r


S2L 8





THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
THEY were brothers, but they were killers first. They had
flouted all the finer feelings, all the decencies, and they did
not let brotherly love stand in their way
An attempt to reunite this gruesome brotherhood brings
the feud to the death point. The oldest brother, doomed to
die, leaves his immense loot to his brothers. But first he
hides it, writes the directions down and then tears the
paper into four pieces, sending one to each of the brothers.
He dies believing that by this means he will bring the
brothers peacefully together at last. Instead, each brother
strives to collect the missing scraps of paper for himself.
The bloody work begins. Inspector Keating of Scotland
Yard takes a hand. The terrible Poacher steps in and out
as mysterious as a ghost, as deadly as the plague. Who
or what is the Poacher? Not even Inspector Keating
can tell until—
Peter Baron is the rising star among the mystery
writers of our time. THE ROUND TABLE
MURDERS, swiftly, vividly written,
probing the inmost nerves of
fear, is his highest
achievement.





The
R«UND
TABLE
MURDERS
by PETER BARON
Author of
THE OPIUM MURDERS
New York
THE MACAULAY COMPANY


Published, 1931
By the Macaulay Company
Printed in the U. S. A.


Dedicated to
DORIS FREEMAN
MY TYPIST, AND SEVEREST CRITIC





7} £ A if 6 J* ~r
All characters in this book
are entirely fictitious


I


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS





THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
CHAPTER ONE
Piegatti's stood, because it was supported by a house on
either side, in one of the dirtiest and least prepossessing streets
of Soho, and Inspector Keating never passed through its por-
tals without fearing that they would give way. Which, con-
sidering that he did so frequently, was a little unnerving.
Keating was neither well-known nor well-liked at the
restaurant and its habitues invariably spent an unquiet five
minutes of intensive thought when the stocky figure of the
Yard man appeared in the doorway. It was so seldom that he
ever came to eat, and so rarely that he brought news that
did not prevent others from so doing. Few men enjoy a meal
with the knowledge that at its conclusion they are going
"inside" to partake of His Majesty's hospitality for an in-
definite period.
The fact that Keating was looking for another Royal guest
accounted for his presence there one night in late November.
He had selected Piegatti's as being the place most likely to take
some of the money that Clem Wade had recently taken from
someone else, but as a matter of fact, Clem had sufficient sense
to avoid his usual haunts and, as a result, a certain fat Argen-
tine banker failed to receive any information concerning the
desecration of his safe.
Keating would not have remained if he had not noticed
Chorley "the Nose" leaning against the wall of the entrance
hall. Chorley, whose baptismal name was Charles Egbert
Marks, imbued Keating with an abiding dislike. It was a dis-
like that always prompted him to bestow a kick where it
would do Chorley most good, and the Yard man was
7


8 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
oppressed with a fear that one day he would gratify the
desire, and possibly forfeit the aid that Chorley frequently
proffered. For Chorley had his uses. He saw, heard and knew
everything. Everything, that is, that was of any use to In-
spector Keating and incidentally, himself. And although cer-
tain of the Filching Fraternity suspected Chorley's activities,
he was wily enough not to give them definite proof and con-
trived to ply his trade with perfect immunity.
To-night he lounged there, the inevitable cigarette between
his lips, dreamily contemplating the mural decorations of the
restaurant, and other things. Mostly other things.
As Keating crossed the lobby Chorley glanced at him
casually and then resumed his study of the "other things."
No sign of recognition passed between the two men, but
Keating knew instinctively just how far to walk before he
halted to light his pipe.
It was as he threw away the match that someone whispered
"The Colonel's back!" It was a peculiar whisper and appeared
to have no visible source. Certainly not Chorley, whose lips
had not moved and whose eyes were still fixed speculatively
on the room. But it was the remark and not the manner of
its making that interested Keating. So much so that his pipe
slipped from his fingers.
He stooped to pick it up and breathed "Where?"
"Back left-hand corner arbor," replied the whisper of
uncertain origin.
Keating straightened up, apparently without having no-
ticed Chorley, and walked across to where the manager
lounged against the cashier's desk in conversation with the
blowsy leering female who occupied it.
"Clem Wade been in to-night?" jerked Keating, fingering
his small mustache.
"No, 'e 'ave not to the ristorante come, signore," mur-
mured the manager obsequiously.
"See here, I dunno what 'seen-yor-ay' means and I don't


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 9
want to, for your sake. My name's Keating, Inspector Keating
to you. Jot it down in the little red book as a reminder."
"Si, si, Inspector."
Keating turned his back on the manager and strolled
deliberately across the room to the back left-hand arbor
unheeding, but not unconscious of, the speculative glances
that followed his short bulky figure. Before he was half-way
there, the eyes of George Everard Teyst, sometime of the
Army and still called "The Colonel," were smiling a friendly
greeting at him.
George Teyst from his lithe figure and unlined face might
have been thirty, and then again he might have been sixty.
His snow white hair supported the latter theory, his keen eyes
and active brain the former, but he had never been "inside"
and the Records Office knew nothing definite of him. Keating
judged him to be about fifty, although he had heard of shock
turning a man's hair white at twenty. And George must have
had a few shocks during his life. Nevertheless his eyes still
preserved the sharpness of youth, and most people made the
mistake of thinking them kindly until they detected the
cynicism behind the persistently lowered lids.
Keating had made that mistake once himself and, in con-
sequence, spent a solid hour damning their owner. Now he
looked down to find them gazing straight into his own.
Uninvited, he took a chair opposite the Colonel and proceeded
to relight his pipe.
"So you're back?" he asked gloomily, and the other laughed.
"An optimist might construe that as a welcome. Am I
mistaken or did I see Chorley lingering in the lobby?"
His pleasant drawl irritated Keating as did his uncanny
faculty for observing everything in his immediate vicinity,
and elsewhere.
"What is it this time, George?"
The question amused his companion. "Either you need a


10 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
drink or else you've had one too many. You'll know in good
time."
That was exactly what Keating was afraid of. "It'll come
unstuck," he warned, but the Colonel smiled his disagreement.
"Unlikely," he replied, "even if there was anything to come
unstuck. Could there be anything more transparent than my
purity of intention? I think not. I've never been shopped and
I never shall, so why watch me?"
"I know Cortot painted pictures," Keating said heavily,
"but I never saw him paint 'em!"
"Corot," the Colonel corrected.
"Mebbe, but there's only one kind of artist that I'm in-
terested in at the moment, your kind. Still collecting?"
"Still collecting," agreed the Colonel.
"Any particular stones?"
"I'll send you a post card giving the time, date and place,
after the event," replied the other and pushed his cigarette
case across the table.
Keating declined and pulled at his pipe. He was being
played with. He knew it and disliked it.
"If you're thinking of pulling anything crooked," he said,
"my advice to you is the same as the girl's to the sailor . . .
don't. You're like Moses, George. You'll go to the well once
too often."
"The well, often, the cell, never," smiled the Colonel. "The
Scripture test was pretty soft when they passed you as an In-
spector. That Moses one ought to have amused the Commis-
sioners, whom God preserve."
"Preserve? Petrify!" grunted Keating, who classified his
superiors with income tax and measles. "Who are you going
to part from the stones?"
"I shouldn't lose any sleep working that one out. You'll
read all about it in the papers."
Keating smiled amiably. That was probably true and if he


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 11
dwelt on the subject he was liable to lose his temper. He
changed his line of attack.
"Seen anything of the boys lately?"
"No." The reply was curt and Keating was disappointed.
He was something more than interested in the Colonel and
his brothers, who as a combined gang had given him, in the
past, all the excitement he asked for in this life.
"You boys don't get together so often," he pursued. "The
Yard's anxious. We hate to see the happy family divided.
What's the trouble?"
"Money."
"Always is, but you never found it very difficult to get.
Other people have still got plenty."
"Not enough to satisfy the boys," said the Colonel bitterly.
"Quarrelled over the division, eh?"
"Something like that."
The Colonel believed in candor to a certain extent and his
frankness was a source of pleasure to Keating. For that alone
the Inspector was pleased to see him. He would have been
pleased to see him under any circumstances, behind bars, but
the prospect seemed remote.
He sighed, "You ought to talk like a Dutch uncle to
Dennis. His pure mind is being soiled by contact with the
Wade gang. I've seen him twice lately with Larry. I'd hate to
see Dennis go wrong."
The sarcasm left the Colonel untouched, but the mention
of Larry Wade's name aroused him.
"If I thought—" he began and changed his mind. "And
the other two? Still treading the primrose path as prescribed
by the Prisoners Aid Society? It's a pity that we split up and
agreed to go our own ways. Together we could have . . .
well we may do yet, so I'll keep it under my hat. Divided as
we are now we're liable to take a holiday on the 'moor.' At
least, they are."


12 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
Which was a fairly accurate forecast. The four Teyst
brothers, George, Ian, Ralph and Dennis had been a perfect
combination under the leadership of George, but deprived of
the brain of the Combine they were liable to be "sent up"
directly they made a move. Of which the Colonel was aware,
and a perverted sense of brotherly love was responsible for
his regret. He called for his bill and stared moodily across
the room.
"I'm hoping to bridge the gulf soon," he said as he rose.
"With?"
"Naturally, stones."
"You'll find all the stones you want in Princetown," Keat-
ing grunted.
"We shall see, eventually." The Colonel nodded pleasantly
and walked across to the cashier's desk. Keating watched him
with an unpleasant foreboding. The other had already passed
Chorley on his way to the door, when it occurred to Keating
that it might be profitable to observe the Colonel's future
movements.
The same idea had occurred to his quarry and it is doubtful
if Keating could have trailed his man for long. The Colonel
had been trailed before, but not far. His flair for apparently
dissolving into the air was a sore point with those most in-
terested in seeing that he did not, but on this occasion he was
spared the necessity of exercising that useful habit.
Keating followed him to the door and no further. He
would have done so but for the fact that his progress was
suddenly barred by a tall slim young man who stood squarely
in his path.
The newcomer's coat collar was turned up, a muffler hid
the lower part of his face and the downturned brim of his
hat, a gray trilby, performed a like service for his eyes.
Over his shoulder Keating saw the Colonel turn the corner
and stepped forward only to halt as a hand fell on his arm.


14 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
several nice institutions in this country where we entertain
young men who hold up Inspectors with guns."
"And maybe you don't know the little story about first
catching your bird? I shan't lose any sleep, either way. Step
lively."
Keating "stepped lively" and began to experiment with his
left hand, the one farthest from his companion.
"What's the big idea, anyway?" he complained as they
walked towards the darkened end of the street. "Are you
George's guardian angel or something?"
"No, but you're nearer the angels than you'll ever be.
Keep away from that gat!"
Keating's left hand dropped slowly away from his side.
He had been sliding it cautiously round his back to his hip
pocket and in a few more seconds might have considerably
altered the course of subsequent events.
He spoke regretfully. "You're adding years to your sen-
tence every minute. I'll remember this when the beak wants
to know how long you ought to be 'put away' for."
"The judge who can send up the Poacher, isn't on the
bench yet," boasted the other and Keating started. His sur-
prise amused his companion.
"Two years ago you told Larry Wade you'd get the
Poacher and get him proper," he sneered. "Well, you've got
him. Right here and waiting, and you haven't got any change
coming."
But Keating was hardly listening. The Poacher was no un-
familiar name to him or the Birmingham police. The Mayor
had once said "Joey Chamberlain made Birmingham and the
Poacher flayed it." That was true, but the Poacher, if this
was he, was varying his usual practice. Hitherto he had been
the enemy rather than the friend of his profession. At least
six of Keating's "little friends" had promised to "fix" the
Poacher for past favors. Many of them had wrought nobly,
planning effective little coups for the pleasure of having the


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 15
Poacher step in at the last minute and collect their lawful
dues. It had earned him his name and the hatred of half the
community that novelists call the "underworld." For him to
be virtually aiding one of the profession was something of a
shock and it left Keating groping.
He walked on mechanically until the other abruptly called
a halt in a square from which many roads led away into the
darkness.
"Stand easy, this is where I get off. I reckon the Colonel is
home and gone bye-byes some time," he said.
"Some day, I'll get you for this," Keating said softly.
"From now on London's going to be nearly as hot for you as
the place they never mention at Sunday schools."
"I should worry. Turn your dial east and keep going. And
remember Lot's wife. She made a bad break and finished up
all salt. Follow her lead and you're worm fodder. Travel."
Keating did not look round; he walked on for perhaps
fifteen seconds and then turned. The Poacher was nowhere in
sight and Keating did not trouble to look for him.
Taking a short cut into Piccadilly he made his way by the
most direct route to Scotland Yard, thinking deeply and a
little uncharitably of the man he had just left.
He walked into his office at the Yard some minutes later
and seated himself moodily on the corner of his superior's
desk.
The man at the table continued to write unconcernedly. It
was nothing unusual for Keating to return from his nightly
prowls imbued with a desire for light conversation, and it
was Superintendent Kaye's invariable custom to try and cast
his columns of figures despite his friend's comments on life
and its delusions.
Like Keating, most of his best work was done in the small
hours, but there the similarity ended. Keating was taller than
his friend by a few inches, and while Keating was stocky
Kaye inclined to portliness, yet it was in their faces that the


16 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
difference became most marked. Keating's solid matter-of-
fact expression found no counterpart in the rather dreamy
look that sat so comically on his superior's round and cherubic
face, and Kaye's skin was as smooth as a girl's in contrast to
Keating's blue cheeks and chin.
"Ever seen the Poacher, Kaye?" Keating asked abruptly,
and the Superintendent looked up.
"'Speech is the gift of all but the thought of few,'" he
replied. "Cato knew his world when he said that. You're tired
or you wouldn't ask fool questions."
Keating scowled. "I met him to-night."
"And Pythagoras," Kaye continued, "said that 'we ought
either to be silent or speak things that are better than silence.'
That, to the best of my knowledge, rules out pathological
lying."
"Very funny," Keating commented. Kaye's quotations were
the Inspector's cross, but sometimes he bore it less easily.
"I'm telling you I met him, and it's gospel. At least when I
say I met—well, there were no introductions. He stuck me
up against the business end of a gat."
"He was the fellow who worked Birmingham when I was
up there for the congress," Kaye said thoughtfully. "Boasted
that the Birmingham police would never make him serve a
sentence, and got away with the proceeds of several robberies
that the local gentlemen-of-leisure had arranged. You say he
held you up with a gun. What did you do while he did it?"
"What you would have done. Saved the Insurance Com-
pany's money!"
Keating stared out across the dark river and filled his pipe.
Lighting it, he extinguished the match and carried it delib-
erately to the waste-paper basket before he threw his bomb-
shell.
"I suppose you know that the Colonel's back?"
It was a masterpiece of nonchalance, but he erred in sup-
posing that the ensuing silence was one of awed amazement.


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 17
It was due to the fact that the other was casting a long
column.
"Stick to Anno Domini," Kaye said briefly, and began his
cast again.
"As stale as that, eh? Well, we don't all have second sight.
I called in at Piegatti's for Clem Wade—who is beginning to
learn sense and shunning dens of infamy—and Chorley tipped
me off that George was back. We had a real friendly chat
about nothing, and I'm as wise now about his next move as
I was before I met him."
"Eighty-three, eighty-nine, ninety-seven—eight and a
penny," replied Superintendent Kaye. "You mean you're no
wiser. There is a difference, but you wouldn't see it. Did you
see either of his brothers? I've had a man trailing each of them
ever since New York wired that he was on his way to South-
ampton."
Keating's eyes bulged. "Is there anything you don't know?"
he asked with ponderous sarcasm, and Kaye put down his pen.
"Yes."
"Oh, we are human? What is it?"
"How you ever became an Inspector and what the Colonel
is after. Now will you get out or must I throw you out?"
Inspector Keating regarded his friend morosely and walked to
the door.
"I'll tell you one thing, Kaye—" he began.
"Thirty-four, thirty-six, carry three," Kaye intoned relent-
lessly, and Inspector Keating retired casting unpleasant and
entirely unfounded aspersions on the intellect of his friend.


CHAPTER WO
Mr. J. Benton Hesse (of Boston, Mass.) was a large man
with even larger ideas. Among other things he was a million-
aire, and was not disposed to allow other people to forget it.
He seldom missed the opportunity of telling new acquaint-
ances that he was born without shoes on his feet, without
realizing that he had that fact in common with most babies.
But there the similarity ended, and he had risen until there
were no more steps to the ladder. Then he had paused to rest.
During the pause he bartered his rest for a wife.
At the end of three years of married life Mr. Hesse had
bought everything that money could buy except the thing
he wanted most, immunity from the tongue of Mrs. J. Benton
Hesse (nee Goddard, of Philadelphia, Pa.). In fact it was
Mrs. Hesse's tongue that convinced her spouse that to pur-
chase a part of the Morcovian Crown jewels, then on offer,
would be little short of an inspiration.
A momentary lull in the daily nagging could occasionally
be bought if the price offered was high enough, and although
this particular piece of silence was going to deplete the Hesse
bankroll to the tune of forty thousand pounds, Mr. Hesse
felt that it was the sweetest music that had ever beguiled his
ears.
At that time Mrs. Hesse was slowly but surely buying her
entree to London's most select houses and, although a few
aristocratic strongholds still defied her, the most impregnable
was giving signs of lowering the portcullis. At any moment
the Dowager Countess of Raith might invite Mrs. Hesse to
help organize her forthcoming bazaar for charity, and the
18


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 19
soul of Mrs. Hesse was overflowing with joy. It reduced her
to awed silence.
Dumb, "as a nun breathless with anticipation," was how
Mr. Hesse described it, cynically, distorting his favorite poet.
But he realized that the acquisition of the emerald pendant
had something to do with his lady's excitement. It was a good
omen, he reflected, and his glance as he watched her walking
backwards and forwards through their suite was almost
tolerant. It was not, however, appraising. Not even a Worth
or a Paquin gown could eliminate Mrs. Hesse's angular
appearance.
To-day that did not worry Mr. Hesse. He was awaiting
the telephone call that would announce the arrival of the
gentleman from Morcovia, and was disposed to beam on the
shortcomings of his spouse. Fortunately when the telephone
did ring, Mrs. Hesse misconstrued the sigh of relief that
escaped her lord and master.
She almost snatched the telephone away from him and
cooed a plaintive "Hello," into the mouthpiece. Mr. Hesse
waited patiently while she listened, and in turn misconstrued
her expression of gratitude as relating to the arrival of the
Morcovian emissary. He was disillusioned almost at once.
"Certainly, I will be there in ten minutes," lisped Mrs.
Hesse. "Er . . . goodbye, till we meet."
She replaced the receiver and turned suddenly on Mr.
Hesse.
"That was the Raith dame. She's come-to at last. Will I
go round and help her? There's so much organizing to do—
she hates to trouble me—but in the interests of charity—!
Will I go round? Ask yourself."
Having delivered herself crisply, Mrs. Hesse vanished sud-
denly into the bedroom to decide which of her recently pur-
chased Parisian atrocities became her the least and, having
done so, proceeded to array herself in it for her debut in
the Raith household, oblivious of her husband's pained regard.


20 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
"But, sweetie—" pleaded Mr. Hesse and stopped. He had
been about to suggest that as he was spending forty thousand
pounds on a present for her, her presence would not be out
of place when the gift arrived. Fortunately it occurred to him
just in time that with his wife absent there were several old
haunts open to him at which he might snatch a little relaxa-
tion and something more sustaining. It was an opportunity
not to be missed. Mrs. Hesse was a total abstainer, and so was
her husband, on principle. His wife's.
Feeling like a man who has just been dragged away from
the edge of a yawning abyss, he watched his wife depart and
then strolled out on to the balcony of the suite and gazed
down into Piccadilly, not because he liked it but because he
wanted to see his wife leave the hotel. The thought that she
might be involved in a fatal accident on her way to the
Raiths, he dismissed as unworthy—of serious consideration.
It was as he watched his car disappearing that he suddenly
recalled a remark made earlier in the day by M. Sachs, the
jewel expert. Something apart from the little Pole's verdict
on the Crown jewels and something that had not been far
away from the millionaire's thoughts all day.
The Pole's exact words had been: "Mr. Hesse, you take the
beeg reesk. Does it mean so little to you that the Colonel is
returned and that he makes his living by stealing precious
stones?" A curious warning, and as far as Mr. Hesse was
concerned, wasted. None the less, he was interested.
Mr. Hesse lighted a cigarette and endeavored to drop the
dead match into the rear seat of a passing car. He succeeded.
In fact he always succeeded. With which comforting reflec-
tion he squared his shoulders and allowed his thoughts to
dwell pleasantly on what he would do to the Colonel or any
other dirty crook who crossed his path.
During his life he had known many crooks. In some cases
their interests had been identical with, and in others inimical
to, his own, but the difference had not affected the result.


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 21
Mr. Hesse used crooks as he used corn cures, not because he
was fond of them but because they were necessary. The
thought amused him for some moments, but waiting was not
one of the things that Mr. Hesse did best, and after ten
minutes he sat down suddenly and took up the telephone.
Giving a number, he waited for a few seconds and then re-
moved his cigarette, preparatory to speaking.
"Hello, Berkeley's Bank? Put me through to the manager.
J. Benton Hesse speaking. Thanks." The last word was a
concession, but Mr. Hesse felt light hearted, and his manner
when the manager eventually answered was almost breezy.
"Hello, the manager? Great. Hesse here. See here, there's
going to be no hitch about that deal this afternoon is there?
No? Good. Yes, I know it's a tall order, but the grief's mine.
I'm doing the unbelting. Sure, pay him in tenners and don't
give him one short." Mr. Hesse chuckled at his own joke.
"Yes, he sure is in one big hurry . . . got to get back to
Morcovia by four-thirty to start another war or something.
I may come down to the bank with him, just to see there's
no snag. He's doing me a good turn and I want him paid out
prompt. That's my motto. Pay and collect debts quick. It's
made me what I am. All joking aside, are you married?"
The manager was. He admitted it gloomily and Hesse made
sympathetic noises.
"Too bad. Reckon our womenfolk are twins. My bit of
heaven's out organizing this afternoon, and I'm taking the
day off. I've earnt it and I'm paying for it. Sure, I'll be down
as soon as d'Essinger drifts in. Bye."
He replaced the receiver and turned as someone rapped
sharply on the outer door of the suite. Opening the door he
was confronted by the tall, rather lean waiter, who invariably
served their meals, but this time the man brought a telegram
instead of food.
"This just arrived for you, sir," the man said. "The man-
ager sent me up with it."


22 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
Mr. Hesse took the envelope and, slitting it open, read the
message it contained. It startled him considerably. Apparently
unaware of the existence of the waiter, he walked back into
the room and, seating himself at his table, propped the tele-
gram up in front of him and stared at it.
Half an hour later when M. Sachs was ushered into the
Hesse suite Mr. Hesse was still glaring at the telegram. It
appeared to interest him to the exclusion of all else, and he
was apparently unaware of the smiling little Pole's voluble
apologies. Not that that deterred M. Sachs. His dapper little
figure literally quivered with the excess of regret to which he
was reduced, and he positively radiated self-abasement.
"You pardon that I am so previous?" he asked anxiously.
"It will not, I trust, incommode you? I have hoped that we
might conclude this little business with—yes, that is the word
—promptitude, providing, of course, that I do not give my-
self the pain of inconveniencing you. I wish to see the Polish
Players this afternoon. They perform 'La Cygne.' You have
seen that one, no? It is magnificent. You like perhaps the
Polish Players, yes? But who does not? Pardon, I do not in-
trude on private meditations?"
Mr. Hesse grunted and stuck the telegram beneath the
small nose of his visitor.
"Read that," he invited tersely.
M. Sachs took the proffered telegram and read aloud in
pained tones: "If you can keep that bracelet one day, it's
yours. The Colonel."
He read it again and collapsed, with admirable foresight, on
an adjacent chair. "But this is monstrous, m'sieu. C'est in-
croyable. You realize that this is what I have warned you
might happen?"
"We'll see," snarled Mr. Hesse. "And if the Colonel gets
that bracelet, well—we'll still see. Park your chassis and
wait."
Mr. Sachs was not confident. "They tell strange tales of


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 23
this man. He is a genius at the art of making different the
face—disguise is the barbarous English word, I think. A
language of unpleasing sounds, and sons. This man is an
Englishman and dangerous. Be warned, Mr. Hesse—this tele-
gram should be brought to the attention of the not over
brilliant, but tenacious, gentlemen at Scotland Yard."
"See here, I don't have to call the Yard in. The crook who
tries to make soft jack outer J. B. H. gets the air quick. No,
sir, the guy who gets away with any crooked stuff while I've
got me health and strength ain't been breeched yet."
M. Sachs regarded a pair of elegantly shod feet, his own,
dubiously.
"I do not for one moment impugn—atrocious word—the
well-known intelligence of yourself—but I enjoin caution."
He glanced at his watch. "I trust that the Baron will not
offer us the discourtesy of a belated arrival. I have much
desired to see the Polish Players again. You perhaps know their
work?" He kissed the tips of his fingers. "But they are mag-
nifique. Marveilleuse. Such fire—such passion—"
Mr. Hesse decided that the best method of attack was
defence, and adopted it. He began to talk. By the time that
the Baron was scheduled to arrive, and Mr. Hesse was con-
cluding the third recital of his life story, Mr. Sachs had lapsed
into comatose resignation.
The arrival of the portly envoy from Morcovia came as a
relief to the men who awaited him. Aware that he created
something of a sensation, the Baron politely edged himself in
front of the manager, who had announced him, and bowed
as low as his prominent waistline would permit.
"Pretty punctual, Baron," Mr. Hesse said genially, usher-
ing his guest to a chair, and the envoy trailed a plump white
hand through his oily hair.
"As always, sir," he rumbled. "Always punctual."
He placed a black portfolio case on the table and nodded
distantly to M. Sachs. The Baron was a little uncertain of the


24 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
Pole's social status, and having himself been elevated from
the gutter was disposed to think that the majority of his
fellow creatures had not been so fortunate.
"In this instance," he continued, speaking with a queer
clipped accent, but in fluent English, "it is essential that I
observe all speed. I have had the misfortune to be recalled
by my Imperial Master."
He spoke the name with reverence, but there was little
reverence in his host's reply.
"Michael beginning to feel the draught, eh? What that
boy ought to do, Baron, is to hoof the Archduke Boris outer
the country, or else soak him one with a sandbag. Boris has
been itching to use that throne as an armchair for years."
"His Highness mobilizes," d'Essinger replied, "and I
believe he has some such intentions as you have mentioned.
As a result, I am here to-day to sell the last item of the al-
most unrivalled Royal Collection, the bracelet presented by
Prince Michael's father to his sainted wife."
The Baron sighed. The selling of the Crown jewels was
almost a personal loss, and in fact that was how he regarded
the transaction. The Baron had a habit of acquiring various
trifles during his tenure of office, and then shooting half a
dozen political adversaries on the charge of having stolen
them.
He sighed again and opened the portfolio. From its interior
he drew forth a black morocco case, with corners of beaten
silver. Opening it he proffered it for Mr. Hesse's inspection.
Lying on a velvet setting were four oblong shaped emeralds,
each surrounded by a tiny setting of diamonds and linked to
its fellow by two slender golden chains.
Mr. Hesse lifted out the gleaming thing gingerly and passed
it to M. Sachs.
"The way to a woman's heart lies through a man's pocket,
Sachs," he said grimly. "Drink, Baron?"
The terms were synonymous. The envoy observed the pro-


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 25
duction of a flask from his host's hip pocket and Mr. Hesse's
subsequent economy with the soda and smiled approvingly.
He became expansive.
"The position in my country is tense, very tense. The
Archduke, a younger brother, has designs of his own which
can best be served by the removal of His Hereditary High-
ness, the Prince Michael. He has a large following in the
hills and is at any moment liable to descend on the capital.
Under the circumstances, His Highness is mobilizing with all
speed, but armaments cost money and the armament firm will
not supply rifles and other weapons until they see the money.
Always the accursed Americans—pardon, I forgot that m'sieu
has the honor to be an American, a great nation—as I say al-
ways the Americans need money to convince them of in-
tegrity. It is so, is it not?"
"Money talks," agreed Mr. Hesse, draining his glass, not
without a spasm of amusement. The "accursed American"
firm who were to supply the Prince with arms traded under
the name of Benton & Sons. It was not for Mr. Benton
Hesse to point out the connection, but it existed neverthe-
less, and the millionaire stood to retrieve a goodly portion of
the forty thousand pounds he was expending.
The Baron sat there for some moments discussing the affairs
of Central Europe, and Hesse and M. Sachs listened patiently,
both intent on an early escape. Their first kind thought of the
Baron came simultaneously with his announcement that he
must leave for the bank if he was to make his connection at
the station in fifty minutes' time.
Mr. Hesse rose cheerfully. "I'll trail round with you to the
bank, Baron," he offered, picking up his hat and gloves. "Pity
you're going back to Europe. We might have brightened this
one horse village considerably, together. Still, you've got Paris
before you. Don't flash your pay-roll there or the ladies won't
let up on you till you're skinned. Coming, Sachs?"


26 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
"If m'sieu permits, as far as the street. After that I go to
see the Polish Players. You know their work perhaps, Baron?"
"Sure, he knows it," Hesse interrupted hastily, and almost
pushed the Pole out of the door. "I guess the little hotel tin
box is the best place for the bracelet, Sachs?"
M. Sachs nodded and they descended the stairs together.
Mr. Hesse excused himself for a moment and, having de-
posited the morocco case with the manager, rejoined them
and walked down the wide steps of the hotel entrance to
where the Baron's car awaited them.
It was a two seater and the newest model from a firm of
experts who, although the Baron suppressed the fact, had
lent it to the Morcovian until the time of his departure, for
advertisement purposes.
"Well, good hunting, Sachs," said Mr. Hesse, following
the Baron into the car. "I'm hoping my own won't be so
dusty—if the Baron doesn't get us all mixed up with some
other dirt track ace. Regular devil at the wheel is the Baron."
M. Sachs smiled politely and his last vision of the "regular
devil" was of that person crouched intently over the wheel
of a car that could do ninety miles an hour but was in danger
of being removed for obstruction, and was eliciting jeering
remarks from angry taxi drivers who were forced to follow
in its wake.
M. Sachs waved a scented hand after the retreating car and
then turned to hail a taxi that had just slid into the kerb.
Busied with his thoughts, he stood aside as a lady descended
and paid her fare, and was about to give his directions to the
chauffeur when he found himself looking into the baleful
eyes of the taxi's recent occupant. The eyes belonged to Mrs.
J. Benton Hesse, and their owner was not in her most tract-
able mood.
"Moosewer Sachs," she said harshly, buttonholing him, "I
have been insulted."
"But no, madame, who would dare?" wondered M. Sachs


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 27
and looked apprehensively at the uncomfortably robust taxi
driver.
"That Raith cat," snapped Mrs. Hesse, unaware of her
companion's sigh of relief. "Says she didn't phone me and
didn't want to see me. I'll say she's got a nerve. If that's her
idea of a joke—pardon me if I can't rustle up a smile. Side's
her middle moniker and she's got it coming to her for this
day's work. Called me a 'gate-crasher' and told her fat four
flusher of a butler to 'show this person out.' I'm the cutie
who made them put 'democratic' in the dictionary, but I
draw the line at 'person.' I'll say she's some hag. Her face
hasn't been lifted, it's been dropped, and before I'm through
with it I'll bust it so wide that the face fixers will scream for
joy."
"Truly unprecedented, madame. The Countess has a repu-
tation for hospitality with which I cannot reconcile this atti-
tude," deplored M. Sachs.
"Unprecedented? I'll say it was."
Still retaining her hold on the Pole, Mrs. Hesse crossed the
pavement and began to mount the steps of the hotel. M.
Sachs, perforce, followed.
"Have those emeralds arrived yet?" she demanded as they
reached the lobby.
"But yes, madame, your husband put them in the hotel
safe before he went out."
"Went out?"
Her tone imbued M. Sachs with a fervent gratitude that
he was not Mr. Hesse.
"Certainly, madame. He was going to the bank with the
Baron d'Essinger."
"Oh well, come on up and let's see those emeralds."
"I had hoped that you might excuse me, madame. I par-
ticularly wished to see—"
"My emeralds. I know.
Before that tone M. Sachs quailed. He allowed himself to
4


28 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
be led to the manager's office, and as soon as the morocco case
was in Mrs. Hesse's possession, followed her dismally to her
suite, still planning a courteous but swift retreat.
But that was not part of Mrs. Hesse's intention. Hastily
opening the case, she clasped the bracelet on her wrist and
turned to the Pole.
"Well, how do they look?"
"Mais, charmant, madame. Superbe. Such stones would
enhance many another woman's beauty, but in madame's
case it is the stones that gain an added luster from the
wearer. Madame permits?"
He took her wrist between his fingers and studied the
bracelet.
"This oughter make that Raith dame sick all over the place
with envy," said Mrs. Hesse, and became aware that M.
Sachs was studying the emeralds intently.
He smiled suddenly. "Merveilleuse. No one would sus-
pect. Madame is, if she will allow me the liberty of saying so,
as wise as she is beautiful. L'Americaines have the reputation
for caution, is it not so? The originals are, I trust, still safe
in the hotel deposit?"
A certain chilliness diffused itself into the atmosphere.
"Say, are we talking about the same thing or are you just
nacherally bug-house?" asked Mrs. Hesse, and in that second
the truth was revealed to the Pole.
He uttered a squeal, and clasped his hands to his head so
suddenly that Mrs. Hesse regarded him anxiously.
"Gone sick?" she inquired.
"Sick? No, madame. That string—those emeralds. They
are imitations! Clever, yes, but genuine, no!"


CHAPTER THREE
When the Flying Squad, acting on an anonymous telephone
message, found Arthur Somerville, he was lying on his back in
the basement of a derelict house in Kensington and he was
minus his coat, waistcoat, trousers and shoes. His hands were
bound behind his back with his tie, and his braces performed
a like service for his feet.
Released, he seemed a little hazy as to the exact sequence of
events that had led to his present condition, but reiterated the
statement that he was a waiter, lately of the Riviera Hotel,
Menton, and on his way to take up a situation in London.
That was all that Chief Inspector Storm, of the Squad, could
extract for some time, and as an explanation it fell somewhat
short of what he desired.
Ten minutes' further examination elicited the information
that Somerville had landed in England a fortnight ago and
on his first night in London had fallen into conversation with
a man who possessed the three attributes of a gentleman—
contempt of the existing Government, white spats and an al-
most unique thirst.
At the other's suggestion they had visited a certain bar
in the neighborhood of Charing Cross and Arthur had im-
bibed more than was good for him. After that his recollec-
tions became vague and he could offer no reasonable explana-
tion of his presence in the basement of the disused house.
During the past fornight, he asserted, he had received three
visits each day from the man (which was only a part of what
Arthur called him) who had brought food. The man had
smiled encouragingly but had showed a remarkable reticence
29


30 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
concerning the reasons for committing the outrage and his
future plans for Arthur.
At that point Arthur showed a tendency to revert to his
former statements concerning the Riviera Hotel, and In-
spector Storm made out his report and had it circulated to
all stations with the private conviction that the only part of
Arthur's story that could be relied on was his statement that
he had, at some time, taken more drink than was good for
him.
It was quite by chance that Inspector Keating saw the
report, and it stirred him to no particular interest until he
noticed that Arthur had been on his way to take up a situa-
tion at the Plaza Hotel. Then several things occurred to
Keating. One of them was that the Baron d'Essinger, who had
recently claimed police protection, was due to visit Mr. Ben-
ton Hesse at the Plaza Hotel that afternoon for the purpose
of selling an emerald bracelet.
Within two and a half minutes of that discovery Inspector
Keating was on his way to the Plaza Hotel, speeded by the
reflection that the Colonel was going to bridge a gulf with
stones. Stones, which Keating suspected, might never grace
the person of Mrs. Benton Hesse.
He received that impression at a time when something else
was also failing to grace the lady in question. The something
else was a stream of bad language and the unfortunate hearer
was M. Sachs.
In Philadelphia Mrs. Hesse had learnt many words that are
normally not mentioned in the presence of young ladies, and
she had no objection to airing her sophisticated vocabulary.
She did so at great length and then sat down and lighted a
cigarette.
Observing that M. Sachs was edging towards the open
doorway she rounded suddenly on him.
"And what the heck were you doing to let that Morcovian
welsher frame a crooked deal like that?"


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 31
"But madame—"
"Tie a can to it. You saw the deal transacted; why in the
name of liberty couldn't you spot the fake then? See here,
when J. B. H. gets next to this yarn you're for the high jump.
And where is J. B. H.?"
"I have already told madame that he went out . . ."
"Yes, you have. What I want to know is where he went,
you poor dumb-bell."
"I can only repeat . . ."
"Well don't. It's offensive." Mrs. Hesse picked up the tele-
phone. "Hello, put me on to the manager. What? Yes, I'll
hold on, and snap into it, you."
For some moments there was silence in the room. Then,
"Hello, the manager? Mrs. Hesse here—and in a hurry. Come
right up. You're busy? Tell that to a traffic cop. You come
on up here."
She replaced the receiver and scowled. Her temper was by
no means sweetened by the manager's delay in appearing, and
when he did enter the room she was on the verge of another
outburst.
"You wanted me, Mrs. Hesse?"
"No," acidly, "that's why I took the trouble to call you on
that antiquated house phone. See here, what happened to this
bracelet after my husband gave it to you?"
"What happened? I don't understand."
"No, it's a national failing. Was the thing put in the hotel
safe deposit at once?"
"Certainly, Mrs. Hesse. My secretary and the chief book-
ing clerk saw it done."
"So? Anyone else got a key to the safe?"
"Other than myself, no," said the bewildered manager.
"Right, that rules out substitution after it was put away.
If you're the only person with a key you wouldn't be fool
enough to pull a raw deal that would land you in the cooler.
No, sir. That leaves us with the fact that the bracelet that


32 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
Morcovian hick handed over was a dud. What do you know
about that Moosewer Sachs?"
"Madame, I assure you that the bracelet that His Excel-
lency the Baron gave Mr. Hesse this afternoon was genuine."
"Yeh? Well, I'll stake our camp in the Adirondacks that it
wasn't."
"But, Mrs. Hesse, what has happened?" It was an an-
guished appeal from the manager.
She held up the bracelet with one hand and took up the
telephone receiver with the other.
"Fake," she said laconically. "Hallo, get me the exchange."
The manager gasped. "Good heavens. A theft? In this ho-
tel? This is awful, Mrs. Hesse. May I hope that you are not
about to telephone the police?"
"You may, but if you bet on it you'll lose your stack.
Hello, exchange, get me Scotland Yard. What? No, I don't
know the number. Well, you should. It's what you're paid
for. What's that? Say that again. Is zat so? Well, you're an-
other."
She jammed the receiver back and snatched up the tele-
phone directory, despite the frantic appeals of the harassed
manager, who would have torn his hair if he could have dis-
covered any to tear.
"But, Mrs. Hesse, there must be some mistake . . . think
of the notoriety. This will seriously affect our reputation, and
I must implore you to consider our position or at least to con-
sult my principals before taking any definite action."
"Oh go chase yourself. Did Mr. Hesse say where he was
going after he'd been to the bank?"
"He did not."
The manager's tone was curt.
"No, I guess he didn't. That's the one and only reason why
he's still there. Gosh, when that boy returns he's all set for
an earful. Say, what do they call headquarters in this book?"


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 33
"Try Metropolitan police, madame," suggested M. Sachs
helpfully.
"Try? I'd lynch 'em if I had my way." Mrs. Hesse glared
at the directory and feverishly turned its pages. "Sufferin'
Mike, where are these police?"
"Here," said a gloomy voice, and the three startled occu-
pants of the room turned to see Inspector Keating standing
in the doorway.
"You from headquarters?" barked Mrs. Hesse, recovering
her poise instantaneously.
"I'm from the Yard, and you don't have to tell me what's
happened," Keating retorted morosely. "I know."
He walked across the room and, picking up the bracelet
which Mrs. Hesse had dropped on the table, studied it mood-
ily. It appeared to afford him no particular pleasure, neither
did the sight of Mrs. Hesse. He returned her glare with un-
mistakable hostility and she sank weakly on a couch, awed by
this superman who did not quail before her look.
For some seconds there was an awkward silence, and then
M. Sachs noticed that Mrs. Hesse's shoulders were shaking
spasmodically. All the chivalry of an ancient house welled up
within him.
"Do not cry, madame," he pleaded, and moved forward
with the intention of patting her shoulder. Long before he
reached her she sprang to her feet.
"I'm not crying, you poor brow. Do I look as if I leak?
That sofa's alive."
She pointed a quivering finger at the sofa she had just va-
cated, and in prompt verification of her words it heaved sud-
denly.
Keating reached it in one bound and lifted the seat. Which
was what Mr. Hesse had been trying to achieve with his head
for half an hour, without success, until his wife's weight de-
pressed the catch.
He lay in the bottom of the sofa, bound hand and foot,


34 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
and gagged, but what his lips could not utter his eyes sug-
gested. It was therefore a little unfortunate that his wife's
first remark was an intimidating one.
"Benton, what is the meaning of this?"
Two savage eyes glared up at her and vague unintelligible
rumblings proceeded from behind the silken scarf that was
tied between Mr. Hesse's jaws.
Inspector Keating came out of his trance and, reaching
down, lifted the burly American bodily out of his prison and
stood him on his feet. Then he removed the gag and Mr.
Hesse moved his jaws gingerly. He remained silent while Keat-
ing cut the ropes that bound his hands and feet, and the In-
spector was the only one who suspected that a storm was
brewing.
Mrs. Hesse was not so observant. "Benton," she said cold-
ly, "explain!"
There was a world of significance in her tone and the re-
mark was accompanied with the look that made New York
police captains and Senators writhe in agony. Invariably it
had the same effect on the millionaire. Invariably.
Mr. Hesse looked at his wife thoughtfully.
"That'll be about all from you, Dulcie," he observed. "Sit
down and muzzle yourself."
Mrs. Hesse stared and swallowed deeply. She opened her
mouth to speak, took one look at her husband and changed
her mind. Something told her that this was not the time to
exert her dominance. She was right. It was not.
Hesse whirled suddenly on the manager.
"You," he snarled, "where's that damn waiter who used to
fetch up our meals? Tall, dark, lean feller."
"Waiter ... I fail to see . . ."
"You don't have to. All you do is answer questions like a
slot machine gives sticks of gum. So many for a penny."
The manager frowned. He disliked the simile.
"If you mean the man who attended you here . . ."


