that they drove to the station; but he can't swear to it. Most of our visitors appear and disappear like that. They don't always take away the key and leave a souvenir in its place, though. But even when they do, that doesn't impress them on our memories. That's the worst of our trade. As far as the staff are concerned, visitors are not personalities, they are merely numbers. The personalities attached to the numbers change from day to day.”

“You'll let me take the hairbrush with me?”Arnold asked.

“Certainly, if you'll give me a receipt for it. The owner may turn up one of these days and inquire for it. You never know.”

“If he does, have him arrested for stealing your key,” Arnold replied grimly, “or lock him up in the cellar and send for the police. Anything to detain him until I've had a chance of a talk with him. But somehow I don't think he'll show up again.”

“Nor do I,” said the manager. “People who register as Mr. Smith are curiously shy about claiming articles with the initials T.W.F. on them. It's a form of self-conceit, I suppose. They don't realise that we really don't care a button who they are. By the way, Mr. Arnold, can we have the pleasure of putting you up to-night?”

“Well, I don't know,” Arnold replied doubtfully. “Poor devils of detectives can't afford rooms like your number 253, you know.”

“Oh, that's all right. We can make you perfectly comfortable in something a little bit less pretentious. Come along, and we'll see what we can do for you.”

So the Inspector, having asked to be called in tune for the early train next morning, stayed the night at the Hotel Magnificent. As soon as he was safe in the seclusion of his room he examined the hairbrush carefully and saw that among the bristles there were a few short and rather coarse dark hairs. He left them where they were, wrapped the brush up carefully in a clean handkerchief and put them in his suitcase.

But the dark hairs started a train of thought, as indeed they were bound to do. The body found in the churn was that of a man dark rather than fair. Was it possible that these hairs were his? And, if they were, did the fact help him much?

It was all very well for Merrion to talk about the deliberate laying of false clues. Was the key, which had led him to Scarborough and to the discovery of the hairbrush, altogether a false clue? Had it been intended to lead him to the Hotel Magnificent for some definite purpose? And, if so, what could that purpose be? Was it merely in the nature of a hoax, as Merrion maintained was the purpose of all the things found in the churn? If so, it was meant to start him once more on a false trail and to waste his time in the pursuit of the mysterious and retiring Mr. Smith, who apparently owned a hairbrush with the initials T.W.F.

Arnold felt certain that this was how Merrion would have explained the incident. Or, with equal probability, he would have maintained that there was no deliberate intention at all. Mr. Swanbury had thrown away his wallet and somebody had picked it up. So, at least, it appeared. Might not Mr. Smith have thrown away the key, it being of no use to him? Was Merrion right, and had the crime no more connection with Scarborough than it had with Exeter or Oban?

Yet, if the key had been thrown into the churn by somebody entirely ignorant of its source, just to give the police fruitless occupation in tracing it, it was a remarkable thing that it should have led to such a doubtful couple as the Smiths. Was it merely a coincidence that it had been carried away by people apparently anxious to conceal their identity? The wallet had led to Mr. Swanbury, whose life and habits appeared to be perfectly honest and above-board. One would have expected the key to lead equally to some highly respectable, if absent-minded, citizen. And yet it hadn't. It had led to a man with coarse dark hair. Coincidence again, no doubt. Or would it be some cunningly-contrived scheme to confuse the identity of the victim? Where was the head from which those hairs had come? Arnold felt, rather hopelessly, that he was never likely to discover that.

He returned to London next day, and his first care was to hand over the hairbrush to the pathologist who had examined the body. Later in the afternoon the pathologist delivered his report. “I've examined those hairs microscopically,” he said. “They are human hairs, fallen out naturally in the process of brushing. As to whether they came from the head of the deceased, I cannot say. Judging by appearances, it is quite possible. Beyond that I cannot go.

“But there is a curious fact connected with the brush, which possibly you may not have noticed. On the silver mount there is a dark stain which looks at first sight like ordinary tarnish. Here is the brush; you can see for yourself.”

He handed the brush to Arnold. The stain was distinctly visible, as an irregular dark patch about half an inch across. “Now, under a powerful magnifying glass, that patch appears not as a stain, but as an incrustation,” the pathologist continued. “I scraped some of it off and tested it. It consisted, I found, of human blood. Now, will you take the brush and hold it, as though you were about to brush your hair with it?”

As Arnold did so he instinctively grasped the silver mounting in his hand. The pathologist nodded approvingly. “You will see that as you hold the brush the base of your thumb covers the incrustation. Now, as you are aware, I examined most minutely the body found in the churn. I made a note of several details, none of which were sufficiently conspicuous to afford means of identification. Among these was the trace of a narrow but comparatively deep cut on the base of the right thumb. This cut was almost perfectly healed, but the location of it could still be seen. I formed the opinion that it had probably been inflicted some days before death, and that it had been caused in the act of cleaning a safety-razor blade.

“Now, I don't want to lay undue stress upon that. But it is only fair to tell you this: If a man had cut himself in such a way, and had then picked up this brush while the blood was still flowing, a smear of blood would be left on the silver which, when it dried, would leave just such an incrustation as this. As you have yourself demonstrated, the position of the smear corresponds with the cut upon the dead man's thumb. Those are the facts. Whether or not you accept the deduction is none of my business.”

That evening Arnold and Merrion dined together, and after the meal repaired to the latter's rooms in St. James', where the Inspector described his visit to Scarborough and its sequel. “Now, then!” he said in conclusion. “There's a fine field for your imagination to disport itself in.”

But Merrion made no reply. He lay back in his chair, frowning intently at the fire. Arnold laughed. “Trying to find an explanation of the false clue?” he suggested.

“I'm trying to look at this puzzle clearly and without prejudice,” Merrion replied. “For it is a nuzzle, and a very complicated one, whichever way you look at it. The facts are these: A hotel key is found in the churn with the dismembered body. That key is traced to the Hotel Magnificent at Scarborough. It was taken from there by one of two people, who called themselves Mr. and Mrs. John Smith. In the room occupied by them, and to which this key belongs, a hairbrush is found after their departure. On this brush is a blood-smear, corresponding to a scar on the right thumb found in the churn. And that, when you come to examine it, is a most extraordinary sequence.”

“I'm well aware of that. What I want to know is whether it is a false trail or a true one.”

“That's just the puzzle. So far, we have every reason to believe that the murderer has been trailing red herrings all over the country. Is this one of them? If so, the murderer must have known the whole history of the key, and of the visit of Mr. and Mrs. Smith to the hotel. He must also have known that Mr. Smith had left a hairbrush behind and had cut his hand in exactly the same place as his victim. It seems to me that the only way in which he could have known all this was if he had been Mr. Smith himself; and that is surely a reductio ad absurdum.”

“A what?”Arnold asked.

“A conclusion so obviously absurd as to be untenable. If the murderer had posed as Mr. Smith he would not have thrown in a clue which must inevitably lead to him. It would be far too dangerous, and not at all in keeping with his other dodges. On the other hand, it is incredible that he should have found the key by chance, without any knowledge of where it came from or what it would lead to. I'm prepared to make almost any allowance for coincidence, but I don't think this allowance can be stretched to cover the bloodstain.”

“You can't get away from the facts, all the same,” said Arnold stubbornly.

“I'm trying to get inside them, not away from them. The only possible explanation that I can see is this: That key was deliberately put in the churn to lead you to Scarborough, and, possibly, even to the hairbrush. And, if that explanation is correct, it was not included in the collection by the murderer, but by somebody else.”

It was Arnold's turn to frown. “That's adding another complication, surely,” he said. “It means that somebody besides the murderer knew of the crime. If so, that person is an accessory, either before or after the fact. What interest would he have in giving away a clue?”

“I can imagine circumstances in which it would be to his interest. Accomplices have, before now, sought means of revealing the crime without danger to themselves. They have had their own reasons for wishing the principal out of the way. This may be one of the cases. And, if it is, we know something about the accomplice in question.”

“You're a lot ahead of me,” Arnold objected. “What do we know?”

“I implied just now that the only person who could know the history of the key, and the chain of events which it would reveal, was Mr. Smith. But that is not quite correct. One other person possesses, or may reasonably possess, that knowledge. And that is the lady known as Mrs. John Smith, who possesses a dressing-case with the initials O.M.N. That observant and rather prying chambermaid scored a hit there.”

“You mean to say that this woman was an accomplice to the crime, and put the key in the churn as a clue to its discovery?”

“I can see no other possible explanation, at the moment. If it is the correct one, let us try to read the clue. It can only have been meant as an indication that Mr. Smith had some connection with the crime. In fact, I think we may say that there is a probability that he was either the murderer or the victim. Which?

“We mustn't jump to conclusions. He had dark hair, and he had cut his hand in the same place as the dead man. But lots of people have dark hair, and it's easy enough to cut one's hand while cleaning a safety-razor blade. I've done it myself. The cut may even have been deliberate, to create a resemblance. We can't tell whether Mr. Smith was the murderer or the victim. But I think it would be a step in the right direction to discover his identity. You can start with the probability that his true initials are, or were, T.W.F.”

“Another item for the reporters, then,” Arnold replied. “I will give them the Scarborough story, and they can do what they like with it. Some newspaper reader may have a friend with the initials T.W.F. who was missing from his usual haunts on January 25th.”

“Don't do that, whatever you do. Taking the public into your confidence is an excellent plan on some occasions, but it is a measure to be used with discretion. Don't you see that the murderer is watching the case with as much interest as anybody? If you divulge the story of the key you'll give away to him the accomplice, and then you'll probably have another murder on your hands. I should keep this last development as quiet as possible. In fact, I would let it leak out that the key has led to nothing. It is one of the first principles of war to inspire your enemy with a sense of security.”

“Then how do you suggest the identity of Smith, or T.W.F., or whoever he is?”

“You've got that hairbrush. It's fairly new, you say. It has initials engraved on the silver. somebody must have engraved them, and, since the brush is new, fairly recently, I'd make a census of all the shops in London that sell that kind of thing, and send each of them a letter, describing the brush and the initials, and asking if they have any records. It sounds tedious, but I think it is the best way.”

“Detective work is usually tedious,” Arnold replied. “It's all spade-work, and it's very rarely that one turns up a potato. Yes, I think you're right about keeping quiet over the hairbrush. What about the woman with the dressing-case? I might try to trace the sale of that, too.”

“You can, if you like. But I should go pretty canny about that woman. If she really laid that clue for you, she can be considered as to some extent on your side. You don't want to run the risk, either, of frightening her or of giving her away to the principal murderer. I'd keep her in reserve, as it were, and only try to find her as a last resort. She may drop another clue your way, if you don't alarm her. There's no knowing.”

“What part do you think she played in the affair?”

“I don't know yet, and we've done quite enough guess-work for one evening. But I'll bet you that the victim's name begins with either an F or a N. Will you take it on?”

Arnold shook his head. “I'm making no bets,” he replied. “It's worse than guess-work. Well, I'll be getting along. I want to look in at the Yard before I go home.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

WHEN Arnold left Yonderhill he brought with him his collection of objects, which he had handed over to a handwriting expert. To this had now been added the page from the visitors' book of the Hotel Magnificent. It was to obtain the report which he had been promised that he revisited Scotland Yard that evening.

He found it awaiting him. The opinion of the expert was that the address on the slip of paper, the initials scratched on the spectacles, and those marked on the neck-band of the vest were all the work of the same hand. “There are, however, no characteristics in common between this hand and, that of the entry in the visitors' book. It is a fortunate circumstance, for purposes of comparison, that the capitals of this entry, M, M, J, S, and L are all in block letters. Two of these letters—the S and L—are common to the initials already mentioned, and to the address on the slip of paper. But there is no similarity between the two cases. The block S and L in the visitors' book have been formed in an entirely different way from those in the initials and the address. In my opinion, it can be stated definitely that the entry in the book is by an entirely different hand. This entry was made by a man possibly suffering from some slight emotion and unaccustomed to writing the name Smith. It is a well-known fact that where a name is habitually employed as a signature, the letters composing it tend to have what may be termed a personal distortion. Many people who write legibly have an almost illegible signature, due to this distortion of the letters when employed in this particular combination. In the case of the entry, there is no sign of such distortion. The letters are properly, though perhaps hastily, formed.”

As Arnold went home he considered the significance of this report, in the light of Merrion's theories. In the first place, it confirmed the hotel manager's suspicions. The name of the couple who had occupied room 253 was almost certainly not Smith, whatever it may have been. Appearances suggested that they had no name in common, that “Mr. &Mrs. J. Smith ” had been adopted as a convenient camouflage. Whether this had been done merely to conceal some immoral purpose, or for some more sinister reason, there was at present no means of telling.

Again, Merrion was of the opinion that “Mr. Smith ” was either the murderer or the victim, and his argument in favour of that opinion was certainly alluring. Accepting this, and the conclusions of the report, a logical deduction followed. The murderer, apparently, had written the initials and the address on the slip of paper.

But these had not been written by “Mr. Smith.” Therefore “Mr. Smith" was not the murderer, but the victim. And, after all, the dark hairs and the stain on the brush seemed to suggest this deduction.

Very slender clues on which to build up a convincing theory, perhaps. But Arnold knew by experience that, in such a case as this, even the slenderest of clues could not be disregarded. It was not wise to hang too great a weight upon any one of them singly, for it might snap under the strain. But, laid carefully together, like the strands of rope, they might prove capable of resisting a considerable pull. The drop of a human body from the scaffold, even.

He returned to Scotland Yard early next morning in order to deal with the mass of correspondence which had resulted from his policy of taking the public into his confidence. There were letters from all over the country, describing objects totally unlike those in his possession. The carving knife in particular seemed to have captured the popular imagination. There were letters describing carving knives that had been lost, that had been stolen, that had disappeared in every imaginable way. There were others, mostly anonymous, which hinted of neighbours who had been heard sharpening something at dead of night. There were even communications from crystal-gazers, who offered to see in their crystals the features of the wielder of the knife, if they were allowed to hold the instrument in their hands. One sportsman, who described himself as a Magnetic Philosopher, had an infallible means for discovering the murderer's name.

His method certainly possessed the virtue of simplicity. He was prepared to supply a metal plate, “sympathetically magnetised” by a process of which only he knew this secret. On this plate, the letters of the alphabet were to be inscribed in a circle. The knife was to be suspended by a thread in a horizontal position over this circle. It was then to be spun and allowed to come to rest. The letter to which it pointed would be the first of the murderer's name. By repeating the process, the name would be spelt out. And all for a fee of a hundred guineas, payable before the experiment commenced.

As Arnold proceeded with the sorting of his correspondence he came to a brief communication, dated the previous day. It was from the secretary of the Mayfair Hospital for Children, and contained an intimation to the effect that if Inspector Arnold would make it convenient to call upon the writer he might find it to his advantage.

When Arnold had run through the rest of his letters, none of which seemed very promising, he called upon the secretary of the Hospital, an active alert-looking man with a breezy manner. “I hope I haven't brought you here on a fool's errand. Inspector,” he said. “Sit down and I'll tell you what made me write to you. You'll understand that the most important part of my job is to secure funds. We send out appeals, and that sort of thing, and, as a result, we get a certain number of donations; not as many as we want, I'm sorry to say.

“These donations come in all forms, and are sometimes anonymous. A few days ago my clerk, whose business it is to open the letters, found an envelope with nothing inside it but a five-shilling postal order. That has often happened before. People see our appeals, I suppose, buy a postal order on the spur of the moment and send it off to us without enclosing their names and addresses. Since, as I say, there was nothing unusual in the incident, my clerk did not think of examining the envelope. It was thrown away with the rest of the day's batch, which has unfortunately been burnt.”

Arnold wondered what all this was leading up to. “Was there anything unusual about the postal order?” he asked.

“Not at first sight. My clerk laid it aside with a number of other small donations. But, later when he came to examine it, he found certain peculiarities connected with it. I have it here, and will show it to you.”

From a pigeon-hole of his desk the secretary produced a five-shilling postal order and gave it to Arnold. The front of it was perfectly normal, except that neither the name of the payee or the office of payment had been filled in. The stamp showed the issuing office to have been Southampton. The order was not crossed, the buyer had apparently made no mark upon it whatever.

The secretary laughed. “Nothing extraordinary there, is there?” he said. “Now, turn it over.”

Arnold did so, and immediately his face lighted up. On the back of the order were pasted four fragments of paper. Three of these appeared to have been cut from the headlines of a newspaper with a pair of nail-scissors. Each of them bore a printed letter, and they had been arranged in the order A.L.S. The fourth piece of paper was of considerably thicker texture and of triangular shape. It was also very much larger than the other three. On it was embossed in raised letters, “Utopia Hotel, S.W.1.”

“People do queer things,” said the secretary. “They have been known to scribble names or initials on the backs of postal orders, with or without an address. When they do, we do our best to send them an acknowledgment. My clerk is a very methodical person, who doesn't find time to read the newspapers. She made out the usual form of acknowledgment and brought it to me to sign. It was addressed to ' A.L.S., Utopia Hotel, S.W.1.' In the ordinary way, I should have signed it and it would have been sent off. But the initials happened to catch my eye. I do read the papers, and I have been greatly interested in that affair at Yonderhill. The coincidence of the initials struck me at once, and I communicated with you. Of course, there may be nothing in it.”

“On the other hand, there may be a lot in it,” Arnold replied. “I'm very grateful to you for taking the trouble. You'll let me have this postal order, perhaps?”

“I hate to part with it,” replied the secretary reluctantly. “Five bob is five bob these hard times; and heaven knows we want every penny we can get.”

Arnold smiled. “How would it be if I gave you a ten-shilling note for it?” he said.

“That would be very generous of you,” the secretary replied. A few minutes later Arnold left the hospital with the postal order in his pocket.

He had an appointment to lunch with Merrion, and to him he showed the postal order. “What do you make of that?” he asked. “Coincidence, false clue, or a rare bit of luck?”

“I don't know,” Merrion replied cautiously. “It wants a bit of thinking about. The order was bought at Southampton, I see, on March 17th. That was Saturday last. So that, if this is a clue at all, it is the first which has originated since the discovery of the crime.

“The next thing is the care taken by the sender of the postal order to convey a message without employing handwriting to do so. The letters forming the initials A.L.S. have been cut out of a newspaper, as anybody can see. The other piece of paper looks to me like the point of the flap of an envelope. Hotels often emboss their names on the flaps of their envelopes. And that is just exactly what this is. It has been cut from an envelope which has been through the post. You can just see on the edge a bit of the stamp of the receiving office, in black ink.”

This was plain enough to Arnold, now that it was pointed out to him. “Whether it is part of an envelope, and whether or not that envelope has been through the post, hardly seems to matter,” he said. “The point is that somebody has been at pains to indicate initials and an address without the necessity of writing them.”

“And that somebody was equally careful to write nothing on the front of the order. He or she was taking no risks of a discovery of identity by handwriting. I can't quite make it out, though, of course, the intention is clear enough up to a point.”

“I'm glad you find it so,” Arnold replied. “It's anything but clear to me.”

“Well, I'll explain how I see it. It's rather an ingenious dodge, really. We'll suppose that I want to convey a hint to you, and that it is essential for certain reasons that neither you nor anybody else should be able to find out where the hint came from. Suppose, for instance, that I wanted to let you know where you might pick up information which you wanted.

“I hit upon something which I know will attract your attention, in this case the letters A.L.S. And I link that up with the address which I wish to convey to you. But how am I going to convey these to you? I daren't send them to you in the ordinary way through the post. You will examine the envelope and the postmark and the handwriting. Eventually I hit upon this dodge. I buy a postal order at a busy post-office in a large town, being quite sure that there the officials cannot possibly remember the persons to whom they sell postal orders. I then paste my material on the back of the postal order and send it to a charitable institution, feeling pretty certain that, sooner or later, the information which I want to convey will come to your ears.”

“It's only by a fluke that it did,” said Arnold. “As I told you, if the initials had not caught the eye of the secretary. . . .”

Merrion completed the sentence for him. “An acknowledgment would have been sent to A.L.S. at the Utopia Hotel. Since it is improbable that any one with those initials is staying there, the letter would have attracted attention. And when it became known that the police were making inquiries about these initials they would have been informed. Or, again, when the postal order was cashed, some wide-awake official would probably have spotted them. You would have been bound to have heard of the postal order, one way or another. The intention, as I say, is perfectly clear. But, before following up the clue, it would be worth while considering who sent it, and for what purpose. It can, of course, have only been one of two people.”

“How on earth do you make that out?”Arnold demanded.

“The postal order was bought on Saturday the seventeenth. Since it arrived at the hospital on Monday, it must have been posted that day or the next. But it was not until Sunday morning that you took the reporters into your confidence, and it was not until Monday that the general public was informed of the nature of the articles found in the churn. How, then, did the sender of the postal order know the significance of the initials A.L.S.? They had not been published when the order was posted.”

“Then it must be another attempt at a false clue by the murderer!”Arnold exclaimed.

“Not necessarily—though, of course, that is possible. But you may remember my theory of an accomplice, anxious to throw light on the crime without revealing his own identity. This clue may equally be the work of that accomplice, and, if so, it is worth following up.”

“But an accomplice would know that the initials A.L.S. were merely accidental. According to you, they were merely repeated with the object of confusing the issue, and have no relation to anybody in the case.”

“If I see you walking across a field and want to attract your attention I don't sing out, ' Hallo, Detective-Inspector Arnold.' I give vent to, ' Hi! ' or any such cry. Well, it's the same in this case. The initials A.L.S. correspond to the ejaculation, ' Hi! ' The complete message, as I read it, is something like this: ' Hi! Inspector Arnold. You go along to the Utopia Hotel and see what you can find.' But there are two possibilities: One is that it is yet another dodge of the murderer to set you off after a red herring. The other is that it is a genuine attempt on the part of the accomplice to put you on the right trail. I think, if I were you, I'd risk a possible waste of time and have a look through the visitors' book of the Utopia Hotel, to begin with. It's not far from here. I'll go with you, if you like.”

They walked together to the Utopia Hotel, a new and rather expensive place of a semi-residential nature, near Belgrave Square. At Arnold's request the visitors' book was produced, and he and Merrion proceeded to go through it, working backwards.

Arnold's hopes of finding anything of interest rapidly vanished. In fact, he hardly knew what he was looking for. But Merrion persisted, turning page after page and deciphering every name inscribed upon them. And at last he uttered a low exclamation of triumph. “What about this?” he asked, pointing to an entry dated October 2nd of the previous year.

Arnold looked at the name indicated by Merrion's finger. “Mr. Thomas W. Faithorne, Johannesburg, S.A.” But at first it conveyed nothing to him. “Well?” he asked. “What do we know or care about him?”

“We don't know anything, but we'll very soon find out,” Merrion replied. “Why, man, look at the initials! T.W.F. You haven't forgotten that hairbrush already, surely?”

“By jove!” exclaimed the Inspector. “But the entry is five months old and more.”

“Never mind. Get hold of the manager, and let us hear what he can tell us about this Mr. Faithorne. I really believe that we've struck the trail at last!”

The manager, questioned upon the subject of his visitor, proved most communicative. “Mr. Faithorne?” he said. “Oh, yes. He was with us quite a long time. He came to us last autumn. He told me that he lived in South Africa, but had come to London for four months, combining business with pleasure. He seemed to have plenty of money to spend, and, so far as I could see, there was more pleasure than business about him. A bit of a gay spark, I should say. Still, we were all sorry when he left.”

“When was that?” asked Arnold eagerly.

“I can soon tell you. Yes, here we are. On February the ninth. He sailed on the Hadlow Castle for South Africa next day.”

“Are you sure of that?”

The manager shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I didn't go down to Southampton to see him off. But the shipping company collected his heavy baggage, so presumably he had his ticket. He said good-bye to me on the evening of the ninth, and I rather gathered that he was going to have a last night of it in London. I never saw him again, but he sent round in the morning early for a suit-case he had left here.”

“Can you describe him?”

“There wasn't anything very special about him, so far as I can remember. Quite young, not much over thirty, if at all. Middle-sized, good looking, though rather plump in the face. Darkish hair. Liked to do himself well. I can't tell you much else.”

This description was so strikingly familiar that Arnold was staggered for a moment. Merrion came to his aid. “Did he stay with you continuously from October 2nd until February 9th?” he asked.

“In the sense that he kept his room on all the time, yes. But he used to go away at intervals for a night, or perhaps a couple of nights. I understood that he had friends in this country, and went to stay with them occasionally. The last time he went away was about a fortnight before he left us, I remember.”

By this time Arnold had recovered himself. He asked to be allowed to use the telephone, and sent a message to a subordinate at Scotland Yard to take the hair-brush, which would be found in his desk, and bring it along at once in a taxi. This done, he resumed his questioning of the manager. “Can you tell me if Mr. Faithorne was married?” he asked.

The manager smiled. “I really couldn't say,” be replied. “He certainly did not bring his wife with him here. Judging from what I gathered of his behaviour, I should say that he was not married.”

Very little more was to be learnt of Mr. Faithorne. The manager had no knowledge of the business which had brought him to London, nor did he know the names of any of his friends. To the best of his knowledge, Faithorne had had no visitors during his stay at the hotel. He had, apparently, carried on his business and his pleasure elsewhere.

A sergeant from the Yard arrived with the hairbrush wrapped up in brown paper. Arnold took it from him, without unwrapping it, and asked the manager to send for the chambermaid who had attended to Faithorne's room. When the girl arrived the Inspector handed her the parcel. “I'd like you to open that and tell me if you have ever seen anything like it before,” he said.

The chambermaid stared at the brush for a moment, and then her eyes lit up. “Oh, yes, sir, I've seen this before!” she exclaimed confidently. “It's one of a pair that belonged to the gentleman who used to be in thirty-four. The one that came from South Africa, I mean, and went back there last month. He told me that a lady had given them to him for his birthday.”

Merrion pointed silently to the visitors' book. Against Faithorne's name was written the number 34. “Thanks!” said Arnold. “I needn't trouble you any more just now. I'll borrow the visitors' book, if you don't mind. And you'll probably hear from me again, before very long. Good-afternoon, and many thanks.”

He left the hotel, followed by Merrion and the sergeant. “Call a taxi,” he said to the latter. “I'll give you a lift back to the Yard. Care to come, too, Merrion?”

Merrion nodded, and a few minutes later he and Arnold were seated in the Inspector's room. “Well?” asked the latter provocatively.

“I don't know,” Merrion replied. “It all depends upon who sent that postal order. If it was the accomplice, then this man Faithorne was the victim, or, less probably, the murderer. If it was the murderer who sent it, then he's trying to start a false trail. But you'll have to trace Faithorne, in any case.”

This Arnold proceeded to do, employing all the resources of the Yard for the purpose. The first piece of information was received from the Union-Castle Line. Faithorne had sailed from Capetown, and had arrived at Southampton on October 2nd of the previous year. He had, on January 27th, booked a first-class cabin for his wife and himself from Southampton to Capetown, by the Hadlow Castle, sailing on February the tenth. A quantity of heavy luggage had been collected from the Utopia Hotel on February 7th. But neither Faithorne nor his wife had joined the Hadlow Castle before she sailed. The company had heard nothing of either of them since.

