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CALL MR. FORTUNE


BY THE SAME AUTHOR
THE HighwAYMAN
THE GAMESTERs
THE You Ng LovERs
BARRY LERoy
F. P. DUTTON & COMPANY


C A L L
M R. F O R T UN E
BY
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NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
681 FIFTH AVENUE


-*
*-
CoPYRIGHT, 1921,
BY E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
All Rights Reserved
HARWARD COLLEGE LIBRARY
BEQUEST OF
WINWARD PRESCOTT
JANUARY 27, 1933
Printed in the United States of America


CONTENTS
CASE I PAGE
THE ARCHDUKE's TEA . º e º e I
CASE II
THE SLEFPING CoMPANION e • s • 37
CASE III
THE NICE GIRL . e - - * s • 77
CASE IV
THE EFFICIENT Assassin . . . tº s II5
CASE V.
THE HOTTENTOT VENUS . • * ~ * 151
CASE VI
THE BUSINESS MINISTER . . . . . 187


CASE I
THE ARCHDUKE’S TEA





CALL MR. FORTUNE
CASE I
THE ARCHDUKE’S TEA
R. REGINALD FORTUNE, M.A.,
M M.B., B.Ch., F.R.C.S., was having a
lecture from his father.
“You only do just enough,” Dr. Fortune com-
plained. “Never brilliant. No zeal. Now, Reginald,
it won't do. Just enough is always too little. Take
my word for it. And do be attentive to the Arch-
duke. God bless you!”
“Have a good time, sir,” said Mr. Reginald
Fortune, and watched his father settle down in the
car (a long process) beside his mother and drive
off. They were gone at last, which Reginald had
begun to think impossible, and the opulent practice
of Dr. Fortune lay for a month in the virgin hands
of Reginald.
“Beautifully patient the mater is,” Reginald com-
muned with himself as he ate his third muffin.
“Fretful game to spend your life waitin' for a man
to get ready. Quaint old bird, the pater. Death-bed
3


THE ARCHDUKE’S TEA 5
of London called Westhampton, a region of com-
mons and a large park, sacred to the well-to-do, and
still boasting one or two houses inhabited by what
auctioneers call the nobility.
In Boldrewood, the best of these places, there
lived at this moment in Reggie Fortune's existence,
the Archduke Maurice, the heir-apparent to the
Emperor of Bohemia. You may remember that
the Archduke came to live in England shortly after
his marriage. It is, however, not true, as Scandal
reported, that his uncle the Emperor sent him into
exile. There is reason to believe that the Arch-
duchess, a woman equally vehement and beautiful,
was not liked in several European courts. On her
return from the honeymoon she made a booby trap
for that drill serjeant of a king, Maximilian of
Swabia, and for some weeks the Central Powers
were threatening to mobilize. But she was a Serene
Highness of the house of Erbach-Wittelsbach, which
traces its descent to Odin, and had an independent
realm of nearly two square miles, with parliament
and army complete, and even the Emperor of
Bohemia could not pretend that Maurice had
married beneath him. History will affirm the simple
truth that the Archduke and the Archduchess sought
seclusion in England because they were bored to
death by the Bohemian court, which was perpetually
occupied in demonstrating that you can be very dull
without being in the least respectable. The Arch-


6 CALL MR. FORTUNE
duke Maurice was a man of geniality and extraor-
dinarily natural tastes. His garden—a long walk
—a pint of beer in one of the old Westhampton inns
made him a happy day. The Archduchess was not
so simple, for she loved to drive her own car, a
ferocious vehicle. But Archduchesses may not do
that in Bohemia.
Reggie, having eaten all the muffins, lit his pipe
and meditated on the cases left him by his father.
Old Mrs. Smythe had her autumn influenza, and old
Talbot Browne had his autumn gout, and the little
Robinsons were putting in their whooping-cough.
A kindly world! . . . He was dozing in the dark
when the telephone bell rang.
Was that Dr. Fortune? Would he come to Boldre-
wood at once—at once. The Archduke had been
knocked down by a motor-car and picked up uncon-
scious.
“Poor old pater!” Reggie grinned, as he put his
tools together. The pater would never forgive him-
self for being out of this. He loved a lord, did the
pater, and since he had been called in to remove a
fish bone from the archducal throat he could not keep
the Archduke out of his conversation. The royal
geniality of the Archduke, the royal disdain of the
Archduchess—Dr. Fortune had been much gratified
thereby, and Reggie was prepared to loathe their
Royal Highnesses. Thank Heaven, the pater was
safe on his holiday! If his head swelled so over an


THE ARCHDUKE'S TEA 7
archducal fish bone, he would have burst over an
archduke knocked down.
Reggie was practical, if without sympathy; he
made haste in his neat way, and the sedate chauffer
of Dr. Fortune was horrified by instructions to let
the car rip. The streets of Westhampton are not
adapted to this. The district has tried hard to keep
itself rural still, and its original narrow winding
lanes remain ill-lighted and overhung by trees.
Boldrewood stands high, and its grounds border
upon Westhampton Heath, across which there is one
lamp per furlong. Just as Reggie's car swung round
to the heath it was stopped with a jerk.
“What's the trouble, Gorton?” Reggie said to
the chauffeur.
Gorton was leaning sideways and peering into
the gloom of the gutter. A gleam from the sidelight
winked at a body which lay still. “Give me a turn,”
Gorton muttered. His face showed white. Reggie
jumped out, but Gorton was quicker. “Lumme, it's
the Archduke!” he said, and his voice went up
high.
“Don’t be futile, Gorton.” Reggie bent over the
body. “Get the lamps on him.”
Gorton backed the car and the body came into
the light. Its face was crushed. Gorton gasped and
swallowed. “But it's not him neither,” he muttered.
After a minute Reggie stood up. “He was a fine
chap about an hour ago,” he said gently.


8 CALL MR. FORTUNE
“All over, sir?” Reggie nodded. “Some hog done
him in?”
“As you say, Gorton. Running-down case. Big
car. Took him in the back. Went over his head.
But I don't see how he got into the gutter.” He
walked round the body, moved it a little, and picked
up two matches—unusual matches in England—
very thin vestas with dark blue heads. “Why did
ou think he was the Archduke, Gorton?”
“Such a big chap, sir. Not many his measure.
And there's something about the make of the poor
chap that's very like. But thank God it's not the
Archduke, anyway.”
“Why?” said Reggie, who was without reverence
for Archdukes. “Well, let's take him along.”
They brought the dead man to the lodge at the
main gates of Boldrewood, and there left him with
a message to be telephoned to the police.
The hall at Boldrewood is in the Victorian
baronial style, absurd but comfortable. Reggie was
still blinking at the light when a woman ran at him.
His first notion of the Archduchess Ianthe was
vehemence. She came upon him, a great fur cloak
falling away from her speed, panting, black eyes
lowing, and then stopped short, and her pale face
was distorted with passion. “Dr. Fortune! You are
not Dr. Fortune!” she cried.
“Dr. Fortune, Junior, madame. My father is
away, and I am in charge of his practice.” She


THE ARCHDUKE'S TEA 9
muttered something in a language he did not know,
and looked as if she was going to kill him. His
second notion of her was that she was wickedly
beautiful. A Greek perfection in the pale face, but,
Lord, what a temper! The daintiest grace of body,
but it moved and quivered like a whip lash.
“My dear Iantheſ” A man came smiling from
behind the screen by the fire. He was tall and slight
and dandyish: a lot of colour in his clothes, an odd
absence of colour in him. A bright blue tie with an
emerald in it, a bright blue handkerchief hanging
half out of the pocket of the silver-grey coat. But
his face had a waxy pallor, his hair, his moustache,
and little pointed beard were so fair that they looked
like patches of paint on a mask. “We are much
obliged by Dr. Fortune's coming so quickly.”
The Archduchess whirled round. “He is too
young,” she said in German. “Look at him. He is
a boy.”
“I beg your pardon, madame,” said Reggie in the
same language. “May I see the patient?”
The man laughed. “I am sure we have every
confidence in your skill, Dr. Fortune.” All the
laughter was smoothed out of his face. “And your
discretion,” he said in a lower voice. “I am the
Archduke Leopold. You may be frank with me.
And rely upon my help.”
Reggie bowed. “How did the accident happen,
Sir?”


IO CALL MR. FORTUNE
The Archduke turned to his sister-in-law. “You
know that I do not know,” she cried. “I was out
in the car.”
“As my sister says, Dr. Fortune, she was out in
the car.” The Archduke paused. “She drives her-
self. It is with her a little passion. My brother was
out walking alone.”
“Those long walks! How I hate them!” the
Archduchess broke out.
“Again, it is with him a little passion. Well, he
did not come back. I grew anxious. I am staying
here, you understand. My sister was late too. I
sent out servants. My brother was found lying in
the road not far from the gate of the lodge. He
remains unconscious. I fear ” He spread out
his hands.
“You—you always fear!” the Archduchess cried.
They exchanged glances like blows.
“May I go up, madame?” Reggie said solemnly.
She whirled round and rushed away.
“The Archduchess is much agitated,” said the
Archduke.
“It is most natural,” Reggie murmured.
“Most natural. Pray follow me, Dr. Fortune. I
will take you to my brother.”
The Archduke Maurice lay in a room of austere
simplicity. A writing-table, a tiny dressing-table,
three chairs, and a narrow iron bed were all its


THE ARCHDUKE’S TEA II
furniture. Only three small rugs lay on the floor.
At the head of the bed a man stood watching. The
Archduchess was on her knees, her face pressed to
her husband's body, and she sobbed violently.
The Archduke Leopold looked at Reggie, made a
gesture towards her, and said, “My dear Ianthel”
She looked up flushed and tear stained.
“I beg your pardon, madame. This is dangerous
to the patient,” Reggie said.
She gave a stifled cry and rushed out of the room.
The Archduke Leopold seemed to intend to stay,
but in a moment the voice of the Archduchess was
heard calling for him. “Better go to her, sir.
Keep her out of here,” Reggie said, and turned to
his patient. It was obvious that the Archduke did
not relish so brusque an order. But the passionate
voice was not to be denied.
The man by the bed and Reggie took each other's
measure. “English?” said Reggie.
“Yes, sir. Holt, I am. The Archduke's valet.”
“You undressed him?”
“Yes, sir. Was that wrong?”
“Depends how you did it.” Reggie began his
examination.
The Archduke Maurice was a big man. That is
a habit in his family. He had their fairness, but
even in coma his checks showed more colour than
his brother Leopold's, and his yellow hair and beard


I2 CALL MR. FORTUNE
had a reddish glow. A bold, honest face with plenty
of brow. Reggie went over his body with an ana-
tomical enthusiasm for so splendid a specimen.
“Get me some warm water, will you?” Holt went
out of the room. Reggie bent over the broad chest.
From it, from just above the heart, he drew out a
thin sliver of steel. He made a face at it and put
it away. Holt came back, and there was sponging
and bandaging.
“You washed him before, I see. Any one else
touched him but you?”
“Only carrying him, sir. I’ve been with him the
whole time. I found him.”
“Oh. Lying on his face, I suppose?”
“No, sir. On his back. Just like he is now.”
“Oh. Notice anything?”
“No, sir, I wish I had. I'd like to have the han-
dling of the bounder that did it.”
“Well, well, we mustn't get excited. Preserve
absolute calm, Holt. He's well liked, is he?”
“Why, sir, we'd do anything for him. He—oh,
he's a gentleman.”
“Quite so. You mustn't leave him a moment.
No one—see, no one—is to come into the room. I'll
be back soon.”
“Very good, sir. Beg pardon, sir.” The good
Holt flushed. “What's the verdict?”
“It's not all over yet!” Reggie went downstairs.


THE ARCHDUKE’S TEA I3
And it appeared to him that he interrupted the
Archduke and the Archduchess in a quarrel. But
the Archduke was very pleased to see him, effusive
in offering a chair, and so forth. Reggie was not
gratified. “I must have nurses, sir,” he announced.
“I should like another opinion.”
“You see!” the Archduchess cried. “It is as I
told you. This boy!”
“The Archduchess is naturally anxious,” the
Archduke apologized. “By all means nurses. But
another opinion—you must have confidence in your-
self, my good friend.”
“I have. But I want Sir Lawson Hunter to see
the case.”
The Archduke shrugged. “It is serious then, Dr.
Fortune? We do not wish a great noise. Is it not so,
Iantheſ”
“I would give my soul to be quiet,” she cried.
“Quite,” says Reggie.
“Very well. Discretion, then, you understand,
my good friend.”
“I’ll telephone to Sir Lawson at once.”
“Indeed? It is serious, then?”
“It’s a bad concussion.” Reggie bowed and made
for the door.
“You—Dr. Fortune ” the Archduchess cried.
“Will he—what will happen?”
“There's no reason we shouldn't hope, madame,”


I4 CALL MR. FORTUNE
Reggie said, and paused a moment watching them.
Emotion plays queer tricks with faces. They were
both in the grip of emotions.
Sir Lawson Hunter is rather fat and his legs are
rather short. His complexion is greyish and his eyes
look boiled. People call him dyspeptic, though his
capacious stomach has never known an ache: or
imagine that he drinks, though alcohol and physi-
cians are his chief abominations. His European
reputation as a surgeon has been won by knowing
his own mind.
Reggie met him at the door and took him upstairs
before that puzzling pair, the Archduke and the
Archduchess, had a sight of him. “Glad you could
come, sir. It's an odd case.”
“Every case is odd,” said Sir Lawson Hunter.
“He was knocked down by a car. The 32
“If he was, I can find it out for myself. Damme,
Fortune, don't bias me. Most unprofessional. That's
the worst of general practice. You fellows must
always be saying something.”
Reggie held his peace. He knew Sir Lawson's
little ways, having been his house surgeon. The
faithful Holt was turned out of the room. Sir
Lawson Hunter went over the senseless body with
his usual speed and washed his hands.
“Splendid animal,” he remarked. “They run to
that, these Pragas. I remember his uncle's abdom-
inal muscles. Heroic. Well. He was walking. A
!


THE ARCHDUKE’S TEA I5
big car driven fast hit him from behind on the right
side, fractured two ribs, and knocked him down.
Impact of his head on the road has caused a serious
concussion. That car should have stopped.”
Reggie smiled. “Oh, one of the odd things is
that it didn't.”
“There's a damned lot of road hogs about, my
boy,” said Sir Lawson heartily. He was himself
fond of high speed. “Well. They sent out, I sup-
pose. Found him lying on his face unconscious.”
“No, sir.”
“What?” Sir Lawson jumped.
“He was lying on his back.”
“Oh, that’s absurd.”
“Yes, sir. But I’ve seen his valet who found him.”
“These fellows have no observation,” Sir Lawson
grunted, but there was some animation in his boiled
eye. “Damme, Fortune, he ought to have been on
his face.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Miracles don't happen.”
“No, sir.”
“Now these abrasions on the legs. As if the car
had been driven at him again while he lay. A queer
thing. Or have there been two cars at him?”
“And there is this too, sir.” Reggie held out the
sliver of steel.
“I saw the puncture. I was coming to that.
Humph! Whoever put this in meant business.”


16 CALL MR. FORTUNE
“And didn't know his job. It slipped along the
bone and missed everything.”
Sir Lawson turned the thing over. “A woman's
hatpin. About half a woman's hatpin.”
“Fresh fracture. Broke as it was pushed in.”
“They're a wild lot,” said Sir Lawson, and
smiled. “You have no nerves, Fortune?”
“I believe not, sir.”
“This ought to be the making of you. You want
shaking up. You must stay in the house. By the
way, who's in the house?”
“The Archduchess, of course—”
“Ianthe. Yes. Aunt's in a mad-house. Ianthe.
Yes. Crazy on motoring. Drives her own car.
And have you seen Ianthe—since?” Sir Lawson
nodded at the body on the bed. *
“She is very excited.”
“Is she really?” Sir Lawson laughed. “Is she,
though? How surprising!”
“She is surprising, sir.”
“What? What? Be careful, my boy. Handsome
creature, isn't she?” -
“Yes, sir.” Reggie declined to be amused. “The
Archduke Leopold is staying with them.”
“Leopold. He's the dandy entomologist. He's
tame enough. Well, he's the head of the house after
this fellow. Better tell him.” He blinked at Reggie.
“You have nurses you can trust? Well, we'll stay
in the room till one comes, my boy. Our friend of


THE ARCHDUKE’S TEA 17
the hatpin won't miss a chance. These Royal fam-
ilies they're a criss-cross of criminal tendencies.
Hohenzollerns, Hapsburgs, Pragas, Wittelsbachs—
look at the heredity.”
“There was another running-down case here to-
night. The man was killed—fractured skull. He
was left on the road too. And another queer thing
—he was much the same build as the Archduke
Maurice.”
“Good Gad!” Sir Lawson was startled out of
his omniscient manner, an event unknown in
Reggie's experience. “There's something devilish in
it, Fortune. One murder—the wrong man dead—
and then try again at once the same way. Imagine
the creature looking at that poor dead wretch and
jumping on the car again to drive it on at the other
man. Diabolical | Diabolical!”
“I don't think I have much imagination, sir,” said
Reggie, who was not impressed by ineffective
emotion.
There was a gentle tap at the door, a nurse came
and was given her instructions, and the two men
went down to the Archduke Leopold.
He had changed his clothes. He was now in a
claret-coloured velvet which did violence to his com-
plexion and his pale beard. He sat in the smoking
room with a book on the entomology of Java and
a glass of eau sucrée. He smiled at them and waved
them to chairs.


THE ARCHDUKE'S TEA I9
brother had made his home here at the wish of the
Archduchess, who dislikes the duties of royalty. He
was passionately, madly, in love with her. But, alas!
in these love marriages there is often difficulty.
They were not of the same mind upon many things,
and the Archduchess is of a vehement temper. I
fear—but you will forgive me if I say no more. I
take one small thing. My brother loved to go walk-
ing. The Archduchess is passionately fond of her
motor-car, drives it herself, loves wild speed. My
brother detested motor-cars. I fear that my coming
gave them cause for fresh quarrels. My brother
was ready to go back to Bohemia. The Arch-
duchess was violently opposed to it. I confess to
you, gentlemen, I have feared some scandal, some
madness. I thought she would leave him. But this
—it is appalling.”
“The Archduchess was out in her motor-car to-
night?” Sir Lawson said.
“Yes. Yes. It is true. But this—must we think
it?”
“We have to think of nothing but our duty to
our patient,” said Sir Lawson.
The Archduke grasped his hand. “You are right.
I thank you. I shall not forget your fidelity.”
The Archduchess whirled into the room. She,
as Reggie remarked, had not cared to change her,
clothes. She had not even touched her hair, which


THE ARCHDUKE'S TEA 2I
in the night to ask about him, doctor,” the nurse
said. “I told her he was no better.”
“Did she make a noise?” Reggie frowned.
“No, she was very good.”
Reggie went out to take the air, and the air is
not bad on the Westhampton heights. He made
a good pace under the great beeches of Boldrewood,
and came out on the open road across the heath.
Just there he had found the dead man. A dull red
stain could still be seen. It was farther on that the
Archduke was struck. Just beyond the turn to
Brendon. He found the place. There was a loosen-
ing of the road, as if a heavy car had been brought
up sharply or made a violent swerve. He walked
to and fro scanning the ground. Another of those
foreign matches.
He was just picking it up when a motor-car
stopped a few yards away. Two men jumped out
and came towards him. One was middle aged and
singularly without distinction. The other had a
youthful and very jaunty air, and it was only
when he came near that Reggie saw the fellow was
old enough to be his father. An actor's face, with
that look of calculated expression, and an actor's
way of dressing, a trifle too emphatic. His present
part was the gay young fellow.
“Dr. Fortune, I think?” He smiled all over his
face.


22 CALL MR. FORTUNE
“I am Dr. Fortune.”
“Reconstructing the crime, eh? Oh, you needn't
be discreet. I'm Lomas—Stanley Lomas—Criminal
Investigation Department, don't you know? Sir
Lawson Hunter came round to me last night.
Patient's doing well, I see. That's providential. Just
a moment—just a moment.” He skipped away from
Reggie to his companion, and they went over the
ground. But Reggie thought them very superficial.
Lomas skipped back again. “He didn't bleed, then.
The other man did, though—the man you found.”
“In the middle of the road. And I found him
dead in the gutter.”
“It’s quaint what the criminal don't think of.
I'm surprised every time. Did yotl find anything
here?”
Reggie held out his match. “There were two more
like that by the other man.”
Lomas turned it over. “Belgian make. You buy
them all over the Continent, don't you know.”
“The Archduchess carries them.”
“Now, that's very interesting. If you don't mind
I'll walk up to the house with you.” Upon the way
he praised the beauties of nature and the quality of
the morning air.
As they came to the door of Boldrewood a big
car passed them with the Archduchess driving alone.
Lomas put up his eyeglass. “She's not overcome
with grief, what?”


THE ARCHDUKE’S TEA 23
“Not quite.”
* “Might be bravado, don't you know.”
“I don't know.”
“It takes some of them that way,” Lomas said
pensively. He turned on the steps of the house and
looked after the car as it wound in and out among
the beeches. “Striking woman. Yes. I’ll come up
to your room, if you don't mind.”
“I thought you wanted to say something,” Reggie
said.
Lomas did not answer till they were upstairs.
“Well, no. Not to say anything,” he resumed, and
lit a cigarette. “I want another opinion, as you
fellows say. Sir Lawson Hunter has made up his
mind.”
“Oh, he always does that.”
Lomas lifted an eyebrow. “Well, look at it.
Somebody in a car laid for our Archduke. The
other poor devil was cut down by mistake. And
the somebody had nerve enough to go on. That's
striking. The Archduchess comes of pretty wild
stock. In love or out of love she wouldn't stick at
a trifle. You find her matches by each body. You
find a hatpin in the Archduke. That's a blunder,
what? Yes, but it's a woman's blunder. She finds
he isn't quite dead after all her trouble, she is des-
perate, and—voilà.” He made a gesture of stabbing.
“So you've made up your mind too, Mr. Lomas?”
Lomas blew smoke rings. “I’m wasting your


24 CALL MR. FORTUNE
time, doctor. I want to know—has it occurred to
you—the Archduchess and the Archduke Leopold
—working it together? If she's fallen in love with
Leopold. That straightens it out, don't you know.”
“Guess again,” Reggie said.
Lomas lit another cigarette. “Well, that's what
I want to know. You saw them together just after
the crime.” He lifted an eyebrow.
“Nothing doing,” said Reggie.
“I'm afraid so. I'm afraid so. It's a disturbing
case, doctor. Nothing doing, as you say. If I had
all the evidence in my hands, I expect there's no
one I could touch. You can't indict royalty. The
Archduke's smash—well, let's say it's all in the
family. But this poor devil they killed! Who's to
pay for him? These royal dagoes come over and
run amuck on an English road, and I can't touch
them. Disheartening, what? That's the trouble,
doctor.”
Reggie nodded and, as his breakfast made its
appearance, Lomas rose to go. He would not have
even coffee. “Better get busy, don't you know. We
must see if we can put the fear of God into them.
If they'll go scurrying back to Bohemia it's the best
way out.” He skipped off, his jauntiness put on
again like a coat.
Reggie was standing at the window with his after-
breakfast pipe when the Archduchess brought her


THE ARCHDUKE’S TEA 25
car back. She was very pale in spite of the morning
air, and her face had grown haggard. “Some-
thing’ll snap,” Reggie was saying to himself, when
a voice behind him said aloud, “Nice car, sir.” He
jumped round and saw standing at his elbow the
insignificant little companion of Mr. Lomas. “After
all, there's nothing like an English car,” said the
little man.
“Oh. You've noticed that?” Reggie said. “You
do notice something, then?”
“Of course we aren't gifted, sir. But we're pro-
fessional. Something in that, don't you think? Yes,
sir, as you say: we have noticed something. It was
a foreign car, and foreign tyres did the trick last
night. And the Archduchess drives English. And
yet—did you know we had the other half of the
hatpin? I picked it up last night.” He held out
a scrap of steel with a big head of wrought silver.
“German work, they tell me.”
“Viennese,” Reggie said.
“You know everything, sir. Such a convenience.
But Vienna being quite near Bohemia, as I’ve heard
—looks awkward, don’t it?”
“Is that what you came to say?”
“Not wholly, sir. No. I am Superintendent Bell.
Mr. Lomas sent me to you. He considered you
might find it convenient to have some one in the
house who could keep an eye open.”


26 CALL MR. FORTUNE
“Very kind of Mr. Lomas.”
There was a tap at the door. The Archduke
Leopold's valet appeared. The Archduke Leopold
was much surprised that Dr. Fortune had not
brought him news of the patient. The Archduke
Leopold desired that Dr. Fortune would come to
him immediately.
“Really?” Reggie said. “Dr. Fortune's compli-
ments to the Archduke, and he is much occupied.
He can give the Archduke a few moments.”
The valet, having the appearance of a man who
has never been so surprised in his life, retired.
“It's a gift,” Superintendent Bell murmured. “It's
a gift, you know. I never could handle the nobs.”
Reggie began to get together some odds and ends:
a bottle full of tiny white tablets, a graduated glass,
a jug of water, a hypodermic syringe. “You’d better
clear out, you know,” he said to Superintendent
Bell.
“Will he come?”
“He'll come all right,” Reggie said, and took
off his coat. When he turned, Superintendent Bell
had vanished.
“Just setting the stage, sir?” said a voice from
behind the curtain.
“Confound your impertinence,” Reggie growled.
“Here 32
But the Archduke came in. He was now a decora-
tion in russet brown. “You are very mysterious, Dr.
*


THE ARCHDUKE’S TEA 27
Fortune,” he complained. “I expect more frankness,
Sir.”
“My patient is my first consideration, sir.”
“I desire that you will consider my anxieties.
Well, sir, how is my brother?”
“You may give yourself every hope of his re-
covery, sir.”
The Archduke looked round for a chair and was
some time in finding one. “This is very good news,”
he said slowly, and slowly smiled. “Mon Dieu,
doctor, it seems too good to be true! Last night you
told me to fear the worst.”
“Last night—was last night, sir,” Reggie said.
“This morning we begin to see our way. All the
symptoms are good. I believe that in a few hours
the patient will be able to speak.”
“To speak? But the concussion? It was so dan-
gerous. But this is bewildering, doctor.”
“Most fortunate, sir. You might talk of the hand
of Providence. Well, we shall see what we shall see.
He may be able to tell you something of how it all
happened. You'll pardon me, I'm anxious to pre-
pare the injection.” He dropped a tablet in the glass
and poured in water. “Fact is, this ought to make
all the difference. Wonderful things drugs, sir. A
taste of strychnine—one of these little fellows—and
a man has another try at living. Two or three of 'em
—just specks, aren't they?—sudden death. Excuse
me a moment. I must take a look at the patient.”