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 35
"I do. I've already said that."
"Curiously enough I had a complaint from the head waiter
a few moments ago that this man was not present when the
tea started, but I fail to see what connection . . ."
"YeSj you're better at failing than seeing," interrupted
Hesse. "At a quarter to three that fellow came up with a
telegram for me."
He pointed to the telegram still lying on his desk, and re-
sumed.
"I took the telegram, started to read it, then . . . flop,
the ceiling fell in. When I came to I was trussed like you
found me and that bird was seated opposite me making him-
self up. When he'd finished I wasn't sure whether I was tied
up on the floor or sitting opposite myself."
Observing that Keating was about to speak, he held up a
large hand.
"Hold everything, I'm not through yet. That guy dumped
me in that damn sofa and took my place. I heard everything.
Easy as getting bumped off. And you, you mutt, couldn't
spot the difference."
He glared at M. Sachs. "He went down to the office with
you to deposit the bracelet, didn't he? Sure he did, and
swopped it for a fake on the way. I'll say he's cool."
"But, Benton," Mrs. Hesse began nervously and stopped.
"Another word outer you, Dulcie, and I'll start right in to
write your epitaph," said her lord and master. He glared at
Keating. "You say you're from headquarters. Right, what do
we do? Make it slippy. Someone's going to kiss the canvas for
this."
The answer all but gave the hearers a stroke.
"The first thing we do," said Keating, dropping the tele-
gram that he had just read, "is call your bank on the phone."
"My God, Berkeley's," gasped Hesse. "Grosvenor 9000."
The next ten minutes were the worst that Mr. Hesse had
ever endured. He could only hear half the conversation, but


36 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
what he did not hear he surmised. And Keating's brief ques-
tions and replies provided plenty of scope for surmise.
"Inspector Keating of the Central Branch here. Can you
tell me if you cashed a cheque for forty thousand pounds this
afternoon? Drawn in favor of the Baron d'Essinger, on the
account of J. Benton Hesse. Yes, that's right. What? Say that
again. Four packets of five hundred, in twenties. Give me the
serial numbers, will you? Yes, I'll wait."
He disregarded Mr. Hesse's frantic signals and took out a
pencil and a* note case.
"Hello, yes, G above O 3,800 to G above O 5,799. Thanks.
The Baron presented the cheque, I suppose. Who? Mr. Hesse?
Was he? No, nothing's the matter your end. Goodbye."
He replaced the receiver and turned to Mr. Hesse.
"Cashed five minutes before the bank closed," he said. "Mr.
Hesse accompanied the Baron and the bank paid out in twen-
ties. The Baron left with Mr. Hesse in his car. I reckon we
won't have to look far for the Baron, or the car."
Mr. Hesse showed signs of apoplexy.
"That snake went to the bank, eh?" he ground out.
"He did, and you can thank your stars he's no forger, or
he'd have drawn a cheque on self that would have put you
beyond the reach of income tax inspectors!"
"Very funny," said Mr. Hesse, and sat up like a jack-in-
the-box. "Well, get this, you. If anyone thinks this gorilla
can prize forty thousand bucks outer J. B. H. and get away
with it they've got another think coming. The first hand's
his, but if that feller don't hit the mat hard before I'm
through—well, pardon me while I choke with mirth."
For the first time in her life Mrs. Hesse began to cry. It
was a revolting sight. Inspector Keating, endeavoring to
make out his report, eyed the lady with disfavor and mo-
tioned Mr. Hesse to try and soothe her.
The millionaire declined. The only solace he had received
until then was his wife's fall from power. He liked it and


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 37
proposed to enjoy it to the full. He was still watching her
with grim pleasure when the telephone rang again. Keating
picked it up wearily.
"Hello. Yes, speaking. Who's that?"
A musical laugh answered him, and the Inspector set his
teeth. Unless he was mistaken he knew the owner of that
laugh. He was not mistaken.
"I thought you'd be there as soon as Arthur Somerville
told his story," said the Colonel's voice. "You can tell him
that his pants and shoes are in a cupboard on the landing of
the house in which Inspector Storm found him."
"You've slipped, George," said Keating evenly. "This is the
first time you've come out into the open, and we've got you."
"Think so? Well, go on if it eases the pain. I've made my
pile and I'm through. This is where I retire and settle down to
breed pigs, probably in your home county, Surrey."
"I give you a week, George, and then someone else will
give you twenty years," Keating retorted.
"Not on your sweet life. By the way, your excitable little
friend, the Baron, is confined to his car in Freyers dockyard,
off the East India Dock Road. Know it? Good. When I say
confined . . . well, he's in the dickey. It holds him nicely
but is probably not too comfortable. You might look in and
see how he's getting on. For the present, goodbye. My re-
gards to Mr. Hesse, whom I expect you have found by now.
In case you haven't, he was languishing in an ottoman the
last time I saw him."
The line went dead and Inspector Keating hung up the re-
ceiver.
"That was the Colonel," he said briefly. "He sends you his
regards, Mr. Hesse."


CHAPTER FOUR
Until the People Who Matter took an adverse view of it,
Inspector Keating received a reasonable amount of sympathy
from his immediate superiors, the council known to its sub-
ordinates as the "Round Table," and labelled by the Press the
Big Four. In their opinion it was not Keating's fault that the
Colonel had got away with his raid. These things happen, and,
as Inspector Storm pointed out, "every Napoleon has his
Wellington."
Then the most aged member of the cabinet pointed out
that although the existing Government could not recognize a
project that had as its object the raising of money for arms
by the Prince of Morcovia with a view to declaring war on
the Archduke Boris of Saxe-Munen—" a state to which we
are bound by treaty, gentlemen"—it was nevertheless a fact
that a foreign emissary had been insulted and treated with
contumely and England owed it to her reputation for impar-
tial justice to seek out the wrongdoer and visit his sins on his
head. Further, the Baron d'Essinger was entitled to an offi-
cial apology. The aged member recommended that the Home
Secretary give the matter his attention and also inquired
closely into the advisability of placing the mantle of com-
mand on more worthy shoulders than those invested with it
at the time of the outrage.
To which suggestion the Home Secretary listened in re-
spectful silence although he was guilty in his thoughts of
grave disrespect to the aged speaker. He would adopt the gen-
tleman's advice. He did, and the suddenly summoned Round
Table listened to a tirade that was as unwelcome as it was un-
expected. It was practically a verbatim facsimile of the aged
38


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 41
"Me? Who is it? Not that blighter with the civilian auxil-
iary police scheme?"
"No sir," the man smiled. It was well known that the
civilian police force was a sore point with Keating. "Chorley,
'the Nose', sir."
"Oh, send him in."
When Chorley arrived he conveyed less the impression of
having been sent in than having had Keating brought to him.
His careless distribution of cigarette ash on the floor was a
masterpiece of cool detachment.
He tipped his hat over one eye by way of acknowledging
Kaye's presence, although he was unaware of the Superin-
tendent's identity, and vouchsafed Keating a casual "ullo,
Flea-powder."
That was a tactical error. Keating was in no mood to ap-
preciate the use of the flippant nickname by which he was
known in "wanted" circles.
"There's only one thing that stops you joining the angels
at the moment," he snarled, "and that's your past. Spit your
trouble out and follow it."
Chorley inhaled indifferently.
"What's a picture of the Colonel worth, Keating?" he
asked.
"As much as your chance of avoiding my boot if you don't
come to the point."
"That is the point. The Yard ain't got no photo of the
Colonel"
"How do you know?"
"By reading someone else's paper," said Chorley blandly.
"If you'd got his dial on paper it'd be in all the dailies. He's
one of the few who ain't in the Rogues' Gallery. All the rest
are there—you and—orl right, keep yer hair on, what there
is of it. Can't a bloke have a joke? I got a photo of the Col-
onel with the face Nature gave him, because it was no good to
her. He can't change the shape of his ears or his head, so your


42 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
clever-clever blokes say. Here's something for 'em to work
on."
He took a large square photograph from a side pocket and
proffered it to Keating, and the Inspector studied it with
mixed feelings.
It was a portrait of George Teyst as Keating had seen him
a few days previously, and it seemed to smile up at the In-
spector triumphantly. It was mounted on an expensive art
board and there was no photographer's name on the back,
but Keating forbore to ask how it came into Chorley's pos-
session. Instead he pulled out a wallet and extracting a pound
note tossed it to the "nark."
"Take that and get out, before you get something else and
have to be taken out," he said, and Chorley pocketed the
note.
"A quid," he said faintly. "A whole quid. And they say a
flattie ain't generous. And they ain't far out. That picture's
worth five bars to you and that's what it'll go down as in the
office expenses, you measly—orl right, orl right, I'll think it."
He withdrew muttering profanely, and Keating turned to
the telephone at his elbow.
Five minutes later the Photographic Department on the
floor above them was working deftly and swiftly to turn out
copies for the five leading evening papers before the next edi-
tion "went to bed."
And to their tireless efforts the Colonel owed it that he en-
countered his likeness on every street corner the following
morning. Not that it was a likeness of himself at that mo-
ment. The thin, rather tired looking man who was so amused
by the poster might have been a city clerk, but whatever he
was he bore not the faintest resemblance to Colonel George
Teyst.
The man studied the "Mail's" picture for some moments
and then walking to the nearest telephone booth gave a num-
ber and was subsequently connected with Inspector Keating.


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 43
"Hello, is thatj Keating?"
A disgruntled voice assured him that it was.
"Well, look here. About this photo the 'Mail's' got. Lord
only knows where you dug it up. It's an old one and was re-
touched to death. It's not a good likeness by any means. Can't
I send you a better one? What's that? Yes, of course it's me.
Shush. Remember the little girlie who gives you the wrong
numbers. But to get back to this ghastly photo. The 'Mail's'
is better than the 'Express' but my dear man, the 'Mail' hasn't
got anything to write home about."
Inspector Keating again imperilled the maidenly innocence
of the lady operator, and commenced to write swiftly on a
pad before him.
"One other thing," the Colonel continued. "You've got too
many men looking for your humble subscriber. The traffic's
getting gummed up in Trafalgar Square. You'll have the rate-
payers complaining. I've just been talking to one of your
men—where? Charing Cross. That'll save you the trouble of
asking someone else to get the exchange on another line to
trace the call office."
Inspector Keating grunted.
"Anyway see that the 'Mail' scrap the block they're using.
My relations will be horrified." The Colonel grinned at Keat-
ing's sarcastic reply. "Not at all. Anything I can do—let me
know."
At the other end of the line Inspector Keating hung up
the receiver wearily and reflected that within a week he
would be using hair dye. He was faced with an ingenuity
which, as he knew from experience, increased with the need
for it. And yet with the Colonel still in England the case
could not be so hopeless—and that the Colonel would remain
in England, if only to make good his boast of breeding pigs
in Keating's home county—the Inspector had no doubt.
The principal reasons, Keating surmised, were that the
Colonel still retained some affection for his brothers and was


44 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
bent on their reunion. It was through that union that Keat-
ing hoped to take the Colonel so his objections to it were not
great.
But the Colonel had no intention of betraying his where-
abouts by visiting any of his brothers, all of whom were under
police observation. Neither had he any intention of meeting
Keating. The fact that he did so was not due to his own care-
lessness or Keating's brilliance. It was a matter of pure luck,
or rather, ill-luck.
It took place at the Bank, and a second more would have
altered the course of both their lives considerably. As it was,
over the heads of a stream of people, their eyes met. Had
they met face to face Keating would not have recognized his
man, but a bowler hatted head partially obscured Keating's
view and he saw only the Colonel's eyes. Eyes that he had
good cause to remember.
He took a flying leap at the Colonel and collided with a
messenger boy. In that second the Colonel stepped back and
turned swiftly to the one place where a running man occa-
sioned no comment, the subway leading to the Underground.
And those people who heard the syren of Keating's whistle
paid scant attention to a hurrying man, but pressed eagerly
forward to ascertain the cause of the disturbance and, inci-
dentally to block Keating's descent.
After that the pursuit was hopeless. Where the Colonel
went to Keating did not even try to guess. One thing was
certain, in a very short time George Teyst would be again
trying his hand at the art of altering his appearance.
And Keating's guess was correct. At an obscure hotel off
Cannon Street the Colonel's appearance was undergoing
changes, and even though the man who left room number
twenty-three did not resemble the man who entered it, the
proprietor of the hotel was in no way distressed or curious.
He had encountered that kind of mystery before. Men who
changed their appearance in that manner seldom returned to


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 45
the hotel. Sometimes their discarded suits were described in
rewards and sometimes they were not. In the latter case the
proprietor wore them himself. He was not aware that the
rather well worn gray suit had recently clothed the notorious
Colonel. He simply had it dyed and kept it for every day
wear. He had not bought a new suit of morning clothes for
years.


CHAPTER FIVE
There is a narrow alley, joining Goswell Road to the Bar-
bican, called Angels Crescent, and the subtle jester who was
responsible for the name probably knew quite well that no
Angel had ever visited the precincts of the Crescent, or ever
would unless he was prepared to be "held up" for his halo.
For three parts of its unlighted way, the Crescent is
bounded on either side by towering warehouses and at its wid-
est part, the halfway bend, not more than four yards sepa-
rates the front window of Lou Staam's "junk" shop from the
opposite wall.
Curiously enough Lou found it a peculiarly profitable site
for his shop—more profitable than the police or other unduly
curious people suspected. Lou sold most things, including his
friends, if it was safe to do so, and the small airless room,
slightly below the street level, was packed with a curious mix-
ture of ill-assorted commodities that would probably not be
found in proximity to each other in any other shop in Lon-
don. Or elsewhere, for that matter.
Yet it was in a still smaller room, beyond the shop, that
Lou's most profitable transactions took place. A dingy place,
that room, warmed by a small oil stove and harboring all the
smells of the Barbican and Aldersgate. The one window had
never been opened in the memory of those who frequented
the shop, and the same torn rug had adorned the floor since
its present owner had accepted it as a pledge thirty years
previously. Its furniture, a desk that was clamped to the floor,
a swivel chair for Lou and a cane death trap for customers,
had come into their owner's possession as a result of a business
arrangement between Lou and an auctioneer's carman. The
46


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 47
arrangement was directly responsible for a mystery that still
clouds the mind of a certain furniture dealer concerning the
ultimate fate of part of "Lot 33."
There were two doors to the room, one leading to the shop
and a few feet from it another, leading to Lou's bedroom.
There was another exit, but only a few people knew of the
existence of the lift within the huge oak wardrobe that stood
in the far corner of the room. Lou said the wardrobe was a
legacy. So it was, only it had been bequeathed to someone
else, but the lift it masked was undoubtedly Lou's property.
He had constructed it himself and although it was only a
crude platform operated by the pulling of a rope and lacking
some of the comforts of those palatial cages that adorn Clar-
idges, it was useful and Lou was proud of it.
It led to a cellar which was noted in the plans retained by
a certain architect, and that cellar in turn led to one below,
which, according to the same plans, had had its exits and en-
trances blocked up and, technically, did not exist. But archi-
tects are not always well informed, and anyway it suited
Lou's convenience to keep the secret of the lowest cellar.
Chorley "the Nose" knew of the existence of both cellars,
as he knew of most things, and it was to the upper one that
he turned his steps immediately after he had seen the leader
article of the mid-day "Standard."
Apparently the article was of absorbing interest. At all
events Chorley failed to return Lou's salutation as he passed
the old Jew on his way to the wardrobe.
Opening one of the doors he stepped on the platform and
closing the door behind him, jerked at a rope running up
from a hole in the flooring beneath him and terminating some-
where above his head. The platform began to descend and
Chorley allowed the rope to slide through his fingers until a
pair of doors came into view, then he tightened his grip and
the lift came to a standstill. He pushed open the right hand
door and slouched into the room beneath Lou's shop.


50 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
"The Colonel's a guy wot takes a 'elluver lot o' rekernising.
Wot 'e don't know abaht rearrangin' 'is dial aint' been found
out yet."
The others nodded agreement. Chorley knew it to his cost.
Few people could teach the Colonel anything about the pos-
sibilities of make-up. He was a past master.
And few people would have recognized Colonel George
Teyst in the shabby loafer who at that moment slouched into
the room above the one in which they sat.
Even old Lou, when he ambled out from his back room
had no idea of his visitor's identity, and Lou's eyes were pre-
ternaturally keen. Besides which he had had previous dealings
with the Colonel.
Standing in the semi-darkness of the shop he blinked un-
certainly at the newcomer and the Colonel returned his stare
interestedly.
For as long as he could remember the little German Jew
had worn that faded green suit with its double breasted waist-
coat and shining metal buttons, and it seemed probable that
the rusty black cravat encircling Lou's neck had not been
removed since the Colonel last saw it. Or the black tasselled
smoking cap. Nobody had seen Lou without that cap. He
slept in it.
"You vant sometings, hein?"
"Yes, I want something, Lou," returned the Colonel.
"Come into the back room."
Lou nodded wisely. "Like dot is eet? Vat you got?"
The Colonel walked past him into the next room and sat
down on the cane chair opposite Lou's desk. Lou after a puz-
zled glance ambled slowly after him and sat down behind the
desk.
"You got sometings for me, hein? Dat is good. An' you
know about de back room? Dat is nod so good. I don' know
you."
The Colonel took an old tobacco pouch and a packet of


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 51
cigarette papers from his pocket. Rolling himself a cigarette
he lighted it before he spoke.
"Been a big stick-up at the Plaza, I hear."
Lou's eyes narrowed. "You know something about heem,
hein?"
"Possibly." The Colonel laid his pouch on the desk.
"Take a look at that."
Lou picked it up curiously and turned it over. Less sensi-
tive fingers than his would have detected the fact that there
was something more than tobacco in the pouch, but no fingers
could have extracted that something quicker.
"So?" he muttered. "It vos you, mein freund?"
He turned the pendant, slowly allowing the light from the
window behind him to play on the gleaming stones. After a
few moments he took a small magnifying glass from his
pocket and peered closely at the emeralds.
"Wonnershon!" he breathed at last. "Dese stones ees der
goods, hein? Flawless. You know vat dat mean? Dey fetch
der beeg price."
The Colonel nodded and lounging back in his chair stared
at the ceiling.
"Sachs gave his verdict as forty thousand pounds," he said.
"How much, Lou?"
The Jew dropped his hands on his knees and stared down
at the four emeralds.
"Fordy tousand? Dot ees a mint of money. Eet ees too
mooch. Mebbe I raise fifteen tousand, mebbe twenty, but
fordy, nein. I haf to find der buyer—I don' know eef I can
—bot I haf to make der profit myself."
The Colonel was familiar with Lou's methods of doing
business. He contented himself with staring round the room
and the old Jew fell to scribbling aimlessly on a sheet of
paper before him. The Colonel repressed a smile. It had oc-
curred to him that Lou was trying to estimate just how much
it was safe to pay.


52 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
Which was a mistake. The room in which they now sat had
not altered much in the past thirty years, but it had been
subjected to at least one alteration of which the Colonel was
ignorant.
Beside Lou's knee stood an old wooden waste paper box,
a funnel shaped affair that the Colonel knew had not changed
its position for many years. But what he did not know was
that it no longer possessed a bottom, or that a piece of lead
piping led from its base to the room below, its unsealed end
protruding over the table at which Larry and Chorley were
still sitting.
The idea had been Larry's and it had more than justified
its adoption in the past two years.
At that moment Lou's thoughts were concentrated on the
waste paper box and also on the need of caution in writing
on the sheet before him.
"Dey ees peautiful stones," he said at length and slowly
screwed up the paper on which he had been writing. "For
how mooch you sell?"
"Twenty-five thousand," said the Colonel coolly, and a
look of horror spread over the old man's face.
"Twenty fife tousand? Vere you tink I get dat mooch
moneys? You tink I break a bank perhaps, hein? Be der
reasonable man. Novere can I find der buyer at dat price.
Dese stones ees marked—every vere der polis vatch for dem.
Dere is nod der market at dat price, no-one take der risk and
eef dey did vere do I make der profit?"
The Colonel shrugged. "I came to you because you're safe,
Lou. There are others."
Lou forced a smile and spoke placatingly.
"You vos hard to a poor old man dat has to make der liv-
ing," he whined. "Me, I try to find der buyer. I cannot pud
up der money myself. Mebbe I raise eet, bot twendy fife
tousand, dat ees profideering, mein freund, profideering."
He subjected the stones to another scrutiny.


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 53
"You come back vid dem tomorrer, hein?" he asked, push-
ing the emeralds across to the other. "I don' promise dat I
do business, mebbe, I see. Dese stones ven dey are recut lose
der value—perhaps no one take der risk of dem, den mebbe
I buy myselfs. Eet ees mooch money. Vere I find heem, I do
nod know."
He tossed the screwed up paper into the waste paper box
and peered at his companion as the other rose to leave.
"Many times haf I seen you, George, mit der different
face, dis time you excel yourselfs, hein? I remember vonce
»
He trailed off into a reminiscence and the Colonel listened
goodnaturedly, unaware of the other's object. Which was to
gain time for certain gentlemen in the room below.
It was Chorley who picked up the ball of paper as it fell
from the lead piping above his head, but before he could un-
roll the paper Larry's hand fell on his arm.
"Thanks, I'll have that, Chorley."
Larry took the paper, smoothed it out and read. Then he
tossed it to Chorley.
"Turning prophet, Chorley, in your old age?" he asked.
Chorley read the message, scribbled amongst a maze of lines
and squares, slowly.
"I got the Colonel here with the emeralds. One of you bet-
ter trail him, but no fighting in the shop."
Chorley grinned back at Larry and passed the message on
to Mr. Tompson.
"No. There won't be no fighting—in the shop," he said
significantly. "Wal, he don't know your ugly mug—which is
an advantage for him and us. Jump to it."
Mr. Tompson overlooking the libel rose to his feet.


CHAPTER SIX
Exactly a quarter of an hour after he left Lou Staam's shop,
the Colonel had a severe shock. It would have been even more
severe if he had not been on the point of descending the
stairs.
From the head of the tenement stairs it was possible to look
down over the bannisters to the ground floor, and the Colonel
did so more from force of habit than a desire to see if any
undesirable visitors were ascending. It made just that much
difference in the ultimate result, for there was no doubt that
visitors were ascending or that they were undesirable.
Both Chorley and Larry were moving with peculiar silence,
and keeping close to the wall in a manner that gave the Col-
onel food for thought. Not that he wasted much time in
thinking. He was not concerned with the means by which
either had traced him, but with their reason for so doing.
The Colonel had made quick-thinking a habit. It took him
two seconds to realize their object. Knowing it, his impulse
was to stay there and await them, but he overruled it. Chor-
ley or Larry separately was one thing, Chorley and Larry
was another.
And so the Colonel retired slowly from the landing to his
dingy little room, closing and locking the door behind him,
and left by the fire escape. Privately he resolved, that in the
near future he might have much for the ears of both Chorley
and Larry, but nothing that would please them.
It was not until he was a foot from the ground that he be-
came aware of Mr. Tompson lounging in the shadow of a
doorway opposite. Then several things happened suddenly.
54


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 55
The Colonel flung himself against the wall and they fired
together. The double crash shook the echoes of the cul-de-sac,
and two wisps of smoke drifted up into the air of that sunless
place.
An expression of reproachful surprise crossed Mr. Tomp-
son's features as he slowly toppled against the doorway and
sagged to the ground. As Wal's gun slipped from his hand,
the Colonel, clutching at his side, stumbled down the last two
steps of the fire escape and lurched towards the end of the
alley.
Two minutes later a dumbfounded greengrocer left a shop
to find a curious crowd gaping after his swiftly departing
lorry.
He made one or two trenchant remarks about motor ban-
dits, and then hurried to meet the approaching constable who
had appeared suddenly, in that mysterious manner peculiar
to his kind when something happens to disturb the peace of
the community.
The grocer had commenced his statement and given the
number of his lorry when he noticed that the constable was
staring intently at a boot protruding from a doorway half-
way down the alley behind them. In two strides the constable
reached Mr. Tompson, and simultaneously Chorley "the
Nose," and Larry, retired from an altogether too conspicuous
position at the head of the fire escape.
The constable was an earnest young man who was not
given to asking needless questions. He dropped on one knee
beside Wal and bent his head in order to try and catch what
he was saying.
"Did they get him?" whispered Mr. Tompson.
The constable shook his head.
"No, but he seems to have got you. Where did it hit you,
Wal?"
Mr. Tompson looked up and recognized an old friend.


56 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
"Lung," he said faintly. "I guess this 'ere's my finish—get
'im, flattie."
The "flattie" nodded. "Who was he?"
Mr. Tompson's eyes closed and his breathing became diffi-
cult. He had spoken no more than the truth in saying that
it was his finish. The Colonel's bullet had destroyed both
Wal's lung and its owner. It was that recollection that spurred
Wal to a reprisal.
"I got mine, flattie," he said slowly. "See 'e gets 'is—you
alius was a pal—did yer rounds regular so's we noo when yer
was due—the bloke who gimme this packet, blarst 'im—was
the bloke who pulled the d'Essinger raid—the Colonel."
The constable made a rapid note and then turned to the
crowd that had gradually filtered into the alley.
"Doctor here?" he asked. "No? Well you—yes, you with
the choker, make a pillow for this man's head and don't move
him till I get back. Easy does it—one lung's out of action, and
he's got haemorrhage. I'll be back in a minute."
He forced his way through them, and within a few seconds
was in a call box arranging matters connected with an am-
bulance, the divisional surgeon, and a report. The last item
contained the number of the lorry in which the Colonel had
made his escape, and it would have been a valuable piece of
information, but for the fact that at the moment it reached
headquarters the Colonel was engaged in defacing the number
plate of the lorry with mud in a secluded street.
Satisfied that he need not fear betrayal from that source
the Colonel clambered back into the driving seat and slipped
in the clutch.
The effort had called forth more energy than he expected,
and he realized suddenly that the wound in his side was bleed-
ing profusely. With one hand on the wheel he pulled out a
handkerchief, and, folding it into a pad, stuffed it between
his shirt and his skin. Then with his right arm pressed close
to his side he devoted his attention to the driving of the lorry.


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 57
He had a journey before him that proved a tax on his wan-
ing strength, and he arrived in Reigate with the knowledge
that if he reached his own home before he collapsed it would
be a miracle.
Yet even miracles happen. He abandoned the lorry just at
the beginning of the tunnelled entrance to the town, and
then, walking a little unsteadily, made his way in the direc-
tion of the Post Office. Fortunately at that early hour of the
afternoon the tunnel was deserted and there were no wit-
nesses to the abandoning of the lorry. But in the town itself
he had to observe greater care.
Probably none of the people in the square, busied with their
own immediate affairs, suspected what it cost one of their
number to walk firmly and normally. Even the girl who sup-
plied the Colonel with the stamps he asked for failed to notice
anything about him except his pallor, and that she forgot
almost at once.
For all that, it was sheer will that kept the Colonel on his
feet and forced him to stand in one of the little cubicles and
write three letters. They were only short letters, and he fin-
ished them without allowing any weakness to creep into his
writing. Nevertheless, he had to pause before he completed
what he had come to do.
After a few minutes' rest he took a sheet of blue paper
from his pocket, and taking up the pen again thought for a
few moments before he began to write again.
The letters showed signs of the shaking hand that had
written them, but they were readable, and for some moments
the Colonel stood there looking at them. They represented his
last attempt to bridge a wide gulf. And it was the finest at-
tempt since it was to be made possible only by his own death.
Slowly he folded the paper twice and then tore it along
the folded edges, making three slips, which he placed in sepa-
rate envelopes, and then, sealing them, dropped them into the
letter-box.


58 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
Standing close to the counter he suddenly felt that he was
swaying a trifle, and the realization did something to clear
his clouded brain. With an effort he stood upright and walked
firmly to a telephone box. None the less, when he pulled the
door to behind him, he found the lifting of the telephone
receiver almost beyond him.
He made three calls to different parts of London before he
replaced the receiver. All of them were brief, and all of them
ended with the same phrase, "And for God's sake, come
quickly." The varying ways in which they were received
caused him a faint smile, but he refrained from comment and,
his preparations finished, walked slowly out of the Post
Office.
He suddenly realized that he was looking on the Surrey
countryside for perhaps the last time, but curiously the
knowledge brought him only a feeling of peace. The world
that he was leaving was one that had done little for him, and
although he had taken his toll of it the payment had left a
bitter taste.
Out on the London road, he set his face towards Brighton
and began the last stage of his journey.
At the same moment Sergeant Woods, of the Surrey Con-
stabulary, had a puncture that delayed him and resulted in
promotion.
It was the Sergeant's custom to cycle backwards and for-
wards between his home and the station, and he had just
reached the green-walled tunnel that leads to the Market
Square of Reigate when he heard the unpleasant hiss that
heralds a deflating tire.
Sergeant Woods descended and addressed a few words to a
fortunately non-existent audience in which he whole-heart-
edly damned flinty roads, Highway Committees, tires and
bicycle makers. It was at that point that he remembered he
had lent his tool bag to his son. Therefore he damned his son,
and turned round to seek assistance elsewhere.


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 59
He found it, or thought he had, in the shape of a lorry
drawn up on the other side of the road and, leaning his bi-
cycle against the wall, walked across to try and borrow some
solution and patches.
He was already framing a further indictment against the
Highways Committee when he realized that the lorry had no
occupant. Sergeant Woods said, "Damn!" and meant it. He
began to ponder a point of etiquette, namely, whether it was
playing the game to apprehend a man for leaving a lorry in
a place where parking is not permitted, from whom one had
been about to seek assistance.
He came to the conclusion that it was not, and was on the
point of retiring when he noticed some dark stains on the
driving wheel of the car. As he remarked, tritely, on a later
occasion, "There are stains and stains" and these were un-
doubtedly stains. To be exact, blood stains.
He looked at the lorry thoughtfully, and having made
quite sure that what he saw on the driving wheel were stains
and not merely stains, took out his notebook and walked
round to look at the identification plate.
Staring down at the mud-covered plate he frowned, half
afraid to congratulate himself on his find. He had been pres-
ent when the Inspector in charge had received the warning
to all stations concerning the missing van, and, after all, this
was a three-ton Ford van, and there was blood on the driving
wheel.
Turning the pages of his notebook he came to the details
he had jotted down earlier in the day concerning Ford Van
No. L09721, and stooping down scraped the mud off the
number plate to reveal—L09721.
Sergeant Woods looked round him warily. This was a mo-
ment for action certainly, but cautious action. His was so
cautious that it almost ceased to be action, but his reward
was in heaven only. After ten minutes' search he abandoned
his day dream of arresting the Colonel single-handed, and


60 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
dumping his bicycle in the rear of the van, took the wheel
and set out for the station.
As he explained to the Inspector, it was "just a matter of
using the eyes God gave you, nothing more." His superior
officer agreed, but suggested that Sergeant Woods used the
mouth God gave him too frequently. A remark which shat-
tered the other's faith in man's humanity to man.
Listening to the Inspector's telephone call to the Central
Branch, he reflected bitterly that the "Yard" got "all the
plums," and that this particular case should, by rights, be
dealth with by the County Constabulary. It would at least
give a "good man" a chance.
He made the same remark an hour later to Inspector Keat-
ing when that person arrived in a car with Superintendent
Kaye and two of the Squad. Keating ignored the remark and,
having seen two more of the Squad's cars pull up beside the
first, took Kaye for a walk round the market square.
And so it was that the dusk of that day found Keating and
the Superintendent standing in the market square before the
door of the "White Hart" Hotel, reflecting on the cul-de-sac
into which they had been led.
Beyond the finding of the lorry they had had no success,
but success was something that both of them had long since
decided was a relative quantity.
On Keating their persistent reverses had an unusual effect.
So unusual that he was positively cheerful, and became im-
bued with a desire to sing. And did so.
"'On wings of song, beloved,' " he bawled, and his bowler
hat was promptly jammed over his ears.
"You can either be a tenor," said Superintendent Kaye
kindly, "a sweet melodious tenor, or else a rich resounding
baritone, but what you cannot be is a bronchial bassoon."
Keating regarded his superior gloomily.
"Would you like me to sing 'In a Perishing Market?'" he
asked aptly and, readjusting his hat, resumed his solo. As a


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 61
proof of his independence he raised his voice an octave and
overwhelmed whatever little opposition there might have
been at that time of the evening.
He had reached that part of the song in which "the Ganges
is flowing" when he paused abruptly and turned on Kaye
with an unfriendly stare.
"Reigate," he said, "is a nice place, a pretty place, a homely
place, but apart from that I've got no use for it. Are you
expecting the Colonel to dash up and beg you to put the
bracelets on him?"
Kaye eyed the other's sturdy figure amiably. He had a great
regard for Samuel Keating, a regard born of a long associa-
tion, and one that he knew was reciprocated. Keating's friend-
ship was one of the things on which Kaye set any value, and
his brain one of the things on which he set no reliance.
"Your brain isn't as large as your feet, neither is it so pow-
erful as your voice, but if you can't answer your own ques-
tions in five minutes, I'll do it for you. 'Life is the art of
drawing sufficient conclusions from insufficient premises.'
That was said by a more talented bearer of your name. You
ought to read Butler, Sam."
Keating began to clean his pipe. "If you're in one of your
My-dear-Watson moods, go right ahead. I love to see you
happy, but I still don't see why we're standing here—
thirsty."
And he was not enlightened until a small man appeared
suddenly at Kaye's elbow.
"Just had a wireless, sir," he reported. "Dennis Teyst left
the Hotel Gorringe at seven o'clock, traveling in a blue
Chrysler. Our people lost track of him at Croydon. Ralph
Teyst left his flat at five past seven and got to Victoria at
seven fifteen. He took a ticket to Reigate, and we've got a
man on the train. The other fellow, Ian, left his flat at ten
past, and is coming down by a later train. There's one of our
people on that, too."


62 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
Kaye nodded and turned to Inspector Keating.
"Anything stirring in the undergrowth?" he asked politely.
"Go on. 111 buy it."
"I seem to remember you telling me that the Colonel was
going to bridge the gulf with emeralds," murmured Kaye,
and Keating metaphorically kicked himself.
"My brain's decaying," he observed.
"The process started on the fifth of October forty-odd
years ago," Kaye grinned. The fifth was Keating's birthday.
"I hope that our people will trace at least one of the Teysts
to the Colonel, but it's doubtful. They know they are being
foxed, I fancy."
He glanced at his watch. It was then a quarter past eight,
and he strolled across the square to the nearest of the Squad's
cars, and stood watching the man who sat in the back seat
with a pair of earphones on his head. They were connected to
a small black box on the floor of the car, and periodically the
Squad's "Sparks" held up his hand warningly as he "listened
in."
At a quarter past nine Kaye received the message that he
had been expecting. The Squad had lost trace of Ralph and
Ian after they left Reigate Station.
"Any suggestions, Sam?" he asked.
Keating scratched his head. "House to house search," he
suggested. "How many of the Squad are down here?"
"Ten, sir," answered the operator, and removed his ear-
phones.
"Well, that's enough to comb this one-eyed show. Go to
it, boy."
The man saluted, and leaving the car hurried across to the
group of young men talking on the other side of the square.
As soon as the Squad moved away Keating seated himself
on the curb.
"You've got it all wrong, Kaye," he said dogmatically.
"George is no fool. This is a blind—maybe to cover a raid.


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 63
I'll lay you any odds you like that George is in Piccadilly or
Birmingham—anywhere but Reigate."
But he was wrong. At the moment that he made the state-
ment the Colonel was in a house less than a mile away, await-
ing his brothers, and the end.


CHAPTER SEVEN
Ralph Teyst's life was made up of likes and dislikes in the
proportion of about one to one hundred. The only person in
the world for whom he felt either affection or admiration
was Ralph Teyst, and of the hundred whom he could not
tolerate there were none who could wrest pride of place from
his three brothers. He envied George his brain, Ian his re-
serve, and Dennis his figure—particularly the last, since
Ralph's own figure bulged in those places where it should not
have bulged and presented a painful contrast to the slim and
athletic figure of his younger brother.
Ralph was brooding on those things as he turned into the
gateway of "Marske House." The name itself offended him,
because it was so typical of George. Why the devil anyone
should name his home "Marske House" passed the compre-
hension of Ralph. He could see no possible derivation for the
name, and to be quite candid, no sense in it. It was an offence
to the eye and the reason. So was George.
With which reflection Ralph bowed his head to the wind
and plunged on up the drive, and like all fat men, he made
hard going of it. So hard, in fact, that when he halted half-
way from the house to regain his wind he was in no condition
to receive the shock that was in store for him.
It took the form of a tap on the arm, and Ralph jumped
as if he had been shot and instinctively reached for his arm-
pit. Fortunately Ian spoke, or he would also have jumped—
with reason.
"Careful, Tubby," he said warningly, and stepped out from
the shadow of the trees lining the drive. "Sorry I startled vou.
I came across country and had to scale the wall."
64


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 65
Ralph, recovering from his shock, glared at his brother.
He, too, had been forced to deploy for some time. The Squad
had been unpleasantly persistent. He eyed his brother for a
full second, conscious of no abiding sense of well-being, and
then plunged on again into the wind.
Ian shrugged and fell into step beside him.
"Well, Ralph?"
Ralph's teeth clicked. It was Ian's customary greeting, and
it annoyed Ralph exceedingly. He was not well. He was a
martyr to indigestion, far too fat and appallingly short-
winded, and considering that Ian was perfectly aware of these
things, Ralph thought that the remark was entirely super-
fluous. He eyed his brother's upright figure unfavorably and
mooched on.
Which was all Ian had expected. It was their first meeting
for a year, but to have expected either cordiality or tolerance
from Ralph would have been not merely optimistic, but ab-
solutely imbecile.
Side by side they plodded on, and had almost reached the
steps leading to the portico when, as though by common con-
sent, they parted suddenly and stepped back into the shad-
ows on their respective sides of the drive.
Two minutes later a smoothly running Chrysler slid up the
drive and came to a standstill before the house.
A tall, slim and very immaculate person climbed from the
driving seat, and at once put the car between himself and
the two men who had stepped from the shadows.
"Well, Dennis?"
The habitual greeting made Ralph wince, but it came as a
relief to the owner of the car. His right hand came slowly
out of his raincoat pocket and he nodded.
"Hello, Ian, why the bashful retirement?"
Dennis Teyst, the "baby" of the family was probably the
most vicious of the four, but his undeniably effeminate face
concealed the fact. Both taller and slimmer than Ian, he had


66 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
not the other's graying hair nor yet his sturdy figure, but
there was a resemblance more marked perhaps when the slow
appraising quality of his eyes became apparent. Their eyes
were their sole link with the Colonel and the one feature that
repudiated their relationship with Ralph. For Ralph's eyes
were both small and furtive. More furtive than usual at that
moment.
"Is this deliberate or accidental?" he asked suddenly, and
Dennis, with a cultured accent that owed its origin to mim-
icry only, answered him.
"Would anyone deliberately choose to meet you on a windy
night in a cold drive? Come down to earth. I had a 'phone
call from George."
"And I," said Ian.
"Any idea what the old lad wants?"
"That's what we're here to find out. And we sha'n't find it
by standing in the drive like dummies." Ralph glared at his
younger brother's beautifully creased trousers. "Tailor's
dummies!"
Dennis smiled and took a key from his pocket. It was a
relic of the days when all three with George had been joint
tenants of the house that none of them had entered since they
last parted. Walking up the steps he fitted the key into the
lock of the door and turned it.
The others followed him slowly and halted just inside the
dark hall. The silence of his companions and the house in
which they stood did not affect Ian, and Ralph was too busy
with uncharitable thoughts of his brothers to notice anything
else, but the quietness and. absence of light had its effect on
Dennis.
"Maybe standing in a dark and draughty hall amuses you
blokes," he observed, "but it doesn't reduce me to tears of
ecstasy. What's the general plan of campaign? Sit pretty till
our George chooses to show up?"
"Exactly that, and he won't keep you long," said a voice


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 67
from behind them, and all three turned to see the Colonel
standing in the doorway of the room that had been his study.
He had long since discarded his disguise and stood there
pallid and haggard, clad in a loose dressing gown.
The effort of standing seemed to exhaust him, and he leant
back weakly against the door. It was Ian who moved forward
to his assistance.
"What's the trouble, George? Stopped a blighty one?"
"A scratch," nodded the Colonel. "Come in here, I want
to talk to you three."
He leant on Ian's arm, and with his aid walked to the chair
in which he had been sitting when they arrived. Ralph and
Dennis, following more leisurely, betrayed no particular in-
terest, but George had not expected interest. At least, not at
that part of the proceedings.
The room in which they stood was a long one with French
windows looking out on to the big garden. The general mus-
tiness of the place told of long disuse, and the dust sheets
covering the furniture showed up with startling whiteness in
the dusk. A couch had been requisitioned as a bed, and on an
adjacent table was the remains of a meal.
George motioned his brothers to come closer. He conveyed
the impression that he was saving his voice to speak only
those things that were of importance.
The awkward pause irked Ralph, and he spoke testily.
"What is it this time? I suppose you want help in some
form or other. You pull a fool raid like that Plaza stunt and
then whine to us to get you out. What is it? Money?"
"No thanks, I've all the money I want," answered the
Colonel, but it obviously cost him an effort to answer, and to
answer civilly.
"A night nurse?" suggested Dennis.
"I'm beyond the need of nurses or doctors," George replied
quietly, and the only regrets were Ian's.
"Dangerous?"