“I'm beginning to understand things a bit now,” said Merrion. “Faithorne's wife, to whom he may or may not have been legally married, was Mrs. J. Smith of Scarborough. What we've got to find out next is why neither of them joined the ship.”

“Faithorne didn't join the ship, for the good reason that he was dead,” Arnold replied. “It seems pretty obvious that he was murdered after leaving the Utopia Hotel for the last time. Probably during the following evening or night.”

“It looks very like it, certainly. But we've got to go very carefully, step by step. We were told that he sent round to the Utopia Hotel for his suitcase on the morning of February tenth. Hadn't we better clear up that point before we go any further?”

Arnold agreed to this, and they paid a second visit to the Utopia. The head porter remembered the incident. A gentleman in a car, which he was driving himself, had called early in the morning—between half-past eight and nine, he thought. He had presented one of Mr. Faithorne's cards, and had asked for his suitcase, explaining that he had arranged to meet Mr. Faithorne at Waterloo before the boat-train left. The case had been put in the car and the gentleman had driven off.

Asked to describe the man and his car, the porter was very vague. It was more than a month ago, and he hadn't noticed particularly. So far as he could remember, the car was a little one, and the gentleman tall and distinguished looking. Might have been a military man. More than that, he really couldn't say.

The Inspector and Merrion returned to the Yard to digest this new piece of information. They found awaiting them the handwriting expert, to whom the visitors' book from the Utopia Hotel had been confided. “I've compared the Faithorne entry with the Smith entry in the book from Scarborough,” he said. “I haven't the slightest hesitation in saying that they were written by the same hand. There are several letters common to both entries, and the formation of them is identical. Perhaps the most striking likeness is between the capital J in Johannesburg and the initial J of J. Smith. I think that you can detect the likeness for yourself. You will notice the curious angularity of formation in both cases.”

There was certainly a striking similarity, visible even to the untrained eye. “Yes, I can see that,” Arnold replied. “Now, you told me that J. Smith was not a familiar name to the writer. What about Thomas W. Faithorne?”

“That is undoubtedly a familiar signature,” replied the other definitely. “It has all the characteristics due to habitual association of the constituent letters. You may take it from me that that is either the man's real name or a signature which he is accustomed to use frequently. It is certainly not a designation assumed for the first time for one particular purpose, as I strongly suspect J. Smith to be.”

The expert departed, and Arnold turned to Merrion. “Well, what now?” he asked.

“Everything tends to identify Faithorne with J. Smith,” Merrion replied. “This is beginning to get interesting. We'll suppose that he didn't collect his suitcase on the morning of the tenth for the same reason that he did not join the Hadlow Castle that day. Now, wait a minute.”

He picked up a pencil and a piece of paper and wrote a few sentences. “What do you make of that?” he asked as he pushed the result over to Arnold.

The Inspector picked up the paper and read as follows: “Churn A is alleged to have disappeared from Hollybud's milk-stand early in February. Faithorne leaves the Utopia Hotel, February 9th. Churn B is believed to have been stolen from Godfrey and Sprot's premises, February 26th. The body is found in a churn, probably A, March 15th.”

“Yes, I see what you mean,” said Arnold. “Churn A disappeared about the same time as Faithorne. I suppose the murderer hit upon it as a suitable receptacle into which to put the body.”

“I think that it is more likely that he secured the churn first and committed the murder later. It seems to me that the crime must have been very carefully planned in advance. But there are a lot more inquiries to be made before we can form any definite theory. We mustn't jump to conclusions, or we shall find ourselves off the trail.”

“I'll start by sending a cable to the Johannesburg police, asking them what they know of Faithorne,” Arnold replied.

“Yes, that's a sound idea; but it strikes me that there is a still more urgent line of inquiry to be followed.”

“What's that?”

“The present whereabouts of Mrs. J. Smith, alias Mrs. Faithorne, alias O.M.N.,” Merrion replied. “That is, if she's still alive.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

THERE was something so ominous in Merrion's tone that Arnold paused for a few moments before replying. “You've hinted something of this before,” he said. “Why shouldn't this woman, whoever she is, be still alive?”

“Because she's playing a very risky game,” Merrion replied. “So risky that I shouldn't be in the least surprised to hear that she had met with an accident. I'm supposing, that is, that Faithorne was the victim and not the murderer.”

“You've got a most aggravating habit of talking in riddles,” said Arnold calmly. “Wouldn't it be easier for everybody concerned if you were to tell me, in simple language capable of being understood by an ordinary detective, what it is that you are getting at?”

Merrion laughed. “I'll try,” he replied. “To begin with, I'm assuming that the remains found in the churn were once part of the anatomy of a certain Thomas Walter Faithorne. We must remember that we have as yet no definite proof of this. We can only say that at the moment it seems highly probable.

“Now, what do we know about this Faithorne? Very little, except that he came from South Africa and proposed to return there on February 10th. We also know that while he was in London he stayed at the Utopia Hotel, and that he left there on the afternoon of February 7th. Since that moment we have so far heard nothing of him.

“We do not know the reason of his visit to England, or how he occupied himself while he was here. We do not know what acquaintances he made, though we have reason to suppose that one of them was a lady, of whom we know as little as we do of Faithorne himself. We may also assume, I think, that if he was murdered he had inspired some person or persons with a motive for murdering him. And that is as far as we can go with any approach to certainty.”

“You've forgotten another acquaintance of his,” Arnold remarked. “The distinguished-looking gentleman who called for his suitcase.”

“No, I haven't forgotten him. But he may not have been an acquaintance of very long standing. We'll discuss him in a moment. The first question that arises is: Who killed Faithorne and why? There are dozens of possible answers to that. For instance, one might imagine that he had collected a large sum of money in anticipation of his return to South Africa, and that the motive of the murder was robbery. But, from the very slight evidence we have, I am far more inclined to think that the motive was the lady.”

“I should be glad to have your reasons for that,” said Arnold.

“I'll try to explain them. Let's consider this lady for a moment. Of course, there may have been more than one. It does not necessarily follow that Mrs. J. Smith of Scarborough was the same person as Faithorne booked a passage for as Mrs. Faithorne. But it seems reasonable to assume that she was the same, and that her initials were those observed on the dressing-case, O.M.N. We've got to make certain assumptions. Let's assume the existence of a single person and refer to her as O.M.N.

“Now, what has become of her? Faithorne was to have embarked on the Hadlow Castle on February 10th. He didn't, because, as we believe, he had the misfortune to be murdered before he could do so. But what about O.M.N.? Why didn't she turn up on board ship? Had she been murdered, too? If not, why didn't she raise a hue and cry when Faithorne didn't turn up at whatever rendezvous they had arranged? Tell me that!”

“I think I see what you are getting at,” Arnold replied. “One answer would be that she had murdered him. But that won't do, in this case. Women don't chop up the bodies of their victims with axes and put the debris in milk-churns. Unless, of course, she had a confederate in the shape of the hairy man with the barrow.”

Merrion shook his head. “I don't think so,” he said. “There's yet another explanation. O.M.N., before the time when she was to have met Faithorne, knew or guessed that he had been murdered, but did not dare to say so.

“I can imagine a theory that fits in with such clues as we have. Faithorne, during his stay in London, meets a married woman, and a mutual fascination ensues. He stays with her at the Hotel Magnificent. He arranges to bolt with her to South Africa. All arrangements are made to carry out this scheme. But, unfortunately, the husband tumbles to it and takes effective steps to nip it in the bud. He murders Faithorne and threatens his wife that if she kicks up a fuss about it he'll murder her, too. I'm putting the matter as simply as I can. In all probability there was a web of psychological reaction that we know nothing about.

“This would explain the apparent silence of O.M.N. I say apparent, because I believe that she has thrown out such hints as she dared. She, in fact, is my imaginary accomplice, an accomplice after the fact through compulsion. Her husband has watched her too closely to allow her to communicate directly with the police. Even if she had the opportunity, she would not dare to use it. Before the police could take action she would be a dead woman. But she has done her best. She contrived that the hotel key should be dropped into the churn, and she sent that most instructive postal order to the hospital. If that is so, she was alive as recently as last Saturday. But where is she now—alive or dead?”

Arnold slowly filled his pipe. “That's a very pretty theory,” he said. “I'll go so far as to say that there may be something in it. But an even more pressing question, from my point of view, is this: Where's the husband?”

“Find one, and you'll find the other. And that's just the difficulty. Any attempt to trace O.M.N. would probably be fatal to her. Even letting it be known that you had discovered the identity of Faithorne might be dangerous. You'll have to go very cautiously. If I were you, I should begin by making cautious inquiries among the banks. He probably opened an account in London while he was over here, and that might tell you something.

“Meanwhile, the outraged husband, whom my theory supposes to be the murderer—what do we know of him? Practically nothing. If O.M.N. was his wife, his surname begins with N., which isn't very much to go upon. Also, no doubt, he was the hairy man with the barrow. But I wouldn't circulate that description if I were you. It would be misleading. That elaborate hairiness and assumption of a foreign nationality were, of course, a disguise. The real personality, no doubt, is the distinguished-looking gentleman who called for the suit-case. And that might apply to quite a number of people. In fact, I think you will have to mark time for a bit until you have learnt something more about Faithorne and his affairs.”

“What about inserting a notice in the papers that the police would like to get into touch with anybody who knew him while he was in London?”

“I wouldn't, except as a last resort. Apart from the danger to O.M.N., you would be exposing your hand to the murderer. He doesn't know yet that you have discovered the identity of his victim. Let him remain in ignorance as long as you can. This is going to be a difficult game, and you'll be well advised to play it slowly. I can't sit beside you all the time, for I've got other things to do. I must get home this evening, for instance. But I'll come up here again, if you want my valuable advice, at any time.”

“Thanks,” replied Arnold. “Your advice is valuable, but your imagination is even more so. I'll bear that theory of yours in mind. And, meanwhile, I'll try to find out more about Faithorne.”

On the following Tuesday, March 27th, Merrion received a telegraphic summons from Arnold, and that afternoon he was once more closeted with him at Scotland Yard.

“Well, I've found out something more about Faithorne,” said the Inspector. “I've been in communication with the police at Johannesburg. Faithorne was a partner in a big firm out there, who carry on the business of importers. He left for England last September on a business trip. The last heard of him was a letter posted in London early in February, saying that he was coming back on the Hadlow Castle. The firm is prosperous, Faithorne was well off, and so far as can be ascertained, his affairs are in perfect order. He was not married, and had the reputation of being a bit of a gay bachelor.”

Merrion nodded. “That confirms the little we already knew,” he said. “Anything else?”

“Yes. I took your tip about the banks and made inquiries. I found that before he sailed from South Africa, Faithorne had made arrangements to open an account with the Springbok Bank in Lombard Street. This account was closed on Thursday, February 8th, when Faithorne drew the balance, a matter of a couple of hundred pounds or so. Presumably he had that money on him when he disappeared.”

“Very likely he did. You've got the numbers of the notes, of course?”

“Yes, but tracing notes is an uncertain job, at the best of times. I was allowed to examine the particulars of the account. It had been opened with a draft on Johannesburg for two thousand pounds, and no further sums were paid in. The cheques drawn were all for cash, in varying quantities, with one exception. That was a cheque for one hundred and fifty pounds, drawn in favour of Messrs. Welton and Banning, on December 5th last. These people I have discovered are a firm of engineers at Reading. They may be able to tell us something.

“One of the clerks at the bank remembered Faithorne perfectly well. In fact, he says that he would recognise him again anywhere, from the peculiar colour of his eyes, which seems to have struck him. I gather that he paints in his spare time, and studies the faces of the people he meets. But, unfortunately, we can't produce this particular face to show him.”

“No. Could he give a more general description?”

“Only a rather vague one. According to him, Faithorne was a young man of medium height, dark, good looking, and promising to be stout as he grew older. But there's just one thing: He had a few words with Faithorne one Saturday morning when he came in to cash a cheque. I was able to trace the transaction, and found that it took place on January 27th. Faithorne happened to mention that he had just come back from Scarborough, where he had had a wonderful time. And as he was counting over the notes which had been given him the clerk happened to notice that he had a small piece of sticking-plaster on the base of his right thumb.”

“Good!” exclaimed Merrion. “Taken in conjunction with the hairbrush, that identifies Faithorne with Mr. J. Smith beyond any possibility of doubt. It is too much to hope that the clerk knew anything about Faithorne's acquaintances in London?”

Arnold shook his head. “I asked him, but he could tell me nothing. Our only chance seems to lie with these people at Reading, and that's a pretty faint one. Faithorne's dealings with them were purely a matter of business, I expect.”

“Never mind, we can't afford to neglect the least promising clue. Have you communicated with these people?”

“Not yet. I thought of going to Reading tomorrow and making inquiries personally. Perhaps you'd like to come with me?”

Merrion agreed to this, and next morning they took a train to Reading. Having made inquiries, they were directed to the works of Messrs. Welton and Banning, where, upon the production of Arnold's card, they were admitted to the presence of the managing director, Mr. Welton.

“Mr. Faithorne?” said the latter. “Yes, we had some dealings with him while he was in London. In fact, we are expecting to hear from him almost every day now.”

“Would you be good enough to tell me the nature of your business with him?”

“Certainly, if you will regard what I tell you as confidential. Mr. Faithorne's firm is an old-established one. Faithorne and Company, of Johannesburg. Mr. Thomas Faithorne, the gentleman who was in London recently, succeeded his father a few years ago. The firm has been a customer of ours for some time, though we had not had the pleasure of meeting any of the principals.

“In the course of last year we developed a special line in medium-sized electrical plants, designed specially for rough service in remote districts overseas. We sent descriptive matter to Faithorne &Co., among other firms, and received from them a notification that Mr. Thomas Faithorne was shortly coming to England, and would pay us a visit.

“Last October we received a letter from Mr. Faithorne, who was then staying at the Utopia Hotel, informing us that he proposed to call upon us at an early date, which he suggested. We replied that this would be entirely suitable, and that is how I first made Mr. Faithorne's acquaintance.”

“You made his acquaintance personally?”Arnold asked.

“I did, most certainly. I showed him over the works when he came down here, and I saw him several times in London subsequently. In fact, I was successful in coming to an agreement with him that his firm should act as our representatives in South Africa. He went so far as to pay us a deposit on one of our new plants, which he wished to use for demonstration purposes, out of his own pocket.”

Arnold nodded rather impatiently. These business details did not interest him. “Can you tell me when you last saw Mr. Faithorne?” he asked.

“I lunched with him two days before he sailed for South Africa. Rather to my annoyance, he had invited a third party, whom I was not exactly overjoyed to meet.”

“A lady?” suggested Arnold eagerly and rather incautiously.

Mr. Welton laughed. “No, I rarely have any objection to meeting ladies,” he replied. “This was a man whose name is probably not unknown to you. Inspector. A certain Harry Cantley.”

Arnold emitted a low whistle of astonishment. “Harry Cantley!” he exclaimed. “The chap that was mixed up in the Messiter frauds?”

“The very same. I told you, I think, that I had previously met Mr. Faithorne on several occasions. In the course of one of our conversations he had mentioned to me that he had met Cantley. I took occasion to warn him, as tactfully as I could, that he was a man with a somewhat damaged reputation. But Mr. Faithorne only laughed. He said that the man amused him, and that he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself.”

The phrase ” capable of taking care of himself ” sounded strange under the circumstances, Merrion thought. He had been listening closely to the conversation, and the name of Harry Cantley was almost as familiar to him as it was to Arnold. It had been very prominently before the public, not long ago, in connection with a series of ingenious swindles which had become know as the Messiter frauds, from the name of the man who had figured as the principal. But there was very little doubt in most people's minds that Cantley had inspired Messiter's schemes, and that only his cunning had enabled him to escape conviction. Clearly, Cantley was a crook, and his connection with Faithorne seemed ominous, to say the least of it.

The same thought was obviously passing through Arnold's mind. “Did you form the impression that any sort of intimacy existed between Mr. Faithorne and Cantley?” he asked.

“I gathered that they saw quite a lot of one another. As you probably know, Cantley is always on the look-out for pigeons to pluck. I shouldn't describe Mr. Faithorne as a pigeon, for he struck me as being particularly shrewd where business matters were concerned. And, of course, a man of his age, finding himself for the first in London with plenty of money to spend...” Mr. Welton completed the sentence with an expressive gesture.

“You mean that he exhibited, shall we say, extravagant tastes?”

“That's it. He was always very smartly and expensively dressed, so much so as to make him look conspicuous. You inquired about a lady just now, so there is no harm in my referring to that side of his character, in the strictest confidence, of course. I gathered, from a hint or two that he let drop, that he had formed an attachment of some kind while he was in England, and that there was some difficulty or other connected with it.”

Arnold caught Merrion's eye. “There often is,” he remarked. “But to return to Cantley. You have been very frank with me, Mr. Welton, and, in return, I will tell you the reason of these inquiries, on the strict understanding that all confidences between us are mutual.”

“You have my word that nothing that is said in this office will go any further,” Mr. Welton replied.

“Thank you. Then I will say this: We have reason to believe that Mr. Faithorne was murdered on the evening before he should have returned to South Africa.”

Whatever Mr. Welton had expected, it had not been this. “Murdered!” he exclaimed. “What a terrible thing! Our preliminary arrangements—but that is purely a personal matter. May I ask how and when he was murdered?”

“That we do not yet know. He did not join the ship which was to have taken him to South Africa, and nothing has been heard of him since he left the Utopia Hotel on the afternoon of February 9th.”

Mr. Welton picked up a diary and consulted it. “It was on the previous day, Thursday the 8th, that I lunched with him and Cantley,” he said gravely. “It may help you if I repeat a conversation which took place between them. Cantley at that time was rushing about the country, trying to interest people in some scheme of his, of which I do not know the details. He was full of a visit which he was to make to see somebody or other, and he was trying to persuade Mr. Faithorne s to meet him once more before he sailed. He told him that if he did not, he would be throwing away a fortune, and all that sort of thing. He kept insisting that he should meet him at Westbury Station the following afternoon.”

“Westbury Station!”Arnold exclaimed. “Do you know why that was fixed as a meeting-place?”

“I didn't pay a great deal of attention to what Cantley was saying. But, so far as I remember, he was going down to somewhere in the West of England that afternoon. Near Exeter, I think it was. I suppose he wanted to interview somebody whom he hoped would put money into one of his schemes. From Exeter, he was going on next day to somewhere in Scotland, to see somebody else. This journey, apparently, involved his passing through Westbury Station, and he told Mr. Faithorne that his train waited there long enough for them to have a few minutes' conversation. ' Long enough for us to settle the matter,' was a phrase I heard him use.”

“Did Mr. Faithorne seem inclined to agree to this rendezvous?”

“I can hardly say. I did not follow the conversation closely. For one thing, it was no affair of mine, and, for another, I was afraid that if I displayed any interest Cantley might try to draw me into his schemes. I don't think that Mr. Faithorne actually promised to go to Westbury next day. My impression is that he agreed conditionally; said that he would go if he could find the time to do so, or something like that.”

“Do you know of any other acquaintances that Mr. Faithorne made while he was in England?”

“Not by name. But I fancy that he met a good many people, in the way of business. He told me when I first met him that he proposed to spend some of his time making the acquaintance of the people with whom his firm did business. Faithorne &Co are ready to sell anything which will yield a profit, from shirt buttons to locomotives. If he interviewed all the people from which his firm bought, he must have met some hundreds of persons, one way and the other. Under what circumstances he met the lady, of course, I cannot say.”

“You have no idea of her name?”

“Not of her surname. But I remember having a cocktail once in a bar with Mr. Faithorne before lunch. I happened to pass him a dish of olives which stood on the counter and asked him to have one. He smiled rather queerly, and said something about the word ' Olive,' having a sentimental meaning for him. It was that same day, later on, after lunch, that he dropped a hint about having met a wonderful woman. But I haven't the slightest idea who she was.”

After some further conversation, Arnold and Merrion took their leave of Mr. Welton and returned to London. But not until they were alone was the name of Harry Cantley mentioned. It was Arnold who introduced it. “Rich young men from overseas are the favourite prey of men of Cantley's type,” he said. “The man's a crook, at the very top of his profession. If you were to look through our files you would learn a heap of things that the world doesn't know about him and we can't prove. Did you ever meet him?”

“I can't say that I did,” Merrion replied. “But I saw his photograph in the papers often enough at the time when the Messiter trial was on.”

“Then you have a rough idea what he looks like. He served in a crack cavalry regiment once, and was cashiered. He is a man of fifty, or thereabouts, now. And to look at him you'd think he was still serving. He looks a model of honour and rectitude, and that's half the secret of his success.”

“What was it the porter at the Utopia Hotel said?”Merrion murmured. “' Tall and distinguished looking, might have been a military gent?”

“Yes, I know, that's the very thing that flashed through my mind as soon as Welton mentioned Cantley's name. I'm beginning to think, my friend, that your theory of the outraged husband is getting a bit tattered. Cantley hasn't got a wife, so far as I know. And, if he had, he wouldn't murder her lover. He'd merely blackmail him.”

“He sounds a cheerful sort of bloke. You think h made away with Faithorne, then?”

“When a man disappears after being heard to make a rendezvous with a notorious crook, my grey matter begins to get busy,” Arnold replied. “I'm far too innocent to be suspicious by nature, but there are times when even little Willie sits up and takes notice.”

Merrion lighted a cigarette and frowned. “I know,” he said thoughtfully. “It's all confoundedly puzzling. Westbury station, of all places! Have we got back to the Exeter time-table and the scrap of paper found in the wallet? That train from Exeter to Glasgow stops for some minutes at Westbury. But, even so, I don't see the connection.”

“Nor do I, yet. But I think it's pretty clear that Faithorne kept the appointment. Half a minute. I'll send for a Great Western time-table, and we'll see what we can make of it.”

When the time-table arrived Arnold handed it to Merrion, who studied it for some time. “It's like this,” he said at last. “The through carriage from Exeter to Glasgow gets to Westbury at 4.58 and leaves again at 5.18. The 3.30 from Paddington gets to Westbury at 5.3. If Faithorne went down by that, he would have had 15 minutes in which to see Cantley. But I know Westbury station airly well. It's a busy place, and I refuse to believe that Faithorne can have been murdered there, to say nothing of being dissected and put in a milk-churn, without somebody's curiosity having been aroused.”

“No. But suppose Cantley left his train and lured Faithorne away from the station to some deserted place, on the pretext of having something extremely confidential to tell him?”

“There's a disused ironworks just outside the station,” said Merrion. “One would only have to walk across the line to get into it. And one could do that without being seen easily enough on a dark evening. But what I can't make out is what possible motive Cantley can have had for murdering Faithorne. From his point of view it would be killing the goose that laid, or at all events might lay, the golden eggs.”

“Don't forget that Faithorne had a large sum of money on him at the time,” said Arnold.

“Two hundred pounds odd. There are plenty of people who would cheerfully commit murder for less than that, I'll admit. But is Cantley one of them? I rather doubt it. His little schemes usually deal in hundreds of thousands, don't they?”

“Yes, they do. But suppose that Cantley was pretty desperate at the moment. These crooks are often in the position of not having a penny to bless themselves with. Two hundred pounds might have tempted him, if so. Or suppose that Faithorne suddenly tumbled to the fact that Cantley's scheme, whatever it may have been, was a swindle, and threatened to expose him? Cantley knew that he couldn't expect to get off a second time, and that his reputation would not stand a fresh exposure. He may have murdered Faithorne as the only say of ensuring his own safety.”

Merrion shook his head. “Faithorne wasn't murdered on the spur of the moment,” he replied. “If ever there was a premeditated crime, this was one. I don't pretend to understand the latest developments, and I can't for the life of me make out where the lady comes in—O.M.N., I mean. O for Olive. Didn't that strike you as significant?”

“I'm not sure that you haven't got that confounded woman on the brain,” said Arnold. “After all, that precious theory of yours is all guess-work. I don't believe that she had a husband at all. She's far more likely to be an accomplice of Cantley's put up to lure Faithorne into his toils.”

Merrion sighed. “This is getting a bit too sensational for me,” he said. “We're getting all the actors in a melodrama. The professional crook with the distinguished manner, and the beautiful adventuress. The only thing that is lacking is the plausible motive.”

“We'll get to the bottom of that when I've had a chat with Cantley,” replied Arnold quickly.

“You know where he is to be found, then?”

Arnold smiled. “We have our reasons for keeping an eye on Harry Cantley,” he replied. “He has quite recently taken an office in Kingsway, under the name of the Moorland Development Trust, of which he holds the majority of the capital. The idea is to float a company for the extraction of motor-fuel from peat, with, no doubt, a large payment in cash to Cantley for his services in promoting it. You say you haven't met him. Would you care to?”

“He sounds as though he might be interesting.”

“Then let's go along, right away, and see what we can make of him.”

CHAPTER NINE

THE offices of the Moorland Development Trust were situated at the top of a building in Kingsway. Arnold and Merrion had some difficulty in locating them, and were hardly impressed by their size or importance. They consisted, in fact, of a single room, in the door of which was the slit of a letter-box, with above it the word “Private “ printed in conspicuous letters.

Arnold chuckled. “Our friend doesn't encourage visitors,” he whispered. “Most of his business is done by correspondence, I expect. A letter from the Moorland Development Trust would be more convincing than an interview with the notorious Cantley. Considering that he and I are such old friends, there is no need for the formality of knocking.”

He grasped the handle and opened the door suddenly, revealing a room bare of furniture, except for a desk and a couple of chairs. Seated at the desk was a man past middle age, with iron-grey hair. His nerves seemed under perfect control, for he took no notice whatever of this sudden interruption. Without a trace of perturbation he completed the word which he was writing, and then looked up, Merrion had a vision of regular and handsome features, of a neatly clipped white moustache, and a pair of steady grey eyes.

Cantley rose politely, and smiled. “Ah, my friend Inspector Arnold!” he exclaimed. “Do you know, that certain lack of ceremony which accompanied your entrance made me expect a familiar face. Your companion, I believe, I have not previously met. Will you introduce us?”

“Never mind about that,” Arnold replied sharply. “I've come here to ask you some questions, and I warn you beforehand that you'd better tell me the truth.”

“My dear man!” exclaimed Cantley reproachfully. “You must know by this time that truthfulness is my principal virtue. You haven't forgotten a recent unfortunate trial, in which I figured as the principal witness, have you? But let's make ourselves comfortable. There are only two chairs, I am afraid. Perhaps you, and your friend who prefers to retain his anonymity, will take them? The edge of the table will serve me adequately as a resting-place.”

Merrion was amazed at the man's audacity and ease of manner. He could fully understand his success as a swindler on a large scale. And he regretted now that Arnold had been so precipitate in visiting him. If his interrogations developed into a duel of wits between himself and Cantley, there was very little doubt which would prove the victor.

Arnold's first question was hardly subtle. “When did you last see Mr. Thomas Faithorne?” he asked bluntly.

Merrion, watching Cantley's eyes, could see that this had given him the clue to the Inspector's visit. His face relaxed, like that of a card-player who has divined the contents of his opponent's hand. But he made no direct answer to the question. “Now, that's curious,” he said. “I wonder what interest you can have in that charming young South African?”