28 CALL MR. FORTUNE
He was gone some time.
When he came back the Archduke was still there.
“All goes well, doctor?”
“I begin to think so.”
“I must not delay you. My dear doctor! If only
your hopes are realized. What happiness!” He slid
out of the room.
*ggie went to the table and picked up the glass
* Strychnine solution. From behind the curtain
Superintendent Bell rushed out and caught his arm.
"Don't use it, sir,” he said hoarsely. Superintendent
Bell was flushed.
"Don't be an ass,” said Reggie. He put the glass
down, took up the bottle of tablets, turned them
** a sheet of paper, and began to count them.
"Good Lord!" said Superintendent Bell. “You
laid for him, did you? What a plant!”
"You know, you're an impertinence,” Reggie said,
and went on counting.
“I’ll get on to Mr. Lomas, sir,” said the Superin-
tendent humbly.
“Don’t you telephone or I'll scrag you.”
“Telephone? Not me. I say, sir, you're some
doctor.” He fled.
Reggie finished his counting and whistled. “He
did himself proud,” said he, “The blighter!” He
shot the tablets back into their bottle, found another
bottle and poured into it the solution, and locked


THE ARCHDUKE’S TEA 29
both away. “Number one,” he said, with satisfac-
tion. “Now for number two.” He went off to his
patient and spent a placid half-hour chatting with
the day nurse on dancing in musical comedy. But
it was hardly half an hour before the Archduchess
tapped at the door.
Reggie opened it. “This way, if you please,
madame.” He led the way to his room. “I have
something to say.” She stood before him, fierce,
defiant, and utterly wretched. “I can promise you
that the Archduke will recover consciousness.”
She caught at her breast. “He—he will live?” It
was the most piteous cry he had ever heard.
“He will live, madame!”
She trembled, swayed, and fell. Reggie grasped
at her, took her in his arms, and put her in a chair
and waited frowning. . . . She panted a little and
began to smile. Then faintly, softly, “No, no. No
more now. Ah, dearest.” It was in her own lan-
guage. She opened heavy eyes. “What is it?”
“The Archduke has spoken, madame. He said
—your name.”
Then she began to cry and, holding out both hands
to Reggie, “Let me go to him—please—please.”
“Not now. Not yet. He must have no emotions.
You will go to your room and sleep.”
“You—you are a boy.” She laughed through
her tears, and thrust her hands into Reggie's.


THE ARCHDUKE’S TEA 3I
all that. Sound scheme. Ve—ry sound scheme.
Well, I expect you'll be glad to be rid of Leopold,
what? I conceive I can put the fear of God into *
him now. Free hand, don't you know. Let's take Y
him on.”
It was announced to the Archduke Leopold that
the Hon. Stanley Lomas of the Criminal Investiga-
tion Department desired to confer with him. The
Archduke, who was drinking tea, was pleased to
receive Mr. Lomas. He also received Reggie. “Dr.
Fortune? You have something to tell me?”
“There is no change, sir.”
“No change yet! And you gave me such hopes
this morning. These are anxious hours, Mr. Lomas.”
“I can imagine it, sir. But I hope to relieve
some of your anxieties. I believe we shall discover
who was responsible for last night's outrage.”
“So! And so soon! But you are wonderful, you
English police. You will sit down, Mr. Lomas.”
He looked at Reggie, whose lingering naturally sur-
prised him. “Is there anything more, Dr. Fortune?”
“Dr. Fortune is part of my evidence, sir,” said
Lomas.
“Is it possible? But you interest me—you interest
me exceedingly. Permit me one moment.” He slid
out of the room.
Lomas turned in his chair and lifted an eyebrow
at Reggie, who was settling his tie before an old


32 CALL MR. FORTUNE
Italian mirror. “Probably gone to change his
clothes,” Reggie said. “He’s only worn one suit
to-day.”
A footman brought in more tea-things, and a
moment after the Archduke came back.
“I am all impatience, Mr. Lomas. But pray
take a more comfortable chair. Dr. Fortune—I
recommend the chair by the screen. Let me give you
some tea.” He was all smiles.
“Have you made arrangements to leave England,
sir?” Lomas said sharply.
“Mr. Lomas!”
“You have time to catch the mail to-night.”
“I hope that I do not understand you, sir. You
appear insolent.”
“Oh, sir, there will be no delicacy in handling the
affair. You went to Dr. Fortune's room this morn-
ing.” The Archduke gave a glance at Reggie, who
sat intent on stirring his tea. “He was preparing an
injection of strychnine for his patient.”
“Hallo, what's that?” Reggie cried, and nodded
at the window. “Oh, I suppose it's the car, Lomas.
Your fellows will have found her and brought her
round.”
“The car, sir?” the Archduke said, and Lomas
put up his eyeglass.
“The car that did the deed.”
The Archduke slid across to the window. Lomas,
too, stood up and looked out. They turned and


THE ARCHDUKE'S TEA 33
stared at Reggie, who was sipping his tea. Lomas
frowned. “There's nothing there, Fortune.”
The Archduke smiled. “Dr. Fortune has halluci-
nations,” and he pulled out his handkerchief and
dabbed his face, sat down, and drank his tea in
gulps.
“We'll keep to the point, if you please.” Lomas
was annoyed. “Dr. Fortune told you that two of his
strychnine tablets would kill a man. He went out
of the room. While he was gone you dropped half
a dozen tablets into the injection prepared for your
brother. I have to demand, sir, that you leave Eng-
land by the next boat.”
The Archduke burst out laughing. “The good Dr.
Fortune! As you have seen, he has hallucinations.
He hears what is not, dreams what never was. But
if I were a policeman, Mr. Lomas, I should not make
Dr. Fortune a witness. You become ridiculous.”
“He is not the only witness, sir. One of my men
was behind the curtain.”
The Archduke poured himself out another cup
of tea. “May I give you some more, Dr. Fortune?
No? I fear you are malicious, my friend.” He
laughed a little. “And you, sir. We sometimes find
a policeman corrupt in our country. We do not
permit him to trouble us.”
“You brought a German car into England, sir,”
Lomas said. “Where is that car?”
“Your spies do not seem very good, Mr. Lomas.


34 CALL MR. FORTUNE
Come, sir, enough of this. I—” The Archduke
started from his seat with a cry. His body was bent
in a bow. A horrible grin distorted his face. He fell
down and was convulsed. . . . He gasped; his pale
cheeks became of a dusky blue. He writhed and lay
still. . . .
“So that's that,” Reggie said. “I wondered what
he wanted with half a dozen.”
“What is it?” Lomas muttered.
“Oh, strychnine poisoning. He's swallowed a
grain or so.”
“My God! Can you do anything?”
Reggie shrugged. “He’s as dead as the
table.” . . .
After a while, “Well! It's a way out,” Lomas
said. “But I can’t understand the fellow.”
“Oh, I don't understand it all,” Reggie admitted.
“He was out to kill his brother. That meant being
Emperor. But why kill him now more than before?
And the Archduchess. She is straight enough, I
know. But just how she was to this fellow I don't
see.”
“There's not much in that,” Lomas said. “Mau-
rice couldn't stand the Court, and it was common
talk he meant to resign the succession. While he
was quiet over here in England Leopold felt safe.
But lately they tell me Maurice has been making up
his mind to go back. Duty to his country, don't
you know? The Archduchess was strong against


THE ARCHDUKE'S TEA 35
it. She hates all the business of royalty. But Mau-
rice is a resolute sort of fellow even with a woman.
Leopold came over to see what he could do. I sup-
pose he set the Archduchess on to make Maurice
give up the idea and stay quiet. They worked to-
gether—or that's the notion at the Bohemian Em-
bassy. She's a gipsy, what, but she's straight. She
is not in this. It wasn't her car. Well, when
Leopold found there was nothing doing he set about
the murder. He was a bad egg, don't you know?
There was a woman in Rome—they kicked him out
there. But it was a sound scheme. He had it all
straight—except the wrong tyres on his car. Good
touch, the hatpin. Seemed like a woman in a rage.
He knew a lot about women—one kind of woman.”
There was a tap at the door. The two walked
forward.
“Sir Lawson Hunter, sir.” The footman tried
in vain to see the Archduke.
“Yes, bring him up,” Reggie said.
Sir Lawson bustled in. “New case for you, sir.”
The two men moved apart and Sir Lawson saw the
body.
“Poisoned himself. Taken strychnine,” Lomas
said.
“Oh, don’t bias him,” said Reggie. “He doesn't
like that.”
“Good Gad!” Sir Lawson's eyes bulged.
“Yes, that beats me, Fortune.” Lomas waved his





CA S E II
THE SLEEPING COMPANION
IRDIE screamed like a sea-gull and leapt on
to the stage. The audience rumbled the
usual applause, and Dr. Reginald Fortune
put up his opera-glasses. He considered himself a
connoisseur in the art of music halls, and Birdie
Bolton was unique and bizarre. She was no longer
young, and had never been pretty. A helmet of
black hair, a gaunt face which never smiled, a body
as lean as a boy's which sometimes slouched and
sometimes jerked—such were her charms. She
wore nothing much above the waist but diamonds,
and below it barbaric flounces in a maze of colour.
She began to sing in a voice wildly unfit for the
strange creature she looked—a small, sweet voice
—and what she sang was a simple ditty about her
true love forsaking her. And then she went mad.
There was a shrieking chorus—can you imagine a
steam whistle playing ragtime?—and a dance of
weird, wild vehemence. The lean body was con-
torted a dozen ways at once, the long white arms
whirled and stabbed. She seemed to be a dozen
39


4O CALL MR. FORTUNE
women fighting, and each of them a prodigy of
force. It was not a pretty dance, but it had mean-
ing.
Birdie sank down panting on her crazy rainbow
flounces and nodded at the audience which thundered
at her. º
Dr. Reginald Fortune shut up his opera-glasses.
“She’s a bit of a wonder, you know,” he said to the
naval lieutenant who was his companion.
“It’s a wild bird,” the lieutenant agreed, and as
the rest of the revue was merely frocks and the ab-
sence of frocks they went off to supper.
In the morning, which was Sunday, Birdie Bol-
ton came to see Dr. Reginald Fortune. It was her
remarkable creed that she could not live in a noise,
and so for years she had owned a house in the still
rural suburb of Westhampton where Reggie and his
father practised. The elder Dr. Fortune at first
looked after her, but when Reggie came on the scene
Miss Bolton, declaring with her usual frankness that
she liked her doctors young, turned herself over to
him.
By daylight Miss Bolton dressed, and even over-
dressed, the part of a brisk British spinster. She
was very tailor-made and severely tweedy, and thus
looked leaner than ever. But her eyes retained a
gleam of devilment.
“You gave us a great show last night,” Reggie
said.


THE SLEEPING COMPANION 4I
“Were you in front?” said Miss Bolton, and
made a face. “Oh, Lord! Sorry. I was rotten.”
Reggie understood that his professional interest
was required.
“What's the trouble?” he said cheerfully.
“That's your show,” said Miss Bolton. “Put me
through it.”
The conversation then became confidential and
dull upon the usual themes of a medical examina-
tion. At last, “Well, you know, we don't get to
anything,” Reggie said. “This is all quite good
and normal. What's making you anxious?”
“Dreams,” said Miss Bolton. “Why do I have
dreams? I never dreamed in my life till now.”
“What sort of dreams?”
“Oh, any old sort. Bally rot. One night it was
a motor-bus chivying me on the stage. One night
May”—May Weston was her companion—“May
would keep parrots in the bathroom. Then I hear a
noise and wake up and there isn't any noise.”
“Do you have this every night?”
“Snakes! Not much. Now and again. But I
say, doc., it's not fair. I don't drink and I don't
drug. But I’ll be seeing pink rats if this goes on.”
“Is there anything worrying you just now?”
Was it possible that Miss Bolton blushed? Reg-
gie could not be sure. “You’re a bright boy, doc.
Be good!” She shook hands and gripped like a
man. The big emerald she always wore ground into


42 CALL MR. FORTUNE
his fingers. “Birdie, the strong girl. Bye-bye,” she
laughed.
On the next morning Reggie was just out of his
bath when he was told that Miss Bolton's house-
keeper had rung up. Miss Bolton had had an acci-
dent and would he go at once. “Tell Sam,” said
Reggie, and jumped into his trousers. Samuel
Baker, a young taxi-driver whose omniscient impu-
dence had persuaded Reggie to enlist him as chauf-
feur and factotum, had the car round and some
Sandwiches inside it by the time Reggie was down-
stairs. Neither he nor Reggie lost time.
Normanhurst, Miss Bolton's house, stands by
itself in an acre or so of garden, and is in the mid-
Victorian or amorphous style. As Reggie jumped
out of the car, the housekeeper opened the door.
She was a brisk, buxom woman; she looked, and
perhaps was, just what a housekeeper ought to be.
“What's wrong, Mrs. Betts?” Reggie said.
“It's very serious, sir. This way, please.” She
led the way to Birdie Bolton's boudoir, stopped,
took a key from her apron pocket, and unlocked
the door.
“Hallo!” Reggie said.
“I’m afraid you're going to have a shock, sir,”
said Mrs. Betts, and opened the door for him.
Reggie went in. The sunlight flooded Birdie Bol-
ton's face, which was white. She lay on a sofa.
She was in evening dress. There was an open


44 CALL MR. FORTUNE
room, Dr. Fortune,” she said, with dignity. “I am
told she's come to and been crying.”
“Well, that's natural, anyway,” said Reggie.
“Natural, indeed!” Mrs. Betts tossed her head.
“And what did you do next, Mrs. Betts?”
“I had nothing touched, sir. I locked up the
room. And I telephoned to you and the police.”
“I’m sure you behaved admirably, Mrs. Betts,”
Reggie murmured.
Mrs. Betts was appeased. “I could hardly bear
it, sir. Such a sweet, good mistress as she was.
A perfect lady with all her little ways, as you know,
sir. And that Miss Weston! So soft and quiet as
she seemed. I don't mind saying, sir, I felt as if I
was stone. Oh!” She shuddered and shook.
“Vicious, I call it.”
Reggie was looking round the room.
“I suppose it is murder, sir?” said Mrs. Betts in
a tone that suggested she would like to have the
hanging of Miss Weston.
“I suppose it is,” Reggie said. He crossed to
the chair in which Miss Weston had been found
sleeping and picked up from the floor close by a pair
of scissors and a pointed bodkin with an ivory
handle. Both were clotted with blood. Ugly things.
“Ah!” Mrs. Betts said. “That's what did it. Put
'em down, sir. I left them there by her chair for
the police to see.”
“You think of everything, Mrs. Betts,” said Reg-


THE SLEEPING COMPANION 45
gie, and put them down and went back to the body
of Birdie Bolton.
That stab in the throat, it was “not so deep as a
well, nor so wide as a church door”; it was a small
wound to be mortal. A small, neat wound which had
rare luck to slit the jugular vein. Reggie looked
back at the bodkin and the scissors. He noticed that
Mrs. Betts had gone out.
There were other wounds. In half a dozen places
the pallid shoulders and breast had bled. No one of
these gashes was serious. They were just such as
might be expected of those unhandy weapons, scis-
sors and bodkin. It was that neat, lucky stroke at
the throat which determined the fate of Birdie Bol-
ton. The minor wounds suggested a struggle with
some one in a passion, and that Miss Bolton had
struggled Reggie found other evidence. The black
evening dress had been dragged from one shoulder
and torn, and there on that right shoulder were the
blue marks of a hand that had gripped. Reggie's
examination became more minute.
Two men bustled in. A hand tapped Reggie's
shoulder. “Now, sir, if you please.”
Reggie stood up and confronted a pompous, portly
little man.
“I am Dr. Fortune,” Reggie said. “Miss Bolton
was a patient of mine.”
“Was,” said the little man, with emphasis. “She
is a case for an expert now, Dr. Fortune.”


46 CALL MR. FORTUNE
“That's why I was examining her,” said Reggie
sweetly. *
The little man laughed. “A general practitioner
is not much use to her now. Rather beyond you,
isn’t it?”
“Well, I've not made up my mind,” Reggie said.
“Don’t worry. Don't worry.” He waved Reggie
off, but Reggie did not go. “You’ll only be in our
way, you know. We'll let you know if we want you
at the inquest. Just for formal evidence.” Still
Reggie did not move. “I am the divisional surgeon,
sir,” said the little man loudly.
“I was wondering who you were,” Reggie mur-
mured.
The little man swung round. “We’ll have the
room cleared, inspector,” he said.
The detective inspector, who looked more like a
policeman than seemed possible, strode heavily for-
ward. “Hope you're not meaning to give trouble,
doctor,” he frowned. “Or I'll have to take steps.”
“Fancy!” Reggie said. “Well, look where
you're going.” He walked across to the window and
looked out at the roses.
“Clear out, please.” The inspector followed him.
“Zeal, all zeal,” Reggie murmured, and went.
There were two doors to the room. He did not
use that by which they had come, but the other.
He happened to know that it opened into Birdie Bol-
ton's bedroom.


48 CALL MR. FORTUNE
from Flora. A sullen voice, “You can come in,”
and in Reggie went.
May Weston was a squalid sight. Her natural
prettiness, the prettiness of fresh youth, the bloom
of pink and white, the grace of full, soft line had
all gone from her. She lay a shapeless heap on her
bed, her evening dress still on and all crushed and
crumpled and awry, her yellow hair half down and
touzled, her face of a bluish pallor.
“What do you want?” She stared at Reggie
heavily. -
“Well, this won't do, will it?” Reggie smiled
cheerfully and sat down beside the bed. “So why
are you like this?”
“Haven't you heard?” she cried.
“I’ve heard and seen,” Reggie said. “I can't do
any more there. But perhaps I can here.” He be-
gan to feel her pulse.
“I’m not ill.”
“Well, you never know.” He let her wrist go
and bent over her. “Sleep rather sound, don't you?”
“Oh!” She shuddered. “Why do you look at
me like that?”
Reggie bent suddenly closer, and as suddenly sat
up again. Then he laughed. “Like what, my dear?”
She stared at him and her lip quivered. “You—
you! Oh, do you think I can be mad?”
Reggie shook his head. “Let's begin quite at
the beginning. Let's preserve absolute calm. You


THE SLEEPING COMPANION 49
dined with Miss Bolton last night alone? After
dinner you went to her boudoir? That would be
about nine?” -
“Yes, yes. Mr. Ford came just after the coffee.”
“Ah! And who is Mr. Ford P”
May Weston blushed abundantly. “We—he has
been here a good deal,” she stammered. “Oh, Dr.
Fortune, it isn't his fault.”
“Young or old, rich or poor—what is he?”
“Of course he's young. I suppose he's rich. His
father makes engines or something in Leeds, and he
is in the London office.”
“Sounds solid,” Reggie agreed. “And why does
Mr. Ford call at nine p.m.”
Miss Weston's blushes were renewed. “He has
been very often,” she said, and wrung her hands.
“I shall have to tell, doctor, shan't I? Yes. He
met Miss Bolton once at supper and then he used to
come here.”
“Ah! Good-looking fellow, is he?”
“Oh yes. He is very big and handsome.”
“And Miss Bolton liked him. Well, well.” Reg-
gie understood now why poor Birdie Bolton had
been dreaming dreams of nights.
“Yes,” said May Weston faintly. “Oh, it's a
shame! But I must tell. She thought he came to see
her, but 99
“But it was really to see you. Now, let's get back
to the coffee.”


THE SLEEPING COMPANION 5I
The door was flung open. The detective inspector
strode in. “May Weston?” He was more the po-
liceman than ever.
Reggie stood up. “How civil you are!” he said.
“You make yourself very busy, don't you?” The
inspector glared. “Don’t you interfere with me.
May Weston—I shall charge you with the murder
of your mistress, Birdie Bolton. Get up off that
bed now.”
“He’s forgotten the rest of his part—anything
you say may be used in evidence against you,
Miss Weston. So you'll say nothing, please.”
The inspector grew red and puffed, and advanced
upon Reggie. “Here, you—you clear out of this.
You're obstructing me in 95
“Is it possible?” Reggie drawled. “Well, it isn't
necessary, anyway,” and he left the inspector still
swelling.
It is fair to him to add, what he has since pro-
tested, that he never liked May Weston. Pussy-cat
is his name for her, and he is not fond of cats.
From her room he went to the telephone in the
hall, and there the inspector, still rather flushed,
found him again.
“And what might you be doing now, if you
please?” said the inspector, with constabulary sar-
CaSIT1.
“Oh, I’m talking to Miss Bolton's solicitors.


52 CALL MR. FORTUNE
Hadn't you thought of talking to Miss Bolton's so-
licitors?”
“Never you mind what I thought of. Don't you
use that telephone again. I won't have it.”
“Oh yes, you will. Now I’m going to talk to
Superintendent Bell.” The inspector was visibly
startled. For Superintendent Bell was near the sum-
mit of the Criminal Investigation Department.
“Any objection? No? How nice of you. . . .”
He conferred with the telephone, and at length:
“Dr. Fortune. Yes. Oh, is that you, Bell? So
glad. I wish you’d come along here, Normanhurst,
Westhampton. One of my patients murdered. No,
not by me. Quite unusual case. Yes, it is the Birdie
Bolton case. The inspector in charge is such a
good, kind man. Sweet face he has. You'll come
right on? So glad.” Reggie put down the re-
ceiver and smiled upon the puzzled inspector.
“That's that,” he said, and went out. Samuel, the
chauffeur, put away his picture paper. “I want
my camera,” Reggie said, and Samuel touched his
hat and drove off. Reggie sauntered into the gar-
den.
Normanhurst, as you know, is a low, spreading
house of a comfortable Victorian dowdiness. There
are—don't count the attics—only two storeys. It
is old enough to be quite covered with climbing
plants—ivy on the north, roses and a wistaria on


THE SLEEPING COMPANION 53
the other sides. Birdie Bolton's bedroom and bou-
doir looked to the south, and were on the ground
floor. On the north of the house is the approach
from the high road, a curling drive through a shrub-
bery. Birdie Bolton's rooms looked out upon a rose-
bed and a big lawn. About her windows climbed
a big Gloire de Dijon. The roses beneath were of
the newer hybrid teas, well cultivated, well chosen,
and at their best—a fragrant pomp of red and gold.
“How she loved ’em, poor soul,” Reggie thought,
and began to feel sentimental. That singular emo-
tion was interrupted by the sound of a motor-car.
He went back to the front of the house to meet it.
A big car was drawing up. It contained two
people—a goggled chauffeur and a large young man
who jumped out, rather clumsily, before the car
stopped. He had the good looks of a hero of mu-
sical comedy, but an expression rather sheepish than
fatuous, and a pallid complexion.
“I think you are Mr. Ford.” Reggie came close
to him. “I am Dr. Fortune. Miss Bolton was a
patient of mine. I hardly expected to see you so
soon.”
“Miss Weston sent for me, sir.” Mr. Ford re-
coiled, for Reggie's face was very close to his.
“Did she, though!” Reggie murmured. “Did-
she really?” Miss Weston had forgotten to tell him
that. Pussy-cat!


THE SLEEPING COMPANION 55
“There's a detective inspector inside. Like a bull
in a china-shop.”
“Had some,” said Mr. Donald Gordon. “Come
on, doctor. Hand it out.”
“Well, let's see the flowers,” Reggie said, and
walked him into the garden and began to tell him
all that you know.
“So he's pinched Miss Weston, has he?” the little
Jew lisped. “He’s a hustler.”
“Oh, I expect he's arrested Ford too, by now.
Me and you in a minute. He's a zealous fellow.
By the way, Gordon, who is Ford?”
“Yes. He's a dark horse, ain't he? I only met
him once, doctor. You could see poor old Birdie
was sweet on him.”
“Oh, so Miss Weston was telling the truth about
that.”
“Why, didn't you believe her, doctor?”
“D'you know, I wonder if I believe anything I’ve
heard in this house.”
“Like that, is it?” Gordon lisped.
“Just like that,” said Reggie. A gravity had
come over the perky little Jew, which he found very
engaging.
Mr. Gordon nodded at him. “Birdie was the one
and only,” he said, and Reggie nodded back.
“Nice flowers, doctor,” a new voice said. Reg-
gie turned to see the small insignificance of Super-


56 CALL MR. FORTUNE
intendent Bell, greeted him heartily, introduced Mr.
Gordon. “Am I de trop, as the French say?” said
superintendent Bell. “No? Thought it might be a
council of war.”
“Oh, is it war?” Reggie said.
“Well, you know, you've quarrelled with In-
spector Mordan.” The Superintendent shook his
Head at Reggie.
“I wouldn’t dare. He quarrelled with me.”
“Such a pity.” The Superintendent smiled and
rubbed his hands. “I ought to tell you, doctor, I
quite approve of everything that Inspector Mordan
done.”
“Splendid force, the police,” Mr. Gordon lisped.
“Wonderful force. So forcible.”
“Including the arrest of Miss Weston?” Reggie
asked. “Well, well. Any one else you'd like to
“Any one you suggest, doctor? Now I ask you
_what would you have done?”
“Oh, I’m not in the force.”
“We do have to be so careful,” the Superintendent
sighed. “That's a handicap, that is. I wonder why
ou wanted me, doctor?”
“I’m frightened of your inspector.
chatty. I want to photograph the body.”
The Superintendent turned to Gordon. “It’s a
taste, you know, that's what it is. He likes corpses.
He's not


THE SLEEPING COMPANION 57
Speaking as man to man, doctor, are you working
with us?”
“May I?”
“That's very handsome. Yes. Inspector Mor-
dan, he has a kind of a manner, as you might say.
I’ll speak to him. Is there anything you'd like to
tell me, doctor?”
“Nice flowers, aren't they?” Reggie nodded to
the rose-bed under Birdie Bolton's window. It was
minutely neat.
“Look as if they'd been brought up by hand,” said
the Superintendent, but he looked at Reggie, not the
roses. “Anything queer, sir?”
“There's that,” Reggie said. He pointed to a
spray of the Gloire de Dijon beside the window. It
bore a bud; it had been broken, and the bud was
limp and dead.
“That wasn't broken last night,” said the Super-
intendent.
“No. That's what's interesting,” said Reggie,
and turned away.
At the door and in the drive there was some con-
gested traffic. Mr. Ford's big car still waited. Reg-
gie's humbler car had come back with his camera.
The taxis of Mr. Gordon and Superintendent Bell
took up more room. And yet another taxi was try-
ing to get to the steps.
“Who's this, Superintendent?”