68 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
"Fatal."
"Good God, not"
"Exactly. It needn't worry you, Ian, and I don't suppose
it will worry Ralph."
It did not. And if Dennis was disturbed by what he had
heard he concealed it admirably.
"I gather there was some general idea hatching in the mas-
ter brain when you summoned the family, George? I mean,
just a suggestion. You didn't invite us because you liked our
company, or because you wanted to tell us that we weren't
mentioned in your will?"
The Colonel looked at Dennis wearily.
"No I didn't call you here to tell you that. I called you
here to bequeath you jointly the proceeds of my last—er—
little effort."
He saw the interest in two faces and smiled.
"And to outline a stipulation."
The interest unaccountably flagged. Ralph in that moment
had a premonition of what was to follow, and it tinged his
reflection unpleasantly. Apparently George had got the broth-
erly love bug again, and badly. Which made things all the
harder to bear, because at that moment Ralph's only emotion
with regard to his brothers was that of tolerance under diffi-
culties.
His "What is it?" and Dennis' face, told their own story.
With Ian it was different. Not even their quarrel had les-
sened his affection for his eldest brother.
"You all know I've pulled off a pretty useful coup," said
George.
"And paid a pretty useful price for it," said Ian.
"The price varies with the purchase. I have no regrets un-
less it is for what I see in all your eyes."
"Tears?" suggested Dennis flippantly.
"Enmity. It makes me wonder if what I am doing is worth
the effort."


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 69
Ralph sneered. "You're making me wonder if what you're
doing is worth all this cant."
The Colonel coughed suddenly and raised a handkerchief
to his lips. As he did so his dressing gown fell open revealing
a clumsy bandage across his chest.
Ian stared at the bloodstained wad of linen and frowned.
"Something'll have to be done to that, George. Where did
you get it?"
"Right lung. You can't do anything, I tell you, I'm
through. It's a matter of hours, and I've got a good deal to
say before"
He coughed into his handkerchief again and Dennis fin-
ished the sentence for him.
"Before you take your reserved pew amongst the elect?"
George looked across at his elegant brother, who lounged
by the window staring into the darkened garden.
"Wal Tompson is a damn good shot," he said slowly. "Or,
at least, he was. I fancy you knew Wal pretty well, Dennis.
And Larry Wade."
"I did."
"And you know how I got this little souvenir?"
"That also. Incidentally it's got round that Keating wants
you for the murder of Wal Tompson," Dennis said, lighting
a cigarette.
"He won't get me. I advise you to drop Larry, Dennis, be-
fore he drops you. He's bad medicine."
Dennis, perfectly unmoved, continued to look out on the
garden.
"That's rather a case of Motley calling the Jester a fool,"
he said. "I take it that you didn't send me an S.O.S. for the
purpose of discussing my friends?"
"No," answered the Colonel, "for the purpose of discus-
sing your brothers. Briefly, will you fellows agree to pull
together again in the future?"
"If that's only the stipulation, the bequest will have to be


70 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
tolerably beneficial to this child, old dear," smiled Dennis,
and he blew out a cloud of cigarette smoke.
His brother's attack of coughing left him unmoved, but
Ian's swift "Put that out" had more effect. He dropped the
cigarette and put his heel on it.
"This touching solicitude in an atmosphere of legacies is
very affecting," he sneered.
"What about this—this will," Ralph interrupted harshly.
"The will is not one that could be contested at law without
the claimants getting themselves shopped. In it I bequeath
the three of you the Morcovian emeralds, worth forty thou-
sand pounds, and a like amount in notes. If I'd known how
to handle a pen like your friend Larry, Dennis, I'd have
cleaned Hesse's account up in a manner that would have ex-
empted him from super tax. The division will naturally be a
third to each."
The statement was received in silence. The Colonel watched
Ralph's mental arithmetic with amusement.
"Let me save you the trouble. If the emeralds realize their
full value, with the notes, your share will be approximately
twenty-six thousand six hundred and sixty-six pounds."
Ralph had arrived at the same conclusion.
"And the denomination of the notes?" he asked.
"Twenties."
Ralph grunted. "Twenty-five thousand in 'twenties,' that
will place us on the suspect list every time we pass one."
"That's your concern. I doubt if the consideration will
weigh with you for long."
"Speaking for myself," grinned Dennis, "I can assure you
that it will not, but if you're taking a third each I fail to see
your reason for requiring our undying affection for each
other. Personally, I don't know why I should ever again en-
dure the pain of seeing Ralph's fat paunch or hearing Ian's
sanctimonious voice."


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 71
"You will," the Colonel assured him, "I think I could
manage a cigarette, Ian, if you'll light it."
His brother's half-spoken protest remained unfinished, and
in a few moments the Colonel was puffing at a cigarette
that had never been within touching distance of His Ma-
jesty's Customs Officers.
"Unless you fellows pool your wits," he said at length,
"you'll never get within a mile of the stones or notes."
"Interesting but cryptic," murmured Dennis. "I sup-
pose in your present enfeebled condition you couldn't be
more explicit?"
"Shut your foul mouth," blazed Ian, glaring into the in-
solent eyes of the younger man. "This is damned generous of
George, and you know it. He owes none of us anything, not
even a charitable thought. The boot's on the other foot."
"My good Ian," interrupted Ralph. "You are offensive
enough normally, but when you drag in sentiment you be-
come positively obnoxious."
Ian ignored him. "Why are you doing this, George?"
"I wonder. I suppose it's only natural that I should want
you three to profit. You're my only living relatives and
blood's thicker than water, although at the moment mine's
not much thicker."
Ian looked at the other's clumsily bandaged chest, and
noticed that the dull red stain was perceptibly brighter at
the center, which told him that the wound was still bleeding.
"Can't we do anything to ease that scratch, George?"
he asked.
"No, all you can do is to ease my mind, and to do that
you'll have to obey instructions. If you value your liberty
you'll get out of here within the hour. I needn't tell you
that all three of you will go up if Keating finds you within
a yard of my humble self."
"You mean we're to clear out and leave you for Keating
and the Squad?" Ian protested.


72 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
"Exactly that. Now listen. This morning I posted a separ-
ate letter to all of you, and each letter contained a slip of
blue paper. Any one of those slips taken separately is valueless.
Taken in conjunction they will tell you exactly where to lay
your hands on my—latest acquisition."
He puffed at his cigarette appreciatively, and watched
their varying expressions through the blue smoke that hung in
the air.
Ralph seemed the most perturbed.
"From what I can see this is less of a stipulation than an
ultimatum. In fact, you've made it impossible for us to do
other than work together."
He cast himself into a chair and gazed at his brothers
in turn with an expression which included many of the
greater emotions but none of the nobler.
"Is that so difficult?" asked the Colonel. "You've done it
before. You could do it again, and the police of three con-
tinents could never lag one of you."
Ian nodded uneasily.
"Look here, George—forget this generous whim. You're
assuming that you're going to die—you aren't. You're not
out of the game by a long chalk yet. Dennis has got his car
outside. We can get you away and patch you up, and per-
haps take up things where we dropped them—at any rate,
we can call an armistice for the time being and"
"My dear, Ian, if I've got more than an hour to live I shall
be disagreeably surprised. My friends Keating and Kaye will
be here soon enough to do more caring for me than I con-
sider necessary."
He smiled grimly. None better than he knew that the
respite was temporary.
"Well, I for one accept," said Ralph, rising suddenly. "Er
—were you serious about Keating and Kaye? Are they—I
mean, I had the deuce of a time shaking the Squad off
If they're likely to"


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 73
"They are. Right on my heels. Nothing gets past Kaye.
They'll be in at the death, so the sooner you get your fat lit-
tle hide out of here the safer it will be."
Ralph scowled, and rising walked to the door.
"I hope the wound mends," he said, but there was not the
slightest conviction in his voice.
Both Ian and Dennis watched him depart with contempt
in their eyes.
"The lovable Ralph prefers the results to the risks," sighed
Dennis.
"They're there," answered the Colonel, "and if you're
going to avoid them, get out. Goodbye, boys."
He held out his hand and Ian took it reluctantly.
"I'd rather stay, George"
"Stay be damned—do as you're told. I wouldn't have it
otherwise. This game loses its flavor you know, and when a
Teyst loses the taste—sorry, that's hackneyed, but perfectly
true. Good luck, old fellow."
They shook hands, and Ian walked out without looking
back, but Dennis paused at the door. He seemed rather em-
barrassed, which was for him a new sensation.
The Colonel looked up to find himself the subject of the
younger man's quizzical regard. For once there was almost a
friendly smile on the other's cynical face.
"You're making a mistake, George," said Dennis slowly.
"You think this will knit us together. Well, it won't. You've
forced something into existence that until to-day was passive.
Until now I never had any reason to envy Ralph anything,
unless it was his charming daughter, Barbara. He had no
reason to envy me and neither had Ian, although I fancy
Ian's besetting sin will never be envy."
He lighted a cigarette and watched the smoke drift ceiling-
wards.
"You've started something you can't finish," he continued.
"I don't mince words. You're a dying man, and it's only a


74 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
question of time before two more of us follow you. I won-
der which two? And what will the survivor get out of it?
A fortune—prison—the rope? I'm telling you, George, you've
signed somebody's pass out check."
The Colonel looked at him thoughtfully.
"You're clever, Dennis," he said, "but you're a thorough
swine. All the same, I fancy you'll find my solution the
easiest."
Dennis laughed lightly.
"Well, good luck. Here's wishing the Central Office in Hell.
If I thought I'd be any use I'd stay"
"You won't, clear out and watch your step."
"You betcha."
Dennis nodded and turned his back on a man who was
speaking for the last time.
He left the house without hearing the half-choked sound
that came from the room in which his brother sat. It was
George trying to call him back. The Colonel was dead before
Dennis reached his car.
Even in death the Colonel had tricked his enemies—the
law, and the Poacher.


CHAPTER EIGHT
At exactly five minutes past eleven a small and decidedly
grubby urchin paused in blank wonderment before the re-
cumbent figures of Inspector Keating and Superintendent
Kaye and scratched his head perplexedly. Inspector Keating
with his mouth wide open was snoring melodiously in the key
of A sharp in an attempt to drown his friend's effort in G
flat minor.
For some seconds the boy stood and marvelled, while he
debated the safest method of awakening the sleepers. Then
he bent down and cautiously shook Kaye.
The Superintendent sat up and yawned, conscious that a
piece of paper was being waved beneath his nose and that a
small boy was talking in the inconsequent manner peculiar to
small boys.
"Said as 'ow the fat 'un would gimme two bob, 'e did,"
said the boy tentatively. It was an invention of which he
had great hopes. When Detective Sergeant Brown of the
Squad had written the message he had said that the man for
whom it was intended would probably give the bearer six-
pence but the small boy had his own theories on the subject
of Capital and Labor.
Kaye took the note and unfolded it. The message it con-
tained was scrawled in pencil and barely readable.
"Can you come at once?" he read. "Traced Dennis Teyst's
Chrysler to a house and can't round up the Squad. Daren't
leave the place in case the Teysts beat it. The place is in the
London Road, the boy will lead you here."
Kaye asked a few questions and the boy, with a reward in
view gave directions that were not too explicit.
75


76 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
"Let's be goin'," he urged. "Shall I give ould 'Shut Eye' a
shove an' wake 'im up?"
"You couldn't," said Kaye paternally. "He sleeps like a
Waterman fountain pen writes, in any position."
Stooping, he awakened his friend by the simple method
of tweaking his nose.
"They've traced Dennis," he said, rising to his feet, and
Keating grunted.
"Oh they have, have they? I thought they'd gone for
their summer holidays. Where is he?"
"His car is parked outside a house on the London Road."
"How long has it been there?" Keating rumbled as he got
to his feet.
"The house has probably been there twenty years," Kaye
retorted patiently. "I'm not sure if the car has been there
twenty minutes or twenty seconds. We'll go and find out, if
you'll shake off your hoglike slumber."
Keating still rubbing his eyes followed his superior across
the square.
"Who spotted him?"
"Brown," Kaye said over his shoulder. "By the way are
you walking with me or just shadowing me?"
"Brown," said Keating impassively, "has got no imagina-
tion. He'll probably walk into the house with 'the Yard'
written inches deep all over him and try and hold 'em by
asking 'em if they collect cigarette cards."
Which was not really so libellous as it sounded. To be
truthful, Detective Sergeant Brown did not handle the situa-
tion in the most tactful manner, even although he held a
decided advantage. For it was an advantage.
He failed to see the going of either Ian or Ralph, but
Dennis he certainly saw, and there is no doubt that that
young man got the shock of his life when he found the
path to his car barred by a man who positively shrieked
C.I.D.


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 77
"I thought I'd shaken you fellows off at Croydon," he
said pleasantly, halting at the foot of the steps.
Brown maintained a cautious silence. He had no definite
orders to stop Dennis leaving, but it occurred to him that
that was what Kaye would expect.
It had also occurred to Dennis, and instinct told him that
it was only a matter of minutes before half the Squad arrived
and definitely placed his escape outside the bounds of pos-
sibility, but in the meantime there was only Brown. Straight-
ening up he moved towards the Yard man with a peculiar
smile.
"I don't like your tie, your face or your general appear-
ance, old soul," he said kindly. "Will you get out of my
way or will you be knocked out of it?"
The Yard man dropped into the approved crouch with
feelings of relief. It was the opening he had been seeking
and provided the necessary opportunity for delaying Dennis.
About the issue, he had no doubts.
"I don't want any lip," he said moving forward aggres-
sively, and that was his last coherent remark until Inspector
Keating picked him up five minutes later.
"Like greased lightning, he was, sir," the detective con-
fided, rubbing his jaw. "I stopped a right hook and a fast
left at the same time—at least that's what it felt like. How
does my face look, sir?"
"Foul," snarled Keating, and strode towards the house
after the equally irate Kaye. At the top of the steps the
silence they were trying to preserve was suddenly shattered
by the boy who took that opportunity to revert to matters
mercenary.
Keating gave him a shilling and when he persisted, a
clout on the head. Of the two treatments, the latter was
the more effective. Standing in the covered-in porch, Kaye
beckoned to Brown.
"Try your hand on that door," he said, "and don't do it


78 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
like a battery going into action. Not that it matters, they're
in Mexico by now."
Brown grinned. Opening doors was one of the things he
did well. So well, that it was a matter of seconds before
the entrance was effected.
"Collect any of the Squad you can get and return here
pronto," Keating instructed, and followed his friend into the
darkened hall.
Both men held automatic pistols in their hands, but they
were unnecessary. They found George where his brothers
had left him.
He was staring straight at them when they entered and
he continued to stare when Keating said, "I want you,
George" and proceeded to read his warrant. The indictments
were read to deaf ears, in fact Keating was still droning a
formal charge when Kaye stepped forward and laid a hand
on his arm. Kaye knew as much as most doctors and more
than many, but it had taken him a good twenty seconds to
interpret the Colonel's fixed stare correctly.
"No good, Sam," he said slowly. "George is holding his
creditors' meeting elsewhere."
Together they looked down at the dead man. Neither
felt any particular pity. Disappointment was their chief
emotion. Disappointment that the Colonel, who had cheated
all his life should have cheated the rope, even in death.
"Some people get all the jam in life—others only get the
pip, and I'm one of 'em," grunted Keating, tossing his hat
aside.
"Wal got him all right. George must have been getting
old," he continued and began to turn out the dead man's
pockets while Kaye took an inventory of the contents. They
were still examining George's few worldly belongings when
Brown appeared in the doorway of the room with two of the
Squad in attendance.
"Give the house a once-over," Keating instructed. "You


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 79
won't find anything but it'll keep you out of mischief, which
is more than I can do."
He rose to his feet and took up a telephone from the table.
His instructions to the Superintendent of the mortuary were
curt and to the point. In fact he replaced the receiver in
the middle of one of the Superintendent's remarks.
In his moment of travail, Inspector Keating regarded his
job and its disappointments bitterly. Many trenchant com-
ments on Brown's treatment of the situation occurred to him,
and most of them were embellished with unflattering epithets.
Epithets that would probably have annoyed Detective Ser-
geant Brown, but only succeeded in amusing one member of
Keating's audience.
That member was the Poacher.
Seated on an upturned box in the garage that adjoined the
house he smoked placidly and, between intervals of philoso-
phizing on a tire burst enjoyed the Inspector's lucid dis-
quisition.
On his head were a pair of earphones, attached by a thin
wire to a small black box in a tool cupboard let into the
wall. The dictograph connected the garage to the house and
Keating's remarks were perfectly audible to the unseen
listener. They afforded him a considerable amount of amuse-
ment, but not sufficient to overrule caution. Even during
the Inspector's most vitriolic attacks, the Poacher continued
to keep his eyes on the small curtained window of the
garage.
Not that it detracted from his enjoyment. He was a person
of many accomplishments, notably that of being able to
listen attentively to one thing and think intently about some-
thing else. And at the moment he was thinking very intently.
Through the agency of a tire burst, he had missed by a
margin of sixty minutes, the coup of a lifetime. It was an
experience calculated to try the patience of nobler beings than
the Poacher, but unlike Keating he viewed defeat philosoph-


80 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
ically. There were other things that he viewed less philosoph-
ically. Particularly the fact that the Squad were even then
exploring the house and the grounds and might at any mo-
ment discover the; flat-tired car that was parked at the rear
of the house.
As a car it was of no use to the Poacher and its loss would
not grieve him. Chiefly because it belonged to someone else.
At the same time the Squad had a flair for tracing the owners,
or last occupiers, of abandoned cars, and the Poacher had
his own reasons for not wishing to encounter either the
Squad or Inspector Keating. Particularly not the latter.
Keating was not of a forgiving nature and on the sub-
ject of their last meeting he had much to forgive. The
Poacher smiled in the darkness. He had covered the Colonel's
retreat very effectively on that occasion and there was
something ironic in the fact that he had covered it to no
purpose. At least, no purpose benefiting himself.
Before a treacherous tire burst had upset his calculations
he had had one man, the Colonel, to deal with. Now, the
secret of the bracelet's whereabouts was split up among three
others. Not an insurmountable difficulty, but disheartening.
Decidedly disheartening.
Reflecting sadly on miscarriages of justice the Poacher
extinguished his cigarette and replaced the earphones in the
tool box beneath an oily rag. He regarded the installation of
that little apparatus as one of the most noteworthy things
that he had ever done. Given absolute freedom from inter-
ruption he could have enjoyed Inspector Keating's mono-
logue concerning man's descent from apes, for much longer.
And Keating's inspiration was by no means exhausted.
In point of fact it was considerably amplified by Brown's
sudden reappearance.
Standing at the head of the steps, Keating observed Brown's
triumphant approach in the Squad's long gray roadster with
homicidal thoughts. There was an expression of contentment


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 81
on Brown's face—as he descended—a placid satisfaction that
annoyed Keating.
The fact that the roadster had a smaller car in tow did
not immediately strike Keating as significant.
"Of course if you like riding up and down the drive,
don't let me spoil your childish pleasure," he said with heavy
sarcasm. "At the same time, what's the idea of having a
motor show at midnight?"
"Found this car at the back of the house, sir," said Brown.
"Very interesting. Found, you said? Have you been
straightened by a night club owner?"
Brown smiled weakly. "Fact, sir."
"H'm, whose is it?"
"It isn't Ralph Teyst's, or Ian Teyst's, sir, and Dennis
was driving a Chrysler."
Inspector Keating looked at the car and grunted. It was
a smart blue saloon and fairly new.
"Are our fellows still combing the grounds?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. The place seems to be deserted."
"What did you expect, a garden party?"
Keating glared at his subordinate and Brown shifted un-
comfortably.
"Put the damn thing in the garage," Keating continued.
"We aren't trailing that round all night. The local people
can trace the owner."
Brown saluted and got back into the car. Turning it in
a circle he headed for the garage, while Keating leant
against the porch and muttered profanely.
Under his superior's derisive eyes Brown backed the Squad's
Benz and uncoupled the other car. Then he opened the garage
doors and began to push his find into the blackness of the
interior.
Keating, waiting and smoking reflectively, went still further
into the matter of Brown's ancestry. After five minutes he
came to the conclusion that Brown had gone to sleep in


82 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
the garage. Which, without being literally true, was a rea-
sonably accurate hypothesis. Actually he was unconscious. A
spanner applied externally invariably induces a certain lassi-
tude in the recipient.
Keating was unaware of that, but as the minutes passed he
smiled resignedly and prepared to make Brown a present of
further information concerning his lineage.
That was as far as he got. As he stepped forward some-
thing smacked against the stonework of the porch and a
chip of stone stung his face.
With a startled grunt he leapt backwards and slammed the
door as two more bullets ricocheted off the smooth pillars.
At the same moment a lithe figure vaulted into the driving
seat of the Squad's car. Superintendent Kaye was the only
man who actually saw its mad career down the drive, but all
Reigate heard the powerful engine roaring as the gray car
tore through the town.
Even if the engine of the blue saloon had not been tam-
pered with it could not have overtaken the Benz, but Keating
lost ten minutes finding out why the car wouldn't budge
from the garage. Having found that out he wasted a further
two minutes trying to discover some new and adequate de-
scription of what the makers called a Spangler Six. He suc-
ceeded. Subsequently he discovered the car's owner and
allowed him to share the secret. But it took the Squad three
days to trace their Benz, and when they found it the driving
wheel was missing, the tires were slashed to ribbons1 and the
gasoline tank looked like a nutmeg grater.
Inspector Keating's remarks on that occasion were not
only unreasonable, they were unprintable.


CHAPTER NINE
From the age of five upwards, Ralph Teyst had never al-
lowed any" kindly feeling for his fellow men to interfere
with the normal course of his life. As far as he was con-
cerned, altruism was one of the things that did not pay
interest, unless it was five per cent, on the Bank of Hereafter.
Consequently the thought that he had probably shaken hands
with his brother George on the previous day for the last time,
disturbed neither his thoughts nor his appetite.
He liked his elder brother dead no better than he had
liked him living—in fact, George's greatest sin in Ralph's
eyes, had been that of living at all. All his life George had
thought on another plane, and even in death had chosen
to complicate what would have otherwise been a perfectly
simple bequest.
Staring at the paragraph that announced the finding of
George Teyst's body at his house, Ralph brooded on the fact
that he was no nearer to discovering the d'Essinger emeralds
than the police were. He could and would have been if the
brotherly-love bug had not bitten his brother and resulted
in the cryptic contents of the letter that still lay on the
table by Ralph's plate.
The actual message was short and concise. It read:—
"My dear Ralph,
"By the time you receive this I shall, I hope, be dead.
I do not expect either a wreath or a kindly thought, but
I do expect you to resume your old relationship with Ian
and Dennis. It rests with you. The enclosed strip of paper
83


S4 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
which is valueless without their cooperation, may prove
more persuasive than
"Your brother,
"George."
"'The enclosed strip of paper which is valueless without
their cooperation,'" said Ralph wearily. It was, quite. He
picked it up and studied it. It was a piece of blue paper
three inches long and an inch wide. On it was written in
rather shaky letters:—

George had been right. By no stretch of imagination could
those cryptically arranged letters make any sort of sense.
It might be a complete message in itself, in cypher, or part
of an ordinary uncoded message, but whatever it was, as it
stood, it was valueless.
Silently, but with the utmost concentration, Ralph en-
deavored to find words that adequately described his dead
brother. He failed, and glowered at the report of George's
death. It interested him less than the financial news to which
he mechanically turned.
Every morning until a quarter to nine he studied market
prices, "preparatory to going to the office." That was a
piece of fiction to which he had rigidly adhered. He had


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 85
once supplied his daughter with the information that he was
"something in the city" and had had the good sense to main-
tain the illusion. It was George who had foreseen that in later
years Barbara might conceivably require some explanation
of her father's mysterious comings and goings, and the vague
reference to stockbroking successfully explained away Ralph's
precarious and vacillating income.
Somehow the financial news held no interest for Ralph that
morning. The realization that George had spoken nothing but
the truth when he said that his brothers would be forced to
cooperate, came between him and the newspaper.
Tossing it aside he rose to his feet and took up the strip
of blue paper again. It took him five minutes to realize that
looking at it upside down, sideways and back to front was
not likely to provide him with a solution. Then he walked
across the room and came to a halt before a Turner land-
scape set almost in the middle of the wall.
It was a copy and a good one, but it interested Ralph as
little as it had done on the day it was presented to him.
Pushing it aside he revealed a small brass disk set in the
wall which, after a complicated system of turns and reverses
resulted in a small circular section of the wall swinging out
on perfectly oiled hinges. The cavity revealed was lined with
steel and contained the few papers that Ralph preserved.
They were love letters. Other people's and, produced
at the right moment, possessing a distinct commercial value.
Ralph was no sportsman, but "putting the black" appealed
to him as much as "putting the weight" appealed to athletes.
Placing the blue paper in an envelope, he tossed it on top
of the letters and closed the safe. He replaced the Turner
and stared at it disgustedly, not because he disliked what it
portrayed, but because it had been given to him by George—
George who could make his influence felt while he himself
was no longer alive to exert it.
Ralph dropped into a chair and tried to find a solution


86 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
that did not exist. He was still trying when Barbara came
down to her breakfast.
To most men a beautiful daughter is a possession out-
matching all else, unless it be an even more beautiful wife.
And most daughters have something to say in the morning
to a father, even if it is only "Lend me" or "Buy me." But
these two were above all, original.
Ralph scowled and Barbara seating herself opposite him
promptly did her best to forget that such a person as Ralph
Teyst existed. To do her justice she was fairly successful.
And no one could say that Ralph regretted this state of
affairs.
Barbara at that time was an undeniably attractive young
person in her twenty-fifth year. In fact, a younger edition
of the late Mrs. Ralph Teyst. That was why Ralph detested
her. Her dainty shingled head annoyed him nearly as much
as the small mouth, slender nose and candid blue eyes beneath
their silky lashes and delicate eyebrows. Her smart French
shoes, with their short toes and her shapely legs rising from
them and disappearing into the knee-length, sleeveless frock
of powder blue, irked him. The slender graceful curves of
her young body were as gall and wormwood to him because
they faithfully copied those of Eleanor Teyst at her daughter's
age.
Eleanor Teyst had lived three years with Ralph before
the arrival of a daughter and the chance to gratify her
own desire to die. Ralph was responsible for both and the
doctor in attendance had commented on it disapprovingly.
He also spoke with unwonted directness when Ralph declined
to make a decision. Forced to use his own judgment, he saved
the child. The death of its mother left Ralph unmoved.
As Barbara well knew, her father had entertained one
generous thought of his wife. He was grateful to her for
dying. After Barbara had reached the age of sixteen he would


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 87
have extended the same gratitude to her for performing a
like service. But Barbara was almost distressingly healthy.
And never healthier than on that morning. Seated opposite
him she read her letters coolly and tossed one addressed to
him across the table. He opened it hastily to meet with yet
another disappointment. The letter was as lengthy and fra-
ternal as all other epistles penned by Dennis. It might have
been written to a stranger:—
"I 'phoned Ian last night. He declines to meet us in any
way. Wait until you hear further
"from
"Dennis."
Ralph tossed the note aside and swore softly. He swore
less softly when he saw that Barbara had picked up his dis-
carded paper and was studying the report of her uncle's
death.
Still it had been bound to come. As well now, as later.
Nevertheless, he was uneasy. The paper gave full details of
the robbery and his brother's name accompanied by a photo-
graph was reproduced on the front page. It was the first time
that George's photograph had ever appeared in any of the
papers and it was decidedly trying. Ralph foresaw that the
Colonel's association with the case might divert a share of
Barbara's suspicion to himself. That also was trying.
He decided on the ponderous fatherly touch, and doomed
himself.
"Ah, Barbara," he said slowly, "I want to talk to you
about that."
"About what?"
Even the nicest voice may offend some men. At the mo-
ment the croak of a raven would have been preferable to
that cool rather challenging voice, from Ralph's point of view.
"The d'Essinger case," he answered. "You're wondering


88 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
how a member of this family—your uncle—came to be
mixed up in the business. Was, in fact, the criminal con-
cerned."
"On the contrary, I'm only wondering at this sudden
burst of solicitude."
And she was. Normally their most intimate exchanges sel-
dom exceeded a coldly polite request to "close the door" or
"pass the paper."
Ralph's eyes flickered uneasily and fixed themselves on his
daughter's pretty lips, which eventually framed a disinter-
ested "Well?"
"Your uncle George," he continued gravely, "has for
many years led a double life. It is a thing that I have tried
to keep from you."
He coughed. It had occurred to him that in the past he
had tried to keep many things from her and not out of solici-
tude. It had also occurred to Barbara and her smile betrayed
it.
"George," said Ralph hastily, "was always a wild unsettled
fellow, but God alone knows, none of us ever expected it
would come to this. We have all known that his dealings
were a trifle shady, but this is the first and unfortunately the
last time that the police have ever had anything on him—er
—against him."
He paused and reflected on the thoughtlessness of a
brother who could inflict such pain on his nearest and dearest.
At least that was the impression he was striving to create.
He succeeded indifferently as a certain chilliness in the re-
ception warned him.
"To have his photo in all the papers—to see one's name
disgraced and to know that one is forever discredited in the
eyes of the world—it's ghastly," said Ralph, and there is no
doubt that having got into his stride he would have achieved
quite a plausibly virtuous indignation. As it was an unfilial
child took the liberty of interrupting its parent.


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 89
"Uncle George died as he lived," she said curtly. "A
crook."
Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were brighter than
usual. Ralph saw the signs with a certain uneasiness but
contrived a pained "Barbara!"
"My name," she agreed. "If it gives you any pleasure to
lie, go on, but don't count on my applause. I know George
Teyst was a crook, just as I know that you are. I've known
it for years. It doesn't disturb me in the slightest."
Ralph made a valiant effort to adjust himself to this new
angle.
"My dear girl, are you suggesting?"
"Yes, I am. If you think I've endured a lifetime with
you without realizing the respective professions of George,
Dennis, Ian and yourself—well, give up thinking. It isn't
your strong point."
Ralph scowled. "You're suggesting that I am a crook?"
"No, I'm not responsible for the suggestion. I'm stating
a known fact. But beyond the fact that you're crooked,
you've got nothing in common with the other three. They
at least are men."
Ralph flushed, and mentally kicked himself for doing so.
The situation was fast passing out of his control.
"You don't realize what you're saying," he jerked out.
"Only too well. When men from Scotland Yard come
here questioning, or trying to question me, about your move-
ments, I don't think that they are interested in your health,
unless they want to know if you're likely to live to the next
Assizes."
That was a blow. It took Ralph some time to assimilate
the full danger of what she had revealed.
"The Yard? Here? Do you mean that?"
Barbara looked at him with embarrassing directness.
"Amazed innocence isn't your forte," she said. "And now
do you mind going? Your office is probably going to rack


90 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
and ruin in your absence, and I have some typing to do. My
new story lacked the material for a perfect cad. I've recently
found that material, but I'm not painting a picture and I
don't need a permanent model."
Ralph's eyes glittered. Her new story. To hell with her
writing. He regretted that as soon as it occurred to him. Once
she was successful she would take herself off. He knew the
type. More power to her arm. She couldn't clear out too soon
to please him.
He glared at her, and rising, stalked from the room. God,
how he hoped that she would be successful. And he hoped
still more that he himself would be successful, but the
hope was not realized. All that day he haunted those places
that Ian was known to frequent, without finding him. His
flat too was apparently unoccupied and Ralph's frequent tele-
phone calls remained unanswered.
Life was very trying. At the end of that day Ralph would
have cheerfully murdered any of his brothers. He even
regretted that such a course would not be possible in the case
of George, whose death he almost regarded as a defection.
He was reminded of the pleasant theme of murder when he
found Barbara writing in the living room on his return, but
he refrained from using any more dangerous weapon than a
murderous look.
Neither did the appearance of Keating in the street below
fill him with a sense of well-being. True, Keating was ap-
parently taking a harmless constitutional, but those innocent
walks of his frequently led to other people taking slightly
longer journeys. Ralph watched him disappear round the
corner, and then went to bed, a decidedly frightened man.
He would have been even more frightened if he had had
occasion to enter the living room at two o'clock the follow-
ing morning. At that indeterminate hour the living room
looked a decidedly eerie place. The walls seemed to dissolve


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 91
into blackness. A sinister room, silent and full of shadows.
Notably, one at the window.
And that particular shadow was moving.
A faint scratching sound pierced the stillness as the in-
truder, crouched on the balcony outside, tried the catch of
the window with a slender steel instrument. And not only
tried but succeeded. Slowly the catch surrendered and the
window swung open to admit a visitor.
It was rarely that Dennis Teyst used the door when an-
other entrance would serve his purpose as well.
Closing the window he stepped softly into the room and
felt his way to a chair. He dropped into it and sat there for
some time until his eyes were accustomed to the darkness.
The use of his torch was risky. Not perhaps so risky as im-
practicable. For mere risk Dennis had no regard and a trivial-
ity such as housebreaking was all in the day's work. He would
have lighted a cigarette, had he dared.
His thoughts were perfectly collected and revolved curi-
ously enough, not around his present project, but around the
possibility of a meeting in the near future between his two
brothers, at which it would be disclosed that Ian had neither
declined to meet his brothers or been asked to. Dennis had
his own reasons for wishing to keep his brothers apart.
He remained seated for five minutes and then walked
silently across the room and came to a halt before the despised
Turner. And in that he made his first mistake. He trod on
that part of the floor which lay directly below the picture.
A criminal seldom makes more than one mistake because
there is not time between the blunder and the conviction,
but Dennis was not aware that he had blundered.
He found what he wanted easily enough, and after twirling
the disk for some moments and listening attentively to the
tumblers, opened the safe. Taking a torch from his pocket he.
flashed it for a moment on the pile of letters inside it. The)


92 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
unsealed envelope that lay uppermost was the one he opened
first.
His brother's letter to Ralph, practically a duplicate of one
that Dennis himself had received, he tossed aside, but his
fingers closed eagerly over the small strip that still remained
in the envelope. And turning his back to the window he
directed the beam of his torch on the paper.
Since Ralph had last seen it, it had changed from blue
to white and its contents had become decidedly more intel-
ligible if less gratifying. Dennis read it twice with a kind of
helpless fascination:—
"A safe is the one thing in the world that isn't.—The
Poacher."
It took him two minutes to realize what he was intended
to realize. Namely, that he had been "beaten to it." It was a
shock and it temporarily unbalanced him. That the writing
of that note was not Ralph's work, he realized instantly.
Whoever the Poacher was, he was certainly not Ralph. He
had neither the initiative nor the nerve of the legendary
shadow who had signed that note.
From being merely a name, the Poacher became in that in-
stant a tangible menace, something to be suppressed and
from tolerant amusement. Dennis' attitude veered suddenly
to cold rage with regard to this interloper.
He swore softly, but not so softly that someone crouched
behind the door could not hear. That someone was Ralph.
Awakened some minutes previously by the electric bell, which
did not penetrate the sound-proof walls of the bedroom, but
was sufficiently loud to awaken its occupant, Ralph had
thrown on a coat and crept from his bedroom to the living
room.
Even as Dennis cursed, he straightened up and switching
on the hall light, flung open the door.
Which was a fatal error. It silhouetted him in the door-
way without revealing the intruder. What was more it startled


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 93
Dennis, and Dennis had not practised the subtle art of firing
from his pocket for nothing. Prepared, he would have chosen
some other form of defence, but in moments of sudden crisis
he had learnt to think quickly and act even more quickly.
The movement was automatic. So was the pistol he held,
with a silencer fitted.
Ralph died without knowing what had killed him, and
only the soft plunk of the pistol broke the silence of the
room.
Dennis watched the other slither down the wall and crum-
ple up on the floor. In that position he saw something familiar
in the inert figure, and before he had crossed the room had
seen all he wanted to.
He looked down at his brother. Ralph was dead. There
was no doubt about that. The bullet had hit him squarely
between the eyes and the results were unpleasant. And likely
to be more unpleasant, as Dennis realized.
He had never killed before, and would not have done so
now, but here his brother lay and what he, himself, had come
to seek, was still as far away as ever. In the hands of the
Poacher. He gritted his teeth and stepping over Ralph's pros-
trate body, moved quietly across the landing.
Oddly enough he had forgotten Barbara's presence in the
house until the moment when her bedroom door was flung
open to reveal her in a flimsy kimono, staring wide-eyed across
the landing.
For a full moment they looked at each other, motionless.
Then her eyes slowly fell away and saw through the open
door of the sitting room the thing that had once been her
father.
It was her sudden scream that sent Dennis bounding past
her down the staircase to fling open the door and dash out
into Upper Brook Street. And, incidentally, into the arms of
Inspector Keating.


CHAPTER TEN
It was Barbara's scream that brought Keating across the
road. The shock of the collision almost upset the two men,
but Keating retained both his presence of mind and a grip
that threatened to break the other's arm.
"Let go, damn you," Dennis snarled.
"In a hurry?" Keating inquired gently, and looked up as
a second scream came from the house. "That girl's got good
lungs. Come on, you."
He propelled Dennis towards the house. At least he began
to do so, and would probably have forced the young man to
confront the girl even then running down the stairs to meet
them, but for the fact that Dennis suddenly halted and trod
backwards. His heel landed squarely on Keating's toes and
the Inspector involuntarily released his hold. His bellow of
pain terminated abruptly as a fist crashed into his face, loos-
ening, as he afterwards averred, three of his front teeth.
When he sat up Dennis was forty yards away and going
well. Clasping his foot, Keating watched his late captive's
retreat speculatively. Not even the appearance of Barbara,
clad with a scantiness that would have undone weaker men,
stimulated him to action. He merely sat and stared.
"For God's sake stop him," she panted. "That man—
murdered—my father!"
Keating started. "Murder—gosh! I didn't think that snipe
would use his gat."
"Do something, do something," she almost screamed and
tried to pull him to his feet.
He obeyed. Producing a small silver whistle he blew one
94


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 95
blast on it and uttered another as he moved his damaged
foot.
"He won't get far," he said reassuringly, and looked up in
time to interpose his bulk between a fainting girl and the
hard road.
Rising painfully, he lifted the unconscious Barbara in his
arms and stared down the street. Dennis had long since van-
ished into the darkness, but already inquisitive heads were be-
ginning to appear at windows. Turning, he hobbled with his
burden towards the open door.
Inside the hall he found a chair, by the simple expedient
of banging his shin against it and, depositing Barbara, groped
round the wall for the light switch.
Switching on the light he looked round him for a mo-
ment and listened. No sound came from the house and for a
moment he was puzzled. Then he saw the name rack. The
resident of Flat 1, "Mr. Smythe," according to the little
white card, was away. So was "Mrs. Hillborough," of Flat 2,
but Mr. Ralph Teyst was "in." "Out" would have been more
apt, he reflected and looked down thoughtfully at Barbara.
From the point of view of warmth her scanty draperies left
much to be desired, and stripping off his overcoat he wrapped
it round her.
He was debating the advisability of carrying her up to her
flat when he encountered the mildly inoffensive eye of De-
tective-Sergeant Brown, who stood in the doorway.
"Kerrow's after him, sir," Brown reported, and Keating
nodded.
"I guessed we wouldn't have to wait long before our
Dennis started something," he said slowly. "Come on up."
"What about the lady, sir? Shall I bring her up?"
"Someone ought to take the job in hand. Her father made
a mess of it. All right, but remember the little woman at
home and pray for guidance."
He stood aside and allowed Brown, with Barbara in his


96 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
arms, to precede him. The three flights of stairs were the
longest that Keating had ever climbed. He recalled new and
entirely original descriptions of them every time the crushed
toes of his left foot touched one.
Reaching the landing he found another switch and flooded
the place with light. Almost the first thing he saw was a
foot, protruding from a doorway opposite. A red leather
slipper had fallen from the foot, and Keating, noticing an
inflamed circle on the small toe, found himself reflecting
inconsequently that Ralph had gone to a place where corns
and chiropodists were unknown.
Limping across the hall he leant against the doorway and
stared down at the dead man. One glance told him all that
he wanted to know. He spoke over his shoulder.
"Better put that kid in her bedroom, Ralph isn't a pleasant
sight to wake up to."
"Dead?"
"I hope so, for his sake."
Dropping on his knees, Keating made a swift examination.
His hand was still on Ralph's warm chest when he heard
a scuffling sound behind him. He turned to find that Barbara
had slipped from Brown's arms and was standing a few feet
away staring down fascinatedly at her father.
"You'd better go to your room, little lady," he mur-
mured awkwardly, at the same time leaning forward to hide
Ralph's face.
She swayed slightly, and then without speaking walked
past him into the living room. Keating shrugged, and rising,
followed her. Walking across to the table by the window he
picked up the telephone and gave a number.
As soon as he was connected with the Divisional Surgeon,
he gave a few rapid directions and then put a second call
through to the mortuary. Concluding, he saw that Barbara
was seated in a deep armchair, looking straight before her.