“It's my job to ask questions, not yours,” Arnold replied. “When did you last see him?”

“I had the pleasure of lunching with him two days before he sailed.”

“I see. You were on very friendly terms with him, weren't you?”

Cantley smiled benignly. “As I said just now, Mr. Faithorne is a very charming young man,” he replied. “I met him, quite by chance, soon after his arrival in this country. We got into conversation over a drink, as it happened. He didn't seem to know many people over here, and we drifted into an acquaintanceship. I was rather afraid that he might fall into bad company. As you know well enough, Inspector, there are dozens of crooks prowling about London on the look-out for unattached Faithornes.” And Cantley sighed so lugubriously that Merrion could not restrain a smile.

“You thought he was safer in your hands than in any one else's,” said Arnold. “Did you manage to interest him in this latest swindle of yours?”

Cantley looked shocked. “I don't like to hear you talk like that, Inspector,” he replied. “I can assure you that the Moorland Development Trust is beyond suspicion. Indeed, if you or your friend are looking for an investment which will yield a phenomenal return, I can heartily recommend shares in the company which we are about to float. Think of it! All the millions of peat land now unexploited, producing nothing but heather, and an occasional brace of grouse.”

“Oh, stow it!” exclaimed Arnold impatiently. “I came here to talk about Faithorne, not to listen to your financial allurements. Did you, or did you not, interest him in your schemes?”

“I think I may say that I aroused his interest. Unfortunately he sailed for South Africa before a definite decision was reached upon a proposition which I laid before him. I expect to hear from him, however, by an early mail.”

“You lunched with him two days before he sailed. That would be on Thursday, February 8th. What did you do after that?”

Cantley picked up a diary, and turned the leaves. “Yes, that was the date,” he said. “After lunch, I caught the three-thirty from Paddington, and travelled to Exeter, where I had an appointment with a friend of mine. I stayed at the Grand Hotel that night, I remember.”

“And what did you do next day?”

“I did some business in the morning, and caught an afternoon train. I had a second appointment in Scotland for the week-end, you see.”

Arnold nodded. He seemed quite satisfied with Cantley's replies. His glance wandered round the room, and then suddenly he leant forward and fixed his eyes upon the bland face of the man sitting on the edge of the table. “What happened at Westbury, Cantley?” he asked.

The other assumed a thoughtful and puzzled expression. “Now, I wonder what makes you ask that!” he exclaimed. “Wait a minute, now. Ah, I've got it. You've been talking to the third member of the luncheon party, whose name escapes me for the minute. That's it, isn't it?”

“Answer my questions, instead of trying to evade them,” Arnold replied sternly.

“Oh, I'm not trying to evade them. I'm delighted at the opportunity of trying to help you. What happened at Westbury, you ask? The answer, I regret to say, is that nothing happened.”

“You had expected Mr. Faithorne to meet you?”

“Expect is perhaps too strong a term. I had hopes that he would do so. I had urged the meeting in his own interests, but, no doubt, other engagements intervened, and he failed to keep the appointment.”

“So you went on to Scotland without seeing him?”

“I had no option. My business there was of a very pressing nature, and would admit of no delay. I deeply regretted that Mr. Faithorne had lost the last opportunity of seeing me again before he left the country.”

“You went on to Scotland, did you? Then how is it that, early on Saturday morning, you were in London?”

Cantley shook his head. “Pardon me. Inspector, but you are suffering under some misapprehension,” he said politely. “Early on Saturday morning I reached Glasgow, from which noble city I took the next train to Oban.”

The mention of Oban caused Merrion no surprise. Ever since Cantley had admitted travelling by that particular train from Exeter, he had anticipated Oban as his destination. The clues found in the milk-churn were not so purposeless, after all. But who had placed them there? Was this, once again, the work of that mysterious accomplice?

Arnold's mind was obviously occupied by the same thoughts. “Where did you stay in Oban?” he asked.

“At the Royal Scotland, in George Street. I can highly recommend it, if ever you find yourself that way.”

The Inspector shrugged his shoulders. “You seem to have the remarkable power of being in two places at once,” he said. “How is it that if you were in Scotland on Saturday morning, you were able to fetch Mr. Faithorne's suitcase from the Utopia Hotel?”

Cantley frowned. “I don't understand your game, nor what the object of it is,” he replied. “I know nothing whatever about Mr. Faithorne's suitcase. I can only repeat that I was in Scotland on Saturday. If you doubt my word, you can very easily verify the time of my arrival at the Royal Scotland Hotel, at Oban.”

“When did you return to London?”

“Not until the following Monday, by which time Mr. Faithorne was at sea.”

Arnold looked at him closely. “Don't you know, then, that he never joined the ship?”

Once more Cantley's features assumed a puzzled expression. “Never joined the ship?” he repeated. “Then what became of him? You mean that he's been missing ever since, and that's why you are so interested in him? By jove, Inspector, now that I come to think of it, you're in charge of the milk-churn case. You don't mean to say that the body was that of my unfortunate friend, Mr. Faithorne, do you?”

“I don't fancy that's any news to you,” Arnold growled.

Cantley laughed softly. “I see it all now,” he said. “Faithorne was murdered, and you suspect me of being the criminal. Well, I'm not. I'll be perfectly frank with you. I had hopes of making a few thousand out of him. He had plenty of money, and he wouldn't have missed it. I couldn't possibly derive any advantage from his death, and by it I've lost a very promising chance of making a bit. That in itself ought to be sufficient proof that I know nothing about it. In fact, until this moment I never thought of connecting Faithorne with the milk-churn crime.”

“Well, if you didn't kill him, who did? By your own admission, you were on pretty intimate terms with him. He was last seen walking out of the Utopia Hotel on the Friday afternoon before he should have sailed. Where was he going to then, if not to meet you at Westbury?”

“I can't tell you where he was going, but I could guess. He had a lady friend in London, and he was probably going to say good-bye to her.”

“Who was this lady friend?”

Cantley shook his head. “That I can't tell you. Faithorne knew how to keep his mouth shut when it suited his book to do so. I only know that she existed. He never mentioned her name, or who she was. But I believe he met her at the house of one of the people he did business with over here.”

“Do you know the names of any of those people?”

“Not I. I never talked about his business to Faithorne. My attitude was to be his disinterested friend, always ready to meet him and have a meal or a drink. But I know that he made the acquaintance of several people whom his firm had dealings with, and that in many cases they invited him to the bosom of their families. He was a very charming young man, and, as an additional attraction, he had plenty of money.”

“You never saw him in the company of this woman?”

“Never. He took good care I never should. More than once he hinted that he was going to enjoy her company, and implied that my absence would be more welcome than my presence.”

“Do you know if he ever went to Scarborough?”

“Yes, he went there not very long before he was to have sailed. He told me that it was a business visit, but I formed a pretty shrewd suspicion from his manner that the lady was the business.”

“Did Faithorne make any enemies while he was over here?”

“Not to my knowledge. He wasn't the sort of chap to make enemies. Always free with his money, easy-going, and a very good companion. I can't imagine why anybody should have wanted to murder him. There are plenty of other far more suitable victims knocking about.”

Arnold glanced at Merrion, and rose abruptly. “Well, Cantley, I warn you that I'm going to look pretty closely into your movements,” he said. “I'm going to find out who killed Faithorne, and if the least suspicion falls upon you, heaven help you! You'll find yourself in the dock, and not in the witness-box, this time. Good-afternoon.”

“Better come round to my rooms, and have a chat,” said Merrion, when they had reached the street. “I'm glad I've met Cantley, he's an interesting type. Of course, I wouldn't believe a word he said, until I had proved it. But our interview hasn't got us a lot further, has it?”

Arnold muttered some inaudible reply. They took a taxi to Merrion's rooms, and there, in front of a comfortable fire, Merrion proceeded to air his views.

“I don't think we've struck the trail yet,” he said. “I believe that Cantley was telling the truth just now, as far as lies in him, that is. I always feel a sort of psychological discomfort when a man is deliberately lying, and I didn't have that feeling in the office of the Moorland Development Trust. However, I don't expect my mental processes to impress you.”

“They don't,” replied Arnold curtly. “The man's a crook, and a damned clever one at that.”

“But not necessarily a murderer. The points that impressed me most were his visits to Exeter, and to the hotel in George Street, Oban. These, of course, can be verified. Personally, I don't doubt his statement in that respect. It fits in too closely with the objects found in the churn. So closely, in fact. as to be supremely puzzling.

“You know my theory of the murderer and the accomplice, and I'm going to stick to it. The Exeter time-table, with the train marked in it, and the slip of paper with the address, George Street, Oban, definitely point to Cantley's journey, which was undertaken at the very time that we believe Faithorne to have been murdered. In the course of that journey, Faithorne was to have met Cantley at Westbury. It seems to me quite obvious that the time-table and the scrap of paper were put in the churn to draw attention to that journey, in the same way that the hotel key was put in to lead you to Scarborough.

“Now, if Cantley was the murderer, he most certainly did not put clues in the churn which might lead to him. One alternative is that the accomplice did so. But there is another, which seems to me more probable. It is that the murderer put them in, and that the murderer was not Cantley.”

“That's a bit vague, isn't it?”Arnold remarked.

“Not so vague if you imagine a man with a cunning mind and certain necessary knowledge. Suppose this man knew of Faithorne's association with Cantley, of the latter's projected journey, and of the proposed meeting between them at Westbury. There's nothing extravagant in that. Our friend Welton overheard it all being discussed, and if he knew of Cantley's intentions, there is no reason why others should not have known of them as well, or even better.

“This person, having already decided to murder Faithorne, sees how he may divert suspicion upon Cantley, who is a notorious crook, and, therefore, an excellent scapegoat. He sets out to procure the timetable, and marks the train in it. The scrap of paper is already to his hand, and he writes the Oban address upon it. The trail is thus led towards Cantley, and the rest is left to you. The murderer's reasoning seems to have been this. He had concealed the identity of his victim, as far as was possible, by leaving the head out of the churn. But there was always the chance that that identity would be revealed, as indeed it has been. Inquiries would then be made among Faithorne's associates. The clues in the churn connect Cantley with the murder, and there you are.”

“Yes, there I am,” said Arnold significantly. “The trouble with you, Merrion, is that you are too imaginative. You're so busy looking for the obscure that you don't see the obvious. I prefer to take things at their face value, and to believe that Cantley is our man.”

“Very well. Let's examine the possibilities. Cantley's train stopped at Westbury for twenty minutes. You'll agree, I think, that in that time he can't have killed Faithorne, cut him up, and stuck him in the churn. There is also the fact that he would have had an interested audience. If, then, it can be proved that Cantley was still in the train after Westbury, his innocence is proved.”

Arnold shook his head. “I won't go as far as that,” he replied. “All that would be proved was that Faithorne had not been murdered on Friday evening. And it doesn't follow that he was. We only know that he was last seen alive that afternoon. He may have been murdered some days later.”

“Then what do you suppose became of him meanwhile?”

“I don't know. But I've given your imagination run enough, heaven knows. Suppose you give mine a chance for once. Here's a theory at least as good as any of yours.

“Cantley had a motive for murdering Faithorne. I'll admit that at present we don't know what it was, but we may find out later. He is a man who has plenty of friends in the underworld, and it would be easy enough for him to find a female accomplice. He puts this woman in Faithorne's way, and she plays her part so well that he falls for her.

“On Friday afternoon Faithorne goes to see her, to make final arrangements for their departure for South Africa. She is ready for him, and puts dope in his tea, or something like that. Once successfully doped, she keeps him in that state for a day or two. Cantley having established his alibi, comes back to London, and between him and the woman Faithorne is murdered, cut up and enchurned. How do you like that?”

“I like the word enchurned. Your theory is quite plausible, but it raises some rather difficult questions. Who enchurned the various objects? Not Cantley, I'll swear. The only other person could have been the woman. But, in heaven's name, why? The type of woman you imagine wouldn't be likely to suffer the pangs of remorse. Because she quarrelled with Cantley over the job and wanted to get her own back on him? Pretty risky, for Cantley wouldn't have the slightest compunction in divulging her share of the affair, if his own neck was in danger. And, finally, who was the sportsman who rolled up at the Utopia Hotel on Saturday morning and carried off Faithorne's suitcase?”

“Oh, somebody employed by Cantley, no doubt,” Arnold replied.

“I wonder!” said Merrion reflectively. “That would mean a second person taken into Cantley's confidence. Somehow I don't think he would trust his secret to so wide a circle as all that. Crooks are notoriously suspicious of one another, and he would be afraid of being given away.

“There's another line that might be worth following. Who stole the two churns involved, which we have called A and B? We have assumed, and I think rightly, that he was the murderer. They were both stolen from the neighbourhood of Tolsham, and we know the approximate dates. Was Cantley in the neighbourhood at that time? Again, the hairy man with the barrow, seen at Tolsham on March fourteenth. He might have been Cantley in disguise. Where was Cantley that day? Your people seem to have kept a pretty watchful eye on him. They might be able to answer those questions. And where is Cantley living, by the way? I suppose you know that.”

“Oh, yes, we know that. He had a flat in Wrotham Mansions. The porter there has instructions from us to keep his eye upon him, and report his movements.”

“Then it's only a matter of looking up your records. I'd do that right away if I were you.”

Arnold put a call through, and Cantley's record was brought to him. “It's a lucky thing that we've been keeping him under observation,” he said. “Here are daily notes upon his movements. He doesn't seem to have left London during the first few days of February. Not until the eighth, when he was away until Tuesday the thirteenth. That covers his journey to Exeter and Oban, I suppose. After that he was in London continuously until March seventh, when he was away till the tenth. He doesn't seem to have been away again since.”

“Then it doesn't look as though he could have stolen the churns,” Merrion replied. “Nor could he have deposited the churn with Faithorne's body in it on Hollybud's stand during the night of March fourteenth. And, when you come to think of it, how can a man under police surveillance have carted about a thing like a milk-churn?”

As Arnold was about to reply the telephone bell rang. Merrion went to answer it, and returned shortly. “It's a call from the Yard for you,” he said.

Arnold went to the instrument and listened for a moment or two. “All right, I'll come along and look at it,” he said. And then, turning to Merrion, “An attaché case has just been left with the Lost Property Office, with the initials A.L.S. on it. Since they know that I am interested in those particular initials, they have asked if I should care to see it. Like to come along?”

They took a taxi to the Yard, where the attaché case was awaiting them in the Inspector's room. It was not in any way remarkable to look at, being cheaply made of brown imitation leather. It was apparently new, and the lid bore the initials A.L.S. not properly stamped but roughly painted in green paint. The case was quite small, measuring perhaps twelve inches by eight.

A report from the Lost Property Office accompanied it. It had been deposited by a taxi driver, whose name and the number of whose cab were given. He had been engaged by a. lady at Victoria, and had driven her to Charing Cross. She had a single suitcase with her, which a porter had put inside the cab. She had lifted this suitcase out herself upon arrival at Charing Cross. This had been shortly before one o'clock that afternoon. The driver had then gone to get his dinner, and had not looked inside his cab until he had finished the meal. He had then found the attache case, and had taken it to the Lost Property Office. Although he was quite certain that the lady was not carrying the attache case when she entered the cab, he was equally certain it was not there before she did so.

The attache case was not locked, and Arnold opened it. It was empty, but for a folded copy of The Times of the previous day. In spite of the most careful examination, neither Arnold nor Merrion could find anything else whatever. Until the former picked up the copy of The Times and unfolded it. “Hallo!” he exclaimed. “There's an advertisement here, marked with a cross in indelible pencil.”

He pointed to a paragraph on the front page, in the column headed “Gardening, etc.” The paragraph was as follows: “Buy your azaleas and other flowering plants for house-decoration now. Magnificent selection, choicest varieties. Lists free from Bulger and Sons, Nurserymen, Dorking.”

In addition to the cross against the paragraph, the word ” azaleas “ was underlined, also in indelible pencil.

“The clues of the azaleas!”Merrion murmured. “Well, what about it? This room of yours always looks a bit drab, if you don't mind my saying so. How about buying a nice yellow azalea to brighten it up a bit?”

“I shouldn't know an azalea if I saw one,” replied Arnold irritably. “There's nothing in this. It just happens that somebody else has the initials A.L.S. That's all.”

“I'm not so sure,” said Merrion thoughtfully. “I believe that there's a message for you in that paragraph. But what it is, I'm blest if I can make out.”

CHAPTER TEN

ARNOLD laughed scornfully at his friend's remark. “A message!” he exclaimed. “What the dickens have azaleas and other flowering plants got to do with me? And in any case I'm not concerned with attache cases left behind in taxis by careless women.”

“Wait a bit,” Merrion replied. “Let's look at this affair a little more closely. It strikes me very forcibly that there is a definite object behind it. If so, this woman, whoever she is, is pretty clever. What better method could there be of communicating with the police than by leaving an attache case in a public vehicle? The driver would be bound, sooner or later, to bring it to the Lost Property Office here.

“But that, by itself, would not be sufficient. It would merely be put aside until the owner called for it. It would be necessary to distinguish the case in some way. And that has been done by the very crude painting of the initials A.L.S. upon it. You have so successfully advertised those initials in the newspapers, that anybody wishing to convey a message to you dealing with the affair of the milk-churn could safely use them as a key.”

“That's all very well,” Arnold replied. “But what's the sense in sending a message that nobody can read? Does the sender suppose that I have nothing better to do but scratch my head over puzzles?”

“It all depends who the sender is. We've had a previous example of a message keyed with those initials, and that led us to the discovery of Faithorne's identity. I still stick to my theory of an accomplice who wants the problem to be solved in such a way that she will incur no danger. I say she, because I am convinced that she is the woman, whom we know as O.M.N., and whose Christian name is probably Olive. She does not communicate with you directly, she is probably too closely watched for that. Nor dare she have recourse to anything but the vaguest hints, which would arouse no suspicion if intercepted. We managed to read her last clue. Let's see if we can't manage to read this.”

“You think that the woman who left this in the taxi was O.M.N.?” exclaimed Arnold incredulously.

“I do, and I think she lives somewhere south of London. I think she left home with this attache case inside her suitcase, and went by train to Victoria. In the taxi, she took out the attache case, and deliberately left it behind, feeling sure that it would reach you eventually, as she felt sure that the postal order would reach you. Then she went home from Charing Cross. It would be interesting, and perhaps instructive, to compile a list of places which can be reached from either Charing Cross or Victoria, by changing somewhere. You would find that there are quite a lot.”

“It would be simpler to ask the railway company. But so obvious a method would hardly occur to you. Perhaps you will explain, if this is a message, what it is all about?”

“I think we might guess that. O.M.N. sent the postal order in order to guide you to the Utopia Hotel, and so to the identity of Faithorne. I'll go so far as to say that she put the key in the churn as a first step. But she doesn't know that her hints have succeeded in their object. You haven't yet revealed the fact to the newspapers that you know the owner of the body. This is probably another attempt to convey that information. But how it does so I don't yet see.”

“Perhaps an azalea was Faithorne's favourite flower,” suggested Arnold mockingly.

“It's all very well for you to laugh, but I have a feeling that there is something pretty vital in this. The word azalea is some sort of clue, I'd stake my life on that. Perhaps Faithorne had some dealings with Bulger and Sons in the matter of azaleas while he was alive. Dorking isn't far, and it wouldn't take long to run down and see them.”

“I'm not going this evening,” Arnold replied firmly. “If nothing urgent turns up to-morrow morning I don't mind running down. But I'm pretty sure that it will turn out to be a waste of time.”

Apparently nothing of great urgency did turn up, for next morning when Merrion rang him up, Arnold agreed to the journey. They travelled to Dorking together, and inquired their way to the nurseries of Bulger and Sons.

There was no mistaking the place as they approached it. A long glass-house, filled with azaleas of almost every colour, was a fitting testimony to the truth of the advertisement. Arnold inquired for Mr. Bulger, who appeared in his shirt sleeves, with a bundle of raffia in his hand. He seemed duly impressed by a visit from an official of Scotland Yard, but had no information to give.

“Faithorne?” he said. “No, I've never heard the name, that I can remember. He's not one of my customers, anyhow. I can assure you of that.”

Arnold glanced expressively at Merrion, as though to reproach him for their fruitless journey. But Merrion was not to be daunted. He engaged Mr. Bulger in an animated conversation upon azaleas and their culture, regardless of the obvious impatience displayed by the Inspector. Finally, he asked to be allowed to inspect the collection. Mr. Bulger, nothing loath, took him into the glass-house, Arnold, grumbling audibly, followed them.

The nurseryman walked the length of the house with Merrion, demonstrating the beauties of his finest varieties. They reached the farther end, and were about to turn back, when Merrion noticed two plants, growing like the rest in twelve-inch pots, but set slightly apart. They were obviously inferior specimens, and one of them in particular was by no means nourishing. Indeed, it seemed to Merrion to be dying.

Mr. Bulger saw the direction of Merrion's glance, and hastened to explain. “They aren't mine,” he said. “I wouldn't trouble to give them house-room if they were. But they were left with me by a gentleman to take care of, and he seems to value them. There's something wrong with the one you're looking at. It's grown in the wrong compost, I expect. But the gentleman particularly asked me not to re-pot them. He'll be coming for them any day now, and then he can do what he likes about it.”

“Are you often asked to look after other people's plants?” asked Merrion idly.

“It does happen, once in a way, especially with my own customers. But I didn't know this gentleman. He drove up in a car one day, the Friday before last, it was, with these two plants, and asked me if I would look after them for a few days. He said his own greenhouse was being painted inside, and as the plants were valuable he didn't want them to come to any harm. Valuable! Why, the pots they're in are worth more than they are.”

“The gentleman gave you his name, of course?”

“He gave me his card, and I remember thinking at the time that I had heard the name before, somewhere. What did I do with that card, now? I believe I put it in my pocket. Yes, here it is.”

He produced a very much soiled visiting-card and handed it to Merrion. Upon it was engraved “Mr. Harry Cantley.”

By this time Arnold had abandoned any attempt to simulate interest in the proceedings. He had lighted his pipe, and was staring malignantly at Mr. Bulger's really magnificent collection of plants. Merrion beckoned to him, and, as he sauntered up, “Did you know that your friend Cantley grew azaleas?” he asked.

The question effectually roused Arnold from his lethargy. “Eh, what's that?” he replied.

“These two azaleas were left by him in Mr. Bulger's care. Perhaps you will repeat to the Inspector what you have just told me, Mr. Bulger?”

The nurseryman complied, and Arnold listened to him in amazement. He took the card, and turned it over in his fingers. “Did Mr. Cantley give you any address?” he asked.

“He said that he lived near Guildford, and would come and fetch the plants when his greenhouse was finished and ready for them.”

“Would you know him again if you saw him?”

“No difficulty about that. He's not the sort of gentleman you'd be likely to forget. Tall, and with a quantity of black hair all over his face. Beard, whiskers, moustache and everything. I never saw anything like it in all my born days. But then, he's not English, and this may account for it. You could tell that by the way he spoke.”

Merrion smiled. The description was ridiculously familiar. This was undoubtedly the man with the barrow, who had deposited the churn on Hollybud's milk stand. He seemed to have a mania for leaving things about. But why on earth had he left the azaleas with Mr. Bulger?

“How did he come here?” asked Arnold.

“In a big saloon car, which he drove himself. There was nobody else with him, and he had the two pots in the car behind. He lifted them out, and insisted on carrying them into the glass-house himself. He seemed to think that they were very valuable plants, and it wasn't for me to contradict him. I don't know what he'll say when he finds that one of them is dying. But that's not my fault. It's had just the same attention as my own.”

“I'm sure it's not your fault,” said Arnold. “You say that you think you've heard Mr. Cantley's name before. You read it in the papers, perhaps?”

“That may be it,” replied Mr. Bulger cautiously. “But I can't remember what there was about him.”

“Perhaps I can jog your memory. Did you read about the Messiter frauds case?”

Mr. Bulger's face darkened. “Ah, that was it, to be sure!” he exclaimed. “Cantley was the witness that the judge was so sharp with. Told him he was lucky not to be in the dock himself, if I remember right If I'd remembered that at the time, I'd have told him to take his blasted plants somewhere else.”

“I'm very glad that you didn't, Mr. Bulger. But I'm prepared to relieve you of all further responsibility for them. If you'll let me use your telephone, I'll get through to Scotland Yard, and tell them to send a car down and fetch them.”

Mr. Bulger agreed readily enough to this suggestion. Arnold and Merrion went away to refresh themselves with bread and cheese and beer, and by the time they returned to Mr. Bulger's establishment, the police car had arrived. The plants were put in it, Arnold and Merrion took their seats, and they drove off.

“Well, you were quite right,” said Arnold. “That marked advertisement was a message. But I confess that I don't yet tumble to Cantley's game.”

“Whoever played the game, it wasn't Cantley,” Merrion replied. “In fact, I think this incident definitely puts Cantley outside the affair. Just think for a moment. If it was Cantley who brought the azaleas to Mr. Bulger, he was most effectively disguised. And, when people take the trouble to disguise themselves, they don't undo the good work by presenting their own visiting-cards.”

“There's something in that,” said Arnold. “The Friday before last, Bulger said. That was the sixteenth, the day after the body was found in the churn.”

“And two days after a man, exactly conforming to Bulger's description, was seen wheeling a barrow through Tolsham. You remember my suggestion that the barrow might have been carried in a large car? What we have just heard seems to confirm that possibility.”

“Yes, but it doesn't help us to trace the man's identity,” Arnold growled. And on that note of pessimism the conversation came to an end.

Nor was it resumed until the two plants had been safely deposited upon the table in the Inspector's room at Scotland Yard. Merrion looked at them admiringly. “I was quite right, after all, you see,” he said. “It's wonderful how a few flowers brighten up a room like this. Don't you see that for yourself?”

“They take up an infernal lot of room,” replied Arnold ungraciously. “What are we going to do with them, now that we've got them here?”

“The first thing I should suggest is a little horticultural examination. It would be interesting to know why one of the azaleas is obviously dying, in spite of all Mr. Bulger's care. I expect he's right, and that there's something the matter with the potting soil.”

“I'm no gardener,” Arnold objected. “Besides, what does it matter?”

“I'm not an expert horticulturist myself,” Merrion replied. “But one picks up bits of knowledge here and there, living m the country as I do. For instance, I happen to know that azaleas want a lot of peat, if they are to be grown properly. Shall we see what sort of soil this one has been potted up in?”

“All right,” Arnold replied. “I suppose it's all part of the puzzle. How do we set about it?”

“The best way will to cover the floor with newspaper, and tip the top out on it.”

Under Merrion's direction, Arnold spread the newspaper. Then, between them, they inverted the pot in which was the drooping azalea, and tapped the edge of it upon the table, thus loosening the soil, which came away in a solid lump, plant, roots and all. They put the pot aside, and turned their attention to this.

“Smells a bit queer,” said Merrion doubtfully. “Rather like disinfectant, and something else. And I don't see any peat. This compost appears to be mostly clay. I don't think the hairy gentleman knew so much about growing azaleas as he pretended. Let's break up that mass of soil and expose the roots.”