58 CALL MR. FORTUNE
“I dare say it'll be for Miss Weston.”
“Taking her to Holloway at once? Well, well.
I dare say it's all for the best.”
But Miss Weston was not to go without a noise.
Mr. Ford saw to that. At the head of the stairs he
conducted an altercation with Inspector Mordan in
which defiance, abuse, and profane swearing were
his chief arguments. It was beastly stupid and it
was damned impudence to arrest Miss Weston, and
it was also beastly impudence and damned stupid,
and so forth. In the midst of which the wretched
girl was shepherded by two detectives downstairs.
“My God, you might as well arrest me!” Mr. Ford
cried, in final desperation.
“Perhaps I will,” said Inspector heavily, and
glowered at him.
Mr. Ford paled and drew back.
On the stairs below Miss Weston stopped and
turned. “Oh, Edmund, don't,” she said. “They
can't hurt me. You know they can't.”
Superintendent Bell drew Reggie aside.
“Think that throws any light?” Reggie said.
“Well, not a searchlight,” said the Superintendent.
Miss Weston was driven off. Mr. Ford, looking
dazed, came slowly downstairs, and to him went
Gordon.
“Better get her a solicitor, you know,” Gordon
said.


THE SLEEPING COMPANION 59
“By Jove, that's it!” Mr. Ford cried, and plunged
Out.
The Inspector and the Superintendent exchanged
glances and looked at Gordon.
“Why did you put him on to that, sir?” said the
Superintendent.
“Professional feeling, dear boy,” Gordon smiled.
“Nice girl, ain't it? I fancy my firm are Miss Bol-
ton's executors, and I fancy that bird is sole lega-
tee.”
The Superintendent pursed his lips. The In-
spector laughed. “It grows, don't it, sir? Just
grows,” he said.
“I would like to get on,” Reggie yawned.
“That's right,” said the Superintendent, and took
the Inspector aside.
Mr. Gordon, following Reggie to the boudoir,
was distressed by the sight of the dead body, and
said so. Reggie went on with his photography—
first the stab in the throat, then the minor wounds,
then the bruise on the shoulder. At which last In-
spector Mordan found him.
“Taking the wrong side, aren't you?” he sneered.
“Oh, I’m taking all sides. Ever try it?” Reggie
said.
“Well, have you done, doctor?” the little Jew
broke in. “Can't we have her covered up?”
“I’ll have the body removed, sir. If the doctor
has quite done,” said the Inspector.


6o CALL MR. FORTUNE
And so at last the body of Birdie Bolton was
taken away to the mortuary, and Mr. Gordon, much
relieved, flung open the windows and turned to his
business, the secretaire and its papers. He worked
quickly. . . . “Nothing there but love-letters.
Wonder where she kept her will?”
“There's a safe in the bedroom, I think,” Reggie
said.
“You bet there is. She had all her jewels in the
house, I know, and she had some good stuff, poor
old girl. Well, come on; here's her keys.”
They went into the bedroom, and the little Jew
made for the safe. Reggie wandered across the
room. It was a parquet floor with Persian rugs on
it. He shifted one by the bedside. There was a
small dark stain on the floor still not dry. An ex-
clamation from Gordon made him turn. Gordon
had the safe open, and the safe, but for some papers
in disorder, was empty.
“Not one bally bangle left!” Gordon cried. “Not
a sparkle of the whole outfit! Remember that ruby
and diamond breastplate! Remember her pearls!
And the stuff that Indian Johnny gave her! My
hat! Somebody's had a haul.” A spasm crossed
his face. “I say, doctor, you were here when I
opened the safe!”
“I was here,” Reggie said stolidly. “I wasn't
surprised.” The little Jew gasped. “You remem-


THE SLEEPING COMPANION 61
ber that emerald she always wore? It wasn't on
the dead body.”
“Oh, God!” said Gordon, and with unsteady
hands turned over the papers. “That's her scrip.
More or less all there, I should say. Where's the
will? I know she had her will. Drew it myself.”
“What's that?” Reggie said.
The one untidy thing in that very tidy room, a
paper lay by the fireplace. Gordon picked it up.
“Here we are! Yes, ‘May Grace Weston, my com-
panion.” That's the document. Crumpled up and
torn!” He whistled. “As if Birdie was destroying
it and then—biffl”
“Just as if she'd been destroying it,” Reggie
agreed.
“That puts the lid on, don't it?” said the little
Jew. “Miss Weston—oh, lor, there's a soft kid if
you ever had one. Just shows you you never know
with girls, doctor. Girls, girls, girls! Well, we'd
better tell these bally policemen.”
So Inspector Mordan, vastly to his satisfaction,
was told, and Superintendent Bell, appearing from
nowhere, heard, and agreed to search the house for
the stolen jewels. “You gentlemen come too,
please.” He cocked an eye at Reggie.
“Want to keep me under observation?” Reggie
grinned back.
“Want you to identify what we find,” said the
Inspector.


62 CALL MR. FORTUNE
“You'll find something all right,” said Reggie.
But he showed little interest in the search, moon-
ing after their men in and out of servants’ bedrooms
and yawning in corners. Inspector Mordan had
gone straight to Miss Weston's room, and from it
he came glowing with triumph. He called for his
Superintendent, he collected Reggie and Gordon.
“You gentlemen happen to recognize that?” He
opened his big hand and showed the ring with the
big emerald which Birdie Bolton had loved.
“That's it,” Gordon cried. “That's Birdie's.
Coo! What a stone, ain't it?”
“In Weston's room,” the Inspector proclaimed,
“on the floor; just under the bed, in Weston's room.”
“Only that and nothing more,” Reggie mur-
mured.
“Yes, where's the rest, Mordan?” said Superin-
tendent Bell.
The Inspector smote his thigh. “By George, I see
it! I let that rascal Ford see the wench alone. He's
gone off stuffed with the swag.”
“That's a thought,” Reggie admitted, and the Su-
perintendent lifted an eyebrow at him. “You ought
to have Ford watched. No, I mean it. If I was
you, Inspector, I'd have his place watched night and
day.”
The Inspector was visibly gratified. “I know my
business, thank you,” he said. “I say, doctor—
it is growing, isn't it?”


THE SLEEPING COMPANION 63
“Oh, yes, as if it was forced,” Reggie smiled.
“What do you mean?” The Inspector flushed.
“You see, you're so witty, Mordan,” said the Su-
perintendent. \
“And that's that,” Reggie yawned. “You don't
really want me any more. Good-bye. Oh, Inspector
—I don’t want you to be disappointed. The mur-
der wasn't done in that room where you found the
body. Good-bye!”
“Wasn't done—” The Inspector stared after
him. “Good Lord, he's mad!”
“Better get him to bite you, Mordan,” said the
Superintendent.
That party did not meet again till the day of
the inquest. Before the court met, Superintendent
Bell called on Reggie and found him in a bad tem-
per. This was unusual, and equally unusual in the
Superintendent's experience was a pallor, a certain
tension, across Reggie's solid, amiable face. A civil
question about his health brought a snappish answer.
It seemed to the Superintendent that Dr. Fortune
had been making a night of it.
“Well, what is it?” Reggie snarled. “Got any-
thing to tell me?”
“I’ve been rather disappointed,” the Superintend-
ent said meekly.
“More fool you. I told you to watch Ford.”


64 CALL MR. FORTUNE
“That's it, sir. Were you pulling my leg?”
“Oh, damn it, man, this is serious! Miss Bolton
was a patient of mine. I don't let any one but me
kill my patients.”
“Very proper, I'm sure,” the Superintendent
agreed. “But we have watched him, doctor. Noth-
ing doing.”
“Set a man to stand on his doorstep, I suppose.
What's the good of that?”
“As you say,” the Superintendent agreed.
“We’ve picked up one thing, though. Just before
the murder his father turned him down for wanting
to marry this girl Weston. He hasn't a penny ex-
cept from his father. That might have made him
desperate—him and the girl. It does grow, you
know, doctor.”
“Queer case,” Reggie grunted. “Going to the in-
quest? Sorry I can't drive you down. My chauf-
feur's taking a day off.”
So they walked to the coroner's court, and on
the way Superintendent Bell used his large experi-
ence in the art of extracting confidences in vain.
But Reggie mellowed, perceptibly mellowed, as he
baffled Superintendent Bell.
The court was crowded to its last inch. The
coroner was conscious of his importance, and made
the most of it in a long harangue. The divisional
surgeon was more pompous than ever, and made it


THE SLEEPING COMPANION 65
a point of honour to use terms so technical that all
his evidence had to be translated to the jury, and the
coroner and he agreed over the translation.
“What a life, ain’t it?” Mr. Gordon murmured
in Reggie's ear.
At last came what the evening papers called “Dra-
matic Evidence”: the housemaid who had found
the body and had hysterics over again as she de-
scribed it; Mrs. Betts, who had found May Weston
sleeping beside it, waked her, and heard her say, “I
did it—oh, I did it!”
“Sensation in Court” was the cross-head for that.
The coroner looked over his glasses at the jury, and
the jury muttered together, and May Weston came
into the box. With the manner of a chaplain at an
execution the coroner warned her that she need not
give answers that would incriminate her. “I want
to tell you everything,” she said. She was very pale
in her black, and listless of manner, but quite calm.
What she told was the queer story she had told
Reggie, but she was not allowed to tell it her own
way. The coroner badgered her with continual
questions designed to make the queerness of it seem
queerer. He made her nervous, confused her, fright-
ened her. “You bother me so that I don’t know if
I'm telling the truth or not,” she quavered.
Then, in the language of the newspapers, “another
sensation.” Mr. Ford, large and red, started up and


66 CALL MR. FORTUNE
, roared, “I ought to be there, sir. Let her alone. I
ought to be there.”
Reggie put his head between his hands and bowed
himself, groaning.
Every one else was much excited by Mr. Ford.
He was pulled down in his seat. The coroner re-
buked him with awful majesty. The foreman of
the jury wanted to know if he would be called. The
coroner pronounced that the court would most cer-
tainly require Mr. Ford to explain himself—and
came back to May Weston.
“The fool that he is, he's done the trick, though,”
Reggie muttered to Mr. Gordon, and Gordon nodded
and grinned. For after the interruption the coroner
handled May Weston much more gently, almost in-
dulgently, as a good man sorry for a woman's weak-
ness. And he was soon done with her.
“Any questions?” He looked at the lawyers.
Reggie bent forward and whispered to the solicitor
appearing for Miss Weston.
That large, bland man stood up. “Now, Miss
Weston, about that coffee.” He had his reward.
Every one in the court, and Miss Weston not least,
stared surprise at him. Slowly he extracted from
her (she seemed bewildered at each question) the
whole history of that after-dinner coffee. Coffee
had been brought to the boudoir just before Mr.
Ford came; no one but she had expected Mr. Ford;


THE SLEEPING COMPANION 67
another cup was brought for Mr. Ford; Mr. Ford
and she had both drunk their coffee. Miss Bolton
—why, no, Miss Bolton had not. Miss Bolton had
been very gay, and in doing a few steps of a dance
had upset her coffee.
“No more questions, sir.” The large solicitor sat
down smiling.
The coroner was visibly unable to understand him,
and made a great business with his papers. It was
now long after tea-time. “I suppose we shan’t finish
to-day, gentlemen?” the coroner suggested.
“Quite impossible, sir,” said the large solicitor
cheerfully. “I have some long medical evidence.
Dr. Fortune, Miss Bolton's physician. The first
medical man who saw the lady. The first medical
man who saw Miss Weston.”
The court rose. Reggie, with Gordon at his heels,
went out by the solicitor's door and found Super-
intendent Bell waiting for him. “Now are you play-
ing the game, doctor?” said Superintendent Bell
sadly.
“For keeps,” Reggie laughed. “Come and dine
with me. Bring Mordan. He's so genial.”
“We do have to take these little things so seri-
ously,” the Superintendent murmured.
But a party of four, the Superintendent and the
large Inspector, Reggie and the little Jew, packed
themselves into a taxi-cab and drove into town.


68 CALL MR. FORTUNE
Reggie was full of elegant conversation. He grew
iris, and told them all about iris, with appendices on
the costumes in revue.
Once or twice Superintendent Bell tried to turn
his attention to serious subjects. Vainly. At last
Inspector Mordan broke out with, “I say, doctor,
what's the wheeze about the coffee?”
“The Inspector touches the spot. Care not, all
will be known ere long. There's a jolly little iris
from the Himalayas ” Reggie returned with en-
thusiasm to horticulture.
“Where are you taking us, doctor?” said the Su-
perintendent. The taxi, which had for some little
time been running through the city, seemed to in-
tend coming out on the other side—a locality prom-
ising no good dinner. As he spoke, it turned into
Liverpool Street Station.
“Liverpool Street, by George!” the Inspector said.
“This is a bean-feast. Going to take us to Epping
Forest, doctor?”
“We may have to go farther,” Reggie said, and
Gordon laughed.
“Are you in this, sir?” The Inspector turned on
him.
“Professional secret, dear boy.”
Reggie led the way to the station dining-room.
“I don't know the cook. But let's hope for the best.
A tirin’ day, an active evening. Strength is what
we need. Strength without somnolence. Salmon,


THE SLEEPING COMPANION 69
I see. Lamb chops, I would add. One of your
younger ducks would comfort me. Do you sleep
after Burgundy, Inspector? A warm night, as you
say. Larose is a genial claret. Let us all be genial.”
“Well, you're a bit supercilious,” the Inspector
complained.
“How can you say so? I am keeping all the
glory for you. Glory on ice. All ready for In-
spector Mordan. So gather you roses while you
may. Talking of roses, what do you think of the
hybrid Austrian briers?” He explained what he
thought of them to a silent audience, sliding grace-
fully into an appreciation of salmon eaten at Water-
ford, at Exeter, and at Berwick. Few are the men
who will not talk about food. The detectives pro-
duced much valuable experience of bourgeois cook-
ery, and the dinner went merrily. In its later stages
Reggie became silent and watched the clock. He
seemed to grudge Inspector Mordan his cheese, and
as soon as it was swallowed made a move.
“Well, doctor, I did think we should have had
some coffee,” the Inspector chuckled.
But Reggie was already making for the door. By
the door stood his chauffeur looking for him. Reg-
gie beckoned impatiently to the detectives and fol-
lowed the chauffeur out. He led them to the main
line departure platforms. It was near the time of
the Harwich boat-train. A dark, wiry man was reg-
istering some luggage for Amsterdam. By his side


7o CALL MR. FORTUNE
stood a veiled woman of full figure. Both he and
she carried suit-cases. As the man turned round
he bumped into Reggie, who was looking the other
way, and seemed to have some difficulty in disen-
tangling himself. He glared at Reggie and hurried
away. The woman was ahead of him.
Reggie grabbed Superintendent Bell. “See that
pair. Take them both. Picking my pocket. Get
the bags.”
Bell and Mordan hurried after the pair. Bell
tapped the man's shoulder, and he jumped round.
“I thought so. You'll come with me to the sta-
tion, my man,” said Superintendent Bell, with ad-
mirable calm.
“What is it?” the man cried. His accent was
slightly foreign. “What station? What do you
mean?”
“You know all right,” said the Superintendent.
“I am Superintendent Bell of Scotland Yard.”
“I do not know at all,” the man protested. “What
do you want with me?”
The woman saw Reggie. She hissed something to
the man in a foreign argot, and turned to run. The
Superintendent laid hold of her. Inspector Mordan
closed with the man. The Inspector was large and
brawny, but at the end of a moment he was on his
back and the man making off. Reggie dived for his
legs in the manner of Rugby football, and they went
down together.


THE SLEEPING COMPANION 71
The railway police came on the scene. The man
was handcuffed, and he and the woman and the two
detectives packed into a cab. Reggie and Gordon
followed in another to the police station in Old
Jewry.
When they arrived, the two prisoners were al-
ready in the charge-room and the woman was pro-
testing vehemently, to the great edification of the
uniformed inspector at the desk and a plain-clothes
friend of his, and the embarrassment of Superin-
tendent Bell and Inspector Mordan. It was an out-
rage. Why did they assault her and her husband?
Why? They were respectable people. She would
not endure it.
“Oh, Flora, Flora!” Reggie shook his head at
her.
The woman whirled round on him. “You! Ah,
it is you, then, the doctor. You are a traitor. You
are a wicked villain. I spit upon you.” And she
did. The man said something to her in the strange
foreign argot they seemed to use between them-
selves, and she was silent.
The plain-clothes man came forward grinning.
“Why, Bunco! It is my dear old pal, Bunco! What
have they got you for now, old thing?” The man
scowled. Dusty and bruised from the scuffle and
in the ignominy of handcuffs, he had still a certain
arrogant dignity. He was well made for all his
slightness, and the strength which had upset Mordan


72 CALL MR. FORTUNE
showed in his poise. It was a dark, aquiline face
with a good brow, but passionate and cruel.
“What is the charge, doctor?” said Superinten-
dent Bell.
“Oh. On the seventh instant—murder of Wil-
helmina, otherwise Birdie Bolton,” Reggie drawled.
“Better search them.”
“It is a lie!” Flora screamed; and continued to
SCTeam1.
Reggie and Gordon were smoking in another
room when Bell and Mordan came back with the re-
sults of the search. A suit-case was put on the
table, opened, and seemed to be full of light, a mass
of jewels.
“Can you identify, gentlemen?” Mordan said.
Superintendent Bell laid on the table a sheath
knife. An unusual knife, rather long, rather nar-
row, rather stiff. “I’ll identify that,” Reggie said,
and took it up. “That's the thing that killed her ſ”
“Coo!” said Mr. Gordon. “You’ve got a real
head, doctor. This is Birdie's bunch all right.
Swear to those rubies anywhere.”
“Who’s the man?” said Reggie.
Superintendent Bell sat down with a bump. “He
asks me that.” He appealed to the company. “I put
it to you. He asks me that! The woman—she's
Miss Bolton's maid, of course. But the man 2 *
“Oh, he's Ford's chauffeur. I told you to watch
Ford. But you only sat on the steps of his flat.


THE SLEEPING COMPANION 73
You've given me a lot of trouble, you know. I was
up all last night. Chauffeur doesn't sleep in, of
course. But who is he?”
“We call him Bunco in the force,” said the Su-
perintendent meekly. “He’s a jewel thief. Quite
in the front of the profession. American-Austrian,
I think. I believe Nastitch is his name—Alexander
Nastitch or Supilo.”
“Croat, I think,” Reggie said. “This knife—
they use 'em down that way.”
“Coo! Tell us something you don't know,” said
the little Jew.
Reggie laughed. You may have noticed that he
had his vanities. He passed his cigar-case round.
“Where will I begin?” said he.
“At the beginning, please.” Mordan grinned.
“The Inspector touches the spot as ever. Well, it
hasn’t been quite fair. I had the start of you. On
the day before the murder Birdie Bolton consulted
me. She hadn't been sleeping well. Heard noises
at night. Now you see your way, don't you? No?
Dear, dear. And I showed you that broken rose!
Well, well. These two beauties, Flora and Nastitch,
I suppose they got their situations to have a go
for the jewels. Nastitch, as Ford's chauffeur, would
have an excuse for hanging round the house and a
car to use. He's had the car out of the garage till
the small hours several times. I think he got in by
the window last week—more than once, perhaps.


74 CALL MR. FORTUNE
And each time poor Birdie stirred. Better for her
if she hadn't, poor girl. But they didn't mean
murder, bless 'em. So they chose to drug her.
There was morphia in that coffee. As you heard
to-day, Birdie didn't drink hers. Another rotten
chance. So May Weston went to sleep while Birdie
was storming at her. Birdie raged off to her room.
Whether she got out that will and tore it, we'll
never know. It may have been Flora's little game.
Nastitch came in, reckoning she was sure to be
sound, and Flora was with him, I think. Birdie was
very wide awake. There was a struggle and he
stabbed her. He's a hot-tempered devil, as you saw
to-day.”
“This is all very pretty, doctor, but it ain't all
evidence,” Mordan said.
“You’re so hasty. When she was dead, they
took her into the boudoir where the Weston girl was
asleep. They laid her on the couch and stabbed at
her with her scissors and the bodkin. Filthy trick.
That was what May Weston saw in the opium
dream. Then I suppose they cleared the safe, and
Nastitch went off. Flora annexed the emerald ring.
Her perquisite, I suppose. Now, you shall have
your evidence. When I came to the body, I saw
those scissors never did the business. Ever tried
killing anybody with scissors, Inspector? Poor
game. No. We wanted something like this.” He
fingered the knife affectionately. “Just like this.


THE SLEEPING COMPANION 75
Also somebody had left his mark on Birdie—a queer
hand—a hand that wasn't quite all there—long fin-
gers with no top joint. Did you notice Mr. Nastitch's
left hand?”
The detectives looked at each other.
“That was in a burglary in New York,” said the
Superintendent. “He escaped out of a window, and
a constable smashed his hand on the sill.”
“So I photographed the wound and the bruise.
Well, when I saw Weston, I saw she had really been
drugged. Contracted pupils, bluish pallor. Mor-
phia. Same symptoms in Ford. Why should they
drug themselves and not drug Birdie? That ruled
them out. Also, I surprised Flora in Birdie's bed-
room doing something by the bed. When I browsed
round afterwards I found a wet bloodstain under a
clean rug. When Flora knew the Weston girl was
arrested and the jewels had been missed, she chucked
the ring into Weston's room. While you were
searching the house, I drifted into Miss Flora's
room. Several medicine bottles about. One of 'em
empty. That had carried a strong solution of mor-
phia. So I set my chauffeur to watch for Flora.
And that night she went off to the lodgings of Nas-
titch. She's been buzzing round ever since. Well?”
“Well, sir, it's a good thing you didn't take to
crime,” said Superintendent Bell.
“Oh, that's much harder,” said Reggie.


•* • • •—•—


CASE III
THE NICE GIRL





CASE III
THE NICE GIRL
some have greatness thrust upon them. That
was Dr. Reginald Fortune's trouble. He
had become a specialist, and, as he told anybody
who would listen, thought it an absurd thing to be.
For he was interested in everything, but not in any-
thing in particular. And it was just this various
versatility of mind and taste which had condemned
him to be a specialist. Obviously an absurd world.
The Criminal Investigation Department, solici-
tors, and others dealing with those experiments in
social reform which are called crimes, by continu-
ally appealing to his multifarious knowledge and
his all-observant eye, turned Dr. Reginald Fortune,
general practitioner at Westhampton, into Mr. For-
tune of Wimpole Street, specialist in—what shall we
say?—the surgery of crime. And Reggie Fortune,
though richer for the change, was not grateful. He
liked ordinary things, and any day would have
gladly bartered a murder for a case of chicken-pox.
This accounts for his unequalled sanity of judg-
Inent.
S: are born great, some achieve greatness,
79


8O CALL MR. FORTUNE
Reggie was in that one of his clubs which he liked
best, because no member of it knew anything about
his profession. He had just completed an animated
discussion on the prehistoric art of the French
Congo, and was going out, when the tape machine
buzzed and clicked at his elbow, and he stopped to
look. - -
“Murder of Sir Albert Lunt,” said the tape and,
“Oh, my aunt!” said Reggie. The tape continued
the conversation—thus: “Sir Albert Lunt, the well-
known mining magnate, was found dead this after-
noon in the deer park of his estate at Prior's Colney,
Bucks. The body was discovered by an employee,
in circumstances which suggested foul play. A
medical examination led to the conclusion that the
deceased had been shot. The local police have the
case if hand, and search is being actively prosecuted
for ” Words failed the tape, and it relapsed
into a buzz.
Reggie stared at it with gloomy apprehension. “I
believe the beggars get murdered just to bother me,”
he was reflecting, when a jovial tea-merchant
(wholesale—that club is a most respectable club)
clapped him on the shoulder, and asked what the
news was. “They only do it to annoy because they
know it teases,” said Reggie, and held up the tape.
“Albert Lunt!” said the tea-merchant, and whis-
tled. “Well, he won't be missed!”


THE NICE GIRL 8I
“Don’t you believe it,” Reggie groaned, and
Went Out.
Upon his way home the passionate interest which
the world, expressing its emotions on newspaper
placards, took in Sir Albert Lunt was heaped upon
him. When he let himself in, his factotum, Samuel
Baker, was hovering in the hall.
“Oh, don’t look so alert, Sam. It's maddening,”
Reggie complained.
Samuel Baker grinned. “You’ll want all the
papers, sir?”
“I suppose so!”
“I’m getting each edition as they come along, sir.
Would you like a photograph of Sir Albert?”
“Go away, Sam.” Reggie waved at him. “Go
quite away, Sam. Do you know one reason why
many fellows get murdered? It's because other fel-
lows can't live up to them.”
As he changed, Reggie looked through the papers.
They were eloquent upon Sir Albert Lunt. His
career, even when treated with the delicacy due to
those who die rich, was a picturesque subject. Sir
Albert Lunt, with his surviving brother Victor, had
gone out to South Africa in the early days of dia-
monds. His first vocation was discreetly veiled.
Some references to his life-long passion for sport
reminded the knowing of the story that he and his
brother had been in the front rank of the profession


82 CALL MR. FORTUNE
which works with three cards, the thimble, and the
pea. Sir Albert, always in close alliance with
Victor, had come out into daylight in the second
stage of the diamond fields, when the business man
was following in the steps of lucky adventurers. It
had been Sir Albert's habit through life to appear in
the second stage of things. The polite newspaper
biographies called this prudence and sound judg-
ment. He had always been fortunate in reaping
other people's harvests. There were strange tales of
his devices at Kimberley and Johannesburg, and
just a hint of a clash with Cecil Rhodes, in which
Rhodes had said what he thought of the Brothers
Lunt with a certain gusto.
So ways that were dark and tricks that were any-
thing but vain in Kimberley and Johannesburg made
Albert Lunt a millionaire. He was not satisfied.
South Africa was too small for him. Or was it too
hot for him? He had spread his “operations” round
the world. He was “interested” in Some Manchu-
rian tin and the copper belt of the Belgian Congo.
“One of our modern Empire builders,” as the eve-
ning papers sagely said.
How Sir Albert came by his title was a problem
left in decent obscurity. Much was said of the
magnificence of his life in England, his rococo pal-
ace not quite in Park Lane, his pantomime splen-
dours at Prior's Colney—the ball-room which was in
the lake, and the dining-room which was panelled in
\
s


THE NICE GIRL 83
*,
silver. The knowing reader could divine that Sir
Albert had lived not only blatantly but hard and
fast.
“Yah,” said Reggie Fortune.
Just as he was putting on his coat, Sam arrived
with a photograph of Sir Albert, and Reggie sat
down to it. A plump man of middle height, rather
loudly dressed; a long, heavy face, rather like a
horse's, but with protruding eyes—commonplace
enough. It was only the expression which made
Reggie examine the fellow more closely. Under the
photographic smirk was a look of insolence and con-
ceit of singular force. The man who owned that
would never allow any creature a right against him.
Behold the secret of Sir Albert Lunt's success. And
“Oh, Peter, I don't wonder some one murdered the
animal,” said Reggie. “Justifiable porcicide.”
On which he went off to dinner with his sister,
who had married a man in the Treasury, and gave
him the pleasant somnolent evening you would ex-
pect.
When he came back there were two telegrams
waiting for him.
Number one: “Was called in to Lunt case. De-
sire consult you. Lady Lunt also anxious your opin-
ion.—GERALD BARNES.”
Number two: “Desire consult you Lunt case.
Please see me Prior's Colney morning.—LoMAs.” "
Reggie whistled. “Let 'em all come,” said he.