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 97
"You ought to be in bed," he said gruffly, "but if you feel
well enough to tell me what happened"
"I do. There's not much to tell. Simply that I was awake
and heard a sound about twenty minutes ago—like someone
falling. I went to the door and opened it, and saw"
She paused, and he concluded the sentence for her.
"Uncle Dennis. You didn't hear the shot?"
"No." She spoke quietly, and he noticed that her face
had gone pale. For a moment he was afraid that she was
going to faint again. Her curious calm was not natural, and
his experience told him that it was dangerous. The reaction
when it did come would be severe.
"I don't think you'd better talk any more," he began, but
she looked up and answered him.
"You're expecting hysteria, aren't you?" she asked. "Don't,
there's no need to. It shook me up badly—the manner of his
death—but his actual dying—Ralph and I were not friends."
She looked past him and shuddered. His lips twisted at the
familiar use of her father's Christian name and she saw it.
"Ralph and I never enjoyed the father and daughter rela-
tionship," she said. "Ralph wasn't made that way. He hated
me. I suppose I hated him, too. All my life he has made
things unpleasant for me, but it's difficult to hate him—
now."
Keating remained silent. He was thinking of the life of
another woman that had been made "unpleasant," but the
man had been the same in both cases.
"Ralph was a tough proposition," he said lamely.
He saw that she looked almost haggard, and waited for
her to speak, but she made no sound. They sat there in silence
until they heard footsteps on the landing.
"That'll be the mortuary people," he said, and rose to his
feet.
He waited while the gray-haired Divisional Surgeon made
a hasty examination, and then spoke a few words quietly in


98 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
the doctor's ear. Both stood aside and watched the men from
the mortuary carry Ralph down to the waiting ambulance.
Then Keating shook hands with the doctor and turned back
to the room where Barbara was sitting as he had left her.
As he reached her she surprised him with a sudden out-
burst.
"He hated me—he hated me—he did all he could to make
my life a misery. I never had the slightest excuse for loving
him—never heard him speak kindly once and yet—it was
a dreadful death."
She lay back in the chair and closed her eyes. When she
reopened them he saw that she had regained some of her
composure. It worried him. He would have preferred to see
her do the one thing that would ease her pent up emotion,
cry.
"Would you mind very much if I asked you to stay for
a little while?" she asked. "I feel nervous—I'm afraid I'm
going to break down"
"It'll do you good."
"No, it won't. It'll make it harder. It will make me
feel almost hypocritical. Somehow I can't bear that. I can't
pretend any real sorrow that he's dead because I have no
happy memories to look back on."
He leant over and patted her shoulder.
"I'll stay, but you ought to sleep. You look tired."
"I am. I've had hardly any rest. I never get much unless
I take my sleeping draught, and I forgot it to-night. I almost
wish I hadn't. I might have slept through this."
"Better this way," he said awkwardly.
She forced a smile. "Smoke if you like," she invited, and he
took advantage of her offer. "Now tell me all about it. I
think I can stand it and want to know how you happened
to arrive so opportunely. Did you know that Dennis was
going to—"


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 99
She obviously shirked the word, and Keating interposed to
prevent her using it.
"I know everything, but you're not in a fit condition to
hear anything."
"I feel better, and I want to know a lot of things. After
all, I shall have to know them sooner or later. I don't even
know how Dennis got into the flat."
"I do." Keating jerked a thumb in the direction of the
French windows behind them. He looked across the room at
Brown still standing impassively by the door. "Get Super-
intendent Kaye on the 'phone. He'll be at his flat. Grosvenor
2468."
Brown crossed the room, and took up the receiver while
Keating turned to Barbara again.
"Have you got any women folk you can go to, my dear?"
he asked.
"I could go to Molly Wendover—a college chum. Ralph
had no sisters, and I don't know my mother's people. Ralph
hated them as much as he hated me."
He nodded. "You suffered from a deadly sin in your
father's eyes."
"And that was?"
"Being like your mother."
Barbara started. "But how do you know"
"That you had a mother? That's easy."
"No, I mean that I was like her."
"I know everything," he replied. "My job. I met your
mother through Ralph. We had—er—business associations."
He failed to read the expression in her eyes correctly, and
her next words came as a shock.
"You needn't try to disguise the fact that Ralph was a
crook. I know that. So was Dennis."
He looked away. He had been wondering at her entire
lack of curiosity concerning the motives surrounding her
father's death, but that partially explained it.


100 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
"Surely you're going to do something," she said suddenly,
and her voice took on a strained note again. "Dennis is not to
be allowed to escape"
"No," he grunted. "There's a nice warm cell waiting for
Dennis at Wandsworth. It's been waiting for months. I
reckon he's about due as its tenant. I've been watching him all
day. I had a hunch that he was just dying to see your father
or to see your father dying—sorry. That wasn't in the best
taste. I hope you'll forgive me?"
She nodded mechanically, and rising to her feet crossed
the room. Pausing before the Turner she pushed it aside and
began to twirl the brass dial of the safe.
He watched her for some moments, and then looked up as
Brown proffered the telephone.
"Superintendent Kaye here, sir."
Keating took the instrument, and turning his back on
Barbara spoke quietly and close to the mouthpiece.
"Hello, that you, Kaye? Sam here. What's that? Oh, I
have, have I? Serve you right. I'm at Ralph Teyst's flat. Sure.
He's gone on a journey—a long journey—and forgotten to
take a return ticket. Yes. I've got Dennis taped. Who?
Kerrow. Smart chap. We'll have Dennis within the hour. If
we don't I'll have the Squad out. Yes. I've got a warrant on
another charge. I had a hunch all day. Now go back and
snore while I earn your living for you. Goodbye."
He replaced the telephone and found that Barbara was
watching him intently. She was still waiting for him to give
some explanation.
Which was not Keating's intention. At least, it had not
been his intention, but somehow he found it difficult to refuse
her. Few people except her father had ever refused Barbara
anything, and Keating was discovering that in a very short
acquaintance he had found much to like in this slender slip
of a girl.


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 101
"Well, anything missing?" he asked, and, as she shook her
head, "Good, our people are doing plenty."
"You," she countered, "don't seem to be doing anything
at the moment."
"I'm doing what the* novelists are fond of calling pulling
the strings. I've spent a lot of thought on this case."
"Not with a very happy result."
"Ouch," he winced. "Don't hit a man when he's down,
little lady. I admit that your clever uncle pulled this pretty
smartly and slipped me, but I was in at the death anyhow."
The rather painful significance of the cliche escaped him.
"That ought to make Kaye squirm," he said triumphantly.
"Kaye?"
"You don't read your 'Daily Express.' Kaye's one of the
deserving few on the Round Table. In fact, he is the Big Four,
the others are Small Ones."
He broke off again. At least three of the members of the
Big Four might have been replaced in his opinion by more
able men. He knew of at least one deserving substitute.
"I think I've heard the name," she said. "Someone called
him the shyest man at the Yard."
"Shy is right. He can't stand the light of day. If he could
he wouldn't for long."
That was a little cryptic, and he explained, confident that
he had momentarily made her forget a little.
"Kaye works in the dark. 'Brer Rabbit he lay low' stunt.
He does most of his good work at his office at the Yard. If
he showed his face too often it'd be a bullet or the knife.
It's that kind of a face. Annoys people."
He saw her shiver and smiled tolerantly.
"Sounds like a penny shocker, eh? Mebbe, but it's true.
Your Uncle Dennis, for instance, is a bit too free with
weapons. And talking of Dennis it's about time Kerrow
showed up."
He turned to Brown.


102 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
"Do you park a gat?"
"No, sir," the man replied, and his superior grunted.
"Can you beat it? Half of 'em would go out elephant
hunting with catapults," he frowned. "This is absolutely
a gift to Dennis. He'll be at Hurst Park or Honolulu before
Kerrow wakes up, while I've got to sit here and wait. If you
could forget your pacifist disarmament schemes I shouldn't
have to waste more time calling in at the Yard."
He scowled at the unfortunate Brown.
"Is the something you're going to the Yard for, a gun?"
Barbara asked suddenly, and he nodded. "You'll find one in
the drawer of that desk beside you."
He opened the drawer and took out an automatic pistol
that had been lying on an oil rag. It was a Browning, in
correct working order, and fitted with a fresh clip of cart-
ridges.
"With or without?" he asked.
"With, I think. I once heard Ralph say that an automatic
paid for its keep."
The mention of her father's name brought some recollec-
tion to her, and he saw the look of horror in her eyes again.
"If you don't mind, I think I'll go and dress," she said.
"I shan't sleep again to-night—I suppose it's morning, really.
Anyway, I know I can't sleep with that memory."
As she left the telephone whirred again.
Brown picked it up, and after a moment placed his hand
over the mouthpiece.
"Kerrow, on here, sir," he said. "Dennis Teyst is at Larry
Wade's flat in Bruton Street."
Keating started.
"Did you say Larry Wade?"
"Yes, sir."
"And Bruton Street? Gosh, that's close. I hand it to Dennis.
He's got a nerve to camp on the remains."
"He left Upper Brook Street, and made a circuit via Park


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 103
Lane, Piccadilly and Bond Street," Brown supplied, between
intervals of listening to the voice at the other end of the
line.
"Right, that's all," Keating replied, and Brown replaced
the receiver. "The gentle Dennis is getting old. Evidently he
didn't know he was being tailed this morning. He wouldn't.
I was doing the tailing. Well, this is where I go and earn
Kaye's living for him."
He slipped the automatic into a side pocket and rose to
his feet.
He smiled complacently. "There will shortly be a vacancy
on the Round Table which, speaking with all modesty, I shall
probably fill."
He was half-way across the landing when Barbara appeared
at the door of her bedroom. To his surprise she was fully
dressed and carried a small hat in her hand.
"Going?" she asked, and her lip twitched a little.
"Yes. We've—er—traced your uncle Dennis."
She went very white but rallied bravely.
"Tha—that sounds very clever."
"Well, it's original Keating," he said, "which is nearly the
same thing. I've had three men sticking to Dennis closer than
unpaid tailors ever since he left here."
"Where is he now?"
"At Larry Wade's flat."
He saw her start and looked at her curiously.
"Ive heard that name before. Ralph mentioned it. He
didn't like this Larry."
"The only thing that Ralph and I had in common was
dislike for Larry," said Keating, and attempted to pass her.
"Are you going there now?"
"Sure."
"Good, then I can drive you there in my car," she said
firmly, and her calmness amazed him.


104 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
"You could," he said dubiously, "but you aren't going to.
There's going to be a spot of trouble at Bruton Street."
"There's been trouble here," she retorted. "I can stand
quite a lot. And, anyway, I want to see justice done. Besides,
Dennis came here for a reason. I want to know what it was.
He may have stolen something of Ralph's, and I want to see
what it is. He didn't come here for nothing. That's settled."
It was, although Keating was a little bewildered. Never-
theless, he made a stipulation.
"You'll stay outside."
Two minutes later they were driving towards Bruton
Street, through the West End, at a speed for which no Jus-
tice of the Peace would have hesitated to fine them forty
shillings.


CHAPTER ELEVEN
Barbara's little Rover made short work of the journey to
Bruton Street, but Keating counted every minute as wasted.
Besides which Brown, who was sitting on his lap, seemed to be
adding a stone to his weight every hundred yards.
At Keating's request Barbara pulled her car to a standstill
at the corner, and the two men descended. As soon as she
joined them they walked slowly down the street keeping in
the shadow of the houses. As they reached the door of num-
ber 12a a figure appeared suddenly in the high ceilinged
porch.
"Wade's flat is on the top floor, sir," said the man as Keat-
ing hastened up the steps. "Teyst has been up there about
twenty minutes."
"Think he saw you?"
"No, sir, pretty sure he didn't."
"Doesn't do to be pretty sure. Have to be damn certain
if you're trailing a Teyst. Got a key to this door?"
"No, sir."
Keating beckoned to Brown.
"This is your line," he said. "Try your hand on that door."
Brown was one of those quiet large men, unremarkable
save for one achievement—a singular skill at opening doors
by other than the recognized means, but it took him a good
four minutes by Keating's watch to master the door before
them.
During that time the taxi that had followed Barbara's car
from Brook Street passed them and proceeded to the end of
the block before it pulled up. A well-muffled man stepped
105


106 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
out and entered the flat outside which the taxi had stopped.
His movements might have interested Keating had he wit-
nessed them but beyond a casual glance, as the taxi passed,
and an instinctive shrinking into the shadows of the porch,
the Inspector paid no attention and remained absorbed in
Brown's manceuvers with a small steel cylinder.
"You'd make a better safe worker than a policeman," he
said.
"Might have been more profitable," the other answered,
and the door swung open before them.
Keating turned to the man who had been watching the
flat.
"You get round to the mews at the back of this place and
see that he doesn't bolt by the back way."
The man saluted, and Keating entered the hall, followed
by Brown and Barbara. A fact which he noted with dis-
approval.
"Young woman," he said sternly. "You stay in the hall."
Barbara had other ideas on the subject, but she felt that
this was not the moment to voice them. It had occurred to
her that the hall was altogether too dark, and unpleasantly
creepy, nevertheless she nodded and Keating moved silently
in the direction of the stairs with Brown in close attendance.
Barbara also. Not close, but in attendance.
The stairs were of stone, and ran in long flights interspersed
at regular intervals by hair-pin bends to minimize space, so
that anyone on the top landing who chanced to be looking
down could watch the progress of others ascending.
Which was what happened. On the top floor Dennis with-
drew into the room which, with intervals for watching the
stairs, he had paced for the last half hour.
He locked the door behind him quietly, a feat difficult to
perform if one's hand shakes. He was not totally unprepared,
and although he had made a wide detour and resorted to
every known ruse to shake off any possible pursuit, the


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 107
knowledge that he had failed did not come as a ghastly sur-
prise. There had always been a possibility. Sufficiently danger-
ous for him to have taken at least one minor precaution.
He picked up the hastily scrawled letter which he had
written on first entering the flat, and slipped it into an
envelope. With it he enclosed the small slip his brother, the
Colonel, had given him. Hastily sealing the envelope he
walked into the adjoining bedroom and gazed swiftly round
him. A few moments later the envelope was securely hidden
beneath a layer of expensive cigarettes in a carved wooden
box beside the bed.
That done he passed into the third room, the bathroom,
and closed the door. Jumping lightly on to a small table, he
reached upwards and opened the skylight. Then he climbed
up on to the roof.
Three feet away from him was a wide chimney stack that
should have concealed the waiting watcher. In fact it did,
but no one can rely on the friendliness of the moon. With-
out warning she emerged and cast a shadow that moved.
Dennis saw it and the watcher was not quite quick enough.
As he appeared, Dennis leapt sideways and dropped through
the skylight. The wooden hatch was back in place and
bolted on the inside before the man on the roof reached it,
and Dennis, his normal composure a little ruffled, was think-
ing furiously.
He passed into the bedroom, closing and locking the bath-
room door behind him and repeated the same manceuver
on entering the living room. Then mounting a chair he re-
moved the electric light bulb.
With the bulb in his hand he paused to listen. Then, mov-
ing softly forward to the wall crouched down by the door.
Only one sound broke the silence. A faint scratching sound
that Dennis recognized. Someone was forcing the lock, and
without knowing that it was Brown he suspected the hand
of a master.


110 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
was a night bird, and wanted no eyes to watch his nocturnal
comings and goings. Therefore, although he only occupied the
top floor, the whole building was leased to him.
It was Barbara herself who solved the difficulty for him.
She sat up abruptly and dabbed her eyes with a small and
quite inadequate handkerchief.
"I'm behaving like a fool," she said awkwardly, "and Den-
nis is more hurt than you think. That wound will have to be
bathed."
Rising, she entered the bedroom and passed through into
the bathroom, to reappear a few minutes later with a towel
and a basin of water. After she had cleansed the wound she
borrowed handkerchiefs from Brown and Keating and con-
trived a temporary bandage for the wounded Dennis.
Inspector Keating watched with relief, in fact with admir-
ation. He was so absorbed that he failed to notice the arrival
of a uniformed constable in the doorway.
The newcomer had to cough twice to gain his attention.
"And what do you want?" Keating asked absently, and
then remembered, "M'm. You're on this beat are you? D'ye
hear the shot?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, I'm holding this case down. Know who I am?"
"Yes, sir, everybody knows Inspector Keating."
"Do they?" asked the astonished Keating. "Good. I must
tell Kaye that one."
"And him, sir," said the constable enthusiastically. "Clev-
erest officer in the force if I may say so, sir."
"Not so good," grunted Keating, and eyed the young man
thoughtfully. Obviously new to his job and, by the sound of
him, a 'varsity man. He frowned heavily but withheld a re-
buke. The kid would learn the dangers of amicable confi-
dences with his superiors quickly enough.
"Make out your report if you like," he said, and bent over
Dennis.


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 111
Barbara, partially recovered, stared about her interestedly
noting the tastefully furnished flat. Fascinated and a little re-
volted she watched Keating callously emptying the pockets
of the wounded Dennis, but noticed that his hands were pecu-
liarly gentle.
Keating found only two things of any interest. The first
was the envelope containing the blue slip that Dennis had
taken from Ralph's safe. He passed it across to Barbara with
a puzzled look.
"Does this belong to Ralph, or does it convey anything to
you?"
She read aloud, " eA safe is the one thing in the world that
isn't, The Poacher.' What does it mean, and who is the
Poacher, anyway?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out," he said, "and by gosh
when I get that feller—but that's beside the point. The point
is, did Dennis take that from your father's safe or was he
going to put it there himself, or has it got nothing to do with
this business at all?"
"If Dennis wrote that, it must mean that he is the
Poacher," she said curiously. "But that doesn't seem to ex-
plain the matter."
"Dennis didn't write that. I know his writing, and some-
how I don't fancy that Dennis is the Poacher. He's not the
same build."
"You've met this Poacher then?"
"Met," he replied, "is one way of putting it. I'd give five
years' promotion to meet him again. When I do I've got a
little present for him."
He forbore to mention that the little present would take
the form of a protracted stay at Wormwood Scrubbs.
"Well, that isn't Ralph's writing anyway," she said defi-
nitely.
"I believe you. If your parent was the Poacher, I'll poach


112 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
my own hat and eat it. And now, little woman, you're going
home."
She tried to refuse and failed. The excitement that had
made her forget was slowly fading.
"Yes, I think I'll go," she said. "I believe Molly Wendover
will take me in. Somehow I couldn't sleep in that house to-
night."
He nodded sympathetically. "I'll have to stay on here for
a bit, but Brown will drive you to your friends."
"It isn't really necessary," she protested, but he insisted,
and Brown, looking rather sheepish, opened the door for her.
She held out her hand and Keating took it mechanically. He
had almost forgotten her existence before she left the room.
The reason for his preoccupation was the other thing he
had found on Dennis—something that he.had not shown Bar-
bara and something that gave him considerable food for
thought.
It was a letter, but he had no need to look at the signature
at the foot to know who had written it. He had seen that
writing before.
"My dear Dennis," it ran, "with the aid of the enclosed
and similar slips of paper in the possession of your brothers
you will find something that ought to make life a little
smoother. As you know, I am hoping that the quest will re-
unite the three of you. Perhaps it will, if you remember that
it was made possible by the death of
"Your brother,
"George."
Keating read the letter twice, and then searched the un-
conscious Dennis again, but he failed to find the enclosure.
Sitting back he watched the other, but his thoughts were not
of the wounded man.
He was beginning to understand why the Colonel had sum-


114 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
him back. Funny how I have to nurse you every time some-
one gives you a case to play with."
To which Inspector Keating made no reply. With feelings
too deep for words he watched the arrival of the ambulance
men and supervised the removal of Dennis. Then he came
back into the room slowly filling his pipe.
"Read that," he said, proffering the Poacher's message. "I
took that from the pocket of our wounded friend."
Kaye studied it for some moments.
"The question is whether he was going to put that in
Ralph's safe or whether it was already there," he said slowly.
"I don't mind crosswords, but I'm no good at riddles," said
Keating gloomily, and pulled out the Colonel's letter. "That
was also in Dennis' pocket."
Kaye read it and pocketed it.
"Now we know why George summoned his brothers. Well,
it all dovetails. Good-night, Sam, I'm going home to think this
out."
Keating accompanied his friend to the door and then sat
down in a comfortable chair. He looked at his watch, and
then at the enthusiastic young constable. Winding the for-
mer, and dismissing the latter, he disposed himself to await
the return of Larry Wade. Incidentally he fell asleep and a
certain constable waiting in the mews at the back of the
house wishing that he could do likewise continued to stand
in a draughty cul-de-sac, and caught a severe cold.


CHAPTER TWELVE
Inspector Keating had his wait in vain and at about half
past four in the morning he made his way home, a disgrun-
tled man.
From the top floor of a flat on the opposite side of the road
Larry Wade watched his retreat with satisfaction. For two
hours he had watched the windows of his own flat across the
way, and thereby, was doing something that he had taken the
precaution of preventing other people from doing. The flat in
which he now sat belonged to a friend and it insured Larry's
immunity from the eyes of anyone who otherwise might have
leased the flat for the purpose of watching him.
Inspector Keating had been correct. Larry disliked having
his movements watched. He was at great pains to avoid espi-
onage, police or otherwise. His clothes, although of a fash-
ionable cut were such as would leave no very definite impres-
sion on the eye of the beholder, and his manner retiring.
There was nothing about him to court attention—the atten-
tion say of one of those men with big feet and an unmis-
takable walk.
Leaving his house he crossed the road and made his way up
to his own flat. Switching on the light he looked around and
then walked through into his bedroom.
He seated himself on the bed and removed his shoes. He
was still amused as he took off his hat and tossed it aside. With
good cause. On the top of his head reposed a string of pearls.
Removing them he examined them and reflected calmly on
the uproar that he had left behind him at Raith House. Un-
less he was mistaken the Dowager Countess of Raith was still
115


116 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
nagging her son. Larry had seen her open the engagement
from his position on the pavement. He had also seen the ar-
rival of the law and pitied it heartily. Then he had retired
from the depths of the crowd that had collected, and gone
his way three thousands pounds richer.
Reaching out a leisurely hand he felt for a cigarette and
in doing so encountered something unfamiliar beneath the
top layer of cigarettes. The something was an envelope and
turning it over he read the words scrawled on the back.
"Keep this for me Larry until I go under. If I'm alive in
a week I'll claim it, D."
So Dennis had been there. Larry scratched the tip of his
nose. This put a slightly different construction on matters
and did much to explain Keating's appearance. It did more.
It explained the sudden shot and the appearance of the police
ambulance. He frowned moodily. He had little doubt whose
figure it was that he had seen carried out. Certainly it ex-
plained much and it also relieved him.
Apparently it was not himself for whom Keating had been
searching the flat. That his appearance at the Raith gathering
had leaked out, he knew was unlikely, but there were various
reasons why Keating might be interested in his movements.
It was a relief to know that he himself was not the object of
Keating's raid. But the knowledge that Dennis had been hit
in a shooting match was disturbing. For Dennis, Larry enter-
tained a friendly feeling.
He pocketed the envelope and pearls, and lay back. Expo-
sure was a constant danger in his trade and Dennis had ap-
parently overstepped the mark somewhere. It was bad news
but it did not prevent him relegating the episode to the back
of his mind. At least he could rest safely to-night, or rather
this morning. It was unlikely that Keating, after his three
hour vigil, would return until he had had about eight hours
rest, and with this comforting reflection he fell asleep.
But he was wrong. At half past eight in response to a loud


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 117
knocking on his door he arose, cursing fluently, and opened
it to confront Keating.
"Don't you fellows ever sleep?" Larry enquired politely,
standing aside.
"Not much," growled Keating, whose short rest had not
improved his temper, "but when we do we take our clothes
off."
He stared pointedly at the other's crumpled evening suit.
"Don't be indelicate," Larry implored, and sauntering
across the room, he opened the window and sniffed the morn-
ing air.
"Come to breakfast?" he asked. "I can offer you some ex-
cellent bread and cheese if you care to share my frugal re-
past."
"Not so frugal either," said Keating, looking round the
room. "How many deals did you have to pull to furnish like
this? Bread and cheese doesn't go with this atmosphere, or
pearls. I hear you dropped into Raith's last night."
"You didn't, you imagined it," Larry retorted sweetly.
"I've got four separate and distinct alibis. Which will you
have?"
He seated himself calmly on the window ledge and looked
innocently at Keating.
"All I'm having is a search," growled the gentleman be-
ginning to explore. He found nothing. Which was only to
be expected since the pearls for which he was looking were
at the moment hanging outside from a nail in the wall be-
neath the sill on which Larry was sitting.
"Smart work. Where do you hide 'em?" asked Keating at
length, abandoning his search.
Larry's countenance remained blandly innocent. "Is that
all you came for?" he inquired.
"It isn't. Seen the papers yet?"
"I don't read in my sleep."
t


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 119
soon will be. Is the secret dying with them? Not damn likely.
Come across, Larry."
"When you get your weekly idea Keating, you wear it thin
trying to make it last till the next one hatches. Try a new
record."
Inspector Keating saw nothing funny in the remark.
"If I suggested that you knew the Poacher," he said unex-
pectedly, "how near would I be to the truth?"
Larry laughed openly. "When you were a kid, Keating,
someone dropped your bonnet and your head was inside it."
And that was all Keating elicited. He was still swearing as
he strolled along South Audley Street in the direction of the
Raith home. Oddly enough the first person he encountered,
almost outside the house, was Barbara.
"Not at me?" she smiled and he apologized.
"No, at the particular swine before whom some perfectly
good pearls have been cast. Seen the papers yet?"
She shook her head and he silently cursed himself. Un-
wittingly he had reminded her that the papers might contain
other news than that of the robbery at Raith House. Look-
ing at her contritely he saw that she was dressed in a neat
tailor-made costume of gray material, a compromise with the
black of full mourning.
"You're out early after a late night."
"Yes, I didn't sleep much," she admitted. "Sleeping isn't
my strong point somehow. This is the place that was robbed,
isn't it? Molly mentioned it this morning."
"Yes. I'm going in. I bet that old she cat is raising hell this
morning. Sorry Barbara, I'm riled."
"You know, most of my acquaintances call me Miss Teyst,"
she said.
"I'm not an acquaintance, I'm a guardian angel."
"Does that give you the privilege of calling your earthly
charges by their Christian names?"
"Up till now," he retorted, plunging off at a tangent, "I've


120 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
called young Wade everything but his Christian name. Which
reminds me. Would you like to see the inside of one of Eng-
land's ancestral homes?"
She nodded, and taking her arm he accompanied her up the
steps leading to the porch of Raith House, and rang the bell.
To the butler who appeared, he tendered a request to see
Lady Raith.
They were not left long to admire the huge rather over-
decorated hall. From the far end swept the tall stately figure
of England's most indefatigable hostess, and scandalmonger.
Lady Raith's chief claims to facial distinction were a nose
and a chin that threatened to meet at any moment. Her only
recreation was giving parties to discuss the shortcomings of
those people not invited, and her only genuine emotion was
a hatred of Mrs. Benton Hesse, whose company she loathed,
but whose money she coveted.
"You are from Scotland Yard, I believe. You wished to see
me?" she asked harshly.
With her assets depleted to the tune of three thousand
pounds, or its equivalent, her aristocratic veneer was less in
evidence than usual.
Keating bowed.
"Has anything fresh been discovered?"
"Unfortunately, no. This is Miss Brown of the 'Morning
Post.' We called to try and clear up a small point."
Barbara allowed the artistic lie to pass unchallenged and
watched interestedly as Keating produced a photograph which
until recently had adorned the wall of Larry Wade's bedroom.
"Can you tell me if this resembles one of your servants or
your guests?" he asked, and proffered it.
"Not at all," said Lady Raith, after a brief scrutiny.
She held out the photograph and with a quick "May I?"
Barbara took it and studied it.
"Was this man the thief?" rasped Lady Raith.


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 121
"I hope so," Keating returned. "You're sure you don't rec-
ognize him?"
"Of course, but in common with other hostesses I may
have entertained him unawares amongst my many guests. The
practice is known as 'gate-crashing' I believe, and it is one of
the curses of the age. I am certain I detected that perfectly
odious Mrs. Benton Hesse last night with the Duke of Banff's
party, and she's the last woman I should dream of inviting."
Under the impression that Barbara was a reporter she en-
larged on her theme so expansively that Keating cursed his
own inspiration. He eventually escaped and came out on the
pavement wiping his forehead.
"That," he grunted, "is one of England's stately hostesses.
Stately is right. She's about as graceful as a fawn—with rick-
ets. And her hair has gone red with worry since I last saw
it."
"Her hair's not dyed. It's been murdered," grinned Bar-
bara.
It was then that he noticed that Barbara had still retained
the photograph of Larry, and gently possessed himself of it.
"Don't you start getting a G.P. for that bright lad," he
admonished. "He's all bad and then some."
Before she could answer he turned on his heel and sug-
gested that they should stroll into Oxford Street and have
some coffee.
She assented eagerly and he led her to a little underground
cafe where he was apparently a well-known and welcome
visitor.
"I ought to be making out my report," he said as they sat
there sipping their coffee, "and that reminds me, you'll have
to attend an inquest in a few days. I'll see that it's not too
much of an ordeal, but naturally you'll be needed as a rela-
tion and witness."
She nodded ruefully. "My relations are a pretty lot," she
said thoughtfully.


122 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
"They are. I'm going to see one to-day."
"Who?"
"Ian. And as I hate traveling in the Squad's cars it'll mean
a train which is nearly as bad."
"Squad?" she asked, and he told her something of the gen-
eral uses of the Flying Squad.
"And it doesn't make life any easier to bear," he continued.
"Sitting in one of those darn cars is purgatory. You can't
admire the scenery. You're too busy reckoning up what the
Insurance Company will pay your relatives after the
funeral."
"How would it be if I ran you down in my car?"
"A bad look out for my bereaved widow," he grinned.
"As a humorist you're unexcelled. Will you come down
with me?"
"Are you fit to drive?" he asked.
"Of course. I drove right on top of that business last
night."
"Good, that's settled." He stared at her with a mixture of
relief and admiration. She had taken her gruel well, and above
all things Inspector Keating admired pluck.
"It'll be interesting seeing Ian again," she reflected. "I
haven't seen him since I was a kid. I was about fourteen when
I last visited Streatham."
"And I hope you'll be forty before you do it again. Streat-
ham's too near Brixton, and Brixton is no place for a lady.
It's full of burglars. Even the police 'pinch' people."
"You're making me nervous."
"Sorry. In any case we're not going to Streatham, Ian's at
Reigate."
"George's place?" she asked curiously.
"Right in one. Ian has taken possession. Apparently the
place was willed to him."
"It's a lovely house," she murmured.
"So it ought to be. You can afford good things when some-


124 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
yet. That's because I'm not a matinee idol like our young
friend Wade."
"What about him?" she asked interestedly.
"Conforms to type," he replied. "Got all the qualities I
have enumerated. That's a good word. I suppose I do mean
'enumerated' or is it 'enunciated?'"
"You were talking about Larry Wade," she prompted, and
he looked at her suspiciously.
"The fell spell is beginning to work," he grunted. "If his
photo will do that, you'd better watch your step when you
meet him. He's a wrong 'un."
"Meaning a crook?"
"Meaning just that. Ever heard of a gang boss?"
"Are you telling me that that boy is a gangster?" she asked
incredulously. "I don't believe you."
"Oh, figure of Fairbanks. Oh, nose of Novello," he
moaned. "I knew it. Cast off Barbara, he's all bad, I tell you."
She gave her attention to the road for some time.
"I didn't know there was such a thing as gang war in
England," she said at length.
"No, my dear," Keating murmured, "but thinking of all
the things you don't know would give you a headache. There
are at least two prominent gangs in London at perpetual war-
fare. Larry runs one of them. The crew of thugs who oper-
ate in Aldgate, Houndsditch and the Minories. Surprises
you?"
"It does seem strange," she admitted. "How old is he?"
"Twenty-five," Keating grunted. "He admires bobbed hair,
believes in vitamins and reads Michael Arlen. For further in-
formation see 'Home Chat.' Believe me Barbara you've got
Larry all wrong. He's no squire of dames. There was a girl
once—she turned out to be a decoy of the Shadwell and Step-
ney bunch. We had rather a busy time when he found out."
"But he looks too refined to mix with Aldgate toughs."
"He is. He's the man on top. Mixes with the nobs and


CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The little woman started and a peculiar expression crossed
her face. It was not fear, neither was it actual dislike, but it
was a cross between the two. Nevertheless she stood aside and
motioned them to enter.
"Will you wait in here, please?" she asked, indicating a
large sunny room on the left overlooking the main road.
"What names?"
"And that horse won't jump, either," grinned Keating.
"Come on 'Mrs. Brownrigg.' I'm in a hurry."
The old lady's eyes glittered.
"You never did know how to address a lady," she snapped.
"I don't have to," Keating grunted. "You'd never be a
lady unless they could make your old man a peer, and the
only time they ever made him 'appear' was before a beak at
Vine Street."
To which she made no reply. She had lost her flashily
garbed husband at about the same time that she began to lose
her figure, but her love had survived his death, and Keating
had touched a raw spot.
She withdrew silently and he turned to find Barbara re-
garding him with a disapproving expression.
"Why liken that dear old soul to the infamous Mrs. Brown-
rigg?" she asked.
"Why not?"
"Well, she seems rather nice and homely."
"Yes, about as nice as veronal and as homely as a python.
She's the woman who put all the harm in charm, and she's
been the life and soul of one or two little funerals in her
time."
126


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 127
"Meaning?"
"She was housekeeper to two old gentlemen who died," he
said, and added, "from no apparent cause."
"But that's not remarkable."
"No, but that Kate Alice should have been sole beneficiary
under their wills, was more than remarkable. It was engi-
neered!"
She looked a little shocked. "And her husband?"
"Sam? Oh, Sam was an engraver."
"That sounds quite respectable and rather clever."
"Yes, he was so clever that the Bank of England offered
five hundred pounds reward for his capture," he retorted, and
gave her a brief outline of the gentle art of forging and ut-
tering.
"Sam was five feet of fraud, with more personality than
prospects," he continued morosely. "I never knew why he
married Kate Alice. Anyway, it was a case of love at first
slight. He left her for some other wench, and never went
back to her. I reckon he found that absence made the heart
grow fonder, of absence. He was eventually hanged for
murder!"
Before she could answer Ian entered the room, and his
expression on seeing Keating betrayed no overwhelming
pleasure.
"Well?" he asked uncompromisingly.
"Pretty fair," admitted Keating. "A little cold. We've been
driving."
That was the first intimation of the "we" that Ian had re-
ceived. He stared past Keating at Barbara and without recog-
nizing her, unbent a little.
"I beg your pardon. I had no idea that any one besides the
Inspector was present."
There was a rather awkward pause while he stood there
obviously expecting Keating to introduce them. Which caused


128 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
Keating, who had no intention of doing any such thing, in-
finite pleasure.
At length Barbara moved forward into the light.
"Don't you recognize me, Ian?" she asked.
He stared hard.
"Good Lord, it's Barbara," he jerked out and took her prof-
fered hand. "This is a surprise. I'd never have recognized
you."
"And I," she replied, "would have recognized you any-
where."
"The famous leave a deep impression," murmured Keating.
He had been about to say "infamous" but thought better of
it.
Ian held the girl away from him and looked at her admir-
ingly.
"Quite the woman about town," he said.
"Don't be paternal," she pleaded. "I can't stand it."
"Still cheeky," he smiled.
"Nor reminiscent. It makes you look older than you are,
and me seem younger than I am. When a girl drops her
skirts she drops her past."
"And when she puts up her hair, her nose goes with it,"
Keating observed in a detached tone.
"What are you doing here, anyway, Barbara?" Ian asked,
and his expression quite plainly added, "with a police In-
spector."
Keating correctly interpreted the other's look and grinned.
"She doesn't run true to type, Ian. Any of your men folk
would have been called informers if they'd shown a taste for
busies. As for her business here, she drove me down. You and
I have got one or two things to talk about."
"What could be nicer?" Ian wondered. "Shall we go to my
room? There's a fire there."
He escorted them across the hall to the room that had once
been the colonel's study. It was essentially a man's room and
>


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 129
consequently devoid of interest to any but its normal occu-
pant, but the cheery fire interested the newcomers. At least
it interested Barbara, and she saw nothing but a manservant
in the tall, rather weak faced man who was putting coal on
the fire.
Keating saw something more and his eyes narrowed.
"Well, if it isn't Clem," he said delightedly. "Taken to
breaking coal instead of safes, Clem?"
The man looked up swiftly with every vestige of expres-
sion wiped from his face.
"Ain't he de cute lil feller," he drawled. "Full of wise cracks
ain't you—you sap!"
He literally spat the last word and his sudden change of
expression startled Barbara.
It had no effect on Keating, or Ian.
"Jose de Mello is still looking for you, Clem," continued
Keating amusedly. "He thought that safe of his was burglar
proof. You've wounded his amour propre. That's rather good.
I must tell Kaye that one. Anyway an Argentine banker's
vanity is not a safe thing to monkey with, Clem, even for a
fellow who spends his life monkeying with safes."
"Banana oil," retorted Clem politely. "De only safe I ever
cracked was de one at de dames' flat and dat was a cold store
for de joint."
"Straight from the Y.M.C.A., Barbara," jeered Keating.
"Meet Clem Wade. Incidentally, brother of our mutual
friend Larry."
"Pleased to meetcha," said Clem coolly. "You don't have
to take no notice of dat poor hick, miss. Nor you ain't got
no call to have him trailing along wid youse. He ain't fit com-
p'ny fer a swell jane like youse."
"Thank you," smiled Barbara and Clem's admiration be-
came a little more obvious.
"That's the only thing Clem and Larry have in common,"


130 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
interjected Keating. "The name. They've both got an accent,
only Larry's is Oxford. The same applies to their brains."
Clem spat sideways into the fire.
"Dat egg sure gives me de heebies," he derided. "Always
crabbing about Larry, Miss. I admit Larry's all dere from de
bell where brains is concerned, but he ain't cornered dem.
Fleapowder's got a grouch because I hands him de air every
time dere's a mill."
With which sapient but to Barbara, totally unintelligible
remark, he turned to Ian, who had remained a silent, amused
spectator.
"Want anything more?" he demanded.
"Only your withdrawal," Ian answered and Clem nodded.
"Sure," he agreed and slouched out.
Keating watched him go, speculatively, and glanced at Ian.
"Running a remand home or reforming crooks? You'll find
it hard going."
"Think so?"
"Sure. When the blind lead the blind, they're liable to get
run over," Keating explained and added meaningly, "by one
of the Squad's cars."
He pulled a chair forward for Barbara and seated himself
on the edge of an adjacent table.
"Nice little home you've got here," he said comfortably,
helping himself to a cigarette from the silver box on the
table.
"I had," corrected Ian. "It seems to have changed owners."
"Nice situation," murmured Keating placidly.
"Possibly, but you didn't come twenty miles to tell me
that?"
"No, and I didn't come twenty miles to tell you that one
of your brothers is dead and the other about to be hanged,
but you may as well know it."
Ian took the blow well, but his face went very white and
his voice when he spoke was strained.


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 133
see that nobody steals your wrist watch or poisons your por-
ridge, he's welcome."
Keating's lips curled.
"About as welcome as a bee in the wrong hive," he grinned.
"What do you say, Barbara?"
"I say, yes. And I think I can look after myself, Mr.
Keating."
"Make it Sam," he pleaded, "and I'll stay too."
"Stay as long as you like, Barbara," Ian invited.
"If you'll repeat your earlier offer about the home," said
Barbara suddenly, "I think I'll say yes to that too. I can't go
back to Brook Street, somehow."
Ian inclined his head.
"I'll be glad to have you. We get good golf, tennis and
swimming down here. Of course, it may seem a bit quiet after
London. We live a rather peaceful and uneventful life."
"Very," commented Keating drily. "We only murder on
Fridays, but what's a corpse or two among friends? If you're
looking for peace and quiet, Barbara, you've struck a good
patch here."
His host smiled good-temperedly.
"Perhaps you'd like some tea? After your drive you must
be cold. I can promise you that it won't be doctored." The
last mockingly to Keating.
"No, thanks, I'm going down to the town to find my room
for the night," answered Keating.
"Staying at the White Hart?" Ian asked politely.
"I don't think I'll tell you where. I don't want my rest
broken."
Barbara who was, womanlike, dying for a cup of tea de-
cided nevertheless to sacrifice it. There were one or two ques-
tions she wanted to ask Keating.
"I'll go with you," she offered. "I can run you down in the
car and we can get tea in the town."
If Ian guessed her reasons for that statement he did not


134 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
betray it. He stood aside for them to pass, but Keating made
no move to do so.
"After you."
"The courteous Inspector," grinned Ian.
"The cautious Inspector," Keating corrected pointedly.
"I'd sooner be a boor and live to bore."
Ian led the way but Barbara saw his frown.
At Keating's request, Barbara drove him to a small inn just
outside the town and after he had booked his room, drove
slowly back, and up the hill to the woods.
They left the car in a secluded little shelter and strolled
along a carpet of pine needles beneath the trees.
Keating paused suddenly to light a cigarette and, having
done so squatted down on a tree trunk.
"If I were you, little Barbara," he said thoughtfully, "I'd
book a room at the White Hart."
She looked down surprised.
"Why?"
"Dunno. I get hunches sometimes and I've got one now,"
said Keating. "Ask me what a hunch is."
"I know what it is, but not why you've got one," she re-
plied. "Can you give me one good reason why I shouldn't
stay with Ian?"
"I can give you three."
"And they are?"
He ticked them off on his fingers.
"One, Clem Wade. East side gunman and con. man. Con.
man," he explained, "is Yankee for confidence man."
"I know. Is Clem really Larry's brother?"
"They had the same mother," he answered humorously.
"Two, Alice Kate Greer. Years ago she ran a 'house' till we
made it too hot for her. Then she became refined and took to
baby farming with her husband, 'Flash' Sam Greer. After he
left her she became housekeeper to two old gentlemen with


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 135
fatal results to the two old gentlemen. Makes you think,
eh?"
"It doesn't seem possible," she admitted. "And the third?"
"Third what?"
"Reason."
"Because I ask you to," he answered, "and I know what
I'm talking about. That house is as dangerous for you as it is
for me. A few minutes ago you were talking to a thug who'd
shed no tears if he heard the 'Dead March' from 'Saul' played
at my funeral. He's the kind of plug ugly who'd stop robbing
a bank to come and lay a wreath on my grave. Ask me what
a plug ugly is."
"I know. I'm one of those good little girls who reads her
Edgar Wallace."
"I seem to have heard that name somewhere," Keat-
ing ruminated. "Well, think it over, girlie."
But her decision remained unalterable.
They walked back to the car in the dusk and she backed
out and drove back to the road without speaking.
Halfway home she pulled up suddenly as a figure stepped
out into the road. It was she who recognized Clem first, but
he paid little attention to her. Walking up to the car he prof-
fered a buff envelope to Keating.
"This came after you left."
"Never thought you'd be doing me a good turn, Clem,"
chaffed Keating.
"P'raps I'm not."
Keating slit the envelope and his lips twisted in a smile as
he read.
"All right, Barbara," he said. "Start the procession again."
She slipped in the clutch and moved past the scowling
Clem. As she drove, Keating spread the telegram for her to
read.
"'Keep out of this Keating'," she read wonderingly.


