THE
DOUBLE SOLUTION
A TALE OF
INSPECTOR HIGGINS
BY
CECIL FREEMAN GREGG

LINCOLN MAC VEAGH
DIAL PRESS INC.
NEW YORK MCMXXXII


COPYRIGHT, 1932 , BY DIAL PRESS, INC.
To
WALTER WILLIAMS
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
BY CHAg. H. BOHN k CO., INC., NEW YORK


&a A a * ■e r
CONTENTS
CHAFTIR
PROLOGUE ------
I. IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS RECEIVES
A LETTER -
II. IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS INSPIRES A
LITTLE FORGERY -
III. IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS MEETS AN
OLD FRIEND - - - - -
IV. IN WHICH MR. WESTMORE IS BUSY-
V. IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS IS AN-
NOYED ------
VI. IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS INSPIRES A
LITTLE BURGLARY - - - -
VII. IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS MAKES A
CAPTURE -
VIII. IN WHICH MR. WESTMORE IS AFRAID
IX. IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS RECEIVES
ANOTHER LETTER - - - -
X. IN WHICH CHIEF INSPECTOR DRYAN IS
TAKEN ILL
XI. IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS CLIMBS A
LADDER ------
XII. IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS IS SAR-
CASTIC ------
XIII. IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS INSPIRES
A LITTLE LAUGHTER -
XIV. IN WHICH A LETTER IS FOUND -


vi CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
XV. IN WHICH A HOUSE IS SEARCHED - 127
XVI. IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS ISSUES
AN INVITATION - 135
XVII. IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS SEARCHES
A FLAT ------ 141
XVIII. IN WHICH AN INQUEST IS HELD - - I49
XIX. IN WHICH A MORNING IS WASTED - 157
XX. IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS GOES
HOME FOR LUNCH - - - - 164
XXI. IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS DRIVES A
CAR ------ 171
XXII. IN WHICH SERGEANT BROWNALL DIS-
TINGUISHES HIMSELF - 179
XXIII. IN WHICH SOME QUESTIONS ARE ASKED 187
XXIV. IN WHICH A CHASE ENDS ABRUPTLY - 195
XXV. IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS IS SUR-
PRISED ------ 203
XXVI. IN WHICH A VISITOR BECOMES RESTIVE- 211
XXVII. IN WHICH A SAFE IS OPENED - - 219
XXVIII. IN WHICH TOMMY TUCKER REMEMBERS- 227
XXIX. IN WHICH AN ARREST IS MADE - - 235
XXX. IN WHICH A MAN IS QUESTIONED - 243
XXXI. IN WHICH ANOTHER ARREST IS MADE - 251
XXXII. IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS GIVES
EVIDENCE - - - 257
XXXIII. IN WHICH A QUESTION IS ANSWERED - 268
XXXIV. IN WHICH A VERDICT IS GIVEN - - 274
XXXV. IN WHICH OUR TALE IS ENDED - - 28 O


The Double Solution
PROLOGUE
The constable on duty at the gates of Scotland Yard
marched stolidly up and down on his self-appointed
beat. Strictly speaking, his job was to stand at the
entrance and look busy; to appraise callers who
mattered, and those to whom any officer above the
rank of sergeant was "out" ; to direct absent-minded
citizens to the new Lost Property Office ; to whistle a
cab from the rank opposite when necessary ; to salute
any superior upon entrance or exit, or (unofficially)
to make rude and derisive gestures to any equal
similarly employed; and to keep on so doing until
relieved. Actually it was a cold business standing
in that draughty and exposed position, so Constable
Derrick measured out his unofficial beat. Five stamp-
ing steps to the right, each step accentuated by a
mighty thwack from his left hand on his right shoulder;
an elephantine marking-time whilst he breathed
heavily into his cupped and gloved hands, then a
somewhat slovenly left-about turn ; five steps back,
during each of which Constable Derrick lowered his head
a couple of inches until at the fifth step he could just
peer below the portals of a door on the right, to see
whether any disc showed red on the bell-indicator;
then five further steps, whilst this time his right hand
beat upon his left shoulder; another period of blowing,
another about-turn and then five more steps back to
the doorway. Two minutes later the pantomime was
repeated, to the huge delight of the taxi-men of the
7


8 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
rank opposite, who never seemed to tire of the
exhibition.
Constable Derrick was cold and tired. He had been
on duty since two o'clock that afternoon and it was
now nearly ten, when he was due to be relieved, and if
Jones was late again he'd report him—that he would!
Pity those fools on the rank over the way hadn't
anything better to do than to take a rise out of a
harmless constable doing his duty on a cold and dirty
night; why the deuce didn't they go out and try and
get fares instead of playing banker in their hut?
Waiting for the homeward theatre rush, he supposed!
What a life!
Five steps to the right . . . clamp, clamp, clamp,
clamp, clamp! Wheew! About turn! Five steps . . .
"Hi! Hi!" Constable Derrick so far forgot his
dignity as to shout.
A screech of hastily-applied brakes as a small two-
seater swerved through the gates of Scotland Yard
and drew to a standstill a few feet from the outraged
constable.
A door opened and an immaculately-dressed young
man alighted. He walked straight to the constable
and tapped him impressively upon the fourth nickel
button of his tunic, then, his finger resting on the
button as though it were a bell-push, he cocked his
head on one side in an attitude of acute listening.
From the distance the tones of Big Ben boomed
out the hour of ten. After the tenth stroke the
young man remained listening as though for the
eleventh, then:
"I make it ten, constable," he remarked, as though
open to correction.
"Wot's the big idea?"
The young man did not reply; again he was listening,
to another chime this time—and on the final stroke he
removed his finger from the constable's tunic and then
solemnly mopped his brow with a silk handkerchief.
"That settles it! It is ten."


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 9
"Course it's blankety-well ten."
"You agree? I'm so glad."
The constable's eyes nearly started out of their
sockets as his mouth opened in a fish-like gasp.
"Wot . . . ?" he began, but was interrupted with
a further query:
"And to-day's Wednesday, I believe?"
"Course it's blankety-well Wednesday," confirmed
the constable, in a voice which could have been heard
for half a mile.
"Ssh I" admonished the young man, again bringing
his forefinger into play and wagging it impressively.
"Such langwidge."
"Ber-limey, 1'11 . . ."
"One second, please." Once more the young man
interrupted suavely: "Now the date. What is the
date?"
Whilst the constable spluttered and fumed the other
placed that expressive forefinger to his brow in an
exaggerated attitude of intense thought, then:
"Oh, yes. Of course! Of course! If it isn't the
first of April. Well I Well! WellI"
"Hi I" Another shout of outraged dignity as the
young man was walking with long strides towards the
gates. Constable Derrick breathed fire and slaughter;
for two pins he'd chase that blighter and knock his
block off, only he daren't leave his post here; he'd blow
his whistle, only . . .
"Hallo, Derrick. Here we are. Anything unusual
to report?" Constable Jones, the relief, had arrived,
and was ready to take over.
Anything to report? He should just about think
there was I Had Jones seen that long tailor's dummy
legging it for the gates? No? Pity I For he'd
never look the same again if Constable Derrick came up
with him when he was off duty!
". . . 'I make it ten,' 'e says. 'Wot's the big idea?'
I says. . . . Wednesday. . . . The first of April.
Comes 'ere in a blinkin' car as if 'e owned the place,


1o THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
an' . . ." Constable Derrick broke off his recital to
stare blankly into the courtyard.
The car was still there.
Constable Derrick could scarcely believe his senses,
until at last his eyes sparkled with an unholy light as
he beamed upon his colleague.
"Got 'im," he announced. "Got 'im! 'E's gotter
come back 'ere for this—and I'll wait on 'im, if I 'avter
wait all night. I'll . . ."
"What about the missus ?" interposed the practical
Constable Jones.
"Oh, ah!" Constable Derrick pondered the sug-
gestion. A bit awkward. Mrs. Derrick was a mite
suspicious, and if he were to stay out all night ... To
state that he had merely waited at the Yard in order
to avenge an insult might sound a trifle thin . . . torn
'twixt love and duty—or, at least, between outraged
dignity and expediency.
"P'raps he meant to leave it here," suggested Jones.
"Meant ter?" An incredulous stare. "Meant ter?
Wod-yer-mean?"
"Well," mildly, "he might 'a' pinched it ... or
found it . . . or . . ."
"Ber-limey."
The two constables walked toward the car—daintily,
as though fearful it might explode—and examined the
outside critically from every angle. A nice car—just
an ordinary nice car—nothing peculiar about it save
the absence of any attendant.
The door was gingerly opened ... a timorous
glance. . . . No. There was not even a dead body
under the seat. Derrick breathed a sigh of relief.
He was addicted to reading a certain type of novel,
popularly labelled "thriller", and thought he knew what
to expect in such a given set of circumstances—but
he was wrong, and mighty glad that he was
wrong.
Still, all in all, it was a rum go. Coves didn't
deliberately forget cars unless they were up to some


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION n
tiddley-boodley—or were drunk, in which case "delib-
erately" wasn't quite the word! But that bloke hadn't
acted drunk—unless to pull the leg of the officer on
duty at Scotland Yard came under that category.
There was a sound of running footsteps within the
building.
"Look out!" A whispered warning full of urgency
from Constable Jones. Derrick jumped away from
the car and straightened his tunic.
A tall, well-knit figure ran lightly down the three
steps to the courtyard level, and then strode purpose-
fully toward another car parked near the gates. Both
constables stood rigidly to attention and saluted smartly
as the figure passed. Neither moved again until the
other had started up the car and driven hurriedly
through the gates; then:
"Tggins," tersely from Derrick.
"And in a mighty hurry, by the look o'
things."
"Never even returned our salute."
"Not like Higgy," remarked Jones, craning for a
last view of the receding tail-light.
"No. 'E's genally so punctual in matters of
ettiket ..."
"Er—pardon me," interrupted a voice, at the sound
of which Derrick turned and crouched. "But who was
that rude fellow who nearly knocked me down just
now?"
"Never mind 'im," announced Derrick. "You 'ave
a good look at the bloke wot's goin' to quite knock
you down."
The man shuddered.
"Don't split infinitives."
"Infinities? I'll split yer ruddy 'ead open."
The man held up a gloved forefinger.
"Wait a moment. Think. Suppose one of the high
officials here were to come upon an otherwise worthy
constable brawling with an innocent stranger within
this—er—sanctum sanctorum. Is it not possible that


12 • THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
to-morrow there might be a new face in the queue
outside the local labour exchange?"
Derrick wavered. He had not understood the half
of the man's absurd diction, but he got the gist of it
—and paused.
"I ain't on duty now," he announced sullenly, trying
to convince himself that it made a difference.
The newcomer shrugged his shoulders expressively.
"But still in uniform," he suggested. Then : "Still,
I'm always ready to accommodate. In my—er—
hurry just now I entirely overlooked the fact that I
had arrived here in a car, and returned merely to—
ahem !—rectify my error. However, if you, my
worthy friend, feel that you have a grievance, the
matter must be straightened out. I propose, there-
fore, that you shall accompany me in my car to some
jousting field near your home where we could endeavour
to adjust our—er—differences." And the stranger
smiled a diffident smile.
"Wotto!" Constable Derrick accepted with alacrity,
whilst Constable Jones turned a deaf ear and returned
within the portals of the building.
"And where do we live? Thank you. Hop in."
It is with regret that we have to report that Con-
stable Derrick was absent from duty for the next three
days, owing to an acute attack of. neuralgia, which
probably accounted for his bruised cheek-bone and
near-black eye, produced as evidence on the fourth
day. And if Constable Jones did not unreservedly
accept the statement that the pound note which he
helped Derrick to spend was the purchase price of the
stranger's immunity from Derrick's wrath, we can
hardly blame him. One should not question a friend's
hospitality.
END OF PROLOGUE


CHAPTER I
IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS RECEIVES A LETTER
Detective-Inspector Cuthbert Higgins, of the
Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan
Police, sat at the desk in his dingy office at Scotland
Yard. He was not feeling exactly at his best, and the
reason was not far to seek. The date alone was
sufficient, for this was the one morning of the year
when he did not tear off a page from his calendar-
diary; in fact, he started a fresh block.
January the first—of the same year as the events
recorded in the Prologue—and he had unwisely agreed
to spend New Year's Eve with a couple of inspectors
of Scottish descent, with disastrous results.
The very fact that he had turned up at the Yard
at all was a tribute to his sense of Duty, and he grimly
wondered whether the two Macs would put in an
appearance before Twelfth Night.
His wife, Muriel Higgins, had said little whilst he
consumed his breakfast of dry toast and weak tea,
but her very silence spoke volumes. And the atmo-
sphere when he left for the Yard had been somewhat
strained.
And there was a special meeting of the Canteen
Committee called for this evening, at which he was due
to preside. He'd have to give it a miss. Pity,
but...
Thank goodness there wasn't much mail this morning,
he reflected, as his fore and middle fingers "walked"
along the edges of about a dozen envelopes as he glanced
at the superscriptions.
He abstracted an envelope at random. New Year's


14 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
greetings from a colleague to whom he had sent a
Christmas card and who had forgotten to do likewise.
He grinned. Rather an obvious way of returning a
compliment!
Three monthly statements, two of which had
"brought forward" items. Must settle those.
An advertisement. With fastidious fingers he held
the envelope and dropped it with precision into his
waste-paper basket. That the "ad." referred to
Scotch whisky was, perhaps, unfortunate.
Four other letters, which, under the circs., could
conveniently be delegated to a subordinate ; and:
"Hallo-aUo-allo! What's all this about!"
Inspector Higgins was particularly intrigued by the
embossed crest on the obverse of the envelope, as well
as by the undoubted quality of the paper.
First of all he studied the superscription.
Det.-Insp. Cuthbert Higgins,
New Scotland Yard, S.W.
Cuthbert! He did wish people would not be so
blatant about his Christian name. He had been
named after a wealthy uncle who had, unfortunately,
died intestate, and whose son—intelligently called
William—duly inherited; his own unwitting sacrifice
thereby proving abortive, Higgins had been trying
ever since he had been aware of the fact to live down
his unfortunate nomenclature, with little success. It
was the one act of his parents which he found hard to
forgive.
Higgins shrugged his shoulders and tried to pull
himself together. Such thoughts on the first of January
were far from praiseworthy.
Thus he was prejudiced against the writer before he
had slit open the envelope. When he did so, however,
he was somewhat mollified by the fulsome praise of
his correspondent.


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 15
Preston Building,
City.
December 31st, 19—.
My dear Sir,
Higgins immediately turned over the page to see the
signature, but was unable to decipher the hieroglyphic
at the foot of the typescript. He started again.
My dear Sir,
I have followed, with admiration, such portions
of your career as have, from time to time, appeared in
the press, and thus feel that, in this my hour of need,
you are the most competent man to whom to turn for
advice, and, if necessary, protection.
I should therefore deem it a favour if you could kindly
see your way clear to call upon me in the near future for a
chat, which might be for our mutual advantage, for I am
not without wealth nor influence.
Higgins snorted his disgust—he guessed what was
coming. The man had a son, or a cousin or a nephew
(or perhaps himself was the culprit) who had over-
stepped the bounds of legality, and because of his
wealth and influence expected to receive preferential
treatment. Higgins would see about that I
He turned over.
Yours faithfully,
and that indecipherable signature.
Higgins cursed. His suspicions aroused as to the
reason for the effusion, he could not very well turn the
matter over to an underling, in case the officer might
be unduly impressed by the aforementioned wealth
and influence when eventually he hit up against them.
He must go himself.
Or should he make the fellow call upon him? His


16 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
0 influence might be all blarney, but . . . Higgins
emitted a mental cough ... on the other hand it
might not I He must be circumspect.
He reached for his telephone and removed the
receiver.
"Records, please. Hallo I Records*? Mercier,
please."
A long wait, which did not improve his temper.
Sergeant Mercier, the alleged humourist of the Yard,
was an old colleague whom Higgins had left behind in
the race for promotion, and who sometimes took
advantage of this fact. A bit of an ass, old Mercier,
but an excellent man at his job. Had invented an
elaborate and complicated system jaf cross-references
which enabled him to give out-of-th*e-way information
with the utmost-precision. Pity he thought he was
funny, because . . .
"Hallo! That?you, Mercier? Higgins here. Pres-
ton Building, City. Who's the big noise there? Who?
Jerusalem I Thanks."
Inspector Higgins replaced the receiver, stood up
and reached for his hat and coat hanging upon a con-
venient peg. Perhaps it would be as well were he to
go along himself.
And without delay.
Worthington Westmore was a household name.
And "Worthington", too, was, under the circum-
stances, a little unfaftunate.
Now he came to look at the letter again Higgins
wondered why he had been unable to decipher that
signature .in the first place. There it was, as plain as
a pikestaff—Worthington Westmore. And he had
followed, with admiration, et cetera, et cetera . . . ad
nauseutn.
Higgins threw out his chest, and marched out of the
Yard*—glad of a breath of fresh air.
Preston Building was a huge block of offices in the
heart of the City, to which the inspector bad, now he
came to think of it, paid three previous visits—two


THE DOUBLE SCLUTION 17
to interview a famous financier and the third to arrest
him. That was before Worthington Westmore's time.
Dimly Higgins wondered what Westmore had been up
to. A name with*which to conjure.
And Worthington Westmore had"tecently given a
hundred guineas to the Police Orphanage.
A screaming klaxon nearly pierced his ear-drums and .
he shuddered.
"Curse these Scottish inspectors."
A magnificent car drew to the kerb and Higgins
shifted his gaze from Preston Building to the car
which had stopped outside. If the driven of this car
were responsible for that hideous din of a moment
before, he'd have a few words to say . . . although
he doubted whether the "ineffective silencer'-' clause
exactly met the case. ... . % ''
A personage alighted.
Inspector Higgins recognized the man at once.
The recognition was mutual.
"Ah, Inspector." A melodious voice, but a bit too
booming for Higgins at the moment. "Most kind of
you to come along so promptly."
"Not at all, Mr. Westmore. Not at all," protested'
Higgins, somewhat overawed.
"This way, Inspector. Have a cigar?"
"N-no, thanks."
Returning the fat cigar-case to his pocket; Worthing-
ton Westmore led the way though the building,
acknowledging with a brief nod the obeisance of the
showy commissionaire, past the regular passenger lift
to a small panel in the corridor. Producing a small
key he inserted it in a tiny keyhole and the panel swung
open. A small panelled cupboard was revealed, ample
for one, but a bit cramped when both Higgins and the
philanthropist squeezed within.
"My private elevator," explained Westmore •un-
necessarily, whilst he placed a large thumb on an
electric switch. The resultant sudden sweep upwards
was almost more than Higgins could stomach, but


18 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
almost as soon as it started the lift stopped, and
Westmore flung open a door.
A sea of faces turned in their direction, then turned
as swiftly away. A hive of apparent industry, the
suggestion of concentration possibly occasioned by the
millionaire's sudden appearance.
"Anything special?"
The voice reverberated in the confined space of the
lift and Higgins winced.
There being no reply, Westmore slammed the door,
and the lift continued its agonizing ascent. The
sudden stop was worse.
"After you, Inspector." Westmore waved an in-
viting hand, and Higgins stepped through the door.
A magnificent apartment—and standing before him
an imperturbable Chinese servant with the most
idiotic smile Higgins had ever seen. All teeth—and
yellow at that. One broken and . . .
"Your hat, sir." A silken voice, in great contrast
to his master's. Inspector Higgins handed over hat,
coat, stick and gloves, then once more gave his attention
to the room.
Four huge windows opposite the lift, through which
he could just see the tops of the roofs below ; a door
on his left and a wall on his right with a sideboard
running its entire length; a picture-rail upon which
were suspended two tiny pictures, disproportionate
to the size of the room ; a huge settee ; three enormous
easy chairs; a red carpet, the pile of which was so
thick that the servant's footprints from the door on
the left were plainly visible ; a frail-looking table upon
which stood a doll with a silken crinoline, which pos-
sibly concealed a telephone instrument ; whilst on the
sideboard—yes, on the sideboard reposed a syphon
and a decanter half-filled with an amber-coloured
liquid.
Higgins averted his gaze, then closed his eyes.
There was something missing.
"The electric light," suggested a voice in his ear.


20 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
Westmore must have noticed the gesture, for:
"Look out, man. rhat's a souvenir. I keep it for
luck. Have a look at it."
Higgins did so.
"And what's it remarkable for ?" he queried.
"Merely its number. EE 66666. Six is my lucky
number."
"I see." Higgins gravely handed the note to the
other.
"Got it in a bunch I withdrew from the bank last
summer. Now take a look at this."
Inspector Higgins accepted the proffered document.
It was an envelope which had been carelessly opened,
for one half of the stamp was missing. It was addressed
in shaky caligraphy to Worthington Wessmor, Preston
Big., and within was a note in the same handwriting.
s
December 31s/, 19—.
You have three months to live.
You-know-who.
"And do you ?" queried Higgins.
"Do I what ?" countered Westmore irritably.
"Know who?"
"I do not."
"Could you guess?"
Was he mistaken, or did Westmore seem embarrassed
by the question? As the other made no reply, In-
spector Higgins changed the form of his query.
"Why have you only three months to live? Black-
mail?"
Again the other did not reply. It was obvious to
Higgins that a man of Westmore's wealth must have
collected enemies proportionate to his purse. It was
almost an axiom with the inspector that few men make
huge fortunes honestly—there is always "some little
something" which they would were suppressed, and
which they would pay handsomely to conceal. An
invitation to blackmail.