84 CALL MR. FORTUNE
Gerald Barnes had been house surgeon when Reg-
gie was surgical registrar at St. Simon's Hospital,
and had gone into practice somewhere in Bucking-
hamshire. The Hon. Stanley Lomas was the head
of the Criminal Investigation Department.
“Have they had a scrap?” Reggie smiled to him-
self. “Lots of zeal at Prior's Colney. Sam! The
car after breakfast. We'll go and see life.” And
he went to bed.
But in the morning, just as he was finishing
breakfast, he was told that Nurse Dauntsey wanted
to see him and said it was most urgent. Nurse
Dauntsey was at St. Simon's Hospital and had a
partiality for Reggie, who (quite paternally) liked
her for being gentle and kindly and pretty. A trim
figure, a pair of honest grey eyes, a wholesome com-
plexion, and an engaging red mouth were the best of
Nurse Dauntsey's charms, but there was a simplicity
about her which commended them. “Types of En-
glish Beauty.—Third Prize, Nurse Dauntsey,”
somebody said once. And it was felt to be just.
On this morning Nurse Dauntsey's nice face was
troubled, and she had lost her usual calm. “Oh, Mr.
Fortune, will you help me?” She rushed at Reggie.
“It’s the Lunt case.”
“Now what in wonder have you to do with the
Lunt case?”
Nurse Dauntsey blushed. “I’m engaged, Mr.
Fortune,” she said.


THE NICE GIRL 85.
“Well, he's a very lucky man. And I hope you're
a lucky girl.”
“Oh, I am,” said Nurse Dauntsey, with convic-
tion. “He has been arrested. They say he murdered
Sir Albert Lunt. Mr. Fortune, you will help us?”
“Who in creation is the lucky man?”
“His name is Vernon Cranford. He's a mining
engineer. Oh, he's been everywhere. He's a born
explorer, you know. He discovered a copper mine
in Portuguese East Africa, one of the richest mines
in the world. He came home last year and told Sir
Albert Lunt about it, and Sir Albert sent him out
to show the place. There was a sort of expedition,
you know. And then, somehow, on the way up
country Vernon was left behind. The other men
tricked him. And when he got back to Mozambique
he found that the other men had claimed the place
was theirs. They had—what do you call it?—se-
cured the concession, the rights in it. Wasn't it a
shame? Vernon was just furious. I don't know
quite how it happened. He only came back on
Monday. I know he thought it was Sir Albert
Lunt's fault. He said he was going to see him and
have it out with him. He was going to see him yes-
terday. And then, last night, I had this note from
him.” She held it out, then couldn't bear to let it
out of her hands, and so read it to him.
“‘DEAR Jo, You mustn't worry. Lunt's been


86 CALL MR. FORTUNE
found shot, and the police have pinched me. Take
it easy and go slow, and we'll comb it all out.—
Yours, V.' "
Nurse Dauntsey gazed at Reggie with very big
eyes.
“Sounds as if he knew his own mind,” Reggie
murmured. “And all this bein’ thus, you want me
to take up the case. Why?”
Nurse Dauntsey was startled. “But to get him
off, of course—to defend him.”
“Yes. But don't let's be previous. Speakin'
frankly, did he do it?”
Nurse Dauntsey stood up. “I am engaged to him,
Mr. Fortune,” she said with dignity.
“Quite. That's the best thing I know about him.
But I don't know much else.”
“And I am sure he's not guilty.”
“That kind of man, is he?”
“Just that kind of man,” said Nurse Dauntsey,
and her eyes glowed. “He couldn't do anything
that wasn't fair and clean.”
“Then he'd better have a solicitor. Do you sup-
pose he's got one?” -
“He’d never think of such a thing.”
“Make him have Moss and Gordon. Ask for
Donald Gordon, and say I sent you.”
“But I want you, Mr. Fortune. You know there's
no one like you.”


THE NICE GIRL 87
“I blush. We both blush.” Reggie smiled at -
her. “Well, nurse, two other people have called me
into the Lunt case.” Nurse Dauntsey cried out, and
her nice face was piteous. “Take it easy and go
slow, as V. Cranford says. I'm going down to
Prior's Colney now to find out who I'm acting for.
Oh, my dear girl, don't cry. I’m guessing it may be
you. Now you be a good girl, and take Donald
Gordon to him.”
Nurse Dauntsey held out her hands. “Oh, Mr.
Fortune, don’t go against him,” she cried.
Safe in his car, Reggie communed with himself.
“She’s a lamb. But disturbing to the intellects.
Well, well. I’ll have to make Brer Lomas sit up
and take notice.”
It was a clear, cold morning of early spring, and
Reggie shrank under his rugs. He had no love for
east winds. He thought that there should be a close
time for murders. He was elaborating a scheme by
which the murder and the cricket seasons should be
conterminous, when, at about twenty-five miles from
London, they passed a horrible building. It was
some distance from the high road, perched on the
top of a small hill. It was of very red brick and
very white stone, so arranged as to suggest the
streaky bacon which might be made of a pig who
had died in convulsions. It was ornate with the
most improbable decorations, colonnades, battle-


88 CALL MR. FORTUNE
ments, a spire or so, oriel windows, a dome, Tudor
chimneys, and some wedding-cake furbelows.
Reggie writhed and called to his factotum, who
was sitting beside the chauffeur. “Sam, who had
that nightmare?”
“That must be Colney Towers, sir. Mr. Victor
Lunt's place.”
Reggie groaned. “And Victor yet lives!”
A mile or two farther on they ran into a village
which, before ruthless fellows stuck garden-city cot-
tages on to it, must have ben placid and pretty.
The car drew up at an honest Georgian lump
of red brick which bore the plate of Dr. Gerald
Barnes.
Gerald Barnes was a ruddy young man who
looked and dressed like a farmer. “I say, this is
very decent of you. Jolly day, isn't it?” he bustled.
“Have you a fire, Barnes—a large fire? Put me
on it,” said Reggie. “And don't be so cheerful. It
unnerves me.” Still in his fur coat, Reggie planted
himself in front of the consulting-room hearth.
“Now, what do you want me for?”
“Well, it's not so much me, though I'd like your
opinion. It's more Lady Lunt. Medically speaking,
it's a pretty straight case. Lunt was shot in the
chest and the bullet lodged in the spine, .38 revolver
bullet. So there's not much doubt about the cause
of death, what? But there are one or two odd
things. The right thumb seems to be sprained.


THE NICE GIRL 89
There's a nasty wound over the left eye—seems to
have been made by a blow.”
“Sounds messy. Where do I come in?”
“Why, I don't quite see my way through it. If a
fellow had a pistol ready to use, why bash the beg-
gar? It's a futile sort of wound too, nasty mess,
but not dangerous. But you'd better see the body,
Fortune.”
“Oh, let me thaw. So Lady Lunt's not satisfied
with the police?”
“No, by Jove, she isn't. I say, Fortune, how did
you know that?”
“Genius, just genius. And what's Lady Lunt
like?”
“Well, you know, she isn't quite a lady. And yet
she is in big things. He married her about ten years
ago, somewhere on the Continent. But she's Eng-
lish. She was a dancer or singer or something.
Pretty low class, I believe. She was awfully hand-
Some—big, dark, dashing type. She hasn't kept her
looks, but she's still striking. She was pretty rowdy
at first—went the pace like he did. He was an awful
old bounder, you know. But for a good while now
she's been different—quiet and serious—looking
after things down here, good work on the estate—
that sort of thing. She quietened him down too,
but he was pretty bad. I think she was getting him
in hand slowly, but she must have been having a
rotten time for years.”


90 CALL MR. FORTUNE
“And what does Lady Lunt want now?”
“I’m hanged if I know,” said Barnes, after some
hesitation. “She thinks there's more in it than the
detectives see, and she's not satisfied about this
arrest.”
“Now go easy. Two other people have called me
in, and I don't know who I'll act for. So don't spoil
anybody's game. Lomas wired for me—”
“Lomas! So Scotland Yard isn't so mighty cock-
sure.”
“Did Lomas seem so? Rude fellow. And then
there's V. Cranford.”
“Cranford's got to you already! He's lost no
time.”
“Oh, he's in very good hands. Now let's take a
walk. You'll show me where Lunt was killed, and
I'll have a look at him.” Reggie shed his fur coat
and became brisk.
It was his bailiff who had found Sir Albert Lunt,
taken the news to the house, and telephoned for
Gerald Barnes. Sir Albert Lunt had been walking
back from his home farm across the park, which
was an undulating stretch of turf over chalk, broken
here and there by some fine beeches and coverts of
gorse and bramble. A gravel path ran straight from
the home farm to the main chestnut avenue. Barnes
halted at a place where the turf was trampled in half-
frozen footprints. Reggie looked round him.


92 CALL MR. FORTUNE
right eyebrow to hair was a red furrow. He had
prominent, pale eyes.
“Who is the sportsman with the scratched face?”
Reggie said, as the door shut on him.
“Oh, that's Victor Lunt. Been inquiring after
Lady Lunt, I suppose.”
“Bright and brotherly,” Reggie murmured.
There appeared briskly a man of grave and mili-
tary aspect, who was presented to Reggie as Radnor
Hall, Sir Albert Lunt's secretary. Radnor Hall (in
a faintly American accent) was very glad to see Mr.
Fortune; hoped for Mr. Fortune's company to
lunch; after which, Lady Lunt was most anxious to
see Mr. Fortune. -
“I want to see the body,” Reggie said gruffly.
So to the body he was taken, and saw that Ger-
ald Barnes was right enough: there could be no
doubt of the cause of death. A pistol bullet, fired
from some little distance, had entered the chest and
lodged in the spinal vertebrae. Sir Albert Lunt
might not have died on the instant. He could not
have lived long. But that mortal wound was tiny.
What made the dead man look horrible was the
gash in his forehead and the bruise round it. And
over that Reggie frowned and pondered. “Showy,
isn't it, very showy?” he complained. Such a hurt a
man might get by falling on a stone. But Sir Albert
Lunt had fallen on his back on the turf. If some
one had hit him with a stone or some such jagged


THE NICE GIRL 93
thing—but why should any man take a stone who
had a pistol and was not afraid to use it? “If there
was any sense in it, I’d say it was a fake,” Reggie
grumbled.
He gave up the wounds at last and moved round
the body.
“Oh, you're looking at the wrong hand,” Barnes
said.
“Am I though?”
“Yes, this is the one where the thumb's sprained
—the right hand.”
“Well, you know, he seems to have been busy
with his hands. What did you make of this?”
Barnes came to look. The fingers of the left hand
were bent towards the thumb as if the dead man
had been plucking at something.
“Not much in that, is there?”
“What was he wearing?”
“Rough brown overcoat—brown tweeds.”
“Oh, ah!” Delicately Reggie extracted from the
stiff fingers some little curly, black tufts.
“Well, that's queer,” Barnes said. “Looks like a
nigger's hair.”
“You know you've got imagination.” Reggie put
the stuff very carefully in his pocket-book. “Some
oppressed nigger from the compounds of Johannes-
burg—came all the way to Prior's Colney for ven-
geance—threw a stone at him—shot him—and then
butted him. Thorough fellow, very thorough.”


94 CALL MR. FORTUNE
“What is it, then?” Barnes said sulkily.
“Seek not to proticipate. Hallo!”
The interruption was the Hon. Stanley Lomas,
Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department,
dapper and debonair.
“Ah, Fortune, good man. Why didn't you ask
for me? I’m at the inn in the village.”
“That's very haughty of you. Why not in the
house? Have you put Lady Lunt's back up? Or
has she put up yours?”
“Oh, best to have a free hand, don't you know?
Well, what do you make of it?” Reggie shrugged.
“Curious features, what? What I want to know is,
was that blow on the head before the shot or after?”
“What you want is not a surgeon, it's a clairvoy-
ant. Anyway, you don't want me. You've got your
man.”
“Have I?” Lomas put up his eyeglass. “You
mean Cranford? Now how did you know about
Cranford?”
“Sorry, Lomas. Nothing doing. I'm the inde-
pendent expert this tide.”
Lomas frowned. “My dear fellow ! Oh, my dear
fellow! Unless you're acting for some one, you've
no business here, don't you know.”
“I’m acting for some one all right—for V. Cran-
ford.”
“Hallo! You've made up your mind?” Barnes
cried.


THE NICE GIRL 95
Lomas dropped his eyeglass. “Ah! Well, well.
Things must be as they may, what? It's a pity.
Afraid you've made a bad break this time, Fortune.
It's a straight case.”
“I wonder,” Reggie said.
“My dear fellow, I’d hate you to be at a disadvan-
tage.” Lomas seemed suddenly to have become
older, paternal, protective. “Well—it's not strictly
official—but I may tell you we've found the pistol.
It was in Cranford's rooms.”
“A Smith-Southron .38? Fancy! I don't sup-
pose there's more than half a million of them in cir-
culation. It’s a good gun. I’ve got one myself
somewhere.”
“My dear fellow!” Lomas was young and jaunty
again. “Why try to bluff me? Lunt was killed by
a particular kind of pistol. And we find the par-
ticular man to whom all suspicion points owns
one of these pistols. It's quite simple, don't you
know?”
“Yes, oh yes, ‘Doosid lucid, doosid convincing.”
But I wonder why you want to convince me?”
That was the first skirmish over the Lunt case,
and Reggie, Gerald Barnes discreetly excusing him-
self, ate a little téte-à-tête lunch with Radnor Hall—
not in the silver panelled dining-room. When the
servants were gone, “I don't want to hear anything
under false pretences, Mr. Hall,” Reggie explained.
“I shall act in this case for Cranford.”
---


96 CALL MR. FORTUNE
“Is that so?” Radnor Hall rubbed his back hair.
“I guess I'll take you right in to Lady Lunt.”
Lady Lunt stood in front of the fire with a ciga-
rette in her mouth. She was a big woman, a little
flat of figure and gaunt of face, but still handsome.
She thrust a hand on Reggie, gripped his hand, and
shot a “Glad to see you,” at him. Reggie was sorry
he could not act for Lady Lunt, but had to consider
that Cranford had the first claim on him. “I don't
mind,” she cried. It seemed her habit to be explo-
sive. “If you're against the police, that's good
enough for us. Eh, Radnor?”
“Sure,” said Radnor Hall, who was watching
Reggie closely.
“I want you to hear what we've got to say about
the case,” the lady explained. “We think it mat-
ters.”
“Quite a lot,” said Radnor Hall. Lady Lunt
nodded at him, and he began. “You see, Mr. For-
tune, Sir Albert left everything to Lady Lunt.”
Reggie murmured that it was very natural. “As
Lady Lunt regards the proposition, it's up to her
to see that justice is done about the murder.”
“Justice, see?” Lady Lunt broke in vehemently.
“And not have some poor devil hanged because the
police think he's an under dog and don't count.”
Radnor Hall frowned at her. “Mr. Fortune will
realize when we make the position clear.”


THE NICE GIRL 97
“Sorry, Radnor. You go on.” Lady Lunt threw
her cigarette away and dropped into a chair.
“Well, sir, to commence.” Radnor Hall smoothed
his back hair. “This firm never was Albert Lunt.
It was Lunt Brothers. The late Sir Albert he was
sure master. He put in the git up and git. But
quite a lot of the head work came from Mr. Victor
Lunt. And lately Sir Albert having largely re-
lapsed into living on his rents, Mr. Victor Lunt has
had considerable control. Now, sir, speaking as
man to man, I would wish to say that the methods
of Lunt Brothers have been complex—highly com-
plex. I conjecture that in early days Albert and
Victor were both out for scalps. But in my time,
Sir Albert having mellowed, largely mellowed—
under prosperity and certain influences 22
“Oh, don’t blether, Radnor,” Lady Lunt ex-
ploded.
“Well, Mr. Fortune, Sir Albert has lately showed
a tendency to more conservative methods of finance.
Mr. Victor Lunt has gone on putting in his sharp
head work. There has been friction, sir—some fric-
tion. Now in this affair of Cranford's—without
prejudice, I would like to say that Mr. Cranford has
been hardly used by Lunt Brothers.” -
“He’s been damnably cheated,” said Lady Lunt.
“There's a point of view,” said Radnor Hall.
“Lady Lunt had put her point of view to Sir Albert.
Well, sir, the Cranford case was largely handled by


98 CALL MR. FORTUNE
Mr. Victor Lunt. I wouldn't say Sir Albert dis-
avowed the methods used. But he considered Mr.
Victor was taking too much control. Words passed.
And we find Sir Albert shot. That's the proposi-
tion, Mr. Fortune.”
Reggie smiled. Reggie put the tips of his fingers
together and over them looked very blandly at the
military face of Radnor Hall. “Your view is that
Sir Albert was murdered by his brother Victor,”
he said.
Lady Lunt started and looked at Radnor Hall.
Radnor Hall gave no sign of surprise. “Pitch up
another, doctor,” he smiled back. “No, sir. Your
guess, not mine. I’m giving out facts.”
“Oh, cut it out, Radnor,” said Lady Lunt.
“Well, well.” Reggie surveyed her benignly.
“And so Sir Albert's death leaves Victor in control
of the firm P”
“Sir Albert's share comes to me,” Lady Lunt said.
“Five-eights. I'm master now.”
“A responsibility,” Reggie murmured. “If I un-
derstand, one cause of quarrel between the brothers
was that Victor resented your influence, madame,
which Sir Albert encouraged you to use?”
“Yes, that's the proposition,” said Radnor Hall.
“You know it's not,” Lady Lunt cried. “They
both hated me to meddle.”
“Is that so?” Reggie said dreamily. “And you


THE NICE GIRL 99
were asking me to find out who murdered Sir
Albert?”
“No, I wasn't,” Lady Lunt flashed at him. “I
was asking you to save this poor boy Cranford.”
“Ah, well, let's hope it's the same thing.” Reggie
stood up. “I can play about in the park, I suppose?
Many thanks.” -
And he did play about in the park till dusk, and
when he went back to London Sam, the factotum,
was not with him.
In the evening Donald Gordon rang him up. Don-
ald Gordon thought Cranford was a bit of a tough,
but was going to act for him. It would be a fruity
case. He had arranged a consultation with Cran-
ford at the prison to-morrow, and hoped Reggie
would be there. What did Reggie think of the case?
“Rotten,” said Reggie, and rang off.
The fact is that from first to last the Lunt case
annoyed him. He never saw his way through it,
and has always called it one of his failures. The
one thing which he did, he will tell you, was to
grasp that the police were mucking it—to divine
that whoever killed Sir Albert and however he—or
she—did it, it was not a simple, common bit of
pistolling. He was right about nothing else. His
apology is that he has no imagination.
At this stage he was prepared to believe anything.
When he went gloomily to bed it was with the con-


IOO CALL MR. FORTUNE
viction that if he were Chief of the Criminal Inves-
tigation Department he could make it—or fake it—
into a hanging matter for “any one of the bally
crowd.” The unknown Cranford, the enigmatic
Victor, Lady Lunt, Radnor Hall, you could put each
of them in the dock—or several of them together.
Lady Lunt stood to gain most by the death—or per-
haps Radnor Hall—what were her relations with
Radnor Hall? Cranford had the worst quarrel
with the dead man—or perhaps brother Victor. In
favour of Cranford was only the oddity of the
business, and nice Nurse Dauntsey . . . a lamb.
. . . Comfortable visions of her sent him to sleep.
Seen in the gaunt room at the prison, the un-
known Cranford came up to expectation. He was
a dark fellow, lean and powerful, with a decisive
jaw. The little Jewish solicitor, Donald Gordon,
became nervous before him. “Miss Dauntsey says
I'm devilish obliged to you, doctor,” said Cranford
sharply. “So I am. You understand I admit
nothing.”
“That's the best way,” the little Jew lisped.
But Cranford told his story and admitted a good
deal. He had offered his discovery of copper to
Lunt Brothers, and been sent out to Mozambique
with a party of their men. On the way up country
he had gone out of camp to shoot for the pot. Out


IO2 CALL MR. FORTUNE
He got cold feet. Said I had better go right on to
Albert. Albert was down at Prior's Colney. Would
I go to Albert? I would so. And I did.”
“Yes. By train. You got to Colney Road Sta-
tion 12.2O,” Reggie said. “You came back by the
2.5.”
“That's so.” Cranford stared at him. “You
know something, doctor. I walked up to Prior's
Colney. Flunkey said Albert was out. I walked
back and caught the 2.5.”
There was silence for a moment. Then the little
Jew said, “That's the story. You'll have to tell it
in the witness-box, you know.”
“Can do,” said Cranford.
“That's nice,” the little Jew lisped. “Now you
know some fellow will ask you—don't you tell me if
you don't want——did you murder Albert Lunt?”
“I did not, sir.”
The little Jew rubbed his hands. “That's nice,
ain't it, doctor? That gives us a free hand.” He
got up. “Well, doctor, any questions?”
“I wonder what coat you were wearing, Mr. Cran-
ford?” Reggie said.
“Coat? Brown raincoat. Devilish cold it was
too. Only coat I’ve got. I’ve not had time to fit
out for an English spring.”
“Quite. We'll carry on, then.” Reggie got up
too. “It’s shaping all right, Mr. Cranford. Shouldn't
22
worry.


THE NICE GIRL IO3
“Not me. Tell Miss Dauntsey,” Cranford said.
Outside in their car, “What's the verdict, doctor?”
Gordon said.
“He’s telling the truth,” Reggie said.
“Fancy!” And they became technical.
On the day of the inquest Reggie went down to
Prior's Colney, but the inquest he did not attend.
The Hon. Stanley, Lomas noticed that, and re-
marked on it with..surprise to Donald Gordon. It
was the one thing in a successful day which gave
Mr. Lomas concern. But at the close of that day
Mr. Lomas, going back to the inn for his car and
his tea, found Reggie eating buttered toast. “I
envy you, Fortune, don't you know.” Lomas sat
down beside him.
“Oh, Mr. Lomas, sir,” Reggie mumbled. “Go
along with you.”
“I envy your stomach,” Lomas explained, put up
his eyeglass and surveyed the buttered toast more
closely. “O Lord! And after a bad day too!
You’ve heard the verdict. What? Wilful murder
against Cranford.”
“And all is gas and gaiters. And hooroar for
Scotland Yard. And you shall pay for my tea.”
“It was the pistol did for him, you know.” Lomas
Smiled as a man who can afford to smile.
“Childhood's years are passin' o'er us, Lomas,”
Reggie murmured. “Soon our schooldays will be
done. Cares and Sorrows lie before us, Lomas.


IO4 CALL MR. FORTUNE
Hidden dangers, snares unknown. I've found the
real pistol, old thing. Good-bye.”
Lomas caught him up outside. “I say, Fortune.
Without prejudice—what's your line?”
“Seek not to proticipate.” Reggie smiled. “This
Šentleman is paying for my tea, Mary. You would
be so hasty, you know.” -
Mr. Lomas drank whisky and soda.
That was the second skirmish in the Lunt case.
- The general action was fought at the assizes. The
interest in it began with the cross-examination of
Victor Lunt. Victor Lunt, called for the prosecu-
tion, made a good impression. He looked harassed
and in ill-health, affected as a good brother should
be by a brother's death. But he had command of
himself, proved that he had brains as well as the
heart displayed by his dull eye and flabby face, he
Was lucid and to the point. He showed no malice
against Cranford. Cranford had called on him on
the morning of the murder, complained bitterly of
his treatment by Sir Albert Lunt, used violent lan-
guage about Sir Albert, demanded to know where
Sir Albert was, and gone away. Such was Mr.
Lunt's evidence in chief.
Then arose a small and pallid barrister with a
priggish nose. He would ask Mr. Lunt to carry his
mind back to some earlier transactions. So the story
of the expedition to Mozambique was brought out
and, such was the simplicity of the priggish little


THE NICE GIRL - IO5
man, the harassed mouth of Mr. Lunt was made to
explain that Lunt Brothers had annexed Cranford's
discovery, and that the expedition of Lunt Brothers
had left him to die in the bush.
“Are you justifying the murder?” said counsel
for the Crown.
“You will understand my friend's uneasiness, gen-
tlemen,” says the little barrister, and pinned Mr.
Lunt to the statement that it was Sir Albert who
had planned this iniquitous scheme. “And when
Cranford had gone, Mr. Lunt, of course you warned
your brother at once this desperate fellow was on
his track. No? Curious. Yet au went down in
your motor to your own hous 't Colney Towers,
not much more than a mile away. You reached the
house between 12 and 12.30? Perhaps? Oh, don't
begin to forget things now. What did you do
then P”
As far as he remembered Mr. Lunt took a stroll.
“On your oath—did you not go and meet your
brother?”
Mr. Lunt (who had sat down) started up to deny
it. He had not gone outside his own park.
“Would it surprise you to hear that on the path
from your house to Sir Albert's there were found
next day fresh footprints which your boots fit?”
Mr. Lunt often walked that way. “What clothes
were you wearing?” Mr. Lunt could not remem-
ber. He went as he was. “You don’t deny you


THE NICE GIRL Io?
cross-examination could do nothing with these facts.
Then came other witnesses to prove that Victor
Lunt had been wearing Astrakhan, and Cranford
a raincoat.
Last witness for the defence—Cranford himself.
Last question for the defence—“On your oath, did
you murder Albert Lunt?”
“On my oath, no.”
The once confident counsel for the Crown went
delicately now. It was plain enough that he thought
his case did not justify him in pressing the prisoner
hard. “When you were told Albert Lunt was out
you made no further attempt to see him. Why?”
“I thought it was a plant. I thought the two of
them were putting me off.”
“So you went straight back to town?”
“Yes. I caught the 2.5. You know that.”
Counsel for the Crown gave it up.
A speech of sledgehammer logic from the prig-
gish little barrister, exhibiting Cranford as a man
much wronged, and Victor Lunt as the villain of the
piece—a speech the more effective from its studied
absence of passion. A summing up from the judge
dead against Victor Lunt. A quick verdict of Not
Guilty. Cheers in court. Nurse Dauntsey crying
and laughing and feeling blindly for Reggie For-
tune's hand.
In the corridor outside, “That's a case, my boy,
that's a case.” The little Jew solicitor jumped and


IO8 CALL MR. FORTUNE
-,
gurgled. “Some sensation! What, Mr. Lomas,
some sensation in the Yard.”
“Baddish break, Lomas. “Zeal, all zeal, Mr.
Easy,’” Reggie grinned.
“Why the devil couldn't you give it me?” Lomas
thrust by in a hurry. “Get on, Bell—get on.”
Superintendent Bell, his lieutenant, shook his head
at Reggie.
That night after dinner a card was brought in to
Reggie Fortune. “For God's sake see me,” was
scrawled above “Mr. Victor Lunt.” Reggie went
down to his consulting-room.
Victor Lunt was in distress. The fat face which
in the morning had been pale was now crimson and
sweating. He breathed heavily; he seemed swollen.
“You must expect nothing from me, Mr. Lunt.
I have done with your case,” Reggie said.
“You’ll hear what I’ve got to say. You must hear
my side, doctor. It was you who set them on me.
My God, there may be a warrant out for me any
moment. Doctor, for God’s sake—you don't want
to send me to the gallows. I never did it. I swear
I never did.”
“I have said nothing but the truth about what I
found. The facts are the facts, Mr. Lunt. Defend
yourself against them. I can do nothing for you.”
“But the facts lie, doctor. God love you, you
wouldn't go to hang an innocent man. I'll tell you
the truth, by God I will.”