136 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
"'Two people can't play the same game when one of them
happens to be the Poacher.'"
She gave her attention to the road again.
"What's it mean?" she demanded. "Is he implying that
you're a crook?"
"No, translated from the celebrated doggerel of the under-
world it means that I'm poaching on his preserves. So I am,
but with a different object. It is not worth while trying to
trace this. I should probably find that it had been delivered
by a grubby urchin who was paid to do so, and who could
not describe the man who gave it to him."
He folded the telegram carefully.
"I've got seventy-three of these little souvenirs," he said.
"Thirty-two of the people who wrote them are either dead
or in prison."
"And the others?"
"Thirty-six of them have served their sentences and are
out again planning more threats. Two of the remaining five
that I didn't get are Larry Wade and Ian Teyst. There's time
yet."
He spoke little after that and left her at the gate of the
lodge.
As she left the garage after putting her car away, Clem
Wade came up the drive and halted beside her.
"Dat cop will sure get his fer keeps one day," he said
cryptically and passed on.


138 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
of the blue slip that Dennis had received from the Colonel.
Now he speculated no longer. He was willing to wager that
Mr. Lawrence Wade knew something of its whereabouts.
He was so preoccupied that Barbara's exit passed unnoticed.
She herself was not sorry to escape. The strain of trying to
appear natural when the shadow of Dennis's death lay so
close, was too great.
She stepped out into the garden with a sense of freedom.
Nature seemed to be doing its best to make her forget and
the old adage "where every prospect pleases and only man is
vile," flashed into her mind. Very aptly. At that moment the
"vileness" made itself apparent in the form of Clem Wade.
She was not aware of his presence until a hearty voice be-
hind her announced that it was a "fine morning, sister."
"It is," she agreed, and speculated idly on what form this
morning's attack would take. She was not unaware that to
quote Clem's crude but forceful remark, "he had fallen good
and hard for her." She knew it and, womanlike, was amused.
Not flattered, but probably not entirely indifferent. No wom-
an scorns a capture, however mean, but this morning she
could have faced with equanimity the loss of at least one de-
voted slave. Which was unfortunate because Clem was in an
amorous mood.
"De sort of morning," he said, elaborating his earlier
theory, "dat makes youse feel kinda good to live."
"It does."
"Makes youse feel kind of sentimental."
Barbara reversed the formula tactfully.
"Does it?"
"Sure does," he replied, conscious that the atmosphere was
not too cordial, but persevering. "Say I bin thinking.
Couldn't we get together a bit more?"
"Not much, I'm afraid," she laughed and edged away.
Clem was uncomfortably close and, unless she was a poor
judge of his kind, approaching the mauling stage.


140 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
"If any odder guy was to crab my game like youse, boss, he'd
kiss de canvas quick."
"Get this Clem," Ian retorted evenly. "If you're thinking
of founding a dynasty of little gun men pick on someone
else for your soul-mate. Now sit tight and listen. See this?"
He passed the paper he had been reading to his disgruntled
henchman, and Clem after a struggle managed to master the
paragraph Ian had indicated.
He whistled his appreciation.
"So dat's where Dennis was croaked, Boss."
"Your masterly intuition," yawned Ian and was rewarded
with a scowl.
"Oh, can de clever stuff, boss, what's de graft? Where'll we
come in on de deal?"
"This afternoon you're going to town and you're going to
watch Larry's place."
"Sure, dat's all right wid me."
"Watch your chance and then overhaul the flat."
"Sure," said Clem patiently, "but what's de boy gonna
lose?"
"A strip of paper like that," Ian replied, handing the other
the strip that he had received from the Colonel.
"Don't make sense to me," grunted Clem. "Where'll I look
boss?"
"Everywhere. Assuming you get into the flat. You won't
get that far if you park yourself on the doorstep and wait till
Larry recognizes you. He'd do it quicker than anyone."
"Nix on dat. De guy ain't born what looks less innercent
dan me when I'm on de job."
Ian wasn't so sure. "I should advise you to fix your face
up so that your own mother wouldn't recognize it. I don't
suppose she wants to now, anyhow."
"Quit riding me, boss," Clem pleaded. "How do I get in?
Youse got a master key?"


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 141
"No, send Larry a card and he'll leave the door open for
you!"
Clem grinned weakly. "All right. I knows when I'm beat.
I busts de lock, eh?"
Ian nodded. "And mind your step. There's a certain Mr.
Brown of Whitehall, who has practically taken up his home
in the drive. It would be as well to lose him when you get to
town."
"Dat guy gives me de heebies," Clem derided. "He's de
Yard's worst man and just nacherally dumber than anything
we got at Headquarters on de odder side."
Ian smiled. "Get going then."
"Sure," agreed Clem and retired.
He left the house directly after lunch and Detective Ser-
geant Brown observing the leisurely approach of a gentleman
wearing a tweed cap, loose Raglan coat and furthermore a
pair of golf hose of particularly pronounced pattern, very
nearly dismissed him as one of the sporting set that lived near-
by. Very nearly, but not quite.
He turned leisurely and followed.
Clem would have had no regrets at foregoing the society
of the watchful if nonchalant Mr. Brown of Whitehall, but
the latter's presence in no way disturbed the American.
He was more than surprised and not a little amused when
the Yard man entered the same carriage, and even dallied
with the idea of chaffing the other on the obvious way in
which he carried out his job.
At Cannon Street Brown was still following behind and
Clem amused himself by crossing from side to side to see how
often the Yard man would follow him.
Tiring at length of this he signalled a passing taxi and
ordered the man to drive to the Barbican, giving him half a
crown beforehand.
"Dere's a guy follering me," he said meaningly. "A gun-
man, and I reckon on shaking him between here and de Bar-


142 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
bican. If you miss me on de journey keep right on. Get
me?"
"This other bloke ain't a cop is 'e?" the cabman asked
dubiously.
"No, but I am," said Clem. "Ever heard of 'Bull' Dugan
of Headquarters?"
"Meaning the Yard?"
"No. New York." Clem showed a badge formerly the prop-
erty of Captain Dugan of the New York Police, and jumped
into the taxi. As they moved forward he peered through the
little square of mica at the back of the cab and with undis-
guised amusement watched Brown charter a cab and continue
the pursuit.
Clem chuckled pleasantly and leaning back in his seat pro-
ceeded to make a few necessary changes in his appearance.
Stripping off the Raglan coat he disclosed a pair of legs cov-
ered, not by plus fours as Brown had supposed from the loud
stockings, but by ordinary gray trousers—neatly rolled up
above the knees—which he unfastened and shook down. His
coat and waistcoat, hitherto concealed, were of the same suit.
From the pocket of the Raglan he produced a rolled up trilby
and hastily restoring it to its normal shape he set it on his
head and stuffed the tweed cap into a pocket. Finally he
turned the Raglan inside out and it became a smart blue
trench coat. From an inside pocket he took a newspaper and
made a small slit in it.
His preparations complete he looked out cautiously and saw
that they were in Aldersgate Street, and that Brown's taxi
was still following about fifty yards in the rear.
Waiting until his own taxi turned into the Barbican, Clem
swiftly slipped out on to the running board, slammed the
door and dropped off.
A few seconds later Brown's taxi shot by, its occupant en-
tirely unaware of the fact that the man in gray lounging on


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 145
the pavement watching his passage through a slit in the news-
paper he held, was the man he was pursuing.
As Brown's taxi vanished, Clem lowered his paper, folded
it carefully, turned into Angel Crescent and made for Lou
Staam's junk shop. He had barely entered when old Lou him-
self shambled forth from the dark counter at the back of the
shop and peered at his customer.
"Vun of de poys, hein?" he purred. "Vat is it you vants,
Clem?"
"Say son, c'n youse fix me up so's me own sister wouldn't
spot me?"
Lou chuckled. "Vat shall it be? I haf de complede blind
man outfit, hein?"
He rummaged about and produced an eye shade, a tin mug,
and a green card bearing the legend, "TOTALLY BLIND."
"I let you have dese for ten shillun only. Seexpence de
mug, seexpence de card and a shillun de eye shade. And seven
and seex de leetle dog. Eees license costs dat. If you wait, I
get heem."
"Nix on dat," grinned Clem. "I may have to move me
quick and I ain't gettin' dis child mixed up wid a hound's
leash."
Lou accepted the rebuff equably and produced a battered
violin.
"You play deese? I let heem out cheap. Fifteen shillun"
"Nix, I ain't no tune pedlar," grunted Clem. " 'Sides you
gotta stand at dat job."
"You don' like to stand, hein? I haf de bath chair wid de
leetle toy balloons."
"Me? I'd sure look fine and dandy trailin' a bath chair wid
half de Yard after me."
Lou paused thoughtfully.
"De barrel organ is out," he ruminated. "Chorley de Nose
have heem. Vy not de pavemen' artis' hein?" He chuckled
delightedly. "De very ting. You don' like to stand, hein?


144 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
Good, you seet. Very easy—just seet and wait for de money
to roll in. Pleasure wid profit."
"Dat's all right," Clem nodded, "but I ain't no paint
slinger, Lou."
"Nor is any of de poys," grinned the old man. "I lease de
pictures out to dem at a shillun a time and seexpence de bag
of chalks. You can draw a loaf, yes?"
"Sure, I could draw dat."
"Fine. Den all you got to do is to put onnerneath it, 'Easy
to draw, but hard to get,' and dere you are."
Still chuckling he retired behind the counter to emerge
with a pile of fair sized pictures, all of them battered rem-
nants of what had never been masterpieces of art.
"Here dey are der peauties," he chuckled. "De Prime
Meenister. Very life-like. Oh, very good. You can't have de
Prince of Wales. Dot vun's out. Very popular. All de ladies
geeve tuppence for heen. Only geeve a penny for de Prime
Meenister. Still de fat ole Conservativs always geeve more
for de Prime Meenister."
Clem regarded the "peauties" with the eye of a connoisseur.
"Sure, dey're about my mark," he agreed. "If I was to start
crayon slinging I wouldn't do much worse. Wot's dis dame?"
He indicated a lady with flaming red hair and a low cut
green gown.
"Dat vun? Eesn't she peautiful? Dat is an old master.
Genuine. Portrait of a lady. Have dat one Clem, dat's got
sex appeal."
Clem grunted.
"Will a Britisher fall for dat?"
"He vill. You don' know heem like I do. The Eenglish
genelman, blast heem, is ver' reserved in good society, but
der beast is dere. Else vy is Piccadilly so full of pretty ladies
and plain clothes' polis at nights?"
Clem grinned again, made a hasty selection, and examined
the piece of sacking that contained the chalk.


146 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
coming unendurable. Clem was a companionable soul and
loved his fellow men, and so far he had only exchanged a
few words with the postman who had given his opinion that
"you won't get much 'ere matey. The perishers round 'ere
'ave got it all right but they've got it because they've kept
it." Which was true. Clem, glancing at his earnings at the
end of the five hours, was disgusted.
As darkness gradually enveloped the street he wearily col-
lected his pictures. He had no longer any excuse for staying
and he was beginning to long for a little quiet sleep. He looked
thoughtfully at the lighted window of Larry's flat. It had
occurred to him that his brother might not be going out at
all. The possibility annoyed him and he relieved his feelings
characteristically with a few fluent superlatives that made an
old lady change her mind about a contemplated philanthropic
action.
At the same moment the light in Larry's window went out.
The remaining masterpieces were crammed into the bag
with scant regard for their preservation.
Clem was ten yards away when Larry came out and he
stood in the same position for some minutes, watching his
brother's retreat before he moved slowly towards the flat and
began to busy himself with a small piece of wire.
In a few seconds the door slid open and Clem straightened
up.
At the same moment an amused, familiar voice spoke be-
hind him.
"You shouldn't do it, Clem. You can get three months for
the first offence!"


CHAPTER FIFTEEN
As soon as Clem had left her, Barbara walked around to the
garage and subjected her two seater to a searching examina-
tion. Motoring was Barbara's one hobby and had been prac-
tically the only pleasure she had known in the unfriendly
atmosphere of her daily contact with her father.
It was a glorious morning and standing at the door of the
garage she made a hasty calculation of those necessities that
were absolutely essential to her being and finding that there
were none at all promptly decided to buy them in town.
She was backing out when Ian strolled round the corner
of the house.
"Reigate's female danger to life and limb sets out for the
morning massacre," he chaffed as she pulled up beside him.
She decided that her uncle was rather handsome as he stood
there. He was attired for one of his long walks, in a tweed
suit with a cap to match, thick shoes and the inevitable walk-
ing stick.
"Going out?" she asked.
"Yes, and more decorously than you will, I hope. Don't
take that gate with you this time." Which was an allusion to
a close shave on the previous day.
Barbara grinned cheerfully.
"Can I give you a lift anywhere?" she asked.
"In that car? No thanks. Are you likely to be in to lunch?"
She thought it over. "No, I don't think so. I'm going into
Knightsbridge."
"Shopping? Shall we see you at tea?"
"No, I don't think so. "Why the catechism? Are you anx-
ious to have my company or merely anxious to avoid it?"
147


148 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
"Neither," he smiled. "Mrs. Greer informs me that she
particularly wishes to see 'Flaming Hearts,' at the local cin-
ema, and wants to make an early start. If you're going to be
in to dinner to-night"
"I'm not. I'm dining out."
"Alone?"
"No, with an Inspector of the C.I.D.," she grinned mis-
chievously.
Ian's brows contracted and she was conscious of a sudden
coolness in his voice.
"You see too much of Keating," he said slowly.
"Only as much as convention decrees," she mocked and
let in the clutch.
Ian frowned and raised his cap without speaking.
The snub did not worry her. A swift run into town tinged
her cheeks with pink and her heart with the joy of living.
In the peculiar fascination of»Kensington she speedily forgot
Ian's snub. More than one person turned to look at the smart
youngster in her neat car as it moved up the High Street.
A perfect morning's shopping and a perfect lunch that
sent her forth with renewed ardor to bargain basements,
filled in the day till tea time and then a leisurely drive along
the Embankment with an occasional pause to watch the old
gray river, left her little time to get back to Oxford Street
and Inspector Keating.
He was waiting for her outside the "Baccus" as she drove
up and she did not fail to mark the appreciation in his eyes
as he helped her to alight.
In the restaurant he had reserved a wall table in an alcove,
that allowed them to watch the sunken dancing floor.
There were roses on the table and she read the signs aright
and womanlike, smiled. There was little doubt that he had
taken pains over the choosing of the dinner and the wines
that accompanied it, and on the whole she found him a some-
thing more than pleasant companion. Sitting back content-


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 149
edly she listened to his rather slow matter-of-fact voice as he
pointed out various celebrities. Here a sporting Dean, there a
famous writer, and on the dance floor a member of the dip-
lomatic service, dancing with a famous woman surgeon. Fi-
nally he drew her attention to a lanky youth with remarka-
bly abundant hair and remarkably little chin, who was mov-
ing round the room in a semi-trance with a woman twice his
age.
"The last of the mad Steynings," he said casually, "and a
cousin of yours."
She looked down interestedly. "The name seems familiar,"
she said.
"It ought to be. It was your mother's."
She sat up at that.
"Steyning?" she said incredulously and laughed to cover
her embarrassment. "You see, I know pitifully little about my
mother. You knew her, didn't you?"
"Everybody knew Ellie. She was the only Steyning who
didn't die mad, but she would have done if she had lived
with Ralph long."
He asked her permission to smoke—a little courtesy that
she would not have expected in Keating—and proffered his
case.
"I can't think where I have heard the name," she pondered,
as he lit her cigarette.
"The Earl of Steyning died last week. In a madhouse. It
was in all the papers. All the Steynings die mad."
"Thanks. I'm a direct descendant. Am I connected with
the belted Earl?"
"Your grandfather."
She pondered for a while.
"I seem to think of them in connection with the stage,"
she offered at last.
"Right in once," he grinned back. "Your mother—the


150 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
Ellie Steyning—was an actress and a famous one before she
met Ralph."
"An aristocrat and an actress seems rather incongruous."
"It isn't. Half the present nobility were on the boards once
and the other half would have been, only their faces wouldn't
let 'em."
She smoked silently, gazing out of the window at her side
into the fast darkening street. She was beginning to wonder
what the Inspector's assiduous attentions meant. She was even
wondering if he would make love to her as she sat there, but
he seemed to find his own thoughts engrossing and after a
considerable silence she looked up.
"Penny for them?"
He came out of his reflections and spoke mockingly.
"They're worth seven and six. At least if you want to buy
one the license costs that. It's the old story. The way to a
woman's heart always lies through a man's pocket."
"A woman? How thrilling. Who's the fortunate girl?"
"You. And not so fortunate either. I've been thinking it's
about time you weighed anchor and sailed out of Reigate."
"Any port in a storm," she shrugged.
"Some ports go to the head," he said severely. "Reigate's
one."
"But why?" she protested. "I'm quite comfortable there.
Anybody would think Ian was a perfect monster."
"And 'anybody' knows his world," he grunted. "There's
buckets of trouble hatching for the Yard at Reigate. For in-
stance, Clem Wade went to town to-day and what's more he
gave that bone-head, Brown, the slip. There's something in
the wind."
"Rain," she suggested and pointed to the dark clouds over-
head.
But her companion's train of thought was not so easily
visible from the window beside her.
"I'd like to think you were clear of that crew before Kaye


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 151
and I have a clear-out at Reigate," he pursued doubtfully.
"You wouldn't look well in the dock, Barbara."
"Don't worry. I shan't ever get that far. And talking of
the mysterious Kaye, aren't you going to tell me something
about him? What is he, a sort of super Sherlock Holmes?"
"Never heard of him," Keating grunted, "but Kaye's a
super, all right. I thought half England had heard about
Superintendent Kaye."
"Heard—yes."
"But not seen, eh? That's all to the good. Most of the people
who see Kaye—see him too late."
"Tell me something about him," she urged.
He blew out a cloud of cigarette smoke and looked at her
quizzically.
"Well, he's the cousin of a Duke whose blood is not half
so blue as his financial outlook."
"That's not much of a description and anyway Dukes mean
nothing to the granddaughter of a belted Earl. Anything
else? I suppose he's got a face and a figure just like a red-
blooded man?"
"I never describe Kaye," he said with an oblique glance.
"If he got too well known, he'd get something else. Lead
poisoning."
She saw the allusion to a bullet and was intrigued.
"You're very mysterious. I'm quite interested in the brainy
Kaye. I'd like to meet a pukka detective."
"Enjoy the view," he invited, turning benevolently.
"Oh, but you're not mysterious enough."
"Nor's Kaye. He looks like a bartender and writes verses."
"What about? Dartmoor re-visited?"
"Dunno. I only eat tripe," he grinned. "He's always quot-
ing bilge from his poet friends. Harry Stotle is one of 'em.
And there's a feller called Homer. Kaye wants me to read his
Odd Essay."


152 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
She repressed a smile and asked with difficulty, "Who is
this Homer?"
"A Greek. Probably a fence. Most Greeks are. I prefer
wops. And wops are Italians, only Kaye calls some of 'em
Romans."
A glance at his watch told him that it was a quarter past
eight, and summoning a waiter he asked for his bill.
"Can I take you back?" he asked.
"No, thanks. I think I'll stay on for a little while. Must
you go?"
"Yes, I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me. I've got a call to
pay"
"Social?"
"No, very unsociable."
"Of what nature?"
"Paper chase," was the cryptic reply. "At least I hope so.
It might develop into a wild goose chase though. You don't
follow that, do you?"
"No," she smiled.
"All to the good. There are some things that should be kept
from little girls."
He rose to his feet and held out his hand.
"I'll be seeing you again sometime, Barbara."
"I hope so," she replied demurely and Keating strolled away
wondering what Kaye would have made of the remark had
he heard it.
A brisk walk took him to Brook Street, and it was there
that he discovered the object of Clem Wade's visit to town
that had so puzzled him. It was not until he was three paces
away from the entrance to Larry's block of flats that he saw
the quiet figure working deftly and swiftly in the shadows.
Then it was that he made the remark that startled Clem out
of his wits.
"You shouldn't do it, Clem. You can get three months for
the first offence."


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 153
Clem wheeled swiftly and stared at his amiable enemy.
"And I t'ought de camouflage was guess-proof," he sighed
despondently. "All right, Flea Powder. You sure hold a flush.
What's de play. Me for de cooler I reckon. Someone sure has
stacked the desk against yours disasterously."
He lounged there coolly. Keating certainly "held a flush,"
but they both knew that there was a considerable gap be-
tween the hooking of a fish and the landing.
Clem sparred for an opening.
"What brought you here?" he asked. "I t'ought I slipped
dat poor sap Brown. Last time I saw him he was joy riding
down de East End."
Keating did not see the need to explain that although their
missions might be identical their meeting was accidental. The
train of reasoning that had led the Inspector to suspect that
Dennis had left a clue to the whereabouts of the d'Essinger
emeralds at Larry's flat, was not copyright. He guessed that
Clem—or rather Ian—had arrived at the same conclusion.
It was fairly obvious that Dennis would pass on his share
of the secret to someone else rather than let it die with him or
leave it to Ian, and Larry had been his closest friend. Hence
Keating's interest in Larry's flat.
He looked steadily at Clem, but instead of answering his
question changed the subject.
"What we want is action, Clem," he said and an automatic
pistol appeared suddenly in his right hand. The speed of the
movement dazed Clem.
"Upstairs, Clem," said Keating, and the still amazed crook
obeyed dumbly.
They reached the landing on which Larry's flat was situ-
ated and Keating called a halt.
"What's de lay, boss?" Clem queried.
"You're going to use illegal skill for legal purposes," Keat-
ing retorted. "I want that door opened."


154 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
Clem moved obediently forward. As he worked he spoke
over his shoulder.
"Rum thing, law," he said ironically. "Youse can get pro-
motion for instructin' me to do somefin' dat'll get me three
months. What's de idea? Going ter give me brudder's flat de
once-over?"
"Ask yourself. Anything I do'll be for Larry's good. Even
hanging him. Whereas you aren't doing any one any good—
except Clem Wade."
"Ain't done him exactly proud," grinned Clem and bent to
the task of opening the door.
"Here's me doing me little best to beat de Poacher to dis
job," he said, "and I gits beat to it by de Yard."
Keating frowned. He also had been thinking of the Poach-
er. That elusive person was hanging on the fringe of the case
and it was not unlikely that the mysterious stranger had ar-
rived at the same result as Clem and himself. Or worse still,
forestalled them.
Clem's thoughts ran a parallel course.
"Talking of that louse, de Poacher's got it coming to him,"
he said meditatively. "I seen better things than him crawling
up de walls of East Side speakeasies. One day Headquarters is
gonna raise a screech if youse don't fix dat bird."
Keating scowled and chanced his arm.
"When I do fix him, you're going to be short of one big
brother."
"Meaning dat Larry's de Poacher? Nix on dat." Clem
chuckled. The idea struck him as funny.
And on the other side of the door it amused the Poacher
even more, only his amusement was of a very silent variety.
The flat was in darkness and the only sounds were those
made by Keating and Clem in the corridor.
Silently the man inside the room fell back step by step
until he reached the table. Then something seemed to occur
to him. Feeling in his pocket he produced a pencil and taking


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 155
a sheet of paper from the stationery rack on the table, he
wrote swiftly. Placing the sheet in the center of the table
he retreated to the window.
For a moment he stood there, a slim gray figure whose eyes
were shaded by the down-turned brim of a slouch hat and
whose mouth was muffled by a gray silk scarf. Then he
climbed out of the window and lowered himself to the out-
house roof a few feet below. He succeeded in closing the
window exactly two seconds before Clem, with Keating close
on his heels, entered the room.
Keeping Clem in front of him Keating reached for the
switch, and in the sudden glare of the light the two men
looked at each other blankly, and at the disordered room even
more blankly.
Barely two minutes earlier they had been speculating on
what they now knew to be the solid truth.
"The Poacher," whispered Clem, and Keating without
knowing why, was in agreement. Something in the manner
in which they had been forestalled suggested that wily young
man.
He strode forward and stared at the Utter of papers, over-
turned drawers and displaced furniture that lay about the
room.
Directly opposite the table a chair had been drawn up and
a sudden thought occurred to Keating. He felt the seat of the
chair and discovered, as he had suspected, that it was still
warm.
It could be only a matter of minutes since the Poacher had
left the room. He looked round and his eye fell on the door
leading to the bedroom, which as he knew from a previous
experience led to the bathroom and so to the skylight.
He turned to Clem, "You've got just one chance of sav-
ing yourself from appearing before a beak," he hissed. "See
no one gets past you."
Clem nodded and Keating, moving cautiously, passed into


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 157
"get him good." Even now he could hear Keating clambering
back through the skylight and in the meantime the Poacher
was "beating it."
Clem backed swiftly to the door and, clear of it, took the
stairs three at a time.
He had to get to the end of the block and reach the en-
trance to the mews before the Poacher had time to leave the
alley. In the open street the odds would be less favorable and
this time Clem was not minded to make a mistake. He had
made one once in Birmingham and the laugh had been with
the man he was even then flying to meet. That scar was still
new.
But he was spared the trouble of a dash to the alleyway.
The Poacher must have moved more swiftly than he thought
or else he himself had wasted too much time at the window.
Sufficient it was that there were soft footfalls in the street
and a cautious glance out showed him that his enemy was
walking towards him and taking a scarf from his face!


CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Poacher walking swiftly came abreast of the entrance
to Larry's flat, to halt suddenly as the blinding glare of a
torch struck him full between the eyes.
"Say, I bin waitin' fer this meet up," drawled Clem loung-
ing forward. "You and me—sufferin' snakes, you!"
Clem glared wildly at the face revealed in the light of his
torch for a Second and then moved forward. The step was
his undoing. Two sharp reports synchronized with a sudden
spurt of flame from the Poacher's right hand pocket.
Clem sprawled backwards against the porchway and slid to
the ground as the Poacher with one swift glance at the house
dived across the road into the open doorway of the flat
opposite.
As he disappeared Keating, in profane quest of Clem, blun-
dered down the steps and measured his length over his pros-
trate quarry. He sat up spitting dust and invective.
"Taking a rest?" he snarled and suddenly saw that some-
thing was amiss. Clem's face was twisted with agony and his
voice little more than a croak.
"I'm all—right. Poacher—house opposite—get—" he rolled
sideways.
Keating gave him one quick glance and bounding to his
feet leapt across the road to the house into which he had seen
a vague figure vanish before he fell over Clem.
There was both an outer and an inner door to the entrance
of the flats and both of these stood open. He strode in, draw-
ing his automatic and peered into the darkness of the unlit
lobby. Beyond the fact that there was a flight of stairs he
158


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 159
could distinguish nothing. A cool draught played on his face
and he squinted into the blackness in an effort to trace its
source. Somewhere ahead of him another door was open.
He moved forward and at the same moment a slight sound
on his right made him halt and wheel abruptly to face the
stairs.
"Oh, it's you, is it?" asked a drawling voice and the hall
was suddenly flooded with light.
Inspector Keating found himself looking into the pleasant-
ly smiling face of Larry Wade, who lolled against the lintel
post at the foot of the stairs. Keating grunted his satisfaction
and absentmindedly swung the pistol he held in line with
Larry's hip.
"It looks," he said placidly, "as though I've got something
on you, Larry, at last."
Larry smiled. "I wouldn't bet on it. What do you think
you've got on me?"
"Within the last two minutes the Poacher entered this flat,"
said Keating, "and I followed him and found you!"
Larry's eyes narrowed.
"So it was him? Just a minute, Keating, we've got to search
this ground floor." He made a move to pass the Inspector but
found his path barred.
"And I've got to search you" Keating retorted.
"Don't be a bigger fool than you can help. I tell you we
must search this place."
"Presently, perhaps," agreed Keating. "Up."
Larry bit his lip and raised his hands above his head.
"You'll regret this," he said, and stood there passively.
Keating ran an expert hand over his clothing without find-
ing the gun he sought.
"Satisfied?" asked Larry grimly, as Keating concluded his
search.
"No. Only curious. You and me are going to talk confi-
dentially, Larry."


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 161
"No, sir. Plenty of people passed but nobody in that con-
dition."
"Get back and see if the man on point duty saw anything.
Keep your eye on any areas or likely shelters as you go."
As the man turned away a second constable hurried up
from the other direction and Keating fired out his questions
anew, with a like result. He sent the man back whence he had
come with a similar order.
Ignoring the crowd, he turned to Larry.
"Now we'll go up," he said.
"Yes, after you've roused all Bruton Street," said Larry
walking upstairs. "You shouldn't do it Keating. Brings the
property into disrepute. I shall be asked to leave as an un-
desirable."
"Which'11 be awkward," snarled Keating, "because being
an undesirable you won't have any defence."
The light was still on in Larry's room and he paused in the
doorway to study the wrecked room with grim amusement.
Behind him Larry studied it with even more grimness if less
amusement.
"Gosh, you must have worked hard to muck up the place
like this in five minutes."
"I'll muck you up in less, if you don't sit down and stay
put," Keating growled, kicking the door shut.
Larry sat down and listened to Keating making a report
over the telephone. Concluding, the Inspector perched him-
self on the corner of the table.
"Now, see here, Larry," he said slowly, "let's get things
straight. I want the truth and I'm getting it if you have to
break a life oath or a blood vessel telling it. Have a good
think and tell me how long you were in that flat opposite."
"Inside fifteen minutes."
Keating smiled tolerantly. "Tell that to the coroner. What
did you go there for? And don't pull any of that nice-view-
from-the-top-floor stuff."


162 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
"Nevertheless it's perfectly true. Early this afternoon I
spotted Clem outside my place made up as cunningly as a
provincial actor in his first show. He was still there when I
went out at eight. I walked round, entered the flat opposite
by the back entrance, and watched him pick the lock from
the window on the first floor. Pretty harmless sport, what?"
"Help yourself to a halo," said Keating, helping himself to
a cigarette.
"I saw you arrive," continued Larry, "and go in with Clem
and five minutes later he dashed out and flashed a torch in
the face of an apparently harmless citizen, dressed as far as
I could see, in gray."
"Like you," commented the other dryly, but Larry
ignored the interruption.
"Clem said something to the man and moved closer. Then
the stranger slung a gat, so fast that I never saw it arrive, and
Clem hit the deck. I saw the stranger streak across the road
and enter the flat from which I was watching and then I
dashed downstairs to see who he was and met you. That's all
I know. I guess the other fellow went straight through and
out of the back entrance."
Keating raised his eyes piously to the ceiling.
"Pure as the driven snow," he murmured and added, "after
the thaw's set in."
Larry lighted a cigarette and looked round the disordered
room.
"I hope you didn't have your trouble for nothing," he of-
fered. "I hate to think of you tearing up the lino and only
finding guileless boards."
"Change the record," grunted Keating. "And get it out of
your head that I overhauled your boudoir, will you?"
"Well someone's been playing snakes and ladders here,"
said Larry reproachfully.
"The Poacher."
Larry's eyes lit up angrily. "It's about time you roped that


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 163
bird, Keating. Up to date you aren't earning your keep. What
do you think I pay taxes for?"
"Because you can't help yourself. What was that bird after
here?"
"Probably the diamond necklace I am supposed to have
stolen from the Countess of Raith," Larry fenced. "Do you
know why he was here?"
"I know everything. He wanted that slip of paper that
Dennis left here."
"Why don't they promote you, Keating?" Larry asked
admiringly.
"I'm going up all right and like as not you'll be the first
rung of the ladder I step on. Dennis was up against it. He'd
just croaked a man and doubted if he could get away with it.
What did he do? Passed his share of the secret on to you, in
case he made a bad break. Which he did—that fellow wasn't
such a wizard with a gun as he thought he was." Keating
smiled complacently.
"Are you still telling me why the Poacher raided this flat,"
Larry asked, "or haven't you finished the recitative?"
"He was after what Dennis left here. He had already got
something similar from Ralph, leaving a note in the safe,
which Dennis found. To-day he's beat Clem to it."
"Do you mind talking English? Your American is a little
difficult for a Brooklyn man who doesn't speak Yiddish."
"Very funny," commented Keating, who was rather proud
of his American. "Where was I?"
"God knows, I don't."
Nor did Keating. He smoked thoughtfully and for the first
time noticed the note the Poacher had left. Picking it up he
read it and passed it to Larry. Watching the American read,
a new idea occurred to Keating.
"Fits like the paper on the wall," he said slowly. It did. It
fitted in too with the first theory he had formed when he


164 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
found Larry in the flat opposite, and Samuel Keating was a
man who hated to discard a promising theory.
Taking out a fountain pen he offered it to Larry.
"Write that message down," he invited and Larry, with a
twisted smile, obeyed.
Looking over his shoulder, Keating saw that the other's
writing was a perfect replica of the Poacher's. He grunted. It
was an astute move. He would have had better grounds for
suspecting the other if Larry had written in a totally different
hand, the obvious thing to do.
"Very smart," he said. "I forgot you were a knight of the
pen."
"Forger, eh? So far you've called me everything but a cat-
burglar."
"Plenty of time for that. You've tried everything in your
time from smash and grab raids to long firm frauds."
Keating paused and rallied his ideas. He wanted to expound
the latest phase of his theory while the idea was fresh.
"Supposing the raid on this flat were a blind, Larry, just
supposing," he mused. "The Poacher might have been afraid
that Clem or Ian would find something, and staged a fake
raid to keep them off."
"Fine," agreed Larry warily, with some idea of the direc-
tion in which Keating's thoughts were moving. "Why should
the Poacher protect my flat?"
"Supposing it was his flat."
Larry carefully extinguished his cigarette. "Do you by any
chance know what you're talking about, because I don't?"
Keating studied him gloomily. "Yes I know what I'm talk-
ing about. The Poacher fits you better than any alias you've
ever taken."
"Blast you." Larry was on his feet. "Forging—smash and
grab raids—long firm frauds—pass all those, but murder—
you damned swine. Do you think I'd murder my own
brother?"
"Yes. You'd croak your grandmother for her endowment


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 165
policy. And who says it's murder? We haven't found the
body yet."
By an effort Larry controlled his passion and forced his
voice to its normal flippant tone.
"You'll have a hard time proving it. The only man who
can swear to the Poacher's identity is Clem. And he's van-
ished."
The same thing had occurred to Keating. He got up mood-
ily and walked about the room. Until he could trace Clem
he had no case against Larry and if he made any move with-
out being quite certain of the issue he would have Kaye's
scathing tongue to reckon with.
"Now if you've done perhaps you'll either clear up or clear
out," Larry suggested.
Keating strolled to the door.
"When I clear up you'll clear out," he said. "So long. The
next time I drop in I shall have company when I leave."
For some moments Larry busied himself straightening the
room. After a while he crossed the room and picked up an
overturned chair. As he passed the door he opened it and
spoke without looking up.
"Come in out of the draught, Keating. I'd hate you to die
of pneumonia. I'd prefer it to be something lingering."
Inspector Keating appeared in the doorway and eyed him
morosely.
"Supposing, just supposing," mocked Larry, "that Dennis
had left anything here, did you think that as soon as you left
I'd jump to see if it was still safe?"
That was exactly what the other had thought. He stalked
gloomily down the stairs pondering on the queer workings
of a Fate that had offered success with one hand and took it
back with the other. On the evidence he had in hand there
was little doubt that he could lodge Larry in jail, the one
thing that he had been trying to do for years. And now that
he had the chance he couldn't use it.
If Larry was "put away" it spoilt the one possible chance


166 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
of recovering the Morcovian emeralds through the informa-
tion that Dennis had passed on. Also, once Larry was in
prison, the Poacher would realize the futility of trying to
get at his share of the secret. Of course if the Poacher had
found what he wanted, that removed both objections to
Larry's arrest. But Larry had looked too confident. It was
obvious even to Keating that whatever Larry had received
from Dennis was quite safe.
And while Keating soliloquized Larry was reading his
friend's last letter. He had played the game and kept the
envelope unopened until it could no longer be of use to his
friend—until the day after he had been executed. Keeping
faith was one of Larry's few virtues. Now he re-read the
letter.
"By the time you read this I shall be dead, so make the
best use of it. Ian has another slip similar to this and Ralph
had one also. The Poacher lifted Ralph's, but it ought not to
be difficult to get possession of Ian's slip. In any case watch
his movements. He may have solved his part of the code. The
three slips stuck together will give you the location of the
d'Essinger emeralds and some thousands in notes. Goodbye,
Larry and good luck. WATCH THE POACHER. DENNIS."
He read the last line again and smiled grimly. Fastened to
the letter was a small piece of paper which he studied in-
tently. On it was written:


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 167
It told him nothing. He read it downwards, reversed the
sequence of the letters, tried reading every other letter and
resorted to all of the better known methods of decoding, but
met with the same blank wall as he had met when first he
saw it. With a sigh he folded it up and placed it back amongst
a number of pipe spills in a bowl on the mantel shelf. As a
hiding place it was amusing, but effective.
Seated in his armchair he looked round the now orderly
room and pondered the most amazing event of the evening.
That of Clem's disappearance.
Which need not have troubled him. Clem with a bullet in
his shoulder and only one coherent thought—to get to Ian,
had realized even as he fell that that particular neighbor-
hood was no longer a healthy resort. He had taken the sim-
plest way out and retreated through the ground floor of the
house. It was less likely that he would be followed through
there. A short period of wandering from mews to mews had
eventually brought him to Piccadilly and a taxi rank.
The owner of the taxi that drove Clem out to Reigate
thought his fare was drunk and it was weeks before he dis-
covered that a certain dark stain on the upholstery of the
back seat was made by blood.


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mrs. Greer trotted contentedly up the drive of Marske
House. Fresh from the burning, soul-searing passion of
"Flaming Hearts" she was well pleased with life. Like many
of her class, she had a streak of sentimentality that could be
awakened by a trashy love story, and for three hours she had
positively wallowed in—strong silent men—moonlight nights
—dusky girls and a drunken scene in, to quote herself, "One
of those car-bare-its." Reaching her kitchen she removed her
outdoor clothes and found her slippers before going into the
front of the house.
In the hallway she encountered Barbara, and the encounter
gave her very little pleasure. Mrs. Greer was not an admirer
of the modern girl, or, in particular, of Barbara. Further-
more, she was not altogether blind to the danger of Barbara's
presence in a house where much might be discovered if one
took the trouble to look, or listen. Consequently her greeting
was not warm. In fact it was as cold as she could make it.
Barbara, aware of the other woman's antagonism, but at a
loss to explain it, ignored it as usual.
"Is Clem in, Mrs. Greer?" she asked.
"He is not."
"Or my uncle?"
"Nor him. Do you want anything?"
Barbara frowned. There were limits to her patience.
"I wanted one or the other of them to help me fix a dam-
aged mudguard," she answered. "I'm afraid that needs a
man."
Mrs. Greer sniffed and passed on, leaving Barbara to sally
forth and tackle the mudguard on her own.
168


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 169
Having helped herself to some of Ian's good, but diminish-
ing wine, Mrs. Greer returned to her kitchen and again fell
into pleasant reminiscences of "Flaming Hearts," while she
busied herself preparing breakfast for the following morning.
It was not till she heard Barbara go upstairs to her bed-
room that Mrs. Greer had her first misgivings. At the precise
moment that Barbara shut her door Mrs. Greer suddenly real-
ized what an excellent prey she was for strong silent rav-
ishers. True, Barbara was in the house, but a girl was not
really much of a protection, and she found herself wishing
that Clem or Ian would put in an appearance. The house was
very quiet, and Mrs. Greer's imagination was unpleasantly
active. It is always the woman whose face alone is sufficient
protection, who most ostentatiously defends her chastity, and
Mrs. Greer's illusion that she was still desirable had survived
the birth of her grandchildren.
And yet there was something rather thrilling in her fears.
Her thoughts, as she busied herself peeling onions, remained
with the scented beaches of Tahiti until she was recalled by
the scent of the onions to matters mundane.
Was there any bacon in the house? If not, Ian in the morn-
ing would be unbearable.
Mrs. Greer belonged to a school that believed in humor-
ing its menfolk, and with a despairing cluck she proceeded to
ransack the larder. Her faith in the old adage, "The way to a
man's heart is through his stomach," was unshakable, and
she believed that a woman could tell a man's condition by his
appetite. As long as he had the constitution, digestion and
general appearance of a horse, he was well. Similarly, if he
couldn't eat he was in love, sick, or drunk. She knew. She had
had some experience with her husband, "Flash." Where was
that bacon?
She never found it. At that moment the light went out and
a sack descended over her head, stifling her startled squawk.