Merrion knelt down and began to break away the edges of the mass with his fingers. Suddenly he desisted, and rose hastily to his feet. “I think you'd better carry on, if you don't mind,” he said.

The Inspector glanced at him in astonishment. “Why, what's the matter?” he exclaimed. “Are you all right? You look very queer, all of a sudden.”

“Yes, I'm all right,” Merrion replied. “Just a sudden weakness, that's all. Go ahead.”

Arnold knelt down in his turn. But his handling was less deft than Merrion's. He broke off a large piece of clay, and then froze into immobility, appalled at what lay beneath it. Then, feverishly, but in profound silence, he disintegrated the lump still further, until only the core, hard and unyielding, remained.

There was no doubt about the nature of this core. Although as yet covered with clay and unrecognisable, it bore the unmistakable outline of a human head.

Arnold turned to Merrion. “You expected this?” he asked.

“Something of the kind. I'd leave it as it is for the moment, if I were you. This is more of a job for your pathologist friend than for us.”

So the head was covered up with newspaper, and a message sent to the pathologist. While they were awaiting his arrival. Merrion and Arnold proceeded to examine the pot which held the second azalea. This proved to be perfectly normal. The compost it contained was a mixture of peat and sand, in which nothing unusual was to be found. By the time they had finished sifting it through their fingers, the pathologist arrived.

He asked for a bucket and some warm water, and set to work upon the head. “It is in a remarkably good state of preservation,” he said. “Very little putrefaction has set in. It appears that some preservative has been mixed with the clay, which being tightly packed round the head, has assisted by excluding the air. The hair is dark, I see.”

“You will be able to compare it with the hairs found in the brush you examined a few days ago?”Arnold asked.

“Yes, I shall be able to do that. Ah, now I think I have got it clean! I expect you would like to have a look at it.”

He put the head on the table, and the three gazed at it eagerly. It was that of a comparatively young man, with dark hair and good-looking, regular features. The eyes still retained a curious violet tinge. Neither Arnold nor Merrion had any doubt that it was the head of the unfortunate Faithorne.

The pathologist picked up the head and began to examine it carefully. “It seems to have been severed from the body with a single stroke,” he said. “The dismemberment recalls that of the body found in the milk-churn. The head was undoubtedly severed from the body after death. Ah, here is another very significant point. The skull is fractured, right across the back. That is an injury which, if inflicted during life, would certainly be fatal.”

“Can you state definitely that it was the cause of the man's death?”Arnold asked.

The pathologist laughed. “Not on the evidence of the head alone,” he replied. “How can I tell that before it became detached from the body a knife had not been stuck through the heart, for example?”

“Quite right,” said Arnold. “That's the very question I want answered. Is there any way of proving that this head belonged to the body found in the churn?”

“There are certain methods of scientific comparison which should put the matter beyond any reasonable doubt. I will adopt those methods, and let you have a report later. I can at present see no reason why it should not be so: In that case, upon preliminary observation, I should think that the blow on the back of the skull was the actual cause of death, and that the stabbing occurred immediately afterwards. The fracture of the skull suggests to me that the deceased received a violent blow from some heavy but yielding weapon, such as a sand-bag. He was then stabbed, in order to drain the body of blood and finally dismembered.”

“Before you carry off the head, I want to get an independent identification,” said Arnold. He sent an urgent message to the Springbok Bank, requesting the immediate attendance of the clerk who had known Faithorne. Upon his arrival, he was shown the head and identified it unhesitatingly. This identification was later confirmed by the manager of the Utopia Hotel. By the end of the day, the pathologist was-able to render his report, which appeared to the Inspector to be an incomprehensible mass of technicalities.

“It comes to this,” the pathologist explained. “It is a practical certainty that this head, and the dismembered body found in the churn, belonged to the same person. Further, the hair from the head corresponds exactly with the hair which I extracted from the brush. You can accept these two facts without the slightest misgiving.”

Merrion was present when this report was made, and, after the pathologist's departure, he nodded his head with satisfaction. “This case originally consisted of two problems,” he said. “The first was to discover the identity of the victim, and the second to discover that of the criminal. The first problem is solved, but we have not made much progress towards the solution of the second. And I think we must recognise that we should not have solved the first without outside assistance.”

“What exactly do you mean by that?”Arnold asked.

“Without the successive clues of the key, the postal order, and the azalea,” Merrion replied. “I am more than ever convinced that these were supplied deliberately by some person who was anxious that this first problem should be solved. Whether she is equally anxious that the second should be solved is another matter.”

“You still think that it was O.M.N. who supplied these clues?”

“I do, and I am rather comforted by the knowledge that she was still alive as recently as yesterday. She's playing a very dangerous game, and the maddening thing about it is that we can't help her, except by discovering the criminal. And to his identity we have got precious few, if any, clues.

“Let's see if we can make out a brief statement of what we do know. Thomas Faithorne, a wealthy and attractive young man, comes to London with the intention of combining business with pleasure. He puts up at the Utopia Hotel, and makes the acquaintance of several people, among them the not very reputable Cantley. Among these people is a lady, known to us as O.M.N., with whom he spends a night at Scarborough on January twenty-fifth. Faithorne walks out of the hotel on the afternoon of February ninth, the day before he should have sailed for South Africa, and is not heard of again.

“There are two points in connection with his departure which must be kept in mind. The first is that he had booked accommodation not only for himself, but for his wife. This strongly suggests that his intention was to take O.M.N. with him. The second is that somebody, who might have been Cantley, but almost certainly wasn't, called at the Utopia Hotel on the morning of February tenth and took away Faithorne's suitcase. In order to achieve his purpose, this man presented Faithorne's card.

“The scene now shifts to the West of England. A milk-churn, which we have called A, is taken from Hollybud's stand at Starvesparrow Farm early in February. A second one, which we have called B, is deliberately stolen from Godfrey and Sprot's landing-stage at Chanterford on February twenty-sixth. A very conspicuous person, whom we have referred to as the man with the barrow, is seen in Tolsham on the afternoon of March fourteenth. An empty churn, which we believe to be B, is found upon Hollybud's stand very shortly afterwards. There is every reason to believe that it was deposited there by the man with the barrow.

“On the morning of March fifteenth this churn has apparently disappeared, and been replaced by a full one, which we believe to be A. Upon being opened, this churn is found to contain several unexpected things, among them a dismembered body, which has at last been satisfactorily identified as that of Faithorne. On March sixteenth, a person who exactly conforms to the description of the man with the barrow deposits two azaleas in pots with Mr. Bulger of Dorking. One of these pots, upon being examined, is found to contain Faithorne's head. Note that the depositor of the azaleas presents Mr. Bulger with Cantley's card. That will do as a brief summary, I think?”

Arnold nodded. “It will do very well,” he said. “But what of it?”

“This. It is pretty evident to me that the man with the barrow is a disguised version of the man who called for Faithorne's suitcase, and that he is the murderer. I can't imagine anybody entrusting anybody else with the disposal of the remains. Now, let's see if we can fathom his scheme a little more deeply.

“In the first place, we must assume that he had a motive for murdering Faithorne. I'm not going to labour the question of what that motive may have been, but I still believe that O.M.N. has something to do with it. I would even hazard a guess that Faithorne's stay with her at Scarborough was the decisive incident. At all events, early in February, which I think we may take to have been before the ninth, the intending murderer stole churn A from Hollybud's stand.

“Now what were his reasons for stealing it? Something like this, I imagine. He had decided to kill Faithorne, and saw how he could contrive an opportunity for so doing. But he was faced with the problem of how to get rid of the body afterwards. The dodge of putting it in a churn and leaving it by the roadside occurred to him. He kept his eyes open, and noticed Hollybud's stand, in a spot secure from observation. One evening he arrived in that big car we heard about, and carried off the empty churn, which he took home, ready for the deed.

“The next step is rather more conjectural, I'm afraid. I believe that Faithorne was murdered soon after he left the Utopia Hotel on February ninth. Your theory that he was kept alive for some time, under the influence of drugs or otherwise, is quite plausible, but I don't see the necessity for such a thing. What I imagined to have happened is this. The murderer made an appointment with him, at some place where churn A was already waiting. He laid in wait for him there, knocked him on the head, and proceeded according to plan. Note, by the way, that he must have had his supply of formalin already prepared. You haven't heard of any chemist who supplied an unusual quantity, I suppose?”

“No, inquiries in that direction have completely failed,” Arnold replied.

“Then perhaps the murderer had access to supplies of the stuff without the necessity of buying it. The next point that occurs to me is this. What did he do with the churn until March fourteenth? He must have known of some place in which to store it, where he was certain it would not be discovered.”

“Why run the risk at all? Why didn't he get rid of the churn at once?”

“Probably because his arrangements were not yet complete. He chose his moment for the murder very well. Faithorne's disappearance would cause no surprise, since he was expected to sail for South Africa. His friends supposed that he had done so, the shipping company, if they thought about the matter at all, supposed that he had merely missed the boat. But the time of the murder may not have suited the criminal's plans for the ultimate disposal of the body.

“Besides, it might have been unwise to risk the discovery of the body too soon. Better let a period elapse, in which Faithorne's visit to London would be forgotten. If the body had been discovered within a day or two, people might have connected it with Faithorne. The shipping company, for instance, might have reported to the police that he had failed to join the Hadlow Castle. The one thing that the murderer wished to ensure was that the identity of his victim should not be discovered.”

“Yes, that seems obvious,” Arnold agreed. “But why was it so important?”

“Because he was afraid that, once the victim was known, suspicion would fall upon himself,” Merrion replied. “And that's the line we've got to work on.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ARNOLD frowned. Merrion's vivid imagination frequently led him into processes of reasoning which were none too clear. “Not a very promising line, is it?” he asked dryly.

“Not at first sight. But let's get the murderer s intentions firmly fixed in our minds. He cut up the body, and put it in the churn with a collection of oddments designed to lead the police off on false trails. Don't forget, however, that one of those trails led to Cantley. That's a point I'll come back to later. The body, he believed could not be identified, nor would it have been but for the hints supplied by O.M.N.

“The head, however, was a different matter. A published photograph of it would be recognised by Faithorne's friends. So he thought out a pretty ingenious scheme for disposing of it. He put it in a flower pot, with a certain amount of preservative, in order to prevent its presence being divulged, and planted the azalea on top of it. Then, the day after he had disposed of the body, he deposited the plant with the unsuspecting Bulger. There, but for the hint sent you yesterday, it would have remained indefinitely. Eventually, I suppose, somebody would have turned the earth out of the pots, but by that time the head would have become entirely unrecognisable.

“It is worth noting that he must have been able to store both a milk-churn and a couple of plants in large pots, without attracting attention. A milk-churn might be kept in a cellar, for instance, but plants want light and air. I think it is highly probable that our murderer possesses a greenhouse or conservatory. It doesn't sound much of a clue, but it may turn out useful.

“His next move was to secure a second churn. His reason for doing so was, I imagine, this. Churn A, with the body in it, had been stored in some place where other people might have seen it, without, of course, examining it. When he removed it, he wished to replace it by another in order not to attract attention by the disappearance of the first.

“To steal a churn from Godfrey and Sprot's landing-stage at night would not be difficult. You will remember that a number of empties are laid out there in the evening, and secured by a chain and a very ordinary padlock. The confidence inspired in some people by even the simplest of padlocks is extraordinary. But you and I know that a skeleton key to fit almost every padlock of a given size is the easiest possible thing to make.

“Equipped with such a key, the murderer drove down to Chanterford in that big car of his. He abstracted churn B, and took it away. This was on February twenty-sixth. His next appearance is as the man with the barrow. He juggled with the churns at Tolsham on March fourteenth, and left the azaleas with Mr. Bulger two days later. His work was done, and he could light another of those big cigars and regard it complacently.”

“But what about the other things found in the churn?” asked Arnold.

“I'm coming to them. The carving-knife and the vest were obviously put in to mislead. You were expected to search for a missing man who was stabbed to death while wearing a much-worn flannel vest, and whose initials were A.L.S. Where did they come from? The carving knife was probably the murderer's own property. He would feel quite safe in throwing that in, for there was no means of tracing it to him. The vest he probably stole from some cottage clothes line, perhaps at the same time as he stole churn A.

“The wallet, I imagine, he already possessed. He bad acquired it at some time, purely by chance, and when he decided to murder Faithorne, he remembered it and saw the use that could be made of it. The initials were his first idea. He copied them on to the vest, and to the spectacle frame, which he also had by him. More red herrings to encourage you on the wrong trail. And then came the great idea of implicating Cantley.

“There can't be the slightest doubt that the timetable and the address on the scrap of paper were intended to call attention to Cantley's journey. Why? Because the murderer knew that Cantley had undertaken that journey, and that there had been a suggestion that Faithorne should meet him en route. And that fact ought to narrow down your field of search, pretty considerably.”

“That fellow Welton whom we saw at Reading, knew of the fact,” Arnold remarked.

“Yes, and so many other people. There are two sources from which they may have gained their information, Cantley and Faithorne. We haven't yet learnt who Faithorne was in touch with during his stay in London.”

“Because you've been so anxious that I shouldn't reveal that we know the identity of the victim,” replied Arnold pointedly. “But now that we have definite confirmation, and the matter is settled beyond any doubt, we can't conceal Faithorne's identity any longer.”

Merrion got up, and began to pace the room thoughtfully. “I know,” he said. “It was bound to come, sooner or later. But I can't help thinking of O.M.N. If the murderer knows that you have found out his victim's identity through her, she stands a pretty poor chance.”

But Arnold swept this objection aside. “You needn't worry about that,” he replied. “Especially if that precious theory of yours is right, that O.M.N. is the murderer's wife. The surest way for him to declare his guilt would be for him to murder her. Don't you see? It's all very well to murder a chap like Faithorne, whose disappearance is expected in any case. But it's a very different thing to murder one's wife. People are so infernally inquisitive. They would be bound to gather round and ask what had become of her.”

Merrion shrugged his shoulders. “Have it your own way,” he said. “All I can say is, that if I were an insurance agent I wouldn't offer O.M.N. a policy on any terms. Hallo, by Jove! That's midnight striking. I had no idea it was so late.”

He was about to take leave of the Inspector when the telephone bell rang. He lingered, in case there should be any fresh news. Arnold took the message, and then turned to Merrion. “Your man Newport is here,” he said.

“Newport!”Merrion exclaimed. “What the devil does he want, I wonder? Do you mind if he comes up?”

Arnold gave order that Newport was to be brought up to his room. The two were old acquaintances, for Newport, late of the Royal Navy, was more of a friend to Merrion than a servant. They had shared many adventures in common, and Merrion never came to stay at his rooms in London without bringing Newport with him. But it was curious Newport should have made his way to Scotland Yard at midnight, inquiring for his master.

“Perhaps he thinks that you are not in a fit state to go home by yourself,” Arnold suggested jocularly.

“Then he can't have a very high opinion of the discipline of the C.I.D.,” Merrion retorted. “Ah, here he comes. I'm anxious to hear what he wants.”

The door opened, and Newport was introduced by a sergeant. The door closed again, and the man stood waiting respectfully.

“Well, Newport, what is it?”Merrion asked. “What brings you here at this time of night?”

Newport looked surprised and slightly hurt. “Why, sir, your telephone message of a few minutes ago,” he replied. “I took a bus and came along at once.”

“My telephone message?”Merrion exclaimed. “I never sent a message to you or anybody else. What are you talking about? You must have dreamt it, man.”

“If you didn't send the message, sir, that's the second queer thing that's happened to-night,” replied Newport, quite unperturbed.

“Don't you think we'd better hear the story from the beginning?”Arnold interposed. “Sit down, Newport, and tell us all about these queer happenings.”

Newport took a chair, and began to unfold his tale. “I didn't know when Mr. Merrion would be back, or whether he might want anything when he came in,” he said. “So I was sitting up in the kitchen. You know Mr. Merrion's rooms, sir. They are above a shop, and the people there go home about seven o'clock. After that time, there's nobody else in the building.

“Well, sir, I was sitting in the kitchen, reading the evening paper, when the street door bell rang. I thought it was Mr. Merrion come home, and not able to get in. It's a queer door, that is. The catch slips of itself, sometimes, and you can't open it from outside. That's happened more than once, as Mr. Merrion can tell you.”

Merrion nodded. “Newport's quite right,” he said. “The catch has slipped once or twice, and I've had to ring for him to let me in.”

“Well, sir, I went downstairs to open the door,” Newport continued. “And when I had opened it, it wasn't Mr. Merrion at all, but a lady. Before I could ask her who she was and what she wanted, she had slipped inside and got behind the door, as if she didn't want to be seen from outside.”

Arnold winked at Merrion expressively. “Rather a curious proceeding, wasn't it?” he asked. “What did you do then?”

“I hardly knew what to do, sir. You see, knowing that Mr. Merrion was with you, I thought the lady might be a friend of yours.”

Merrion laughed. “I think that Newport has turned the tables on you very neatly, my friend,” he said. “Did the lady condescend to give you any explanation of her behaviour, Newport?”

“She said that she knew that you were a friend of the Inspector's, sir, and asked if she could see you. I told her that, so far as I knew, you were with the Inspector at that very moment, and that she had better ask for you at Scotland Yard. But she said that she couldn't possibly do that, and that she must see you this very night. The long and short of it was, sir, that she begged so hard to be allowed to wait that I hadn't the heart to turn her out. So I shut the street door and took her upstairs to the sitting-room, where I made her as comfortable as I could. But she was as nervous as a kitten, I could tell that. She couldn't sit still, and kept fidgeting with her fingers.”

“What did she look like?”Arnold asked.

“I couldn't rightly tell, sir. She had on a big fur coat, with the collar turned up round her head, and a hat with a veil on it. And she kept her face turned away from the light, like as if she didn't want to be recognised. But she was a lady, right enough. I could tell that by the way she spoke.”

Merrion frowned. “I don't understand it,” he said. “What happened next?”

“I left the lady in the sitting-room, sir, and went back to the kitchen. I hadn't been there more than a few minutes when the telephone ” bell rang. I answered it and heard a man with a deep, gruff voice at the other end. He said he was the telephonist on duty at Scotland Yard, and that he had a message for me from you, sir.”

“This sounds interesting. What was the message?”

“That you were with Inspector Arnold, sir, and wanted me to come along. Then the man asked if a lady had called to see you. I said she had, and he said that was all right, you were expecting her, I was to leave her in the rooms and not to tell her I had gone out. It would be all right to let her wait until you got home.”

“It sounds to me, Merrion, that this is rather an ingenious scheme to burgle your rooms,” said Arnold. “I'll ring through to Vine Street, and get them to send a man round. And after that we'd better go round ourselves. We may catch them in the act.”

Arnold put his call through, and then summoned a police car. So rapidly did they cover the distance to Merrion's rooms that they arrived there before the man from Vine Street had time to put in an appearance. Merrion was first out of the car, and he put his key in the lock of the street door. But the door opened as he did so. A single glance was sufficient to show that it had been forced open.

They wasted no time upon this discovery, but raced upstairs, Merrion leading. A strong smell of burning greeted them as they did so. The electric light in the sitting-room was not turned on, but a reddish glow shone through the half-open door. They rushed in, to find a smouldering heap upon the hearthrug. The fire had not yet spread to the rest of the room.

Newport took in the situation at a glance. He dashed into the kitchen and returned with a pail of water, which he flung over the heap. A dense cloud of steam arose, through which nothing could be seen. A second bucketful of water produced a similar effect, but completely extinguished the conflagration. Merrion had meanwhile switched on the light, and they waited for the steam to disperse.

When at last it did so, they were confronted with a sufficiently gruesome sight. A bright fire had been burning in the grate, as the still smoking coals testified. In front of this was huddled the naked body of a woman, her head resting on the bars of the fireplace. Her clothes had apparently been torn off and piled in the fender and on the hearthrug. Nothing but a few charred scraps remained, among which could be discerned some fragments of fur.

Horror-stricken, they gazed rigidly for a moment at this ghastly spectacle. Then Arnold fell on his knees and made a closer investigation. That the woman's condition was beyond hope was obvious from the first. Her head was so shockingly burnt that the features were unrecognisable. Arnold lifted the body away from the fire and as he did so Newport slipped from the room. He returned a moment later, bearing a white sheet. With this the Inspector covered the body.

The silence of the room was broken by the sound of heavy footsteps ascending the stairs. A policeman appeared, with truncheon drawn, and surveyed the group before him. “What is all this about?” he asked menacingly.

“It's all right,” Arnold replied. “I am Detective-Inspector Arnold, from the Yard. You're the man I asked them to send from Vine Street, I suppose. Cut along back to the station, as quick as you can, and ask them to send the man who is on the beat, and the police surgeon. Look sharp, now!”

The constable, who evidently recognised Arnold, saluted and went out. They could hear his hurried footsteps echoing down the stairs. Then, as they passed out of earshot, Arnold turned curtly to Merrion and Newport. “Well, what's the meaning of this?” he asked curtly.

Merrion, momentarily unmanned by the shock, sank into a chair. “The swine; the bloody swine!” he exclaimed. “If he doesn't hang for this, there's no justice in the world. Poor soul, he must have been following her all the time, and as soon as Newport left the house—”

Newport, more practical and less highly-strung than his master, went to the sideboard. During his war-service in the Navy he had seen so many ghastly sights that even this could not upset him for long. He poured out two stiff tots of whisky and handed one each to Merrion and the Inspector.

The very naturalness of his action pulled Merrion round. “Good man!” he exclaimed. “Now take one yourself. All right, Arnold. Carry on!”

Arnold turned to Newport. “What time was it when you left the house?” he asked.

“Between twenty minutes and a quarter to twelve, sir. Directly after I had received the message on the telephone. It was striking half-past eleven when the door-bell rang, and I went down to let the lady in.”

“What was the lady doing when you last saw her?”

“She was sitting in the big chair in front of the fire, sir. I put a few more coals on to make a nice blaze, just before I left her. She was all on the fidget, sir, as I told you.”

“You heard no sound from this room after you left it and before you went out?”

“No, sir, I heard nothing until the telephone bell rang, a minute or two later.”

“When you went out, did you shut the street door behind you in the ordinary way?”

“Yes, sir, and I tried it afterwards to see that the latch had caught.”

“Did you notice anybody hanging about outside after you had left the house?”

“I didn't notice anybody, sir. I walked straight through to Piccadilly, where I picked up a bus. But I wasn't particularly on the look-out, as you might say, sir.”

Merrion sighed. “The whole ghastly business is pretty clear,” he said. “That poor woman is O.M.N., and the man who killed her is the murderer of Faithorne.”

“But what in the world induced her to come here?”Arnold demanded.

“That we shall probably never know for certain. But I think we can form a rough idea. One or two of the papers, in discussing the case, mentioned that you were staying at Yonderhill with your friend Mr. Desmond Merrion. My name is in the telephone book, where the address of these rooms is given.

“O.M.N., unaware that the hints she had already dropped had at least partially succeeded in their object, decided to reveal the whole story. She may have thought that she had found an opportunity of eluding the vigilance of the murderer. But she did not dare to go to the Yard. She preferred to come here and interview the person who had been spoken of as the friend of Inspector Arnold. What happened then is clear enough. She was still being watched, though she didn't know it. Perhaps the murderer had pretended to relax his vigilance, to see what she would do. But he was following her all the time. What exactly happened after you had opened the street door to her, Newport?”

“She pushed her way in, sir, and closed the door behind her, until it was only open for a few inches. It seemed to me as though she didn't want to be seen coming in, sir.”

“And your conversation with her was held in the passage, just inside the partially-closed door?”

“Yes, sir. We had a few words there before I showed her upstairs.”

“And in the course of those few words, you told her that you thought I was with the Inspector at Scotland Yard, and that she had better apply there. You see what happened, Arnold? The man who was following her had crept up outside the door and overheard the conversation. It told him all he wished to know: that I was out, where I was likely to be, and that the lady proposed to stay here until my return. Did the man who spoke to you on the telephone mention your name, Newport?”

“No, sir. He merely asked if I was Mr. Merrion's man.”

“Exactly. He didn't ask for you by name, because he didn't know it. He only had to get you out of the way, by a plausible message which he knew you would accept as genuine, and the unfortunate woman would be alone in the house. As soon as you had shut the door behind her he went to the nearest public telephone box and sent his message. Then he came back here and probably saw you go out, having hidden in some convenient spot. There's a public telephone box round the comer, not a hundred yards from here. Then, when the coast was clear, he broke open the street door, crept upstairs, and...” Merrion glanced at the sheet and shuddered.

“Yes, that's about it, I expect,” said Arnold wearily. “He must have caught her unawares. If she was sitting in that chair, facing the fire, she would have her back to the door. But why all this horrible brutality after he had killed her? Is the man a maniac?”

“I fancy that he's horribly sane,” Merrion replied “His brutality was to prevent identification of the body. That is why he put her head on the fire and set light to the clothes. Perhaps he hoped that by the time I got back here the whole place would be alight, and no trace of his crime would be left.”

“If we had been a few minutes later the whole place would have been blazing,” said Arnold. “Hullo, here's somebody coming. Now we may learn something more.”

The new arrival was a policeman. Interrogated by Arnold, he said he was the man on the beat. He had seen no suspicious person hanging round the house, though he had passed it at intervals during the night. He had last passed it between eleven and half-past, when he had examined the door, which was then shut and locked.

This was not very helpful, and Merrion determined upon a leading question. “Did you happen to notice a big man, with a black beard and whiskers and bushy black eyebrows, while you were on duty?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, now I come to think of it, I did,” the policeman replied. “He was coming out of the public telephone box round the corner. About twenty minutes before midnight, that was. He said good-night to me, I recollect, in a foreign accent.”

“You didn't see what became of the man, I suppose?”Arnold asked.

“I can't say that I did, sir. But after he came out of the box he hurried off as though he had an appointment to keep.”

“He had,” said Arnold grimly. “All right, that'll do. But if ever you should see that man again, take him into custody at once.”

The next arrival at the rooms was the police surgeon. The position in which the body had been found was explained to him, and he turned his attention to it. “No hope of identification,” he reported at length. “It is impossible to tell even the colour of the eyes and hair. And the teeth appear to be perfect. No dentist's work at all. You say the poor woman was lying with her face on the bars? Then this fracture at the base of the skull can't have been caused by her fall.”

“Have you any suggestion how it was caused, Doctor?”Arnold asked.

“The usual blunt instrument that we're always hearing about. But in this case, since I don't see any blood about, the skin was probably not broken, and that suggests something heavy but yielding—a sandbag, for instance.”

“Death from such a blow would be instantaneous, I suppose?” asked Merrion seriously.

“I don't know about it being instantaneous, but the poor woman felt nothing after she was struck. You may set your mind at rest upon that point. You have some idea who she was, I suppose?”

“I should like to hear what you can tell us about her,” Arnold replied diplomatically.

“Not very much, I'm afraid. She's too badly burnt for that. But she must have been quite young—not more than thirty at the most, and probably married. There's no ring on her finger, but you can see a mark where a ring was usually worn. You'll arrange for the body to be taken to the mortuary, I suppose? Perhaps, after a post-mortem, I may be able to give you an additional hint or two.”