THE NICE GIRL Io9
Reggie sat down. “I can't take up your case, Mr.
Lunt. I am committed. Anything you tell me is at
your own risk. If you can convince me that you're
innocent it's my duty to do what I can for you. But
I advise you to hold your tongue.”
“Don’t you see?” Victor Lunt was almost scream-
ing. “If they hang me it's you that's done it. Will
you listen now?”
“Go on, sir.”
Victor Lunt mopped his face, tried to speak, and
stuttered. “I did go out that day.” The words
came in a half-articulate rush. “I wanted to see
what Cranford had done to Bert. And in the park
I found Bert lying shot. He had a pistol in his
hand.”
“Do you want me to believe he shot himself?”
Reggie frowned.
“O God, I don't know. I swear it's the truth,
doctor. He was lying there shot with a pistol in
his hand. When I bent over him he grabbed at me.
‘You swine,’ he said, and he lifted his hand to shoot.
Then I bashed his face with a stone. But he shot
and it cut my head. That was the scratch, doctor.
My God, you do see things. I grabbed the pistol
and wrenched it away from him.”
“The sprained thumb,” Reggie muttered.
“Then I heard the death-rattle.” Victor Lunt
shuddered, and again he could not command his
speech. “I lost my head, doctor. I ran away. I


I IO CALL MR. FORTUNE
chucked the pistol away. I don't know what I did.
Doctor, I swear it's God's truth.” He started up.
“What do you mean to do now?”
For Reggie sat silent looking at him. “If it's the
truth, Mr. Lunt, I advise you to tell it.”
“It is the truth. Don't you know it's the truth?
O God!”
“I am not God, Mr. Lunt.”
Victor Lunt Screamed. Two men had come into
the room. “Mr. Victor Lunt? I am Superinten-
dent Bell. I hold a warrant ” Victor Lunt fell
upon the hearth.
They rushed at him, dragged him out of the fire.
. . . “Apoplexy,” Reggie said. “I thought it was
coming.” The detective's eyebrows asked him
a question. Reggie shook his head.
“This warrant, won’t run,” said Superintendent
Bell. “What was he doing here, sir?”
“Asking for mercy,” Reggie said. “He’s taking
the case to a higher court. I wonder. I wonder.”
And that night Victor Lunt died. . . .
A few days afterwards Reggie gave a little din-
ner to Cranford and Nurse Dauntsey, and Nurse
Dauntsey in a shy evening-frock was adorably
happy. And in due time, “Have another peach,”
Reggie said.
“Do you want to see me blush, Mr. Fortune?”
But she took another.


THE NICE GIRL III
“You can do pleasant things with the stones—he
loves me, he loves me not.”
“It’s not interesting any more,” said Nurse Daunt-
sey, and looked demure.
“I’m off to British Columbia next week,” Cran-
ford announced.
“Alone?” said Reggie, with his eye on Nurse
Dauntsey.
“This year, next year,” Nurse Dauntsey counted.
“May I have five peaches, Mr. Fortune?”
“I’m sure you know what's good for you. So
you're dropping the Mozambique copper claim,
Cranford?”
“Lady Lunt offered to turn it over to me. I
couldn't touch it.”
“Of course not,” said Nurse Dauntsey.
“Good thing for me Victor Lunt didn't stand his
trial,” Cranford said.
“Yes. It would have kept you in England.”
Reggie lit a cigar.
“I should have had to tell the whole story.” Reg-
gie stared at him. “Yes. That's the proposition,
sir. It was the case you put up against him got me
off.”
“I put up nothing,” Reggie cried. “Everything
I had against Victor was true, and he knew it was
true. That's what broke him. He had a queer
story of his own though,” and Reggie told them


II2 CALL MR. FORTUNE
Victor Lunt's version of the crime. “I’ve won-
dered how much of that was true. He wanted me
to believe Albert committed suicide, you see. And
that's impossible.”
“Maybe it was all true,” Cranford said. “Poor
beggar. He went through it.”
“I didn't feel merciful,” Reggie said. “What-
ever was the way of it, he meant to get his brother
murdered. He worked you up and sent you off to
do it. He meant the murder. No, I didn’t feel
merciful. And yet—I wonder.”
“I always meant to put you wise,” Cranford said.
“You’ll pardon me. I couldn't afford to give any-
thing away. And I told you no lies. I didn't mur-
der Albert Lunt. But I killed him. Fair and clean,
sir. On my soul it's as good a bit of work as ever I
did. He was a yellow dog. It was up to me to wipe
him out. This is the way of it, doctor. When they
said he wasn't at Prior's Colney I laid to wait for
him, and then I saw him coming across the park. I
met him and I told him off. I had it all cut out.
He had to have his chance, though he gave me none.
I had two guns. One for him, one for me. I
offered him the pick, and he snatched and fired at me
while I had the other gun by the muzzle. He was
sure trash. Then he put in another miss and I
stretched him. That's my tale, sir.”
“And it's just as well you didn't try it on a jury,”
Reggie said.


THE NICE GIRL II3
Cranford started up. “Mr. Fortune, sir, I'm con-
siderably in your debt. But if you call me a
liar 29
“Oh no, no.”
“D'you call me a coward then? I would have it
all out if Victor had come to trial.”
“You’ve run straight,” Reggie said.
“I sure have,” Cranford fumed.
“Do sit down, dear,” said Nurse Dauntsey in her
nice, gentle voice.
On her Reggie turned. “And you knew all the
time!” He shook his head at her.
“Yes, of course, Mr. Fortune.” She looked sur-
prised.
“Cranford, my congratulations,” said Reggie.
“Never trust a .eally nice girl unless you're marry-
ing her. Perhaps you knew that.”
*





CASE IV
THE EFFICIENT ASSASSIN





CAS E IV
THE EFFICIENT ASSASSIN
P | NHERE was a silence that might be felt.
The judge put on the black cap. The
prisoner gave a queer cackle of laughter.
And Mr. Reginald Fortune, the surgeon whose evi-
dence had convicted him, yawned and stole out of
court. The Sunday School murder, one of the most
popular crimes of our generation, had bored Mr.
Fortune excessively, and now that the Sunday
School Superintendent was safely on his way to the
hangman Mr. Fortune desired to forget all about it
at Once.
He stood on the steps of the Shire Hall, lighting
a cigar. A large young man, who had been strug-
gling to get in, detached himself from the guardian
policeman and ran at him. “Fortune! My God!”
he said emotionally. “I thought I'd never get at
you. I say, come somewhere where we can talk.”
Mr. Fortune looked down through his smoke with
sleepy eyes. “One moment. One moment,” he
murmured. “Oh ah. You’re Charlecote—Beaver
Charlecote. Well, and what's the best with you,
Beaver?”
117


II8 CALL MR. FORTUNE
“It's murder, old man,” Charlecote muttered.
“Everybody's doing it.” Mr. Fortune frowned
at him. “Who’s slain now?”
“It's my father.”
“My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap!” Mr. For-
tune was startled into sympathy.
“I say, Fortune—for God's sake—” Charle-
cote gasped.
“Quite. Quite,” said Mr. Fortune, linked arms
with him, and marched him off.
When Reggie Fortune ambled through his four
years at Oxford, Geoffrey Charlecote was one of
the great men of his college, a cricket blue, socially
magnificent, and even suspected of brains. The
Charlecote family dated from the Victorian age.
When the building of railways began, Geoffrey's
grandfather was a navvy. He became a contractor,
made half a million, and died. Shares of his practical
ability, his originality, his driving power, and his
disdain for the ten commandments (he was a mean
old sinner) were inherited in different proportions
by his three descendants. Stephenson Charlecote,
his son, had one child, Geoffrey, and was also the
guardian of an orphan nephew, Herbert. Stephen-
son Charlecote was a capable man of business. In
his hands the family wealth increased. His only
ambition was that the family should get on in the
world. So it was Eton and Oxford for Geoffrey,


I2O CALL MR. FORTUNE
Damn it, man, what do you mean? Do you think
I Oh, I say, this is loathsome. I believe that's
what the police think. The old guv'nor!”
“Yes. But this don't help him,” said Reggie For-
tune placidly. “From the beginning, please.”
Geoffrey Charlecote stared at him, gulped, and
became more coherent. “Well, after the row I went
abroad. Paris, Rome, Munich. I kept up a little
place in Chelsea, too. I never saw the old man, and
we didn't write. I suppose I’ve been a brute.”
“Hard stuff in the Charlecote family. . What?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, Fortune—I swear I’m sorry.”
“Cut it out,” said Reggie Fortune.
“Well, in Munich I married.” He flushed. “You
know, she's an angel, Fortune.”
“Quite. German angel?”
“No. She's Italian. She came to Munich sing-
ing. And I-we met, and in a month we were mar-
ried. I tell you, Fortune, I've been a different man
since. It’s as if she'd given me a soul, you know.”
“Did you tell your father that?”
“It was she made me write to my father again.
Lucia—she can’t bear being in a quarrel. She's so
gentle, any sort of bad feeling hurts her. So she
brought me to try and make it up. I wrote to the
old man and he answered—just a short, civil, formal
note. But Lucia was sure it would lead to some-
thing, and so we came back to England. Then I
wrote to him again, and he came to see us in Chel-


THE EFFICIENT ASSASSIN I2 I
sea. That was a week ago—just a week ago to-day.
He was pretty stiff and standoffish, but he took to
Lucia. Everybody does, you know. Fortune, old
man, she's wonderful. I thought he seemed a good
deal aged, but he was just as brisk and sharp as
ever. He had us to dine with him on Monday. And
then—well, last night he called on us again, came
about four, stayed a long time. And he was so
jolly and genial. And afterwards I went out to post
some letters, and there he was, lying not a dozen
yards from our door. He’d been stabbed. He was
in a pool of blood. Good God! It was awful.”
“Yes. Yes. Seems to be a quiet street where
you live.”
“Vinton Place—it’s a little cul-de-sac.”
“It was dark when he left? And you heard noth-
ing? Yes. I wonder who his money goes to?”
“What the devil do you mean?” Geoffrey cried.
“Well, that's quite a fair question,” said Reggie
Fortune placidly. “If I’m actin' for you, and if you
like, I will, I look only to your interests. If I'm
actin’ for Scotland Yard—and if it's a hard case,
they'll call me in—I'm only concerned to get the
truth out whoever suffers.”
“And do you think I don't want the truth?” Geof-
frey cried. “What are you hinting at? Do you
nean I murdered him?”
“Preserve absolute calm,” said Reggie Fortune.
“I’m not calm. What a beast I should be if I was


I22 CALL MR. FORTUNE
calm. I want the thing cleared up, man. I want my
father to have justice. Whether you act for me or
act for the police it's the same thing.”
“If you take it that way, I'll act for the police,
Beaver,” said Reggie placidly.
Geoffrey Charlecote stared at him. “That's
enough, thanks,” he said. “Stop the car. I won't
worry you any more, Mr. Fortune.”
“Mr. be blowed. Don't be an ass, Beaver. It's
bad business. Let's make the best of it.”
“Will you stop the car?” Geoffrey said loudly,
and stood up.
“Five miles from nowhere? Oh, go easy.” But
Geoffrey turned and opened the door. So the car
was stopped, and Geoffrey Charlecote left forlorn in
his rage on the road.
Reggie Fortune lay back and sighed. “Poor beg-
gar. I wonder. Poor beggar,” he said. And when
he came back to Wimpole Street the first thing he
did was to ring up the Hon. Stanley Lomas, the
Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department. As
a consequence you behold him sitting under the
French prints in the study of Mr. Lomas.
“I thought you'd be on to this, don't you know?”
Lomas said. “It’s a pretty case. Wealthy old gen-
tleman, impecunious heirs, sudden death. That's
natural enough. But impecunious heirs don't stab
much—not in England.”


THE EFFICIENT ASSASSIN I23
“Yes. You're intelligent, Lomas. But you're
prejudiced. You always believe in the obvious.”
“The obvious is what happens.”
“Oh, Peter! If it did, we wouldn't want a Crim-
inal Investigation Department. Well, now, this is
what I’ve got. Check it, please. Geoffrey quar-
relled with the old man—went away, commenced
artist, and married an Italian girl—at her wish
tried to make it up with the old man—old man was
willing, called on Geoffrey twice, and after the sec-
ond visit Geoffrey found him stabbed and dead just
outside.”
“That's all right,” Lomas nodded. “An odd thing
is, just before the murder the old man remade his
will in favour of Geoffrey. When they quarrelled,
he had a will drawn up which left everything to the
nephew Herbert. Under this last will Herbert gets
twenty thousand, and all the rest goes to Geoffrey.
It was only signed on the morning of the murder.”
“There's a deuce of a lot of unknown quantities in
this equation,” Reggie said. “Silly, futile things
facts are. This set will do for anything you please.
As soon as he knew the will was in his favour,
Geoffrey does the old man in. Or when he heard
there was a new will cutting him out, Herbert sees
red and knifes the old man. By the way, Lomas, I
suppose the old boy was stabbed ”
“What? Oh, damme, don’t be clever. He was
stabbed all right. The divisional surgeon and his


I24 CALL MR. FORTUNE
own doctor, Newton, they both went over the body.
Stabbed in the throat. We've got the weapon, too.
Sort of stiletto or dagger.”
Reggie cocked an eye at the head of the Criminal
Investigation Department. “Sounds Italian,” he
murmured.
“It is Italian.”
“And Geoffrey married an Italian wife.”
“An Italian singer—a singer at cafés. That's the
kind she was. Yes, that's the proposition.”
“Lomas, old thing, you ought to write melo-
dramas. The diabolical Italian singer, she leapt out
of the dark, she pulled a d-dagger from her stock-
ing, and she fell upon the dear, kind old gentleman
and left him weltering in his gore. Then she put
the dagger down, so the gifted detective could find
it, and went back to dinner.”
“It is silly, isn't it?” Lomas grinned. “But there
it is, don't you know?”
“I don't know,” said Reggie Fortune. “I don't
know anything. I was born of poor common-sensi-
ble parents, and this is all crazy. I suppose he really
was stabbed?”
“You will harp on that. Go and look at him in
the morning. Hang it, man, the family doctor and
the divisional surgeon they ought to know if there's
a hole in him or not.”
“But why—why? Geoffrey—the Italian wife—
they were on velvet anyway. The disappointed


THE EFFICIENT ASSASSIN I25
nephew—well, I suppose he still had his allowance
while the old man lived. Do you know anything
about nephew Herbert?”
“Man about town—Society tame cat—usual vices,
what? Plays a bit high. He's nothing in particu-
lar.”
“Don’t sound like a lurking stabber,” Reggie ad-
mitted.
“People don't do these things. That's the trou-
ble. Queer case.”
“I suppose the old man hadn't a lurid past?”
Lomas shook his head. “Most respectable old
bird.”
Reggie stood up and gave himself a full glass of
soda water. “The extraordinary efficiency of the
assassin,” he said carefully. “Lomas, old dear, ob-
serve the extraordinary efficiency of the assassin.
Mr. S. Charlecote comes out of his son's house. A
few yards from the door somebody kills him so
quickly, so neatly, that he don't make one sound.
And then this extraordinarily efficient assassin leaves
his dagger for you to find.”
“Who says he didn't make a sound?”
“Yes. Geoffrey and his angel wife. Yes. Only
them and no one else. That's a flaw. Little essays
in the obvious by S. Lomas. Well, it's me for the
corpse, then.”
And so in the morning he called at the mortuary.
He was slightly surprised to find the divisional sur-


126 CALL MR. FORTUNE
geon and Dr. Newton waiting for him. He re-
turned thanks. “Is there anything to which you'd
like to draw my attention, gentlemen?”
“It's a plain case, to my mind,” said the divisional
surgeon.
“I am always glad to have a specialist's opinion,”
said Dr. Newton. “Of course, this sort of thing is
rather out of my line. I confess I can hardly ap-
proach it calmly.”
“Quite. Quite. Most distressin'. I suppose you
knew him well, doctor?”
“An old patient, Mr. Fortune. I may say an old
friend.”
“Ah yes. You know the family, of course.”
“They were once such an affectionate family,”
said Dr. Newton. “It’s really terrible.” He sighed.
He was a florid, bearded man with a sentimental
expression and manner. “Poor Charlecote! He
never seemed to bear up after Geoffrey broke with
him. But who would have thought that strange
escapade would have ended like this?”
“So you think Geoffrey did the trick?”
“I beg your pardon " Dr. Newton was horrified.
“You put words into my mouth, Mr. Fortune. No,
no. A most invidious suggestion.”
“Murder's rather an invidious business,” said
Reggie placidly. “Come, doctor, what do you think
of Geoffrey?”
“I have never been able to conceal from myself,


THE EFFICIENT ASSASSIN 127
Mr. Fortune, that there is an odd strain in Geoffrey,
as it were something abnormal or thrawn—a certain
violence of temperament.”
“In the blood, perhaps.”
“Perhaps. And yet there was nothing of it in his
father. Or in his cousin Herbert.
“Cousin Herbert. Yes. What about Cousin Her-
bert?”
Dr. Newton laughed. “Frankly, Mr. Fortune,
you baffle me. Because there is nothing about Her-
bert. A very worthy young man, no doubt, but col-
ourless, quite colourless.” Reggie nodded. “No.”
Dr. Newton pursued his own train of thought. “In
my own speculations on the affair—this most de-
plorable affair—I find myself continually confronted
by an unknown quantity, a mysterious entity, Geof-
frey's Italian wife.”
“Ah, there you have it,” said the divisional sur-
geon heartily.
Reggie looked at them, nodded, and without more
talk led the way to the body. It did not occupy him
long. Two wounds had sufficed to make an end of
Stephenson Charlecote. One in the throat, which
had pierced the carotid artery; one in the chest, .
which had reached the heart. -
Superintendent Bell, in attendance from Scotland
Yard, produced the weapon found by the body, a
long, thin dagger or stiletto, obviously capable of
causing the wounds, obviously Italian in origin.


I28 CALL MR. FORTUNE
Reggie finished his examination and turned to the
two doctors who were waiting on him reverentially.
“Anything in particular occur to you, gentlemen?”
“Quite straightforward, I think.” The divisional
surgeon shrugged. “Technically speaking, a very
neat bit of work.”
“I would go even further,” said Dr. Newton.
“The crime seems to have been committed with re-
markable skill and determination.”
“The extraordinary efficiency of the assassin,”
Reggie murmured. “Yes. Touched the spot every
time.”
“It would almost seem to suggest some experience
in the use of this weapon,” said Dr. Newton.
“That is indicated.” Reggie nodded at him. “Yes.
Deceased been in good health lately?”
“I have been treating him for some time for gas-
tric trouble—a persistent gastric catarrh. It was
troublesome, but hardly serious.”
And upon that Reggie got rid of them and was
left alone with Superintendent Bell. Superinten-
dent Bell cocked an oldish but still bright eye. “And
the next thing, sir?” said he.
“I am feeling depressed, Bell. Do you ever have
feelings? I feel this is all wrong.”
“Well, sir, the evidence is thin, very thin.”
“Evidence? Oh, my aunt, we haven't come to
evidence yet. I'm uncomfortable. Everything


THE EFFICIENT ASSASSIN I29
seems wrong way up. Why did anybody kill the
old man? He was making friends with Geoffrey
again, and anyway Geoffrey had enough to live on.
Herbert had an allowance, and something of his
own, too. Nobody else stood to gain by his death.”
“I see you leave out the Italian girl, sir.”
“It keeps coming back to her,” Reggie said mourn-
fully. “But why? Suppose he was nasty to her
when he called. Would she run out and stab him in
the street? I wonder. Did he know some horrid
secret about her past? What is her past, Bell?”
“Pretty short, sir, anyway. She's not more than
eighteen. She was a café singer all right. But we
have nothing against her. In my experience they're
no worse than others.”
“And that's that. Have you seen his papers?”
“Better come up to the house, sir. His solicitor
will be there. But I understand there's nothing in
them. Very few private papers at all.”
“Well, well. I suppose he was murdered.”
Superintendent Bell stared. “Mr. Lomas said
you were harping on that. Pretty clear, sir, isn't
it?”
“I suppose so,” said Reggie drearily. “But it's
all wrong, Bell, it's all wrong.”
At the dead man's house, his solicitor, old Sir
Thomas Long, was busy in the library, and helping
him, to Reggie's surprise, was Herbert Charlecote,


130 CALL MR. FORTUNE
Herbert revealed himself as a pallid, dandyish man,
punctiliously polite. Colourless—Dr. Newton hit
him off to the life.
Herbert was very gratified to make Mr. Fortune's
acquaintance.
“I don't know whether to hope you can throw any
light on this miserable affair, sir?”
Reggie shook his head. “Your uncle was
stabbed, and died immediately of the wounds. That
is the whole case, Mr. Charlecote. I suppose you
can't help us?”
“I am bewildered. Quite dazed, Mr. Fortune.”
Reggie nodded and lingered, and Herbert dis-
creetly left him with the solicitor.
“Well, Mr. Fortune?” Sir Thomas took off his
glasses and pursed his lips.
“Nothing. Well, Sir Thomas?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Ah. That was a little odd, wasn't it?” Reggie
nodded at the door by which Herbert had gone
Out.
“Mr. Herbert Charlecote offered to help me. He
used to act as his uncle's secretary. It was hardly
for me to point out that there might be objections
if he was afraid of none.”
“Does he know of the new will?”
“Neither he nor his cousin Geoffrey. Mr. Her-
bert, I infer, belieyes himself sole heir, and Mr.
Geoffrey believes himself disinherited.”


THE EFFICIENT ASSASSIN 131
“And yet, just after the new will is made the old
man is murdered Oh, it's all wrong,” Reggie said
peevishly.
“An odd case. A very odd case, Mr. Fortune.”
Sir Thomas put on his eye-glasses again. “But I’m
afraid I can't help you.”
Superintendent Bell opened the door. But Reggie
seemed reluctant to go, and on the stairs he loitered
so much that the Superintendent turned—“Anything
doing, sir?”
“That gastric catarrh,” Reggie murmured. “Let’s
See the valet.”
The valet, an oldish man, was found. He testi-
fied that Mr. Charlecote had been much upset by the
quarrel with Geoffrey. Mr. Charlecote had com-
plained a good deal about his health. But there
were no particular symptoms. Dr. Newton had been
attending him for a long while. But the valet did
not think that he had done Mr. Charlecote any good.
For one thing, Mr. Charlecote did not take his
medicine. There had been a good deal of medicine.
Mr. Charlecote's instructions were always to pour
it down the sink.
“And that's that,” said Reggie as they went out.
“We don't get anywhere, sir, do we?” the Super-
intendent sympathized. “Anything you suggest?”
“How does it strike Superintendent Bell?”
“Looks like a bad case, sir. One of those where


I32 CALL MR. FORTUNE
the criminal has all the luck. Verdict, persons un-
known.”
“So Scotland Yard leaves it at that?”
“Unless Mr. Fortune has something up his
sleeve.”
“Nary card. But you know we've missed some-
thing, Bell.”
“Have we, indeed, sir? And where shall we look
for it?”
“Oh, watch out. Watch everybody.”
“Life is short, sir,” said Superintendent Bell
gloomily, and with that they parted.
The Superintendent was a true prophet. The sen-
sational inquest upon Stephenson Charlecote ended
in an unsatisfactory verdict of murder by some per-
Son or persons unknown. It was obvious that public
opinion, and the coroner, as the voice thereof, direct-
ed suspicion against Geoffrey. He made a bad wit-
ness. He was agitated, nervous, and under the coro-
ner's hostile examination lost his temper.
When he was asked if he knew that his father had
on the morning of the murder made a will leaving
everything to him, he displayed a violent agitation,
swore (not merely as a witness but with profane
oaths) that he knew nothing about it, insulted the
coroner, and roared out a declaration that he would
not touch the money, which disgusted everybody as
a bit of false melodrama. If distrust and dislike
were grounds for hanging a man, the jury would


THE EFFICIENT ASSASSIN 133
have made an end of Geoffrey, but the evidence, as
Lomas complained, could not hang a yellow dog.
And the next day, Reggie Fortune, bland as ever,
called on Geoffrey. It was a very humble house in
that Chelsea cul-de-sac. The aged servant who took
in Reggie's name left him on the doorstep, from
which he had the glimpse of a narrow bare hall and
uncarpeted stairs. He was kept waiting some time,
and heard confused noises. When at last he was
shown into the studio he met signs of storm. Geof-
frey was flushed and visibly in the sulkiest of tem-
pers, his wife pale and tired.
“Well, what is it now?” Geoffrey growled.
His wife Smiled. “Mr. Fortune? That is so kind.
If you would please sit down. Some tea, yes?”
And Reggie was saying to himself. “Oh, my
aunt! She isn't a woman, she's a child.” For Lucia
Charlecote was so frail, of such a simplicity, that
she looked rather like an angel in one of the primi-
tive Italian pictures than a woman.
“Shut up, Lucia,” Geoffrey growled. “What do
you want here, Mr. Fortune? Trying a bit of your
detective work?”
“You’re rather difficult, aren't you?” Reggie said
mildly. “You know, you told me you wanted to
have the truth brought out, justice for your father,
all that sort of thing. Well, I'm still on it.”
“Much good you've done, haven't you?”
“I don't mind confessin' we've missed something.”