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 171
guess at what was happening. And did, accurately. She was
not unfamiliar with the sound of a silencer, or the results of
its use.
She sat there paralyzed while her "cave man," vaulting
lightly through the window, reached the dying Clem in one
lithe bound and placed something on his chest.
Mrs. Greer heard her "lover" go, but sat on silently, pre-
senting that rare phenomenon—a woman with the power to
speak, who did not do so. When she eventually regained her
voice it was only the merest croak. At first. Then she
screamed.
"Miss Teyst. Miss Teyst. Gawd. Barbara, where are you?"
With the frenzy of terror she struggled with her bonds,
and in some way contrived to writhe herself free. Still trem-
bling, she hurled the sack and ropes aside and crept to the
window.
What she saw there choked her utterance as effectively as
her former terror.
Lying on the ground was a figure, the head bathed in
moonlight and something else, but quite unrecognizable. That
alone was sufficient to reduce her to an agonized fearful si-
lence, but the sight of the grim face of Ian, as he knelt beside
the dead, horribly disfigured Clem was even worse.
"What's happened?" he asked, and she noticed that he
spoke in a peculiarly level, cold voice.
"I—I didn't know that you were back," she panted.
"Gawd, Ian, what's happened? I heard him fire—he used a
silencer. Who's that?"
Ian looked down at the still figure before him.
"That," he said, "is Clem."
"In them clothes? Here, what are you telling me? I
know"
"How did this happen?" snarled Ian suddenly. "I was com-
ing in when I heard your scream and found him lying here."
Mrs. Greer gulped and poured out her story. As she told it


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 173
after him, but at the door she paused and left him to pursue
his dash into the shrubbery alone.
Reaching the wall he peered up and down, but the road
was deserted.
Mrs. Greer was groveling on the steps when he returned
to the house.
"We ain't safe, I tell you," she whispered. ""We ain't safe.
What are we going to do, Ian? Who done it? For Gawd's sake
say something. Who done it?"
"The Poacher," he said and passed the note to her.
"The Poacher? Who's he?"
"How the hell do I know?" he snarled, and it was the first
time she had ever heard him swear. "For God's sake stop that
row, I want to think—to think."
He flung past her into the hall and dropped into a chair.
She followed him and closed the door, never taking her
eyes from him.
"What are we going to do," she whispered. "Barbara
mustn't know"
"She won't," he snapped, "and now keep your mouth shut.
We're in no immediate danger. You say the Poacher used a
silencer. Very well, no one but you heard him."
His callous indifference gave Mrs. Greer pause. Certain
awkward little things that had still to be explained occurred
to her. She stared down at his bowed head suspiciously.
"When did you come in?" she asked.
"Just as you started shrieking."
"I've got your word for it!"
He laughed harshly. "You think I shot him? You fool.
Listen. I sent Clem to overhaul his brother's flat. Presumably
he did so. Does that suggest anything to the space where your
brain ought to be?"
Mrs. Greer's expression remained suspicious. She could not
follow Ian's more agile reasoning, neither could she forget
that she had found him kneeling beside the dead man.


174 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
He followed her train of thought perfectly.
"If Clem raided Larry's flat it's not unlikely that he was
either interrupted or left something behind which identified
him—he always was solid oak from the collar up. Supposing
he was followed back from the flat by the Poacher?"
"But how would the Poacher get there. He didn't know—
struth, is Larry the Poacher? Is that what you mean?"
"At last," he sighed.
"But it wasn't Larry I seen about here the last few days.
It was the feller we just saw," she said quickly. "And, any-
way, if he is the Poacher what's he want down here?"
"I'm beginning to wonder," he answered slowly, "if Clem
got something that was intended for me. You see the Poacher
and I happen to be interested in the same thing, at the
moment."
"Why should Larry kill his brother?" she persisted. "And
how do you know it was Larry? The fellow I saw didn't look
like Larry. I only caught a glimpse of him, of course, I
couldn't see much"
"You never do see anything," he cut in bitterly, "except
films. And now lend me a hand."
She cowered back against the wall, her eyes wide with
fright.
"You ain't goin' to—you don't expect me to "she be-
gan and then fell silent.
"I expect you to do as you're told unless you want to find
yourself in Queer Street. Go round to the garage and get
Barbara's car."
Glad to avoid contact with the thing that had been Clem
she hurried off to the garage. She had learnt to drive at her
husband's request, and had frequently driven him on dubious
missions, but had she been forced to drive far that night, there
would have been more than one death, her own included. As
it was, she managed to drive round to the front door with-
out mishap.


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 175
Getting out, she sat down suddenly on the running board
—her legs definitely ceasing their functions. She had an idea
that Ian would need help to carry Clem's body to the car,
and her feet automatically refused to carry her trembling
body to the THING.
There was no need. Even as she ruminated on the horrible
possibility she started up to find Ian descending the steps with
the limp figure of Clem in his arms.
"Get my old coat from the wood shed," he directed, and
when she returned he wrapped it round the body and bun-
dled it into the car.
She shuddered as it toppled sideways.
"You're not going to make me—make me, sit inside," sne
panted.
"Yes, inside the house," he snapped and closed the door of
the car.
She watched him turn the car and vanish down the drive.
It was not until the tail light disappeared that she realized
she was alone.
The next quarter of an hour was the worst she had ever
spent, and the sound of the returning car the most welcome
she had ever heard. Ian's normal composure seemed to have
returned during his journey. At any rate, he was smiling
when he stepped out of the car carrying the coat on his arm.
"Burn that," he ordered, tossing it to her.
She caught it deftly, avoiding touching the lining, but
made no move to obey.
With a gesture of impatience he got back into the car,
garaged it, and accompanied her into the house.
In the hall he looked at her coldly.
"Pull yourself together," he directed. "You'll have to face
the police probably during the week. They won't find Clem
yet, but when they do watch your step. Sometime this week
you'd better discover an ailing relation and go and visit him."


176 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
"Wouldn't it look more natural like if you told the police
he was missing, to-morrow?" she ventured.
"Very natural," he retorted scathingly. "We usually keep
the police informed of our movements. Get a grip on your-
self, and, above all, don't say or know anything. If we keep
our mouths shut we'll be safe. It's a cert that Clem won't give
us away."
Yes, that was certain. Clem would never give any one away
again. Flat on his back in the Reigate woods with his sight-
less eyes staring up at the sky he might have lain there un-
noticed for weeks. As it happened, he lay there eight hours
and then Superintendent Kaye found him.


178 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
He looked away and tried to speak casually. "How many
did you take last night?"
"One, as usual. Why? Any objection?"
"None. If you want headaches take them by all means."
"Headaches?" she queried. "Don't be absurd. A sleeping
draught wouldn't give me a headache."
"No, but two might."
"I didn't take two."
Ian frowned. He was trying to extract the information he
wanted without giving her any indication that her glass had
been tampered with, and her belligerent attitude was not
making matters any easier for him.
"Do you remember if you left the room after you put
that powder in the glass?" he asked.
"I may have done," she answered indifferently. "In fact I
think I went to the bathroom. What on earth are you driv-
ing at? Do you think someone came in and added half a dozen
powders out of spite or something?"
"No, but it's possible that you did not remember putting
in the first powder and added a second when you came back
from the bathroom. Don't bite my head off, my dear."
He had got the information he needed. She had left the
room and even though it was only for a few seconds, it had
been sufficient for the Poacher, who seemed to be something
of a quick worker.
"I'm certain I only took one," she snapped. "And anyway
it's quite unimportant. Not in my toast, please."
This last to Mrs. Greer who started and deflected the spout
of the coffee pot. The conversation had all but reduced Mrs.
Greer to tears and she was beginning to realize that when she
lost "Flash" Sam Greer, she lost her nerve also. Barbara had
to repeat her next remark twice before the old lady realized
that she had spoken at all.
"Are there any aspirins in the house, Mrs. Greer?"


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 179
"No—yes—that is I'm not sure," muttered Mrs. Greer
absently and Barbara looked up.
"What the dickens is the matter with everyone?" she de-
manded petulantly. "This place is about as cheerful as a
morgue this morning."
"Morgue" affected Mrs. Greer unpleasantly. She shivered
and glanced uneasily at Ian. Barbara intercepted the glance
and was even more puzzled.
"Will some one explain the Edgar Wallace atmosphere?"
she asked patiently. "I'm getting the feeling that there is a
corpse under the table."
Which was another unfortunate remark. Mrs. Greer gulped
and sat down suddenly avoiding the eyes of Ian, who was
privately reflecting on the amount of tact that would be
needed to restore a normal atmosphere and avert an awkward
situation. Fortunately he was spared further effort by a vigor-
ous peal on the door bell, which forestalled Barbara's next
question.
"You might see who that is, Mrs. Greer," said Ian and the
old lady almost fell out of the room in her relief at escaping.
Barbara grunted in an unladylike manner.
"What's the matter with the woman?" she demanded.
"Too many exciting films. 'Flaming Hearts' has given her
a temperature, I think."
Apparently the explanation satisfied Barbara, but at the
same time it did not prevent her casting about for some other
object on which to vent her anger.
"I can't think why the deuce people have to call at this
unearthly hour," she grumbled, as the voice of a man pene-
trated to where they sat.
Neither could Ian. He sat there tensely and waited. He had
a shrewd idea as to the identity of the caller, which was veri-
fied when Mrs. Greer announced "Inspector Keating."
Barbara seized a pocket mirror and glanced furtively at her


180 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
nose. Then she turned with a brave attempt at a pleasant
expression.
"If you'd come a little earlier we could have offered you
a bed," she said sweetly, "as it is—have some toast."
Keating smiled paternally at her and then at Ian, but not
quite so paternally.
"Good morning, Ian."
"It was before you arrived."
"Mm. Like that, eh? Someone burnt your porridge?"
"My dear man don't try to be funny at breakfast time,"
Barbara reproved. "We're all feeling positively murderous
this morning. The air is full of corpses, actual and potential."
Keating's eyebrows went up.
"Talking of corpses, I'm looking for one," he said casually
and Ian thanked his patron saint for the absence of Mrs.
Greer.
"A corpse? Here? What's the matter with the mortuary?
Sold out?"
"At least it may not be a corpse yet," Keating continued.
"At any rate it can walk."
"And the idea is that it walked here?" Barbara asked.
"Sorry, old thing, can't oblige. There's been a run on corpses.
We've got some coffee."
"You're not your sweet self this morning, young woman,"
Keating replied severely and turned to Ian.
"What's happened to your retinue of thugs?" he asked.
"Meaning Clem? He's about somewhere."
"Is he? Good. I want him."
Ian got up slowly and walked to the door. Not one muscle
of his face betrayed that he knew it was impossible to find
Clem.
"Mrs. Greer," he called, and she pattered up from the
kitchen.
"Where's Clem?" he asked, and gripped her arm tightly,
his figure shielding the move.


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 181
"I don't know, sir," Mrs. Greer answered, but her face, had
Keating seen it, might have led him to suppose otherwise.
"Go and fetch him will you?"
Ian looked meaningly at her and she withdrew, to return
five minutes later.
"He's not in the house, sir," she said, keeping just out of
Keating's range of vision, "and his bed's not been slept in."
This last was an afterthought, which she regarded as some-
thing of a masterpiece. Nevertheless it effectually wrecked at
least one of Ian's carefully prepared explanations.
Inspector Keating sighed regretfully.
"I had an idea that it wouldn't have been," he said softly.
"When did you see Clem last, Ian?"
Ian reseated himself. "Couldn't say. He's always drifting
in and out."
"Sure, but people can't drift in and out without someone
seeing them."
"True, O King, but I wasn't the someone. I'll ask him to
sign the visitors' book in future. Anything else?"
He betrayed no animosity at the persistent questioning.
For those who choose his mode of obtaining a living these
little encounters with the Yard men were too familiar to have
any terrors. He almost succeeded in conveying the impression
that he enjoyed the catechism. Nevertheless Keating was not
convinced. He studied his bowler hat reflectively.
Ian had shown remarkably little interest in the implied sug-
gestion that Clem was dead. That was interesting, but if it
was to prove enlightening it called for a little more subtlety,
and Keating on occasion could assume the cunning of the
fox.
"Barbara, would you like to give your car an airing?" he
asked suddenly.
"I was going to in any case," she answered. "Are you going
to be long?"


182 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
"No, only a few minutes. Toddle away and dress, then you
can drive me down to the town."
She nodded and departed to her bedroom. As the door
closed Keating drew his chair a little closer to Ian, a move
that the latter regarded with veiled amusement.
"Clem was wounded last night," said Keating distinctly.
"Wounded while he was doing your dirty work."
Ian helped himself to a cigarette. It might have been acci-
dent or design that the cloud of smoke be exhaled should have
wafted in the Inspector's face, causing him to choke.
"The morning air doesn't agree with you, Keating."
"No? Listen to this. Clem tried to give Larry Wade's flat
the once over last night, but I blurted into the game. Clem
wouldn't have the brain to even suspect what you sent him to
look for. Now laugh that one off."
"It must be nice to be a Police Inspector," mused Ian. "Per-
sonally I can't get a drop anywhere before ten."
"You'll get a long drop before ten, one day," Keating
snarled. "Where were you last night?"
"Rambling out at Coulsdon. Why?"
"Can you prove it?"
"Probably, if necessary. Again, why?"
It was Keating's turn to adopt the musing tone.
"The Poacher shot Clem. I'm wondering. Neither you nor
Larry seem to be any too sure what you were doing while
the Poacher was busy shooting Clem up."
"If Larry can't prove his movements, why worry about the
identity of the Poacher? It looks pretty clear to me."
"I wonder. He says you're the Poacher. You say he is. It
makes it a little difficult for a common or garden busy."
Ian made no reply and the appearance of Barbara pre-
vented Keating from saying any more. He rose and nodded
coolly to Ian.
"So long, Ian," he said. "Don't forget the long drop."


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 183
Ian smiled faintly, but carefully avoided Barbara's puzzled
eyes.
"I'm beginning to think that you're nearly as mysterious
as your elusive friend Kaye," she chaffed, as they walked to-
wards the garage. "You're always making vague remarks and
you seem to have an absolute flair for annoying people."
Keating said nothing. He gazed moodily at the fresh green
grass and the gently waving tree tops, but his thoughts were
elsewhere. He got into the little car silently and made himself
comfortable.
"The old bus has been running splendidly lately," she con-
fided as she turned the car in an expert semi-circle on the
drive. "She just asks to be used. I completed my four thou-
sand miles yesterday and she's still running as smoothly as
ever."
He grinned. "With you driving? The woman isn't born,
Barbara, who didn't wake the dead when she changed gears."
As they slewed out of the drive gates her eyes were caught
by the speedometer and she frowned.
"How far is it from the house to the gate?" she asked.
"Not more than a hundred yards, why?"
She pointed to the needle on the dial of the speedometer.
"That needle registered four thousand when I ran into the
garage last night," she answered. "Now it's four thousand and
six. Someone's used this car since last night."
"Your uncle?" he suggested.
Her frown deepened.
"I'm beginning to wonder if your good advice wasn't worth
taking."
"Which particular piece? I've given you a lot."
"About leaving that house. There's something going on
there that I don't understand. This morning everybody's
nerves are on edge and some perfectly innocent remarks of
mine nearly scared Mrs. Greer out of her wits."
"What were they?"


184 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
She thought for a moment and then repeated them.
"Corpses, eh?" he asked. "Your uncle's middle name isn't
Washington by any chance is it?"
"This morning when I came down," she continued, "Ian
tried to suggest that someone had been tampering with my
sleeping draught—put a double dose in or something—and
I'm wondering what he meant. I had a violent headache when
I awoke and the draughts have never had that effect before.
It's certainly queer."
"More likely Greer," he retorted and remained buried in
thought until she pulled her car to a standstill in Reigate
Square. It was there that he received a shock that made him
doubt the evidence of his eyes.
Standing by the clock tower and looking at them with un-
disguised amusement, was a short stockily built man. As his
eyes encountered Keating's he winked and then turned away.
With a regretful sigh Keating got out of the car.
"I thought this was too good to last," he said. "I find I've
got a call to pay, Barbara."
If she was surprised she did not show it, but he thought he
detected a little disappointment and for a moment he was on
the point of reconsidering the call he had to pay. Then he
shrugged.
"I shall probably see something more of you during the
day," he said. "I may come up to the house, before I go back
to town."
"Do," she invited. "Honestly I'm rather bored with Bar-
bara Teyst at the moment. I was counting on you to prove a
distraction."
"Miss Attraction shouldn't need distraction," he said and
stood bareheaded to watch her drive away. Then he crossed
the square and came to a stand, feet apart, before the man
who had winked at him.
"Still nursing me?" he asked.
Superintendent Kaye grinned amiably.


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 185
"Have I spoilt a promising tete-a-tete?"
"If that means a pleasant drive, yes. What brought you
here?"
"A premonition. I spent last night wandering round
Marske House. I think there was some excitement there, but
I missed it."
But Keating had not got over his grouch. He strolled across
the square beside his friend and it was not difficult for Kaye
to read the other's thoughts.
"You seem to know the Teyst girl pretty well."
"Nice kid," said Keating appraisingly.
"Child, would be more pleasing and more truthful," Kaye
returned. "Homer said that the Grecian ladies counted their
age from their marriage and not their birth. At that rate
Barbara won't be born till you marry her, so at present you're
only wasting your time on something that hasn't been con-
ceived yet."
"If you think I've got a small pash for her, you're off your
beat. My interest is purely fraternal. Yes, fraternal. That's a
good word."
Kaye eyed his friend amusedly.
"Usual ingenue type, I suppose? Interested in police meth-
ods and thrilled by the magical presence of the C.I.D.?"
Inspector Keating became ponderous.
"It's surprising how little the general public know about
us."
"Which is an advantage. The disadvantage is the surpris-
ingly little that we know, about the general public."
"They don't know much about themselves. That kid didn't
know she was Ellie Steyning's daughter."
"Did you tell her that unpleasant little story?"
Inspector Keating eyed his companion pityingly.
"What'd I say? The Steynings were financially bust and
Ellie married Ralph for his money?"
"Well, she did, didn't she?"


186 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
Keating filled his pipe.
"You've got no delicacy. There were mistakes on both sides.
That's the curse of modern marriage."
"On which you are an authority."
Inspector Keating ignored the interruption.
"Before Ralph married Ellie she was very dear to him and
afterwards she was even more expensive, but you couldn't tell
Barbara that her mother was Mercenary Mary till she found
that Ralph hadn't any money and Soured Suzy ever after.
You'd get a hot reception. Better let her go on respecting her
mother's memory. Ralph was just as much to blame."
"I wonder. If Ralph hadn't married he'd never have gone
broke and if he hadn't gone broke he'd never have joined
forces with the Colonel."
"Went broke first and broker afterwards," Keating
grinned. "Well, anyway, what the heck were you doing at
Ian's place last night? Looking for Red Admirals?"
"No, corpse catching."
"Corpse," Keating sighed. "That word is beginning to pall.
I'm looking for a corpse."
"Come and see mine," Kaye suggested, and they made for
the district hospital.
A few minutes later they stood beside the Superintendent
of the mortuary, and gazed down at all that was left of Clem
Wade.
"Lying in the Reigate Woods," said Kaye thoughtfully.
"Who ever did it made a messy job of it. I saw his boot pro-
truding from a bush. If I knew what his face was like before
some one blew it off, I might ask Ian what he was doing driv-
ing Barbara's car last night."
Keating stared and suddenly bent closer.
"If you knew," he said slowly. "Don't you know?"
"Not yet. Do you?"
"I know everything. That is—was—Clem Wade. That's


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 187
the rig out he was wearing while he watched Larry's flat.
What I want to know is who did this?"
"You know everything."
"I thought I did. Clem accused the Poacher when I found
him lying on the pavement—but you haven't heard about
that mix up yet."
Briefly he outlined the happenings of the preceding night.
"The Poacher, eh?" mused Kaye. "This begins to fit togeth-
er, Samuel."
It was only when he was thinking that he used Keating's
abhorred Christian name, but the Inspector allowed it to pass.
"I dunno," he said. "I thought everything dovetailed, but
this upsets things a bit. The last time I saw Clem he was hit,
but he had a face. Now he's here with half a face. He couldn't
have made the journey in that condition, therefore he was
croaked here. Which doesn't fit. The Poacher was in town
when he let Clem have it in the ribs."
"We'll see you on the Round Table yet."
"Mebbe, but what I'm getting at is that this lets Larry
Wade out. He must have been still at his flat while Clem was
getting his face lifted."
He stared down callously at the dead man. All three present
were too familiar with death in violent forms to entertain
any sentimental squeamishness.
"You can wipe Larry off the list," said Kaye slowly. "He's
not the Poacher and this is the Poacher's work. That fits. We
know that Ian has some sort of clue to the whereabouts of
the d'Essinger stones. That supplies the motive for the Poach-
er's presence here in Reigate. He's already stolen one of those
slips of paper from Ralph. The one Dennis had was passed
on to Larry Wade and Larry's flat was raided by the Poacher.
No, I think Larry can be discounted. Besides your brilliant
thesis rules him out."
"I don't get thesis."
But Kaye did not feel like explaining. Instead he nodded


188 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
to the mortuary Superintendent and strolled out into the
sunlit street again.
Keating followed more leisurely to find his companion
studying the pavement.
"This is a helluva case," he growled.
"It's getting less hellish every minute," said Kaye, dreamily.
"I've got an idea, Samuel."
"Frame it. All I've got is the hump."
Superintendent Kaye smiled benevolently and took his
friend's arm. Together they journeyed back to London, but
it was not until they were on the point of parting that Kaye
spoke again. His words caused Keating to gape, with the re-
sult that a perfectly good pipe fell to the ground and got
badly chipped.
Staring after Kaye as the other strolled leisurely away,
Keating pondered his friend's amazing statement.
It had been, "Unless I am mistaken I shall be able to call
the Poacher by the name he was christened, before the week
is out!"


CHAPTER NINETEEN
Mrs. Greer looked on the world and found it wanting—
wanting a man. At least her particular part of the world.
Gazing, not without a certain aversion, at the garden, she
found herself bitterly regretting "Flash" Greer's defection.
Certain of the thrills appertaining to her trade were begin-
ning to lose their savor now that she no longer had a pro-
tector. Notably that of being gagged and tied to a chair
while MURDER stalked in immediate proximity. The sud-
den removal of Clem by an agency against which his pres-
ence had hitherto protected her was something of a shock.
Not that she herself had suffered at the hands of the Poacher.
But she might, yet.
Mrs. Greer made up her mind, and, having done so, prompt-
ly unmade it, threshed out the entire question again and
eventually arrived at her previous conclusions. Then she wad-
dled off to interview Ian.
Ian startled by her unprefaced entry, looked up and en-
countered the regard of a very determined, even a trifle bel-
ligerent, little lady.
"Well, Kate Alice?"
Mrs. Greer was not well and showed it only too plainly.
She had had practically no rest on the preceding night, and she
had been too worried that day to even think of rest.
"What's going to happen about last night, Ian?" she asked
nervously.
"Nothing. And don't use my Christian name. You're here
as a domestic, not a dowager."
"They can't trace Clem, can they?" she persisted.
189


190 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
"Can't? They have, but you've got nothing to worry about.
I have had a request to attend the coroner's inquest. So have
you." He tossed her a printed slip.
Mrs. Greer's eyes dilated.
"They've found him?"
Ian nodded.
"Yes, they've found him all right. God alone knows how
they did it, or even recognized him in those clothes and with
his face half blown off. Keating must have moved pretty
smartly, but it beats me how he lighted on Clem."
Mrs. Greer peered anxiously at the door.
"I'm scared, Ian," she whispered.
"No need to be," he assured her. "I stuffed the Poacher's
note in his pocket, and there's nothing to connect us with
that gentleman. Besides, had we wanted to croak Clem we
had plenty of time and opportunity to have done it before
this. No, we're safe enough as long as you don't go blurting
out anything that will damage us. We're safe enough in any
case until after the inquest."
In a measure she was reassured. There seemed little enough
to connect them with Clem's death, but she had another bone
to pick with Ian.
"All the same, something's got to be done," she said, with
cryptic elegance.
"In connection with what?"
"This house. I'm getting the heebies and that's a fact. If the
Poacher's sitting in on the game we're in for it. He's more
dangerous than the rest of them put together. Gawd, I wish
'Flash' was here."
Ian smiled coldly.
"Meaning you're frightened?"
"Meaning just that. There's you and Barbara out most all
the day, and me here all on me lonesome. It isn't good enough,
Ian. Mebbe he's not out for me, but if it's you he's after I
stand a pretty good chance of getting something all for


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 191
myself, and I don't want it, Ian. You've got to get a man
like Clem."
The reference to Clem strengthened her resolution.
"I ain't likely to forget what happened last night, and I
don't want no repetition." She thought she had taken that
fence rather well, and cantered back to essay it again. "I don't
want no repetition of that night's work. Gawd only knows
where this is going to lead. If we don't get croaked in our
beds, we'll be hung for murder."
Ian lighted a cigarette.
"I should have thought that the reasons for not having an
outsider here were fairly obvious," he suggested.
"What about Barbara?" Mrs. Greer demanded shrewdly.
"Ain't she a stranger—an' mixed up with Flea Powder too.
She don't suspect nothin' and she's a woman. What a woman
doesn't suspect no man will ever find out."
Ian conceded the point with a nod.
"Still, I could do without her about the place," Mrs. Greer
continued. "Why don't she get married, Ian? When a girl's
getting on she's got to get off, and if she doesn't soon get a
man she'll die a spinster. Not that a man is any good. They
clear off when they've got all they want, and while they're
being faithless to flannelette they're sinning with silk. Talk-
ing of men, what about it?"
"You win. I'll put an advert in the 'Reigate Courier.'
I dare say you do need a man here when I'm out."
"I do," she said firmly. "Do you like pork?"
"Certainly, why?"
"The last lot made you bilious, and we've got it for din-
ner." With which remark she departed, leaving Ian to draft
the advertisement with a slight lessening of his anxiety. He
realized that Mrs. Greer was recovering her poise, and was
less likely to betray them. By the time Barbara returned he
was almost cheerful.
"Going out?" he asked. "You might drop this in at the


192 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
'Courier's' office, in the High Street, if you're going that
way."
Barbara read the advertisement critically, and nodded her
approval, but she paused at the door to ask a question that
added at least three years to Ian's age.
"By the way, what's happened to my American swain?"
He had carefully suppressed the papers that had announced
the finding of Clem's body, but he had known that she was
bound to be curious about Clem's absence.
"As a matter of fact," he replied easily, "I've been a bit
worried about him myself. He wasn't home last night."
"I suppose it's no good asking you to be frank," she sug-
gested, and he received another nasty shock. "I know some-
thing about Clem's wild youth. Is^he in stir by any chance?"
Ian gaped, and she laughed at his discomfiture.
"Borrowed from Clem's extensive vocabulary," she ex-
plained. "I know lots more like it. Well, is he?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"One other thing. Can he drive a car?"
"No, why?"
"Because some one drove mine last night after I'd used it.
Well—I'm for town. Cheery-bye."
She walked out before he could think of a suitable reply.
As she pulled up outside the "Courier" Office a few min-
utes later she experienced a slight shock. Crossing the road
towards her was Inspector Keating.
"You!" she wondered. "Good heavens, don't police ever
work, or do they leave that part behind when they become
Inspectors? Why are you down here?"
"To be near you," he chaffed amicably.
"You can be even nearer," she laughed. "Come and buttle
for us. You'll get all that mystery which is so dear to you
in our house."
He took the advertisement she proffered and read it.


194 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
and you go and spoil all I've done. Oh, woman, thy name
is"
He broke off, not for effect, but because he had forgotten
the end of the quotation.
"Is Ian to be present?" she asked.
"He is, and Mrs. Greer. We're rather curious about their
movements."
"Ian said nothing about the inquest this morning," she said
slowly. "I wonder if there was anything funny about that
headache I had."
"Perhaps he was trying to spare you unnecessary worry,"
he suggested, and knew, as he said it, that this was not the
reason.
So did she.
He became aware of her puzzled scrutiny and faced her,
smiling.
"Who did this awful thing?" she asked. "Isn't there any
clue to his identity at all?"
"There is and there isn't," he answered. "We know this is
the Poacher's work, and Kaye says he knows who the Poacher
is, but that's probably all my eye."
She smiled. "I hope it isn't. Somehow I shan't feel safe
until the Poacher is brought to book. I can't get away from
the idea that his interests lie in Marske House, and that Ian
and Mrs. Greer are somehow bound up in them. And I'm
more than casually interested, myself. You know that some-
one drove my car last night while I was asleep—and as Ian
tried to suggest, drugged."
Inspector Keating frowned. He was seeing that incident
in an entirely new light. She could see that he was absorbed,
and his preoccupation lasted till he left her a few minutes
later.
She was feeling almost excited when she arrived at the
court that afternoon.


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 195
By silent but mutual consent, she arrived without Ian or
Mrs. Greer, and they sat apart during the inquest.
She listened to the rather dull proceedings apathetically,
and evinced no particular interest when Ian gave evidence.
She also noticed that the Coroner spoke very gently to Mrs.
Greer, as though he did not wish to excite or frighten the
old lady, but—and this astonished Barbara—Mrs. Greer gave
her evidence quite calmly and firmly. So calmly that Barbara
was momentarily puzzled. Mrs. Greer's present collected atti-
tude was a little difficult to reconcile with her former panic-
stricken terror. She might have followed that train of thought
for some time had not something of more vital interest
claimed her attention.
Inspector Keating would have been amused had he ob-
served her heightened interest when Larry Wade gave
evidence.
Once, as the elegant Larry turned to survey the court, she
found herself looking into a politely bored face, and she
experienced a queer thrill. He was good looking. And not
much more than a boy. And yet Keating insisted that he was
perhaps the most notorious "gang boss" in the country. Her
estimation of the Inspector's judgment sank considerably,
and she betrayed scant interest in his evidence when he gave
it. It was not until the Coroner's jury arrived at their deci-
sion of "Wilful murder by a person, or persons, unknown,"
that something very remarkable occurred to her. Super-
intendent Kaye had not been called, and yet Keating
had said distinctly that it was his superior who had found
the body. Thinking back she recalled that Keating had de-
posed to the finding of the body on behalf of Kaye, and that
the Coroner had made a curt and angry comment on the
Superintendent's absence. She had noticed, too, that Keating
had written something on a slip of paper and passed it to the
Coroner, after which the subject had been dropped.
For once Barbara was shaken from her self-possession. Her


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 197
Kaye smiled queerly. "Everything centers in that house.
Sooner or later things are going to be interesting. The
Poacher is here in Reigate for one reason only—to watch
Ian, and unless I'm very much mistaken, Larry won't be far
off."
Keating nodded and suddenly received his weekly idea. He
expounded it. Kaye listened for some time and then smiled
broadly.
"Do I look like a butler?" he asked good humoredly.
"Fits you like a glove," said Keating unkindly. "Think it
over. I'm going to have a word with friend Larry before he
slides out. So long. Next time I see you you'll be on my left
hand side saying 'asparagus, sir?'"
He neatly avoided a friendly dig in the ribs and departed.
Out in the sunlight he encountered Barbara, and stopped
beside her car, unconscious of the slightly humorous regard
of Larry Wade who lounged indolently in the entrance hall.
"Well there wasn't much question of N.A. or S., was
there?" he asked naively and perceiving that he had, as he
intended, mystified her, proceeded to explain.
"N.A.S. and M. represent the four causes of death.
Natural, Accidental, Suicide and Murder. You'd hardly call
a death that blew half a man's face off natural, and the fact
that he was wounded three times rules out an accident. Sim-
ilarly, if he had wanted to commit suicide he'd have blown
his brains out, not blown his face off. Besides, the shots were
fired point blank, and he'd find it a pretty difficult job to
look down the barrel of a gun and fire it. Therefore M
and a capital one, like the charge."
Barbara shuddered.
"Rather gruesome, isn't it?" she asked, and he saw the
shadows in her eyes and made a clumsy effort to dissipate
them.
"Well, was Rudolph in the flesh as interesting as his photo-
graph?"


198 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
"He's rather nice," she answered mechanically, "and at
the moment is watching you."
Keating wheeled swiftly to find Larry studiously studying
the floor of the entrance hall.
"That boy can get away with a lot of things," he grunted,
"but not everything. Going?"
She nodded, and he removed his hat as her car slid for-
ward. He stood watching it vanish with a rather wistful
expression. He looked a little less wistful as he turned and
encountered the disarming—but rather amused smile of Larry
Wade.
He strode across the road.
"You got out of that dam' well," he observed coolly.
Larry raised his eyebrows.
"You'll never get far Keating," he drawled, "if you per-
sist in trying to persuade yourself that what you'd like to
happen really did happen. If you could prove I killed poor old
Clem I reckon you'd be grateful to me for giving you a
chance to shop me."
It was to a certain extent true. Keating acknowledged the
hit with a grunt.
"If ever I give you the chance of getting me, Keating,"
Larry continued, "I shall deserve what I get."
He stiffened suddenly and Keating discovered that Ian was
standing a few feet from them apparently waiting for them
to allow him to pass.
Keating looked from one to the other regretfully.
"Two of the biggest crooks in Christendom, and I can't
pull either of you," he lamented.
"Well, Larry," murmured Ian, "how's the egg business?"
Keating failed to appreciate the cryptic allusion to poach-
ing, but Larry saw it.
"Still trying to throw that dumb stuff?" he asked politely.
"Mud slinging at long range is your long suit, Ian. It's the
fellows who do your work, like Clem—who get what's com-
ing to you."


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 199
"Brotherly love, when not affected, is always affecting,"
Ian retorted.
"So was your testimony at the court," sneered Keating,
and stood aside.
As Ian passed, Larry murmured softly, "If you've got
anything you value particularly, watch it, Ian, watch it."
There was a peculiar emphasis on the last two words which
Ian noted with grim amusement.
"As a matter of course, now that you're in the neigh-
borhood," he retorted, and walked away.
"If you're going to the station, Larry," said Keating, watch-
ing Ian's retreating figure, "I'll come with you, and if you're
not going to the station I'll come with you just the same."
Larry grinned and felt for his cigarette case. As he opened
it something white fluttered to the ground and he stooped
like a flash to retrieve it, but Keating was quicker.
He rose holding the small strip of blue paper in his hand
with the feeling that he had at last come to grips with some-
thing tangible. Something in Larry's eyes told him that the
slip of paper was one of the three that the Colonel has dis-
tributed to his brothers, and held a clue to the whereabouts
of the d'Essinger emeralds. His thoughts obviously com-
municated themselves to Larry, for the other made an attempt
to control himself.
Ruin was staring him in the face, but he held out his hand
coolly enough, and assumed a detachment that he was far
from feeling.
"Mine, I think?" he said.
Keating looked down at the paper again and smiled. That
was the finish. Larry read his companion's thoughts like a
book, and what he read did not please him.
"One of the Colonel's little slips," said Keating softly.
"By God, I've got you, Larry," and before the other could
make a move a handcuff closed over his wrist, and Keating
began to intone a formal charge with the greatest of satis-
faction.


CHAPTER TWENTY
Keating and his captive maintained an unbroken silence on
their way to the station, and few people suspected from their
bearing that the two men who walked so closely to one
another did so because their wrists were handcuffed together.
As soon as the train came in Keating selected an empty
carriage and, with Larry in close attendance, settled himself
comfortably in a corner seat and began to philosophize.
"This had to come, Larry. The world's full of people like
you. People who find that they can't gratify Roll's-Royce
ambitions on Austin Seven incomes, and start working on the
crook. Sooner or later they slip."
Larry, staring out of the window, made no reply. His
course was obvious but it meant destroying his freedom for-
ever. It meant rebuilding his life under an alias that might
at any time be penetrated, and he was wondering if the price
was worth it. For what he contemplated would put him
definitely outside the law but within its clutch.
It was something that would have given an ordinary man
pause, but Larry made decisions swiftly. Before the train
had gone a hundred yards on its way to London he had
decided.
Taking out his cigarette case he opened it and, if Keating
had been less engrossed in self-congratulation he would have
remembered that the last time he saw that case it had been
practically full, whereas now, although Larry had not been
smoking, it contained only five cigarettes. But Keating was
not to know that Larry carried two cases of identical pattern
if of slightly differing contents.
200


202 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
Through a haze he saw Larry's peculiar smile as a damning
confirmation of his suspicions.
"You swine. So that's the game the game
," he muttered drowsily, and with a sudden effort, sat
upright and plunged his hand into his trousers' pocket.
To have completed the maneuver he would have needed
exactly five seconds more than he had at his disposal. Larry
knew it and hurled himself sideways, dragging Keating with
him. As they crashed to the floor his left hand closed over
Keating's right in a grip of iron.
Keating, forced to use his energies to combat the drug
was helpless in Larry's hands, and it was a matter of minutes
before he sprawled back unconscious.
With a smile of satisfaction Larry forced open the In-
spector's nerveless fingers and took the key of the handcuffs.
It was the one that Keating had taken from his trousers'
pocket in an effort to throw it out of the window, and in-
cidentally destroy Larry's chance of escape.
When Larry rose to his feet a few minutes later he was a
free man, and the positions were reversed, but he had burnt
his boats in the reversing. For the first time he had definitely
taken the offensive against the person of the Law. He was
finished with the open existence that had hitherto been his,
and from now on it meant the shadows—the life of the
Colonel. He did not regret it—he had not time to. He had to
move now, and move quickly.
Stooping, he tossed the doped cigarette out of the win-
dow, and then kneeling beside Keating, took out his wallet.
He found what he wanted—the slip of paper—almost at
once, and something else besides. This in the Inspector's
trousers' pocket—a small silver badge.
Taking a flask from his hip pocket, he unscrewed the top
and proceeded to force a little of the contents between Keat-
ing's lips and rather more on his shirt front. A smell of
whisky permeated the carriage.


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 203
He was playing for a stake that demanded big risks and
he would take them. One of the biggest was the risk he took
at Victoria, and as he got out of the carriage supporting
the Inspector's limp figure he knew that the most dangerous
time was to come.
Yet his bearing was perfectly assured as he summoned a
porter.
"Gentleman ill, sir?" asked the porter interestedly.
Larry winked. "Get me a taxi will you. My friend feels a
little faint."
"Good luck to him," said the other enviously, "I can't
get enough to feel faint."
With the other's assistance Larry got Keating through
the barrier to the waiting taxi, and the porter received a
tip that astonished him. It would have been even larger but
for the fact that Inspector Keating carried very little loose
change.
It did not occur to the porter that during the time he
helped to carry Keating from the train to the taxi he never
once saw the face of the unconscious man. Neither did any
of the spectators. Larry had contrived to pull Keating's
slouch hat well over his eyes and had kept his arm before the
Inspector's face.
Larry occupied the journey to the Barbican with thoughts
that had an apparently fruitful result, because he was smil-
ing when the taxi pulled up.
He hauled Keating out and nodded cheerfully to the
driver.
"Thanks, I can manage now."
The driver pocketed his fare and grinned back.
"Some of them can't take it like gentlemen, can they?" he
asked. "How much has he got outside? It'd take quarts to put
me to sleep."
Larry had relied on the fact that a drunken man in the
Barbican was no novelty, and fortunately the short journey


204 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
to Lou Staam's junk shop was achieved without attracting
overmuch attention.
Once inside the shop he lifted Keating in his arms and
strode through to the lift in the back room.
His advent in the room below caused something more than
interest. It momentarily deprived the two men sitting there
of their powers of speech.
"Present for you, Lou," grinned Larry, and allowed Keat-
ing to slide to the floor.
"By cripes, Flea Powder," breathed Chorley. "What's the
lay, Larry?"
Larry took out his case and gazed obliquely at Keating.
Then he proceeded to light a cigarette and blow smoke rings.
His silence irritated Lou.
"Vot you going to do mit der cop, Larry?" he asked
nervously. "Dis ting you do is ver' dangerous."
"Put him in the lower cellar, Lou. He'll come around soon,
he's only doped. There are reasons—private ones—why I
don't want him skulking about town at present. The odds
are, if I give him his liberty I'll forfeit my own."
As he finished speaking his eyes met Chorley's, and he
turned so that he faced the other directly.
"Remember, Chorley, you're not sitting in on this hand,"
he said slowly. "I've no objection to Keating being made un-
comfortable, but I won't have him—er—hurt. If I want
him taken for a ride I'll take him myself."
Chorley shrugged. "Why the fond affection?"
"Curiosity," Larry replied, pedantically, "in a child is
pardonable and in a woman natural, but in a man, deplor-
able. All you've got to do is to see that he doesn't spot your
ugly dial, or Lou's."
"All alone mit de rats, eh?" Lou chuckled. "Rats don't
like Enspectors. Do dey, Chorley?"
Chorley acknowledged the joke with a faint smile, which
he effaced as he found Larry regarding him.