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 21
And, in this case, the tone of the letter implied some
previous communication. . . .
"I will be frank, Inspector. I know who wrote
that."
"Good. Give me his name and I'll have a few
kind words with him."
Worthington Westmore began to hedge.
"When I say 'know', Inspector, I—er—mean . . .
It's awkward . . ." His voice trailed off. "I can
speak in confidence, of course?"
Higgins shrugged his shoulders.
"If your confidence conflicted with my duty ... I
should betray it," he stated frankly.
"I understand, Inspector. I quite understand. I
ought to have known—in fact, I did know—that this
would be your attitude. But I'm in an awkward
position. I must avoid the laws of libel and slander,
and . . ."
"You've thought this all out before, Mr. Westmore,
else why did you write to me? Someone has threatened
you. You know who it is. Tell me and I'll stop it.
Threats of this nature are indictable offences, and . . ."
"But I wish to avoid publicity. I—er—a man in
my position must sidestep such prosecutions."
"I see."
So Westmore had a murky past.
"The name of the prosecutor is not necessarily
published, Mr. Westmore."
"N-no. Look here, Inspector Higgins, I've a propo-
sition to make. What do you make a year? Three
—four—five hundred? I'll give you a thousand a
year to chuck your job and become my bodyguard."
Higgins laughed.
"Nothing doing."
"Fifteen hundred—two thousand. . . . Name your
figure."
Inspector Higgins stared at the other. Westmore
was in deadly earnest; standing perfectly still, his head
thrust forward, with his piercing eyes fixed intently


22 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
on the inspector, his hands gripping the lapels of his
coat, he seemed to hang upon the reply.
"I'm sorry, sir," Higgins began, when the other
interrupted with one word.
"Afraid?"
Inspector Higgins rose to his feet, then stood staring
quizzically down from his great height to the other.
He chuckled.
"We're wasting time, Mr. Westmore."


CHAPTER II
IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS INSPIRES A, LITTLE
FORGERY
Half an hour later Inspector Higgins was once more
crossing the threshold of Scotland Yard, but feeling
on this occasion much more braced with life than
when he had left the building nearly two hours before.
For one thing, at long last, his services had been assessed
at a figure approximating their true worth. Of course,
although the offer might have been tempting, prudence
had swiftly counselled its rejection ; for a steady job
at an almost adequate salary was infinitely to be
preferred to a two-thousand-a-year job which might
last three months! Furthermore, he liked his job at
the Yard, and was quite content to spend the rest of
his life tracking down malefactors, even though
unfailingly on every pay-day he cursed, with his
colleagues, the paucity of his pittance I
And there was something inspiring in the thought
that he rendered his services to the State, and that, in
all he did, the State was behind him. Mr. Worthington
Westmore, in spite of his wealth and influence, couldn't
equal that I
And what was behind it all? Westmore must have
known that he would refuse the offer; that was, of
course, assuming that he really had "followed with
admiration", el cetera.
Yet Westmore was afraid. His whole demeanour
when making that preposterous offer had shouted
Fear.
Inspector Higgins turned to the constable on duty
just inside the building.
*3


24 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
"Tell Sergeant Mercier that I'd like to see him for a
few moments in my office, please."
Higgins continued on his way and had scarcely placed
his hat and coat on that peg in his room when there was
a diffident knock on the door, and, in response to his
invitation, Sergeant Mercier entered.
Higgins nodded a greeting and motioned his subor-
dinate to a seat.
"What d'you make o' that, Mercier?"
The sergeant took a letter from Inspector Higgins.
There was a short pause whilst he studied the contents,
then:
"Looks uncommonly like Tommy Tucker's writing,
sir," he ventured.
"Ah I You think so, eh? So did I. Any other
comments?"
"His writing, sir, but certainly not his style."
"You're right there, Mercier. Tommy Tucker may
be—and probably is—an out-and-out crook, but he's
got more sense than to send a letter like that."
"Who's this Wessmor? Not Westmore, the million-
aire?"
"Yes. Tommy Tucker certainly shouldn't have
spelled the name incorrectly."
"Perhaps he didn't, sir."
Higgins sat up sharply. He certainly had not thought
of that. Perhaps Westmore's real name was Wessmor.
Not that it mattered much, for, in spite of the spelling,
there was no attempt at deception.
"Look it all up, Mercier, and report to me. If
Westmore should die within the next three months,
Tommy Tucker will have a few questions to answer."
And shortly afterwards Sergeant Mercier reported.
He could not swear to the fact, but the writing was
uncommonly like that of Tucker, although a bit shaky,
as though an attempt at disguise had been made.
Tommy Tucker might have written it, but he wouldn't
take his oath on it. And Westmore had been known
as Wessmor in South Africa, where his fortune had


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 25
been made, or at least where he had first been recog-
nized as a wealthy man. And Tommy Tucker had
also been in South Africa whilst Westmore was there.
The paper and envelope could be purchased anywhere,
and Merrier had actually a similar packet of his own
and produced a sample.
"Fingerprints?"
"None, sir. Ahem! Except yours, sir."
"None, eh? Thanks, Mercier. Send Young to
me.
Sergeant Mercier withdrew, and Higgins gazed
alternately at the ceiling and the floor as though for
inspiration.
No fingerprints. Not even Worthington Westmore's.
Very strange.
A knock at the door.
"Come in, Young."
A huge man entered, quite three inches taller than
the inspector, who was no mean size himself ; a useful
man to have about one in a scrap. It was ironical that
he combined the duties of stenographer and copyist.
"Take down this letter, please, Young."
Worthington Westmore, Esquire, Preston Building,
City. Sir, When I arrived back at Scotland Yard,
after our interview this morning, I found that, possibly
as a result of my somewhat precipitate departure, I had
—um—er—inadvertently brought away with me the
letter we had under discussion. I hasten to amend my
error, and have pleasure to enclose herewith the docu-
ment.
"That's all."
"Your obedient servant, sir?"
"Obedient servant me foot! Faithfully yours."
"Very good, sir."
"And, Young—here's paper and envelope similar
in make and texture to the other. Make an exact
copy. I believe it to be one of your accomplishments.


26 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
And if you get seven years for forgery I'll look after
the wife and kiddies. Having made the copy, send
this letter to Westmore. And if, by a little careless-
ness, the copy should go to Worthington and the original
be left here with me, well"—an airy wave of the
hand—"accidents will happen."
"Very good, sir."
Young went. Higgins watched him go, and grinned.
Constable Young took everything so very seriously.
Thus, in the course of a day's post, Inspector Higgins
had in his possession a curt acknowledgment of the
"you-know-who" letter from Worthington Westmore,
together with the actual letter itself.
And Higgins was uneasy.
Westmore had, unofficially, appealed to the Metro-
politan Police for protection, and, even though in all
probability the millionaire had taken steps to provide
himself with an efficient bodyguard, it was the inspec-
tor's duty also if possible to shield him from danger.
To this end a plain-clothes constable had been
detailed to follow Westmore whithersoever he went,
and, as the millionaire usually travelled by fast car,
the expense was mounting up, and there was nothing
to show for it. Not that Higgins hoped there ever
would be anything to show for it, because the only
logical exhibit would be Westmore's corpse I Unless
an attack on his life were frustrated. But the "tailers"
had reported nothing suspicious. True, on three
occasions Westmore had unconsciously given his pur-
suers the slip, but as he had turned up afterwards,
showing no visible signs of violence, and had made no
complaint to the police, Higgins could do nothing
further.
And still Inspector Higgins had that feeling of dis-
quiet. He could not free his mind from that vision
of Worthington Westmore as he had last seen him;
the genuine fear the man had shown when making that
offer. There was a poignancy in the very absurdity
of the offer itself.


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 27
To think that here, in the heart of the universe, a
man should go in fear of his life.
And should anything happen to Westmore, Higgins
would feel personally responsible.
Three months to live—and three weeks had gone.
And Tommy Tucker had vanished from his usual
haunts. This fact alone required explanation.
Tommy Tucker was a remarkable person. On terms
of intimacy with crooks of every class, suspected of
two or three daring robberies, possessed of what might
be termed a "flair" for the unimpeachable alibi, hail-
fellow-well-met in the City, and as likely to be met in
the slums, of no known antecedents, with neither kith
(save the crooked fraternity) nor kin, and with an
imperturbable and impudent air, particularly irritat-
ing when being freed for lack of evidence.
An engaging gentleman.
Quite frankly, Higgins liked him. True, he had
never yet made the mistake of arresting him, but
hoped to have the pleasure one day. Higgins always
enjoyed his colleagues' discomfiture when Tommy
was released, and vowed he would never place his
heavy hand on Tommy's shoulder until he had a cast-
iron case.
Surely Tommy Tucker hadn't been such a fool as to
write that intimidating letter.
Unless the whole thing were a hoax. Sort of thing
Tommy Tucker might do; although it would be a
particularly unfortunate thing for him were anything
serious to happen to Westmore.
But Westmore had been afraid ... a paralysing
fear.
And Westmore had known who had sent that letter.
Inspector Higgins would look into the matter himself,
if merely to calm his own conscience. He would put
in a couple of days trailing Westmore and see what
came of it. If nothing, then he would dismiss the
matter from his mind, unless or until Westmore made
a further complaint.


28 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
Higgins felt better for his decision.
The plain-clothes constable on duty outside Preston
Building was considerably startled when, feeling a
touch upon his shoulder, he turned to find Inspector
Higgins, and would have saluted but for the restraining
arm of the inspector.
"Inside?"
"Yessir. Hasn't been out for forty-eight hours."
"As long as that, eh? I hope everything is O.K.
You're quite sure, I suppose?"
The constable looked mildly hurt at the question.
"I can only say, sir," he said, after a pause, "that
Mr. Worthington Westmore hasn't been through this
door whilst I've been on duty. Of course, if there's
another exit ... I can't say, sir."
"I see. And is there another exit?"
"Not to my knowledge. Had there been, I should
have applied for assistance, sir."
"Quite. Well, keep your eyes open. I'm going
in."
Inspector Higgins entered the building and stopped
at the gates of the regular passenger lift. A miniature
model of the lift let into the wall on the left informed
him that the lift was on the fourth floor. The tiny
model lift began to descend, and as it reached the
ground-floor mark the actual lift came to a stop,
and the latticed gates were flung open with a flourish
by the attendant.
Higgins entered.
"Mr. Westmore, please."
"Dunno as he's in, sir. Top floor. We only go as
far as the sixth. You must make inquiries there."
"Righto. By the way," as the lift began its swift
ascent, "can I get through the back of this building
to the Bank?"
"No, sir. Only one entrance. Bit awkward at
times. Would save me a lot of time at nights if I
could slip out the back. Save me walking round the
block, and I could catch the six-five instead of having


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 29
to hang about for the six-thirty. Here we are, sir.
Straight down there on the right. You'll see a speaking-
tube."
"Thanks. How do I get up?"
"You don't, sir"—grinning. "Mr. Westmore'll show
you the way if he wants to see you."
Higgins walked along the corridor, aware, out of the
corner of his eye, that the lift-man, having ostenta-
tiously slammed the gate, had merely descended a couple
of feet and was now watching him through the latticed
ironwork from a few inches above the floor level.
There was a brass plate on which was embossed in
old English lettering:
Worthington Weatmore.
And below the plate the mouthpiece of a speaking-
tube, with a whistle corking up the opening. A very
primitive telephone for such a wealthy man. Higgins
had not met such an instrument for years, save at the
entrance halls of certain blocks of flats near Maida
Vale.
He knew the procedure. Removing the whistle
obstruction he placed his lips at the mouthpiece and
blew with all his might. He was rewarded with the
sound of a piercing whistle from above, which slowly
descended the scale as his lungs emptied, rather like
a siren as the steam pressure subsides.
He waited, placing his ear at the mouthpiece. One
thing about this type of instrument, two people couldn't
possibly speak at once and be heard. He remembered
once in his youth pouring some red ink into a similar
mouthpiece, and it had cost his father five shillings
to placate the milkman, whilst . . .
He blew again.
This time there was no answering whistle. Funny I
He couldn't possibly have blown the thing out of the
other end.
"Hallo?" A soft, pleasant voice.


30 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
"Mr. Westmore, please. Inspector Higgins would
like a few words with him."
"Just wait a moment, please. I'll see whether he
—er—whether he is here."
Higgins smiled. He knew the fiction well enough.
And what would the lady be like? Sounded very
nice, but what was she doing . . .
"This way, if you please, sir," a suave voice inter-
rupted his thoughts. It was the Oriental servant
bowing and exhibiting his inane smile. Inspector
Higgins was not exactly startled, but he hated men
to creep up to him without his being aware of the fact.
And so quick after his inquiry. Westmore must have
been standing beside the girl when she had answered.
"If you will please replace the whistle, sir," suggested
the other. "Thank you, sir. Follow me."
Straight to a panel in the corridor—a tiny key,
and then the small private lift. A short ascent, and
the lift door was flung open.
Inspector Higgins gave a gasp of surprise, and the
reason was twofold. It was not the room in which
he had had that momentous interview with the
millionaire, but a wonderful garden; and it was not
the man who confronted him, but a girl with a wistful,
welcoming smile.
"Good morning, Mr. Higgins."
She advanced with outstretched hand.
"Good morning, missy."
That she was known as the "Angel" in two continents
made no difference to Inspector Higgins; he grasped
the tiny proffered hand and it lay engulfed in his own.
He smiled.
"I'm delighted to see you once again," he said
gravely, and meant it.


CHAPTER III
IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS MEETS AN OLD FRIEND
A DEPRECATORY COUgh.
"All right, Lu. You may go."
The Oriental bowed and quietly closed the lift gate.
Higgins could not help remarking the absence of
sound, so very different from the hearty slam usually
employed by workers of elevators.
"Worthington won't be long, Mr. Higgins."
The Angel took his arm, and Higgins felt momentarily
embarrassed. "I'm married now, Angel," he suggested
gently.
She pouted. "Oh, what a pity I"
"I hope my wife doesn't think so"—with a grin.
"Who is she?"
"Muriel Beaumeere."
"Bobby Baynes's sister?"
"Yes."
"There I I knew you'd marry into the criminal
fraternity, Higgy."
A pause.
"That wasn't very kind, was it ?"—gently.
"Oh, Higgy, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean . . ."
Then abruptly: "Any kiddies?"
Higgins blushed.
"Not yet, my dear."
"What a baby you are, Higgy."
"Yes. I can't be more than half as much again as
old as you are."
The Angel chuckled; then Inspector Higgins
inquired:
"And what are you doing here?"


32 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
"What do you think ?" she countered.
"If what I think is right, I hope I'm wrong"—
cryptically.
"Oh! What a puritan you are, Higgy."
"I know."
A silence fell upon the pair. Inspector Higgins
gazed round the garden. Simply as evidence of
Worthington Westmore's wealth, it was a wonderful
thing. Hyacinths, mostly in bud, but some in bloom,
gave an exotic scent. It was the most superb roof-
garden Higgins had ever seen. An immense green-
house had been built on the edge of the roof with a
hundred-foot drop on the further side, and was filled
with hothouse flowers and ferns; some croci were in
flower on a border running round the edge of the roof.
A stone Cupid held aloft an arrow, the point of which
spouted water which glistened in the sunlight. Higgins
turned. The head of the lift had been disguised as a
potting-shed, with a weather-vane on the roof. There
was a pond with glistening cascades of water from
another fountain, somewhat marred by the white
belly of a dead goldfish. Westmore should have
waited till the summer before stocking. .
"Good morning, Mr. Higgins. And what can I do
for you?"
Worthington Westmore stood before him, and the
Angel faded unobtrusively into the background.
"Good morning, sir. I merely called to see whether
everything was O.K."
"Of course I Why shouldn't it be?"
This was a different Worthington Westmore from
that of the previous meeting. Higgins was amazed
at the change. Gone was the atmosphere of fear,
and in its place a self-satisfied air of complacency.
Obviously something had happened which had stultified
the apprehension—which had stilled the alarm. Was
it something to do with the Angel?
Higgins drew a bow at a venture.
"With regard to your kind offer, sir, which ..."


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 33
"I'm sorry, Inspector, but the need has passed."
"Thank you." A long pause. "I'm glad."
Worthington Westmore was embarrassed. He
gazed at the greenhouse, then at the seeming potting-
shed; anywhere but at the inspector. Higgins
smiled inwardly. Had he been such a fool as to
accept that offer, he would now be out of a job.
At last:
"Have you seen my garden, Inspector? You must
come in the summer. I've won prizes with my water-
lilies . . . and my roses. This fog and smoke of
London is so bad for my flowers. ... A harmless
hobby. ..."
Inspector Higgins took his leave.
Worthington Westmore went to great pains to
explain to him the workings of the lift. A dial
indicated the exact whereabouts of the carriage, and
one could actually operate the lift by moving the
hand of the dial, irrespective of the controls in the lift
itself. An ingenious toy.
And staring up at the facade of Preston Building,
when Inspector Higgins once more emerged into the
street, was Tommy Tucker. And behind him, in the
shelter of a doorway, was the plain-clothes constable
making weird and wonderful gesticulations in an
endeavour to draw the Inspector's attention to the
newcomer.
Higgins ignored the signals, turned as if to go away,
and then turned again, bringing up to the rear of Tommy
Tucker.
Tall and immaculately dressed, of no great age, the
man continued to gaze up at the building.
Inspector Higgins gripped his arm, and although
Tommy Tucker made no movement, Higgins could
feel the unexpected ripple of muscles beneath the
sleeve.
"I'd like a few words with you, Tommy, if I may."
Tommy Tucker lowered his gaze and smiled.
"What have I done now, Higgy, me boy?"
c


34 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
"Nothing—as far as I know."
"I thought perhaps something might be up when I
sensed that fellow who was semaphoring from the
doorway."
Higgins cursed inwardly. Tommy Tucker didn't
miss much. "He's new," he apologized.
"I—er—rather guessed as much. Well?"
Higgins looked up and down the busy street.
"We can't talk here, Tommy. Come and have a
drink."
"At Moorgate Police Station ?"—quizzically.
"No. Anywhere you like."
"Lead me to it."
The pair walked down the street. Few would have
guessed that one was a leading light at Scotland Yard
and the other a clever and undoubtedly lucky "suspect"
of the underworld. Of a height, although the inspector
had the wider shoulders; Tucker, however, had an
air of savoir-vivre which the inspector lacked. Neither
was embarrassed, though of the two Tucker was the
more jaunty. He raised his hat to the plain-clothes
constable, much to that worthy's discomfiture, and
grinned delightedly when a misguided constable on
point duty saluted the inspector.
Higgins, too, was amused, particularly as he guessed
that the other was trying to take a rise out of him.
The Highwayman.
"Most appropriate," murmured Tommy as the pair
pushed through the swing doors.
"Well?"
Tommy Tucker asked the question after having
raised his glass in an unspoken toast to the inspector
and having taken a genteel sip of the whisky-and-soda.
The pair were seated on a lounge discreetly hidden
behind a hothouse palm in a corner ; the chances of an
interruption did not exist, for there were no other seats
near by.
Inspector Higgins replaced his glass on the table
before them and felt in his jacket pocket for his pipe,


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 35
pouch, and tobacco. With a huge forefinger he gently
pressed some tobacco from the pouch into the bowl
of his pipe; then he felt in his waistcoat pocket for his
automatic lighter and tentatively rubbed the flint.
He was immediately rewarded with a small flame.
His satisfaction was so apparent that Tucker grinned.
Then the inspector took a few preliminary puffs,
followed by a deep inhalation. A brief pause whilst
he silently surveyed the bowl of the pipe, then a long
sigh as he blew the smoke upwards.
"And why the deliberation, old man?"
Tommy's remark rather marred the effect.
Higgins pursed his lips, frowned, then grinned.
"We have, of late, missed your bright face from
among us," he said.
"No I" A bantering denial. Tommy was going to
be difficult.
"Yes I We have wondered where you might have
been."
"How kind."
This was getting him nowhere. He could not
deliberately question without first warning Tommy
Tucker that he need not answer, or that if he did answer
then his replies might be taken down and subsequently
used as evidence against him—in Tommy's case an
entirely unnecessary warning. And although there was
no question of arrest Higgins felt that, with such a
slippery customer as Tommy, it was just as well to be
on the safe side. One never knew to what use Tommy
might put any irregularity if ever he came to be arrested.
"Ahem! Er . . . You needn't tell me, of course,
Tommy, but I could bear to know where you've been
hiding yourself lately, and what you've been up to,"
he suggested at long last.
"How naive, Higgy. You want to know where I've
been and what I've done, expecting me in my childish
innocence to reply that I've been to—say—Redmount
and lifted the Earl's family plate; whereupon you'll
promptly arrest me and bask in sunshine of official


36 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
commendation. Higgy! Higgy! Honestly, now,
do I look that sort of cove?"
"To be quite honest, Tommy, you do."
The pair laughed, and Tucker signalled to a passing
waiter for another drink.
A long period of silence.
"You seemed particularly interested in the Preston
Building, Tommy, when I met you just now. What's
the attraction?"
"That, my dear Inspector, is my business." Straight
from the shoulder. Tommy Tucker looked a bad
man to cross at that moment.
"And may eventually be mine," suggested Higgins
quietly.
"Then wait until it is"—shortly.
"It may be too late then ... for you."
"Then that, too, will be my funeral."
"Possibly, but I don't want it to be my business
to attend your funeral."
A short pause.
"What exactly are you driving at, Higgins?"
The inspector gazed sombrely at the other. How
far was he justified in warning the irresponsible Tommy
Tucker? And what notice would he take of any
warning? The answer to the latter query was easy.
. . . None! Tommy Tucker went his own way,
irrespective of the rights of others. He was possibly
heading for a fall, but the fall had been a long time
coming. It was quite on the cards that Tucker
knew nothing of that letter to Worthington Westmore,
but if so, what could be his interest—his undoubted
interest—in Preston Building?
"You once lived in South Africa . . ." he began
tentatively.
"Ah!" A long-drawn-out sigh, as though suddenly
vouchsafed a flood of enlightenment.
"And so did Worthington Westmore, who, I am told,
has been informed that he has only another couple
of months to live."