I34 CALL MR. FORTUNE
“Missed! Yes, you haven't quite hanged me,
thanks. You've only made everybody think I mur-
dered my father. And so that don't satisfy you!
Thanks very much!”
“Well, are you satisfied?” said Reggie. “You
know, you're not fair. I'm makin' every allowance.
But you're not fair. If you want the thing cleared
up, you've got to give us something more. And
that's why I'm here. Now, is there anything new?”
“Oh, go to the devil!”
“Geoffrey!” Lucia, standing behind him, touched
his shoulder. “Mr. Fortune is very kind. He de-
sires to help us,” and she smiled and nodded at
Reggie.
“Oh, hold your tongue, baby. Mr. Fortune's a
damned tricky policeman, and he can take his tricks
to another market.”
“But you are impossible!” Lucia cried. “Mr.
Fortune, you see what I have to live with. This great
bear!” She rumpled Geoffrey's hair, and he made
an exclamation of disgust and dashed her hand
away. “But yes, Mr. Fortune, there is something
new. This great animal, he desires not to take his
father's money. He writes to the lawyer to say he
will not have it. But I forbid him. I say it is mad.
Say if I am right, Mr. Fortune. What is the father's
it is the son's. And Geoffrey, he has done nothing.
But if he says he will not take it”—she made a fine


THE EFFICIENT ASSASSIN 135
theatrical gesture—“people will think it is because
he is guilty. Is it not, Mr. Fortune?”
“Why can't you hold your tongue?” Geoffrey
snarled at her, and turned to glare at Reggie.
“There's a pretty story for you. And what's your
beastly detective trade make of that?”
“You know, Mrs. Charlecote, he's always in such
a hurry,” Reggie said confidentially. “Very dis-
turbin', isn't it? You are difficult, Charlecote, old
thing. Is your mind capable of receivin' a thought?
Yes. Well, just suppose that I may have refused to
act for you, because it would be better for the son
and heir I shouldn't be actin’ to his order.”
“What the deuce do you mean?”
“Well, I don't quite know, you know. Do you?
Is there anything you really want to tell me?”
“I never want to see you again.”
“Geoffrey!” his wife protested.
“Oh, he's not chatty this afternoon, Mrs. Charle-
cote. So sorry.” Reggie extricated himself from
her offers of tea, and slid away.
But he was annoyed. Against his will, the opin-
ion of Dr. Newton forced itself into his mind. “An
odd strain in Geoffrey, as it were something abnor-
mal or thrawn, a certain violence of temperament.”
It was so. Confound the oily old family doctor.
Why did Geoffrey want to give up the money?
Mere quixotry? A passionate desire to clear him-


I36 CALL MR. FORTUNE
self from the ill-fame of profiting by the old man's
death? Probably, oh, probably. But there was a
feeling called remorse found in human nature. And
why did the angel wife tell Geoffrey to keep the
money? She ought to want her husband clear of
ill-fame. You would expect a woman to care more
about that than the man himself. And you would
expect a woman to share her husband's rage with
the horrid man who had not stuck up for him. In-
stead of which the angel wife was very anxious to
keep on good terms with that horrid man. Because
he represented the police? Or why else? She had
a dubious way with her, the angel wife.
Reggie was worried—a rare state for him—and
he took himself to his least sociable club. He was
sitting there, glowering at a scientific American
paper, when the voice of Lomas addressed him.
“Care killed a cat, Reginald. Why so blue?”
Reggie sat up. “Life is real, life is earnest,
Lomas. And the grave is not the goal. That's be-
cause of our filthy profession, which is always
bothering the corpses. Come away. I am worried.
I am going to worry you.”
As they walked in St. James's Park, Reggie told
him of the queer talk in the studio. “I want com-
fort, Lomas, old thing,” he concluded. “Comfort
me.”.
“My dear Fortune! It's quite clear, what? Un-
satisfactory case, profoundly unsatisfactory. But


THE EFFICIENT ASSASSIN I37
it's quite clear. I always thought those two were
in it. Probably the sweet young wife did it, or put
Geoffrey up to it. Now he funks and she doesn't.
Women carry off these things better than men, don't
you know?”
“I don't know. I don't know anything. Lomas,
old dear, you are grateful and comfortin', you really
are. I knew you'd say that. And I know it's all
wrong.”
“My poor dear fellow! You never will reconcile
yourself to an unsatisfactory case. It's so common
too—a case you can't act on while you know it's
sound.”
“Oh, Peter! You can always act on a sound
case.”
“You’re so young,” Lomas smiled indulgently.
“We’ve missed something, don't you see?”
“And what have we missed, Reginald?”
Reggie pulled him up and looked at the ducks.
For a long time he looked at the ducks. Then,
“Cousin Herbert,” he said. “The evasive, elusive
Cousin Herbert. Why do we never come up against
Cousin Herbert?”
“Because he had nothing to do with it, what?”
“Because we haven't looked for him.”
Lomas gave an impatient laugh. “This is absurd,
my dear fellow. That pallid, tame cat of a man!”
“You let some of your fellows sniff round him.”
“My dear Fortune! Of course they have. He's


138 CALL MR. FORTUNE
quite a blameless sort of fellow. Plays a bit, spends
a bit—nothing more.”
“Oh, he wanted money—did he?”
“My dear Fortune, you're right off the wicket.
He had an alibi. He was with some people at Maid-
enhead at the time of the murder.”
“Oh, my aunt, anybody can have an alibi,” Reggie
grumbled.
Lomas laughed and shook his head. “It won't do,
Reginald. Don't try to be subtle.”
“Well, that isn't your complaint,” Reggie snarled,
and for once they parted in nasty tempers.
Three days afterwards a telephone message called
him to Scotland Yard, and he found Lomas in con-
ference with Superintendent Bell.
“Ah, here's the prophet,” Lomas smiled. “Do
you remember—in the Charlecote murder—you
backed Herbert both ways? Well, the latest from
the course is that Herbert has vanished.”
“Then it's damned careless of you. I told you
to watch him. You're not intelligent in the force,
but, hang it, you might be active.”
“His valet reports him disappeared. He had a
dinner engagement last night. Didn't come home to
dress for it. Didn't come home at all. He went out
after lunch yesterday, and hasn't been seen since.”
Reggie sat down. “One of your larger cigars
would do me good, Lomas,” he said, and helped
himself. “Oh, Mr. Lomas, sir, this is so sudden.


THE EFFICIENT ASSASSIN 139
Cousin Herbert was feeling nervous, no doubt. But
why this dramatic exit? What gave Cousin Herbert
cold feet yesterday?”
Superintendent Bell coughed. “I was wondering,
sir, if Mr. Fortune had taken any steps on his own
with regard to Herbert. To alarm him, so to
speak.”
“Nary step. Why the blazes didn't you watch
him?”
“After all, sir, we've not a thing against him.”
“Not now P”
“Well, sir, it's not criminal to disappear. But I
don't mind saying it's odd, quite odd.”
“Oh, I expect Geoffrey and the angel wife mur-
dered him too. Just to round it off, Lomas, old
thing.”
“You’re very merry and bright,” Lomas grum-
bled. “I wish you'd tell me how this helps us. Why
should he bolt now?”
“There is another unknown quantity somewhere,”
Reggie admitted.
The telephone claimed Lomas. He took it up, and
his face was eloquent as he listened. He put it
down again very gently. “Afraid you're right out
of it, Fortune. Herbert Charlecote didn't bolt. Her-
bert Charlecote has been found drowned in the Bas-
ingstoke Canal.”
“Good Lord, sir!” the Superintendent exclaimed.
“Pretty conclusive, what?” Lomas shrugged.


I40 CALL MR. FORTUNE
“And why the Basingstoke Canal?” said Reggie
placidly. “Lot's of nice places to drown in nearer
home. I ask you, why the Basingstoke Canal?”
Lomas and his Superintendent looked at each
other. “It really is a crazy case,” Lomas said slowly.
“I don't quite—”
Reggie jumped up. “Oh, come on. Let's go and
look at him. My car's outside. Where is he?”
“Woking. Half a minute.” Lomas rang his bell
and turned to his papers.
So Reggie went down first. He dismissed his
chauffeur with some long instructions, and himself
took the chauffeur's seat. Superintendent Bell
joined him. “Darker and darker, sir, isn't it?”
“Changeable weather,” Reggie said. “Come on,
Lomas, all aboard ' Are we downhearted? No!”
The car shot forward. And when it stopped in
Woking:
“Is my hair white, Fortune?” Lomas said.
The two stood humbly aside while the expert was
busy with the corpse. “As often as I’ve seen this
game, sir, I’ll never like it,” Bell said, and Lomas
nodded. But Reggie Fortune whistled as he
worked.
When he turned from the body and put a scrap
of something in his pocket-book—“Well, what is
it?” Lomas said. “He was drowned, I suppose?”
“He was drowned all right—about teatime last


I42 CALL MR. FORTUNE
“So somebody,” said Reggie, “somebody put Her-
bert in a car, brought him down here, and chucked
him in. Who was somebody? Geoffrey and the
angel wife, eh, Lomas, old thing?”
“Somebody put in some fine work, what? He
wouldn't have been found for weeks or for ever,
but a barge came along and stirred him up. And
they don't have a barge along here once a month.”
“Yes, there's plenty of brains about somewhere.
Well, let's get busy. Herbert's happy home comes
next.”
The car again broke the law on the way back.
Herbert Charlecote had lived in a big block of
flats several stories up.
“Did himself pretty expensively, don't you know,”
Lomas said, looking around the elaborate room.
“He’s paid for all now, sir,” said Superintend-
ent Bell.
“Do you know, I don't feel sentimental about
dear Herbert's doom,” Reggie smiled. “You’d
better get on to his papers. I want a man on the
'phone,” and he went out and was gone some time.
When he came back he sat himself down in the
window-seat and opened the big casements. There
was a low stone sill which held a box of flowers.
The smell of oak-leaf geranium and verbenas came
into the room. “Rather oily scents, aren't they?”
Reggie said. “I'm afraid he was rather oily, the
late Herbert. How are you getting on?”


THE EFFICIENT ASSASSIN I43
“He was certainly pressed for money,” Lomas
said. “Here's his pass-book and a letter from his
bank manager complaining that he's overdrawn
again. The £20,000 he came in for under his
uncle's will—he wanted it badly.”
“And yet as soon as he knows of that will he
goes and gets drowned. Suggestive, isn't it?”
Reggie Smiled.
“I’m hanged if I know what it suggests.” Lomas
stared at him.
“Oh, my dear Lomas! Somebody expected
Herbert was going to get more than £20,000 by
his uncle's death; going to scoop the whole estate.
Only he didn't. So he's found dead. Can you
make out from that pass-book when Herbert got
into difficulties?”
“About nine months ago. He's been living with
nothing in the bank ever since.”
“About nine months ago. Then for nine months
his uncle did nothing to help him. The murdered
uncle wouldn't help the impecunious nephew. Well,
Lomas, old thing?”
“I suppose you're playing some hand of your
own,” Lomas frowned.
Superintendent Bell came forward. “Here's a
sort of betting-book, sir. He put his luck at cards
in it too. He was some gambler.”
“Any names?” Lomas said quickly.
“All sorts of names, sir. Nothing instructive, so


I44 CALL MR. FORTUNE
to speak. You might say that’s curious.” He
pointed to a page on which, in a large blank space,
appeared the one letter, “N.”
Reggie leapt from the window-seat and rang
the bell. “As ever the Superintendent touches the
spot,” he laughed. Herbert Charlecote's man-serv-
ant, pallid and frightened, answered the bell.
“Now, my man, in one minute Dr. Newton will
be at the door; you will let him in; he will ask
for Mr. Herbert Charlecote; you will say nothing
to him, nothing at all, and Superintendent Bell
will be out in the hall to see that you do say noth-
ing; you will show Dr. Newton in here. Go on,
Bell. Look after him.”
He bustled them out.
“So ‘N’ stands for Newton, does it?’ Lomas
said. “How do you know he'll come?”
“Because he's just driven up in his car. Because
I 'phoned to say Mr. Herbert Charlecote was asking
for Dr. Newton. Now you get in there.” He
thrust Lomas into an inner room.
Dr. Newton, more florid than ever, hurried in,
and pulled up short at the sight of Reggie. “Mr.
Fortune? Oh, delighted to meet you.” He was
out of breath. “But I thought I was to see Mr.
Charlecote.”
“Did you though? That was very sanguine of
you.”


I46 CALL MR. FORTUNE
But he was fished out, Newton, and I’ve been all
the morning with him, Newton.”
Dr. Newton began to laugh. “Do you really
wish me to take this tale seriously, Mr. Fortune?
Then I must refer you to my legal advisers. I am
sure that you will see that I must.” He made for
the door.
“Not much,” Reggie said, and stood in his way.
Dr. Newton's bland expression changed. He
tried to push past and, failing, sprang on Reggie.
The two locked together and swayed across the
room. Reggie freed himself a moment and stooped.
Dr. Newton went out of the open window. As
Lomas broke into the room they heard the thud of
his fall on the stones.
“Good God, did he throw himself out?” Lomas
cried.
“No, I pitched him out,” Reggie said, smoothing
his hair. -
Lomas rushed out of the room. Reggie, loung-
ing after him, went to the telephone.
In the forecourt of the flats the body of Dr.
Newton lay. Lomas and Bell and the hall porter
were fidgeting with it, a little crowd on the pave-
ment gaping at them, when Reggie arrived. “You
don't really want me,” he said, but he bent by the
body. “It's all over. His neck's broken. Frac-
tured skull also. But that doesn't matter.”


THE EFFICIENT ASSASSIN I47
Bell stood up and blew a police whistle.
“Don’t do that. Don't do it,” said Reggie ir-
ritably, his first sign of troubled nerves. “I have
telephoned for the ambulance and all that. Why
don't you think of things beforehand?”
Superintendent Bell was startled out of his
wonted composure. “God bless my soul!” he ex-
claimed, and stared at Reggie.
And Lomas took Reggie's arm. “Come upstairs,
Fortune, please,” he said gravely.
Reggie let himself be taken up to Herbert Charle-
cote's room, and when he was there again flung
himself down on the couch. “Thirdly and lastly,”
said he. “And that's the end of the Charlecote
case, Lomas, old dear.”
“Oh, don't take that tone,” Lomas cried. “We’re
in a very difficult position, Fortune.”
“My dear Lomas! Oh, my dear Lomas! We
have emerged with credit from a most difficult
case. We have tracked and caught a very cunning
criminal, who, when taxed with the murders of
which he was guilty, became desperate, and com-
mitted suicide by flinging himself from a fourth-
story window.”
“You said you threw him out.”
“Lomas dear, my little jokes aren't evi-
dence.”
“You’ll have to give evidence at the inquest, you


148 CALL MR. FORTUNE
know.” Reggie nodded. “You’ll tell this suicide
story?”
“Sure,” said Reggie.
Lomas wiped his forehead. “Damn it, man, I
can't leave it like this,” he cried.
“Oh, don't be so pedantic. The scoundrel had
two murders at least on his soul. We hadn't evi-
dence enough to hang him. He was much too danger-
ous to live, and he gets his neck broke quietly and
without scandal. What's worrying you?”
“And what evidence have you got?”
“Ah, now reason resumes her sway. Let's be-
gin at the beginning. Herbert Charlecote, rather
less than a year ago, was at his wit’s end for money.
His uncle wouldn't give him any. Remember the
betting-book and pass-book. But at that time he
was his uncle's heir. He arranged with the family
doctor, Newton, to have the old man killed. New-
ton would want to be paid. Probably the arrange-
ment was a bet. Suppose Herbert bet Newton ten
thousand to one his uncle wouldn't die within the
year. Remember the ‘N’ in the betting-book.
Newton began treating the old man for gastric
catarrh. Sent him gallons of medicine. Probably
that was poison. But nothing happened because the
old man didn’t take it. Remember the valet said
he had it all put down the sink. I suspect old
Charlecote didn't much care for his family doctor.
The time began to run out. And then came the


I50 CALL MR. FORTUNE
I found scraps of the wool in Herbert's mouth and
nostrils. That's the case, Lomas, old thing. Come
and have tea. There's rather decent muffins at the
3 x 3
Academies'.
“Good God!” said Lomas. “Muffins!”


CASE V
THE HOTTENTOT VENUS


C A S E V
THE HOTTENTOT VENUS
inal Investigation Department was pensive.
“Did you ever want to marry, Fortune?” he
murmured.
“Often; but never one at a time.” Reggie For-
tune looked curiously at his host. The dinner had
been good, the claret very good, the cigars were of
the most benignant. But still—“Why this touch of
sentiment, Lomas?” said he.
“Some students say women have no minds,”
Lomas murmured drowsily. “But that's partiality.
The trouble is, women aren't human beings. Con-
sider the parallel case of the dog. He is intelligent.
But he sets different values on things from our
values. Inhuman values. Think of bones, cats,
boots. It is so also with women.”
“‘I love a lassie'—but she ate my best pumps.
Lomas, my good child, are you merely drivelling or
shall we come to something soon?”
“I am much exposed to women,” said the Chief
of the Criminal Investigation Department pathet-
ically, and roused himself. “But this is a family
I was a night in June. The Chief of the Crim-
I53


I54 CALL MR. FORTUNE
skeleton. I have a sister, Fortune. She is intelli-
gent. She is almost as omniscient as you, my dear
fellow, and much more practical. But she can be
quite maddening. She is maddening me now. Un-
fortunately she has no husband. She had too much
intelligence. She owns a princely school at Tor-
mouth. I believe it makes her as rich as Rocke-
feller. She certainly does herself very well. A
month ago she wrote to me that a strange thing had
happened. In the night one of the mistress's rooms
had been turned upside down.”
“Do they rag much at girls' schools?” Reggie
yawned. “It might be picturesque.”
“My wonderful sister wanted me to tell her what
it meant. I'm not proud, Fortune. I know my
limitations. I did not see myself in a girls' school.
Especially as an official. Now she has been writing
to me that there are extraordinary developments.
The room of another mistress has been upset.”
“They do rag in girls' schools! Another advance
of women. Oh, they'll have the vote soon.”
“You show levity, Fortune. My sister would not
like it. This is a crime. A number of photographs
were taken-photographs of girls at the school.
And there is no clue to the criminal.”
“The great Tormouth mystery. Leader in the
Daily Scream—'Brains for Scotland Yard.' But the
independent expert found a pink hairpin in the


THE HOTTENTOT VENUS I55
mouth of the dachshund next door but two and
brought the foul deed home to the junior curate.”
“I envy your spirits, Fortune.” Loman sighed.
“You have no sister—no maiden sister.”
And the desultory conversation turned feebly to
something else. In fact, both men were feeling the
strain of that tangled and squalid crime, the Pim-
lico murder. They had at last contrived to hang
(you remember it) the reluctant borough councillor;
but only Reggie Fortune could take a holiday. As
he was going, he said that he thought of motoring
in Devonshire.
“You’d better call on my sister and investigate her
case.” Lomas smiled sourly. “If it is a case.
Sometimes I think it's a dream.”
“Ragging in Girls' Schools. By our Special Com-
mission. 'Orrible Revelations.”
Lomas shook his head. “I’m afraid my sister
won't take to you. She's not flippant.”
“Lomas, don't be improper. A flippant head-
mistress! I blush.”
A few days later Reggie Fortune drove into
Tormouth, liked it, liked its hotel, and called on
the Hon. Evelyn Lomas. Miss Lomas was her
brother's sister in face and shape, correctly hand-
some, slight, dapper, not the least like her brother
in manner. She was frankly middle-aged, brisk and
direct.


THE HOTTENTOT VENUS 157
“I beg your pardon,” said Miss Lomas, in an
awful voice.
“I was wonderin’ about this,” Reggie murmured,
and took up from her table a little yellowish thing
modelled into something like the shape of a woman.
“Fascinatin', isn't she?”
“It seems to me childish or disgusting, Mr. For-
tune,” Miss Lomas snapped at him. “It has noth-
ing to do with the case. But I am afraid my affairs
merely amuse you, Mr. Fortune.”
“Oh, please, please,” Reggie protested. “You see,
you're so lucid, Miss Lomas. These odd affairs
are hardly ever lucid. Anything may have to do
with anything. Just consider. You tell me that in
your school there has been happening something
unusual.” -
“Extraordinary, unprecedented, and disturbing,”
Miss Lomas cried.
“And then I find this lyin’ about—a Hottentot
Venus in a girls’ school—that's very highly un-
usual.”
“The thing is just a little ivory idol,” said Miss
Lomas, and took it from him and looked at it with
disgust. It was crudely and oddly shaped, like a
child's modelling.
“It’s not ivory, and probably it wasn't an idol,”
Reggie snapped. His excellent, temper found Miss
Lomas trying. “It’s a horse's tooth, and was no


I58 CALL MR. FORTUNE
doubt carved as a doll or a work of art. But how
did it come into a girls’ school?”
“I quite agree that it is most unsuitable. I should
myself call it indecent. That is why I keep it on my
desk.” (Reggie mastered a smile.) “It was found
recently in the library. No doubt one of the girls
having relations in India or Africa was given the
thing as an odd savage trinket. She lost it and,
recognizing that it was an undesirable thing, is
afraid to claim it. As a matter of school discipline
I am disturbed and annoyed. I cannot conceive that
it concerns you, Mr. Fortune.”
“It’s the only thing that interests me,” said Reg-
gie. He was tired of the lady. “You don't under-
stand the question, madame. This isn't the kind of
trinket any one can pick up. It's a jewel. This little
lady”—he handled her affectionately—“she's fifteen
thousand years old. She's palaeolithic. There's only
a few of her in the world. Some Frenchman called
her type the Hottentot Venus, because she's a little
like the women of that tribe. But the woman she
was modelled on may have been an ancestor of yours
or mine.”
“I think not, Mr. Fortune.” Miss Lomas was
horrified.
“We have had time to improve on her, madame.”
Reggie bowed. “This is the point. Outside na-
tional museums, there are only half a dozen collec-
tions which own one of these ladies. Who's the


THE HOTTENTOT VENUS 159
quaint savant that gives them to a schoolgirl to play
with ? May I see the names of your girls?”
“I only accept pupils with the highest references,
sir,” said Miss Lomas, overawed but fuming.
So Reggie was allowed to inspect her register.
He studied it in vain. No name suggested connec-
tion with any of the few archaeologists likely to own
a Hottentot Venus. He gave it up.
“Well, sir?” Miss Lomas was triumphant and
disdainful. “I am very much obliged to you for
your courtesy. I regret exceedingly that I have
troubled you with my affairs. I need not ask you to
waste more of your valuable time on the case that
I foolishly submitted to you.”
“But, my dear Miss Lomas, I’m just gettin' inter-
ested,” said Reggie, with an engaging smile. “You
know, my first thoughts were that your children had
been ragging.”
“Really, Mr. Fortune! Your way of putting
things! Please understand that the girls in my
school do not ‘rag'—as you call it. I think my sex
leaves that to young men, Mr. Fortune.”
“Women are so revoltin' nowadays,” Reggie mur-
mured. “I wonder—you have no new woman in
the flock? No bold, bad rebel?” The face of Miss
Lomas answered him. “I thought so. We must
have the second solution. Somebody wanted some-
body's photograph.”
“But why? Why should one girl want to steal


I62 CALL MR. FORTUNE
Let's say nothing till we can say something sensible.
I should like to see Alice. Just ‘for to admire,' you
know.”
“The girls will be in the playing-field now.”
“Delightful. Suppose you walk me through.
Treat me as if I was intendin’ to be a parent.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Miss Lomas, with em-
phasis.
“Oh, I mean a fond father comin' to see if it was
all nice enough for my darlin' daughter. Don't let
Alice think I’m interested in her.”
“Very well, Mr. Fortune.” Miss Lomas went off
for her hat.
The playing-field was a pleasant place set about
with old oaks, in the freshest of their leaves then,
through which there were glimpses of the sunlit
Devon sea. Comely girls in white, clustered, arms
in the air, at basket ball, or ran and smote across
the tennis-courts.
Reggie paused and sank down on a seat. “This
is very soothin’ and pretty,” he murmured. “Here
are our young barbarians all at play. Why will
they grow up, Miss Lomas? They're so much more
satisfying now.”
Miss Lomas stared at him. “Naturally they
grow up,” she explained. “They can't be children
all their lives.”
“Some of us never were,” Reggie sighed.
“Charming. Charming. Like the young things in


THE HOTTENTOT VENUS I63
Homer, what? The maidens and the princess of
the white arms they fell to playing at ball. Charm-
ing—especially that one. Yes. Which did you say
was Alice?”
“That is Miss Warenne.” Miss Lomas pointed
with her sunshade to two girls arm in arm. One
was a tall creature, a woman already in body and
stately, with a fine, bold face, and red-brown hair
that glowed.
“Why, she's a goddess!” Reggie said.
“Oh dear, no,” said Miss Lomas. “That's Hilda
Crowland. Alice is the little one.”
“Let’s go and look at the basket ball,” Reggie
suggested, and to do that walked across the field on
a line which brought them for a moment face to
face with little Alice Warenne. She was a tiny
creature, and had appropriately a round baby face.
She was dark and plump and dimpled. But although
her hair was not yet up, she need not have been
younger than her magnificent companion.
Reggie Fortune's interest in basket ball was soon
exhausted. They went back across the field at an
angle which brought them again face to face with
Alice Warenne and her imposing friend, and while
they passed, Reggie (rather loudly) was asking Miss
Lomas questions about the school games and the
school time-table. As soon as they were out of hear-
ing of the two girls he broke this off with a sharp,
“Great friends are they, those two?”