It was not long before an ambulance was summoned and the body removed. Then Arnold and Merrion set to work to examine the ashes and fragments of clothing which had escaped the fire. They collected a few particles of scorched silk and some bits of leather with traces of fur still adhering to it, no doubt all that remained of a fur coat. An even more significant find was a tuft of stiff black hair, singed, but still recognisable.

Merrion made this discovery, and the meaning of it occurred to him at once. “That was a long shot of mine about the man with the barrow,” he said. “But it came off, as you saw. That fiend came in here in his beastly disguise, and when he had murdered the poor woman he tore it off and threw it in the fire. He left the house, shaved and distinguished looking, as the porter described the man who fetched Faithorne's suitcase. But where did he go to? Gad, I'd give a great deal to know that!”

“We'll find him,” replied Arnold, between his teeth. The horror of the crime had roused a spirit of vindictiveness even in the usually imperturbable Inspector. “As soon as we know who this woman was we shall have a clue to his identity. I'm going back to the Yard now, and I'll see that the story is in all the papers to-morrow.”

Merrion nodded gloomily. “Yes, there's no longer any need for secrecy,” he said. “I've been afraid of something like this all along. I suppose you want this room left as it is, for the present?”

“I think so, if you don't mind. We'd better have another look round it in the morning.”

“Then you'd better lock it and take the key. I don't feel like sitting in it just now. And you might ask one of your fellows to keep an eye on the street door. We don't want any more visitors to-night.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

AFTER Arnold's departure, Merrion went upstairs to bed. But he found it wholly impossible to sleep. The shock of the crime committed so recently in the room below had completely upset his nerves. He tried reading, but that resource failed him, for the printed words produced no impression upon his brain. At last he threw the book aside, sat up and lighted a cigarette.

He was conscious of only one coherent thought, a passionate desire to avenge the crime upon the perpetrator of it. Hitherto, his interest in the milk-churn case had been purely academic. A problem in detection had arisen, and his intellectual powers had been stirred into activity in the attempt to solve it. Faithorne and his murderer had had no individuality for him. They had merely been pieces in the game which he and Arnold had been playing. But now everything was different. A brutal murder had taken place in his own rooms. He felt now that it was a personal issue between himself and the fiend responsible for the deed.

Gradually his power of logical reasoning returned to him. Sleep was out of the question. He might just as well occupy his mind with the facts as they were known and endeavour to deduce some rational theory from them.

Everything pointed to his original theory having been correct, but at the moment this yielded him no satisfaction. That the dead woman was the mysterious O.M.N. there could be no doubt. She had been killed because she knew who had murdered Faithorne and threatened to reveal her knowledge. Perhaps the murderer had known of her actions all the time. He might have been aware of the sending of the postal order, of the leaving of the attache-case in the taxi. Perhaps, for the past fortnight, he had been awaiting his opportunity to kill her, in such a way as to incur no suspicion himself.

It was an uncomfortable thought, but it had to be faced. To Merrion's imagination the drama was clear enough. Faithorne, during his stay in London, had become acquainted with his future murderer. This man had, in turn, introduced Faithorne to his wife. An affection had sprung up between them, which they believed to be unnoticed by the husband. They had spent the night at Scarborough together, and perhaps, on other occasions, elsewhere. On leaving the hotel at Scarborough, O.M.N. had accidentally packed the key of their room, as Faithorne had absent-mindedly left one of his hairbrushes behind.

Either then or earlier they had agreed to elope together. O.M.N. was to accompany Faithorne to South Africa as his wife. No doubt they both believed that the husband, upon hearing what had happened, would institute proceedings for divorce. They imagined that he knew nothing, and that they could get safely away. But he must have known all the time and made his preparations accordingly.

There had been something so sinister in his behaviour that Merrion shuddered. He had made no sign, he had allowed his wife and Faithorne to suppose that he was in complete ignorance of their intrigue. He had waited until Faithorne was on the point of leaving the country. Then, when his disappearance would cause no surprise, the blow, so long prepared, had been struck.

When and where? That was the question. How had Faithorne been lured to the selected spot, where all the gruesome apparatus for the disposal of the body was already prepared? A faked message from O.M.N., perhaps. Faithorne, upon receiving it, had walked blithely out of the Utopia Hotel—to meet his death.

Merrion fell to wondering what arrangements Faithorne and O.M.N. had made for their elopement. It did not seem likely that the decisive step was to be taken on the Friday before the Hadlow Castle sailed. If they had been going to stay together that night Faithorne would surely have taken his suitcase with him that night, instead of leaving it at his hotel. The most probable arrangement was that they were to meet next morning at Waterloo, shortly before the departure of the boat-train for Southampton.

When had O.M.N. learnt of her lover's death, and how? It was possible to imagine a grim scene between her and her husband. The appearance of the latter, some time on Friday evening, with the curt intimation that she need not trouble to go to Waterloo next morning, since Faithorne was dead. And, following that, the blood-curdling threat that if she spoke a word of the matter her own death would inevitably follow.

She might well have been intimidated. The sudden disclosure by her husband that he had been fully aware of her intrigue, the brutal announcement of her lover's death, must have combined to break her spirit entirely. And yet, even then, she had found the means of providing one despairing clue which might bring the murderer to justice without endangering herself. For she alone could have contrived that the hotel key should find its way into the churn.

Then she had relapsed into silence, until the body had been found and the papers were full of the crime. She saw how successful the murderer had been, how the key alone could not furnish a reliable clue to the identity of the victim, and so of his murderer. She had sought for some means of amplifying this clue, and her quick wits had evolved the method of the postal order. Any one might send a postal order to a hospital. Such an action could not possibly arouse her husband's suspicions, even if he learnt of it. But she dare not write upon the order. Her handwriting might be traced and inquiries instituted. And the moment that took place she would be doomed.

The initials, which must attract attention, she cut from a newspaper. The flap of the envelope bearing the name of the Utopia Hotel was, no doubt, from a letter which Faithorne had written. her.

Had she left it at that all might have been well and her husband's vengeance might not have overtaken her. But her impatience, her overmastering desire to avenge her lover, had been her undoing. She had taken the rash step of indicating where his head could be found; and, not content with that, had taken advantage of her fancied immunity from suspicion to visit Merrion's rooms. And here, at last, the murderer had seen how to ensure her silence for ever.

Was Arnold right? Would the death of this second victim lead to the murderer's arrest? He had shown himself to be a criminal of no ordinary degree of cunning. If his wife's sudden disappearance would have caused remark, would he have ventured to kill her?

Merrion at length dropped off into a fitful sleep. He woke unrefreshed and, after a late breakfast, opened his newspapers.

The Inspector had done his work well. The discovery of Faithorne's head was fully described, with a wealth of detail. The identity of the victim thus being established, the police had little doubt that they would soon lay their hands on the murderer. With that end in view, they would like to get into touch with anybody who had known Faithorne or spoken to him during his visit to London. And much more to the same effect. The incident of the previous night in Merrion's rooms was given little prominence. And no suggestion was made that there was any connection between it and the murder of Faithorne.

“Time enough for that when the inquest is read,” said Arnold when he arrived towards the middle of the morning. “Let the public have one thing to bite on at a time. I'm hopeful that at last we shall hear from somebody who O.M.N. was. Now, if you've no objection, I think we'll go through those ashes in your room once more.”

But neither among the ashes nor elsewhere in the room was there anything fresh to be found, in spite of the most exhaustive search. Everything inflammable that the unfortunate woman had been wearing was consumed, and everything non-inflammable had been carried away, presumably by her murderer. Arnold was forced to return, to the Yard with no further clues, to her identity.

There he met the police surgeon, who had by now performed a post-mortem, and the pathologist who had examined Faithorne's body. Neither of these could tell him much more than he already knew. It was fully confirmed that death had been due to a savage blow at the back of the head. “She must have succumbed fairly easily,” the pathologist added. “Although her organs were fairly healthy, she was in a very emaciated state at the time of her death. Almost, one might say, half starved. And we have been able to discover the reason for that.

“In the course of our examination, we found several minute punctures on the right forearm. These strongly suggested the use of the hypodermic syringe, and upon analysis, that the woman had been a confirmed drug-taker. But later we found reason to modify our opinion.”

He paused and glanced at the police surgeon, who nodded encouragingly. “Upon examining the woman's wrists and ankles, we found these to be considerably bruised and swollen. In our opinion, these bruises were not caused immediately before death. The agency which created them appeared to have been applied several days ago. And the nature of that agency was almost certainly a rope. It seems to us very probable that the woman's hands and legs had been tied together, probably for a considerable period. It may have been that while she was thus bound and helpless morphia injections were administered by some other person.”

During the afternoon, Arnold went once more to see Merrion, to whom he repeated the report of the doctors. Merrion received it without surprise. “I quite expected something of the kind,” he said. “The murderer was afraid that she would give him away, and took effective measures to ensure that she shouldn't. What I can't understand is how he can have kept her in seclusion without causing inquiries among her friends. Wait a moment, let's see if we can piece together any of her movements.

“The body of Faithorne was deposited at Tolsham on March 14th, or early in the morning of the 15th. The head was left with Mr. Bulger at Dorking on the 16th. Now, the postal order was dated the 17th, on which day it was bought in Southampton. This strongly suggests that O.M.N. was in Southampton that day. If so, I think we can assume the murderer was also there. He would not be likely to let her wander about the country by herself.”

“It occurs to me that it was from Southampton that Faithorne was to have sailed for South Africa in the Hadlow Castle,” Arnold remarked. “Do you suppose that there is any connection?”

“I should hardly think so, but of course it is possible. We hear nothing more of O.M.N. until the day before yesterday, when she left the attache-case in the taxi. That was the 28th. The following evening she comes here, and is followed and killed. It seems to me that if she was tied up and kept under the influence of morphia, this must have been between the 17th and the 28th. But why did the murderer release her? Was it to see what she would do? I think it must have been.”

“Isn't it possible that by some means she released herself?”Arnold asked.

Merrion shook his head. “I think not,” he replied. “If O.M.N. had escaped from the murderer's clutches by her own efforts, she would have sought protection somewhere at once. She would, in fact, probably have gone to the police with her story. I think that he released her, for some purpose of his own, warning her that he was following her. Under those circumstances she would not have ventured near a police station. She would be afraid of being recaptured before she got within sight of the door. Hence her tortuous procedure with the attache-case.

“What happened last night I can't say. She may have broken away then and fled here rather than to Scotland Yard. But I'm inclined to think that by then the murderer had decided to kill her, and was only waiting until he found a suitable opportunity for doing so and disposing of her body. Now, I suppose, we've got to sit down and wait once more.”

During the next day or two Arnold was once more inundated with correspondence which Merrion helped him to peruse. Faithorne seemed to have communicated with dozens of people during his stay in London, either personally or by letter. All these people had to be interviewed, and their relations with Faithorne investigated. It was a laborious process, and productive of no encouraging result.

Except, perhaps, that some general idea of Faithorne's habits while he was in London began to emerge. It was possible, by piecing together the information from various sources, to get some idea of this. Everybody who had met him agreed that he was pleasant and sociable by nature, fond of amusing himself, and of sharing his amusements with other people. He was, at the same time, a shrewd business man, and had entered into several highly practical arrangements for his firm.

During the early part of his stay in England he had readily accepted invitations from those he met. But, towards the latter part, he had nearly always excused himself from any evening engagement, usually on the pretext that he had important letters to write. After December of the previous year, it was very rarely that he had accepted even an invitation to dinner. He had been active enough during the day, always ready to make appointments either for business or lunch. But his evenings, according to the statements he had made, were too fully occupied by his correspondence to allow him any leisure.

Very discreetly Arnold inquired into the existence of a lady friend of his, whose Christian name might be Olive, and whose surname probably began with N. He could learn nothing definite about her. Most of those who had become at all intimate with Faithorne had suspected that he had formed an attachment, from various vague hints which he had let drop. They had even gone so far as to wonder whether his excuse for not appearing in the evening was genuine. But Faithorne had never mentioned the lady's name, and none of Arnold's informants had been on sufficiently intimate terms with him to ask questions.

In the light of this, the Inspector's further inquiries at the Utopia Hotel were illuminating. He patiently questioned the whole staff, waiters, night porters and all. And again, gradually, he was able to piece together a reliable picture of Faithorne's life at the hotel.

It appeared that, on the whole, he had spent comparatively little time there. It was not very often that he had been away for the night, though this had occasionally happened, as, for instance, on the night of January 25th. He breakfasted as a rule about nine o'clock and went out shortly afterwards. He might or might not come back to lunch, but usually did not do so. As a rule, he went out during the afternoon, came back in the evening to dress for dinner, and went out again. He very rarely dined at the hotel during the week, but almost invariably did so on Saturday and Sunday. After dinner on those days he was frequently to be seen in the public rooms, writing letters. On other days he usually returned to the hotel after midnight.

“So there was some shadow of truth in his pretext,” Merrion remarked, in the course of a discussion with Arnold. “Naturally, he must have had a certain number of letters to write, and he got through this work on Saturday and Sunday evenings. What did he do on the other five evenings of the week? He doesn't sound the sort of person who would take himself out alone to dinner and a theatre, for instance. I think one must infer that this time was devoted to O.M.N.”

“But why only during the week and not at the week-ends?”Arnold asked.

“I think that is fairly obvious. During the week she was free and at the week-ends she wasn't. I imagine that her husband worked away from home, and only came back there for Saturday and Sunday. When the cat is away, the mice will play, you know. If only we could find out the identity of O.M.N.!”

But no information was forthcoming in that direction. The most persistent inquiries among those who had known Faithorne were fruitless. And, more remarkable still, nobody came forward with a report of a missing friend or relative. An inquest had been held upon the body of the woman found in Merrion's room, and provided a widespread sensation. Arnold received letters from various mothers whose daughters had gone astray, and who all, with one accord, appeared to believe that the woman's visit to Merrion's rooms was for reasons which they didn't care to think about. But in every case, after a laborious search, these girls were accounted for in most cases, much to their own discomfiture.

The Inspector even made one of his periodical descents into the underworld in search of some clue to the dead woman's identity. He had come to the conclusion that O.M.N. and her husband might have been professional crooks, who had cultivated relations with Faithorne for their own purposes. But his researches very soon convinced him that this was not the case. The underworld knew nothing of the crime, and was virtuously indignant at the brutality of it.

“I can't make it out!”Merrion repeated for the twentieth time. “Here you have two people, so far as one can make out, in a responsible position in life. One of them, the wife, disappears, and nobody seems to take the slightest notice. They must have had friends, neighbours, acquaintances, something. What explanation does the husband have of his wife's absence from her usual haunts? He can't say that she had died suddenly or been killed in an accident, or anything like that. Somebody would be sure to ask questions about the funeral. Or that she had left him, for some purpose of her own. That would give rise to more talk than anything. And when these gossips heard of the discovery of an unknown woman's body in my room they wouldn't lose any time in communicating with you.”

“It's extraordinary how people can disappear without causing remark,” said Arnold.

“Yes, but not people in this position. Here's a man with a big car and facilities for hiding milk-churns and a greenhouse in which he grows azaleas. His wife dresses well and possesses a most expensive fur coat. It's ridiculous to imagine that people like these would not have a host of acquaintances, to say nothing of a household and servants. Yet the woman drops out of her usual circle, and the members of it accept the fact as the most natural thing in the world. There must be some rational explanation, I suppose, but I'm blest if I can think of it!”

“I wonder how much Cantley knows about it all?” Arnold remarked. “I've tried him all ways, and I can't get any more from him. One thing at least is certain. He was not the intruder in your rooms on the night when the woman was murdered. He was in his flat from ten o'clock onwards, as I have established beyond any possibility of doubt. And yet there is that card of his, given to Bulger. How is that to be accounted for?”

“Oh, in lots of ways. I don't suppose that the murderer knew Cantley. Or, if he did, I'm pretty certain that Cantley didn't know him. That dodge of putting you on the track of Cantley's railway journey seems to prove that. You've questioned , him about the people who may have known that he meant to go to Exeter and Oban, I suppose?”

“Yes, I've done that,” replied Arnold wearily. “He swears that nobody can have known, except himself, the man he saw in Exeter, and the one he saw in Oban. Until the Thursday that he lunched with Faithorne, when he told him. Welton appears to have overheard part of the conversation, but I've seen him again, and he declares that he never mentioned it to anybody else, since it was not of the slightest interest to him. I've got to accept these statements, since there is no possible way of disproving them.”

“I think you can accept them, safely enough,” said Merrion. “They are in all probability true. The person who told the murderer of Cantley's proposed journey was, no doubt, Faithorne himself.” How do you make that out?”Arnold asked.

“Oh, imagination, as usual. It's about all that we've got to guide us in this affair. I've been wondering how Faithorne fell so easily into the murderer's trap. And I've reconstructed an imaginary scene, from the various hints we've picked up. Would you like to hear it?”

Arnold smiled. “It would be a diversion, if nothing else,” he replied.

“Very well, then. Here it is. Faithorne never really intended to meet Cantley at Westbury on that Friday evening. He merely half agreed to do so to put an end to his persuasions. Shrewd business man as we are told he was, he probably saw through Cantley easily enough. He meant to spend the evening with O.M.N. as usual. But before he did so he had one more appointment to keep.

“We must consider the relations which existed between Faithorne and O.M.N.'s husband. It seems pretty certain that he must have met her through him. In order to avoid arousing suspicion, Faithorne would naturally be anxious to keep on friendly terms with him. On the other hand, the husband, having discovered the intrigue, and decided to kill Faithorne, would not betray his hand by quarrelling with him.

“In pursuance of his schemes, the murderer invited Faithorne to a meeting on the Friday afternoon or early evening. A pretext would be easy enough to find. They may well have had business together. In any case, they were on friendly terms, and it would be their last chance of seeing one another before Faithorne sailed. Faithorne could hardly have refused the invitation, even had he wished to do so. , , ,

“So they met, in some place where the milk-churn was ready waiting. The husband was delighted to meet Faithorne, and asked him all manner of questions about his doings. Among these, he asked whether Faithorne had any other appointments before he sailed. He would want to know that, of course. If Faithorne had had another engagement, and failed to keep it, inquiries might be made and his premature disappearance discovered. The husband also ascertained, no doubt, that Faithorne had told nobody that he had come to meet him.

“Since Faithorne's only remaining appointment before he sailed was with O.M.N., he replied that he had no further engagements in England. The only person who had asked him for one was that sharper Cantley, who had suggested that he should meet him at Westbury. That brought the conversation round to Cantley and his schemes. Faithorne told the husband that Cantley had gone to Exeter the previous day, that he had then intended to travel by the 2.40 train from there to Scotland, and to stay at some hotel in Oban. He had forgotten the name, but he remembered that it was in George Street.

“What else took place between the husband and Faithorne hardly concerns us. We must suppose that the interview ended by Faithorne being knocked on the head. The necessary apparatus was all ready. The unfortunate man was undressed, stabbed, cut up and his body put in the churn. No doubt the husband went through the pockets carefully before he destroyed the clothes. Among other things, he found one of Cantley's cards, given at some time by Cantley himself to Faithorne. This was the one which was subsequently handed to Mr. Bulger.

“Now, the husband had thought out his crime in advance. He had the wallet, the spectacles, the vest and the carving-knife all handy and waiting. But that conversation about Cantley had given him a further idea. Cantley was already known to be a swindler. He would readily be believed to be a murderer as well. Give a dog a bad name and hang him. Why not devise a subtle suggestion that it was Cantley who had killed Faithorne? There had been that suggested meeting at Westbury. Who was to know that Faithorne had not actually met Cantley there?

“So the husband procured an indelible pencil. Rather significant that, for it was about the only thing that would make a mark which would not be washed out by the liquid in the churn. With this he wrote the address on the scrap of paper in the wallet. Pity that Faithorne hadn't remembered the name of the hotel. That would have made things more convincing still. However, George Street, Oban, ought to be a sufficient clue. Later, the husband also procured an Exeter time-table and marked the train in that, as an additional indication. By the way, I don't suppose he put the time-table in the churn until just before he deposited it on Hollybud's stand. It would have gone to pulp if he had put it in much earlier.

“What the husband did after he had disposed of Faithorne I can't tell you. He probably went home to O.M.N. and told her that she needn't trouble to pack, because Faithorne would not be on the boat-train to meet her next morning. And if she showed signs of making a fuss he tied her up, gagged her and gave her a dose of morphia to keep her quiet. Anyhow, next morning he went round to the Utopia Hotel and collected Faithorne's suitcase. He didn't want that left lying about. And his action completed the illusion that Faithorne was sailing that morning. There, that's my reconstruction. What do you think of it?”

“I think it's brilliant,” Arnold replied. “But, unfortunately, it doesn't provide the answer to two questions of some slight importance.”

“What are they?” asked Merrion.

“Who the husband was and where the murder was committed. And, after all, those are the things that we've got to find out.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

INSPECTOR ARNOLD was not the man to leave any stone unturned in so baffling a case as the one upon which he was now engaged. Every object which had any connection with the crime was submitted to the consideration of appropriate experts, in the hope that their practised eyes might discover some clue hidden to the ordinary person. The objects found in the churn, the liquid which it contained, even the churn itself, were thus subjected to examination. But, as reports upon them came in one by one, Arnold found that they revealed nothing which threw any light upon the identity of the criminal.

Meanwhile, one or two confirmatory pieces of evidence were obtained. The hairbrush, bearing the initials T.W.F., was traced back to the shop at which it had been purchased. A lady had come in during the preceding December and had asked to be shown anything that would be a suitable Christmas present for her brother. She had eventually selected a pair of silver-mounted hairbrushes and had asked that the initials should be engraved upon them. Having paid for her purchase in cash, she ordered the brushes to be sent to Mr. Thomas Faithorne at the Utopia Hotel. The lady's name and address were unknown at the shop.

“O.M.N., of course,” was Merrion's comment. “Naturally she would say that they were for her brother. Women are always fond of inventing explanations when none are necessary. However, that particular piece of information doesn't get us any further. Any more news to-day?”

He was sitting in Arnold's room at the Yard, more than a month after the discovery of Faithorne's body. The Inspector was looking worried and fagged out. His lack of success in tracing the perpetrator of the crimes was obviously getting en his nerves. Merrion wondered whether it would be tactful to say a word to the Assistant-Commissioner, who was a personal friend of his. If Arnold could be granted a fortnight's leave, Merrion would gladly take him off to his own house in the country and endeavour to divert his mind from its obsessing thought.

The Inspector shook his head wearily. “No, there's no news,” he replied. “I'm beginning to think. . . Hallo, who's this, I wonder? Come in!”

The door opened, and a keen-faced middle-aged man appeared. He was the optical expert to whom the spectacle frame found in the churn had been submitted. He now held these in his hand and displayed them after he had taken a chair at Arnold's invitation.

“Well!” said the Inspector, with a trace of bitterness due to his repeated disappointments. “Have you come to tell me the name of the owner of those spectacles?”

“No, I can't tell you that,” replied the other. “But things aren't always what they seem. This frame looks like one of those horn monstrosities worn a hundred years ago and more, doesn't it? Well, it isn't. It hasn't been made more than twenty years, at the most.”

“Hasn't it?” said Arnold languidly. “Whether it was made a hundred years ago or twenty isn't a matter of any great importance. When were the initials scratched upon it? Can you tell me that?”

“Comparatively recently, I should say, for the scratches are still quite sharp when viewed under the microscope. And I don't think the frame is very old, either. I said that it must have been made within the last twenty years. From the general appearance of it, I should say that it was made much more recently than that. Within the last year or two, perhaps. And I'm pretty certain, not only that it has never been worn, but that it has never had lenses fitted to it. There is no sign of wear, nor of friction where the edges of the glass would have been.”

Arnold listened to these details without much enthusiasm. They would hardly help him to trace the spectacle frame. But Merrion looked at it with some curiosity. The expert had put it down on the table, and its antique shape seemed to contradict his assertions. “But surely old-fashioned horn spectacles like that aren't made nowadays, are they?” asked Merrion.

The expert laughed. “That's just it,” he replied. “This frame isn't made of horn, but of a substance which can be made to imitate horn. And, though spectacles of this shape are not made for ordinary wear, they are still made occasionally, as theatrical properties, and that sort of thing. They are then usually fitted with eye-pieces of plain glass, instead of lenses. The material used to imitate horn is usually either celluloid or erinoid. Celluloid being inflammable, erinoid is usually preferred. And that is what this frame is made of.”

“I never heard of the stuff,” Arnold commented shortly.

“Perhaps not, but I expect you have seen it often enough without knowing what it was. It is one of these new synthetic compounds, made of casein rendered insoluble with formaldehyde. It can be mixed with pigments or coloured with dyes to simulate horn or tortoiseshell, or ivory, or amber, or almost anything of that kind; and it can be moulded into any required shape, as this frame has been moulded.”

“I'm not interested in the material, but in the frame itself,” said Arnold. “Would it be possible to trace where it was bought?”

The expert shrugged his shoulders. “I think you would be lucky if you did,” he replied. “There's nothing distinctive about it, since I imagine that the initials were scratched on it after purchase. But, there, I've told you all I can. The rest is up to you. If there's anything else you should want, you know where to find me. Good-afternoon.”

He nodded to Arnold and left the room. Merrion picked up the spectacle frame and fingered it absently. Like everything else about the case, it seemed to present an insoluble riddle. The murderer had put it in the churn for obvious reasons. He wanted to convey the impression that his victim had worn spectacles, and that his initials were A.L.S. But why had he chosen a frame of such antique shape, and a frame that had never been worn or fitted with lenses? He could surely have picked up a more convincing pair of spectacles at any rag and bone shop, a pair that had really been worn and discarded.

This question set Merrion's mind to work. Every move of the murderer's had been most carefully calculated. There had been a definite motive for every step he had taken. This one, however, seemed purposeless. If he wanted it to be thought that his victim had worn spectacles, why had he put in the churn a frame which expert examination would show never could have been used? Besides, nobody nowadays wore glasses of that clumsy shape. What could have been the idea?

And then suddenly a fresh possibility dawned upon Merrion. “I say!” he exclaimed abruptly. “What if it was O.M.N., and not the murderer who dropped that frame into the churn?”

Arnold eyed him without enthusiasm. “Your vivid imagination got to work again?” he asked.

“Yes, it has, and I believe to some purpose. I can't make out what the murderer had to gain by including the spectacles. In fact, to do so was to incur a risk, though possibly a very slight one. There was always just a chance that they might be traced.”

“You heard what the expert said about that,” Arnold replied. “Besides, we traced the wallet, and a lot of good that did us. I'm sick to death of this infernal case! It was just my luck that I should have been the one sent down to that beastly hole Yonderhill when that confounded churn was opened. I wish . . .”

But Merrion interrupted him. “Cheer up!” he exclaimed. “You may solve the problem yet; and, if you do, it will be no end of a feather in your cap. Listen to me for a bit, and don't be so infernally pessimistic. What if O.M.N. slipped this frame into the churn when her husband wasn't looking?”

“Well, what if she did?” said Arnold, still without displaying any enthusiasm.

“We've got to ask ourselves why she did it. And to that question there can be only one answer. She did it to throw out a hint, which up to the present we've missed. She was trying to give a clue to the identity of either the murderer or his victim.”