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 205
He made no move to assist Larry when the other dragged
Keating back to the lift, and it was Lou who accompanied
Larry down into the cellar below.
It was a dark place smelling of withered hay and damp-
ness, and furnished only with a crude pallet above which
was a staple let into the wall, from which hung an iron
chain and padlock. Passing the chain round Keating's wrist,
Larry padlocked it and stood back to survey his handiwork
for a moment before he returned to the lift.
"I've got a few old scores to settle with Keating," he
said, "so don't let him think he's at the Ritz, Lou. See that
all he gets for dinner is an appetite and don't overdo the
other meals. Bread and water will keep life in a man for a
considerable time, I believe? Above all, don't let him know
where he is, and don't let him see your face."
"Trust Lou," said the old man. "I don't vant to spend de
rest of dese life in annoder cell. I vill feed de brute meinself
mit mine face covered."
Depositing Lou on the first floor, Larry continued on in
the lift to the room behind the shop.
Seating himself at Lou's desk he took out Keating's wallet,
and after a brief search discovered what he wanted—a few
pencil notes in Keating's writing. Propping one of them
against an inkstand he took a sheet of notepaper from the
stationery rack and, after a moment's thought began to
write.
When he had finished he slipped the letter into an en-
velope and addressed it to Superintendent Kaye, New Scot-
land Yard, S.W. Then he rose to his feet and walking to the
wardrobe called down the shaft. Within a few moments Lou
joined him.
"Vat is it you vant, Larry?" he grunted, seating himself
close to the smelly little oil stove.
Larry began to remove his tie and collar. "Clothes," he
said significantly, and the old Jew nodded wisely.


206 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
"Vat is it to be dis time, Larry?" he enquired. "Me, I
haf dem of all kinds . Only a leetle time ago I fits up
Clem wid de street artist cloze dat vas a bad pizness,
Larry."
"Was it?"
"It vas, my poy. I hope you don' go de way of dat poor
brudder of yours."
"I sha'nt. I want an artist's rig-out, Lou," said Larry.
"Can you manage a—er—light brown suit and a flowing
tie—if possible rather a gaudy one?"
"Der very thing," chuckled Lou. "You vait, Larry, till
I get heem. Der most beautiful suit it has ever been my good
fortune to see."
Larry smiled and watched the old man wander off to the
back of the shop, while he hastily stripped off the suit and
shoes he was wearing.
Lou returned wheezily after a few minutes with a rich
brown colored suit, a pair of brown brogues, and a very
light, almost ginger, tie. Stooping beneath the counter he
brought forth a brown trilby hat and laid it in front of
Larry.
Larry looked them over casually and nodded.
"They'll do, Lou. Get me a gaudy handkerchief, will you.
Something that will go with these things oh, and you
might rake out a beard."
"A beard," reflected Lou. "Would it be a blonde or a
brunette, Larry?"
"Brunette," grinned Larry, and proceeded to dress in the
brown suit.
Ten minutes later, with the aid of Lou, he affixed a dark
beard to his face, penciled his eyebrows a little and added a
few wrinkles. A hasty examination in a small hand mirror
of Lou's, decided him on shaving his eyebrows a little. That
done, a completely metamorphosed Larry stepped out of Lou's


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 207
shop—portfolio under his arm and wide-brimmed slouch hat
well over his eyes.
As he walked towards the station Larry tried to memorize
all the little peculiarities that he had ever noticed in the few
artists whom he had met. And in a measure he succeeded.
The pendant cigarette—with its lazy trail of smoke—
the leisurely walk and the slightly rapt expression—a cleverly
assumed nervousness. This last was rather well done—he was
proud of it. It conveyed the impression of a man removed
from this world—to a place of dreams, and palettes that
could portray those dreams—a kind of detachment and dis-
interest for anything not concerned with his beloved pro-
fession of the brush.
And that was exactly what it suggested to Ian Teyst an
hour and a half later, when he strolled down the drive and
discovered "the artist" dreamily surveying the empty, but
picturesque lodge.
Larry, steeling himself and carefully masking the derision
that had momentarily shown in his eyes, took a risk.
"A charming study, sir," he offered, as Ian drew abreast.
"One would like to try and capture—in water color, I
think—some of the subtle shades of that old brick."
Ian halted, stared interestedly at the other and smiled.
"You are at liberty to try it, sir," he suggested courte-
ously. "As you say, I think it would repay an attempt to
transfer it to canvas."
Inwardly Larry exulted. That his disguise had passed
muster before his enemy was proof enough that it was a safe
one to assume. And Ian had no suspicion, only a mild interest.
Artists did not greatly interest him.
"Would you object to my sitting in your drive and—er
studying it a little?" Larry suggested in the drawl he had
assumed. He had been about to say "painting" it when he
realized that he could not paint, and would have given him-


208 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
self away with the first stroke of his brush to even the
veriest layman.
"Not at all."
"It will not annoy your lodge keeper?"
"Hardly," Ian smiled. "There is no lodge keeper. The place
has been empty for years. You would probably find the gar-
den interesting. I looked in there once myself. If you would
care to get the key—my housekeeper will let you have it."
"Thanks. I may avail myself of that offer later. For the
present I think I'll study the angle from which this could
best be reproduced."
"Just as you like," Ian replied. "If you'll excuse me I'll
leave you. I have a call to pay in the village."
He raised his hat courteously, and Larry returned the
salute and turned to watch his enemy stride away down the
drive.
For some time Larry looked at the lodge, and now there
was no attempt to hide the mockery in his eyes. Then he
stepped into the little two-seater that had brought him from
town and drove away.


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
There was only one thing that Ian Teyst loathed more than
reading a letter and that was reading two letters, yet during
the past three mornings he had read upwards of fifty and his
mail seemed to be increasing rather than decreasing.
Seated before a pile of letters he grimaced wryly at Bar-
bara across the breakfast table.
"The butling trade seems to be painfully overcrowded,"
he said. "Look at this."
Barbara, looking up from scanning a manuscript that a
London Agency had sent her, smiled back.
"Reading other people's effusions is a disheartening job,"
she agreed.
"There's a woman here," he continued, "who offers to
come as a companion and charlady thrown in free, provided
that we will house her four children. She encloses a photo-
graph that kills her chance stone dead at birth."
"I know. Have you had the inevitable epistle from the
philanthropist, who will lend anything from ten pounds to
ten thousand on no security?"
"Two," he admitted. "I suppose you wouldn't care to take
over the job of secretary for a little while?"
"That's one of the best things you do," she smiled.
"What is?"
"Supposing that I wouldn't care to take over the job of
secretary."
"Unnatural child. This is the third time that you've
callously declined to save me from the morass of appeals."
"Have we fixed on any one yet?" she asked.
209


210 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
"I think so. Man named Crale. Ex-butler to the Duke of
Banff."
"Won't life with the ex-butler of a Duke be a little try-
ing?" she suggested. "Personally I always feel paralyzed in the
presence of those supermen."
"The fellow seems a reasonable kind of chap. Excellent
references—unmarried—doesn't drink—in fact the only vice
he's got must be in his work shop. He's coming up here this
morning."
He plunged into his correspondence again, but it was
claiming less than half his attention. The knowledge that the
very letters he was reading were a direct result of the
Poacher's activities, forced his thoughts back to the man
who had murdered Clem. Everything seemed to revolve
around that sinister personality, and it was to him that Ian
owed the fact that he could not rely indefinitely on im-
munity from police attention. True, there was nothing to
connect him with Clem's death, but there were so many little
points that might establish a connection. A chance remark
of Barbara's concerning the use of her car on that night, a
slip of Mrs. Greer's—anything might do it. His mental pic-
ture of the possible results was so vivid that he looked up to
see if its effect on him had been observed.
It had.
"You look startled, Ian," Barbara remarked. She had been
watching him for some moments.
He forced a laugh. "I am. In fact I'm scared stiff at the
wage some of these fellows want. Read that."
He passed a letter across to her, but it was a very weak
evasion and as soon as she had finished reading it he broke
a rather embarrassing silence with the disturbing thought
that anything he said would sound like an attempt to cover
a blunder.
"I've just remembered an important engagement that I


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 211
ought to keep—I wondered if you would care to see this
man Crale, Barbara?"
"Who, the butler? Do I look like a girl who sees butlers?"
"Really, I ought to get to town this morning, but this
fellow ties me down. I thought if you were doing nothing in
particular"
"My dear man," she protested, "what do I know about
interviewing butlers? There have been so few in my pure
young life. I shouldn't know what to say."
"Oh, be a sport," he urged. "The procedure is quite sim-
ple. Ask him—er—if he's had any experience and that sort of
thing, and if he's got good references, or if he's given to
liaisons with cooks."
"Could you see the ex-butler to a duke pouring out his
guilty passion into Mrs. Greer's large and over-acquisitive
ears?" she demanded.
"Hardly," he answered, but that "over-acquisitive" had
shaken him. For Barbara to even suspect Mrs. Greer of any
misdemeanor whatever was dangerous. He made a mental
note to warn the old lady.
"Then I can take it that you will see Crale?" he asked.
"All right. I'll see him," she agreed. "I shan't engage him
if he looks the clandestine liaison type. I shouldn't like to
expose Mrs. Greer to the sordid side of life."
He didn't like that. There had been nothing but light
raillery in her words, but the tone in which she had uttered
them struck him as peculiar.
"I'm afraid you've been listening to Keating," he said
slowly.
"Haven't seen him for days, but you must agree that the
worthy Mrs. Greer behaved a little curiously recently."
He let it go at that and Barbara herself made no further
reference to the matter, but nevertheless Ian felt a certain
sense of uneasiness as he left the house that morning.
So did Barbara. Interviewing butlers was not her strong


212 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
point and an hour later she regretted her decision to inter-
view this one. "Mr. Crale" when ushered in by Mrs. Greer
confirmed her worst fears. He was essentially what she felt
an ex-butler to a Duke should be. Very correctly garbed, a
little portly, and exceedingly smooth of face. It was rather
a cherubic face, she reflected, but the mask of respectful
serenity awed her. She felt almost as though their positions
were reversed—as though she were the supplicant and he
the employer.
"Er—won't you sit down, Mr. Crale?" she invited
uneasily.
"Thank you, madam."
Worse and worse. His voice was absolutely a masterpiece
of modulated respect—pleasant but placative.
She made three bad breaks and then blurted out, "Of
course, you've had considerable experience, Mr. Crale?"
His expression indicated politely that he would not have
applied for the position in any other circumstances.
"Considerable, as you say, madam," he agreed and for a
moment she thought that his eyes twinkled amusedly. The
next moment she was sure that they had not. They fixed
themselves gravely on her.
"I served many years with His Grace the Duke of Banff,
as I had the honor to tell you in my letter, and previously
with some of the best English families."
She looked suitably awed.
"And your reason for leaving His Grace?" she asked.
He eyed her thoughtfully, albeit respectfully.
"His Grace, madam, was of somewhat unsettled habits. At
my time of life globe-trotting is no longer a pastime that my
heart—or my feet—will allow me to enjoy."
Barbara suppressed a mischievous desire to add "or your
figure." Instead she said, "His Grace traveled?"
"Precisely, madam. It was a little disturbing—never know-


214 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
"Thank you, madam. Will you be dining in?"
"Er—no. Mr. Teyst will be in to dinner."
With a nod that she tried to make casual she dismissed him
to the care of Mrs. Greer, who waddled off with her portly
charge in tow.
In the seclusion of his own room, "Mr. Walter Crale" sat
down and enjoyed the joke. In twenty years, Superintendent
Kaye had been many things, but until that time, never a
butler. The possibilities he foresaw had their perils. Perils
in the overcoming of which a small volume on "Deportment
for Domestics" was to play a great part.
Nevertheless he came through the first ordeal—that of
serving Ian's dinner—successfully. Chiefly because Ian was
not a particularly keen observer of Deportment in Domestics.
Besides his mind was occupied with an attempt to remember
where he had seen the butler before. On three successive
occasions their eyes clashed, and on the third Ian sat back
and looked steadfastly at "Crale."
"Have I ever met you before, Crale?" he asked abruptly.
"Possibly, sir. You were perhaps a guest of His Grace, or
of Mr. Winter ton at some time?"
"No. I have seen you recently, but not at the houses of
either of the gentlemen you mention."
"Possibly at the inquest on my predecessor, sir?"
Ian looked down at his plate. The word "inquest" had
supplied the necessary link, and in a flash he had placed his
man. Although he had no definite proof, he was practically
certain that "Crale" was the man he had seen at the foot of
the drive on the night that Clem met his death.
It gave him something to think about, and throughout the
rest of the meal, which was one of the most uncomfortable
he had even eaten, he kept his eyes rigidly averted from the
butler. "Crale," on his part, executed his duties quietly and
efficiently and retired.
He left behind him a very alert gentleman. To say the


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 21?
least of it Ian was curious. There might, of course, be noth-
ing in the theory, and any one of a number of coincidences
might have explained the butler's presence in the drive that
night, but Ian followed a profession in which the long arm
of coincidence played a small part. Peculiar "coincidence"
usually had a bearing on one's existence, and this one
prompted him to detain Kaye as the other was on the point
of leaving the room, after having deposited a cup of strong
black coffee at Ian's elbow.
"I'll have that in my room, please," he said, and Kaye
followed him across the hall and into his study. As Ian
seated himself he looked across at the other.
"Were you always a butler, Crale?" he asked, selecting a
cigarette from the silver box at his elbow.
"No, sir."
"Indeed. What else have you been?"
Crale lighted a match and held it to Ian's cigarette before
replying.
"A footman, sir," he answered coolly, and there was just
the faintest hint of derision in his tone. Ian noted it, and his
next question was almost brusque.
"And before that?"
"A hall boy, sir. Will that be all, sir?"
"Yes, thanks, that will be all."
As soon as he was aware that he was alone Ian took
the opportunity of verifying Crale's references by a tele-
phone call to the town house of the Duke of Banff. For-
tunately the noble gentleman was at home and answered the
telephone in person.
Kaye, who overheard the conversation, smiled placidly.
He knew that his credentials were quite satisfactory, but was
wondering privately how his ducal cousin—several times re-
moved—was taking this new development. His Grace had
never approved his cousin's first choice of career—that of
the Force—and neither had he been overwhelmed with joy


216 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
at Kaye's announcement that he was going to adopt a but-
ler's livery. To be asked to testify to the efficiency of the
man wearing that livery would probably induce him to write
a letter of remonstrance in the grand manner to his erring
cousin.
Kaye's eyes flickered humorously as he walked out into the
garden to have a cigarette. He was not blind to the signifi-
cance of Ian's telephone conversation, but until then was un-
aware that he had been observed in the drive on the night
that Clem died. For that was the only occasion when Ian
could have seen him. He himself had seen Ian appear at one
of the upper windows and dodged away into cover in the
hope that he had escaped detection. Apparently he had failed.
Finishing his cigarette he returned to the pantry and com-
pleted his duties under the critical eyes of Mrs. Greer, who
was seated in the only comfortable chair that the room
possessed, munching fruit.
"Good for rheumatism," she explained, starting on her
fourth apple. "No one knows what I suffer from rheuma-
tism and other complaints. I've had 'em all at one time and
another."
"Personally I should say that you were a martyr to con-
sumption," Kaye said sympathetically.
The suggestion appealed to Mrs. Greer, but being unaware
of the symptoms of that disease she trod warily.
"Consumption?"
"Yes, excessive consumption," said Kaye regarding the dish
of fruit pointedly.
Mrs. Greer did not see the point and rambled on unsus-
piciously.
"And slaving here doesn't do me any good. Time was
when I didn't work at all. Had me own private income, but
the war—" she sighed profoundly. "You weren't always a
butler, were you?"


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 217
"No," Kaye replied. "As I had the honor to explain to
Mr. Teyst—I was once a human being."
She scratched her nose. It was not ladylike, but it stimu-
lated thought.
"You don't look the domestic service type. You're like me
—reduced in circumstances. Now, if my husband was
alive ."
"You'd be no better off," Kaye interrupted quietly.
She suspended further thought stimulation to look up
sharply.
"What do you mean?"
"Simply that if 'Flash' were alive at this moment he'd
be enjoying one of the concert parties arranged by the
Governor of Princetown for the entertainment of his guests."
"'Flash'," she panted. "When did you hear that name?"
"The last time I heard of 'Flash' Sam Greer," he answered,
"he had two weeks to live."
"What d'ye mean," she screamed suddenly. "What do
you know about him?"
"'Flash'," said Kaye deliberately, "tried to break into
Berkeley's Bank in Lewisham. He stole a police uniform and
posed as the man on that beat. Unfortunately he forgot one
thing. Lewisham is in the 'P' Division, and Sam was wearing
the uniform of a man belonging to the 'W Division. The
bank caretaker spotted the Divisional letter on Sam's collar
and tumbled to the game. In the scrap 'Flash' wounded the
caretaker fatally, and was caught at Southampton."
She half rose and stared at him with panic in her eyes.
"You know a lot about it," she said fearfully. "Who are
you?"
"Does that matter?" he asked, but even as he spoke he saw
recognition dawning in her eyes.
"You're the fellow I saw standing at the end of the drive
on the night—" She broke off panting and stared wildly at
him.


218 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
"Whatever you saw you can keep to yourself," Kaye re-
torted coolly, "or I may be tempted to ask what you know
about the death of Clem Wade!"
She fell back limply in her chair.
"Gawd—I never did it, honest," she whispered, "and I
won't breathe a word not even to Ian. Honest—I never did
it. You believe me, don't you?"
Kaye looked at her thoughtfully and then walked out of
the kitchen without answering.


220 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
Brown was not interested either in the quotation or the
amendment. The only amendment that he could think of
was that they should adjourn forthwith.
"Well, I can't see any point in hanging about this beastly
hotel, sir," he said defensively. "If you've got it all nicely
wrapped up for the Poacher, why not let him have it where
it'll do him most good? The odds are if you stick round here
he'll smell a rat and sheer off."
"Not he. He thinks he's secure, and so he is up to a point,
but 'prosperity engenders sloth,' as Livy has it. When our
friend becomes slothful I shall step in and his little game
will be up."
"So will your number," grunted Brown. "The Poacher's
a gunman and you offer a pretty good mark."
Kaye dreamily watched a smoke ring dissolve. "'He who
fears death has already lost the life he covets'," he quoted
lightly. "You ought to read Cato, Brown, he elevates."
"I don't want elevation, I want air," said Brown.
Chin in hand, he pondered his grievances, and having
arranged them in chronological order was about to fire them
at his superior when a knock on the door dislocated the open-
ing speech for the plaintiff. Crossing the room, he opened
the door with unnecessary violence.
The waiter who stood outside backed a trifle before
Brown's scowl and some of the expectancy vanished from his
expression.
"Mr. Crale, sir?" he asked proffering a letter.
Brown took the letter and tossed it surlily to Kaye.
"Will that be all, sir?" ventured the waiter and "Yes it
will" snarled Brown and slammed the door.
Kaye, an amused spectator, slit the envelope and dis-
closed a smaller one addressed to himself under his correct
name. Opening that in turn he read the brief note it con-
tained.
4


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 225
law. Fortunately, or unfortunately, he was not, but more
unfortunately he became aware of the fact that Brown was
searching for matches. And that fact was directly respon-
sible for all the discomfort that entered Brown's existence in
the following days.
It was the merest chance that in search of something
to light his pipe Brown should have lighted on the letter that
Kaye had recently given him to read. Normally he would
have reserved it and found another means of lighting his
pipe. To-day the using of it was little less than a gesture of
defiance, with Kaye as the person defied.
How long Larry stared at the piece of folded paper ex-
tended to the fire before he became aware of the phrase
"friend Larry has gone north," he did not know, but once he
had seen it he recognized his own handwriting and the words.
He had considered them rather a neat touch when he had
penned them. Immediately he saw them his attention was
focused on Brown, but his regard, if just as hostile, was
infinitely more veiled.
The letter he himself had sent a few hours ago, in this
man's hand meant one thing only—that the man was Kaye.
That he could be any one else never entered Larry's head.
Neither was he concerned with the coincidence of their shar-
ing the same hotel. At that moment he thought of only one
thing—that he was for the first time face to face with
Superintendent Kaye.
He had frequently speculated on his ultimate meeting with
the elusive Superintendent Kaye and now that he had met
him the fact that he had penetrated the Superintendent's
identity, without betraying his own, held a distinct touch of
humor. Nevertheless his face remained perfectly devoid of
expression as Brown passed him on his way out.
It was at that point that Larry also felt the need of fresh
air. His jaunty bearing as he got into his car and followed
leisurely in the wake of "Superintendent Kaye" would have


224 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
given his quarry further cause for grievance had he been
aware of it. So would Larry's intentions.
It was all so simple for Larry. As a solution it left nothing
to be desired. His one aim till then had been to find a safe
means of entrance to Ian Teyst's house. Now the difficulty
had been solved for him. And the solution of one difficulty
was the solution of another. His treatment of Keating had
placed him definitely amongst the hares, but up till then he
had only eliminated one of the hounds.
He lighted a cigarette and smiled contentedly. The second
was due to be eliminated.
It was not until Brown had climbed the ridge and turned
off into the wood to enjoy the magnificent view, that he
found that Larry had parked his car and was following on
foot. Even then it had no particular significance for Brown
and he walked on for some time before turning and perceiv-
ing that Larry's taste for rural walks still coincided with his
own.
In the next ten minutes Brown turned three times and
each time found the effeminate intruder a little closer. It was
after the third turn that Brown's thoughts began to revolve
on rather more suspicious lines. He halted suddenly and
realized for the first time that dusk was falling. Leaning
against a tree trunk he waited for Larry to come up.
Larry, entirely unperturbed, sauntered slowly toward his
quarry.
"Nice evening," he commented as he drew abreast.
It was, but Brown was not interested in the weather.
"Look here," he demanded bluntly, "are you following
me?"
"In a sense I suppose I am," Larry answered pleasantly,
"but the view is free to all, and I believe the Town Council
allow more than one person to enjoy it at a time."
Detective Sergeant Brown stuck out his chin belligerently.


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 225
"Cut out the funny business," he snapped. "What's the
idea?"
"This!"
Brown never discovered what the idea was, because "this"
took the form of a vicious and unexpected uppercut. Then
the sky fell in—at least that was his impression. Actually he
struck his head against a tree as he fell.
Larry glanced swiftly round him and then took something
from his pocket. Something damp with a pungent smell
which, when pressed to the unfortunate Brown's nose, con-
siderably diminished his chances of regaining consciousness
for some time.
When he did regain consciousness he was lying on a bed—
in an upper room of the lodge at Marske House—only he
did not know that. The room was uncarpeted and save for
a chair, unfurnished, and the light of the moon provided
the only illumination.
A tentative effort to move made him realize that he was
strapped to the bed. He also discovered that he was gagged—
which did nothing to improve the situation. Nor did the
sight of Larry standing in the center of the room, calmly
smoking.
Brown mouthed angrily and Larry, carefully extinguishing
his cigarette, produced an automatic pistol.
"This," he said, "as you see is fitted with a silencer. If it
has to justify its name you won't be able to appreciate it."
The hint had its effect. Brown made no outcry when
Larry removed the gag.
"Now we can talk," continued Larry. "And when I say
'we', I mean myself. For the next few days you aren't going
to do any talking except with my permission. You're going
to sit in large quantities and think in even larger—but you
aren't going to talk much."
He tossed his cigarette away and pulled up a dusty chair,


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 227
"Milton. Know him?"
"Yes, I know people who put their false teeth in a glass
of him every night."
Brown grunted and racked his brain furiously for a fur-
ther quotation. But it was not forthcoming.
"What's the idea of dumping me here?" he asked
suddenly.
"Ideas," corrected Larry. "Plural, old soul, for there are
many. One of them is that you shan't be free to crab any-
thing I start. Another is that I shall shortly assume your
divine personality. Naturally a battalion of Kayes drifting
round would create unpleasant doubts in the minds of the
innocent—hence your retirement to cloistered seclusion."
Brown stared round the darkened room and remembered
another of Kaye's quotations.
"'Abandon ye all hope who enter here,'" he said som-
berly, and added considerately "From Dante's 'Inferno.'"
"Yes, make a bad break and try and get out of this and
you'll taste it," Larry said.
"I shan't get out of it," Brown retorted philosophically.
"I'm very much bound up in this place."
Larry rose to his feet and took up the gag.
"This is where your gas gets turned off at the main," he
grinned and in two minutes Brown was mouthing inarticu-
lately again.
"I shall drop in occasionally," said Larry as he walked to the
door, "and feed you with my own lily-white hands. If you
get lonely, try counting the cockroaches. Quite a thrilling
game. Ten points for each and twenty if they get down your
neck."
He smiled pleasantly and withdrawing, descended to the
hall and let himself out. From where he stood he had a clear
view of the drive and he waited for some moments to assure
himself that no one was in the vicinity before he made for
the gates.


CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Ian Teyst was a paragon of consistency. He had consistently
lived on the earnings of his fellow men for years, and in
minor matters he was also a creature of habit.
Any morning, wet or fine, would find him in the long
garden of Marske House studying the progress of his flowers,
undeterred by an absolutely unique ignorance of all matters
concerning them. After ten minutes of miscalling perennials,
"biennials," and watering weeds that he thought might be
gems of the flower world, it was his custom to stroll round
to the drive via the garage and smoke a cigarette while he
contemplated his plans for the day.
Whatever his plans for that particular day had been they
had certainly not included half that transpired. Least of all
a meeting with his artist visitor. On entering the drive he
again found the man admiring the lodge. Had he been closer
he might have noticed a faint smile in Larry's eyes. Which
was not surprising. Larry's recent conversation with the
recumbent Brown, regarded purely from Larry's point of
view, had been distinctly amusing.
But Ian was not aware of any of these things, nor of any
particular desire to renew an acquaintance with the follower
of a profession that he privately regarded as a waste of time.
In spite of which he strolled forward and nodded a polite
greeting.
"Thinking of redeeming your promise to immortalize my
lodge?" he asked jocularly, and experienced the first of those
shocks that were not scheduled in that day's arrangements.
"No. As a matter of fact I was thinking of preventing
your early demise," said Larry thoughtfully.
239


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 231
tral Branch have I the misfortune of addressing? And why
the elaborate deception?"
Larry's reply struck him as meaningless.
"Try the eleventh letter of the alphabet," he suggested, and
Ian made a rapid mental calculation.
"K?" he asked blankly.
"Exactly, but Superintendent to you."
Ian drew a deep breath and studied the other with interest.
"So you're Kaye? Well, I don't know that that stops the
sun shining. What do you want, anyway?"
"A small strip of paper," Larry retorted easily. "It's no
good, Ian. The 'Innocent-At-Home' stuff won't wash. We
know you've got it and we want it. You'll be serving two
ends by giving it up."
"Whose ends?"
"Yours and ours. Particularly yours. The Poacher croaked
Clem, and Clem hadn't got that slip. You have. Work it
out."
"I have, thanks. What's this tripe about a strip of paper?"
Larry sighed patiently.
"The strip your brother gave you. We've got Larry
Wade's strip—the one Dennis gave him. The Poacher's got
the second slip—the slip your brother Ralph received, and
he's out to get yours and he'll get you in the process."
Ian laughed silently.
"Kaye, you're wasted. I know comedians with an inferior
sense of humor who make fortunes on the boards. Your beard
would be an asset too. You're too funny. For years you've
been trying to put me in the pen to save my soul, now you're
trying to perform a like service for my body. Go on, be
funny, I'm enjoying it."
"Glad to hear it. So am I. Only I shall be the one to enjoy
it when you're put away. Laugh at that."
Ian obligingly complied.


232 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
"You've got a chance to avert it," Larry continued. "You
know what it is. We want that slip of paper."
"And 'we' aren't going to get it."
"That remains to be seen," Larry retorted. "You'll be
having an unwelcome visitor during the next few days,
Ian."
"Meaning the Poacher?"
"I hope so, but I was thinking more particularly of myself.
I'll be frank. While you hold that paper you're a marked
man and sooner or later the Poacher is going to drop on you.
When he does, I want to be there."
"So that's the game?"
"Well, more or less. There's nothing to prevent you think-
ing that we are here to protect you as we should any other
citizen, although it doesn't matter a tinker's curse to us
whether a few more of your type get wiped out or not. The
Poacher is doing a public service that far, but by the unfor-
tunate laws of this country you're entitled to police pro-
tection. And you're going to need it when that young man
gets going."
"You're not very brilliant are you?" Ian asked. "Why,
man, you and that beard of yours will scare every crook off
for miles."
"It hasn't scared you off yet. Anyway, I'm staying."
Ian accepted the situation with a shrug and began to stroll
back towards the house. The situation needed delicate
handling. To openly consign Kaye to the devil and, in effect,
kick him out of the house might lead to a revival of one or
two little points in Ian's career that were best left undis-
turbed.
Apart from that, Ian was conscious of a certain sense of
relief. At least Kaye was not there in connection with Clem's
death. To the other's remarks concerning the Poacher's pos-
sible intentions, Ian paid scant attention. He was not easily
frightened.


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 233
Larry on his part was congratulating himself. That his
disguise had passed muster before his keenest enemy spoke
well of it.
They had almost reached the house when Barbara appeared
coming from the garage. She paused uncertainly as she saw
Ian's companion, and then walked slowly towards them.
Ian made the introduction smoothly enough despite the
fact that he realized her possible curiosity about the visit
of a Yard man to the house.
"This is Superintendent Kaye, Barbara. Mr. Kaye will be
staying—er—."
"Some time," supplemented Larry coolly. "How do you
do, Miss Teyst? A charming home you have here, and a
fortunate one."
"Fortunate?" she asked, offering her hand.
"In its choice of mistress," Larry explained, and looking
into her eyes realized that he had been merely truthful
where he had intended to be extremely courteous.
"That's very kind of you," Barbara laughed.
"Perhaps you'll show Mr. Kaye the garden, Barbara?" Ian
suggested. "I have one or two letters to write."
She nodded, and her uncle made his escape to write letters
that existed only in his imagination.
The other two barely noticed his absence.
"Of course, I'm not altogether unfamiliar with your
name," she said, as they strolled side by side looking at Ian's
'perennials.' "Inspector Keating speaks of you frequently.
I think he regards you as a kind of cross between Confucius
and Mahomet."
Larry grinned by way of answer. It was the only reply
he could make with any safety. Confucius created a little
confusion in his mind. He realized that that sort of thing
was going to be difficult to maintain. Discovering exactly
what characteristics Keating had attributed to his superior,
and adopting them, was decidedly going to heighten the zest


234 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
of this impersonation. But the difference between zest and
pest is slight.
"Inspector Keating is rather a dear, isn't he?" she con-
tinued. "He thinks there is no one quite like you."
"There isn't," Larry assured her. "I hope Sam painted me
with a merciful brush."
"Very. Although he doesn't approve of some of your
friends. Notably Harry Stotle."
Larry did not rise to that bait very easily.
"His name for Aristotle," she explained, and he nodded.
That was another little point to note. Mentally Larry
cursed. The impersonation of a man who read Aristotle and
resembled Confucius struck him as a precarious business.
"But that wasn't his best," Barbara continued. "I think
the prize winner was the 'Odd Essay' of Homer."
They both laughed at that, but only one of them really
appreciated the joke, and that one was not Larry.
Skillfully he changed the subject back to the vagaries
of Keating. There at least he was on safe ground.
"Sam's a quaint old bird, but pretty astute," he observed.
"Do you know him well?"
"Yes. He used to visit me frequently," she answered, "but
I haven't seen him for some days."
"No. He's been rather tied down by his work in the East
End," Larry observed, and this time it was only he who
enjoyed the joke.
They halted, and she sat down on a rustic seat facing the
small ornamental lake. Larry, seating himself on the raised
stone parapet that surrounded the lake, amused himself by
tossing pebbles into the water.
"He's always given me the impression that you were a
particularly mysterious person," she continued. "I rather
hoped I should meet you at the inquest. Were you there?"
"Yes," he admitted with perfect truth. "That you did not
see me is due to the regrettable 'mysteriousness' you alluded


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 235
to. That inquest was rather a nasty business. Clem Wade
was a servant of your uncle's, wasn't he?"
Her face clouded over. "Yes, and a very harmless man,
too," she replied. "I can't think why any one should wish
him dead. It's all too horrible."
"You knew Clem?"
"Yes, he used to regard me, well, rather amorously. That
was a compliment, I suppose. I little thought he would meet
his death in that manner."
She was silent for a few minutes. Then, "Do you think
there is such a person as the Poacher?" she asked, "Or at
least that he is in this neighborhood?"
"I do," he replied. "That is partly why I am here. That
and other reasons. I want the Poacher badly."
She looked at him for some moments, and then blurted
out, "You don't think that my uncle is in any danger, do
you?"
Larry looked down and smiled.
"No, I think your uncle is the one man who is not in
danger from the Poacher," he said, and changed the subject.
He had seen Ian approaching through the trees.
Barbara carried the memory of that remark, and the
curious conviction that somewhere before she had encoun-
tered the eyes of the maker, with her for the rest of the day.
They were certainly rather attractive eyes, dark brown and
amusing, and the persistent thought that she had looked
into them before worried her not a little.
Fortunately for Larry's peace of mind he was not aware
of the photograph episode, and even more fortunately Bar-
bara could not recall it.
Larry also carried the memory of a pair of eyes, and a
pair of lips, with him for the rest of the day. For the first
time he found himself regretting his beard.
But he was nothing if not thorough. Before dinner he made
an excuse to go down to the village, and returned with two


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 237
were taken up by an experiment in which a kettle and the
steam issuing from its spout played a great part.
Within a few seconds he was reading the telegram, and
what he saw made him smile, although the message could
hardly be construed as humorous. He read it twice, and re-
placing it, sealed the envelope, and made his way leisurely
in search of the rightful owner.
He found Larry still staring into the dusk, and having
delivered the telegram, made the straightening up of a few
books an excuse for remaining. He was rather anxious to
see Larry's expression when he read that message.
But the results were disappointing.
The telegram was interesting enough to make Larry
temporarily oblivious of the butler's presence, but his ex-
pression revealed nothing but a vague interest. Yet the sig-
nificance of the message might have justified a more startling
reception.
It read "Supt. Kaye. A train leaves Reigate for London
at 8:15. Catch it."
The signature was even more interesting than the message,
and for a full two minutes Larry stared at the two final
words, "The Poacher." Then he crumpled up the telegram
and tossed it into the fire.
"That will be all, Crale," he said, and made his way to
his room to dress for dinner.
He was not a particularly interesting companion that
night, and the game of Bezique that Ian had proposed tried
his patience to the utmost, nevertheless, he played on until
such time as he could reasonably retire on a plea of tiredness.
For the first time he doubted the advisability—or, to be
more accurate, the safety—of paying his nightly visit for
the purpose of revictualing Brown. He paid the visit, but
his right hand never left the automatic pistol in his pocket.
Kaye, whose room at the end of the house allowed him a
clear view of the drive and the roof of the lodge, watched


CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
From exactly where the shot had come Larry did not know,
neither did he make any immediate attempt to ascertain. The
bullet had smashed a pane of glass less than an inch above
his head, which hinted at tolerably good marksmanship and
an unpleasantly close assailant. So close that he spent five
minutes trying to make up his mind whether it was safe to
investigate.
When he at last moved it was the merest fraction of an
inch, but it allowed him to look into the moonlit room.
It also allowed him to see that the door leading to the hall
was slowly opening. It was suddenly pushed wide to reveal
Ian Teyst, in his dressing gown, and carrying in one hand a
replica of the thing that Larry promptly leveled at him.
As Ian stared around him Larry stepped into the room, and
for one long minute they glared into each other's eyes.
Then Ian's lips parted in a faint smile and he slipped the
automatic he carried into the pocket of his dressing gown.
"What happened, Kaye?" he asked.
"I'm wondering. I heard a noise and came down to trace
its source. When I opened the window someone took a pot
at me."
"You mean that this someone was in the room when you
entered it?"
Larry shrugged. It was the safest way of answering. For
obvious reasons he could not give the true explanation, but he
both could and did return Ian's suspicious stare.
"You got down there pretty close on the heels of that
shot," he challenged, and stepped closer. "See anyone?"
239


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 241
but aware of Barbara's sudden look of fear, hastily plunged
into the breach.
"You keep pretty late hours, don't you?" he asked
pointedly.
Kaye shrugged.
"I did not feel like turning in, so I sat up and read," he
answered, and turning to Ian added, "by candlelight, sir."
Ian was not particularly interested in electric light saving.
He found his butler an altogether more absorbing study.
"Did you—see any one?" he asked slowly.
"No, sir," answered Kaye. "After the shot I allowed some
time to elapse before I ventured into the corridor; I have a
wholesome respect for firearms."
"You only carry one yourself when you read, eh?" Larry
asked.
"No, sir. The habit was acquired during my service with
His Grace—the habit of carrying a revolver, not reading. His
Grace hunted all kinds of game and traveled in queer places—
although it appears that the carrying of weapons in civilized
places can be justified."
"What makes you think it was a shot, Crale?" Barbara
asked, and Larry interfered promptly to prevent a further
tactless revelation.
"He doesn't think so. He's simply been reading Phillips
Oppenheim late at night. The noise was made by the chair I
overturned."
"All the same I don't see why he's fully dressed," she
protested. "One usually reads in bed."
"As I said, I did not feel like turning in, Miss Teyst.
Something in the night air, I suppose. Mr. Kaye seems to
have been a victim also."
That got home, as he intended it to, but Larry covered a
momentary confusion easily.
"I don't think you need worry, Miss Teyst. I can assure
you that Crale was mistaken."


242 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
Barbara looked down sleepily. "I suppose you're right, but
I woke up suddenly and the noise startled me. Anyway, I'm
dying to get back to bed. If you really must mooch about the
house at night, Mr. Kaye, do please carry a torch in future.
All the best detectives do."
With which barbed shot she turned and walked back along
the corridor.
Larry bowed and looked meaningly at Ian.
"Something in this Poacher idea, eh?" he asked softly.
"Possibly, but it was your blood he was after, not mine."
"What I want to know," interrupted Mrs. Greer belliger-
ently from above, "is if an honest woman can sleep in
peace"
"An honest woman can," Kaye interjected as he passed
her on his way downstairs. "Good-night."
She glared at him angrily and bounced off in the direction
of her bedroom, leaving him to join Larry and Ian in the
hall.
"Well, what do you want?" Larry demanded.
"Merely to see if our friend the Poacher left any useful
clue, sir."
"Who said anything about the Poacher?"
Kaye regarded Larry innocently.
"Is there any doubt in your mind as to the identity of
your assailant, sir?" he asked.
"Poacher—assailant—shots—you've certainly been reading
Oppenheim," Larry said.
"And what the devil do you mean by scaring my niece,
Crale?" Ian demanded angrily.
Kaye smiled deprecatingly.
"Scaring, sir? I merely answered her question, truthfully.
After all, an overturned chair doesn't leave a smell of cordite,
sir."
He sniffed suggestively.


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 243
"Have it your own way, only don't blurt these things
out. You'll scare the women."
"Anything could scare Mrs. Greer, sir."
"Never mind that," Larry broke in. "We've lost whatever
chance we had of catching our elusive friend. This place
ought to have been searched before he got away."
"I don't think you would have found many traces of—the
person in question, sir," Kaye answered. "The Poacher covers
his tracks very effectively."
"All the same the place ought to be searched," Ian pro-
tested. "He can't have got far yet."
"Always supposing that he went anywhere." This from
Kaye with a peculiar emphasis that made Larry look at him
sharply.
"Yes, that shot was fired from this room, not from the
garden," he said. "In fact, I shouldn't be altogether surprised
if this turned out to be an inside job."
His gaze wandered curiously from Ian to Kaye, but it
was the latter who challenged him.
"And I should be surprised if it turned out that it was
not."
His tone was quite impersonal, but both his hearers de-
tected an undercurrent.
"I think I'll look at that gun of yours, Crale," Larry said
slowly.
Kaye tendered the weapon he held, and there was a sly
smile on his face as he watched Larry examine it. Larry
discovered the reason for that smile when he found that the
automatic was unloaded. He returned it with a scowl and
looked suspiciously at Kaye as the other switched on the
lights of the morning-room and crossed to the window.
"I think we might possibly trace the bullet, sir," he sug-
gested to Ian, who had followed him. "We should then know
definitely if it was fired from inside the house."