I64 CALL MR. FORTUNE
yy
“They are always together,” Miss Lomas ad-
mitted.
“And who is the magnificent creature?”
“Hilda Crowland? Why, she's been with me for
years.”
“And she's the bosom friend of this girl, who's
only been here a couple of months!”
“Now you mention it, that is odd, Mr. Fortune.”
“Oh, Lord, everything's odd l’’ Reggie said ir-
ritably. “Who is Hilda Crowland?”
“Well, her mother is a widow and very well off,
I believe. She lives in Cornwall. Hilda came to
me through Lady de Burgh. Of course you under-
stand, Mr. Fortune, that that implies irreproachable
family connections.”
“I dare say. I dare say. Well, Miss Lomas, it's
a queer case. I will take it up and go into it fur-
ther. Something is being planned rather elaborately
in which your school, probably a girl in your school,
is concerned. It may be a matter outside your re-
sponsibilities. It may be something unpleasant.”
“Good gracious, Mr. Fortune, what do you sug-
gest?” Miss Lomas was rather excited than
alarmed.
“I don't suggest anything. I have no information.
The trouble is, Miss Lomas, you know nothing about
your girls.”
“Really, Mr. Fortune! As I have told you, I in-
sist upon 22


I66 CALL MR. FORTUNE
He took from his pocket the Hottentot Venus and
contemplated her severely. “I don't know which of
you is worse, darling,” he said. “You or Mlle
Ducher. What are you at, anyway? Lord, I
wouldn't have thought she had anything to do with
palaeolithic dolls! What's the connection, darling?”
The Hottentot Venus was naturally silent.
Reggie sighed and put her away, and began to
contemplate the beauties of nature. Tormouth, you
know, is placed upon an agreeable bay, its sands are
white, and its headlands of a dark rock which in a
flood of sunshine discover gleams of crystal amid
a reddish glow. So Reggie saw them as the western
sky grew crimson and the flood-tide sparkled in a
thousand golden jewels. A delectable scene. It was
laborious to go on thinking. Tormouth is an an-
chorage favoured by yachts, and though it was early
summer two or three white craft lay out in the bay.
Reggie went into his room and came out again to
the balcony with a binocular. The influence of the
evening was upon him, and he felt a need of futile
diversion. He focused the glasses upon the yachts.
There was a big schooner and two steam-boats—one
a small packet with the white ensign of the R.Y.S.,
the other a big craft under the Italian flag. He could
not make out the names.
A waiter came to take his tea away. “I want the
local paper. And do you keep Shearn's Yacht List?”
Both were brought. The yachts in Tormouth Bay


THE HOTTENTOT VENUS 167
were reported as Sheila, Lorna, and Giulia. He
turned them up in the list and whistled. The owner
of the Giulia was the Prince of Ragusa.
“This is getting relevant,” said he.
The Prince of Ragusa, hereditary ruler of some
ten square miles and fabulously wealthy, was known
to the learned as a zealous archaeologist. He was
one of the half-dozen men in the world whose col-
lection might contain a Hottentot Venus. But, un-
less his reputation belied him, he was very unlikely to
know or care anything about a soubrette from Paris.
And why should he send his Hottentot Venus to a
girls' school?
“Still several unknown quantities,” Reggie re-
flected. And yet there was the Hottentot Venus in
the Tormouth school and there off Tormouth lay
the Prince of Ragusa. “I think we'll make Brer
Lomas sit up and take notice,” said Reggie, and de-
voted himself to the composition of Latin prose.
Thus:
“De academia sororis nonnihil timeo nec quid
timean certe scio. Sunt qui conjurarint et fortasse
in flagitium. Si quid improvisum vel mihi vel
academiae eveniret principem de Ragusa et navem
eius capere oporteret.”
This he wrote on telegraph forms, and with his
own hand presented to the lady at the post office,
who was justly horrified.
“But what language is it?” she protested.


THE HOTTENTOT VENUS 169
and would look after her. They went. At the close
of the lecture, one of the attendants approached Miss
Somers and said he had been asked to tell her that
the two young ladies had gone back to the school.
Upon this naturally follows the report of Con-
stable Stewer of the Tormouth borough police. To
this effect: Was on duty 3.30 p.m. on the quay; mo-
tor-launch from Italian yacht came in and lay by
number one steps; two young ladies came in a hurry
and entered launch; gentleman who had been smok-
ing cigar in vicinity thrust paper and half-crown into
my hands, saying, “Constable, wire that immediate”;
gentleman then took flying leap into launch, which
was already shoved off, and engine started; launch
steered for Italian yacht; returned to station to make
report.
The paper when examined by inspector on duty
was found to bear these words: “Lomas, Scotland
Yard. Two girls on Giulia. Me too.—F.” A tele-
gram was sent. About tea-time Scotland Yard tele-
phoned to know whether the yacht Giulia was still
at Tormouth. A serjeant hurrying to the harbour
found P. C. Stewer back at his post watching a
smudge of smoke on the horizon. About that time
Miss Lomas called at the police station to ask if
anything had been heard or seen of two of her girls.
So we leave the inspector almost exploding with a
sense of the importance of his office.
“Mille pardons, mademoiselle,” said Reggie, as


170 CALL MR. FORTUNE
he arrived in the launch and grabbed at his hat and,
involuntarily, sat down upon Miss Crowland. With
a firm and friendly hand she assisted him to recover
his balance. She was in all respects made to sustain
shocks. Her grey eyes smiled at him.
A man—an oldish, solemn man who was horrified
—confronted Reggie. “You cannot come here,
monsieur,” he cried in French.
“I dare to assure you of the contrary,” says Reg-
gie in the same language.
“This is a private launch.”
“Perfectly. Of the Prince of Ragusa. It is why
I have arrived. I have news for the Prince of Ra-
gusa-news which will surprise him marvellously.”
The solemn man was embarrassed. “Neverthe-
less I protest, sir.”
“I make a note of your protest,” said Reggie,
and bowed.
The solemn man bowed—and seemed satisfied.
Reggie sat down beside the little Alice Warenne,
who had been watching all this very demurely, a
contrast to Miss Crowland, who was frankly amused.
“Permit a lover of art to address you, mademoiselle,”
said he. “I desire infinitely to thank you for the
great pleasure which you have given me.”
“How, sir? I do not understand.” She looked
more a baby than ever.
“Your little sleeves of satinette,” Reggie mur-
mured. “Your adorable little sleeves of satinette.”


THE HOTTENTOT VENUS 171
And then she laughed, and Reggie knew that he
had made no mistake. She was the soubrette of the
Variétés. The laugh of Mlle Ducher was unfor-
gettable. “I am a great artist, sir, am I not?”
Hilda Crowland smiled at her. “Monsieur is a
friend of yours, Alice?” she said in English.
“All in good time. Only an admirer at present,
darling.” She gave Reggie a glance which was not
the least childish.
“I dare to hope,” Reggie said, and again she
laughed. -
They were alongside the yacht. The ladies were
handed to the gangway, and Reggie went up it close
on their heels. There seemed to be a deputation
waiting for them on deck, a middle-aged deputation
which, on the coming of the girls, bared its grey and
bald heads. Two men stood out from it who lifted
their caps, but put them on again, one a young fellow
of a sprightly air, the other grey and grave, with a
certain assured stateliness. At him Alice made a
saucy curtsey. He came forward and took Hilda
Crowland's hand. “My dear child,” he said in Eng-
lish, “be very welcome,” and he kissed her on both
cheeks.
She flushed faintly. “I do not understand you,
sir.” She withdrew herself.
“I present to you your cousin, the Comte de
Spoleto.” The young man smiled at her and kissed
her hand. The elder man turned to the others.


I74 CALL MR. FORTUNE
your employer. I see a rashness in your actions
which I should have expected from my wife.”
Reggie chuckled. “Well, well. And, of course,
you don't like being rash!”
“On our arrival at Ragusa you may, if you
choose, remain and be present at my daughter's mar-
riage.”
“Oh. Shall I be present, sir?” said Hilda, with
a dangerous meekness.
“My dear child!” His Highness said affection-
ately. “Mr. Fortune—you have the happiness to be
Present at the betrothal of my daughter, the Duch-
esse de Zara, to my nephew, the Comte de Spoleto.”
It was Reggie who preserved an appropriate calm.
He only gave one chuckle.
“How? But—but it is incredible!” Spoleto cried
in French, and recoiled, gesticulating.
The Prince flushed and glared at him.
Hilda stood up. “This is ridiculous, sir,” she
said, and was pale.
“Ridiculous, that is the word,” Spoleto cried.
“Be silent, Spoleto. My dear child, you do not
understand.”
“I understand enough. You say you are my
father. I think I ought to know my father. I—I do
not mind knowing you. But this—it is absurd and
insulting. I will not hear any more about it. This
gentleman—I know nothing about him.” She sur-


THE HOTTENTOT VENUS I75
veyed Spoleto with disdain. “I do not wish to make
his acquaintance.”
“Thank you very much,” Spoleto cried.
“Hilda! Be pleased to remember that you are
now to do your duty as my daughter. I do not per-
mit disobedience.” -
“It’s no use to talk so,” said Miss Crowland. “I
am not a baby.”
His Highness, whose grey hair was becoming
dishevelled, made a violent gesture. “English ! She
is as English as her mother.”
“Oh. If you are going to say things against my
mother I will go,” said Miss Crowland. “You came
from my mother, sir. I should like to speak to
you.”
Reggie bowed and opened the door for her. As
they went out he heard Spoleto say in French, “Do
you see, my uncle, this does not do,” and then a
storm. The house of Ragusa was divided against
itself in throes.
On deck, Miss Crowland seemed to have some
difficulty in making up her mind what to say. “Does
my mother know about this?” she broke out at last.
“That's between you and your conscience, isn't
it?” Reggie smiled.
“I haven't told her anything, but she has never
told me anything,” Miss Crowland said fiercely.
“How did she come to send you here?”


176 CALL MR. FORTUNE
“Some rather odd things happened at school, you
know.”
“Did they?” said Miss Crowland, in delighted
amazement. “What things?”
“I wonder if you know who little Alice Warenne
really is P. She is an actress from the Theatre des
Variétés in Paris.” Miss Crowland laughed. “She
was employed to get a photograph of you, to find
out all about you, to arrange for you to be kid-
napped like this, and to persuade you to come
aboard.”
“Monsieur is a detective!” Alice slid up between
them. “Oh, but a very great detective.”
“I knew all that. Except that she is an actress.”
Miss Crowland turned to her. “Are you an ac-
tress P”
“Darling!” Alice laughed all over her baby face.
“That is the prettiest compliment, is it not, M. the
detective?”
“If you think she has cheated me, she has not.
She told me that the Prince of Ragusa said he was
my father, and that he wanted me to come on his
yacht. My mother never would tell me anything
about my father. I didn’t think that was fair. So I
came. And now, Mr.—Mr. Fortune, what will my
mother do?”
“What shall we all do?” Reggie laughed. “You’re
in a hole and your mother's in a hole, and the
Prince of Ragusa is in the deepest hole of the three.”


THE HOTTENTOT VENUS 177
“Excepting always M. the detective,” Alice
laughed. “Look, monsieur—the beautiful England
—she vanishes! Adieu, the respectable country and
the nice policemen!”
“Do you imagine you are here to look after me?”
said Miss Crowland fiercely.
“Think of me as a mother,” said Reggie, and she
went away in a rage.
“Well, monsieur?” Alice laughed at him. “You
are making friends everywhere. You are content?”
“If I had a razor and a clean shirt,” Reggie said.
“Alas, monsieur, I have none. I do not play—
how do you call them?—principal boys. Bon voy-
age, monsieur.” She tripped away.
It was made clear to Reggie that he was not going
to be popular on board. The retinue of the Prince
avoided him emphatically. The royal family re-
mained below. He was taken to a cabin, and there
dinner was served him.
“And not a bad dinner either,” said Reggie, as he
went on deck again.
It was dark and a moonless night. The yacht was
meeting a southerly breeze and the first of the ocean
swell and grew lively. Reggie had the deck to him-
self. He was nearly at the end of his cigar before
any one disturbed his humorous meditations.
“Mr. Fortune? You amuse yourself?” It was
the Comte de Spoleto.
“I can smile.”


THE HOTTENTOT VENUS I79
ing better than to restore mademoiselle to her
mother. I—”
“Spoleto!”
They turned. The Prince of Ragusa stood at
the head of the companion. “My dear uncle—”
“Spoleto! You are a traitor. You—”
“That is not true!”
“You plot against me with this fellow. It is in-
credible. It is villainous. It is treachery.”
“Sir, I will take that from no man.”
“Yes, you will take it. You will ” It seemed
to Reggie that His Highness was about to box his
nephew's ears. Reggie let himself go as the yacht
pitched. They all jostled together. His Highness
vanished down the companion with a crash.
“Now you've done it,” said Reggie.
Spoleto exclaimed, peered at the body lying be-
low, showed Reggie a white face, and hurried down.
Reggie followed slowly.
His Highness was already surrounded by servants
and his suite.
“When you have all finished, I’ll tell you where
he's hurt,” said Reggie incisively.
“Ah yes, you are a surgeon,” Spoleto cried.
“Stand aside, stand aside. The gentleman is a sur-
geon. Tell me, is he dead?” His Highness had be-
gun to groan.
“Don’t be futile,” said Reggie, and knelt and be-
gan to straighten out the heap. The process caused


I82 CALL MR. FORTUNE
“Oh, I should, you know, I should,” Reggie mur-
mured thoughtfully. They did not attend to him.
“But you are not to blame.” Hilda was interested
in Spoleto. “You are not to blame for anything.”
“You say that!” Spoleto cried. “Thank you, my
cousin,” and he kissed her hand.
“Oh, but you are absurd,” said Hilda, and flushed
faintly and turned away.
Spoleto made a gesture of despair. “Quite, quite,”
Reggie said. “So we'd better have breakfast.” Dur-
ing that meal he might have heard, if he had listened,
the full history of the emotions of the Comte de
Spoleto. He escaped from them to visit his patient.
The Prince was much cheered by a night of sleep,
still excessively interested in his injuries, but now
hopeful about them. He gave great honour to Reg-
gie's treatment of the case. “My dear sir, I must
consider it providential that you were on board.
Oh, but certainly providential.”
“Well, sir, the affair might have taken a different
turn without me,” Reggie admitted modestly.
“Indeed, yes,” said His Highness. “Good God,
Mr. Fortune, and how I resented your appearance
yesterday!” He became thoughtful. “I think what
annoyed me most was that any one should have dis-
covered my plans.” He gazed at Reggie. “Are you
free to tell me, Mr. Fortune? I am much interested
to know what brought you here. Did Hilda say


THE HOTTENTOT VENUS 183
anything to her mother? Or is there a traitor in my
camp? Spoleto-that little actress?”
“Here's the traitor, sir.” Reggie took out of his
pocket the Hottentot Venus.
“Good heavens!” The Prince took her affection-
ately. “My new palaeolithic Venus.”
“You left her in the library at the Tormouth
school. There are not many men in the world who
have a Hottentot Venus to lose. So she suggested
to me that the Prince of Ragusa was taking action
with regard to Hilda Crowland.”
“You have a great deal of acumen, Mr. Fortune,”
said the Prince, and the sound of the cable broke
off the conversation.
There is a hospital at Tormouth. The Comte de
Spoleto went on shore to bring off its X-ray man.
Reggie stretched himself in a deck chair to wait
events. They were not long in arriving. A shore
boat brought off the Hon. Stanley Lomas, dapper as
ever, and a woman whom Reggie identified by her
hair and her magnificent figure as the mother of
Hilda—Mrs. Crowland—the Princess of Ragusa.
Reggie went down the gangway to meet them.
Lomas sprang out of the boat. The Princess was
handed out and went up the gangway. “Good God,
Fortune!” Lomas shook hands. “You’re a won-
der! How did you bring them back?”
“Genius—just genius.”


184 CALL MR. FORTUNE
The Princess had met her daughter, who was not
abashed. “Hilda! Why do you do this extraor-
dinary thing?”
And Hilda said quietly, “I wanted to know my
father.”
“You make us all ridiculous,” the Princess cried.
“I don't feel that.” Hilda put up her chin.
“May I present Mr. Fortune, ma'am?” Lomas put
111.
Reggie bowed. “I am sorry to tell you, madame,
that the Prince has had an accident. A fall down
the companion. He is in bed. I am waiting for an
X-ray to be taken of his arm. But I assure you
there is no cause for alarm.”
“I am not alarmed,” said the Princess. “I wish to
see him.”
“Certainly. You will not forget that I have told
him I represent you.”
“It was an impertinence, Mr. Fortune,” said the
Princess, and swept to the companion. The door of
the Prince's cabin was shut on her.
“Jam for the Prince.” Reggie made a grimace
at Lomas.
“Strictly speaking, what's my locus standif” said
the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department.
“Don’t funk, Lomas. I dare say she'll murder
him. That's where you come in.”
So they were depressed till the return of the
anxious Spoleto with his X-ray man. Reggie de-


THE HOTTENTOT VENUS 185
scended upon the Prince and Princess. She was sit-
ting upon his bed. She was smiling. She kissed
her hand to His Highness as she went out.
All which Reggie observed with a face of stone.
“I am infinitely your debtor, Mr. Fortune,” His
Highness beamed. “You are not married, no?”
“It becomes every day less probable,” said Reggie
grimly.
“One never knows the beauty of a woman's na-
ture till one is suffering,” said His Highness.
The X-rays were put to work on the arm, and
the operator and Reggie went off to the yacht's dark
room. As the plate came out, “I see no injury, Mr.
Fortune,” the operator complained.
“Fancy that,” said Reggie.
Outside the dark room the Princess was impa-
tiently waiting. “Well, Mr. Fortune?”
“Well, madame, there will be no need of an op-
eration.”
The Princess frowned at him. “I suppose I am
much obliged to you, Mr. Fortune. I wish to hear
more of your part in the affair.”
Reggie, he has confessed, trembled. The Princess
swept on. She opened the door of the music-room.
She revealed Hilda and Spoleto. Hilda was being
vehemently kissed.
Reggie fled. Professional instinct, he explains,
took him back to his patient. “I am very pleased to
tell you, sir, that there is no serious injury to the


CASE VI
THE BUSINESS MINISTER





190 CALL MR. FORTUNE
Circus to Wimpole Street, and subsiding limp but
still fluent into the arms of Sam his factotum. And
the snow went on falling.
It was about this time, in his judgment, 11 p.m.
on I5th April, that a man fell from the top story of
Montmorency House, the hugest and newest of the
new blocks of flats thereabouts. He fell down the
well which lights the inner rooms and, I suppose,
made something of a thud as his body passed through
the cushion of snow and hit the concrete below. But
in the howl of the wind and the rattle of windows
it would have been extraordinary if any one had
heard him or taken him for something more than
a slate or a chimney pot. He was not in a condition
to explain himself. And the snow went on falling.
Mr. Fortune, though free from his coat and his
hat and his scarf and his gloves, though scorching
both hands and one foot at the hall fire, was still
telling Sam his troubles when the Hon. Stanley Lo-
mas came downstairs. Mr. Fortune said, “Help!”
“Had a good time?” said Lomas cheerily. “Did
you get to Seville?”
“Oh, Peter, don't say things like that. I can't bear
it. Have the feelings of a man. Be a brother, Lo-
mas. I’ve been in nice, kind countries with a well-
bred climate, and I come back to this epileptic bliz-
zard, and here's Lomas pale and perky waiting for
me on the mat. And then you're civil! Oh, Sophon-
isbal Sophonisba, oh!”


THE BUSINESS MINISTER I9I
“I did rather want to see you,” Lomas explained.
“I hate seeing you. I hate seeing anything raw
and alive. If you talk to me I shall cry. My dear
man, have you had dinner?”
“Hours ago.”
“That wasn't quite nice of you, you know. When
you come to see me, you shouldn't dine first. It
makes me suspect your taste. Well, well! Come
and see me eat. That is a sight which has moved
strong men to tears, the pure ecstasy of joy, Lomas.
The sublime and the beautiful, by R. Fortune. And
Sam says Elise has a timbale de foie gras and her
very own entrecôte. Dine again, Whittington. And
we will look upon the wine when it is red. My
Chambertin is strongly indicated. And then I will
fall asleep for a thousand years, same like the Sleep-
ing Beauty.”
“I wish I could.”
“Lomas, old dear!” Reggie turned and looked
him over. “Yes, you have been going it. You
ought to get away.”
“I dare say I shall. That is one of the things I’m
going to ask you—what you think about resigna-
tion.”
“Oh, Peter! As bad as that?”. Reggie whistled.
“Sorry I was futile. But I couldn't know. There's
been nothing in the papers.”
“Only innuendoes. Damme, you can't get away
from it in the clubs.”


I92 CALL MR. FORTUNE
They had it out over dinner.
Some months before a new Government had been
formed, which was advertised to bring heaven down
to earth without delay. And the first outward sign
of its inward and spiritual grace was the Great Coal
Ramp. Some folks in the City began to buy the
shares of certain coal companies. Some folks in
the City began to spread rumours that the Govern-
ment was going to nationalize mines district by dis-
trict—those districts first in which the shares had
been bought. The shares then went to a vast price.
“All the usual nauseating features of a Stock Ex-
change boom,” said Reggie.
“No. This is founded on fact,” said Lomas.
“That's the distinguishing feature. It was worked
on the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth. Whoever started the game had exact and
precise information. They only touched those com-
panies which the Government meant to take over;
they knew everything and they knew it right. Some-
body of the inner circle gave the plan away.”
“‘Politics is a cursed profession,’” said Reggie.
Lomas looked gloomily at his Burgundy. “Poli-
ticians are almost the lowest of God's creatures,” he
agreed. “I know that. I’m a Civil servant. But I
don't see how any of them can have had a finger
in this pie. The scheme hadn't come before the
Cabinet. Everybody knew, of course, that some-


THE BUSINESS MINISTER 193
think was going to be done. But the whole point is
the particular companies concerned in this primary
provisional scheme. And nobody knew which they
were but the President of the Board of Trade and
his private secretary.”
“The President—that's Horace Kimball.”
“Yes. No politics about him. He's the rubber
king, you know. He was brought in on the business
men for a business Cabinet cry. He was really put
there to get these nationalization schemes through.”
“And he begins by arousing city scandal. Busi-
ness men and business methods. Well, well! Give
me the politicians after all. I was born respectable.
I would rather be swindled in the quiet, old-fash-
ioned way. I like a sense of style.”
“Quite—quite,” said Lomas heartily. “But I must
say I have nothing against Kimball. He is the usual
thing. Thinks he is like Napoleon—pathetically
anxious you should suppose he has been educated.
But he really is quite an able fellow, and he means
to be civil. Only he's mad to catch the fellow who
gave his scheme away. I don't blame him. But it's
damned awkward.”
“If only Kimball and his private secretary knew,
either Kimball or the private secretary gave it
away.”
“My dear Fortune, if you say things like that, I
shall break down. That is the hopeless sort of


I94 CALL MR. FORTUNE
jingle I say in my sleep. I believe Kimball's honest.
That's his reputation. As keen as they make 'em,
but absolutely straight. And why should he play
double? He is ridiculously rich. If he wanted
money it was idiotic to go into the Government.
He would do much better for himself in business.
No; he must have gone into politics for power and
position and so on. And then at the start his career
is mucked by a financial scandal. You can't sup-
pose he had a hand in it. It's too mad.”
“Remains the private secretary. Don't Mr. Kim-
ball like his private secretary?”
“Oh yes. Kimball thinks very well of him. I
pointed out to Kimball that on the facts we were
bound to suspect Sandford, and he was quite huffy
about it—said he had the highest opinion of Sand-
ford, asked what evidence I had, and so on.”
“Very good and proper, and even intelligent. My
respects to H. Kimball. What evidence have you,
Lomas, old thing?”
“You just put the case yourself,” said Lomas,
with some irritation. “Only Kimball and Sandford
were in the secret. It's impossible in the nature of
things Kimball should have sold it. Remains Sand-
ford.”
“Oh, Peter! That's not evidence, that's an argu-
ment.”
“I know, confound you. But there is evidence


THE BUSINESS MINISTER 195
of a sort. One of Sandford's friends is a young
fellow called Walkden, and he's in one of the firms
which have been running the Stock Exchange
boom.”
“It’s queer,” said Reggie, and lit a pipe. “But it
wouldn't hang a yellow dog.”
“Do you think I don't know that?” Lomas cried.
“We have nothing to act on, and they're all cursing
me because we haven't!”
“Meaning Kimball?”
“Kimball—Kimball's calling twice a day to know
how the case is going on, please. But the whole Gov-
ernment's on it now. Minutes from the Home Sec-
retary—bitter mems. from the Prime Minister.
They want a scapegoat, of course. Governments
do.” -
“Find us some one to hang or we'll hang you?”
“I told you I was thinking of resigning.”
“Because they want to bully you into making a
case against the private secretary—and you have
a conscience?”
“Lord, no. I’d convict him to-day if I could. I
don't like the fellow. He's a young prig. But I
can't convict him. No; I don't think they want to
hang anybody in particular. But they must have
somebody to hang, and I can't find him.”
“It isn't much in my way,” Reggie murmured.
“The Civil Service frightens me. I have a brother-


THE BUSINESS MINISTER 197
PHASE II.--THE PRIVATE SECRETARY
The snow lingered. Though hoses washed it out
of the highways, in every side street great mounds
lay unmelted, and the park was dingily white. Reg-
gie shivered as he got out of his car in Scotland
Yard, and he scurried upstairs and put himself as
close as he could to Lomas's fire—ousting Superin-
tendent Bell.
“I’m waiting for you,” said Lomas quietly.
“There's a new fact. Three thousand pounds has
been paid into Sandford's account. It was handed
in over the counter in notes of small amounts yester-
day morning. Cashier fancies it was paid in by a
stoutish man in glasses—couldn't undertake to iden-
tify.”
“It’s a wicked world. Lomas. That wouldn’t
matter so much if it was sensible. Some day I will
take to crime, just to show you how to do it. Who
is Sandford, what is he, that such queer things hap-
pen round him?”
“I don't know so much about queer, sir,” said
Superintendent Bell. “I suppose this three thou-
sand is his share of the swag.”
“That's what we're meant to suppose,” Reggie
agreed. “That's what I resent.”
“You mean, why the devil should he have it put
in the bank? He must know his account would be


198 CALL MR. FORTUNE
watched. That's the point I took,” said Lomas
wearily.
“Well, sir, as I was saying, it's the usual sort of
thing,” Superintendent Bell protested. “When a
city gang has bought a fellow in a good position and
got all they can get out of him, it often happens they
don't care any more about him. They'd rather break
him than not. It happened in the Bewick affair, the
Grantley deal—” He reeled off a string of cases.
“What I mean to say, sir, there isn't honour among
thieves. When they see one of themselves in a de-
cent position, they'll do him in if they can. Envy,
that's what it is. I suppose we’re all envious. But
in my experience, when a fellow isn't straight he
gets a double go of envy in him. I mean to say,
for sheer spiteful envy the crooks beat the band.”
Reggie nodded. “Do you know, Bell, I don't
ever remember your being wrong, when you had
given an opinion. By the way, what is your opin-
ion?”
Superintendent Bell smiled slowly. “We do have
to be so careful, sir. Would you believe it, I don't
so much as know who did the open-air work in the
Coal Ramp. There was half a dozen firms in the
boom, quite respectable firms. But who had the tip
first, and who was doing the big business, I know
no more than the babe in arms.”
“Yes, there's some brains about,” Lomas agreed.