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 37
Tommy Tucker sat upright with a jerk.
"Would you please repeat that, Higgy?"
The inspector did so, inwardly wondering whether
he was not over-stepping the bounds of discretion.
Tommy Tucker snapped his fingers to attract the
attention of the waiter who had been fluttering about—
in what he possibly thought was an unobtrusive
manner—in the background.
"A refill, please."
"Not for me, Tommy."
"I'll drink both, Higgy, me boy. You've just
imparted the best news I've heard for months."
"Oh I"
"No chance of a reprieve, I hope? The doctor knew
what he was talking about, I suppose ?"—innocently.
Perhaps too innocently.
Higgins made no reply. The waiter sidled up
with the two drinks. Tommy Tucker raised his
glass.
"To the eternal damnation of Worthington
Wessmor."
Higgins was but mildly shocked. He was somewhat
used to Tommy Tucker's flamboyant gestures.
"Now then, Tommy, let me say a few words. Up
to now you've been lucky—damned lucky. I honestly
believe that if anyone were after you and your only
chance of escape was to jump off the top of the Terminal
Building in Cleveland, you'd take it . . . and land
without a bruise in a fast express just pulling out of
the station. It can't last, Tucker. It can't last.
You'll make a slip one day and we'll get you. And
.... listen!" Higgins held up an admonitory finger
as Tommy Tucker was about to interrupt. "It's for
your own good. This Worthington Westmore business.
Forget it. If anything happens to that man in
the near future it may be necessary to lay my hand on
your shoulder, Tommy."
"I shouldn't," dryly. "You might burn one or two
fingers."


38 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
Inspector Higgins rose to go.
"One last word, Tommy. If anyone stumbles upon
the body of Worthington Westmore with the hilt of a
dagger protruding from its back ... I shall know
where to look."
Tommy Tucker also rose.
"If you mean in my direction . . . you'll be wrong."
Inspector Higgins shrugged his shoulders.
"That's as may be."
"And the reason you'd be wrong is this. If and
when I kill Worthington Wessmor, it won't be from the
back, Inspector Higgins."


CHAPTER IV
IN WHICH MR. WESTMORE IS BUSY
Inspector Higgins was in a quandary. Should he
or should he not recall the watcher from Preston
Building? In view of Worthington Westmore's
obvious relief from worry why should the public
funds be wasted in providing an escort; and, on the
other hand, having regard to Tommy Tucker's un-
doubted interest in Preston Building, was he justified
in calling off the espionage? Of course, Tommy
Tucker could easily be apprehended on some charge
or other, but in view of his ability to wriggle out of
such trouble, was it advisable to do so?
On the one hand, the thought that the whole
thing might prove to be a hoax pulled in one direction;
whereas, on the other hand, it was fairly apparent that
if anything happened to Worthington Westmore then
Inspector Higgins was undoubtedly for it.
A nasty decision to make, particularly when he
recalled that last interview with Tommy Tucker.
Higgins, as was natural, chose the line of least
resistance. He would keep a watcher on Westmore
until the three months expired. In any case, the
public paid.
And the Angel? Where was she mixed up in this?
Inspector Higgins had a soft spot in his heart for her,
and sincerely hoped she wouldn't be dragged into the
storm which seemed to be hanging over Preston
Building. Possibly a thief, and certainly, at odd
moments, the associate of thieves, the Angel had
achieved a notoriety out of all proportion to her years.
A beautiful child . . . pity she was so wayward.
19


40 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
What was she doing in that beautiful garden at the
top of Preston Building?
Frankly, the inspector reviewed the situation, and
as frankly came to the conclusion that the Angel was
staying there as the wife of Worthington Westmore.
And she was such a nice kid, too.
Higgins sighed.
He had, in the ordinary course of business, set on
foot inquiries with regard to Westmore's business in
South Africa, and had spent much time in an endeavour
to discover when first Tommy Tucker's path had crossed
that of the philanthropist, but with little success.
That the two had been in South Africa at the same
time seemed beyond a doubt, but that the pair had ever
met was hard to prove.
In any case, they seemed to be poles apart: Tommy
Tucker moving along in his mysterious way, on
the fringe but never within the bounds of some-
thing discreditable, and Westmore, in a blaze of
publicity, piling up his huge fortune.
There seemed to be no point of contact between the
two men—and yet there must have been. For in
who else, in Preston Building, could Tommy Tucker
have had an interest?
Unless in the Angel.
That was a thought. Perhaps the Angel herself
was the bone of contention between the two?
The Angel? What her real name was Inspector
Higgins did not know. He did know, however, that
she was on terms of intimacy with the more shady
characters of England and America. He had, in the
course of his official duties, hit up against her on sundry
occasions, and felt that she was rather the victim of
environment than that there was anything inherently
wicked in her make-up. Brought up in the slums
of Paris, of cosmopolitan parents in which the British
strain predominated, she had never had a real chance;
and it was small wonder that she was now living under
the nominal protection of Worthington Westmore.


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 41
Why should that wealthy man-about-town have
had to pick such a wayward child when he could have
had more wantonly sophisticated women for the
asking?
And yet the Angel was very worldly-wise.
A beautiful girl: five foot four in height, with
glorious colouring and a wistful smile, dark hair, thin
eyebrows—not visibly attributable to "plucking"—
and the figure of a mannequin. Enigmatical, and with
a sense of humour. Would, but for the Fates, have
made a good actress.
And now she lived at Preston Building.
At least she must do so, for Higgins had instructed
his watcher to report whether or no she left the building,
and, so far, she had not done so.
Higgins couldn't understand her. Westmore must
have made it very worth while for her to stay with
him, for she had quite a bodyguard of undesirables
who were willing to shower their ill-gotten gains upon
her. Of course Westmore was quite a catch in his
way, but . . .
And honestly—who could blame her? What chance
was there in the world for a beautiful girl of question-
able parents whose only upbringing had been the hard
school of the Parisian underworld? And Worthington
Westmore was also known in two continents, chiefly
by reason of his wealth.
Inspector Higgins had met the Angel but rarely
during the course of his life, but in each case men
with whom she was in daily contact had been prepared
to swear that she was unknown to them. Such was
her personality that she could have got away with
murder with half a dozen toughs willing to shoulder
the blame with its horrifying consequences. And yet
she seemed to sail through her world apparently
untouched by its coarse hands, and to have remained
pure and sweet in spite of her sophistication, until—
until this blasted Worthington Westmore business.
Higgins cursed within himself.


42 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
Why should men of wealth be able to buy the souls
of such as she?
And, to get back to the point, what was Tommy
Tucker's interest in her? And if she could get away
with murder . . .
Worthington Westmore had but a few weeks left
. . unless Inspector Higgins could protect him.
A discreet knock at the door disturbed his reverie.
"Come in."
A constable entered, and then stood in front of the
inspector fidgeting with a minor embarrassment.
"What is it, man? What is it ?"—testily.
"A—er—gentleman to see you, sir. Er—er"
"Who is he?"
"He says he's a tee-totaller, sir."
"Good gracious me, man I He sounds like it—I
don't think. Drunk or mad? Let Brownall see
him."
"Ahem! Excuse me, sir, but he said that—er—a
man of your acumen would need no card, sir. You
see—er"
A tee-totaller. A T.T. T.T.? Tommy Tucker.
Oh, yes.
"Show him up."
Tommy Tucker entered, but different in many
respects. He had shed most of his jaunty air. He
seemed to be in the grip of an intense emotion, his
cheeks were haggard, his eyes unnaturally bright.
"Come in, Tommy. Take a pew. Rather like a •
fly entering the parlour. . . . Come to give yourself
up, or what?"
"Cut out the persiflage, Higgins. For once in my
life I'm dead serious."
"Sorry. Sit down."
"I'll stand, thanks."
His countenance grim and foreboding, he stared at
the inspector. Set jaw, tightly-clenched teeth, his
usually immaculate hair somewhat awry, he seemed the
embodiment of evil. If the inspector had been liable


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 43
to intimidation he would have been awed by the very
aspect of the man.
"What is it, Tommy ?" he inquired softly.
"Higgins," impressively, "I've come to you because
you're a white man . . . because of all the men I
know you are one of the very few I can trust. . . .
We're generally on different sides of the fence . . .
but, by God, if you fail me . . . No, no. I'm sorry.
I haven't come to threaten, but to plead. . . ."
"Better sit down, old chap."
"Perhaps I had."
Wearily Tommy Tucker subsided to a chair and
mopped his damp brow with a silken handkerchief.
"It—it's about the Angel, Higgins," he said, after
a short pause.
"Ah! She's got you too, has she?"
Immediately the other jumped from his seat.
"Cut it out. Higgins, you're as near to death now
as makes no odds. I—oh I—forget it! I'm beside
myself. Higgy I The Angel's gone."
"Where?"
"I don't know, but I can guess—and on occasions
I'm a damned good guesser. That swine Wessmor
has got her."
"Well, Tommy? What's that to you? She can
go where she pleases. You've no prior claim, I
suppose?"
"It isn't that, Higgy. It isn't that. I—I'd give
my worthless life for that little girl . . . and she knows
it. If Wessmor's got her he's either got some hold
over her or he's tricked her—and she's hard to deceive."
"And why have you come to me? What d'you
want me to do?"
Once more Tommy Tucker subsided weakly into
the chair.
"It's the Preston Building, Higgins. I can't get
in. I admit I've tried—and failed. That blasted
Chink takes some getting by . . . and that lift.
It's the only way up, Higgy. I want you to go along


44 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
and call on Wessmor and ask after the Angel. See
her. See if she's all right. You can do it, with your
official position. You Ijnow me, Higgins. You know
I'm a lone hand. I've got no gang to hold him up and
demand her return. See her. If she's all right and
seems happy ..." Tommy Tucker passed a weary
hand across his brow, then shrugged his shoulders.
"I—I'll fade out. But—but . . ." Tommy Tucker
rose from his seat. Gone was the haggard air, gone the
diffident demeanour. His eyes blazed with a fanatical
light. Then: "If he's hurt her ..." A short,
mirthless travesty of a laugh. "If he's hurt her . . .
God help him. If he's found dead you can call on me
all right—if I haven't already given myself up. I'll—
I'll ..." A deep breath. "Sorry, Higgy, me boy.
I'm—er—ranting somewhat."
"Yes, Tommy," said Higgins gravely. "I'm afraid
you are. I—I'll try and forget it. And I'll do what
I can."
"Thank you, Higgins. And you'll let me know?"
"I'm afraid I can't do that, Tommy, for reasons
which must be very apparent."
Tommy Tucker slowly made for the door, but
stopped with his hand on the handle. "I see," he said
slowly. "I see."
"Don't take it too hardly, Tommy. If there's any-
thing wrong at Preston Building you can trust me to
put it right. And if there isn't—well—frankly, I
don't see where you come into the picture."
"Thank you, Higgy. Thank you." Then with a
weak attempt at humour: "There's no need to show
me out. I—er—think I know the way by now."
Nevertheless, a constable escorted Tommy Tucker
off the premises, for it would never have done to have
had such a notorious character roaming at large
through Scotland Yard.
Inspector Higgins stared unseeingly at the
papers on his desk. Naturally, he had not told
Tommy Tucker, but the Angel had seemed quite


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 45
happy and unconcerned that time he had seen her on
the roof of Worthington Westmore's building, and gave
no indication of being there under duress. Another
thing, Tommy Tucker had made of bluffing a fine art
Higgins firmly believed he could sell, as a genuine
ingot, a gold-plated brick to the committee of a stock
exchange. The whole thing, therefore, might be a
gigantic bluff on the part of Tommy Tucker, in which
case what was his object?
Higgins rose from the seat at his desk and, with
hands thrust deeply in trouser pockets, his chin sunk
upon his breast, proceeded to pace up and down the
room in an effort to elucidate the problem.
He discarded his pipe and lit a cigarette.
Of one thing he was sure—that Tommy's distress
had been real. But whether the distress related to
the presence of the Angel at Preston Building or to
something entirely different he could not tell. And
if he called at the building what would be his excuse?
If a bluff, what could be behind it all? What could
be Tommy Tucker's ulterior motive in trying to get
the inspector to call on Worthington Westmore?
What would he find when he got there?
And then an alarming thought.
Perhaps this was Tommy Tucker's roundabout way
of telling him that something had already happened
to the great financier. Perhaps when he called there
he would find that Westmore's "three months" were
up, although a few weeks remained.
Curse Tommy Tucker I Higgins flung away his
cigarette into the grate. The butt struck one of the
bars and rebounded on to the carpet. Of course, in
his present mood, it would do. The malice of inani-
mate things. Higgins picked up the end and threw
it into the flames.
In spite of the central heating he insisted on having
a fire in his office. He held that it made the dingy
room look comparatively cheerful, and . . . but this
was shirking the issue.


46 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
Inspector Higgins returned to his desk and picked
up the receiver of his telephone instrument.
"Get me Worthington Westmore's private apartment
at Preston Building, please."
Higgins seated himself and placed his elbow on the
desk, the receiver at his ear, whilst the fingers of his
other hand beat an impatient tattoo upon the blotter
in front of him. He kept up a spasmodic and monoton-
ous "Hallo I" although he knew there was no one to
hear. He ceased drumming his fingers and picked
up a pencil. He had just finished a most complicated
and elaborate design which, starting as a small triangle,
had slowly increased by ever-widening intricate outline
until it threatened to cover the entire blotter, when he
heard a faint "Hallo" at the other end of the
wire.
"Mr. Westmore, please. Higgins, Inspector of
Scotland Yard, speaking."
"Oh I Is that you, Higgy? I didn't recognize
your voice."
It was the Angel. No suggestion of constraint here.
Higgins was relieved and yet concerned. Relieved
that the girl sounded a free agent, and yet concerned
in that she might be mixed up in some funny business
with regard to Westmore.
"Hallo, Angel. How's tricks?"
"Mustn't grumble."
And then he had a mild inspiration.
"What about coming to have a spot of lunch with
me some time or other? What about to-morrow?"
"Higgy, I thought you said you were married"—
teasingly reproachful.
"That's all right. The wife won't mind. She knows
me."
"Won't mind?" An unladylike giggle. "Don't
you believe it."
"Come home with me and I'll introduce you."
"Higgy, you're a dear. You . . ." There was
a catch in her voice, then, firmly: "Some other time,


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 47
Higgy. Some other time. I'll see whether Mr.
Westmore is here. Hang on."
He could hear her receding footsteps. An adroit
refusal. Was it genuine or was it inspired by Worthing-
ton Westmore? True, she had seemed to leave the
instrument, but might not that have been at West-
more's command? Might there not be an extension
of the line through which the man was listening to all
that was said? Might not her ostensible search for
Mr. Westmore be a diplomatic fiction? Again those
tripping steps in a small crescendo of sound, then:
"Mr. Westmore's sorry—but he's busy."
The click of a replaced receiver.
Higgins swore feelingly.
"Blast the man!"
And it might or might not have been the Angel who
had delivered that ultimate message.


CHAPTER V
IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS IS ANNOYED
Inspector Higgins still felt the faint rumblings of
his conscience. He had spoken, by telephone, with
the Angel, and had received from her or some other
feminine voice an intimation that Mr. Worthington
Westmore was busy, which naturally implied that he
was working, and by further implication that every-
thing was in order.
But, to his preternaturally suspicious mind, it did
not necessarily follow that Westmore was all right.
It was quite on the cards that the phiase "is busy"
was a stock excuse when Mr. Westmore was absent
and did not wish to advertise the fact. It would be
an equally convenient fiction to allay suspicion were
anything wrong.
There seemed to be some tragedy brooding over
Preston Building. He must be getting psychic I Or
nervous.
That cryptic letter to Worthington Westmore
which now reposed in his safe had been the start of all
the trouble—yet Westmore appeared to have forgotten
or ignored it . . . unless he had bought off the menace.
Yet from what he knew of him Higgins would have
said that Tommy Tucker could not have been bought.
Jerusalem I
Perhaps Westmore was holding the Angel as a sort
of hostage for Tommy's good behaviour. That, at
least, might explain Tommy Tucker's perturbation,
and also Worthington Westmore's recovered spirits.
A fantastic theory, maybe, and if true, a state of
affairs which obviously could not long continue. The
4»


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 49
two men, or the representatives of at least one of them,
must meet in the near future, to arrange an armistice.
If it were Tommy Tucker who had threatened West-
more—and the inspector was not convinced of this—
then he might agree to lay off Westmore in return
for the freedom of the Angel. It might be argued
that the philanthropist would need some pretty
conclusive safeguards as to Tommy Tucker's future
behaviour, but Higgins, who knew the man, realized
that if Tommy gave his word he would keep it. And
Westmore too would know this.
The whole idea seemed too fanciful for modern con-
ditions, yet Higgins did not discard it for that reason.
In fact, he felt that there was a substratum of truth.
And where did Scotland Yard come in?
If the Angel were being forcibly restrained it was
patently the duty of the police to step in and put
matters right. But, on the face of it, she was not.
And if Tommy Tucker were threatening Worthington
Westmore with physical violence, and more than
physical violence, then it was the paramount duty of
the police to give protection where it was needed.
But the whole thing was underground. No appeals
and no complaints. Apparently the only man really
concerned about the matter was Higgins himself—
unless one included Tommy Tucker, who probably
had an axe to grind.
Higgins sighed. He would put the complete busi-
ness out of his mind, and await developments, if any.
He had no sooner made this decision than there was
a knock at his door.
"Mr. Tucker, sir."
"Oh, yes. Show him up. And—er—constable .. ."
"Sir?"
"In five minutes' time you will remind me of that
urgent appointment."
"Yes, sir"—uncertainly. "Who with, sir?"
"That's up to you."
The constable retired in a fog, and a minute later
D


50 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
ushered in a resplendent Tommy Tucker, who smiled
blandly at the inspector's apparent absorption in a
blank page upon his desk.
Higgins looked up.
"Ah, Tommy. Sit down."
"Have you any news for me ?" inquired the visitor,
making no attempt to be seated.
"None."
"The Angel all right?"
"I think so."
"H'm." A short pause, then: "Thanks ... for
nothing."
Tommy Tucker made for the door.
"One moment, Tommy." Higgins rose from his
chair and walked to his safe, from whence he abstracted
an envelope which had passed through the post and
the stamp of which had been torn in half.
"Take a look at that, Tommy."
Tucker walked to the light, solemnly and ostentati-
ously pulling on his gloves before accepting the epistle.
December 31st, 19—.
You have three months to live.
You-know-who.
Tommy Tucker frowned at the paper in his gloved
hand, then held it up to the light as though to examine
the watermark, if any. Then he carefully perused
the envelope, clucking his tongue sympathetically at
the missing portion of the stamp which effectively
removed the postmark.
He handed it back to the inspector with a flourish.
"Thanks ... for something, this time."
Higgins accepted the letter and replaced it in his
safe.
"I should place it somewhere secure, Higgins. A
skilled—er—practitioner could open that thing with a
tin-opener and a firework."
"You think it valuable, eh?"