“She might have made her clue a little less obscure, while she was about it,” Arnold growled.

“She had to use such clues as came to her hand, and that she could use with safety to herself,” Merrion replied. “Let's see if we can't get our wits to work upon this one. An imitation antique spectacle frame. What does that suggest? That somebody connected with the case was an optician, or a dealer in theatrical properties, or even, possibly, an actor, amateur or professional.

“Now, we know that Faithorne was none of these things. Therefore, I think, the spectacle frame was not meant to refer to him. But what about O.M.N.'s husband? We know that he was in the habit of assuming a disguise. Don't you think it is just possible that he may have followed one of those occupations?”

“Possibly enough,” Arnold replied. “But, even so, I don't know that it will help us to find him. I've tried everything I can think of, and I'm no nearer finding out anything about the man. I've half a mind to ask the Chief to take me off the job and put some one else on.”

Merrion looked at him critically. “What you want is something to take your mind off the affair for a bit,” he said. “Look here, it's six o'clock. You come with me and we'll have a drink or two, then dine and go to a show. It'll do you all the good in the world.”

Arnold allowed himself to be persuaded, and the two friends spent a comparatively cheerful evening together. But Merrion returned to his rooms with the problem still uppermost in his mind. All traces of the murder had long since been removed, and he leaned against the mantelpiece in his sitting-room, his feet on the very spot where the unfortunate woman's body had lain. He dismissed the superstitious idea that perhaps her spirit would inspire him. What was the message she had wished to convey by the spectacle frame?

He passed in review every word that the expert had spoken that afternoon. There was nothing distinctive about the frame; it would be almost impossible to trace it. It wasn't even made of genuine bone, but of a modern substitute. Erinoid. He had heard of the stuff before, but had never known or cared to ask what it was made of. Casein, hardened with formaldehyde. Suddenly Merrion's indolent position changed to one of tense rigidity. Casein and formaldehyde! Casein was a product of milk, and formalin was merely a solution of formaldehyde. Both milk and formalin were constituents of the liquid in the churn.

He began to pace rapidly up and down the room, trying to perceive the significance of this association of ideas. Perhaps the meaning of the clue was not in the spectacle frame, but in the material of which it was made. Any other object would have served the purpose, so long as it was made of erinoid. That was the word that O.M.N. had wished to stress. Erinoid was the hint which must be followed up.

Merrion ceased his pacing, poured out a drink and made himself comfortable in his favourite chair. There seemed no connection between erinoid and Faithorne. Could there be any connection between this substance and the murderer? Was he, by chance, a dealer in erinoid? Or, by jove, a manufacturer of it? Faithorne had made the acquaintance of manufacturers of various commodities. Why not of erinoid? Such a person would require large supplies of milk for the production of casein. He would probably obtain this milk in churns. One churn, more or less, would never be noticed. And he would also have large supplies of formaldehyde solution, or formalin. Everything, in fact, that had been discovered in connection with Faithorne's body would be ready to his hand. So elated was Merrion with his new idea that he sat for a long time pondering over the details. If the murderer was an erinoid manufacturer, no doubt he had at some time or other brought the spectacle frame home with him, and possibly forgotten its existence. O.M.N. had hit upon it as conveying the necessary clue.

But, wait a minute. The collection of all the requirements on the spot suggested that the murder must have taken place at the factory. On the other hand, the discovery of the head in the flower pot in which the azalea was growing seemed to contradict this. Factories did not usually have greenhouses attached to them. Very well, then, the murderer must have taken the head home with him. A human head could be carried about in a suitcase without the slightest difficulty.

By the time that Merrion went to bed he had decided upon the course to be pursued. And early next morning he went to Scotland Yard and explained the idea to Arnold, who was not very enthusiastic. “It's all guess work,” he said. “However, there's no harm in making inquiries, I suppose. I'll put a man to making a list of all the firms which make this stuff erinoid, if you like.”

The list, when compiled, contained no more than a dozen names. Of these three were in the neighbourhood of London. After some persuasion Merrion induced Arnold to make inquiries at all these in turn. But interviews with official after official of the various companies were productive of the same result. Nobody had heard the name of Faithorne until it had appeared so dramatically in the newspapers.

They were just on the point of leaving the office of British Plastic Products at Isleworth when the works manager of that concern, to whom they had been talking made a casual remark: “I wish our managing director, Mr. Nailsworth,' had been here,” he said. “He looks after the export business, and if Mr. Faithorne had made any inquiries Mr. Nailsworth would have dealt with them.”

Something, perhaps the mere coincidence of initial, sent a thrill through Merrion. “Mr. Nailsworth is not here, you say?” he replied.

“No. He sailed for New Zealand some little time ago, and we don't expect him back until the autumn. He hopes to be able to build up a market for our products both in Australia and New Zealand. We not only manufacture erinoid, but also bakelite, redmand, and several similar substances.”

“Does Mr. Nailsworth concern himself with the manufacturing side of the business when he is in England?”Merrion asked.

“Not actively,” the works manager replied. “He leaves most of that to me. He takes considerable interest in the export department, but his principal occupation is research. He is a very clever chemist, and we owe many of our processes to his work in the laboratory. He often spends hours in there by himself, working at some technical problem.”

“Do you know, I seem to remember the name,” said Merrion thoughtfully. “I believe I must have met Mr. Nailsworth at some time or other. Can you describe him?”

“He's a tall, well set-up man of about fifty. Has a white moustache and a very fine-looking face. People have often said that he looked more like an army officer than a manufacturing chemist.”

“I think that must be the man I met,” said Merrion. “He's got a wife, and a good deal younger than himself, hasn't he? A very good-looking woman, from what I remember.”

“Yes, Mrs. Nailsworth is remarkably good-looking. She is his second wife, you know. They have only been married two or three years.”

“It's all coming back to me. I'm very sorry to have missed Mr. Nailsworth. I should have very much liked to have met him again. Where is he living now?”

“He's got a very nice house at Sevenoaks, which he has let furnished while he is away.”

Merrion glanced at Arnold, as though to suggest that it was his turn to speak. “When did Mr. Nailsworth leave the country?” the Inspector asked.

“Let me see, now. It was about the middle of March. He sailed from Southampton on a Saturday, I know. But I can't remember the exact date, or the name of the ship. Wait a minute. I'll ask the secretary. He's sure to know.”

The works manager went out and returned a couple of minutes later. “Mr. Nailsworth sailed from Southampton by the Antipodes on March 17th,” he said. “He took Mrs. Nailsworth with him. They must be in New Zealand by this time.”

“Too far off for me to pay him a visit,” Merrion replied. “Well, Inspector, we'd better be getting on and not waste any more of this gentleman's time.”

“I'm sorry I can't be more helpful,” said the works manager. “But you may take it from that nobody here knows anything of Mr. Faithorne. Good-afternoon.”

“Well, that's that,” said Arnold despondently as they entered the car in which they had driven to Isleworth. “That bright idea of yours didn't get us any further, after all.”

“I'm not so sure about that,” Merrion replied. “I'd like to know a lot more about this man Nailsworth. Didn't it strike you that his appearance, as described by our friend the works manager, tallied very closely with the porter's description of the man who collected Faithorne's suitcase?”

“That description might apply to hundreds of people. And, in turn, I'll ask you this: Didn't it strike you that, since Mr. and Mrs. Nailsworth sailed for New Zealand on March 17th, he would have found some difficulty in murdering her in your rooms on March 20th?”

“Oh, yes, that struck me all right. It also struck me that they sailed from Southampton. You haven't forgotten that postal order and the message it bore? That was bought in Southampton on March 17th, if you remember.”

Arnold frowned. “Your imagination is a wonderful thing, Merrion,” he said. “But when it takes to linking together all sorts of entirely disconnected facts, it becomes a bit of a nuisance. As it is, you've made me waste a whole day looking for a mare's nest.”

“Then five minutes more time spent won't matter much,” Merrion replied good-humouredly. “We'll stop at the offices of the Green Cross Line as we go back to the Yard. They are the owners of the Antipodes, and their place is in Cockspur Street, so it won't be taking us out of our way. And you can ask to see the passenger list.”

Arnold agreed to this, rather ungraciously. But when he had called at the offices of the Green Cross Line and perused the passenger list of the Antipodes his old keenness returned to him. The list contained no mention of Mr. and Mrs. Nailsworth. Nor was it possible to trace any communication between Mr. Nailsworth and the Green Cross Line.

Having established this fact, they went on to Scotland Yard. “Well, what about it now?” asked Merrion cheerfully.

“I'm sorry,” Arnold replied. “This case has got me down to such an extent that I had lost all hope of ever solving it. I'll admit now that there may be something in this idea of yours. What's the next step?”

“To discover Nailsworth's whereabouts,” Merrion replied, with unusual gravity. “Mind you, we don't know anything definite about him yet. He may have gone to New Zealand by some other line; though, if so, I don't see why he told the people at his works that he was sailing on the Antipodes. I should circularise all the shipping companies, if I were you. But I think you'll find that neither he nor his wife ever left the country. The story that they were about to do so would serve his purpose.”

“In what way?”Arnold asked.

“In the way of accounting for the disappearance of his wife and himself from their usual haunts. It's exactly the same idea as was involved in the disappearance of Faithorne. O.M.N. is no longer seen at her neighbours' tea-tables. Of course she isn't! She has gone to New Zealand. Lucky woman. So nice to have a kind husband who will take one on a trip like that!”

The outcome of the conversation was that Arnold set on foot inquiries among the steamship companies running services to New Zealand. Pending reports from them, he and Merrion proceeded to Sevenoaks, and had very little difficulty in locating the Nailsworths' house. One of the local agents had been entrusted with the letting of it.

His story was a simple one. Towards the end of January, Mr. Nailsworth had come to him and told him that he and his wife were going to New Zealand about the middle of March, and expected to be away at least six months. They wished to let the house furnished for that period. Since a very reasonable rent was asked, the agent had no difficulty in finding a tenant. Mr. Nailsworth brought him the keys on the afternoon of Friday, March 16th, and the new tenant took possession on the following Monday.

“Did the Nailsworths leave their servants behind?”Merrion asked.

“They only kept two, a cook and a house-parlourmaid. It's not a very big place, you know. They were given notice, I believe, for the new tenants wished to bring their own. I don't know what became of the cook; but the house-parlourmaid is a local girl, and she got another job in the town.”

Arnold secured the present address of the house-parlourmaid, then he and Merrion set out to inspect the Nailsworths' house. It was a modern residence, standing well back from the road, with a short drive leading to it. On the left of the house, looking from the gate, was a large conservatory, with a door opening out into the garden. The front door was entirely separate, and some few yards distant.

“I don't think we need disturb the present occupiers just yet,” said Merrion. “Let's have a chat with that girl first. She may be able to tell us quite a lot we want to know.”

The girl, who answered to the name of Lucy, proved to be remarkably intelligent and wide-awake. She had been with the Nailsworths for rather over a year, and had been very happy in the place. Her description of Mr. Nailsworth was very similar to that already supplied by the works manager of British Plastic Products, Ltd. Of Mrs. Nailsworth she was evidently a great admirer. Her impressions were summed up in the phrase: “She's that lovely, you can't help looking at her.”

“Do you know what her Christian name was?”Arnold asked.

“Oh, yes, sir. It was Olive. Olive Mary Nailsworth.”

“Had she a dressing-case with the initials O.M.N. upon it?”

“Yes, sir. She always took it with her when she went away. Mr. Nailsworth gave it to her when they were married. All fitted up beautiful inside, it was.”

“Did Mrs. Nailsworth often go away?”

“Fairly often—just for a night or so when Mr. Nailsworth was in London. She had a mother living somewhere in the country, she told me, and she used to go and see her.”

“When Mr. Nailsworth was in London? Did he spend much of his time away from home?”

“He was very often away from Monday to Saturday, sir, especially for the last few weeks before Mrs. Nailsworth was taken ill. After that he spent most of his time with her. But before that he usually used to stay at his club during the week.”

“Mrs. Nailsworth was taken ill, was she? When was that?”

“About a month or five weeks before they went away, sir. It was a Friday, I remember, because that was my night out when I was with them. I came in about eleven o'clock, and Mr. Nailsworth met me. I was very surprised to see him, because Mrs. Nailsworth had told me that he wouldn't be home till next day, as usual. He said that he had come home suddenly because Mrs. Nailsworth had been taken ill. There was no need for a doctor, he told me, because it was only her nerves. He had got her off to sleep, and he did not want her disturbed on any account.”

“I want you to try to think of the date, Lucy. Was it Friday, February 9th, by any chance?”

Lucy considered the point. “I think it must have been, sir. I know it was the first time I had seen my aunt since her birthday, and that's on February 6th.”

“How long was Mrs. Nailsworth ill?”

“Well, sir, off and on until they went away. I couldn't make it out, somehow. That Friday morning it seemed to me that she was a bit queer. She was running about all over the house, without seeming to know quite what she wanted. And she started to pack some of her clothes, and I thought that was funny, because she wasn't going away for a month or more. It was just as if her nerves had all gone queer, as Mr. Nailsworth said.”

Merrion could picture the scene easily enough. Olive Nailsworth, on the eve of her elopement with her lover, her mind in a whirl of confused thought, but yet retaining sufficient womanly instinct to pack what she would need for the voyage. And then the arrival that evening of her husband, with the brutal announcement that Faithorne was dead! Yes, he had told Lucy the truth. He had got her off to sleep—by the use of the morphia syringe.

But Lucy was continuing her story: “I didn't see her at all that week-end, sir. Mr. Nailsworth drove up to London very early next morning, to get some things that would do her good. He told me that she was still asleep, and that I wasn't to go up to her room unless she rang. She didn't ring, and Mr. Nailsworth came back about nine o'clock, or soon after. He had a suitcase with him, I remember. I expect it was the things he had fetched from his club. And he went up to Mrs. Nailsworth, and looked after her himself for the next two or three days. Took her food up to her, and everything. It wasn't till the Monday that she came downstairs. And then she seemed terribly bad, hardly able to speak. And after that Mr. Nailsworth never let her be by herself until they went away. He used to take her with him when he went to work, or if he went away in the car.”

“One minute, Lucy. What sort of a car had Mr. Nailsworth?”

“He had a big saloon, sir, and Mrs. Nailsworth had a little one. It was the little one that Mr. Nailsworth took when he drove up to London on the Saturday morning.”

“And when they went away together, which car did they take?”

“The big one, sir. They were away together in it for a night two or three days before they sailed; the Wednesday night, it must have been.”

“The night of March 14th,” said Arnold significantly. “Now, there's another thing I want to ask you about, Lucy. Did Mr. and Mrs. Nailsworth have many visitors to the house?”

“Not a great many, as you might say, sir. They used to give a bridge party nearly every Saturday evening, when Mr. Nailsworth was at home.”

“Did Mr. Nailsworth ever bring any of his business friends to the house?”

“Now and again he would, sir. There was a young gentleman, I remember, came down and spent two or three Sundays running. Some time before Christmas, that would have been. Stoutish, dark, and good looking, he was. I heard him talking a lot about Africa or some such place while I was waiting at lunch.”

Arnold glanced significantly at Merrion. “Did you ever see this young gentleman again, Lucy?” he asked.

Lucy blushed deeply, and became suddenly confused. “I believe I did, sir,” she replied hesitatingly. “But I wouldn't be sure. Not to say for certain that it was him, sir.”

“And what was he doing when you saw him again, Lucy?”

Lucy hesitated once more, and then apparently decided that a plain statement of fact was the quickest way out of the situation. “He was a-kissing of Mrs. Nailsworth, sir,” she replied,” That is, if it was him I saw that evening.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BOTH Arnold and Merrion felt the excitement of hunters when hounds get on the true scent at last. But the Inspector succeeded in controlling his eagerness. “Will you tell us about that evening, Lucy?” he asked.

“Well, sir, it was like this,” Lucy replied bashfully. “It was one Friday evening, early in the new year. I'd been out with my young man, and we'd been to the pictures, and he was seeing me home. We were just stopping for a last word or two, just inside the gate, when suddenly the light in the conservatory went on.”

“Very embarrassing for you, Lucy,” said Arnold sympathetically.

“Oh, we weren't doing anything wrong!”Lucy exclaimed hastily. “He might have had his arm round my waist, but nothing more. I wouldn't have allowed it, seeing we were only walking out then. But, all the same, I didn't want Mrs. Nailsworth to see us. It might have led to questions, and they are better avoided.”

“Unfortunately they are necessary sometimes. What did you do about it?”

“Well, sir, we slipped into the bushes by the side of the drive. And we could see into the conservatory when it was all lighted up. And there was Mrs. Nailsworth and a young gentleman, and he was holding her in his arms and kissing her like anything. And when he let her go I caught sight of his face, and I whispered to my young man, “Well, I never! If that isn't the young gentleman who used to come here of a Sunday! '”

“People who live in glass-houses shouldn't give way to their emotions,” Arnold remarked. “What happened next?”

“The young gentleman opened the conservatory door and came out, sir. He passed us quite close but he didn't see us. Then Mrs. Nailsworth put out the conservatory light. We waited a minute or two and then I went in by the back door, and my young man, he went home. But I never said a word to nobody about what I'd seen. It wasn't any business of mine. Besides, the young gentleman might have been a relation, for all I knew.”

“Very discreet of you, Lucy. Now, can you tell us how Mrs. Nailsworth spent the evenings during the week when her husband was away in London?”

“Sometimes she'd drive up to London in her car, sir. She used to tell me sometimes that Mr. Nailsworth was going to take her to a theatre. And other evenings she'd just stay at home by herself, and sit in the drawing-room. That's the room that opens into the conservatory. And then she'd like us to finish our work early and go to bed.”

“You never saw the young gentleman on any other evening but the one you speak of?”

“No, sir. But I've fancied once or twice that I heard voices in the drawing-room, after I'd gone up to bed. But it might have been the wireless, though.”

“Talking of the conservatory, Lucy. Did Mr. Nailsworth take away any plants from there before he left the house?”

“Why, yes, now you come to mention it, sir, he did. He took away two big ones, that were just beginning to flower, in the car with him. That was the morning of the day he left. I don't know where he took them to. Mrs. Nailsworth didn't go with him I recollect. She had had a bad night, and was upstairs asleep. She looked pretty bad that afternoon when they went away to Southampton. I do hope the sea-voyage has done her good, poor lady.”

There seemed to be nothing more to be got out of Lucy for the time being. At Merrion's suggestion they paid a second visit to the works of British Plastic Products, Ltd., at Isleworth. The works manager seemed surprised at their return, but undertook to give them what assistance he could.

Arnold thanked him, and began his interrogation. “Was it Mr. Nailsworth's habit to attend here every day?” he asked.

“Practically every day,” replied the other. “Of course, there were exceptions. When he had business appointments elsewhere, for instance, or during the last few days before his departure for New Zealand, when he was busy with his own personal preparations. And latterly, Mrs. Nailsworth had taken to coming with him, and helping him in the laboratory.”

“Mr. Nailsworth spent a good deal of his time here in the laboratory?”

“All the time he could spare from his routine work in the office. In fact, nearly every evening, he was busy in there after the rest of the works were closed. The laboratory block has its own separate entrance, and he could let himself in and out when he liked.”

“I should like to inspect the laboratory, if you will be good enough to show it to me.”

The work's manager hesitated. “Well, it's like this, Inspector,” he replied. “Mr. Nailsworth is very particular about that block. He never allows any one in it unless he takes them himself. You see, he is always trying out new processes and new materials, and he's afraid that some of his secret experiments may leak out to our competitors. Nobody has been inside the place since he went away, and I don't even know where the key is.”

There was no doubt of the man's sincerity. But Arnold was not to be deterred. “I'm afraid that I shall have to see inside that laboratory,” he replied. “In confidence, I may tell you that I have reason to believe that it may contain evidence which would be of great value to the police. You will understand that I could apply for a search warrant, which would empower me to break down the door, if necessary?”

“I hope you won't do that!” exclaimed the other hastily. “I shouldn't like that to happen here. It might give the works undesirable publicity, and be a bad advertisement. Will you excuse me for a few minutes, while I have a word with the secretary?”

He went away, to return a few minutes later with an expression of relief. “The secretary agrees that it would be better if we kept this matter to ourselves,” he said. “He does not know where the key is. He believes that Mr. Nailsworth took it with him. But there is a door which connects the block with the rest of the works. It has been screwed up for a long time, but the screws could be removed and the door forced. If you will come with me, I will see what can be done about it.”

He led the way across a courtyard, and into a big room evidently used as a store. This was unoccupied, and at the farther end was a door which had clearly not been opened for a long time. Half a dozen long screws had been driven through the door into the woodwork surrounding it, and these, after some exertion, the work's manager succeeded in removing. It only remained to force the lock, not a very lengthy process, and the door lay open before them.

Preceded by the work's manager, they came out into a wide passage way, at the end of which was a second door, which, as the work's manager explained, led into the open, and was the one normally used by Mr. Nailsworth. On one side of the passage was a room, used for the storage of material and apparatus, on the other side was the laboratory itself, very much larger and lavishly equipped. It had a smooth concrete floor, which sloped gently towards a gutter and a drain. Merrion noticed this at once, and his face assumed an expression of intense interest. The work's manager must have noticed this, for he hastened to explain.

“You see, Mr. Nailsworth's experiments were sometimes on a fairly large scale, involving the use of quantities of unpleasant liquids. Carbolic acid and formaldehyde, for instance, and even milk, from which erinoid is produced. It is impossible to avoid spilling these sometimes, and that is why the floor is made like this. Over there, you see, is a tap with a hose attached to it, so that the whole place can be quickly flushed out.”

Merrion nodded. “Yes, I see,” he said. His sharp glance began to take in various other details. A long wooden bench, covered with various instruments, a capacious washing trough, a furnace, not unlike a gigantic cooking range, at the farther end. And, last of all, standing in one corner of the laboratory, an empty milk-churn.

He pointed this out to Arnold, and they examined it together. On the metal of the head was stamped “Godfrey and Sprot, Chanterford.”

“Where does that churn come from?” asked the Inspector sharply.

The work's manager glanced at it casually. “Oh, our usual suppliers, I suppose,” he replied. “We use a lot of milk in the production of erinoid, you know. I wasn't aware that there was an empty churn in here, though. Mr. Nailsworth must have forgotten to have it removed. Perhaps I had better see about it, now that I have found it. It's odd that the checker shouldn't have reported that he was a churn short.”

“It will have to stay where it is, for the present,” said Arnold. “Just come and look at it, will you, and tell me if it is one of your regular supply.”

The work's manager strolled across the room, and looked at the churn more closely. “Godfrey and Sprot?” he said. “I never heard of them. No, this certainly is not one of our regular churns. Mr. Nailsworth must have got it for himself from somewhere. What's the name of the place? Chanterford? Why—”

He stopped abruptly, and stared at Arnold in horrified amazement. “That churn in which the body was found, some time ago!” he exclaimed. “I remember now, reading about it. Wasn't Chanterford the place where it came from?”

“Yes, and Godfrey and Sprot were the owners of it,” Arnold replied. “Now you'll understand why I was so anxious to look into this laboratory. Now, you say that Mr. Nailsworth was in the habit of working in here by himself, after the works were closed. Can you tell me what time they closed on Friday, February ninth?”

“Let me see. We were working on short time about then. They would have closed at four o'clock.”

“And after that nobody would be left on the premises?”

“Nobody at all, except Mr. Nailsworth, if he were working late.”

“And if he had a visitor, he could let him in by the door you showed us just now?”

“Yes, I suppose he could. But I don't think he's likely to have had any visitors. Why should he? He wouldn't want them to pry into his secrets.”

“No, but he might have pried into theirs. Did you read the newspaper accounts of the milk-churn crime?”

“Not very carefully. I'm not a great newspaper reader. Haven't time.”

“Do you remember that, among other things found in the churn, was a horn spectacle frame?”

“I believe I do remember something about it.”

“Well, here is that spectacle frame,” said Arnold, producing it from his pocket as he spoke. “You might have a look at it, and tell me what you think about it.”

The work's manager took the frame, and scratched it with his nail. “That's not genuine horn!” he said. “It's erinoid, one of the substances we produce here. And it's a very queer thing, but I've seen a frame very like this one before.”

“Where?” asked Arnold sharply.

“In these very works. And I'm pretty certain that this is the one. We didn't make it, but one of our customers sent it to us, and asked us if we could produce a similar material. Since it wasn't quite the same production as our regular material, Mr. Nailsworth took it, and experimented till he had got a material exactly the same. I've never seen it since.”

“When was this?”

“Oh, a year and more ago, I dare say. We submitted a sample of the kind of erinoid our customer wanted, and it was quite satisfactory.”

“One more question. How did Mr. Nailsworth get to and from the works?”

“In a large car he had. When he was here, he kept it in a shed just outside the laboratory door.”

Having given instructions that nothing in the laboratory was to be disturbed, and seen the door leading into the works securely fastened, the Inspector returned to Scotland Yard. Merrion accompanied him, and the two sat down to discuss their next move.

“My reconstruction wasn't very far wrong, then,” said Merrion. “We know now pretty well how Faithorne was killed, and who killed him. Nailsworth asked him to come and see him that Friday afternoon, some time after four o'clock. And, once he had him in the laboratory, the rest was perfectly simple. He had everything there he wanted, even a furnace in which to destroy the clothes he was wearing, and any other incriminating evidence. And it didn't matter how much mess he made. As our friend the work's manager pointed out to us, he could flush down the floor and so leave no trace of blood. And, of course, the churn with the body in it could stay where it was until he was ready to dispose of it. He only made one mistake, that I can see.”

“What was that?”Arnold asked.

“Why, shutting up that unfortunate wife of his in the laboratory when he went to the works. It's rather horrible, when you think of it, leaving her in the same room as the dismembered body of her lover. But what else could he do? He dare not lose sight of her for a moment. You know what Lucy told us, that he never left her, after that mysterious illness of hers. And he couldn't keep her under morphia all the time. So he simply had to shut her up in the laboratory. But she made the best of her opportunity. Jolly plucky of her too. Most women wouldn't have had the courage to go near the churn.”

“What are you getting at now?

“Why, the hotel key and the spectacle frame. The first she had at home, and the second she found lying about forgotten in the laboratory. It was she who scratched the initials on the frame, you may be sure of that. She guessed that those initials would have to be the symbol she was to use if ever she was able to bring the crime to light. And it was while she was locked up in the laboratory that she put the key and the frame in the churn.”

“Well, we shan't get any more help from her now,” remarked Arnold grimly. “We've got to rely on our efforts. This fellow Nailsworth must be at large somewhere. I propose, as a first step, to circulate the most accurate description of him I can get hold of.”

“Good idea. There are one or two places where we might pick up his trail. He seems to have left the Sevenoaks house, taking his wife with him, on Friday, March sixteenth. And that, I think, should be our starting place.

“The pretext of a trip to New Zealand was thought of as soon as he had decided to murder Faithorne. This decision, I suppose, was made when Nailsworth discovered that he meant to elope with his wife to South Africa. Mrs. Nailsworth believed that the trip was a genuine intention, and fell in with the idea, readily enough. Why shouldn't she? She intended to bolt with Faithorne five weeks earlier.