THE BUSINESS MINISTER I99
But Reggie, who was watching the Superintend-
ent, said, “What's up your sleeve, Bell?”
The Superintendent laughed. “You do have a
way of putting things, Mr. Fortune.” He lit a
cigarette and looked at his chief. “I don't know
what you thought of Mr. Sandford, Mr. Lomas?”
“More do I, Bell,” said Lomas. “I only know
he's not a man and a brother.”
“What I should describe as a lonely cove, sir,”
Bell suggested. “Chiefly interested in himself, you
might say.”
“He’s a climber,” said Lomas.
“Well, well! Who is Sandford—what is he, that
all the world don't love him?” Reggie asked. “Who
was his papa? What was his school?”
“Well, now, it's rather odd you should ask that,
sir,” said Superintendent Bell.
“He didn't have a school. He didn’t have a
father,” said Lomas. “First he knows he was living
with his widowed mother, an only child, in a little
village in North Wales—Llan something. He went
to the local grammar-school. He was a kind of
prize boy. He got a scholarship at Pembroke, Ox-
ford. Then Mrs. Sandford died, leaving him about
a pound a week. He got firsts at Oxford, and came
into the Home Civil pretty high. He's done well in
his Department, and they can't stand him.”
“Good brain, no geniality, if you take my mean-
ing,” said the Superintendent.


2OO CALL MR. FORTUNE
“I hate him already,” Reggie murmured.
“That's quite easy,” said Lomas. “Well, he's a
clever second-rater, that's what it comes to.”
“Poor devil,” Reggie murmured.
“There's swarms of them in the service. The only
odd thing about Sandford is that he don't seem
to have any origins. Like that fellow in the Bible
who had no ancestors—Melchizedek, was it? Well,
Mrs. Sandford had no beginning either. She wasn't
native to Llanfairfechan—that's the place. She
came there when Sandford was a small kid. No-
body there knows where from. He says he don't
know where from. Nobody knows who his father
was. He says he don't know. He says she left no
papers of any sort. She had an annuity, and the
fifty pounds a year she left him was in Consols. He
never knew of any relations. Nobody in Llan-
what's-its-name can remember anybody ever coming
to see her. And she died ten years ago.”
“You might say it looked as if she wanted to
hide,” said Superintendent Bell. “But, Lord, you
can't tell. Might be just a sorrowful widow. It
takes 'em that way sometimes.”
“Has anybody ever shown any interest in Melchiz-
edek?” said Reggie.
“O Lord, no! Nobody ever heard of him out of
his Department. And there they all hate him. But
he's the sort of fellow you can't keep down.”
“Poor devil,” Reggie murmured again.


2O2 CALL MR. FORTUNE
more sleep over it than I want to think about.” He
became aware that Reggie was studying him. “Doc-
tor, aren't you?” he laughed ruefully. “I’m not a
case, you know.”
“I apologize for the professional instinct,” Reg-
gie said. “But it does make me say you ought to
see your doctor, sir.”
“My doctor can't tell me anything I don't know.
It's this scandal that's the matter with me. You
wouldn't say I was sentimental, would you? You
wouldn't take me for an innocent? Well, do you
know, I’ve been in business thirty years, and I’ve
never had one of my own people break faith with
me. That's what irritates me. Somebody in my
own office, somebody close to me, selling me. By
God, it's maddening!”
“Whom do you suspect?” said Reggie.
Kimball flung himself about, and the chair
creaked. “Damn it, man, we've had all that out
over and over again. I can't suspect any one. I
won't suspect any one. But the thing's been done.”
“As I understand, the only people who knew the
scheme were yourself and Sandford, your secre-
tary?”
“I’d as soon suspect myself as Sandford.”
“Yesterday three thousand pounds in notes was
paid by somebody, who didn't give his name, into
Sandford's account,” said Lomas.
“Great God!” said Kimball, and rolled back in


~! CALL MR. FORTUNE
"He may. But I can't see how,” Lomas said
sloomily. “Can you?”
“I suppose you think I'm a fool, but I like to be-
lieve in my fellows,” said Kimball, and they passed
an awkward five minutes till Sandford came.
He looked a good young man. He was rather
small, he was very lean, he wore eyeglasses. Every-
thing about him was correct and restrained. But
there was an oddity of structure about his face: it
seemed to come to a point at the end of his nose, and
yet his lower jaw looked heavy.
He made graded salutations to Kimball his chief
and to Lomas. He looked at Reggie and Superin-
tendent Bell as though he expected them to retreat
from his presence. And he turned upon Kimball
a glance that bade him lose no time.
Kimball seemed to find some difficulty in begin-
ning. He cleared his throat, blew his nose, and took
another pinch of snuff. “I don't know if you
guess why I sent for you,” he broke out. -
“I infer that it is on this matter of the gamble
in coal shares,” said Sandford precisely.
“Yes. Do you know of any new fact?”
“Nothing has come before me.”
“Well, there's something I want you to explain.
I dare say you have a satisfactory explanation. But
I’m bound to ask for it.”
“I have nothing to explain that I know of.”
“It's been brought to my knowledge that yesterday


THE BUSINESS MINISTER 2O7
me now. I can only advise you to consider your
position. I don't know whether your resignation
will save you from worse consequences. I’ll do what
I can. But you make it very hard. Good morning.
You had better not go back to the office.”
“I deny every imputation,” said Sandford. “Good
morning, sir.”
Half apologetically Kimball turned to the others.
“There's nothing for it, I suppose. We'll have to
go through with it now. You'll let me have an of-
ficial report. The fellow's hopeless. Poor devil!”.
“I can’t say he touches my heart,” said Lomas.
Kimball laughed without mirth. “He can't help
himself,” he said, and went out.
“I shouldn't have thought Kimball was so hu-
man,” said Lomas.
“Well, sir, he always has stuck to his men, I must
say,” said Superintendent Bell.
“I wonder he could stick to Sandford for a day.”
“That Mr. Sandford, he is what you might call
a superior person,” Bell chuckled. “Funny how they
brazen it out, that kind.”
“Yes, I don't doubt he thinks he was most im-
pressive. Well, Fortune, there's not much here for
you, I'm afraid.”
Reggie had gone to the window and was fidgeting
there. “I say, the wind's changed,” said he.
“That's something, anyway."


208 CALL MR. FORTUNE
PHASE III.--THE MAN UNDER THE SNow
The porter of Montmorency House, awaking next
morning, discovered that even in the well of his
flats, where the air is ever the most stagnant in
London, the snow was melting fast. After break-
fast he saw some clothes emerging from the slush.
This annoyed him, for he cherished that little court.
The tenants, he remarked to his wife, were always
doing something messy, but dropping their trousers
down the well was the limit. He splashed out into
the slush and found a corpse.
After lunch Reggie Fortune, drowsing over the
last published play of Herr Wedekind, was roused
by the telephone, which, speaking with the voice of
Superintendent Bell, urged him to come at once to
the mortuary.
“Who's dead?” he asked. “Sandford hanged
himself in red tape? Kimball had a stroke?”
“It’s what you might call anonymous,” said the
voice of the Superintendent. “Just the sort of case
you like.”
“I never like a case,” said Reggie, with indigna-
tion, and rang off.
At the door of the mortuary Superintendent Bell
appeared as his car stopped.
“You’re damned mysterious,” Reggie complained.
“Not me, sir. If you can tell me who the fellow
is, I’ll be obliged. But what I want to know first


THE BUSINESS MINISTER 209
is, what was the cause of death. You'll excuse me,
I won't tell you how he was found till you've formed
your opinion.”
“What the devil do you mean by that?”
“I don't want you to be prejudiced in any way,
sir, if you take my meaning.”
“Damn your impudence. When did you ever see
me prejudiced?”
“Dear me, Mr. Fortune, I never heard you swear
so much,” said Bell sadly. “Don’t be hasty, sir. I
have my reasons. I have, really.”
He led the way into the room where the dead man
lay. He pulled back the sheet which covered the
body. “Well, well!” said Reggie Fortune. For the
dead man's face was not there.
“You’ll excuse me. I shouldn't be any good to
you,” said the Superintendent thickly, and made
for the door. -
Reggie did not look round. “Send Sam in with
my things,” he said.
It was a long time afterwards when, rather pale
for him, his round and comfortable face veiled in
an uncommon gravity, he came out.
Superintendent Bell threw away his cigarette.
“Ghastly, isn't it?” he said with sympathy.
“Mad,” said Reggie. “Come on.” A shower
of warm rain was being driven before the west
wind, but he opened everything in his car that would
open, and told the chauffeur to drive round Regent's


THE BUSINESS MINISTER 2I3
“Man of about fifty, under middle height, inclined
to be stout, unusual bald.”
“It ain't much to go by, is it?” Bell sighed. “We
don't so much as know if he was clean shaved or
not.”
“He was, I think. I saw no trace of facial hair.
But it's rash to argue from not finding things. And
he might have been shaved after he was killed.”
“And then smashed? My Lord! And they
smashed him thorough too, didn't they?”
“Very logical bit of crime, Bell.”
“Logical! God bless my soul! But I mean to
say, sir, we haven't got much to go on. Suppose I
advertise there's a man of fifty missing, rather short
and stout and bald, I shall look a bit of an ass.”
“Well, I wouldn't advertise. He'd had an opera-
tion, by the way—on the ear. But I wouldn't say
that either. In fact, I wouldn't say anything about
him just yet. Hold your trumps.”
“Trumps? What is trumps then, Mr. Fortune?”
“Anything you know is always trumps.”
“You’ll excuse me, but it's not my experience,
Sir.”
They came to Montmorency House, where detec-
tives were already domesticated with the porter, and
had done the obvious things. The body, it was to
be presumed, had fallen from one of the windows
opening on the well. The men who had flats round
the well were all accounted for, save one. Mr. Rand,


216 CALL MR. FORTUNE
find the corpse was a conveyancer murdered by a
civil servant. A crime of quiet, middle-class taste.
What sort of fellows are the other fellows?”
“Well, sir, there's a retired engineer, and a young
chap, just married, in the Rimington firm, and a
naval officer, and several young doctors with con-
sulting-rooms in Harley Street, and one of the May-
nards, the Devonshire family. That's all with any
rooms on the well. I’ve seen 'em all, and, if you
ask me, they're right out of it; they're not the sort,
not one of them.”
“I dare say,” said Reggie. “They don’t sound as
if they would fit. None of them heard anything?”
“No, sir; that's queer, to be sure.”
“It happened the night of the blizzard. You
wouldn't have noticed a bomb. Well, who was
Rand P”
“That's what no one knows, sir. He'd only been
here a few weeks. They're service flats, you know,
and furnished. He gave a banker's reference. Bank
says he has no money reason to be missing. Quiet,
stable account. Income from investments. Balance
three hundred odd. But the bank don't know any-
thing about him. He's had an account for years.
He used to live off Jermyn Street, apartment-house.
The landlady died last year.”
“And the landlady died last year,” Reggie repeat-
ed. “He’s elusive, is Mr. Rand. Same like our


22O CALL MR. FORTUNE
r
“You are so hasty to-day, Bell. I haven't got a
‘who. Still anonymous is the slayer. But I’ll swear
I’ve got his character.”
“Have you, though!” said Bell. “Tidy fellow !
Don't make a mess! Remember that face?”
“Oh, I said he was mad.”
“Well, I'm not yet. I'm only feeling what I can
feel.” He began to examine the burnt paper. “Let-
ters mostly. Some stoutish paper. Some stuff looks
a bit like a notebook. That's all we'll get out of
that.”
“Well, except the one thing. Whoever did that
was clearing up. Clearing up something that might
have left traces that might have been dangerous.
Same like he cleared up the dead man's face. Don't
you see? Somebody and some affair had to be
absolutely abolished.”
“Yes. What Was it?”
“We mayn't ever know that,” said Reggie slowly.
“I believe you,” said Bell, and laughed. “I feel
that, sir.”
The inspector and he began to examine the room
in detail, opening drawers and cupboards. But ex-
cept for tobacco and spirits they found no trace of
Mr. Rand. Nothing had been broken open, but
nothing was locked. “No keys on the deceased were
there, Mr. Fortune?” said Bell suddenly. “And
that's a point, too. Very few men go about without
any keys.”


THE BUSINESS MINISTER 22I
“Well, hang it, very few men go about without
any money,” Reggie expostulated. “The corpse
hadn't a copper. You can take it the way we found
him wasn't the way he used to go about. He'd
do his vest up, for instance.”
“Ah,” said Bell sagely. “You’ve got it all in your
head, I must say. That's the thing about you, Mr.
Fortune, if you don't mind my saying so. You've
always got a whole case in your mind at once; there's
some of us only see it in bits, so to speak.”
Reggie smiled. He understood that Superinten-
dent Bell was repenting of having lost his temper,
and was anxious to make it up. “I never found so
good a fellow to work with as you, Bell,” he said.
“You always keep a level head.”
Superintendent Bell shook it and stared at Reg-
gie. “Not to-day. As you know very well, Mr.
Fortune, begging your pardon. I’ve been rattled,
and that's the truth. Ought to know better at my
time of life, to be sure. I’ve seen a good deal, too,
you might say. But there's some things I’ll never
get used to. And that chap's face upset me.”
Reggie nodded. “Yes. I was sayin'—the only
things that make you afraid are the mad things. And
the only thing that does you good is to fight 'em.
That's why I've cheered up.”
“That's right, sir. Well, now, these facts of
yours. There's no papers anywhere. All burnt in


THE BUSINESS MINISTER 223
the corpse all right. Pretty different styles, though.
He dressed to look different different times. He is
elusive, is W. H. Rand.
They began to open drawers. There was the
same abundance, the same variety of styles in Mr.
Rand's hosiery. “Yes, he meant to be elusive,” Reg-
gie murmured. “Anything from a bookmaker to a
church-warden at a funeral. I6% collars, though.
And that's the measure of the corpse. Is all the
linen marked?”
It was, and with ink, so that the mark could only
be removed by taking out a piece of the stuff. “If
the corpse is Rand, where the devil did his shirt
come from?” said Reggie. “The slayer unpicked
the name from his coat. That was one of the Savile
Row suits. But the shirt? Did the slayer bring a
change of linen with him? Provident fellow, very
provident.”
Bell, on his knees by a chest of drawers, gave a
grunt. “Lord, here's a drawer tumbled. And that's
the first yet. It's new stuff, too—not worn.”
Reggie bent over him and whistled. “Not marked.
Same sort of stuff as the corpse wears. And the
drawer's left untidy. The first untidy drawer. Well,
well. Everybody breaks down somewhere. He be-
gan to be untidy then. When he got to the shirt and
the vest.” He shivered and turned away to the
window. “This damned place looks out on the well,”
he cried out, and turned back and sat down. “Bah!


224 CALL MR. FORTUNE
The slayer did that, I suppose,” he muttered, and
sprang up. “Believe in ghosts, you men?”
“Good Lord, sir, don't you start giving us the
jumps!” said Bell. -
Reggie was at the dressing-table. “Sorry, sorry,”
he said over his shoulder, opening and shutting
drawers. Then he turned with something in his
hands. “That wasn't such a bad shot of mine, Bell.
Here's a wig. The corpse is uncommon bald. The
elusive Rand had lots of brown hair. Here's a nice
brown wig.”
“There's no blood on it!” Bell cried.
“No. I guess this is Mr. Rand's second best.
The one he had on when he was killed wouldn't look
nice now.”
“That about settles it,” Bell said slowly.
“We haven’t seen the bathroom,” said Reggie.
Bell looked at him and shrugged.
“Not likely to be much there, sir,” said the in-
spector.
“There could be,” said Reggie gravely, and led
the way.
It was a bathroom of some size but no luxury.
Only the sheer necessities of bathing were provided.
The lower half of the walls was tiled, the floor of
linoleum. Reggie stopped in the doorway. “Any-
thing strike you about it, Bell?”
“Looks new, sir.”
“Yes. Nice and clean. Tidy, don't you know.


THE BUSINESS MINISTER 225
But there's no towels and no sponge. Yet in the
bedroom everything was ready for Rand to sleep
there to-night—pyjamas, brushes and comb, every-
thing. Didn't he use towels? Didn't he have a
sponge?”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“This is where the slayer cleared up after the
murder. And he took the dirty towels and the
bloody sponge away with him. Tidy fellow—always
tidy. Just wait, will you?” And he went into the
bathroom on all fours. About the middle of the
room he stopped, and pored over the linoleum, and
felt it with the tips of his fingers. Then he stood
up and went to the window, opened it, and looked
out. He examined the sill, and then sat himself on
it in the manner of a window cleaner, and began to
study the window frame. After a minute or two
he pulled out a pocket-knife, and with great care cut
a piece of wood. He put this down on the edge of
the porcelain basin, and resumed his study. When
he had finished he went down again on his hands and
knees, and wandered over the floor. He made an
exclamation, he lay down on his stomach, and
stretched underneath the bath. When he stood up he
had in his hand something that glittered. He held
it out on his palm to Bell.
“What's that, sir? A match-box?”
“It might be. A gold match-box—provisionally.
No name. No initials. On opening—we find in-


228 CALL MR. FORTUNE
anybody, to to speak. We don't even know Rand.
What was Rand, would you say? It was worth
somebody's while to do him in. I suppose he knew
something. But what did he know? Who was
Rand P”
Reggie was putting on his overcoat. He collect-
ed his envelope and his cigarette box and put them
away, looking the while with dreamy eyes at Super-
intendent Bell. “Yes,” he said; “yes, there's a lot
of unknown quantities about just now. Who the
devil was Rand? Well, well! I think that finishes
us here. Will you ring for the lift, inspector?”
When he was left alone with Bell, he still gazed
dreamily at that plump, stolid face. “Yes. Who
the devil was Rand? And if you come to that, who
the devil is Sandford?”
“Good Lord, Mr. Fortune, do you mean this busi-
ness is that business?”
“Well, there's a lot of unknown quantities about,”
said Reggie.
PHASE IV.-THE CHARGE
When they talked about the case afterwards, Reg-
gie and Lomas used to agree that it was a piece of
pure art. “Crime unstained by any vulgar greed or
sentiment; sheer crime; iniquity neat. An impres-
sive thing, Lomas, old dear.”
“So it is.” Lomas nodded. “One meets cases of


232 CALL MR. FORTUNE
of old times. And what the devil has it to do with
Scotland Yard?”
“Mason is the man who was found at the Mont-
morency House flats with his face smashed in.”
“God bless my soul! Mason! Poor chap, poor
chap! But what are you talking about? The papers
said that was a man called Rand.”
“Mason, otherwise Rand. Rand, otherwise
Mason. Who was Mason, and why did somebody
kill him?”
Kimball made one of his jerky gestures. “Killed,
was he? I thought he fell out of the window.”
“He was murdered.”
“Good God! Old Jack Mason! It's beyond me.
I haven't a notice. You know this upsets me a good
deal. I’ve seen little of him for a long time. I can
hardly believe he's gone. But why the devil did he
call himself Rand?”
“What was he?” said Reggie sharply.
“God bless me, I couldn't tell you,” Kimball
laughed. “He was always very close. An agent in
a small way, when I knew him—colonial produce,
and so forth. I fancy he went in for building land.
Comfortably off always, but he never got on. Very
reserved fellow. Loved to be mysterious. No. I
suppose it isn't surprising he used two names.”
“Why was he murdered?” said Reggie.
“I can't help you.”
“That's all you can say?”


THE BUSINESS MINISTER 239
dear fellow,” said Lomas. “‘Unto whom all hearts
are open, all desires known'—that sort of thing.
Well, we can't ring up the Recording Angel from
here. It's a trunk call.”
“I know you're worldly. But you might know
your world. Look about, Lomas, old thing. I've
been looking about.” He took out a newspaper cut-
ting.
Lomas read: “‘SANDFORD. Any one who can
give any information about Mrs. Ellen Edith Sand-
ford, resident Llanfairfechan from 1882-1900, for-
merly of Lancashire, is urgently begged to communi-
cate with XYZ.’” He looked up. “Of Lanca-
shire? That's a guess?”
Reggie nodded. “North Wales is mostly Lanca-
shire people.”
“Well, there's no harm in it. Do you want us to
advertise for Kimball's wet nurse?”
“And his sisters and his cousins and his aunts.
Yes. All in good time. But watch him first. Watch
them both.” He nodded, and sauntered out.
Lomas lit a cigarette and pushed the box to Bell.
Both men smoked a minute in silence. Then Lomas
said, “That's a damned clever fellow, Bell.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve often thought he was too clever by half. But,
damme, I don't remember thinking he was uncanny
before.”
“I have noticed it,” said Bell diffidently, “in a


24O CALL MR. FORTUNE
manner of speaking. Of course he does know a lot,
does Mr. Fortune, a rare lot of stuff. But that's
natural, as it were. What upsets you is the sort of
Way he feels men. It's as if he had senses you
haven't got. Very strange the way he knows men.”
PHASE V.—THE REPLY
Their admiration for Reggie Fortune received a
shock the next day. It came by telephone. Just
after his late and lazy breakfast, Reggie was rung
up from Scotland Yard. Bell spoke. Mr. Lomas
thought that Mr. Fortune would like to know that
Sandford had ..gone down to Mr. Kimball's place.
Reggie answered, “Oh, Peter!” In a quarter of an
hour he was in Lomas's room asking for confirma-
tion. There was no doubt. The detective watch-
ing Sandford's chambers had followed him to Vic-
toria, and heard him take a ticket to Alwynstow,
Kimball's place, and was gone with him.
“So that's the next move,” said Lomas, “and if
you can tell me what it means I shall be obliged to
you.”
Reggie dropped his hand on the table. “Not a
guess,” he said. “How can a man guess? We don't
even know how much they know, or whether one
knows what the other knows. I could fancy Sand-
ford—what's the use?


242 CALL MR. FORTUNE
“Hold the line. Cut that out,” said Reggie. “We'll
go down, Lomas, please. Tell your chap to meet us
at the house. My car's here.”
Lomas gave the orders and rang off. “I’ll have to
go, I suppose,” he agreed. “One doesn't kill Cab-
inet Ministers every day. More's the pity. Damn
the case! There's nothing in it, though, Fortune.
Sandford was walking up to the house. He met
Kimball in the lane. They were crossing the orna-
mental water in the park when they had a quarrel.
Kimball was thrown in. He called out, ‘You scoun-
drel, you have murdered me.’ When they got Kim-
ball out he was dead. That's all. I'm afraid it
washes your stuff about Kimball right out.”
“Well, well,” Reggie drawled, looking through
his eyelashes. “Where is he that knows, Lomas?
From the great deep to the great deep he goes,
Lomas. We'll get on.” -
“What about lunch P’
“Damn lunch!” said Reggie, and went out.
The other two, who liked food far less than he
but could not go without it, lingered to collect sand-
wiches, and found him chafing in the driver's seat.
They exchanged looks of horror. “I’m too old
for Mr. Fortune's driving, and that's a fact,” Bell
mumbled.
“When I got out alive after that day at Woking
I swore I’d never go again,” said Lomas.
But they quailed before Reggie's virulent polite-


THE BUSINESS MINISTER 255
“I should say Jane is a character,” said Lomas.
“Yes, she allured me. I told her who I was and
she said she'd come to tea.”
She kept her appointment. Reggie found himself
facing a large young woman. In her construction
nature had been very happy. She had decorated its
work with admirable art. She was physically in the
grand style, but she had a merry eye, and her clothes
were not only charming but of a sophisticated ele-
gance.
Reggie, there is no doubt, stared at her for a mo-
ment and a half. “Miss—Jane—Brown,” he said
slowly.
“I haven't brought my godfathers and godmoth-
ers, Mr. Fortune,” she smiled. “But I am Jane
Brown really. I always felt I couldn't live up to it.
I see you know me.”
“If seeing were knowing, I should know Miss
Joan Amber very well. It's delightful to be able to
thank her for the real Rosalind—all the Rosalind
there is.”
She made him a curtsey. “I’m lucky. I didn't
think you'd be like this. I expected an old man with
glasses and yy
“This,” said Reggie maliciously—“this is the
Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department—
Mr. Lomas.”
Lomas let his eyeglass fall. “I also am young


262 CALL MR. FORTUNE
“Really?” Lomas was dim behind cigar smoke.
“All quite natural now, isn't it?”
“My dear fellow, you knew it all and you knew it
right. You told me so. Kamerad, kamerad.”
Reggie lit his pipe. “Jealousy, hate, mania. He
broke the man the girl married. Curious that affair,
wasn't it? Even the great criminal, he runs in a
groove, he keeps to one kind of crime. The same
dodge for the son that he used for the father. Then
either he lost track of the mother or he preferred to
hurt her through the son. He was an epicure in his
little pleasures. The son came along. I dare say Kim-
ball took that department because the son was in it.
And then he was ready to smash everything for the
sake of his hate—damage his own career, do a filthy
murder, die himself, if he could torture his sister's
child. Yes. The devil is with power, Lomas.”
“I fancy you annoy him a little, my dear Fortune.
But how can you believe in the devil? You have just
seen—her.”
Reggie smiled. “She is a woman, isn't she?”
“I think you might act on that theory. When is it
to be?”
“Lomas, old thing, you're not only bland, you’re
obvious. Which is much worse.”
3.5