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 51
"As a curio—yes."
"You—er—didn't write it yourself, I suppose?"
Tommy Tucker smiled.
"As a matter of fact, I think I must have done—
possibly with my left hand whilst standing on my
head."
"It's not unlike your writing, Tommy."
Tucker frowned and gazed at the floor as though
concentrating on some abstruse problem, then, with
a murmured "Got it I" he grinned engagingly upon
the inspector.
"Of course I Of course I I was cogitating where
you had seen my caligraphy and have just remembered:
on the sundry receipts which I have given from time to
time when being handed back my various belongings
upon being released without a stain, et cetera. But
there . . ." he shrugged his shoulders whimsically,
"I invariably attune my style of handwriting to the
occasion. The thin quavering lines which you
apparently know so well were doubtless caused by my
fear at the time."
"Fear?" A grim smile of disbelief.
"Yes. Fear that perhaps the noble cause of justice
might once more have been flouted. I may tell you,
Higgins, that when I send—er—threatening letters,
I again suit my style to the occasion. Bold—adamant
—accusative. Denoting the will to carry out the
threat and the power to do so. Nothing weak-kneed
about it."
"You are trying to imply that you didn't write this,
eh?"
"My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap I"
A knock at the door and a red-faced constable
entered, and delivered a message breathlessly, as
though he had run a couple of miles beforehand.
"The Duke of Wembley, sir. Wants you on the
'phone."
Tommy Tucker smiled.
"How extraordinary I Fancy that now I My uncle!"


52 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
Higgins swore beneath his breath. Wanted on the
'phone! And with a telephone instrument simply
shouting its presence on the desk. This was ap-
parently the best thing the constable could think of.
Coupled with his make-belief breathlessness it was
farcical.
"Get out !" he said savagely.
"Something misfired?" queried Tommy. "You
know, that chap's been outside the door all the while,
possibly with a watch in his hand, for I did not hear
his receding footsteps after letting me in, nor his frantic
gallop to deliver that urgent message. And I'm
particularly acute of hearing. I fear it was a plot
to curtail my visit. Higgy! Oh, Higgy! I fear
I am unwelcome."
Tommy Tucker went. Higgins walked to the door
and called after him.
"Yes?" inquired Tucker, his eyebrows raised
questioningly.
Higgins held out his hand. Tommy shook hands,
but Higgins still kept his hand out and waited.
Tucker coughed. Then he placed a hand in his
jacket pocket and removed therefrom a blank sheet of
official notepaper—the same piece the inspector had
been ostensibly studying when Tucker had been
ushered into the office.
"Ahem! Sorry, Higgy."
"Don't mention it."
Inspector Higgins snapped his fingers to a passing
constable.
"Show this gentleman off the premises, please."
Then he turned to Tommy, and said apologetically:
"You might get lost, you know."
A sound of footsteps along the corridor, and then an
amazing thing happened. Tommy Tucker's right
hand dropped negligently into his jacket pocket,
there was a gasp behind the inspector, and he turned
quickly to see the extraordinary spectacle of Worthing-
ton Westmore slowly raising his hands above his head,


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 53
whilst behind him an obsequious constable stared
open-mouthed.
For a brief fractional second Inspector Higgins was
dumbfounded. A hold-up I In Scotland Yard, of
all places I Then he acted. A lightning jump and
Tucker's right hand was pinioned within the pocket,
and Westmore, a sneering grin on his face, slowly
lowered his hands.
"Hold him, Higgins."
The next moment, before the inspector was aware
of what he was about to do, he had crashed his fist
into the face of the helpless Tucker, who dropped inert
from the inspector's grasp.
• • • • a
Tommy Tucker recovered in a few seconds, but in
that short space of time he had been thoroughly and
effectively searched and his weapon proved to be non-
existent. An official envelope was, however, brought
to light.
Worthington Westmore did not regain consciousness
for over half an hour. He did not know what had hit
him, and never would, for the two constables who
had witnessed the whole episode quite approved the
inspector's action, although one of them afterwards
confessed that it was a pity the inspector had used his
right when his left hand was the more effective.
"You're lucky, Westmore. Mr. Tucker will not
prosecute," said Higgins coldly, when the millionaire,
looking white and shaken, was seated in the inspector's
office. "You were on your way to see me, I suppose?"
"I was, but . . . Higgins! if you cross me again
you can say good-bye to your career."
Higgins stared at the other through lowered lids.
"Westmore," he said impressively, "I don't take
that sort of talk from anyone. Whether your wealth
can better be expressed in pounds or pence matters
nothing to me. You may have influence—so have I:
the influence which is the accumulation of years of


54 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
faithful service. If you've come for my help—
legitimately—you'll get it. If you've come to threaten
—you can go to hell. That's my last word on the
matter."
Worthington Westmore blinked. It was obvious
that he was not used to plain speaking. He coughed
apologetically, then produced a letter from his pocket.
"I think this is an—er—excuse for my—er—
eccentric behaviour."
The same quavery writing—almost the same wording.
^ You have three weeks to live.
You-know-who.
Higgins was impressed, despite his repugnance at
the man's conduct.
"You've come for police protection?"
"Exactly."
"And you have nothing to add to what you have
already told us?"
"No. I—er—thought I had circumvented any
trouble, but ... I don't know." His voice trailed
off. Then, suddenly, as though to catch the inspector
off his guard: "What did that man want with you?"
"The man you struck whilst I held him ?"—brutally.
Worthington Westmore did not reply.
"Do you mean Mr. Tucker ?"—inexorably.
A shamefaced nod.
"I see. Well, that's his business. Why don't
you ask him?" A pause. "You seem to know him.'
Again Westmore did not reply. Higgins was in
the mood when he would do nothing to help the other
out. As far as ifc was possible for a man of his nature
and in his position to take sides, he was definitely
not upon the side of the millionaire. Westmore,
by his own conduct, had lost a potential ally.
Higgins coughed.
"I, too, am on occasion very busy," he suggested.
"I'll put a man on guard at Preston Building."


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 55
"I thought you had already done that," said West-
more quickly.
Inspector Higgins studied the face of the man
opposite him, but did not reply. His instructions to
the man on duty trailing Worthington Westmore
had been most explicit—to follow and report, but to
act with great circumspection. Yet Westmore seemed
to have "tumbled" to him pretty easily. Naturally
it is not easy to follow a man for days on end without
the fact being noticed by the "trailee", yet Scotland
Yard trains men to carry out this duty inconspicuously,
and for some days the report had been negative—
Westmore had not left Preston Building.
"It was your man, wasn't it ?"—apprehensively.
Higgins shrugged his shoulders in an attempt to be
non-committal.
"Look here, Mr. Westmore. Excuse the phrase,
but you've got to come clean. You suggested before
that you knew who had written this note," tapping
the second letter. "Now then, quite bluntly, whom
do you suspect?"
A long pause. Westmore seemed to be marshalling
his thoughts. Then: "I thought it was—er—Tommy
Tucker; now I'm not so sure."
"Oh I"
"I'm wondering whether the Angel might not have
written this one."
Higgins laughed shortly.
"Then your procedure is obvious. You must—er—
rick the lady."
"I—I can't."
"Why?"
Then, as no reply was forthcoming: "Has she too
big a hold upon you?"
Worthington Westmore sneered. "You're wrong,
Inspector. You're wrong. I'm not interested in the
Angel's physical charms, undoubted as they may be.
She—er—she is very useful to me."
ti m.


56 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
"She is my—er—confidential private secretary."
"All the more easy to discharge, I should have
thought."
"Then you're wrong again. The Angel knows too
much of my private affairs. She could—er—be very
useful to my—er—competitors."
"Your—er—private competitors ?" — sarcastically,
emphasized by a deliberate pause before the penulti-
mate word. "Worthington Westmore, you're lying.
Get out."
The man rose in outraged bewilderment.
"Higgins, if anything happens to me, you'll be
responsible."
The inspector also rose from his seat and walked to
the door, which he held open invitingly, restraining
the impulse to plant his large foot where he felt it
was most wanted.
"You know where I live, should you feel you have
anything to tell me," he said meaningly.


CHAPTER VI
IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS INSPIRES A LITTLE
BURGLARY
Inspector Higgins was pardonably annoyed. He
was used to questioning suspects and had become
adept in differentiating between the wheat of truth and
the chaff of mendacity. One expected a suspect to
lie, and it was generally through their lies that suspects
were convicted; and if a suspect did not lie, Inspector
Higgins was more than half convinced of his innocence.
But for a man to come to Scotland Yard for aid and
then lie . . . well I it annoyed him more than a little.
Higgins strongly suspected that his thought that the
Angel was being detained by Westmore as a hostage
for Tommy's good behaviour was not far from the
truth. Otherwise, Westmore need only turn her out
of Preston Building. Higgins smiled grimly at the
cleft stick into which the millionaire had placed
himself, and wondered whether he could not detect
Tommy's hand in the planting of the seed of Suspicion
against the Angel. That had his subtle touch.
Assuming that his theory were correct, and that the'
Angel really was a prisoner, then it would be like
Tommy to use such a means for her release—having
admittedly failed to effect an entrance into Westmore's
apartment at the top of Preston Building.
And Tommy Tucker's abortive attempt to purloin
some official notepaper? True, he had nearly got
away with the envelope, but . . . Why had he needed
those? Was it merely the normal workings of his
acquisitive instincts? Or had he some definite object
in view?
37


6o THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
toward him—that same instrument which had effect-
ively given the lie when the constable had announced
the Duke of Wembley during Tommy Tucker's visit—
and called the messengers.
"Higgins here. That report from Preston Building.
When did it come in? Just now, eh? How? 'Phoned
from the City, eh? H'm. Thanks."
Higgins reached for his hat and coat.
Either the constable on duty at Worthington West-
more's place was asleep on the job, or there was
another exit from Preston Building. For there was
no mention of the millionaire's visit to Scotland Yard.
Of course, the man might have thought that this would
need no reporting, but, if so, then he was due to blush
in a few moments, when the inspector informed him
of the official view of his intelligence.
And if there were two exits, then there were two
entrances; and a secret entrance, to put it mildly, would
be exceptionally fortuitous to a potential murderer.
At Preston Building the constable had not proved
to be asleep on his job, if one were to believe his
vociferous denials, and the lift-man reiterated his state-
ment that there was no way to the Bank through the
building. And Worthington Westmore was still stated
to be busy when Higgins once more used that anti-
quated mouthpiece of the speaking-tube. It was the
voice of the Oriental manservant, who also regretted
that the lady, too, was engaged.
"Which lady ?" queried Higgins wrathfully up the
tube, remembering the two voices when he had spoken
with the Angel on the telephone.
There was no reply.
Higgins cursed. Westmore's apartment on the top
floor was seemingly impregnable. No stairs—merely
a lift, the door of which was simply a panel in the
corridor, which was opened with a key—a very tiny
key. Possibly a bit dangerous in case of fire—the
local authority would have something to say about
this, were they informed . . . but the lift must work


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 61
in the perpendicular. Ergo, each panelled door must
be immediately below the one above.
Higgins started to descend the building by means of
the emergency stairs. Another tiny keyhole . . .
more stairs . . . another keyhole . . . again . . . again
. . . ground floor . . . basement.
If the secret exit were anywhere it must be here.
Unless, of course, it was through one of the offices into
the adjacent building. Higgins cursed again as the
thought struck him.
Nothing doing. A long search in the basement had
been unrewarded, save by a visit from a uniformed
constable, who had been brought in by the instigation
of the lift-man to see what this strange man was doing
in the cellars I A little lying and a handsome tip had
overcome the lift-man's scruples, and the constable had
been most apologetic.
Higgins had missed the exit somewhere. He could
hardly fall back on the offices in the building, owned
as they were by various City firms of indisputable
integrity. Obviously one of them belonged under
cover to Westmore—and Higgins did not think it would
be his recognized office on the first floor.
The inspector studied the names on the notice-
board at the entrance of the building. A harmless,
innocuous-looking lot.
A firm of incorporated accountants, a mining engin-
eer a public company in which the inspector himself
was financially interested, inasmuch as the shares he
had bought at twenty shillings now stood at one and
ninepence (his heart urged that these must be the
culprits, but reason prompted otherwise !); and
sundry other tenants of apparently harmless mien.
There was nothing for it. Higgins made a complete
list and once more started his inspection of the offices,
walking up the stairs and checking off his list each name
as it appeared painted on an office door. When there
was no name he knocked and entered, and immediately
apologized to the occupant—if any. His swift glance


62 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
at each interior, however, told him practically all he
wanted to know.
And on the third floor was a name which was not on
the list at the entrance.
Here was something tangible at last I
The Oriental Commerce Corporation. Underneath,
some hieroglyphic, which looked like Chinese, but
might be merely to impress the unwary.
And the door was adjacent to the disguised panel of
Westmore's private elevator—if that meant anything.
What now should be bis mode of attack? Should
he open the door and walk in, as the gentleman from
the Prudential, or the London representative of the
Cairo Carpet Corp.—or ... He turned the handle.
His decision was made for him—the door was locked.
That night an entirely unofficial and certainly un-
authorized raid was made upon the offices of the
Oriental Commerce Corporation. It was somewhat
fortuitous that Inspector Higgins and Constable
Summers (the Yard expert on locks and bolts) should
have unfortunately been locked in the building after
the cleaners had left, and that Summers should have
with him a complete set of skeleton keys whose right-
ful owner was languishing in gaol. It was also neces-
sary, unless they were to be imprisoned for the night,
that they telephone to the local police to procure their
release ; and, as all the offices were locked, they had,
perforce, to break open a door . . . and that they
happened to choose the door of the Oriental Commerce
Corporation . . . well!
A few grunts—an occasional muttered imprecation
—then Summers announced that the lock had yielded
to his administrations.
Inspector Higgins carefully opened the door, and
flashed his electric torch within the interior.
A massive safe on his immediate left; a curtained
window opposite him; a glass cupboard containing
some hideous Chinese idols and carved figures, grotesque
and of no known biology ; a commercial counter on his


64 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
"Quiet!"
The pair shrank behind the curtain and awaited
developments.
No sound. Higgins sensed the presence of another
human being in the near vicinity, yet dared not betray
his presence by a surreptitious peep from behind the
curtain.
"Put 'em up!"
A sudden voice from within the room. Higgins
did not move a muscle, but Summers whispered:
"They mean us, sir."
Again the voice.
"You! You, I mean! You with the big feet
sticking out from under the curtain. Come along."
Higgins glanced downwards. They weren't his feet,
anyhow.
Constable Summers sheepishly emerged.
"Who are you, and what do you want?"
Higgins chanced a peep. It was the millionaire's
Chinese servant.
Then and there Constable Summers redeemed himself
in the inspector's eyes. He humbly apologized for his
presence—told his specious tale of being locked in by
mischance—was frightened by that weird noise—and
hoped he had not inconvenienced the gentleman.
The Chinaman was not convinced.
Then the constable excelled himself. He produced
his official card, which proclaimed his name but not
his rating, and, whether or not by reason of his con-
nection with the police, was conducted from the room
by the Oriental.
Inspector Higgins breathed a sigh of relief.
He would wait to see whether the Chinaman returned,
and then push off. He needed no further proof of the
connection between this office and Worthington West-
more's suite upstairs. He did not know, but could
guess that the very act of opening the door had given
some signal of warning to those living above. But how
had the Chinaman got into the room unless by the door?


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 65
That whining sound had undoubtedly been Westmore's
private lift, the panelled door of which was adjacent to
the door of the office, but . . .
The light went out.
And then the merest suggestion of sound ... of
returning footsteps.
Curse I He should have bolted whilst he had the
chance. That Chinaman was more than a little sus-
picious. Possibly he wished to ascertain whether or
not Summers had made a search I There was nothing
for it but to hide once more . . . and the curse of it
was that the curtain seemed to be the only means of
concealment.
Any port in a storm.
Silence.
The footsteps had stopped . . . unless he had been
mistaken. That must be it ... he was getting
jumpy.
Higgins peeped from behind the curtain. Utter
darkness. And then a thin pencil of light from the
door to the floor at his feet ... a single ray, then
darkness again. Strange I Blankety strange I
Got it! The light was from the keyhole. And
coming from there, the source of light must have been
very dose to the keyhole itself. An electric torch,
say . . .
The gentle fitting of a key into the lock . . . and
then the withdrawal of the key.
Funny sort of business, this . . . another key.
Jerusalem I Another unauthorized visitor!
Higgins grinned. This was comic. And the moment
the door was opened another warning would somehow
be given above and the whole comedy re-enacted.
Yet it might be as well if he waited ... in fact, he
must wait.
A soft click—the sound of the opening door.
Higgins stepped from his concealment and switched
on his torch.
Tommy Tucker, revolver in hand, stood before him.
E


CHAPTER VII
IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS MAKES A CAPTURE
"Stick 'em up, Tommy," bluffed Higgins, using the
same formula which had been so effective with Con-
stable Summers.
"Well! Weill Well! If it isn't the dear old
inspector." \
"It's me all right"—grimly. "And not so much of
the 'old', either!"
Tommy Tucker tried to pierce the gloom behind the
blinding ray of the torch, then, philosophically shrug-
ging his shoulders, dropped his revolver, and felt in
his pocket for a cigarette. -
Again that weird rumble.
"Come along, Tommy. Beat it!"
Tucker needed no second bidding. He dashed from
the room, and the inspectoi, stopping but to retrieve
the discarded revolver, followed close upon his heels.
Along the corridor, then down the stairs.
"Far enough, Tommy." if
Tucker halted.
"What's the big idea, Higgy?" he queried petu-
lantly
"Dunno"—tersely. "What's yours?"
"Dunno either," in a voice strangely like that of
the inspector.
Higgins frowned. He could not understand the
other's levity, unless Tommy had somehow fathomed
that his own entry to the office of the Oriental Commerce
Corporation had been—well, unorthodox.
"What were you doing in that office, Tommy ?" he
inquired sternly.


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 67
"Why did you tell me to beat it ?" countered Tucker
—and Higgins knew where he had made his mistake.
Tommy Tucker was one of the most astute men he
knew, and he had seen his loophole and had promptly
''seized'' it. Higgins could do nothing.
The following morning, soon after the main gates
of the building had been unlocked, Tommy Tucker and
Inspector Higgins emerged. A silent breakfast at a
convenient restaurant, then they parted.
If Tommy Tucker observed that the inspector, after
ostensibly leaving him, turned and followed in his wake,
he gave no sign; yet the inspector lost him five minutes
later in the Liverpool Street Station Arcade.
Constable Summers was waiting for the inspector
at Scotland Yard and reported that the Chinaman had
taken him before Worthington Westmore, to whom he
had explained that he had been hiding in the building
under orders to protect the millionaire's person, and
that he had been conducting a search of all the offices
to see whether there were any unauthorized intruders.
Westmore had believed him, and undoubtedly the
later forcible entry of Tommy Tucker had lent colour
to Summers' yarn.
It was unfortunate that the Yard's most able
shadowei had to report that he had not yet picked up
Tommy Tucker's trail.
Pity, too, about the Oriental Commerce Corporation,
for he had been unable to make any sort of an inspection
of the place, and now would certainly have no oppor-
tunity of so doing. Couldn't even apply for a search
warrant, unless possibly from a complaint from the
Borough Surveyor's office that the plans of certain
alterations to Preston Building had not been deposited;
such certain alterations to include the absence of stairs
to the top floor and the exit from the offices of the
Oriental Commerce Corporation. Pretty putrid sort
of excuse to get a warrant.
Yet he could bear to know something about the
activities of that firm: who they were and what they


68 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
did. The estate agents knew nothing, the matter being
a private letting of the owner, Worthington Westmore,
who apparently was satisfied with the references.
Inspector Higgins nodded his head sagaciously when
he received this information, and jumped to the obvious
conclusion.
Then he remembered a point which he had over-
looked. If the secret exit from Preston Building was
through the office of the Oriental Commerce Cor-
poration, then there must be a connecting office in the
adjacent building.
There was: the Eastern Trading Company. Pre-
sumably a commercial rival of the Oriental Commerce
Corporation.
Proprietor, a Mr. Lu. Rent guarantor, Worthington
Westmore.
"Most satisfactory client, sir. Most satisfactory."
The comptroller of Hartford House, the adjacent build-
ing, rubbed his fat hands together and beamed. Worth-
ington Westmore was a name which carried weight.
"I should have thought that Mr. Westmore could
have found room for his Chinese gentleman in his own
building next door," Higgins suggested, in an effort
to obtain more information.
"Couldn't. He is restricted by his lease to the
Oriental Something-or-other which forbids him to let
offices to a similar undertaking."
I see.
Worthington Westmore thought of everything.
A watch was placed upon the office of the Eastern
Trading Company as well as upon their ostensible rivals
next door, and it was soon proved that the millionaire
occasionally called upon the former and stayed for
long periods, but never upon the latter. The inference
was obvious. Through the Hartford House—Preston
Building's secret door—Worthington Westmore had
no need to leave the office of the Oriental Commerce
Corporation, for from there to his suite was direct
communication by lift.