“Even after Faithorne's murder, Nailsworth kept up the pretence. No doubt he thought it would be safer for him to disappear until the excitement aroused by the discovery of the body had settled down a bit. He even went down to Southampton as though he meant to go on board the Antipodes.”

“How do you know that?”Arnold demanded.

“I don't know it, but it seems highly probable. You haven't forgotten the postal order, surely? That was bought in Southampton on the following day. I haven't a doubt that Nailsworth and his wife stayed in Southampton on the Friday night. Somehow she managed to get hold of that postal order and send it off. She must have thought it was her last chance of communicating with the outside world before she reached New Zealand. And then, just before the Antipodes was due to sail, Nailsworth told her that they were not going to New Zealand at all.”

“Where did they go?” asked Arnold. “That's the point.”

“You may be quite sure that Nailsworth had fixed all that up in advance. When and why he decided to murder his wife may have some bearing on that point. I rather fancy that he had a sort of wild idea that after she had got over her lover's death she would become reconciled to him. That, after a time, she would see what a fool she had made of herself, and be content to let bygones be bygones. She may even have encouraged him in this idea, as the only means of regaining her freedom.

“However this may be, she did regain a certain amount of freedom, as we know. They must have gone from Southampton to some place which Nailsworth had already prepared for their reception. And there, at least, she was no longer kept under the continuous influence of morphia. She may have been given some sort of parole, for all we know. At all events, on March twenty-seventh she was able to get to London and leave the attache case in the taxi.. And, on the twenty-ninth, she sought sanctuary in my rooms. But, unfortunately for her, her husband followed her. Since he saw that he could not trust her he had only one course open to him. He must murder her, as he had murdered Faithorne.”

“And what became of him, after that night?”

Merrion made a gesture disclaiming responsibility. “That's up to you,” he replied. “You've got something to go upon, and you may find him. But you can count upon this. He will have completely changed everything he can, his name, his appearance, his habits, and everything else that would give you a clue to him. He's got a long start of you, and the odds are against you laying him by the heels now.”

Arnold grunted. Whatever the chances were against him, he meant to do his best. And, secretly, he was rather more hopeful of success than was Merrion. Entirely lacking his friend's powers of imagination, the Inspector relied upon sheer dogged perseverance. He felt that he had all the resources of Scotland Yard at his disposal, and that if he had to comb the whole country, he must at last succeed in discovery Nailsworth.

In accordance with Merrion's hint, he began with the departure of the Nailsworths from Sevenoaks on March sixteenth. He found, by careful inquiries, that they had taken an afternoon train to London, their luggage, consisting of half a dozen heavy trunks, being labelled through to Southampton. The next step was to make inquiries at the various hotels in the latter town. The name Nailsworth appeared in none of the visitors' books. But Arnold had anticipated this. He cross-questioned the hotel staffs about all the arrivals on that date. At last, at the Canute Hotel, he struck the trail.

Late in the evening of February 16th, a couple calling themselves Mr. and Mrs. Norton had arrived there. After so long a time, it was impossible to get any description of their appearance. But it was remembered that Mrs. Norton had appeared to be unwell, and had gone to bed immediately upon her arrival. Next morning Mr. Norton had gone out early, and shortly afterwards Mrs. Norton had come downstairs. She had asked the porter to send a page boy out for a five-shilling postal order. The boy remembered the incident, because she had given him a shilling for his trouble. Later in the day, it could not be established when, the Nortons had left for an unknown destination. It was not remembered that they had brought any considerable quantity of luggage with them.

Arnold set his wits to work to think what could have become of the luggage with which they had left Sevenoaks. Eventually, he enlisted the aid of the railway company. A cloak-room attendant at the Southampton Docks Station was able to supply a clue. He remembered, one evening in March, he could not be sure of the date, a gentleman depositing six heavy trunks with him. When asked for his name, he gave that of Norton. The attendant remembered this, because it happened to be his wife's maiden name. The trunks had been withdrawn next morning.

Search was then made for the porter who had removed the trunks from the cloak-room. He was eventually found. He thought they must be the ones a gentleman had asked him to get out one morning. The gentleman had showed him a first-class ticket to some station on the Great Western line, and asked him to put them in the train. But, since he had only one ticket, the porter told him that he would have to pay excess. He had seemed reluctant to do this, but had at last consented.

This brought Arnold back to the scent. The receipt book for excess luggage was examined. It was found that on the morning of March 17th, a substantial sum had been paid upon six trunks accompanying a passenger from Southampton to Oxford, via Newbury and Didcot.

So far as it went, this was helpful. The passenger was undoubtedly Nailsworth. But why only one ticket? Surely he had never left his wife behind at Southampton? Besides, the people at the Canute Hotel were positive that they had left together in the afternoon of the seventeenth.

However, Arnold proceeded to Oxford, in the rather forlorn hope that somebody at the station there might remember the arrival of a passenger with a quantity of heavy luggage. Once more the aid of the railway authorities was enlisted. And then a curious fact was revealed. The luggage had arrived, duly labelled, but had never been claimed. It had been removed to the Lost Property Office, where it still remained. Arnold lost no time in securing a warrant for its examination. The six trunks were opened. They were found to contain a quantity of old newspapers, in which a few stones had been wrapped, to make weight. Arnold returned to London in disgust, taking the trunks with him.

Merrion was in London, and the Inspector saw him at his rooms that evening. He listened to Arnold's account of his experiences, putting in a question here and there. “It's very much what we might have expected,” he said finally. “Nailsworth kept up the deception to the very end. His procedure on the Saturday morning seems fairly clear. Mrs. Nailsworth was left at the hotel. He had probably given her a dose of morphia to keep her quiet. But she must have been getting pretty well accustomed to morphia by then, and the dose did not have the desired effect. She was able to send the page boy for the postal order, and subsequently to post the letter.

“Meanwhile, Nailsworth had gone to the station where he bought a Great Western ticket to Oxford. At the same time, he probably bought a Southern ticket to Northam or St. Denys, through which the Oxford train would pass. He showed the Oxford ticket, and had his luggage labelled. Then, when he had paid the excess, and got on the train, his destination seemed settled. But he got out at Northam, we'll say, which is only a mile or so from Southampton Docks, gave up his Southern ticket, and quietly took a tram back to the hotel. Later in the day, he and Mrs. Nailsworth went to some place where he had already arranged accommodation for them.”

Arnold grunted. “That's all very well,” he said. “But how am I to find that place?”

“Not by any flash of inspiration,” Merrion replied. “This is the type of case that does not lend itself to brilliant intuition. It's a matter of sheer plodding, of picking up hints here and there, and piecing them together.”

“Nearly all detective work is like that,” said Arnold. “Sheer hard slogging, and leaving nothing to chance. But won't your usually vivid imagination come to the rescue?”

“Only to this extent. The Nailsworths left Southampton on March seventeenth. Mrs. Nailsworth left the attaché case in the taxi on the twenty-eighth, and she was murdered on the twenty-ninth. Where was she and her husband during those eleven days? They may have been anywhere. But you will remember that suggestion I made at the time. Mrs. Nailsworth arrived in London at Victoria, and left again from Charing Cross. You might start by having inquiries made in the area served by those two stations. There's just a chance that you may hear something of them.

“And there's another point. Nailsworth, now that you have identified him as the murderer, is in one sense an outcast. He is, no doubt, living disguised and under a false name. He dare not reveal himself under his true colours. He can't, for instance, draw money from his bank.”

“He hasn't any need to, for the present,” said Arnold sourly. “I've had all these things seen to already. He drew a sum of five thousand pounds before he left Sevenoaks, to cover the expenses of his trip to New Zealand.”

Merrion shrugged his shoulders. “Then it's very doubtful that you'll ever hear of him again,” he said.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

IN spite of the widest possible publication of Nailsworth's description, Arnold could obtain no news of him. Hundreds of people fell under suspicion, and were duly interviewed by patient policemen. But they were all able to produce satisfactory proofs of their identity, and were allowed to resume their various occupations.

On the other hand, the inquiries which the Inspector had set on foot at Merrion's suggestion produced more promising results. In consequence of a report received from the Kent police, he paid a visit to a private hotel near Canterbury. And here, in the course of a conversation with the proprietor, he once more picked up Nailsworth's trail.

The facts, as they transpired, were these. On March 12th, the proprietor had received a letter, posted in London, and signed C. Norris, reserving accommodation for himself and his invalid wife from the following Saturday. This letter had been retained and Arnold was able to recognise Nailsworth's handwriting.

Mr. and Mrs. Norris had arrived by train on the evening of March 17th. Their description tallied with those of Mr. and Mrs. Nailsworth. During the first week of their stay, Mrs. Norris spent most of her time in bed. Her husband had seemed most devoted, and had been in close attendance upon her all the time.

Later, however, Mrs. Norris's health had seemed to improve, and by the twenty-eighth her husband apparently thought it safe to leave her. He went out that morning, leaving Mrs. Norris in bed. Shortly afterwards, however, rather to the proprietor s surprise, she had appeared, and left the hotel. She returned that afternoon, shortly before her husband.

Next day, following her usual custom, she went upstairs to her room directly after dinner. She was seen, a few minutes later, to leave the hotel, in a hat and fur coat, by a side entrance. Her husband went upstairs immediately afterwards, and, not finding her in her room, made inquiries. He was told that she had been seen to go out. He did not seem very greatly surprised. He explained that she had that day received bad news of her mother's health, and had expressed a wish to go and see her. He had opposed this, owing to her own state of health, but no doubt she had slipped off without consulting him further. The best thing he could do was to follow her, and see that she was all right. They would return to the hotel in the morning.

Nothing more had been seen that night of either Mr. or Mrs. Norris. But, next day, Mr. Norris had returned by the first train from London. He had told the proprietor that his suspicions had been correct. He had overtaken his wife at the station on the previous evening, and they had gone up to London together. There they had found that her mother's condition was extremely serious. Mrs. Norris had decided to stay with her for the present, and he would join her. He had packed their things, paid the bill, and left at once. That was the last that had been seen or heard of him.

This explained a great deal, and Arnold was able to fill in the details for himself. During her husband's absence on the twenty-eighth, Mrs. Nailsworth had slipped up to London and left the attache case in the taxi. But Nailsworth had probably learnt of her departure from the hotel, and was on his guard. He had probably threatened to murder her if she disobeyed his orders again, and she had determined to escape from his clutches.

Hence her attempt to escape on the following evening. Nailsworth, no doubt, had followed her, without letting her see him. He had tracked her to Merrion's rooms, and there he had resolved to make good his threat. Arnold remembered with a shudder how well he had succeeded.

But there the trail was lost again. Nailsworth, after his last visit to the hotel to clear up his tracks, had once more vanished. Where was he now, and what means could be employed of identifying him among the multitude?

Even Merrion was at a loss. “The man has plenty of money at his disposal,” he said. “He can settle down anywhere he likes, without arousing the slightest suspicion. You may be sure that he has altered his appearance so effectively that your description of him is valueless. We don't even know that he has settled down, he may be wandering about from place to place, though I don't think it is likely. The more people who see him, the greater the risk of one of them recognising him, and that he will realise.”

The conversation was taking place in Arnold's room at Scotland Yard. Before he could reply to Merrion's observations, the telephone bell rang. He picked up the instrument, and his eyes lighted up as he listened to a short message. “Right!” he said. “I'll be along at once.” Then he turned to Merrion. “Message from Fulham Police Station,” he continued curtly. “They say there's an important development in the milk-churn case. Coming?”

The alacrity with which Merrion accepted the invitation showed that his interest had not abated. They took a fast car and drove to Fulham, where they were met by the Inspector in charge of the station, an old friend of Arnold's, Walker by name.

“Well, old chap, I think your little problem is solved,” said the latter jovially.

“What!” exclaimed Arnold. “You don't mean to say that you've found that chap Nailsworth?”

Walker nodded. “Yes, we've found him. And we've got him quite safe. Like to come along and see him?”

“Yes, I would,” Arnold replied. “I've been wanting to meet him for a very long while.”

“Step this way, then,” said Walker. But, instead of leading the way to the cells, as Arnold had expected, he led the way out of the police station into the street.

“Here, where are you going?” asked Arnold in astonishment.

“Not very far. Not more than a couple of hundred yards or so. We'll be there in a minute.”

Arnold and Merrion followed Walker in silence. He led them to an unpretentious side street, in which was a row of shops. One of these was unoccupied, with a large notice “To Let,” stuck on the rather grimy window. But the door was open, and a policeman stood guarding it.

Walker entered the shop, closely followed by the other two. He went through it, into a back room, into which the evening light filtered with difficulty through a narrow window. It took Arnold a few seconds to adjust his eyes to the dimness. And then he saw that the centre of the floor was occupied by the prostrate figure of a man.

Walker chuckled. “That's the bloke you're after,” he said. “But, unfortunately you'll be deprived of the pleasure of seeing him hanged. He's done that already for himself. You'd like to hear the details I expect. Come inside, Addis.”

The policeman left his post at the door and entered the shop. “Tell Inspector Arnold what you know about this,” Walker continued.

“At ten minutes past six I was passing the end of the road, sir,” replied Addis stolidly. “I saw a gentleman running towards me, and I stopped to see what was the matter. He came up to me, and told me that a man had hanged himself in this shop. Those were the very words he used, sir. I accompanied him to the premises and found the door open. I walked through the shop into this room and found a man hanging by a rope. Having ascertained that life was extinct, I cut him down, sir.”

“If he'd been still alive, you'd have left him alone, I suppose,” said Arnold impatiently. He looked up at the blackened ceiling, in the centre of which was a hook, evidently put there to support a lamp. To this the end of the rope was still attached.

Arnold, whose eyes were by now accustomed to the gloom, knelt down by the rigid figure on the floor. It was that of a tall, powerfully built man with closely cut hair and a stubbly grey beard. His clothing, though not new, was neat and in good order. And round his neck was the noose by which he had been hanging before Addis had cut him down.

“We've been through his pockets, and there is no doubt of his identity,” said Walker. “Here you are, I've laid out for you in this corner the things we found.”

He pointed to a row of objects, which Arnold proceeded to examine. A bunch of keys, a single ey, a small quantity of silver and copper, a cigar-case, containing two cigars, a box of matches, a gold watch upon which were engraved the initials C N, a driving licence made out to Charles Nailsworth at his Sevenoaks address, and finally an envelope, containing a folded sheet of paper. Arnold drew out the paper, and saw that it bore a few sentences in a handwriting which by this time he was able to recognise at a glance.

“To all whom it may concern. I, Charles Nailsworth of Sevenoaks and British Plastic Products, Ltd., have determined to take my own life. I am aware that at any moment my identity may be discovered, which would result in my being handed over to the police. Rather than incur that risk any longer, I prefer to put an end to my affairs in my own way. No other person is in any way involved. CHARLES NAILSWORTH.”

“So that's that,” said Walker, as Arnold replaced the letter in the envelope. “You couldn't have a clearer identification. The fellow got the wind up, as they so often do, and took it into his head to cheat the hangman. It's a pity, but there are no means of bringing him to life again.”

Arnold made no reply, but stood frowning down on the corpse. Merrion had been right, Nailsworth had changed his appearance as far as possible. Close-cropped hair, stubbly beard, cheaply made clothes, all in contrast to his former habits. And then the contents of his pockets, and the notes, which left nothing in doubt.

But still, there were certain inquiries yet to be made. “What about the chap who called in Addis?” Arnold asked. “Where has he got to?”

“He's not far off,” Walker replied. “He's a house-agent in a small way, and lives just round the corner. We'll go and see him if you like, and you can hear his story.”

Leaving Addis to guard the body, they went round to the house-agent's office. There they found a stout little man, who had evidently been resorting to whisky as a cure for the shock which he had so recently undergone. His speech was slightly incoherent, but there was no difficulty in following the gist of his story.

“It was like this, gentlemen,” he said. “Chap came into my office this afternoon after lunch. Round about two or half-past it must have been. Said he seen that shop round the corner was to be let, and asked a lot of questions about it. Told me he'd a son who'd just been married, and he wanted to start him in business. Tobacco and sweets, they all think there's a future in that. I know better, but it's no affair of mine. Why, I could tell you fellows...”

But, seeing that he was straying from the point, Arnold interrupted him. “I dare say you could tell us a lot,” he said. “But just now we want to hear about the man you found hanged.”

“Well, I'm telling you, aren't I?” replied the house-agent indignantly. “Trouble with you chaps is you're always so sharp on a fellow. Never give him a chance to put in a word. What was I saying? About the chap who came in to ask about the shop. Nicely spoken, he was. Quite the gentleman, if you know what I mean. Elderly, with a beard, and a bit of a limp.”

“A limp, eh?” said Arnold. So Nailsworth had found yet another means of disguising his usual appearance.

“Yes, a limp. Leaned over to his right side as he walked. Nothing wrong about that, is there? Couldn't help it, I suppose. Well, I gave him all particulars, and he seemed quite satisfied. Asked if he could have the key. I gave it him, and told him to bring it back when he had had a look round. Then a lot of other people came in, and it slipped my memory, I'm a busy man, I am.”

The house-agent nodded solemnly, with an air of rather fuddled pride. Then he continued. “Never thought of the chap again. Not till I was going to shut up the office at six o'clock. Then my typist reminded me. Nice little girl she is. Gone home, now. She said that the key had never been brought back. Seemed rather queer to me, so I put on my hat and slipped round to the shop. Found the door shut, but not locked. So I opened it, and went in. Couldn't see or hear anybody about.”

The house-agent paused, but seeing the glance of impatience in Arnold's eye, hastily resumed his narrative. “I called out, ' Anybody there? ' but there wasn't any answer. I thought the chap must have gone off, taking the key with him. And I remembered that I hadn't asked him for his address. Then something—I don't know what it was—made me push open the door of the back room. And there was the fellow who'd come into my shop, hanging from a hook in the ceiling. Horrible! I tell you, gentlemen, it gave me such a turn I shan't soon get over it. And then I ran out and called the police. I wasn't going to have any more to do with it.”

The facts seemed clear enough, and Arnold glanced at Merrion, who smiled significantly. They left the house-agent's office, and walked back towards the shop. On the way, Merrion drew Arnold aside. “Do you mind if I ask Addis a question?” he said.

“Ask him what you like,” Arnold replied. Taking advantage of the permission, Merrion accosted the constable. “Before you cut the man down, did you notice how far his feet were from the floor?” he asked.

“About twenty-four or thirty inches, sir,” replied Addis promptly.

Merrion's curiosity being thus satisfied, Arnold collected the objects which had been found in the dead man's pockets, and after some further conversation with Walker, he and Merrion returned to the Yard.

“So that's that!” said the Inspector, when they had gained the seclusion of his room. “It's all perfectly clear. Nailsworth thought we were on his track, and, rather than fall into our hands, he committed suicide. And there's the hangman cheated of another scoundrel.”

“Beautifully simple,” replied Merrion. “The drama of the milk-churn murder reaches its inevitable conclusion. But did you notice anything peculiar about that back room?”

“There wasn't anything to notice. It was absolutely empty, except for the body and the things laid out on the floor. You might at least give me the credit for ordinary powers of observation.”

“Yes, it was empty,” Merrion agreed. “That's just what strikes me as peculiar.”

“Why, what the devil would you expect to find in the back room of an empty shop?”

“I should have expected to find something in that particular back room. Just think a minute.”

Merrion's persistence seemed to irritate his friend. “Think!” he exclaimed. “What the dickens is there to think about? A man is found hanging in an empty room. What more do you want?”

“I want this,” Merrion replied gravely. “I want to know what became of the object from which he stepped in order to tighten the noose round his neck?”

Arnold stared at him in amazement, but he continued quite unperturbed. “There's a link missing somewhere. You find a man hanging, with his feet from twenty-four to thirty inches from the floor, from a hook in the centre of the ceiling of an empty room. How on earth did he get into that position unaided? If he hanged himself, he can only have done so by standing on some object, at least two feet high, then tying the rope to the hook, adjusting the noose round his neck, and then stepping off the object. If he did that, what has become of the object?”

There was no denying the soundness of this argument, and Arnold was forced to seek an answer to Merrion's question. “Some one must have entered the shop and removed it,” he replied. “Nailsworth got the key before three, and that house-agent chap didn't find his body till six. There was plenty of time for anybody, finding the door of the shop unlocked, to look in and take away the object like a chair, for example.”

But Merrion shook his head. “People don't usually steal chairs from rooms in which dead men are hanging,” he said. “In my opinion, it is a case not of suicide, but of murder.”

“Murder!” exclaimed Arnold. “You mean that Nailsworth didn't kill himself, but that somebody else did the job for him?”

“No, I don't exactly mean that,” replied Merrion slowly. “I mean that Nailsworth has accomplished his third murder with the same success that he accomplished his first two. How do you know that the dead man is Nailsworth?”

“How do I know?”Arnold exclaimed, pointing to the objects now arrayed upon his table. “Look at that letter, written by himself. Do you want me to go through the rest of the things? The cigars which he smoked even when he was impersonating the hairy foreigner with the barrow, the watch with his initials on it, and the driving licence in his name? Man alive! What better evidence of identification could you possibly want?”

“It's almost too good,” Merrion replied. “Look here, listen to me for a moment. I am wanted by the police, on a capital charge, we will say. I alter my appearance, by changing my clothes, growing a beard, and so forth. But still, I can't get rid of the uneasy feeling that I may be recognised, sooner or later. The only thing that will put an end to the pursuit is my death.

“Very well, then. It occurs to me to provide irrefutable evidence of my death. I prowl round until I find somebody sufficiently like me for my purpose. That should not be very difficult, for there is nobody alive who knew me sufficiently intimately to identify me by any bodily peculiarity. Having found that person, I decoy him to an empty shop, stun him with a sandbag, a weapon in which I am a bit of an expert, and then, having filled his pockets with my own belongings, I string him up most artistically. Scotland Yard rubs its hands over the conclusion of a very troublesome affair, and for the rest of my life I am safe from suspicion. And this, it strikes me, is just what Nailsworth has done.”

“But if the dead man isn't Nailsworth, who is he?”Arnold demanded.

“I don't know. But if I had been in Nailsworth's place, I should have selected a crook, who would not be missed, for my purpose. If I were you, I would take the man's fingerprints. That may give you a clue. And, whatever you do, publish the news of Nailsworth's sensational death as soon as you can. That will make him feel that he is secure, and a sense of security often leads to imprudence. And now for heaven's sake let's go and get some dinner. I'm positively famished.”

Arnold took Merrion's advice, and next day a complete set of the dead man's fingerprints was submitted to the appropriate department at the Yard. It was not long before they were identified as those of a certain Samuel Byrd, who had served a term of imprisonment for burglary with violence, seven years before. Arnold sought out a sergeant, now retired, who had been connected with the case, and interrogated him on the subject.

“Sam Byrd, sir?” the sergeant replied. “Yes, I knew him well. Limping Sam, we used to call him, because of his queer leg. He got a bullet just above the right knee in some scrap or other down Limehouse way.”

“What was he like when you knew him?”Arnold asked.

“Well, sir, that's twenty years ago and more. Then he was a big, smart, powerful chap of thirty or so. It took three of us to handcuff him when we did run him to earth, and we were all a bit worse for wear when we'd finished with him. He spoke and acted just like a gentleman, and I have heard that he was the son of a parson. But I expect he has changed a good bit since those days.”

Arnold took the sergeant to the mortuary in which the body was lying. The sergeant gazed at the close-cropped head and beard. “He was clean-shaven when I knew him, sir,” he said. “And he always wore his hair long and brushed back. But I expect he changed his looks when he came out of prison. They mostly do. Putting that aside, the face isn't unlike.”

He drew back the sheet, and examined the right leg of the body. “There you are, sir!” he exclaimed. “There's that bullet wound I spoke of, just above the knee. That's Limping Sam, all right. I'd bet my pension on it.”

This was the only convinced opinion that Arnold could obtain. The secretary and the works' manager of British Plastic Products, Ltd., were shown the body. They both agreed that the face and general proportions were very similar to those of Nailsworth. Another ominous circumstance was they knew that he had been wounded in the war, but in what part of the body they did not know. Further, they testified that at times he limped slightly.

It was the difficulty, so familiar to the Inspector, of getting positive evidence. The body might be that of Nailsworth. There was no definite proof that it was not. On the other hand, the evidence of the fingerprints and the bullet wound strongly suggested that it was that of Limping Sam.

Merrion was convinced of the truth of his theory. “Just look at the psychology of the thing,” he said. “If the man is Nailsworth, and if he hanged himself, he did so to escape falling into your clutches. All he cared about was to get out as painlessly and with as little trouble as possible. Why should he take pains to write a letter, explaining his motives and so forth? Why should he fill his pockets with things deliberately chosen with a view to the identification of his body? To set your mind at rest on the matter? Not a bit of it. On the other hand, if the body isn't his, and he wished to make you think it was, these are the very steps he would have taken.”

“What do you suppose happened in that shop, yesterday afternoon?”Arnold asked.

“Something of this kind. In the first place, Nailsworth got into touch with Limping Sam because of the resemblance between them. How he did so, we don't know, but it's up to you to find out. He found out Sam's past history, and approached him with a scheme by which they would both benefit. Wholly imaginary, of course. They must have somewhere to talk over the details. Nailsworth suggested that he should get the key of the shop, and that Sam should meet him there, say at half-past three.

“Sam falls into the trap. He goes to the shop, Nailsworth lies in wait for him behind the door with his sandbag, and lays him out. Then he produces the rope which he has provided for the purpose, and carries out his plan. He's a powerful man, we know. Thinks nothing of lifting full milk-churns about. And he could lift Sam from the floor without difficulty. But it was careless of him not to provide a chair, or a packing-case, or something. It was the absence of anything of the kind that first made me suspicious.”

Arnold nodded. “I dare say you're right,” he said. “Imagination's a wonderful thing, if you don't let it run away with you. Do you feel like making a guess where Nailsworth is now?”

“I don't,” replied Merrion. “But you've got a clue, if you can follow it up. How, when and where did he got into touch with Sam? Trace Sam's movements in the last few days, and you'll probably get on Nailsworth's trail. But you've got to go very cautiously. Don't let Nailsworth have the least suspicion that you don't believe in his death, or you'll lose him. And there's another thing in your favour.” “What's that?”Arnold asked.

“Just this.” Nailsworth must have been living somewhere previous to yesterday afternoon. His presence there must be known to certain people The last thing he would do would be to disappear just at the moment of Sam's death. That might create suspicion. Therefore, you will find that Mr Norris, or whatever he calls himself now, has returned to his usual haunts and is living there peacefully.”

“There's something in that,” Arnold agreed. “There's nothing for it but a little exploration of the underworld. I'll get on to that at once.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ARNOLD'S exploration of the underworld was nothing if not thorough. The whole of London was combed for news of Limping Sam, and of anybody who might have associated with him. But crooks are notoriously shy birds, and one and all declared with righteous indignation that they would never dream of having anything to do with so notorious a character.