246 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
grams. Ian made a resolve to discuss the matter with Crale
as soon as possible, and the opportunity came directly after
breakfast.
"I understand you delivered a telegram to Superintendent
Kaye this morning, Crale," said Ian, intercepting the other
as he was leaving the room.
"That is so, sir."
"Who asked you to?"
Crale gathered up a cup.
"No one, sir. None of the others were up, so I hurried
down to the town with it myself. I thought that it might
contain an important message and that it might not other-
wise be delivered—until it was too late."
Ian did not miss the significance of that pause. His reply
was curt.
"You might remember in future that I engaged you as a
butler, not a district messenger," he snapped. "That's all."
Kaye took the rebuke meekly and retired to his quarters,
not to discharge any duties appertaining to them, but be-
cause he was rather anxious to discover exactly to what use
Larry proposed putting the recently purchased periscope.
Very few things escaped the eyes of Superintendent Kaye.
From the window of his pantry it was possible to get a clear
view of Larry's bedroom window, which was in the back of
the house and directly above that of Ian's study, and Kaye
saw all he wanted to. What he did not see he surmised. And
it was what he surmised that led him to remain at a discreet
but sufficient distance from the door of Ian's study a few sec-
onds after Larry entered it.
There was nothing in Ian's manner to suggest that Larry's
visit was a welcome one. In fact, his concentration on his
book became almost painfully marked. All of which Larry
took in amusedly without allowing it to affect his purpose.
Which was that of talking like a Dutch uncle to his host.
"I want to talk to you about that butler of yours, Ian,"


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 247
he said, dropping into a chair and calmly helping himself to
one of Ian's cigarettes from a silver box.
"Which," replied Ian, closing the cigarette box without
looking up, "is no guarantee that I want to talk to you on
that or any other subject."
"Nevertheless you will. This concerns you more nearly
than me."
"I didn't know we had anything in common."
"We have, a number of things," Larry assured him quite
truthfully. "Where did you pick Crale up?"
"Is that anything to do with you?"
"To some extent. He was fully dressed and carrying a
gun last night when I was potted at."
"Are you expecting me to weep because some one nearly
croaked you? If I weep, it'll be because they didn't."
"One of these days gallery play'll land you in Queer
Street," Larry observed. "All I'm expecting you to do is to
see that some one is doing their level best to drive me out of
this house."
"That," observed Ian coldly, "leaves me all broken up and
worried."
"If they succeed, you'll be more worried. If I'm removed
from this house, Ian, it'll be that much less between you and
the Poacher."
That certainly produced a more satisfactory effect. Ian
closed his book and laid it down.
"I got Crale through an advertisement," he said. "Are
you suggesting that he's the Poacher?"
"I'm suggesting nothing except that if you want to pre-
serve a whole skin you'll hand over that piece of paper your
brother gave you. The Poacher won't let up on you while
you've got it."
"So far he hasn't let up on you," Ian returned, "and if
Crale is the Poacher then I prefer to have him here where I
can watch him."


248 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
"And where he can watch you? Just as you like, but either
way I want the companion to this."
Taking out a wallet he extracted a small strip of blue
paper. Ian looked at it casually and smiled.
"I doubt if you'll get it. If I had it I know you wouldn't.
Where did you get that?"
"Your brother gave it to Dennis, as you know. He passed
it on to Larry Wade—which you may not know—and we
got it from him—very simply."
Larry found it necessary to conceal his mouth by fingering
his beard.
"And the Poacher's got the third slip," he continued. "He
beat Dennis to it and rifled Ralph's safe. I'm warning you,
Ian, a Reigate undertaker is going to profit by your loss.
Not that you'd be much loss, but we're out to stop excess
profits."
Both his eyes and his tone were ironical, but irony was not
his own peculiar monopoly. Ian was no novice.
"If I were to hand you over the slip that you say I've got,"
Ian smiled, "I'd be exposing you to a double dose of the
Poacher's attention, which wouldn't do. I'm too fond of
you."
That remark came under the category of water on a
duck's back, but its successor certainly amused Larry.
"I'll give you a tip, Kaye. If you've been near enough to
Larry Wade to get that slip of paper you've been near
enough to the Poacher to grab him. Now, unless your per-
ceptions are particularly dulled you have probably guessed
that twenty minutes of your society is exactly nineteen too
long. Goodbye."
Larry replaced the slip of paper in his wallet and rose.
As he did so Ian's eyes flickered oddly.
Apparently Larry was unaware that the other had shifted
his right foot a trifle to the left. As a matter of fact the sub-


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 249
ject of Ian seemed to have exhausted all interest for him,
nevertheless he paused at the door to add a final warning.
"If one kind of persuasion fails, Ian, there may be other
more effective brands," he remarked. "The coroner's verdict
on Clem Wade as 'murder by a person or persons unknown'
struck me as a little inaccurate."
He departed with a slightly sinister smile and left Ian to
his reflections. Reflections that in no way centered on that
threat. His thoughts centered, to be exact, on his right foot,
and shifting it he stooped swiftly and picked up the strip of
paper that had fallen from Larry's wallet as he replaced it.
For some moments Ian stared at the blue slip, and then,
walking to the door, he opened it quickly and looked out.
The corridor was deserted, and closing the door he turned the
key in the lock and returned to the desk.
Sitting down before it, he placed the piece of paper care-
fully on his blotting pad and picked up a round ebony ruler.
Taking hold of it at either end, he twisted his hands in
opposite directions and the ruler began to unscrew in the
center. As it came apart, a tightly roled tube of blue paper
fell from the hollowed out interior. It was the strip of paper
that his brother George had given him.
Two minutes later he was comparing two slips of paper—
his own and the one Larry had dropped—in an effort to ex-
tract a message or part of a message from the combination.
He failed.
One glance told him that a protracted examination would
be just as fruitless, and the conclusion that his brother
George had been even more astute than he realized was
slowly borne in on it. Without the third slip the message was
useless.
Which was not so very surprising. For although Larry had
carefully matched his slip of paper at a London stationer's
and had also faultlessly copied the Colonel's writing—no
difficult task for an artist like himself—the letters that he


254 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
From an upper window of the lodge, Superintendent Kaye
watched him go, and then descended to the basement, and
Brown.
It was Kaye's half day and for a while he was not alto-
gether sorry to shelve a pretense that normally amused him.
The bearing of an ex-butler to a Duke was a lesson in the art
of correctness that required no little maintaining.
He found Brown staring up at the ceiling and still ponder-
ing Larry's remarks concerning Keating, and for some
moments after his superior had removed the gag Brown re-
mained silent, while Kaye lighted his own cigarette and one
for his subordinate.
"You don't happen to have something solid in the way of
food, sir, do you?" Brown asked. "Cigarettes aren't very
nourishing and my keep isn't costing Larry Wade much."
Kaye felt in his pockets and produced a bar of chocolate.
"You're not doing badly," he said proffering it. "I saw
Larry abstract a wing of chicken from the pantry after
lunch to-day. Anyway, a little dieting won't harm you. You
know opinion is divided on the subject of food. Homer says,
'The belly is the commanding part of the body,' while Plato
says, 'The wicked man lives to eat and drink, but the good
man eats and drinks to live.' Personally I agree with Plato."
Brown eyed his superior's chubby figure amazedly.
"You agree?" he asked blankly.
"Certainly," smiled Kaye, "but I never allow my convic-
tions to influence my inclinations. Some people do. In fact,
that is the one thing that turns a casual offender into an
habitual criminal."
The change of subject bewildered Brown, but it also re-
minded him of something.
"Talking of shop, sir," he said suddenly, "have you heard
anything lately from Inspector Keating?"
"No. And it's unusual. The last time I heard from Sam
he was pursuing an imaginary Larry up North. Storm says


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 255
he is still getting letters from Sam, but as I have informed
the Round Table that Larry is here in Reigate, they are
beginning to think hard thoughts about Sam."
"I fancy Larry Wade could tell you something about
Inspector Keating's whereabouts, sir. He made a peculiar
remark just now," said Brown, and retailed the latter end of
Larry's conversation.
"So that's it," mused Kaye. "Larry is becoming a collector
of objets d'art in the form of police officers. He'll find it an
expensive hobby."
"He's got something up his sleeve," answered Brown. "Says
I'll be free pretty soon. So I shall—but no thanks to him."
He looked anxiously at Kaye.
"I shall be free soon, shan't I?" he demanded anxiously.
"What with lying gagged on this damn bed, getting cramp,
and having to listen to that crooked louse Wade, crowing
like a prize-cock—this game is getting me beat. I'd like to
be the beak who sentences him!"
He spoke viciously, and Kaye smiled.
"So should I, but in the words of Plato, 'No man may be
both accuser and judge.' By the way you might lend me
that master key of yours. I may need it."
"Help yourself. Right-hand trouser pocket."
"Thanks. How is the classical contest progressing?"
"Fine," grinned Brown. "He got in a Seneca and a Pliny,
and I scored neatly with a Socrates and a Cicero. Who the
devil was Cicero, sir?"
But Kaye was not listening. Rising to his feet he picked up
the gag and despite his subordinate's protests, replaced it.
"I'd give a month's pay to know exactly where Inspector
Keating is at the moment," he said, "and I will do so if I
don't find out within a few hours. Goodbye, Brown. Stick it
a little longer, and comfort yourself with the infallible wis-
dom of the ancient Plato—'A work well begun is half ended.'
There's a lot in it."


256 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
To which remark Brown returned a grunt. He had no
choice. His thoughts as he heard Kaye leave the house were
decidedly unflattering to his superior.
Out in the drive Kaye walked slowly back to the house
and his pantry. From its window he could see Mrs. Greer
sleeping in a chair in the kitchen garden, and farther afield
he caught an occasional glimpse of Larry practising a trick
service on the tennis court. Ian, he knew, was reading in his
own room, and Barbara was not yet back from town. For a
few moments he stood there looking out across the garden,
and then took out the key that he had obtained from Browp.
Smiling faintly he left the pantry and made his way silently
through the kitchen to the hall. Pausing a moment outside
Ian's door he continued on silently across the hall and up
the stairs. As he reached the corridor he became even more
careful, and reaching Larry's room, moved with a peculiar
sliding step obliterating the slightest vibration that might
otherwise have attracted the attention of Ian, directly be-
neath him.
Crossing to the window he looked out carefully to see
that the others were still where he had left them, and then
standing by the door listened for signs of any activity on the
part of Ian. But the house was silent.
He turned and took stock of the room. Very little escaped
the attention of Superintendent Kaye, and that only because
it was irrelevant, but all those things that he considered "in-
teresting" he investigated, and foremost amongst them was
Larry's handsome leather suitcase.
A little deft manipulation with the thin tube of steel with
which Brown had provided him, and the catches of the case
flew back. Almost the first thing that caught his eye, and
amused him, was the recently purchased periscope, and the
second thing he noticed was an unsealed envelope containing
a letter which he hoped would amuse him even more.
Picking up the letter, he closed the suitcase and crossed


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 257
to the window, taking another cautious survey before he
placed his find on the writing desk. He took out a small pair
of steel pincers and, gingerly removing the letter from its
envelope, unfolded it. Its contents, to say the least of them,
were interesting.
He read:—
"My dear Lou,
"Within a few days I shall have got—what I came
for. I anticipate a little trouble with our mysterious
friend, the Poacher, but I fancy I've got that gentleman
taped. Unless some one dealt me a dud stack, the butler
here is not altogether a stranger to our elusive friend"
—Kaye's eyes glittered ironically—"but that remains to
be seen. With regard to Keating, hold him at least till
the end of the week—111 wire you from Southampton
when it's safe to let him loose on a long suffering world.
The usual way—blindfold and a little ride round before
you dump him in Green Park or some other wide open
space. Above all—hands off, as far as violence is con-
cerned. I'm very fond of Keating, but Chorley isn't.
See that the fool doesn't show his face or he'll wreck the
whole show and possibly Keating, which is not ."
The letter finished there, and after studying it for a
moment Kaye replaced it in the envelope which he noticed
with grim amusement was addressed to Lou Staam, Esq., 4a,
Angel Crescent, The Barbican, E.C.
So that was where Sam was? He dropped the envelope and
stared out of the window. He could no longer hear the sound
of the balls on the court, but the significance of that did
not strike him. For the moment his thoughts were centered
on his friend. He did not waste any time trying to explain to
himself how Keating had landed himself in his present corner,
neither did he think that Keating was in any particular


258 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
danger. Chorley, for instance, had got sufficient sense not to
show his face and thus betray to Keating the identity of his
captors, nevertheless Superintendent Kaye felt a little uneasy.
Chorley and others had no particular love for Sam or
At that point Kaye became aware that he was no longer
the sole occupant of the room. Some one was standing in the
doorway behind him.
There was exactly one thing that he could do and he did
it. With one hand he covertly slid the envelope beneath a
blotting pad on the desk, taking care to move only his wrist
in so doing, and with the other he slipped the letter into an
inside pocket of his jacket, still observing the same caution.
Fortunately his back prevented the newcomer from seeing
the movements of his hands.
Then, apparently unaware that he was not alone he
straightened up a few books on the desk and closed the win-
dow before turning round. His start on observing Larry was
little short of masterly.
Leaning against the wall with a cigarette pendant from the
corner of his mouth, Larry watched Kaye with eyes that
were unpleasantly speculative.
"What's the idea?" he asked shortly.
"Idea? I'm afraid I don't understand, sir."
"No? Why the fanatical fury for tidying up?"
"Habit, sir," Kaye answered respectfully. "You cannot
break the habits of a lifetime."
"Habit? On your half day? I wonder what your Union
would say?"
"I happened to see in passing the room a few little things
that—er—needed attention, and stepped in to give it."
"Selfless man," said Larry. "I wonder what the things were
that needed—er—a little attention? You know, Socrates put
it rather well when he said 'Suspect the meaning and regard
not speeches.'"


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 259
It was Kaye's turn to smile. He looked down pointedly at
the books he had been straightening.
"I too, have found Brewer very useful at times, sir," he
replied, meaningly.
The retort that sprang to Larry's lips remained unspoken,
but it was fortunate that a diversion was caused at that
moment by Barbara's Gabriel horn as her car turned in at the
gates.
"That will be Miss Teyst returning," said Kaye. "I think,
if you will excuse me, I will go and prepare tea, sir—even
although it is my half day, Mrs. Greer will be glad of some
assistance."
He crossed the room and Larry stood aside. As the other
passed him he spoke softly.
"Crale, have you ever heard of the Poacher?" he asked.
Kaye halted and faced his questioner.
"Who has not, sir," he said, and looked Larry squarely in
the eyes. "I have made an intensive study of the gentleman's
career. In fact I think I may say that I know more about the
Poacher than any other living person."
For a moment Larry looked directly at Kaye, and then
turned aside.
"Will that be all, sir? Thank you."


262 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
He did not expect an answer. So far neither of his visitors
had ever betrayed any sign that they heard, save by the
ironic gleam in their eyes visible through the slits in the
sacks. Consequently he was more than surprised when the
taller man stepped into the cellar and spoke.
"Who says you're going to get out?"
The shorter man's start and instinctive gesture of caution
came just too late. The damage was done and Keating, in the
act of biting his slice of bread, paused and looked up. A
slow smile spread over his face.
"So it's Chorley?" he asked delightedly, and saw Chorley's
companion cringe away. "This time you've shoved your
crooked hoof well and truly in the soup. You and the boy
friend are for the high jump as soon as I get out. As for
getting out I'm going to get out all right—you'll be saying
the same thing yourself in about five years if the beak is
generous."
He attacked his bread and dripping with considerable
enjoyment, while the other removed his improvised mask.
Chorley took out a packet of cigarettes and lighting one
blew a thin stream of smoke down his nostrils before reply-
ing. He was quite unhurried and apparently unaware of his
companion's increasing agitation.
"The trouble with you is that you talk too much," he
said.
"Well, you aren't suffering from lockjaw," Keating
grunted, but the remark fell on deaf ears. Chorley was talk-
ing again.
"You talk so much that you don't get time to do any-
thing—it don't get you anywhere, Flea Powder!"
He walked across the room and pausing a few feet away
from Keating stooped down and displaced some straw on the
floor.
From where he sat Keating could see the big trap door


264 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
Deptford. Flung into that, bound hand and foot, Keating
realized that he would have very little chance of being rescued
by his colleagues, the "Water Rats," in any condition but
that of decay. The water kept its victims well.
It did not disturb him. It was unpleasant, that was all, but
no more unpleasant than any other form of death—at least
any form in which a police officer was likely to encounter it.
It certainly gave him food for thought and it was still
occupying his attention when he next heard the rumbling
sound that always announced a visitor.
This time only one of his gaolers appeared. It was the
shorter man, and he appeared to have some difficulty in walk-
ing. As he came closer Keating saw that he was trembling
violently, and for no apparent reason. The reason, however,
manifested itself when the man suddenly tore off his hood
and revealed the face of Lou Staam.
Keating stared in amazement at the little German Jew. He
knew of Lou as did every one else, but he had never come
under police observation, and that he should be one of the
captors had never occurred to Keating.
"So you're in on this, Lou?" Keating asked, and saw that
the old man was holding a bunch of keys. He also saw that
Lou was badly frightened.
"It is murder, dot one tinks of, hein?" he asked suddenly.
"Chorley have carried de grudge mit heemself for long times.
Me I bear no one de grudge."
His tone was almost a whine.
"No, you bear no one de grudge," Keating agreed.
"Murder, I don' like heem," Lou quavered, turning to peer
into the shadows behind him. "Always I haf keep dese hans
clean." He spread out "dese hans," and conclusively proved
that his last remark was an exaggeration in more senses than
one. But in one sense it was true. Lou had never been party
to a murder. He had not condoned the attack on the Colonel.
"No, I don' like heem, Keating. Chorley no good. Murder


CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Suddenly the rumbling ceased, and the sound of the lift
grounding came to Keating. From where he stood he could
not see the occupant of the lift, but Lou could, and in the old
Jew's eyes was a kind of dumb terror.
Keating, watching Lou, saw the old man rise to his feet
and raise his hands as if to ward off attack. He cringed
away as a husky whisper broke the silence.
"So that's what you were after—freeing Keating, you
dirty German scum," and Chorley stepped suddenly into the
cellar, his eyes fixed intently on the other.
He advanced slowly, a gun dangling from his right hand,
and Keating braced himself again the wall. As yet, Chorley
was not aware that the cellar had any other occupant but
Lou, and his eyes never left the old man's face.
Suddenly he halted before Lou and deliberately struck him
in the face. The old man pitched backwards, and as he fell,
Chorley kicked him viciously.
"Squeaking, eh?" he snarled, and at the same moment
heard a movement behind him that made him whirl with
uplifted gun. "What in hell's that—"
Keating's reply was brief. He knocked the gun up and the
owner down, and as Chorley fell, launched himself at him.
Crouched against the wall, old Lou watched the two men
fighting furiously in the opposite corner. The slyly humorous
Chorley that both he and Keating knew had given place to a
struggling maniac, who fought with the strength of despera-
tion. Twice in as many minutes Keating avoided having his
eyes gouged, and once a long nail tore his face from cheek-
bone to jaw.
367


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 269
"Bat an eye and you're sunk," said the Voice, and with
an effort Keating opened his eyes and sat up.
Huddled against the wall were his six assailants and old
Lou, and directly opposite him, standing on the stairs that
led up to the shop stood a tall man in a blue serge suit, wear-
ing a light gray trilby pulled well down over his eyes.
In one hand he held an automatic pistol, and directly be-
hind him stood three tall youngsters, also wearing blue serge
suits and trilby hats. Something in their peculiarly impassive
bearing and expressionless stare set Keating's memory work-
ing.
"By gosh, Storm," he said, rising slowly. "Lord, man, you
timed that nicely."
He walked stiffly across the room to the tall man who held
the weapon.
Inspector Storm of the Flying Squad grinned down at his
colleague.
"We got a rush call from Kaye," he explained. "He wants
Lou for receiving—you among other things."
Keating offered up a silent prayer for Superintendent Kaye
and Inspector Storm.
"Did Chorley get past you?" he asked suddenly.
"No, but some one went down that lift arrangement."
"That was Chorley all right," snapped Keating. "Give
me a gun, somebody. I want Chorley badly. If you're going
back to the Yard, Storm, you can take Chorley in tow. Leave
Lou—I'll talk to him in a few moments."
Beckoning to one of Storm's companions, he crossed the
room and jerked at the lift rope. As soon as the platform rose
to their level he stepped on it.
"Keep close to the wall," he warned, and jerked the rope
again.
The platform descended slowly and came to a standstill at
the lower level. Keating stepped out with the other close on
his heels.


272 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
She knew it, but, "Does it, grandfather?" she mocked, and
they laughed.
"Shall we walk for a little while?" she asked. "I can leave
the car. The gentleman with the dusky diaphragm will mind
it."
He nodded, and she beckoned to a gentleman of leisure
standing outside the Post Office, whose sole occupation seemed
to be that of exploring his back teeth with a match stick. A
shilling worked one part of the miracle, and Barbara's smile
the other. Then she linked arms with Keating and they
strolled up the High Street.
Keating, not unaware of the chances of encountering Larry,
was anxious to put as much distance between Ian's house and
himself as possible, and with the idea of ascertaining in what
degree of danger he stood he steered the conversation into
those channels most likely to be of profit.
"You've got a visitor up at the house, haven't you?" he
asked.
"Yes, your interesting friend, Kaye," she answered. "I've
met him at last."
"Interesting?"
"Yes, but not quite in the way I thought. You didn't tell
me he was bearded."
Keating recollected just in time.
"Didn't I?" he asked lamely. "Perhaps I don't tell little
girls everything, however charming they are."
"Thank you. I think he'd look a great deal younger with-
out it—the beard, I mean."
That, for some reason failed to interest her companion,
but she pursued her topic unaware of any lack of attention
in her listener.
"I can't help thinking that his eyes are familiar. He's
rather mysterious, isn't he? And—well, cynical."
Keating grunted and looked down at his shoes.
"See much of him?" he asked.


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 273
"A good deal," she admitted. "His reason for staying with
Ian seems a little obscure. I didn't get the impression that
they were renewing a lasting friendship that dated from
their schooldays. The only obvious reason is one that gives
me the creeps to think about."
"And that is?"
"That he suspects the proximity of the Poacher," she
replied.
Keating smiled sourly. 'Suspects the proximity of the
Poacher' was good.
"Was he up at the house when you left?" he asked.
"Yes, reading as usual. Something light and flippant like
Plato's 'Lives.' His knowledge of classical quotations is posi-
tively appalling."
"Plato's?" he asked suspiciously.
"Mr. Kaye's, silly," she retorted.
"Don't you believe it," he retorted. "He's all there."
"Are you going up to the house to see him?"
"No," he returned hastily. "I came down on business—an—
er—inquiry."
"Connected with the Poacher?" she asked, and he nodded,
seizing the easiest opportunity of covering his real intention,
which would have surprised Barbara.
His courage failed him at the last moment, and under her
eyes he became suddenly aware that he possessed a pair of
large hands for which he could find no adequate employment.
He stuck them in his pocket and tried to decide whether
she had detected his embarrassment and had changed the con-
versation to put him at his ease, or whether she realized the
cause of that embarrassment and did not want to hear what
he had to say.
"We also have another visitor," she continued. "Quite as
mysterious but not so nice as Mr. Kaye."
"Is there another?" he asked dispiritedly.
"Well, actually he's the butler," she admitted. "A man


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 275
to him happily. Unconsciously she had used his Christian
name for the first time, and in that second he recovered his
courage.
"Cultivate that habit," he said approvingly. "Sam sounds
almost human the way you say it."
"Sam? Did I? Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot—"
"Go on forgetting, I like it. Do you?"
"Forgetting?" she asked hastily.
"No, the name." ,
"Why, yes, of course, Sam, dear—but—"
"Say that again," he commanded.
She complied, and he felt a sudden impulse to crush some-
one's hat over his eyes. Fortunately the nearest pedestrian
was out of reach, but the world seemed all at once to have
become a very pleasant place. He allowed his hand to slip
down over hers.
"Barbara?" he said slowly, "Do you think—I mean it—if
you—well, frankly, do I look old?"
"No, fathead. Ridiculously young at the moment."
"Young enough to marry?"
"Certainly, Sam. Have you been nursing a guilty passion
in your breast? Who's the lucky maid?"
"Oh, just a girl—a young girl—like you, for instance."
She looked at him with the imp of mischief in her eyes*
and he took the plunge.
"Supposing it was you, Barbara—"
"Is it?"
"Yes."
"Sam!" She looked away hastily. Looking at him made the
answer difficult to speak. She avoided the issue temporarily.
"Shall we turn back?"
At that moment he would have turned a somersault had
she suggested it. They walked slowly back to where the
gentleman of leisure brooded over a cigarette end that some-
one had inconsiderately trodden on.


276 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
Without speaking, Keating helped her into the car, his eye
still asking the question that his lips were a little shy of re-
peating. For some moments she sat there, and then her hand
strayed to the starter.
"I'll let you know—sometime, Sam," she said, and the car
slid away. He stood to watch it vanish with the memory of
two laughing eyes that just for a few seconds had not been
quite so laughing, and then turning, strode briskly across
to the barber's opposite.
The barber, lounging in his doorway, had regarded the
idyll with considerable cynicism. His last customer had left
abruptly—and nothing else more tangible. Consequently the
Tonsorial Artist who had "Shaved Some of the Crowned
Heads of Europe" was a little soured in his outlook.
That fact escaped Keating.
"Would you call me old?" he asked as he took a seat.
"Yes—Early Renaissance," retorted the barber coldly.
"Less of it. I'm forty-four next October.
"E and OE," said the other.
"What's that?"
"Errors and omissions excepted. Haircut?"
Keating glared. "No, trim."
The barber regarded the top of Keating's head.
"You're wise," he said dispassionately.


CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Barbara's car came to a standstill before the garage and,
getting out, she walked leisurely round the house to the
garden. Inspector Keating's proposal had come as something
of a shock, and she was so preoccupied with it that Larry had
to call her name three times before she heard him.
"Not going in, surely?" he called to her from his seat on
the lawn beneath the trees and turning, she retraced her steps
and joined him on the grass.
"I was," she answered. "It's hot work driving to-day, and
I've a horrible suspicion that my nose wants powdering."
"It's too good a day to spend indoors. Been far?"
"No, just for a run round," she said, and settled herself
on the grass beside him. "There are times when I feel that
I positively must get away from this house."
"Oh, come, that's not very flattering to your guest."
She leant back against the tree behind her and shaded her
eyes.
"I'm disappointed in you, Mr. Kaye," she said. "I did think
that you were going to clear up the mystery of this house,
but up to the present you've merely fitted into the general
weirdness of the place, and it's that weirdness that drives
me away from it."
"I'm sorry you think me—weird."
"Not weird, secretive. You never answer a straight ques-
tion. I've been wanting to ask you one for days but I've
been deterred by the fact that you were sure to evade the
answer."
"Give me another chance," he pleaded.
277


278 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
"Now you're making fun of me. Well, perhaps it is silly,
but I wish you'd tell me one thing. Do you really think that
Crale is the Poacher? After all, he was carrying a gun that
night you were fired at."
"Who says I was fired at?" he retorted, but she merely
smiled.
"Your story of the chair may have convinced Mrs. Greer,
but it failed to convince me of anything except the fact that
you're an excellent amateur actor."
"Astute woman. All right, I pass, but at the same time
I'm not prepared to pin the identity of the Poacher on any one
just yet. As for Crale, he seems to possess all the endearing
qualities of the usual servant."
"Endearing? He doesn't strike me as possessing endearing
qualities."
"Perhaps not, but he's typical. The other day I found him
tidying up my room just before I missed a letter. It was his
half day as it happened, and he's the first butler I've ever
known who felt the call of duty on that sacred occasion."
She puckered her forehead. "Sometimes I wonder exactly
what he was before he became a butler. His references were
quite satisfactory—but, well he helps to make this house a
little more unpleasant. This place is rather terrifying you
know. I wonder if you realize that there is no one I can turn
to for an explanation of that shot and other mysterious hap-
penings. Ian never discusses them, and the Poacher's name is
absolutely taboo."
"Taboo, how?"
She shrugged. "Everybody closes up like a clam if it's men-
tioned. Even you. And yet it concerns you as closely as
any one."
Larry endeavored to look innocent. "In what way?"
"My dear man," she protested, "you don't imagine that I
think you are staying here because you like Ian?"


280 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
the Poacher's work—it was in the papers, and that's what Ian
thinks, only he won't talk about it. I'm pretty sure that Clem
took the bullet that was intended for Ian, and that the other
night you were mistaken for Ian."
She said it defiantly, and he grinned.
"Now, who is talking like the redoubtable Sherlock? Do
go on. Your theories are quite entertaining."
"You'd be more entertaining if you weren't so mysterious.
I think working among criminals has given you a warped
mind."
"Thanks, perhaps you're right."
"I shouldn't care to be in your shoes," she said, looking at
him thoughtfully. "Working solely amongst lawbreakers
can't be very—well, I'll be rude—elevating."
"It isn't. But if one forswore the society of criminals one
would live alone."
"That's rather a sweeping statement."
"But true. There are only two kinds of people in this
world. Those who commit crimes, and those who get found
out."
"Sage but cynical," she reproved. "You should avoid
cynicism, Mr. Kaye. It is usually the weapon with which a
waster defends his own failures and attacks the success of
another. But you're probably right about the presence of a
criminal tendency in most people. My own impulses are not
always lawful—especially when Mrs. Greer sings."
"Or mine," he admitted, and regretted that he could not
share that joke with her.
Barbara glanced at her watch and jumped to her feet with
a little cry of dismay.
"Good heavens, look at the time. I shall have to fly if I'm
going to make myself presentable for dinner."
"Oh, it's early yet," he protested, but she was adamant.
"I'm sure my nose is peeling and needs powder. Un-
powdered noses cause half the strife of married life. If a


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 281
husband finds a red-nosed wife waiting for him at home he
goes out and gets his own even redder to preserve his sense of
balance."
She nodded wisely, and leaving him, walked back to the
house.
It was not till she reached it that she remembered that she
had forgotten to mention her meeting with Keating. Had
she done so she might have been deprived very speedily of
the society of "Superintendent Kaye," but as a compensation
life would have been considerably more peaceful during the
following twelve hours. But the matter slipped her memory at
dinner, and afterwards she had no chance to speak to Larry.
He exchanged one form of matching wits with Ian for
another, and abandoned verbal skirmishing to sit opposite his
opponent at a chess board for an hour, before he retired on a
plea of headache. A very convenient excuse that allowed him
to go to his bedroom and snatch a few hours' sleep before he
indulged in the final stage of a further bout of brains with
Ian.
His early withdrawal interested his host, and Ian himself
retired to bed earlier than usual for the sole purpose of
watching Larry's movements. Ian was uneasy, and it was the
unconscious Larry who was the cause. Twice during that day
Ian had studied the two slips of paper that the ruler con-
tained, and speculated.
Superintendent Kaye, as he knew Larry, had never once
referred to his own loss of one of those slips. And yet he
must have missed it. And if he had missed it what more
natural than that he should suspect Ian of having taken it.
Ian—who was something more than interested in it.
It puzzled Ian all day and at night, seated on his bed, he
began to perceive the first faint glimmerings of what had
really happened. It was only supposition—but Ian's life had
been composed of movements based solely on supposition.
He had a nose that automatically inhaled any fantastic


282 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
hypothesis—and this time it smelt a trap, although of what
nature he could not decide. For that reason he switched off
his lights and sat in the darkness to await—anything.
Nevertheless, it was no movement of Larry's that brought
him silently to his feet an hour later. The sound he had
heard—a vague rustle intensified by the silence of the house—
had come from somewhere beneath him, not from Larry's
room next door.
The room beneath Larry's bedroom and his own was the
study, and the realization of what that meant came to him
as he slipped from his room and halted in the corridor to
listen. Sidling to Larry's door he stooped and pressed his ear
to the keyhole. Within a few seconds he heard Larry turn in
bed, and was seeking elsewhere for an explanation of the
sound that he had heard.
It was "Crale" who first came into his thoughts, and for
the second time in a week he cursed his weakness in pandering
to Mrs. Greer's whim. Cursed it, and then blessed it. If it
was "Crale" who was prying about in the room below—then
he was doing it for a reason that betrayed his identity. In
that case—Ian's hand slid into his jacket pocket and closed
over the only argument that was likely to weigh with the
man who signed himself "The Poacher."
Keeping close to the wall, Ian descended the stairs and
peered across the hall in the direction of his study. The door
of his private room was closed, but that did not particularly
worry him. He did not propose to use it. He waited for some
seconds, but no further sound came to him out of the dark-
ness, and yet something told him pretty forcibly that behind
the door of his study there was something more than
furniture.
Slipping across the hall, he stole down the passage leading to
the kitchen, and pausing there opened a door that gave forth
no protesting squeak in the process. All the doors in Ian's
house were well oiled. It had been a little peculiarity of its


CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Standing in the darkness of his own room, Larry examined
an automatic pistol carefully and his personal appearance
even more carefully without finding anything wrong with
either. The automatic pistol was in perfect working order
and his clothing betrayed no trace of white. White showed
up in the darkness, and he had taken the precaution of
wearing a black sweater and dark trousers. Black plimsolls
and gloves encased his feet and hands respectively.
With a final glance round he slipped out into the corridor,
and closing the door, descended quietly to the hall. Now that
he had something definite to do, an odd, calculating coolness
had settled on him. He was at his best when he was playing
his own hand in the darkness, and when he chose to move at
night the only sounds were those made by other people.
Crossing the hall he paused outside Ian's study to listen to
the mysterious little creaks peculiar to an old house and also
to discover if any one of them owed an existence to human
presence. Satisfied, he gently pushed the door ajar and slipped
into the room.
Inside he paused for a moment, and then made his way un-
erringly across the darkened room to the desk. He found the
ruler, and within a few seconds the two halves came apart in
his hands.
Inserting his fingers in one of the hollowed out pieces he
instantly found what he wanted. At least he found a folded
sheet of paper, but even in the darkness his sensitive fingers
detected something unfamiliar in the texture. Apart from
which the hollow contained only one piece of paper, and
285


288 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
walked across to his desk, and switching on a small reading
lamp, stared at the two halves of the ruler.
"Close those windows, will you, Kaye?" he said. "I'm get-
ting the feeling that the Poacher is altogether too close."
The look that accompanied the words caused Larry some
secret amusement, but he closed the windows without com-
ment.
"I suppose it's no good searching the place," Ian said
weakly. "This fellow comes and goes as he likes."
"Does he go?" asked Larry. "I wonder what the impeccable
Crale is doing?"
So did Ian, but the thought was overborne by the sudden
fit of nausea that made him sway. Larry stepped forward
hastily, and catching the other's arm, steadied him.
"I'm all right," Ian protested, and switching off the light
made his way unsteadily to the door. Larry followed slowly
and watched the other's uncertain progress up the stairs for
some moments before he mounted them himself and made
for Kaye's bedroom.
Trying the door softly he pushed it open and peered into
the room. After a few moments he switched on his torch,
but one glance showed him all that he had expected to see.
The room was empty and the bed had not been slept in.
He stepped inside, and closing the door sat down on a
chair. Glancing at the luminous dial of his wrist watch he
saw that the time was exactly twenty minutes to two, and
composed himself to await the return of the man he knew
as Crale. Only now he no longer thought of that gentleman as
"Crale." He spoke the alternative name softly to himself in
the darkness.
"The Poacher!"
He had no doubt that "Crale" would return. He had only
gained one of the original slips that night. The other was the
bogus one that Larry had himself written, and those two
would not make sense, as "Crale" would discover. The


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 291
Kaye's eyes glittered. Apparently Larry had acted.
"Very well, sir, I trust that you will have recovered by
the morning," he said, and retired. He took the precaution
of locking the door on the outside with Brown's master key.
Ian heard him do it and rose weakly to his feet. For a
brief second he fought off the inertia that was paralyzing
him, and tugged feebly at the door. "Crale's" action in lock-
ing it supplied him with at least one clue to the tangle that
encompassed him. Kaye had been right. "Crale" was the
Poacher.
With the thought still fresh in his mind he tugged at the
door again, but the stout oak had nothing to fear from a
man weakened by concussion of the brain. It resisted him
even when he fell heavily against it, unconscious.


298 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
thirty. That gives us two hours to discuss your future—Mr.
Crale—or to give you your due distinction—Superintendent
Kaye!"
It was then that Kaye made a discovery concerning the
eyes that had momentarily been so close to his own.
Their owner was a maniac!


THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS 301
shall occupy it—side by side with Larry Wade. An unfortu-
nate young man, that. He chose to wear the cloak of Super-
intendent Kaye and in the end it stifled him. If I could have
remembered where I had seen his eyes before—he might have
escaped."
She paused for a moment and turned to look out of the
window.
"The grave," she whispered, "and no one will know, Kaye.
No help from the others will save you, my friend. No
help from these healthy people with the brains of mag-
gots. Ian lies helpless with concussion of the brain—that
splendid sane brain. Mrs. Greer, with her dirty little soul, is
strapped to a bed, where she may rot for all I care—and the
clever, intriguing Larry, dying."
She glared down at the prostrate Larry and suddenly
kicked him. A faint moan escaped the wounded man and the
horrible grin returned to her face.
"There are your sane people! Ian plotting his little scheme
in this room—the dolt. Would he have plotted had he known
that I was in the garage listening to his little machinations
on a dictograph? Even now he does not know how I fore-
stalled Clem on the night that that very amorous gentle-
man raided Larry Wade's flat."
The recollection seemed to amuse her and she sat there
chuckling silently.
"I heard it, Kaye, on my little dictograph—it has told me
many things. And I got to Larry's flat first. He was clever,
that one. I did not find the slip that Dennis gave him and I
could not stay because your thick-witted friend Keating
arrived with Clem—I wonder how that loving soul detected
me? But he paid for his discovery. I shot him, Kaye—shot
him twice, and got away through the servants' exit of a flat
opposite."
Kaye, carefully effacing any expression of interest, listened
intently.


306 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
She had seized Larry by the collar and with a strength that he
would not have suspected, W2S dragging the wounded man
across the floor.
"By God, you inhuman fiend," he burst out, "that man's
wounded"
"Gently, gently," she said with an evil smile on her lips.
"He is in a better condition now than he will be later. Now,
however great his pain, he lives."
With an effort Kaye controlled himself. Her inhumanity
shocked even a hardened man like himself, but it warned
him of the need for caution. Help should arrive any minute
and it would be suicide to do anything at the moment. One
glance at her devilish eyes told him that if he sprang at her
he would die before he was within touching distance. He
walked steadily across the lawn and she followed him.
As he came abreast of the rhododendron bushes, she called
to him, "Stay where you are and push those bushes aside."
Still obedient he pushed the rhododendrons aside, and at
her command, plunged through them. He escaped falling into
the grave by the merest fraction of an inch and if he had had
any doubts of her intentions they were scattered by the
thought of the devilishly careful way in which she had laid
her plans.
As he stood there on the edge of the hole, still threatened
by the automatic she held, he thought furiously. It was ob-
vious that Keating had been delayed and unless help of
some kind came, that he himself was doomed to end his life
in the grave at his feet. Even as the thought came to him she
dragged Larry forward. Releasing him, she gave him a violent
push and watched him topple into the grave.
"I have not done with you yet, my friend," she said.
"Presently you join him, but I have something else to show
you first. Turn round and walk towards the lake."
As before, he obeyed implicitly. He was no coward, but
like any other man thought twice before inviting certain


CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
There are men whom one may awaken at a quarter to two
in the morning with immunity. Cheerful tempered men with
excellently controlled nerves; men trained to repress the more
human emotions; men who even smile at that hour. There
are such men, but Inspector Keating was not among their
number.
It took him a good five minutes to rub the sleep out of his
eyes, and during that time Detective Sergeant Brown stared
owlishly at his superior and no less owlishly at the hotel
proprietor. That gentleman, clad in pyjamas and a woolen
sweater, was privately reckoning up the chances of hitting
Brown with the heavy stick he held and getting away with it.
Gradually Keating got Brown into focus and glared at him.
"And what the hell do you want?" he demanded suddenly.
"I thought you were nice and safely tied up somewhere."
"Gentleman thinks it's a night club, sir," the hotel pro-
prietor explained resignedly and had the satisfaction of seeing
Brown look sheepish.
Keating took the letter that his subordinate proffered, and
for a moment Brown thought the Inspector was going to
burst. Then he appeared to control himself, but his first
remark was unprintable and his second hardly a benediction.
"Of all the damn nerve. Do you have to bring me a letter
at two o'clock in the morning, you blithering slab of ignor-
ance? What the blazes do you think the Post Office is for?"
"Sorry, sir," Brown apologized. "Perhaps you had better
read the letter. It's from—er—a friend of yours."
He paused and looked warningly at the hotel proprietor
310


314 THE ROUND TABLE MURDERS
misery in the Inspector's eyes, but Kaye's own eyes were too
dimmed to notice it. Without warning the Superintendent
swayed, and losing his balance, crashed through the rhodo-
dendrons and fell—into the hole that had been dug as his
grave. He had fainted.
He regained consciousness with a damp feeling about his
face and neck, and sat up slowly. The first face he saw was
Keating's, and its owner was kneeling beside him staring
down at the handcuffs he had taken from Kaye's wrists.
Beside him the Morcovian emeralds and a fortune in notes
lay unheeded on the grass.
Kaye reached out a hand and patted his friend on the
shoulder.
"I'm sorry, old man," he said simply.
Keating looked past him miserably.
"Not your fault," he said gruffly.
"Is she?"
"No. Brown aimed at her shoulder. She's only winged, but
Larry's in a bad way and Ian's got concussion. We found
Kate Alice strapped to her bed and half crazy. The ambulance
is on the way."
"A pretty good clean up," said Kaye, rising painfully to
his feet.
Keating nodded and looked back at the house into which
Brown had carried Barbara.
"I always said women were no good," he said huskily, "and
my first real adventure with one proves it."
Even at that moment Kaye could not forsake the habits
of a lifetime. He began, philosophically, to quote Kipling:
"'A fool there was, and he made a prayer to a rag, a
bone—'"
He broke off abruptly as he noticed the agony in Keating's
eyes.
"No, perhaps not," he said slowly, and for the first and
last time in his life, left his friend to fight a battle unaided.