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 69
It was some days before Tommy Tucker once more
turned up, and this time as a prospective tenant of
Hartford House. He was surprised, but far from dis-
concerted, when Inspector Higgins tapped him on the
shoulder as he was leaving the comptroller's office.
"Hallo, Higgy. What V you doing here ?" he in-
quired pleasantly.
"Watching, Tommy. Watching. Between ourselves,
we are expecting some light-fingered gentry to break
into an office on the third floor. I should keep away
if I were you. You never know I Accidents will
happen, and you might once again get arrested by
mistake."
Tommy Tucker sighed.
"T'c'k I T'c'k I I suppose I must write off my
deposit as a bad debt I"
"It might be as well."
By this time the Yard's most able shadower, who had
spent many anxious days (on the inspector's suggestion)
outside Hartford House, easily picked up Tommy
Tucker's trail I And Tommy was amazed at the ease
with which he shook off Inspector Higgins, after that
worthy had followed him half a mile, little recking that
this was part of the inspector's low cunning to lull any
suspicions which he might be harbouring.
Thus, in due course, he was traced to Wembley, that
thriving town in the north-west of London, which,
though compact in its core, straggles out almost to
Harrow-on-the-Hill.
Inspector Higgins knew the place well, and admired
Tommy Tucker's taste in his choice of neighbourhood.
The house itself was detached and was built plumb
in the centre of about half an acre of garden, which
was free from weeds and well-tended. There was a
gravelled drive to the front door and from thence to a
brick-built garage. On the fringe of the property was
an edging of trees which effectively hid the house from
the roadway.
Local inquiries revealed the fact that Tommy


70 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
employed two gardeners, but no inside servants. No
papers were delivered and no tradesmen called.
Higgins smiled as he received this information. Trust
Tommy for that! For there is no more effective give-
away, should one wish to keep one's comings and goings
secret, than a full milk-bottle upon the doorstep or a
newspaper sticking half out of the letter-box. And to
stop deliveries would be equally objectionable, from
Tommy's point of view.
His neighbours did not know him and apparently
had no wish to do so. His rates were paid by cash.
Another insight to Tommy's thoroughness—no in-
criminating (or "tell-tale" is possibly a better word in
his case !) information as to his bankers which a cheque
might supply.
A very select gentleman.
Higgins marvelled that Tommy had led his trailer
so easily to this place.
And now Higgins knew Tommy's bolt-hole, of what
practical use was it?
Of course it could (and certainly would) be watched
—but otherwise?
Inspector Higgins himself went down to have a look
at the place. Barring the fact that he liked it, there
was nothing further he gleaned from his personal
inspection. He did ascertain, however, from one of
the gardeners that he worked for a local nurseryman,
and that the garden was tended under contract with
his principal. He also learned that the man had
secured the contract for converting the gravelled drive
into a concrete one. Obviously Tommy Tucker
realized that gravel left traces of the wheels of a car,
and that concrete did not, except in wet weather.
Possibly Tommy had weighed the pros and cons and
had decided that, as it was not always raining in Eng-
land, the concrete was the better proposition.
But why had it suddenly become urgent to Tucker
to hide traces of a car journey? He was up to some-
thing, that seemed evident.


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 71
The only strange aspect of the whole thing was that
none of the "locals" ever remembered seeing Tommy
Tucker—further proof of the man's uncanny ability
effectively to efface himself.
"I thought you said there was no one at home?"
said Higgins.
"I've seen nobody go in, sir," replied the constable.
"There was movement in that upper window."
It was dark, and Higgins and the constable had been
gazing at the house as though to seek inspiration, and
the inspector was positive he had, in the dim reflection
of the light of a street lamp fifty yards down the
street, seen the merest suggestion of movement of an
upstairs curtain.
It was as though someone within was peeping with-
out. Higgins was thankful that both he and the
constable were effectively hidden by that ring of trees.
Unless they wished to betray their presence on the road-
4 way (assuming the watcher was not already aware of it)
they must perforce stay where they were . . . and the
longer they waited, the more time for the man to sneak
out the back way and negotiate his neighbour's garden-
fence. If only they had something to hang on to
Tommy Tucker they could easily cut short his suspicious
activities, but Tommy was a notoriously sticky customer
to tackle. Higgins ruminated along these lines, his
eyes glued on that upper window.
It was not to be surprised, therefore, that he missed a
shadow-like form which peeped for one brief second
round the further wall of the house.
The first intimation he had was when the figure
streaked for the road, cleared the fence with an amazing
leap and was off and away.
"Come along, man."
Inspector Higgins started in pursuit, with the
constable a close second.
They had hardly disappeared round the bend of the
road when the front door of the house opened and an
elegant figure emerged, and strode sedately to the


72- THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
garage. With no semblance of hurry, yet with almost
incredible speed, a small two-seater car was driven
out of the building, and the garage doors closed.
Down the gravelled drive and out of the gates. A
turn to the right, the opposite direction to that in which
the inspector and the constable had so recently galloped,
and, with a derisive screech of the klaxon, the car was
on its way. v
Meanwhile, an undignified procession of three was
legging it down the roadway: the fugitive a good
first, Inspector Higgins a bad second, with the constable
slightly behind him. Higgins was amazed how quickly
the aspect of a town gave way to that of the country.
Tommy Tucker's house must have been on the" very
fringe of the town, for fields on either side soon came
into view.
Higgins thought he could move, but . . . The road
gave way to ruts—of builders' drays, the inspector
guessed ... a large stone . . . With a full-blooded
curse Higgins pitched on his face, whilst the constable
passed him going strong!
A gate, which the fugitive vaulted lightly. The
constable climbed over it laboriously, and Higgins,
picking himself up from the ground, paused to recover
his lost wind.
He walked to the gate. The fugitive was running
lightly about twenty yards ahead of the pursuing
constable ; so much he could make out by the aid of the
moon, which had conveniently emerged from behind
the dark clouds ; to make matters worse, the man was
obviously running well within himself, for he occasion-
ally glanced behind to see exactly how near his pursuer
had got, and seemed deliberately to keep the same
distance ahead.
Higgins, hopelessly out of it, considered his next
move.
Supposing the constable managed at last to catch
Tommy Tucker, what then? There was no law against
a moonlight race! The circumstances were certainly


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 73
suspicions, and it could well be argued that no man
runs away without cause, yet Tommy, if caught,
would doubtless state that he was training for the next
Olympic games, and complain that the police hadspoiled
his chance in the three miles!
Jerusalem! What was up now?
The fugitive, having lured his pursuer well away
from the road, had suddenly turned, and was now re-
turning full-pelt to the gate, leaving the constable
hopelessly in the rear.
Higgins grinned delightedly. The man had only
been aware of one pursuer, and was now "haring" as
hard as he could toward the willing arms of the
waiting inspector.
The man cleared the gate with a magnificent leap
and was the next moment pinioned in the inspector's
arms.
"Damned hard luck, Tommy."
But it was not Tommy Tucker.
Mr. Lu, Worthington Westmore's personal servant,
did not take kindly to the inspector's restraining arms,
and could Higgins have understood the weird and
wonderful language which was issuing from the China-
man's frothed lips, he might not have smiled so widely!


CHAPTER VIII
IN WHICH MR. WESTMORE IS AFRAID
"Well! Well ! Well ! Whoever would 'a'thought it?"
Inspector Higgins beamed upon his prisoner.
The next moment, with a crash, the constable
clambered up the gate, flung over one leg, and then
stopped as he saw that the race was over, hanging
precariously in that position, whilst he drew in great
gulps of Wembley air, and staring in bewilderment
at the inspector and his prisoner.
"Got him, sir ?" he queried at long last; and then
coughed apologetically as he realized the incongruity
of his question. Then: "I never knew, sir, that
Chinks could run so fast."
"Neither did I," shortly. "And now come and hold
him whilst I see what he's got on him."
"You cannot do that"—mildly from the prisoner,
who seemed to have recovered the typical Oriental
equanimity.
"Oh, can't I ?"—nastily. "Just watch me."
The Chinaman shrugged his shoulders resignedly.
"It might be most inadvisable," he said. "Under
the Act of"
"Cut it out."
Nevertheless, Inspector Higgins did not immediately
carry out his suggestion to search Mr. Lu. An inner
warning urged him to go slow—not to bite off more
than he could chew; and Worthington Westmore
could be very nasty should occasion arise. . . . Better
climb down whilst he had the chance, or . . .
"Got any lethal weapons?" he queried, more to
gain time than anything else.
74


76 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
What was Worthington Westmore doing at this
time of the night, fully clothed and reading a book,
and most obviously awaiting the return of his servant?
Was it usual for a man of his reputed wealth to wait up
for his servants at night? The answer was so patently
in the negative that Higgins wondered exactly what
jiggery-pokery he had stumbled upon. Mr. Lu had
opened the main door of Preston Building (or, at least,
the small door inset in the larger one) with a private
key, which argued that he used this means of ingress
pretty frequently after the building was officially
closed . . . and Westmore had asked him whether he
had got "it".
Higgins would have given a deal to have known what
that "it" was.
He glanced ostentatiously at his watch—that gun-
metal watch which he had had for so many years, and
which was known to his colleagues as Big Ben—and
then raised his eyebrows quizzically.
"I—er—hope I haven't disturbed you, sir," he
remarked.
"Not at all—not at all !"—hastily. "What has my
man been up to?" An uneasy glance at the China-
man which Higgins noted subconsciously whilst
presumably staring at the face of his watch.
"Er—h'm! Trespass—if not housebreaking," he
said at last.
"Well, Lu? What have you to say?"
The Chinaman's eyes crinkled into a smile.
"I went to Wembley, Mr. Westmore, as instructed.
I noticed a man who seemed to be watching your
residence there and ..."
"One moment." Higgins stopped the Chinaman's
explanation with a gesture. He felt that, of the two
before him, the Oriental would be the more accom-
plished liar, and that whatever he said, whatever
excuse he manufactured, the millionaire would back
him up; whereas Westmore might be tangled in his
own web of deceit. "You tell me, sir."


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 77
The damage, however, if any, was done.
"Certainly, Higgins. I instructed my man here to
proceed to my house at Wembley," he began.
"It is your house, I suppose ?" again interrupted the
inspector. The millionaire ignored the question,
merely frowning his annoyance.
". . . to get some important papers for me. What
happened there I don't know. What did happen, Lu?"
Inspector Higgins felt baffled.
"I noticed someone watching the piace, sir. It
frightened me, being aware as I was of the threat
hanging over your august person, so I waited . . . and
then endeavoured to flee from the watcher. I regret
I miscalculated the number of my pursuers and . . ."
he shrugged his shoulders, "Mr. Higgins was one of
them, and brought me here."
The millionaire smiled his thanks.
"Well, Inspector ?"—blandly, with raised eyebrows,
denoting that it was now Higgins's turn to take up the
threads of the story.
Inspector Higgins looked steadily from one to the
other. If he had been told the truth he had placed
his large foot clean through the cucumber-frame—
and if the explanation was a lie he could do nothing.
Most humiliating.
A long pause. Neither the millionaire nor the China-
man moved a muscle. Higgins felt an irresistible urge
to shuffle his feet, or to give some similar indication
of his embarrassment. Mr. Westmore at long last
broke the silence.
"A graceful withdrawal seems indicated, I think,
Inspector," he suggested, with a bleak smile.
"I wonder, Westmore. I wondei."
Inspector Higgins smiled grimly.
"Could I borrow the key of your Wembley house?"
he queried.
"Certainly—when you produce a duly authenticated
search warrant."
"How many gardeners do you employ there?"


78 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
"Look here, Higgins, I refuse to answer any more
questions. Will you join me at breakfast ?"—ob-
viously expecting a refusal.
"Thank you very much . . . you're too kind."
A pause.
"Ahem I Good I See about it, Lu, please."
A most uncomfortable breakfast followed. Some-
thing was in the air—of this Higgins was perfectly
convinced—but he could not make out what it might
be. The Chinaman was the model servant, silent-
footed, deferential, automatic, yet there was something
more than was usual in his attitude towards the
millionaire. . . .
Higgins accepted a cigar, and Lu anticipated his
search for a match by holding a lighted taper before the
inspector. Then he withdrew.
A knock at the door and a girl entered, holding a
bundle of letters. It was the Angel. She faltered at
the door when she noticed the visitor, but then reso-
lutely stepped forward and handed the letters to West-
more.
"Good morning, Angel," said Higgins.
"Good morning, Mr. Higgins."
She looked older than those few weeks before, and
Higgins wondered what hidden tragedy lay behind her
presence in this building.
"Lu told me . . ." she began, turning to Westmore.
"Ah, yes. I'm sure our good friend, Inspector
Higgins, would like to be relieved upon one point.
You're happy here, aren't you, my dear?"
"Y-yes." A slight hesitation, then, with a rush as
though to make up for the mistake: "Of course."
"And you wouldn't leave me for worlds, would
you?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Would you ?"—sharply and insistently.
"No."
"There's a good girl. Thank you."
A gesture of dismissal.


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 79
"You'll excuse me, won't you, Higgins?" Worthing-
ton Westmore started opening his letters with an ornate
jewelled paper-knife. Higgins bowed the conventional
permission.
The Angel! A prisoner or not? And what was
behind that pantomime of a moment before? The
Angel was hesitant in her avowal of contentment—
but somehow or other Worthington Westmore seemed
to have divined the inspector's suspicion as to the real
state of affairs. And what had Lu told her . . . which
she had been about to divulge when Westmore had
interrupted her in order to present his little comedy?
Obviously the Chinaman had not mentioned Higgins's
presence in the room, for she had faltered at the door
upon catching sight of the inspector. Possibly Lu
had told her to bring in the millionaire's correspondence,
which he was now studying with such marked pre-
occupation. From her attitude Higgins guessed that
such procedure was, to say the least, unusual. It was
hardly likely that Westmore, if the girl really were an
unwilling guest at Preston Building, would allow her to
handle lis mail. . . . The whole episode appeared to
have been deliberately staged for the inspector's
benefit. Why?
There had been more than a suggestion of the iron
hand in Westmore's forcing out of the girl her reluc-
tance to leave him. Whether "reluctance" or
"inability" Higgins was none too sure.
He rose from his chair.
"I must be going, sir," he said.
Worthington Westmore glanced up from his corre-
spondence.
"Must you ?"—half-heartedly. "One moment, I'll
get Lu."
He left the room, leaving Higgins alone. The in-
spector donned his hat and coat and stood at the lift
door, more than a little interested in a dial let into the
wall. Oh, yes I He remembered now. On a previous
occasion Westmore had told him that this indicated


8o THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
the whereabouts of the lift and that by moving the
hand one could operate the working of the lift irre-
spective of the controls in the lift itself. Very interest-
ing . . . and useful, too . . . possibly dangerous if
an unfortunate passenger was caught half in and half
out on one of the floors. Still, Westmore would know
whom his passengers were, and an unauthorized
visitant would have no kick coming. Higgins would
have liked to try it, but was half-afraid of an electric
shock. . . .
A sound behind him.
He turned swiftly. It was the Angel.
"Higgy I" The merest whisper. "Higgy I I—
I . . ." And then, inconsequentially, she burst into
tears.
Jerusalem! This was the last straw! Higgins, like
all manly men, felt a fool in the presence of tears . . .
incompetent . . . embarrassed . . . utterly unable to
cope with the situation . . . and not a little impatient.
But kind.
"What is it, Angel ?"—gently.
"Oh! Nothing, Higgy. Nothing!"
How like a woman! Higgins sighed.
"Can I help, my dear?"
And then a voice behind them:
"How touching!"
Higgins turned. "That'll be about all from you,
Westmore. Now then, Angel. Sit up !"—purposely
brusque. "What's the trouble?"
No answer.
"Are you tired of stopping here? Do you want to
leave? If so, I'm just off myself. ... I'll wait for
you."
A long pause.
"I can assure you, Inspector"—suavely, from the
millionaire—"if this young lady wishes to leave my
house she can do so at once." He turned to the waiting
Lu. "Go and get her things, Lu . . . and that letter
I spoke to you about—post it!"


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 81
"It doesn't matter ... it doesn't matter." Wearily
the girl raised her head, and left the room. The
fact that the Chinaman did not bring in her things
went to prove that he knew they would not be wanted.
"Show the inspector out, Lu."
The lift was half-way down the shaft when there was
a warning bell, a jerk, and the lift stopped. Then
slowly it began to ascend, gaining speed with each
foot upwards until it stopped again and the door was
opened. Higgins, guessing that he had just had a
practical demonstration of the workings of that dial,
was not surprised to find himself faced by Worthington
Westmore.
But a change. White, haggard and shaken. Bulg-
ing eyes, dry lips, inarticulate. Fear!
With a weak gesture he thrust into the inspector's
hand a letter:
You have three days to live.
You-know-who.
Then he collapsed upon the carpet and Lu jumped to
his assistance.
A


CHAPTER IX
IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS RECEIVES ANOTHER
LETTER
Inspector Higgins watched disinterestedly the China-
man's ministrations whilst he faced his own problem.
A dark tragedy seemed to be approaching its climax,
for the question of a hoax could now be definitely
ruled out ; a man of Worthington Westmore's stamina
did not faint without good reason. There was some
dark secret in his life about which the world knew
nothing—some enemy of whom he knew but dared not
tell.
That the millionaire had some means whereby he
could stop this persecution, Higgins guessed ; but also
guessed that the alternative was equally impossible.
And the farce must stop . . . and Higgins must
stop it.
Three days! More than likely a bluff on the part
of the writer! Whoever sent the letter was possibly
relying upon the cumulative effects of his cryptic
letters to drive the millionaire into some course of
action which he was unwilling (for want of a better
word !) to adopt.
The millionaire had himself stated that he had first
thought Tommy Tucker to be the writer; then his
suspicions had fallen upon the Angel. And now . . .
was it not possible that neither the Angel nor Tommy
Tucker were actively concerned? Was there a third
party unknown responsible?
Gosh! If that were so there wasn't much time.
"You-know-who" to Westmore suggested Tommy or
the Angel, which hinted that this pair had good reason


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 83
to threaten. Did the phrase apply to another, and
did Westmore know whom it was?
There was a long-drawn-out sigh and Worthington
Westmore opened his eyes, then tried ineffectually to
struggle to his feet.
Higgins, feeling that his attitude had been a little
heartless, walked to the sideboard and poured out a
stiff glass of brandy. Even as he did so the thought
crossed his mind and he smiled at the recollection of
the drink he refused on his first visit to this place.
Westmore swallowed the spirit thankfully. Slowly
the colour returned to his face and, with the aid of
Lu, he staggered to a chair and subsided thankfully
into its well-upholstered depths.
A long silence.
"Well, Higgins? What do you propose to do?"
The millionaire had recovered some of his old force.
Higgins thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets.
Then:
"I'll tell you. Since you tell me but half-truths I
must perforce work more or less in the dark. I can,
however, be near at hand to protect you from whatever
danger it is that threatens. I can place a guard upon
this building, the corridors, the roof, your lift-gates in
the corridors, and any other place which experience may
suggest. That is one method. The other is for you
to tell me the identity of this 'You-know-who' person,
and I'll stop his little gallop."
I see.
"There is a third alternative, of course."
"What is that?"
"You can stop it yourself."
"What do you mean?"
"If you don't know—I can't tell you."
"What is on your mind, Inspector?"
"You are acting dense, Westmore, but I'll tell you
all the same. Mind you, I'm speaking entirely un-
officially. It is not advice, for I am not competent
to advise. People don't threaten without good cause,


84 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
unless in an endeavour to get money in the 'hold-up'
sense—the 'Black Hand Gang' touch of our
childhood—in which case the procedure is simple:
defy them and they'll try for a more easily frightened
Croesus. If they have good cause to threaten, the
procedure is equally simple—go to the police for help
and tell them the truth." Inspector Higgins repeated
the last phrase for emphasis. "Both amount to black-
mail. And nowadays the police do not announce to
the world at large why a man has been blackmailed.
In fact, they even suppress the name. Now then,
Westmore, it's up to you. I can't advise. You
obviously know your own business best. This is, as
I said, absolutely unofficial and highly irregular, and
would get me into very hot water at the Yard. . . .
Well? What about it?"
Worthington Westmore stared moodily at the thickly-
piled carpet, whilst Lu stood behind him in an attitude
of deference.
At last:
"Give me time, Higgins. I must think it over."
"Time? You've had nearly all the time you're likely
to get, if this chap"—tapping with emphatic fore-
finger the letter in his hand—"is to be believed."
Wilfully brutal, Higgins was trying to force a con-
fidence. He was tired of all this beating about the
bush. Why the deuce didn't Westmore come out into
the open? Was the dark secret in his life too awful
to confess? Were the consequences too dire even to
a man of his wealth? It must be a criminal matter
against which the Statute of Limitations may not run.
If so, then Worthington Westmore must work out his
own salvation.
"I have at least three days," said the millionaire at
last.
"If this chap doesn't change his mind and act before."
"He won't."
"How do you know?"
The millionaire did not reply, but gazed round the