However, a few scraps of information were elicited, and from these Arnold was enabled to form some idea of Sam's existence since his release from prison. His shadowy figure appeared in the background of many questionable transactions. There had been a series of burglaries in Hampstead, for instance, which Sam had organised, without participating in them. But nobody would own to having actually seen him and spoken to him. He seemed to have become a legend in the underworld, rather than an actual character. Where he lived, and how, nobody knew. Nor, apparently, had his disappearance attracted any notice.

Arnold was naturally disgusted with his lack of success. But Merrion took a connoisseur's delight in the situation. “You must admit that Nailsworth is an artist in crime,” he declared. “He finds a man so like him that even now you aren't really satisfied, at the bottom of your heart, that it wasn't his body you saw in that shop. Further, he contrives to select an individual who ' never will be missed.' It's really masterly!”

But the Inspector refused to share his friend's enthusiasm. “This business is hell!” he grumbled “We get on the swine's track, here and there, and then the scent vanishes completely. It's as if he had the power of making himself invisible when he wants to. I feel like persuading myself that he really is dead, and chucking the whole affair up.”

However, a couple of days after this expression of pessimism, a fortunate accident put Arnold once more on the track. A policeman, on duty in Bays-water, saw a man emerging stealthily from a house in the early hours of the morning. Noticing a suspicious bulge in his overcoat, he approached him. The man took to his heels, the policeman gave chase, and eventually overtook him. Exploration of the bulge brought to light a miscellaneous collection of valuable jewellery.

The delinquent turned out to be an old acquaintance of the police, known to Scotland Yard as Smiling Louey. He took his capture quite philosophically, and speculated upon the severity of the sentence which, as an old offender, he would be likely to receive. But, in an unguarded moment, he bewailed his luck. It was most unfortunate that he had been arrested at that particular moment, for he had a good thing on with an old pal of his.

The Yard pricked up its ears at this. Pressure was put upon Louey to reveal the name of this pal. It was pointed out to him that a misdirected reticence might result in stimulating the memory of the police regarding certain incidents of the past, which would otherwise be forgotten. After some persuasion, Louey was induced to speak. His old pal was none other than Limping Sam.

This immediately brought Arnold on the scene. He visited Louey in his cell, and approached him confidentially. “Now, look here, Louey,” he said. “You've got a chance of doing yourself a bit of good if you behave reasonably. I want to know something about Limping Sam. You needn't be afraid of talking to me. You won't be called upon to give evidence against him.”

Louey glanced at the Inspector suspiciously. “You've nabbed him, then?” he asked.

“Never you mind about that. You won't see Sam again in this world, I'll promise you that. Now, what about this little game that you and he had on hand?”

“It was Sam's idea entirely,” Louey replied. “I hadn't anything to do with it, Mr. Arnold, that I hadn't. Sam met me one day in the Clover Leaf, Bermondsey way, quite casual like, and told me that he'd been put up to a job down by the docks. He wanted a pal to help him, and if I liked to stand in, he'd go shares.”

“And you agreed, of course. You say that Sam put you up to this job. Who put him up to it?”

“Well, Mr. Arnold, that's rather a queer story. Sam told me about it. He was in a pub, round about Hoxton, when a chap came into the bar. Sam and the chap just stared at one another, he told me. They were as alike as two peas, might have been twin brothers. And then the chap laughed, and said that since they had met, they had better have a drink together. They had one or two, from what I can make out, and then Sam got a shock.”

“Oh, he got a shock, did he?” said Arnold. “Nasty thing for a man of his delicate constitution. What sort of a shock?”

“Why, the bloke told him that he knew who he was, and all about him. Gave him the details of that job he was lagged for, years ago. Sam got the wind up properly, but the bloke said it was all right, he was no friend of the police. He told Sam that he was a retired sea captain, and that he knew how to get away with a bit if he could find a chap that knew how to use his hands. There's always a lot of valuable stuff lying around the dock warehouses and this bloke told Sam that he knew a way of getting at it.”

“A retired sea captain, was he? Where did he live?”

Louey smiled cunningly. “He didn't tell Sam that. But Sam's pretty fly. He didn't altogether trust the bloke, as you might say. So when he left the pub Sam followed him, and saw him go into a house in Malthouse Street, Chalk Farm. Let himself in with a key, he did, same as if he lived there. Sam poked about a bit, and found out that the house belonged to a widow lady, that let rooms. There'd been a Captain Norbury there for a matter of some weeks. But nobody had ever seen much of him.

“Well, that seemed all right to Sam. But how this Captain Norbury came to know all about him worried him a bit. Sam's been keeping pretty quiet since he came out of quod, and since he's grown a beard and that, he thought nobody knew him, except a few of his old pals, of course.”

“Of which you are one, Louey. Where is Sam living now?”

Louey shook his head violently. “I can't tell you that, Mr. Arnold, honest, I can't,” he replied. “I would if I could, but Sam never told a soul where he was living. He changes his lodgings once a week, or maybe oftener. And if he wants to meet a chap, he tells him of a place where he'll be at a certain time. And that's how he used to meet this Captain Norbury.”

“Oh! So he met him more than once, then?”

“Several times, from what Sam told me. They were getting the job in hand nicely, and then this captain bloke told Sam that he had something to show him, which it wouldn't do to bring to a pub, where anybody might see. The bloke said that he knew of a shop down Fulham way, which was empty. He would get the key, and Sam was to come there and meet him, and they would have a quiet chat. It was a week or more ago since Sam told me that. He was to meet me at the Clover Leaf, three or four days ago, but he never turned up.”

“No, Louey, he was unavoidably prevented,” said Arnold reflectively. “Sam had close-cropped hair, a short beard, and a bullet wound above his right knee, hadn't he?”

“That's right, Mr. Arnold. You've got him, then. What's he in for?”

“He's in for eternity, Louey. His friend Captain Norbury murdered him in that shop down Fulham way. And Norbury is the man who is wanted for the milk-churn murder, which you've probably heard of. I'm much obliged to you, Louey. I'll do what I can for you, you can trust me for that.”

“Thank you, Mr. Arnold,” replied Louey. “So that blighter did poor old Sam in, did he? Well, I hope you'll nab him, and that he'll swing for it.”

“You can trust me for that too, Louey,” said Arnold, as he left the cell.

The Inspector wasted no time, but went at once to Chalk Farm Police Station, where he issued his instructions. It was then the middle of the morning. He ascertained that number 17 Malthouse Street was occupied by a Mrs. Cater, who let lodgings. It was known that she had a lodger, a seafaring gentleman, but how long he had been there, and what he looked like, the local police were unable to tell him.

Arnold smiled as he reflected that Sam's resources in the way of acquiring information had been more effective than his own. However, accompanied by a local sergeant, he visited Number 17. The door was opened by a frail-looking elderly woman, who, in reply to Arnold's inquiries, stated that her name was Mrs. Cater, and that her lodger. Captain Norbury, was out, and that she couldn't say when he would be back.

The Inspector entered the house and cross-examined her. She was, it appeared, a widow with an invalid daughter, and a small pension. She made such of a living as she could by letting a pair of rooms to single gentlemen. “But I'm very particular,” she added primly. “If I don't like the look of anybody, I don't take them in. But Captain Norbury is a perfect gentleman, and I couldn't wish for a better lodger. I'm very sorry that he's had to leave me, to take up that appointment in Hull.” “Has he left you, then?” asked Arnold quickly. “Well, he gave up his rooms this morning,” she replied. “But his suitcases are still here, and he said that he'd come back for them this evening. He had to be out all day, as he had some business to see to before he left London.”

“When did he first come to you?”

“Let me see, now. It was the end of March. Yes, the thirtieth, I remember. He came in the evening, told me that he had seen the notice in the window, and asked me if I had a room to let. As it happened, the rooms were vacant just then. Captain Norbury came in and looked at them, and said that he would take them, right away. And very glad I was to get him, for the rooms had been empty for a long time.”

“You didn't ask him for references, or anything like that?”

“Oh, no! I could tell at once that he was a gentleman. Besides, he paid me five pounds down in advance. And I'm sure I've never had cause to regret having him here.”

“You didn't ask him where he came from, even?”

“I didn't have to. He told me all about himself, that first evening. He had come straight from sea in a steamer, I forget its name. And, just as they were getting into the dock a lamp in the cabin or somewhere had exploded, and burnt his face very badly. It was all done up in bandages for a long time after he came here. He told me that he had lived a very hard life, and that all he wanted was rest. He used to stay in his room nearly every day, reading the newspapers. It was only in the evenings that he would go out occasionally.”

Arnold nodded. Nailsworth's habits were easy to understand. He would naturally avoid the daylight, and his interest in the newspapers was easily understandable. He had arrived on the day after the murder of his wife. And, though he might possibly have burnt his face while he was spreading the conflagration in Merrion's rooms, it was far more probable that the bandages were a subterfuge, to prevent recognition until his beard had grown.

“Had he any visitors while he was here?” the Inspector asked.

“No, never. He told me that he knew nobody in London. He said that after he had had a good rest, he would write to his friends in the North of England, and try to find something to occupy his time. It wasn't that he wanted the money, for he always seemed to have plenty of that, but he told me that he couldn't spend the rest of his life doing nothing. I asked him once if he had ever thought of getting married, and he looked at me so queerly and said that women were the ruin of men's lives. And he was such a pleasant gentleman that I wondered how he could say such a thing. And a few days ago he told me that he had an appointment offered him at Hull, and he was going to take it up. Of course, I was glad for his sake, but I was very sorry to hear it, all the same. I shall miss not having him here. It'll make a lot of difference to me. It isn't as easy to let respectable rooms as it used to be.”

Very much to Mrs. Cater's horror, Arnold insisted upon inspecting the rooms and their contents. Nailsworth's luggage consisted of two large suitcases, and these Arnold overhauled. They were packed with various articles of clothing, but there was nothing whatever, in them to throw any light upon the identity of their owner. This duty accomplished, Arnold left the house, imposing on the sergeant the task of watching it until their return.

He returned to the police station, and telephoned to Scotland Yard and to Merrion. He was determined that Nailsworth should not escape him this time. But he realised that success was by no means a certainty. Nailsworth's story of an appointment in Hull was, quite obviously, merely a pretext. He had decided to change his place of residence, in case by any chance he should be traced to Malthouse Street.

There were two disturbing possibilities, as Arnold saw clearly enough. The first was that Nailsworth might never return to Mrs. Cater's hospitable roof and claim his luggage. He had a habit of leaving odd bits of luggage about the country. The second possibility was that on approaching the house, he would perceive that it was being watched, and make off. Nothing could be done about the first of these. But the second could be guarded against to some extent at least. Arnold relieved the sergeant, whose burly form and blue uniform were a thought too conspicuous, and replaced him with a couple of plain-clothes men, who had orders not to approach No. 17 nearer than their respective ends of Malthouse Street. They were instructed to arrest any person who attempted to enter or leave the house, and to hold them until the Inspector appeared on the scene.

In the course of the afternoon, Merrion joined Arnold at the police station. And then a long and tedious wait ensued. One or other of the plain-clothes men reported at intervals. One or two tradesmen had called at the door of Number 17, but that was all. The afternoon merged into evening, and the lamps illuminated the dreary length of Malthouse Street. But still there was no sign of Nailsworth.

By nine o'clock Arnold could bear it no longer. For some hours he had been nervous and irritable, and now his impatience boiled over. “He's slipped through our fingers again!” he exclaimed. “Anyhow, I can't wait here any longer. Come along, let's go to Malthouse Street ourselves, and chance it.”

They were favoured to this extent, that an unpleasant drizzle was falling, and there were not many people about. Number 17 was one of a long row of exactly similar houses, only distinguishable from them by its number. This was visible on the fanlight over the door, behind which a light was burning, as though to welcome the wanderer home.

Up and down the opposite side of the road they paced, stopping every now and then as a dimly seen figure hurried along the street, muffled up against the rain. But none of these infrequent passers-by bestowed so much as a glance at Number 17, or on the two men who watched them so eagerly. They were far too intent upon seeking shelter.

And then at last a taxi turned into Malthouse Street. It was the first they had seen since the commencement of their vigil. The inhabitants of the neighbourhood were evidently not in a position to indulge in such luxuries. It came towards them, its tyres swishing loudly on the wet surface. The driver peered out from behind his wind-screen, he was evidently not familiar with the numbering of the street. The illuminated fanlight caught his eye, and he swung his vehicle in towards it.

Arnold dashed across the road, and was beside the door of the taxi as it opened. He heard a pleasant and cultured voice speak to the driver. “Wait for me here, I shan't be five minutes.” Then a tall, powerfully built man stepped on to the pavement.

He was so exactly like the man who had been found hanging in the shop at Fulham, that for a fraction of a second the Inspector stood transfixed with amazement. The build, the features, the stubby beard, were identical. It seemed for the instant that it must be Limping Sam risen from the dead. Then Arnold recovered himself. He stretched out his arm and grasped the other by the shoulder. “I want you, Charles Nailsworth,” he said grimly.

To Merrion, a few paces away, what followed seemed to happen in a flash. The bearded man swung round and struck the Inspector a crashing blow under the jaw. Arnold reeled backwards, caught his foot upon the curb, and fell headlong. But his assailant did not stop to witness his victory. Taking to his heels, he raced off along the street, in the direction from which the taxi had come.

Merrion dragged Arnold, who was dazed by the blow and the fall, to his feet, and thrust him into the taxi. Then he sprung in beside him. “After him!” he shouted excitedly to the driver.

The taximan, seeing his fare disappear in this unceremonious fashion, lost no time in obeying the order. But, owing to the direction of Nailsworth's flight, it was necessary to turn the taxi, and Malthouse Street was too narrow to allow of this being done on a single lock. A few valuable seconds were thus wasted, and the taxi was some distance behind when Nailsworth encountered the plain-clothes man stationed at the end of the street.

That encounter was short but decisive. The plain-clothes man, who had been too far away to witness Arnold's discomfiture, advanced full of confidence to intercept the fugitive. Nailsworth made no attempt to evade him. On the contrary, he bore straight down upon him. When only a yard or two separated them, he thrust his hand into his overcoat pocket, and withdrew an object which he nourished for an instant over his head. There was a dull, almost inaudible thud, and the unfortunate plain-clothes man fell prostrate in the road.

The taximan uttered a yell, and put his foot forcibly upon the accelerator. The vehicle swung out into a more important thoroughfare, narrowly missing a bus, whose driver cursed fluently. Nailsworth was perhaps thirty yards ahead, keeping to the roadway, and dodging the traffic with graceful ease.

But the taximan was on his mettle. Recklessly abandoning the rule of the road, he followed his quarry like a hound on the trail. The vehicle gained on the fugitive, until it was close behind him. Arnold, who had more or less recovered his senses, opened the door, prepared to leap out.

Nailsworth, however, had evidently studied the neighbourhood with some care. He swerved suddenly from the road, and darted on to the pavement, along which he ran for a few yards, until he reached the brilliantly lighted window of a public house. A group of men were standing at the side door, but these he scattered with the impetus of his rush. He turned off sharply, and disappeared up a narrow passage between the public house and the next building.

But Arnold and Merrion, reinforced by the taxi-man, who had abandoned his vehicle in the heat of the chase, were close on his heels. The group round the side door, resenting this violent disturbance of their conversation, seemed disposed to obstruct them. They were compelled to fight their way through, and this occupied a second or two. By the time they had entered the passage, Nailsworth had almost reached the farther end.

It seemed as if they must have him now. The passage was a cul-de-sac, with no turning off it. Its end was closed by a wooden fence, affording no foothold by which to climb it. They slackened then-pace, and waited in readiness for their quarry to turn at bay.

It flashed through Merrion's mind that it was very strange that Nailsworth had deliberately entered such a trap. He showed no signs of reducing the speed of his flight as he approached the wooden fence. Indeed, he seemed to increase it, and for an instant Merrion wondered whether he would attempt to leap over it. But he did nothing of the kind. Advancing his shoulder slightly, he hurled himself at the fence. There was a crash, and the sound of splintering wood. Nailsworth vanished into the darkness beyond.

His three pursuers flung themselves through the gap made by his onslaught. They seemed suddenly to be plunged into a new and mysterious world of darkness, peopled by huge moving forms and scattered twinkling lights. Merrion was conscious that a vast open space extended before him. A shadowy figure, which must be that of Nailsworth, was rapidly disappearing in the gloom. He started to give chase, but before he had advanced a couple of strides his foot struck some rigid, unyielding object, and he fell headlong.

As he picked himself up, bruised and shaken, his hand came in contact with metal. There was just enough light for him to see that it was a railway line. Then he realised the nature of this strange open space. It was a railway shunting yard. As he stood up trying to get his bearings, a truck rumbled and clanked by within a few feet of him. There was a clash of buffers as it joined the train then being marshalled.

It seemed that pandemonium had broken loose around him. Arnold, invisible somewhere ahead, found his whistle, and was blowing frantic blasts upon it. As if in reply, the safety-valve of a shunting engine near by opened with an ear-splitting roar. Men unseen at their posts in the yard, began to shout. A heavy steel wagon came lumbering across the yard, and reached a line of loose trucks which cannoned into one another with a never-ending succession of sharp clangs.

Merrion started to run once more, in the direction from which Arnold's whistle sounded. He immediately felt himself clutched from behind. It was the taxi-driver, and the recognition was immediate and mutual. “Strewth, mister!” exclaimed the man breathlessly. “This is a bit of all right, ain't it?”

Merrion laughed at the ambiguity of the phrase. To him the situation seemed distinctly all wrong. It was sheer suicide to go chasing in the darkness over the tracks, with railway wagons approaching from every direction at once. He had long ago lost sight of Arnold and the fugitive. The whistle had ceased, and he was by no means sure of the direction in which he had last heard it. He and the taximan hesitated, peering nervously round them for the shadowy forms of approaching trucks.

And then a miracle happened. Far above their heads a meteor blazed out of the obscured sky, shedding a bright light, crossed by bars of heavy shadows, over the wilderness of tracks around them. Some intelligent railwayman, guessing the cause of all the fuss, had switched on the lamp standards.

Merrion leapt back as a truck thundered along the track upon which he was standing. When it had passed, he caught sight of Arnold, running hard, a hundred yards or so distant. Like a pack in full cry, a drove of shunters, firemen and engine-drivers followed him. The sound of their shouting drowned even the whistling of the locomotives.

In his youth, Merrion had been a famous sprinter. He dashed in pursuit, and very soon caught up the pack. Then he regained sight of Nailsworth, who was running easily and maintaining his lead. He held on a steady course towards the farther end of the yard, seeming to have some definite objective in view.

But there were many obstacles in his path, moving trucks and standing trains. He dodged them easily, until he reached a long train of empty wagons, standing at right angles to his path. One of these, a long closed milk wagon, had sliding doors at either side, both of which were open. Nailsworth made straight for it. His purpose was obvious, he meant to pass through it from side to side. He reached the wagon, and vaulted lightly into it through the door nearest him.

At last, however. Fate turned against him. A shunter, working at the farther end of the yard, had been attracted by the commotion, and was running up to see what it was all about. He took in the situation at a glance, and reached the milk wagon a fraction of a second before the fugitive, but from the opposite direction. He flung himself at the door nearest to him, slamming it to, and drove the bolt home. Nailsworth flung himself against it, tearing at it with his hands, but it was too late. His farther progress was barred.

Quick as lightning he spun round, prepared to leap from the wagon by the door at which he had entered it. But Arnold and Merrion were only a couple of yards distant, and he must have leapt into their arms. With a roar of rage he retreated into the darkness at the end of the wagon.

Neither Arnold nor Merrion hesitated. They clambered into the wagon, followed helter-skelter by the crowd behind them. The Inspector had a torch, one or two of the shunters still carried their lamps. With one accord all concentrated their beams upon the figure standing at bay in the corner.

He was a sufficiently menacing sight, seemed like some fabled ogre in the confined space and uncertain light. He stood facing his pursuers, a savage expression upon his face, his eyes gleaming like points of fire. With his right hand he swung the sandbag, a thin cylinder of canvas about eighteen inches long. And at the least movement in the group facing him, he leaned forward ominously.

For a second or two there was a strained silence, broken only by the sound of heavy breathing And then Arnold spoke, his voice echoing queerly in the empty space of the wagon. “Come on, Nailsworth, the game's up.” he said sternly. “You've had a good run for your money, and now you may as well come quietly.” At the mention of this notorious name, a buzz of hushed voices broke out behind him. “Nailsworth! That's the bloke what's wanted for the milk-churn murder!”

“Garn, it can't be him, he hanged himself, days ago.”

“Well, he's an ugly-looking beggar, anyhow. Shouldn't care to have to tackle him”

But Nailsworth only swung his sandbag and grinned ferociously.

It was an awkward situation. A combined rush would have brought him down, but several people would almost certainly have been seriously injured in the process. Merrion looked round. One of the firemen who had joined in the chase had brought with him a short but heavy iron bar. Merrion put out his hand, and the fireman, seeing what he wanted unhesitatingly gave him the bar.

Then Merrion turned to face the fugitive. With a sudden quick movement he took a short step forward raising the bar over his head as though to strike. Nailsworth's reply was equally swift His left arm shot up in defence, and his right swung the sandbag for a smashing blow at Merrion's head. A gulp of excitement rose from the onlookers. The reach of the sandbag was patently much greater than that of the bar. Merrion must be felled before he could deliver his stroke.

But Merrion knew perfectly well what he was about. As Nailsworth's arms shot out, he lowered the bar, and held it before him like a rapier. Even as he did so, he ducked and lunged savagely, aiming at the pit of Nailsworth's stomach. Before the onlookers could see what had happened, the sandbag had descended with a thud upon Merrion's back. But, at that same instant, the bar did its work. Nailsworth groaned, and collapsed with a crash upon the floor of the wagon. Before he could recover himself, he was secured.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE trial of Nailsworth, closely followed by all those who had been thrilled by the revelations in the milk-churn murder, developed into a battle of wits between the prosecution and the defence. Nailsworth's counsel made a brilliant attempt to save his client's life, but the formidable mass of evidence accumulated by Arnold was too much for him. The jury, after comparatively short consultation, returned a verdict of guilty on all the charges. The judge pronounced the death sentence.

Nailsworth, while the trial lasted, had fought every inch of the ground. But, when sentence had been passed, and his cause was irretrievably lost, he accepted his defeat philosophically. He seemed perfectly resigned to his fate, and was induced to make a full confession. But he insisted that Arnold should be the agent to whom his confession was made.

The Inspector therefore interviewed him in his cell. There was no malice between them now, they were able to talk to one another freely and without restraint. And in the course of their conversation, Nailsworth revealed the full story of his crimes.

He had kept a very much closer watch upon his wife than she had ever suspected, and had known of the growing attraction between her and Faithorne. But, though he was deeply hurt, he imagined that it was only a passing fancy, which would pass with Faithorne's departure for South Africa. Not until the visit of his wife and Faithorne to Scarborough did he realise the seriousness of the situation. And, from that moment, he decided to kill his wife's lover.

His preparations were those which Arnold and Merrion had deduced between them. The wallet, with the initials A.L.S. upon it, had suggested to him the original idea of misleading the police as to his victim's identity. He had acquired it in rather a curious way, some time before. He was driving into Kent, on business and, on passing under a railway bridge, had felt something drop on the roof of his car. A train was passing over the bridge at the time. He had stopped the car and found the wallet. Thinking it a curious incident, he had put it in his pocket at the time. In the course of his schemes for the murder of Faithorne the existence of the wallet had recurred to his memory.

It had never been his intention to proceed beyond the murder of Faithorne. He believed that the terrible example which this would be to his wife would frighten her into submission to his will. But her repeated attempts to reveal the crime at last showed him that he could never be safe while she was alive. He learnt of her absence from the hotel near Canterbury, on March 28th, and knew that he dared hesitate no longer. He was already planning her disappearance when she slipped away on the following evening. He tracked her to Merrion's rooms, and there saw his opportunity.

The subterfuge of the trip to New Zealand had been part of his original plan. He had thought it as well to disappear for a short time after the discovery of the body, in case by some accident suspicion should fall upon him. He had then no idea that the hotel key and the spectacle frame were in the churn. The hotel key he knew nothing of, though he afterwards ascertained from his wife that she had packed it by accident when leaving Scarborough. The spectacle frame he recognised at once as a sample which had been lying about his laboratory for months. As soon as the discovery of these objects was published, he realised that he and his wife would be compelled to go into retirement until the affair had blown over.

But retirement was not sufficient. His wife could obviously not be trusted, and she must be put out of the way. Even after his second crime, Nailsworth had believed that his identity would remain undiscovered. It was, therefore, a terrible shock to him when he saw his name in the newspapers as the murderer. He realised that only a false report of his death would throw the police off the trail which must eventually lead to his capture.

His meeting with Limping Sam had been by no means accidental. Years before, at the time of Sam's arrest and trial, he had been struck by the likeness between himself and the published photographs of the criminal. So striking was this, that he had attended the Old Bailey during the trial, out of curiosity, and so seen the prisoner face to face. The resemblance was even more accurate than the photographs had shown.

Now, seeking desperately for some means of presenting his own death, the thought of Sam recurred to him. He was the very man unwittingly to impersonate him. He spent evening after evening haunting the less reputable parts of London and standing drinks to shady-looking individuals. He let it be understood that he had a nefarious project on foot, and that he wanted a suitable collaborator At last he got on Sam's track, and they met dramatically in the public house, as described by Smiling Louey. Once Sam's interest in an imaginary raid upon the docks had been aroused, the rest was easy.

The scene in the shop at Fulham had taken not more than a few minutes.

A few days later, Nailsworth was duly hanged. Merrion, dining with Arnold that evening, pronounced his epitaph. “A headstrong man, led away by a cool and calculating passion,” he said. “He contrived the death of his wife's lover, a crime for which there might be some justification. Indeed, it is just possible that in France he might have been triumphantly acquitted on that charge.

“But one thing leads to another, as we so often remark. He found that his first murder was only the end link of a chain. He was compelled to kill, next his wife, then the wholly unconcerned Sam, in order to secure his own safety. If you hadn't got on his track when you did, heaven only knows where the chain might have ended. By the way, what became of that unfortunate plain-clothes man who tried to stop him at the end of Malthouse Street?”

“He's just come out of hospital,” Arnold replied. “He's had a pretty bad go of concussion, but the doctors say he'll be all right now. I don't mind telling you that my jaw is still a bit stiff where Nailsworth caught it.”

“So is my back,” said Merrion ruefully. “He was a hard hitter, whatever he was. And if we hadn't managed to corner him in that railway wagon, he would have got clean away. I expect he had seen the possibilities of that shunting yard, long before. How some of us escaped being killed, dodging about among those trucks in the dark, is more than I can tell. Still, a bit of excitement is good for all of us, I suppose.”

Arnold grunted. “Even excitement can be a bit too strenuous at times,” he replied. “Do you know, I don't mind confessing that I was quite relieved this morning when I heard that Nailsworth was really dead.”

“Oh, you're not out of the wood yet.” Merrion laughed. “His restless spirit may take its revenge by haunting your Sunday afternoon slumbers.”

“I'll chance that. Anyway, his spirit won't hit out like a kick from a mule. And, talking of spirits, what about a drop of brandy with the coffee?”