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 85
room as though he were seeing it for the first time.
Then he stood up and squared his shoulders.
"This place is impregnable, Higgins. No one can
break in here and do me injury. The only means of
getting here is by that elevator, and I can work that
from here."
"And stay up here for the rest of your life?"
"The cloud may pass."
"What of your food? Who cooks that?"
"Lu here."
''Anyone else handle it? Poison is a nasty business.''
Again wilfully brutal. Then:
"Who lives here besides yourself, Lu, and the Angel?"
"No one."
"And you trust them?"
"I trust Lu."
"And the Angel?"
For the first time since the inspector's return,
Worthington Westmore smiled. It was not a nice
smile.
"The Angel is perfectly harmless," he said cryptic-
ally.
"Thanks. Well, Westmore, I'll make my arrange-
ments. You make yours. Perhaps Mr. Lu will con-
duct me to the ground floor."
Once more outside Preston Building, Inspector
Higgins gazed skywards. Worthington Westmore was
a strange man living up there on the top floor. Higgins
wondered how many people in London knew of that
wonderful roof-garden.
Then he turned his attention to the surrounding
buildings. Was it possible, say, with the aid of a
rifle, to reach those topmost windows? He had to
admit that it was comparatively simple to a good
marksman. And a bomb from an aeroplane? Im-
practicable outside the pages of a novel, unless the
aviator wished to kill himself at the same time. The
whole thing was bizarre. What had the prospective
murderer to gain, supposing he did succeed in carrying


86 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
out his threat? Of course Westmore was a wealthy
man, and someone must profit by his death. There
was an obvious line of inquiry, but one which Higgins
had already used.
Worthington Westmore, as far as was known, had no
relations, and unless he left a will everything would
revert to the State. Higgins smiled grimly. He could
hardly think that even the most harassed of Chancellors
of Exchequers could . . . But this was getting away
from the point. No kin—to whom would Westmore
leave his vast wealth? Useful to know after he was
dead, of course, but of little use whilst he was alive
and fully capable of making another will.
And what hold had he upon the Angel?
Was he not taking an unnecessary risk in that
direction? Westmore must feel very sure of himself
to allow such a potential—if not actual—enemy on the
premises at such a time.
True, the Angel seemed fairly subdued—poor kid I
—but she was known to the underworlds of two con-
tinents, and must possess many powerful and unscru-
pulous friends. Yes, Westmore was undoubtedly
taking a risk there! Still, presumably he knew his
own business best.
What about fire as a weapon to drive the millionaire
from his bolt-hole? Rather like smoking out a rabbit,
but . . .
"A magnificent structure, isn't it?"
And Tommy Tucker, whirling a cane and looking
almost too good to be true, jerked the inspector's
thoughts back to the ground level.
Higgins surveyed him in silence, then let his eyes
wander casually up and down the street, searching
into doorways. . . .
Tommy coughed.
"Ahem! Your—er—friend is on a fast train to
Harrow."
"What do you mean?"
"Sorry. I thought you were looking for a gentleman


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 87
who has been so interested in my movements of
late."
"What about him?"
"Well, I was just about to go to—er—Harrow, and
the train was on the move, when I suddenly bethought
me of a most important engagement, and at grave
risk of life and limb I—er—disembarked. The
station-master was most offensive. Took my name and
address—also half-a-crown. Possibly he has torn up
the particulars by now, but ''
"And what was the most important engagement?"
—coldly.
"There now I Would you believe it I If I haven't
been and forgotten it again. I must be off."
"Here! Not so fast I"
Inspector Higgins made to detain him but stopped,
for following casually in Tommy's wake was that extra
special trailer whom the inspector had put on the job.
Tucker hadn't been quite so clever as he had thought
when leaving that moving train, though how his
shadower had followed unseen Higgins could not
fathom. He gave the man, however, full marks for the
accomplishment.
Inspector Higgins returned to Scotland Yard both
amused and worried: amused at Tommy Tucker's
colossal conceit and worried at Worthington Westmore's
incomprehensible attitude. He was also not a little
tired. The excitements at that house at Wembley had
followed upon but a few hours' sleep in the earlier hours
of the evening, and Higgins was consequently not
feeling exactly at his best. This was the second time
this bizarre case had caused him to lose the best part
of a night's repose, for Higgins had not forgiven a
problematic someone who had started him on the
track of the Oriental Commerce Corporation in his
efforts to protect the millionaire, and the consequential
fiasco when discovered hiding there with Constable
Summers.
Three more days!


88 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
Supposing the Yard undertook Worthington West-
more's protection until the three days were up, what
then? The man who had so threatened the millionaire
had only to wait until the excitement had subsided
and then carry out his threat, for this thing couldn't
go on for ever. Having started on a campaign of
protection the Yard could hardly drop it if nothing
happened—as nothing could happen with the police
on the job. There was a sort of vicious circle about the
whole affair. All for the sake of one man whose name
Worthington Westmore must know.
Dammit I For two pins he'd chuck the whole thing.
Nevertheless, Inspector Higgins started making his
arrangements. A man on the main entrance of
Preston Building should be sufficient during the night,
but during the day . . . well, it was a business
building and hundreds of people must cross the threshold
during the course of the day; and to check up each
person was a stupendous, if not impossible, task. If
only Westmore would give the name all would be
fairly simple. . . .
Two men in the corridor near that mouthpiece of
the speaking-tube. Yes, two should be ample. Then
a squad to search the roofs and topmost floors of the
neighbouring buildings.
Half a dozen plain-clothes men to patrol the building
in case any monkey business with the fire alarms was
contemplated.
Sergeant Brownall had better work the millionaire's
private lift, and any visitor should first speak through
that tube and be O.K.'d by Westmore before going up.
And Inspector Higgins himself would stay with
Westmore the whole time.
Very, very nice and efficient.
Inspector Higgins calculated the cost, and nearly
collapsed. Jerusalem I He'd sleep on it.
The following morning Inspector Higgins was at
Scotland Yard, bright and early, much refreshed by
an "'eighteen-hour sleep, and feeling particularly


go THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
solid substantial chair, a beaming smile on his face,
his elbows on the desk before him, and the tips of his
fingers pressed gently together, the tout ensemble
creating an atmosphere of almost pontifical benignity.
Inspector Higgins was half-way through his story
when there was a knock at the door.
"Higgy here? Thought so. Letter for you."
Then the newcomer, as an afterthought: "Excuse
me, Chief."
"Carry on."
"Brought by hand, Higgy. Marked Urgent."
"Thank you, Bowler. Didn't know you'd turned
postman."
"Haven't I Happened to be passing, that's all.
'Bye."
Inspector Bowler, an energetic colleague of Higgins,
beamed upon the pair and departed in a whirlwind
of goodwill. Dryan grinned. What Bowler lacked
in manners he made up in kindly actions.
Excusing himself to the Chief, Inspector Higgins
slit open the envelope.
"Well—I'm—jiggered," he announced at long last.
"Take a look at that, sir."
Preston Building,
City.
March 31st, 19—.
My dear Inspector Higgins,
It is with relief that I write to inform you that my
troubles are at an end—or very soon will be.
I have adjusted my affairs and the menace has been
removed. In fact, there was really no need to worry, as
the whole business was in the nature of a rather futile
practical joke on the part of a very old friend of mine.
Under the circumstances I hasten to inform you,
in order to set your mind at rest and to stop any arrange-
ments which may have been made for my protection.
The Angel is leaving me shortly, much to my sorrow,


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 91
as I fear she is irreplaceable, so that if you know of a com-
petent and trustworthy personal private secretary whom
you might think would suit, a word from you will secure
the post.
I enclose herewith a cheque for five hundred pounds,
which kindly hand to some charity of your own choosing.
I have made out the cheque in your name to facilitate
distribution. I should give away the money anonymously
if I were you. I don't want a receipt.
Wishing you every success in the profession you adorn,
and with my very best thanks for all your activities on
my behalf,
Believe me to be, my dear Inspector,
Very truly yours,
Worthington Westmore.
Chief Inspector Dryan handed back the letter and
grinned.
"In other words, Higgy, me boy, charity begins at
home."
"Yes, sir. 'Here's five hundred quid for your trouble.
Signed, Worthington Westmore.' A bribery-and-
corruption sort of touch. May I use your 'phone, sir?"
"Certainly."
"Thank you. Hallo I Get me Westmore of Preston
Building, please. Hallo I Mr. Westmore? Higgins
speaking. Yes. I got your letter. Everything O.K.,
eh? I'm glad. Good-bye."
"So it was Westmore, Higgy."
"Yes. I had to make sure."
Higgins shook his head from side to side in a be-
wildered fashion. The whole thing was beyond him.
He pulled a fountain-pen from his pocket and endorsed
the cheque, wincing as he wrote the "Cuthbert".
He was at pains, the following morning, to show
Chief Inspector Dryan a receipt for five hundred
pounds from the treasurer of the Police Orphanage.


CHAPTER X
IN WHICH CHIEF INSPECTOR DRYAN IS TAKEN ILL
It was not until he had spent a busy day picking up
arrears that Inspector Higgins had the time to review
the case.
So Worthington Westmore himself had removed
the menace, having obviously accepted the unofficial
advice tendered by Inspector Higgins.
Furthermore, the cheque for five hundred pounds
was, doubtless, intended to stop any further inquiries
into the means adopted to end the persecution.
Well, that was very easy. Nothing would suit
Higgins better than to let the whole matter drop,
he was so heartily sick and tired of the whole unsatis-
factory business.
Froth, nothing but froth. Higgins had spent quite
enough official time and State money chasing his own
tail without getting any nearer the core of the mystery;
without counting the loss of two nights' sleep—
his own undeniable perquisite—and not a little
dignity!
If Worthington Westmore had intended to give way
all along, why the deuce had he come to the police in
the first place?
And there was a certain satisfaction in the fact that
the Angel was shortly to be—was "released" the word?
—relieved of her duties at Preston Building. Higgins
felt that he had been very near the truth in her case.
Poor kid I She had been close to breaking point on
the last occasion the inspector had seen her.
He'd keep a fatherly eye upon her when she was
once again a free agent . . . try to get her a decent
9»


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 93
job. . . . His wife must surely know someone who
could help.
And Tommy Tucker? Tommy would have to give
the inspector a slap-up feed for all the trouble he
had caused.
Thank goodness he was at long last shot of the whole
business, reflected Higgins, as he sat at his desk
fouling the atmosphere with his favourite briar.
The telephone-bell in front of him rang out its
insistent summons, and so startled the inspector that
his pipe dropped from between his teeth and a virgin
sheet of blotting-paper was irretrievably damaged.
Hastily he crushed out the ashes with a paper-weight.
"Hallo! Yes, Higgins here."
"Harper this end, sir."
"Oh, yes."
Harper was that extra special sleuth on Tommy
Tucker's trail. Higgins was ashamed to think that
he had forgotten all about him.
"Tucker report, sir. Our man is at present in the
saloon bar of the Broken Window, engaged in the
process of filling up."
"Oh! How long has this been going on ?"—faintly
reminiscent of a song-title.
"Half an hour, sir. He can gargle, that chap."
Almost with respect.
"That's not like him, Harper. Is he thoroughly
lit up?"
"Give him another half-hour, sir."
'H'm."
"I took the opportunity of having one myself in
the adjacent bar, sir. Our man was blowing that he
had just completed a very satisfactory piece of business
—by way of excuse, I should imagine."
"I see. Oh, by the way, how did you get on
over that Harrow train business?"
The man at the other end of the line chuckled.
"Our man over-reached himself there, sir. I almost
lost him when he bolted into the railway station. I


94 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
thought he was cutting out of anotherexit, little dream-
ing he was trying for a train, and when I at last had
almost given up hope of getting on his track again,
I spotted him having an altercation with a railway
official. Something about alighting whilst the train
was in motion. Tommy was a bit too clever there."
Higgins laughed. "Ah, well, Harper, you can
push off home now."
"The Tommy Tucker business off?"
"Yes."
"Very good, sir. Good-bye."
Inspector Higgins replaced the receiver. Mentally
he erased the marks of approbation he had awarded
Harper for his accomplishment on that Harrow train,
thinking as he did so that luck played a large part in
the gaining of some reputations.
So Tommy Tucker had pulled off a very satisfactory
piece of business and was now duly celebrating the
event. Very illuminating—save that Higgins had
never known Tommy to go on the loose before. It
argued rather that Tucker's business had been more or
less above-board, for the man well knew that a sudden
display of wealth had betrayed more than one criminal.
Not, of course, that Inspector Higgins would be stupid
enough to suggest that Tommy Tucker was a criminal
. . . and Tommy had always seemed to be plentifully
endowed with this world's goods, although the source
of his income seemed clouded in obscurity. The police
at large held dark thoughts, but . . . Tommy himself
was one of the minor mysteries at Scotland Yard.
Still, Inspector Higgins must not waste any more
time thinking about this unprofitable business. He
pulled out his watch and consulted the dial. Good
gracious! It was time he was off. Mrs. Higgins
would be wondering where on earth he had got to, and
official excuses, so true in actual fact, sounded so
painfully thin when reported on a suburban door-
mat. And he needed her aid with respect to the
Angel.


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 95
Higgins smiled. He knew—and his wife would
know too—that his interest in the Angel was purely
altruistic . . . yet how many wives in a thousand
would help a girl so beautiful as the Angel at the request
of their respective husbands?
But, then, Muriel Higgins was one in a thousand.
Higgy, you're a lucky chap I
And then, cussed if old Dryan didn't have to fall
sick, and Inspector Higgins was suddenly called upon
to stay for an hour or two until suitable arrangements
could be made. He cursed his Chief—at least, not so
much his Chief as his Chief's sudden indisposition—
and resigned himself to his fate. He brightened
up, however, at the thought that he—Inspector
Higgins—had been called upon to take over Chief
Inspector Dryan's duties, even for so short a while,
and hoped that it was a straw denoting the direction of
the wind of promotion.
Now a Chief-Inspectorship would be very nice . . .
very, very nice. Particularly the increased emolu-
ments. Or even further, a Superintendentship—
if there was such a word; such things had been known.
On the whole, he hoped not, at any rate just yet,
for promotion to a position purely executive would
take half the romance out of his job; and there was
little enough of that, in all conscience!
Also, it would be pretty tough luck on that humble
scribe who chronicled his activities to have a fairly
lucrative source of revenue suddenly withdrawn;
although, all in all, perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad
thing if old Gregg had to do an honest spot of work
for a change.
We are glad to report that at this precise moment a
diversion occurred which turned his most disgusting and
un-Christian-like thoughts into more humane channels.
It was no less than the spectacle of Chief Inspector
Dryan, in full evening dress, sprinting spiritedly across
the quadrangle outside. Higgins stared, and then
decided to look into the phenomenon.


96 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
He walked along the corridor, down two flights of
stairs, along another passage, and paused at length
outside the door of the Chief's room.
He knocked.
A surly voice invited him to go to hell.
In response to this kind invitation he entered.
Seated at his desk, his hair all awry, and a wild glint
in his eyes, was Chief Inspector Dryan.
"What's the matter, sir?"
"Lost the damned tickets, Higgy . . . and the
wife's waiting outside. Of all the blasted luck I . . .
You haven't seen 'em, I suppose ?" hopefully and most
unreasonably.
"No, sir."
"Sorry about to-night, Higgy. I arranged with
Chief Steele to relieve me and the blighter forgot.
I told Mercier to apologize to you for me and . . ."
"I'll break Mercier's neck."
"Do. And Steele's too, whilst you're at it.
Confound I ..." The Chief's face suddenly went
blank as, with hands in his jacket pockets, he stood
perfectly still, the picture of immobility. Slowly his
right hand emerged from the pocket, clutching a white
envelope, and, half-fearfully, half-hopefully, he gazed
downwards.
"Would you believe it," he said in an awed voice,
then dashed hurriedly from the room.
Inspector Higgins sighed and returned once more to
his room. The vision of promotion had faded some-
what and he felt soured at life in general and the
Metropolitan Police Force in particular.
He'd take things easy, and read a book until that
blighter, Chief Inspector Steele, put in his belated
appearance. Gosh! Wait till he became a Chief
Inspector, he'd show 'em. Bit o' luck he'd got his
car handy to get home in. . . .
Of all the unmitigated gall I . . .
Ah, well! Perhaps it wasn't so very uncomfortable
in this easy chair, and this book wasn't so bad. A


98 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
Trouble . . . big trouble. Take charge yourself. I'm
off."
A mad dash down the two flights of stairs, along the
main passage, down the three steps to the courtyard
level, then across the quadrangle to his car near the
gates.
A whine of the self-starter, the meshing of gears.
A moment later Inspector Higgins was gone.


loo THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
Higgins, having switched on the corridor lights, blew
his hardest up the speaking-tube with such breath
as remained after his weary ascent. The whistle
. . . but no reply.
A trampling of feet and sundry muttered cursings
from below, and then a breathless Sergeant Brownall
and three Scotland Yard plain-clothes constables
burst into view.
"Ah, Brownall. We've got to get above somehow.
Get a rope-ladder and grappling irons. Someone'll
have to shin up the outer wall—there's no stairs, and
the blasted lift ain't working, and . . . Gosh!
One of you dash downstairs again to the third floor.
Oriental Commerce Corporation. Smash in the door
if it isn't open. Don't let anyone into the place."
A constable jumped to do his bidding.
"Any more men downstairs, Brownall? Good.
They'll hold anyone leaving here. Better warn them
to look out for next door, too. Send one up Hartford
House to the Eastern Trading Company. Pinch
anybody found in that building, too. Got a gun?
No, of course not; sorry! Smash in this panel here.
Go on—go on! That's right. If anyone tries to work
this lift here, brain 'em as they go by. Well! What
are you waiting for? Grappling irons and a rope-
ladder . . . and get a wriggle on. We're too late,
anyhow. And you, Brown—run downstairs again
and try to get the main lift working; we'll have enough
running about to do this night without dashing up and
down stairs more than we can help."
His instructions issued, Inspector Higgins stolidly
lit his pipe and prepared to await the effect with such
patience as he could muster.
A tentative peep up and down the elevator shaft
through the splintered hole in the panel had revealed
nothing save an intense blackness which a powerful
torch scarcely seemed to penetrate, whilst all the time
he had an uncomfortable fear that the lift would ascend
or descend and cut off his head.


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 101
And why the deuce hadn't he left that uniformed
constable at the main door of Preston Building?
It was quite on the cards that someone had left the
building between the time he and the constable had
begun their weary ascent of these twelve flights of
stairs and the arrival of Sergeant Brownall.
He turned to the man.
"You say you saw no one leave this building,
Constable?"
"That's right, sir."
"And Hartford House?"
"Never noticed anybody in particular; sir."
rl m.
A moody silence. This waiting was intolerable.
And a rope-ladder seemed a needless hazard when
somewhere in this shaft was a lift capable of doing the
journey. Still, they could hardly smash each panel
until they found it. Half a mo.! Let's have another
look; if the cage were above he ought to be able to
see it. Another experimental glance. Yes. That
was either the bottom of the lift or the roof of the
"potting-shed". Bit high to be the bottom of the lift
. . . then the cage must be below. And a good way
below too . . . certainly not on the third floor where
the Oriental Commerce Corporation had their proble-
matical being . . . lower than that. Better smash
a panel further down and have another look.
"Stay here, Constable. I'm going down again.
Won't be long."
Right down those weary flights to the ground-
floor level, where he met a triumphant Brownall,
complete with grapnel and rope-ladder.
"Borrowed from the fire-station, sir. The Super-
intendent there wanted to know if he could help with
a fire-escape or something."
"He'd have a job to reach the top of this building,
Brownall, although I haven't the faintest idea how
long their ladders will stretch. Here, Constable,
bash in this panel. Go on, man! Put some beef


102 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
into it I Here, gimme your truncheon. . . . There
you are."
Inspector Higgins inserted his head into the jagged
opening, and there, a few feet below him, was the top
of the lift.
"Basement, boys."
Inspector Higgins jerked back his head, and swore
roundly as his shirt caught on one of the splinters
and received an L-shaped tear.
And in the basement was a constable who had just
succeeded in opening the trellis-gates of the main
lift. He stared at the eager procession in amazement
and suspended his operations to watch the excitement.
Another mighty smash at the panel—and there
was the lift cage. Gingerly the inspector inserted his
huge bulk as soon as the opening was large enough.
Once inside, a large foot on the catch near the keyhole
and his back braced on the side of the cage for leverage
and the panelled door splintered outwards.
"Good. Now let's see what's what. Stand clear."
Of course there was no key to work the motor.
"Here, you. Run to my car outside and get the
starting-handle from the tool-box ... it might fit
this nut."
It did. But the lift refused to budge. Higgins
wondered whether the smashed lock on the door had
not severed some essential connection, but made no
spoken comment on the fact in front of his subordinates.
There seemed nothing for it but the rope-ladder.
Fortunately, at that moment, the constable on the
main lift announced that he had got it to work.
"You turn this handle, here, sir. And she goes
up . . . whoa I . . . And when you . . ."
At any rate, it saved them the walk up the stairs
to the corridor window. The uniformed constable
essayed the first cast of the grappling-iron upwards,
and it was only the fact that he was wearing his helmet
which saved him from serious injury when the grapnel
came down again.


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 103
The next cast was more successful; the iron held.
What was more, it seemed capable of holding a house.
Higgins remembered the stone balustrade which
circled the roof-garden, and assumed it had caught
on to that.
The bottom of the rope-ladder was made fast to the
top of a table, which could not possibly pass through
the corridor window, no matter what happened. This
table was commandeered from an adjacent office.
Higgins tied a rope round his chest under his armpits
and attached the other end to the table-top, then he
prepared to negotiate the perilous ascent.
First of all he stood upon the window-sill, steadying
himself by the rope-ladder. It was too dark to see
far below, but he knew that it was a devil of a long way
to the ground, and hoped the rope round his waist
was more substantial than it looked.
He took a deep breath and blew out his cheeks.
"If the grapnel slips, sir, you can't fall far," said
Brownall in a misguided attempt to give his superior
confidence.
"Thanks," said Higgins dryly. "Well, here goes
nuffin."
The moment he stepped upon the first rung the
whole of the rope stretched and his feet swung about
six inches below the level of the sill.
"Gosh!"
Another step and he was once more level. Two more
steps and the ladder swayed.
"Can't you hold the blankety thing still? "he roared.
Jerusalem! If he looked as'white as those chaps
he'd probably fall off. Bit o' luck he couldn't see
below . . .he'd always understood the sight rather
than the consciousness of height induced vertigo.
Two more steps. This was easy! Another step.
Perfectly simple. It was only a question of keeping
one's nerve. A couple o' more steps and he ought to be
able to see into that room of Worthington Westmore's.
Unfortunately, the window on either side was out


104 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
of reach. And Westmore's wonderful lighting system
was not in evidence.
Hell! He'd have to go on to the roof. And then
he'd be no better off than on the floor below. In
fact, worse, for he could get down from the floor below,
whereas . . . And he'd still got to get to the roof.
Wish this infernal ladder would not wobble so I
There was no real danger, of course . . . but that
grappling-iron might only just engage the tiniest
protuberance which even now might ... He grasped
his arms round the ladder, then with great difficulty
pulled out his handkerchief. He dropped it, and with
graceful undulations it fluttered away into the darkness.
Here! Pull yourself together, Higgy, me boy I
Three more defiant steps upwards.
Suppose—suppose that, even now, at the top of
this God-forsaken ladder, a man armed with the
stereotyped heavy blunt instrument awaited the
appearance against the skyline of his head in order
to crown him well and truly. Gosh! But wouldn't
this hypothetical man have pushed off the grapnel
before this? Ah I That was more like it.
And what the deuce was this? Curse it I The
jutting edge of the fiat roof. He'd have to clamber
by this somehow. A light would be useful. Another
clutching of the ropes—another contortive groping
for his electric torch. It was half out of his pocket
when a sudden sway of the ladder caused the torch to
slip from his grasp. Waiting—waiting—waiting—then,
far below, a faint sound. Inspector Higgins shuddered.
What a hell of a long way to fall I
He'd chuck it up, and get a fireman or steeplejack
to do the job; they were more used to it. He'd go
down again, and if any of those blighters below were
to question him by so much as a glance, he'd get 'em
the sack.
But to descend seemed worse than to go on.
And what would Mrs. Higgins say if he funked it?
A moment later he was sitting on that stone


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 105
balustrade searching every pocket for that handkerchief
he had lost but a few seconds before, whilst perspiration
streamed down his face.
Jerusalem I Never again I
A faint elusive scent. Inspector Higgins ran the
sleeve of his coat across his forehead and tried to
pierce the gloom behind him.
"Are you all right, sir?" Brownall's anxious voice
from below.
"Yes. I'm on the roof. Tie a torch on to the end
of my guy-rope and let me have it."
Hand over hand he hauled up the slack. Heavy
for a torch ... he grasped the end. Not only a torch,
but a revolver too. Brownall must have sent out for
it. Fortunately he had his own—but another might
come in handy.
He flashed the torch. A few inches behind him was
a bed of beautiful hyacinths—that explained the scent,
and ruled out the tentative thought of some mysterious
seductive foreign lady.
Inspector Higgins was mighty glad once more to
feel something solid under his feet. Apparently there
was no one else on the roof. Thank goodness for that I
He shuddered when he discovered the seemingly
flimsy support upon which the grapnel rested.
Then he walked to the potting-shed which disguised
the top of the lift. With uplifted foot he smashed in
the door. He seemed to be spending most of his time
of late breaking the panels of Westmore's private
lift. Still, Westmore could afford it I
Then he fetched the grapnel with rope-ladder
attached and fixed it firmly to the steel support.
The descent of the lift-shaft was easy. ... He had some
difficulty in forcing the panel into Westmore's study,
but at last succeeded, when he made the discovery
that the catch had already been broken.
He clambered into the room, prepared for anything.
Jerusalem I
The room was empty.


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 107
If there had been a tragedy then the culprit was more
than usually cool and collected. That sound of splin-
tering wood must have been the breaking of the catch
on the lift door. If, instead of telephoning to Higgins,
the millionaire had operated that controlling dial of
the lift he might have been better advised.
And where on earth was Worthington Westmore?
Inspector Higgins glanced at his watch. Midnight.
Less than a couple of hours since Westmore's wild
appeal for help. The detective himself had been
quickly upon the scene—in fact so quickly that there
had not been more than a quarter of an hour between
the call for aid and his arrival.
Fifteen minutes—at the very outside. Say ten
minutes, during which whoever it was had removed
all traces of the attack.
He must have righted the telephone instrument and
replaced the crinolined doll. . . .
Sergeant Brownall returned.
"Not a soul in the place, sir."
Inspector Higgins was not surprised . . . and not
a little relieved. Worthington Westmore must have
walked out of this place, for to carry him with that
constable on duty at the comer a few yards away
seemed an impossible undertaking. Unless the con-
stable had been bribed—a disloyal and unreasonable
thought.
Someone had broken in—that was evidenced by the
broken lift-catch, and . . . Better go over the place
again.
The room to the left of the lift was not strictly a
room at all, being more in the nature of a lobby to a
small house. It contained four more doors, and, barring
one hall-chair and a hatstand, there was no furniture.
The first door led to a small bedroom, and from the
evidence of sundry bizarre figures, strangely similar to
those of the Oriental Commerce Corporation's glass
cupboard, Higgins guessed it to be that of Mr. Lu.
And, by the way, where had he got to?


no THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
Worthington Westmore. Aah I That was better.
Now then.
An inspiration. Behind the second of those tiny
pictures had been the electric-light switch. What of
the first? Gosh! Another switch. Inspector Hig-
gins paused with his finger on the button—he had a
queasy feeling that were he to deflect it the whole place
might be blown to atoms. Still ... he swallowed
and exerted the requisite pressure. A weird rumble,
reminiscent of the moving lift, then a complete panel
behind the sideboard slid to one side.
Instinctively the inspector produced his revolver.
Funny business this. Considering its size, but little
exertion was needed to swing the sideboard away from
the wall. Inspector Higgins (for some absurd reason
on tip-toe) crept through the door-like opening.
The room was empty, a single glance was sufficient
to confirm this, and, noting the bed, Inspector Higgins
mentally apologized for his thoughts anent the Angel
and that double bed. This room, undoubtedly, was
Worthington Westmore's. A desk littered with papers,
a chair beside the bed, a reading-lamp standard, and
a well-filled bookcase seemed all the furniture. And
there was no tiddley-boodley with regard to the lighting
—a straightforward switch conveniently to hand near
the opening from the other room, and another near the
head of the bed for the reading-lamp.
The desk should be useful when the time came, but
was he justified in searching it now? If, after all this
pother, Worthington Westmore should prove to be
O.K., there would be the devil to pay.
But for the bloodstained carpet Higgins might have
been tempted to retire gracefully and leave the million-
aire to guess at the intruder who had so damaged his
lift -shaft. But . . . what of that telephone message?
That sounded genuine enough. And the two shots
which followed? Surely there must be some evidence
of those? And Westmore had stated Preston Build-
ing. . . .


H4 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
half the Metropolitan Police Force below, anyhow."
Sergeant Brownall helped her from the ladder into
Worthington Westmore's room and a moment later
the inspector followed. The Angel glanced quickly
round the room and then turned to the inspector.
"And now what is it all about ?" she demanded.
"You tell us," he countered.
"W-what do you mean?" The first sign of hesi-
tation.
Higgins was quick to seize upon it.
"How long have you been on the roof?"
"I—I don't know."
"Come, now, Angel. Live and let live."
"Where—where's Wessmor?"
"I wish I knew."
"And Lu?" An involuntary shudder.
"Gone."
The Angel nibbled indecisively at the knuckle of her
right forefinger, and staled moodily at the open panel
behind the sideboard. That she was already aware of its
existence was pretty evident, and it appeared to In-
spector Higgins that she was wondering exactly how
much to tell, or, alternatively, what yarn would meet
the facts of the case without really telling anything.
It would not do to give her too much time to concoct
that yarn.
"Where were you hiding on the roof ?" he demanded
sharply.
"I wasn't hiding."
"Don't quibble, Angel. Where were you?"
"In the greenhouse."
"Ah I" No wonder he hadn't seen her when he had
first glanced superficially round the roof.
"And what were you doing there?"
"You—you won't believe me."
"Try me."
A long pause. Again the thought protruded that
she was manufacturing a plausible tale, and the inspec-
tor's small stock of patience was running low.


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 117
A few steps nearer Higgins stumbled and nearly
pitched head-foremost into the ornamental pond;
then he only just restrained himself from putting a
bullet into the stone Cupid which, whilst no longer
spouting water, he could dimly discern against the
sky a little to his right.
At last he was near enough to that open greenhouse
door to see within. Not a large greenhouse ; about
fifteen feet by ten. Some staging ran round the two
sides and at the end, upon which stood a large array
of flower-pots . . . beautiful fragile flowers. Under
the staging at the end, a tank filled with water : rain-
water which had collected from the outside gutters
and down two leaden pipes inside. A portion of the
staging at one side had been emptied of pots, which
probably accounted for those drooping plants outside.
And underneath the staging a ladder with two iron
grips at one end.
What an extraordinary place to keep a ladder.
True, something was needed to reach the top shelf,
but . . . And the iron grips?
Where did they fit? Or were they extraneous?
No. A man of Worthington Westmore's wealth
wouldn't put up with a second-hand ladder—that wasn't
sense. Therefore this ladder fitted somewhere, and . . .
Jerusalem I
Underneath that emptied portion of the staging
within the greenhouse was a loose square of flooring.
At least, not exactly loose, but . . . Higgins pulled
out a penknife and inserted the longer blade within
the crack. A gentle leverage—the blade broke.
Higgins swore and gazed round the greenhouse for
another implement. A potting-trowel seemed worse
than useless, though something might be done with
the fork; and that sucker-gadget like half a football
attached to a handle. . . . Gosh I
Higgins dipped the rubber end into the tank of
water, then rested it on the square of flooring. A little
pressure and the implement gripped—its intended use


n8 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
was obvious; the next moment the whole square had
moved upwards, hinged at the further end.
Higgins placed his fingers underneath and pulled
upwards until an unseen catch engaged and held the
square in a vertical position.
Immediately below the hinge thus revealed were two
sockets . . . the mystery of the iron grips on the ladder
was solved. Higgins lifted the ladder from its hooks
and, at the expense of a cracked pane of glass in the
roof of the greenhouse, eventually lowered it down the
opening and fitted the grips into the sockets.
The light from his torch revealed little below save a
blank wall at the foot of the ladder.
Higgins stared downwards, reflecting that besides
smashing panels he seemed to be doing more than a
little ladder-climbing.
Clothes . . . lots of clothes.
And a thin pencilled rectangle of light denoted the
door.
Light. Gosh! Then there might be someone be-
hind that door. Inspector Higgins felt foi the handle.
Did the door open inwards or outwards? He turned
the handle and pulled the door gently toward him.
Nothing doing. Perhaps the door was locked. Out-
wards? The door gave. Gripping his revolver in
his right hand Higgins flung open the door, prepared
for anything.
And standing a few feet away, his revolver also at
the readv, was Sergeant Brownall.
"Lumme, sir I You nearly frightened the life out
o' me, and '. . ."
The sergeant sniggered, then suffered an alarming
attack of obviously insincere coughing.
Higgins frowned, then glanced downwards at himself
to see what was the matter.
Trailing behind him, and caught by the sleeve in his
right 1 jt, was a lady's nightdress ; and attached to a
button of his coat was a beribboned camisole.
Higgins tore away the offending finery.


CHAPTER XIV
IN WHICH A LETTER IS FOUND
One glance round the room was sufficient.
"Brownall, tell the Angel I should like to see her
in here."
The Angel's bedroom. A direct means of ascent to
the roof. How much of her story could he now believe?
Was the Angel on the roof when he had made his
perilous ascent from the floor below, or was she hiding
in here? True, to move noiselessly that heavy ladder
seemed almost to be impossible, yet practice helped
in such things.
Though not tall the Angel must be pretty strong,
and that ladder was not at all heavy, merely cumber-
some. Chloroformed, me foot! If the Angel
thought . . .
"Ah! There you are, me dear. And what now?"
—with an expressive flourish denoting the cupboard
and ladder.
"Why—why—good gracious me, Higgy. Where did
you get that from?"
"The first time you've seen it, I suppose ?"—a gentle
voice tinged with sarcasm.
"And my undies"
"Never mind them."
"But Higgy . . ."
Inspector Higgins stared sombrely at the girl.
"Angel," he said, "you've a mighty lot of explain-
ing to do."
"Indeed! And why should I?"
Higgins shrugged his shoulders. "Because I ask
you."
"9


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 121
"Hush, me dear." Another uncalled-for grin. "I
told you so—and you took no notice."
She stamped her foot in vexation, smiled, then
laughed outright.
"Anyhow, I should have looked an awful fool in this
wrap."
"Not at all"—gallantly. Then the inspector turned
to the waiting sergeant, who had been a pleased auditor
of the exchange of pleasantries.
"Brownall, climb down below and see what
progress is being made with this lift, and"
A hail from beneath, followed by a sarcastic cheer.
"Look out, sir. She's coming up."
Higgins jerked the grapnel free and dragged the
rope-ladder into the room. The same terrifying whine
with its increasing volume of sound. Higgins hastily
backed away from the open lift door. A few seconds
later the lift stopped with a jerk, and an embarrassed
and smiling Yard official stepped from the cage.
"Wonderful bit o' work, sir," he explained cheerily.
"Sort o' cross between a hydraulic and an electric lift,
I think. Anyhow, there wasn't much wrong with it."
"Excellent, man, excellent. Better run it up to the
roof to see if it'll work all the way."
"Righto, sir."
Inspector Higgins watched the dial in a minor sort
of fascination, then thrust his head through the open
lift door and gazed upwards.
"Righto, Constable. Come down now, and . . .
Holy Hell!"
"What's the matter, sir ?" queried Brownall, sensing
the awe in the inspector's voice. Then he, too, saw it.
On the underside of the lift-cage was a brown stain.
The journey down by lift, which could not have taken
more than a few seconds, seemed endless. They stopped
on the ground floor, and Higgins and the sergeant
dashed down to the basement.
And there, in the well of the lift-shaft, lay the broken
body of Worthington Westmore.


122 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
Higgins passed a weary hand over his brow. Gosh!
Why the deuce hadn't he thought of this before?
Now the solution was before him it seemed too patently
obvious to have been missed. Westmore had been
hurled down the lift-shaft and the murderer had es-
caped by the elevator. No wonder there hadn't been
any bloodstains on the floor of the lift itself. Of
course the murderer had, by using the controlling dial,
sent the lift to the roof whilst he had cast down the
body of his victim, and had then recalled the lift and
continued his journey downwards to the basement,
leaving the lift there effectively to hide the body. Must
have been pretty conversant with the whole build-
ing. .. .
"Here, Constable. Give us a hand."
The temporary lift operator jumped to do his bidding,
although he shied when he saw the ghastly burden
in the inspector's arms.
A long, terrible business.
"Get Doctor Pape, the police surgeon, Brownall.
Can't do anything for the poor devil, but ..."
Shot right enough. Once in the chest and once in
the head, although the fall down the lift-shaft . . .
Inspector Higgins shuddered.
On the wrist of the dead man a strapped watch,
smashed almost flat, with the hands at ten minutes past
ten. Didn't want any confirmation of the time of the
tragedy . . . and Westmore himself had said that
if anything happened to him Higgins would be re-
sponsible. . . . And all the time he had been messing
about at the top of the building, whilst the victim was
at the very base. . . . And in the pocket a handker-
chief which smelled of ether, or chloroform, with W.W.
in the corner. His own. Not much of a clue, that.
"Here, Brownall. Shine your torch down here."
Match-ends, cigarette-cards, two or three coppers
(which might have fallen out of Westmore's pockets),
odd scraps of paper and—blood.
The ambulance and Dr. Pape.


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 123
The stairs from the basement to the ground floor
were awkward for the manipulation of the stretcher.
Higgins and Brownall lent a hand. Higgins was
surprised to find that it was now daylight, and their
exodus from Preston Building to the waiting ambulance
was watched by an interested crowd of early City
workers.
A clanging bell and it was gone.
"Beg pardon, sir, but there's one or two people
wanting to get into the building here and Hartford
House next door. We can't very well keep 'em out—
tenants and the like—and there's a reporter from the
World bin nosing round, askin' for particulars. Will
you see him?"
"No. An accident, tell him. Also give the official
description of Lu, the Chinaman, and ask him to put it
in. We've got the Angel, so you can stop that at the
Yard ..." Good gracious I If he hadn't left the
Angel upstairs all alone I Poor kid! She'd be
frightened to death wondering what it was all about I
And if she'd seen that awful stain on the bottom of
the lift . . .
Higgins dismissed the constable and ran to the base-
ment. The lift was no longer there. Thank goodness
Brownall had remembered the Angel.
But Brownall hadn't. He also came down to the
basement at that very moment.
Jerusalem I
And the other lift, for the moment, was being used
by tenants. Higgins placed a large thumb on the
bell-push and kept it there.
"What the blazes . . . Oh, it's you again, is it?"
The regular lift-man, somewhat annoyed.
They found Westmore's private lift on the fourth
floor ... a quick journey upwards . . . the Angel
had gone.
The telephone bell rang and Inspector Higgins hastily
removed the crinolined doll and, with fastidious fingers,
lifted the receiver. Mustn't spoil any fingerprints—


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 125
simply walked out under their noses. But without hat
and coat? No I The Angel must still be in Preston
Building.
Inspector Higgins gave orders for an intensive
search to be made, and himself undertook the search
of Westmore's apartment and the roof, including the
greenhouse I
Then he went once more to that very private room
of the millionaire, behind the sideboard. He must have
an intensive study of that desk littered with papers.
And there, on top of the papers in the first drawer
he opened, was a sheet of paper.
Seven p.m.
You have three hours to live.
You-knouhwho.
This was farcical. Higgins gazed at the spidery
writing, and wondered. Had Westmore seen this
before he was murdered? Very, very unlikely. For
surely he would not have delayed seeking official assis-
tance. Yet, if Westmore had not seen it, how on earth
had it got into his drawer?
The murderer was not omnipotent, and to send such
a warning should have placed the millionaire on his
guard, even though he did not apply to the Yard for
help.
Of the four notes which he had seen, Higgins deemed
this one to be false. Grimly he wondered what West-
more had done with the note timed 9.59 or 10 p.m.,
giving him three hours to live I
It was more than farcical, it was bordering on the
v imbecile.
And how had the letter got into the drawer? Ob-
viously it hadn't been posted—the postal service was
not so expeditious as all that! Then it must have been
delivered.
Unless, of course, the murderer himself had placed
it there after committing the crime I This at least,


126 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
though ridiculous, was feasible. But why do such a
stupid thing, unless it was the consuming vanity of a
criminal? The man would know the way the Press would
seize upon these notes, and his own egotistical conceit
might have urged him to waste a precious minute in
writing this further note.
Assume, for the moment, the note to be a genuine
warning—what had happened? Westmore would
possibly have received it soon after seven. Jerusalem!
What had the Angel said? She had been attacked from
behind at eight or soon after. Westmore had been
going over his accounts at this very desk and had passed
through that other room to the Chinaman's quarters.
Had Westmore come across this warning amongst his
papers and taken effective means to stop the Angel,
whom he more than suspected? That seemed to let
out the Angel, especially when one remembered that
chloroformed handkerchief found in the dead man's
pocket.
"Here, Meredith I Run over this for prints."
Or had the Angel written the note and placed it in
this drawer when he and Brownall had so foolishly left
her to her own devices whilst searching the basement?
"Nary a print, sir."
"Not one of Westmore?"
"No, sir."
"Remarkable."
So if Westmore had received this note he had been
mighty careful of leaving his prints on it—which didn't
make sense, somehow.


CHAPTER XV
IN WHICH A HOUSE IS SEARCHED
Although the top of Worthington Westmore's desk
was littered with papers, with regard to the draweis
tidiness seemed to be the keynote. Receipts and paid
cheques in orderly bundles. The stubs of empty
cheque-books numbered in chronological order ; letters
and carbon copies of the answers were filed alpha-
betically.
Letters first.
All of the most innocent character. Obsequious
invitations to take the chair at various charitable
functions, with the polite refusals attached; quite a
batch of letters from a horticultural society with
regard to the new rose named "W.W." ; a complaint
to a firm of seedsmen with regard to some faulty hya-
cinth bulbs; an acknowledgment of the return of a
silver cup with the expressed hope that Mr. Westmore
might repeat his success another year, and not be dis-
couraged by his present failure ; and so forth, and so
on. Almost too good to be true I
Now the receipts.
Just as bad, or good, according to one's point of view!
Yes I There was the receipt from the treasurer of the
Police Orphanage of Worthington Westmore's hundred
guineas of three months before. There was Higgins's
own cheque for five hundred pounds endorsed to the
same worthy object, but without the receipt attached.
The thought crossed the inspector's mind that when the
millionaire signed that cheque he had signed his own
death warrant. For with that cheque Westmore had
called off the police protection.


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 129
his connection therewith, if any were needed. But of
Wembley—nothing.
Rum. Very rum. But might mean nothing. After
all, was it likely that Westmore would bring the
receipts for his Wembley expenses to Preston Building
to file? The Eastern Trading Company was different
—it was only next door, and was a City expense.
Yet Tommy Tucker had been seen to enter that
Wembley house, and Higgins had believed the house
to belong to him, until Westmore's statement. Yet
Westmore had refused (or been unable) to state how
many gardeners were employed there, when Higgins
had asked his trick question. True he had offered to
produce the key of the house when forced to do so,
but that might have been bluff.
The Wembley house might be Tommy Tucker's after
all.
Again the telephone.
"Get a warrant for that house at Wembley. Name?
The executors and/or Administrators of Worthington
Westmore ; Thomas Tucker, or occupier. Stick in the
lot to be on the safe side. I'll come along myself and
take over."
Leaving Meredith, the fingerprint man, on duty at
Westmore's apartment, Inspector Higgins himself
operated the private lift, remarking during his descent
the very effective smashing of the various panels.
The inspector had literally to force his way across
that short pavement between the main door of Preston
Building and the kerb to his car. He marvelled at
the density of the crowd and at the fact that such a
large number of people had seemingly so little to do.
When the constable guarding the car saluted, Higgins
found himself, not for the first time, the cynosure of
all eyes.
"It's Tggins."
"Big fella!"
"Hasn't he a naice faice!"
Inspector Higgins was glad to get away.
I


130 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
There was some small delay at the Yard owing to
an explanation being needed over the Wembley house
search-warrant, and which only Higgins could give.
At long last they were away. One car only, with three
men besides the inspector. The Wembley police had
been communicated with and would supply any further
help which might be needed.
The car entered Wembley by a different route, for
Higgins noticed the field which had been the scene of
that midnight race, and smiled at the reminiscence.
Deuce of a lot of building going on here—nice pro-
perty, too. The inspector sincerely hoped there would
not be too many civilian spectators of the serving of
the search-warrant (he could not bring himself to term
the episode a "raid"), for outsiders were apt to be a
nuisance and, if too many, likely to be a menace should
anyone inside the house decide to mingle with the
crowd. Higgins was a firm believer that the safest
place to hide was in a crowd.
Here we are! And three men from the Wembley
station available.
Inspector Higgins alighted and posted his men at
points of vantage in that line of fringing trees.
The inspector, with an escort of one constable in
plain clothes, marched up to the front door, and pressed
the electric bell-push.
Of course there was no answer. Another push for
luck—and Higgins decided to force an entry.
First of all the garage. Higgins had been caught
that way before. Giving his whole attention to a
main building he had overlooked the outhouses, and
by so doing had, on one occasion, not only lost his man
but very nearly his job. A small square window,
hinged at the top and propped open at the bottom by
an iron bar with equi-distant holes. Higgins peered
within. Empty, save for some petiol-cans and a couple
of worn tyres, together with sundry tools. No car.
Anyhow, that was that.■
Now for the house itself. Curtained windows—and


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 131
opaque at that. What about the door at the rear?
Higgins always wondered why the back door of a
house, the most likely point of attack from outside,
should always be fitted with a stereotyped lock, whilst
the front door, which no self-respecting thief would
dream of looking at, invariably had a unique key.
The back door, too, was locked. Better try for an
open window. Higgins did not wish to break open any
more doors!
"Here, Constable, give us a bunk up." A snap of
the fingers. "And don't make too much row. You
never know I"
The constable eyed the inspector's huge form with
something approaching dismay, inwardly wondering
whether it would be politic to refuse.
"Delighted, sir," he said at last.
Higgins grinned. He hadn't missed that speculative
glance.
"It's all right, Constable—I'm hollow."
Much grunting and straining. Higgins grasped the
sill. Jerusalem! The window had already been
forced.
At that moment the constable capsized, and all hope
of effecting a quiet entry had to be abandoned.
Inspector Higgins, after a mild expletive, opened
the window and clambered within, the constable
heaving a huge sigh of relief when his shoulders were
once more freed of the inspector's weight.
A kitchen, not so ornate, but with as many labour-
saving devices as that at the top of Preston Building.
And also a muddy footprint on the tiled floor, presum-
ably left by the previous intruder.
The kitchen door was shut. Higgins gripped the
handle and opened it. An inner voice whispered
"fingerprints" but Higgins did not wish to delay
further.
A passage from the kitchen to the front door, which
the inspector immediately traversed, and admitted his
colleague into the house.


132 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
"I think the place is empty, Constable, but we must
be careful. Tommy Tucker is a wily cove, and you
can bet your life he'd sit tight and say nuffin whilst
there was a ghost of a chance of his remaining undis-
covered. We'll take the ground floor first, and . . ."
An unmistakable groan from the room on the right.
Higgins glanced sharply at the closed door. He'd
been had like that before . . . and one could never be
sure with Tommy Tucker.
"Who's there ?" he asked.
Silence.
Not that Inspector Higgins expected an answer.
Another groan.
"Come along, Constable. Keep out o' the line of
fire."
Inspector Higgins seized the handle of the door,
turned it gently, then flung the door open, immediately
jumping to one side.
A wait of but a few seconds, then Higgins peered
round the jamb. An unbroken stretch of parquet
flooring, with a hole, a yard square, in front of a safe
door.
Gingerly Higgins crossed the polished floor to the
edge of the hole.
"Here, Constable. Give us a light. It's mighty
dark down there."
A well, nearly twenty feet deep, with a huddled form
at the bottom. Higgins sighed when he realized that
another ladder was called for. One was soon found in
the garden, and the inspector guessed that this had
been used by the man below in order to break into the
house, though who had put it away afterwards he
could not think.
"I '11 go below, Constable. And if it's Tommy Tucker,
and he's foxing, pull up the ladder and leave us to
fight it out—but don't leave us too long."
It was not Tommy Tucker. „
For the second time Inspector Higgins, chasing
Tommy Tucker, had caught Mr. Lu.


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 133
And Lu's leg was broken.
With gentle hands Inspector Higgins lifted the
Chinaman to his broad shoulders, then he mounted the
ladder with his burden and lowered it carefully upon
the parquet flooring.
"Ambulance, Constable. Then get someone to
finish the search of the house. Tell 'em to go care-
fully—there may be more booby traps. I'm staying
with this cove—in case he recovers consciousness pretty
quickly. Don't suppose there's anything more to be
found, though."
At Wembley hospital the Chinaman received expert
treatment. Inspector Higgins knew the hospital well,
and had, for a long time, been a contributor under its
monthly scheme of payments, although he sincerely
hoped he would never have need of its services.
After he had partaken of a little light lunch in which
beer predominated, he was informed, on returning to
the hospital, that he might see the patient.
Lu stared at him with inscrutable eyes. Higgins
wondered what line to adopt. He had always thought
that the imperturbability and inscrutability of an
Oriental was all "blah" and merely the novelist's
rather cheap method of painting character; and in-
variably if he chanced on a detective story with a
Chinese character he turned it down, but . . .
"Did you get it this time ?" he queried at last.
"I beg your pardon?" Of course the man should
have said, "No savvy," but his method was just as
effective.
"I presume Westmore sent you to that house."
"Of course."
"Why?"
"Why not ask him?"
Inspector Higgins stared at the man. How much
did he know? If he knew of the millionaire's death
he was dissembling pretty well; and if he did not know,
what would be his reaction when he was told? And
how to tell him? Possibly a blunt and brutal statement


CHAPTER XVI
IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS ISSUES AN
INVITATION
Without a doubt that Wembley house belonged to
Tommy Tucker after all, or, at any rate, if not to
Tommy Tucker then certainly not to Worthington
Westmore; for otherwise Lu would never have fallen
into that trap (literally as well as figuratively) in front
of the safe door. Higgins had given instructions for
the safe to be forced, and a man from the Yard was
already engaged on the job. If the contents of that
safe were such that Westmore had sent his Chinese
servant to burgle it (a complete set of tools was found
in that sunken well) then there should be something
therein of especial interest to Scotland Yard.
Lu would be a fixture at Wembley hospital for some
time to come, and Higgins was glad to feel that one
suspect could be found if wanted.
Tommy Tucker and the Angel had vanished, but a
watch was being kept on all the seaports and air-ports
in case the pair attempted to leave the country.
The Angel's escape from Preston Building had been
perfectly simple. She had merely hidden in the ladies'
cloakroom (which spoke well for the courtesy, if little
for the intellect, of the searchers of the building), and
had walked out of the building, hatless and coatless,
with a batch of five other girls intent on a morning
coffee, and, what was more, had actually had a cup of
coffee in the same tea-shop.
It was only after five had returned when six had left
the building that any suspicion was aroused, and then
it was too late.
133


136 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
This was the news which awaited Inspector Higgins
. when he returned to Scotland Yard from the Wembley
hospital; and shortly afterwards the Wembley police
rang up to say that the safe contained literally nothing.
Like Mother Hubbard's.
No wonder his thoughts turned to Tommy Tucker.
Higgins wondered, with grim self-derision, whether
he himself might not well be cast as Simple Simon.
He had done nothing in this case at all, save lose the
Angel; and if Tommy Tucker were innocent of any
connection with the death of the millionaire, why had
he effaced himself? Of course, periodically Tucker
did vanish and was generally credited with being up
to some dirty work, although it might be merely
coincidental that he should vanish now.
There was a knock at his door, which immediately
opened, and Dr. Pape, the police surgeon, strode
briskly into the room.
Pape was middle-aged and inclined to be irascible;
a great pal of the inspector, despite the difference in age,
and always ready to put in a good word on his behalf.
"Hallo, Higgy. I've had a look at your corpse.
My! But you're always finding 'em! Shot twice."
"Go hon !"—sarcastically.
Dr. Pape ignored the insult.
, "Here's the bullets."
Inspector Higgins shuddered as he took the leaden
pellets into his hands. To think that such small
missiles could snuff out a man's life.
"Go on, man—they won't bite you."
Pape had no soul.
"Bit on the small side, doc, don't you think?"
"Big enough"—grimly.
"What do you make of 'em?"
"Surely the great Higgins, hero of a thousand"
"Can it, doc.! I'm worried."
"Sorry, Higgy! You're trying to do too much, you
know. Anyhow, here's my opinion, for what it's worth.
A lady's gun fired those bullets—you know, one of those


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 137
dangerous toy-like affairs. Most effective from a very
close range—almost useless for twenty-five feet or more."
"A lady's gun, eh? I thought so, too."
"Ah, well. So long. Don't overdo it."
A lady's gun—and he had let the Angel go. She
couldn't have done it—not the Angel. But she hated
Worthington Westmore and had said so! And West-
more had been keeping her prisoner. Self-defence
could be pleaded ... if only she hadn't shot twice.
She knew how to work that lift, too, in order that
she could pitch the body down the shaft! Also strong
enough to drag him across that room. Then why hadn't
she bolted in the first place? She couldn't have
imagined that Higgins would have been such a fool as
to give her an opportunity to escape—as he had been!
Perhaps Westmore had tried to chloroform her and,
after shooting him in self-defence; she had been over-
come with the fumes, and had just managed to drag
the body ... No! That wouldn't do. The wish
was too much the father of the thought.
But wait a moment. On that occasion when he had
spoken up that antiquated speaking-tube he had
thought that two feminine voices had answered him.
And why a woman at all?
Because the gun was known as a lady's gun it didn't
follow that a lady had used it. What about sleeve-
holsters, about which he had read so much in Wild
West yarns? A little gun was needed there—and men
used them.
Worthington Westmore, as was evidenced by that
pool of blood, had been killed close to the telephone
instrument in his room, and Higgins himself had heard
the shots over the telephone when Westmore made his
futile call for aid. The broken catch in the lift seemed
to suggest that the assassin entered that way—indeed,
he must have done, for there was no other means of
ingress—yet why hadn't Westmore used that control-
ling dial in order to send the lift to the basement again?
Or got a gun with which to defend himself?


138 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
And that sound of a crash which Higgins had
heard over the 'phone and which had preceded the
firing of the shots—what was that? Perhaps the
breaking of that lift catch. Westmore must have
completely lost his nerve.
And where was Lu at the time?
He must already have left for that house at Wembley,
and Westmore had sent him. At least, so Lu said.
Obviously, therefore, Westmore could not have been
expecting an attack thus to send away his personal—
well—bodyguard.
Perhaps Westmore had had a double purpose in
getting Lu out of the way: first to steal something
from that safe at the Wembley house, and in the second
place to have his apartment free for, say, a very
private interview.
"A lady to see you, sir."
"Lord, man! You startled me. Why the devil
didn't you knock?"
"I did, sir, but ..."
"Who is it?"
"An elderly lady in black, sir. Widow—by her
weeds."
"H'm. What's her name?"
"She said she had an appointment, sir."
"Then she's a liar. All right. Show her up—
it is a 'her', I suppose ?—and stand by outside for
trouble."
A heavily veiled woman was ushered in. One
glance was sufficient.
"All right, Constable. You needn't wait."
The constable withdrew, smiling wickedly. The
woman sank gratefully and gracefully into a chair.
"Well, Angel I This is a surprise. I honestly
didn't expect to see you again for a long while."
"Tommy told me to come. He said it would be
for the best—that you would give me a square deal—
and that it looked black, me running away."
"Tommy, eh? Where is he?"


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 139
"He asked me not to mention it."
"I see." Higgins smiled approvingly. He admired
loyalty. "But why did you—er—run away, Angel"
I told you you could go when the lift was put right."
"You didn't mean it, Higgy"—reproachfully.
Inspector Higgins coughed uncomfortably. The
Angel, on occasions, could be embarrassingly direct.
"But what had you to fear?"
"Something, Higgy, which I couldn't understand."
"Did you know then that Westmore was dead?"
"N-no. But I saw that dreadful stain at the
bottom of the lift, and I guessed."
"It was very brave of you to return."
"Not brave, Higgy; sensible. When I read in the
later editions of this morning's papers that Worthington
Westmore had been found shot, I . . ."
"I'm sorry, Angel. What were you saying?"
She looked up sharply. It was not like the
Inspector Higgins she knew, to be wool-gathering whilst
interviewing a lady. Higgins was looking at her with
sombre eyes.
"When I saw in the paper that Westmore had been
shot, I . . ."
"But, my dear"—quietly—"that isn't in the papers."
"But—but I saw it."
"You didn't."
"But—but"
"You may have read that Westmore was dead—
even that he had been killed—but the manner of his
killing has not been divulged."
A long pause. Inspector Higgins clutched at a
straw.
"What paper was it, Angel? Something might
have leaked out."
"The—the Picture Times—no—the—the World—
I don't remember, Higgy. Honestly I—I don't.
I—I ..." Then with a rush: "I never do notice
the name of the paper I have been reading. I—I
hadn't seen one for such a long time, and ..."


140 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
Another painful silence.
A knock at the door and a constable entered.
"You rang, sir?"
"Ask the police matron to step this way, please."
The Angel sat up with a jerk.
"What—what are you going to do with me, Higgy?"
she asked, wild-eyed and afraid.
Inspector Higgins said nothing, but sat staring at
the desk in front of him. Then, at last:
"I—I don't think, Angel, that—that you were so
very sensible to come here, after all."
"Higgy! Higgy! Do you think I should have
come here if I had been guilty? Do you think I
wouldn't have laid low until I could have got out of
the country? Higgy, use your brains. You be
sensible, if I haven't been! Of course I knew West-
more had been shot. I told you I heard the two
shots fired, and I can put two and two together without
making five, if you can't. If I shot him, don't you
think I should have bolted without waiting for you to
arrive at Preston Building? And what do you think
I did with the weapon—ate it?"
"You have had plenty of opportunities to get rid
of that, Angel. I didn't search you when I found you."
"I should think not I"
The police matron, a motherly soul, entered the room,
and looked inquiringly at the inspector.
"Mrs. Wilson, this young lady is in trouble,
grave trouble. You won't try to escape again, my
dear?" The Angel shook her head wearily in negation.
"Good. Very well, then, Mrs. Wilson, I wonder
if you will be good enough to arrange for a police-
woman to accompany this young lady to my house.
She is to be my wife's guest."
The look of gratitude the Angel gave him when she
left the room in the company of the police matron
well repaid the inspector for his consideration.
For himself, however, he was not at all sure he had
done the right thing.


CHAPTER XVII
IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS SEARCHES A FLAT
Inspector Higgins was even less certain that he had
done the right thing when that evening he was once
more standing on his own doorstep, his key in the
fingers of his right hand preparatory to opening the
front door. Cuss it I Any man worth calling a man
had the inalienable right to . . . He inserted the
key and opened the front door.
His wife, as he had half-expected, was waiting for
him in the hall. He kissed her.
A half-smile on her lips, her eyebrows raised
quizzically, she awaited his explanation. It was not
immediately forthcoming.
"Well! You're a nice one, Higgy. Without so
much as a 'by your leave' you invite a charming lady
to share our bed and board I"
"Not our—er—bed, darling, I"
Muriel Higgins burst into uncontrollable laughter.
"Oh, Higgy! What a child you are." She grasped
his arm and gazed upwards into his bewildered counten-
ance. "Of course you were right, dear." Inspector
Higgins brightened visibly. "That poor girl in the
hands of you awful police I I must look after her."
"Yes, dear"—meekly.
"You haven't put the car away, have you?"
"No, dear. Not yet, but . . ."
"Then don't. I've got some errands. Fancy
wishing that poor girl on to me without any clothes."
"Without any clothes?"
"Don't be a perfect idiot, Higgy. You know what
I mean."
141


142 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
"Gosh! I wish I did!"
"You men! You take everything so literally. That
poor girl's got nothing to wear at all. Anyone would
think she was in mourning for someone. She asked
me to get her things from her flat."
"And did you?"
"No. I knew you wouldn't mind going"—
wheedlingly.
"I shall be delighted." Which, strangely enough,
was very true.
"Good! Oh, and Higgy, there's a nasty man
watching the house from the corner. I'm sure he's
up to no good. You might see if he's all right, and get
the police to move him on."
"Yes, dear."
"Here's the address."
"Right. I'll be off."
Inspector Higgins returned to his car, scarcely able
to believe his good fortune. Dutifully he stopped at
the corner, and beckoned to a man who stepped from
the shadows.
"If you can't watch the place better than this, I'll
have to put someone else on the job," he said acidly.
"You're hopeless. Everyone in the street knows
what you are and what you're doing. You might
just as well plank yourself down on my front door-
step as to keep bobbing round this corner like a jack-
in-the-box. Still, I suppose I'll have to do the best
I can with the poor material at my command. From
now on, keep your eyes skinned. I'm expecting a
little excitement for you in the very near future. I
think the Angel is preparing for a bolt, if she hasn't
already gone. Keep a sharp look-out. And if she
does make a break for it, don't lose her. If you do,
you needn't come back to the Yard—I'll have your
money sent on, and will recommend you for a country
traffic cop in a fifty-acre field."
Higgins nodded, and drove off.
He was very undecided as to his course of action.


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 143
He did not think it beyond the Angel's powers to put
something over his wife, for Muriel was the most trust-
ing of creatures, and the Angel an accomplished actress,
besides being, for the moment, rather a pathetic figure.
For Muriel, too, suffered with a kind heart.
It might well be that the address given by the Angel
was fictitious and was merely a ruse to get him out of
the way. Also that reference to the "nasty man at
the corner" might well have emanated from the Angel,
in an effort to have the man removed and the way of
escape cleared.
Muriel Higgins thought she could twist her husband
round her little finger, but he was not quite so pliable as
she so fondly imagined. Not that Muriel would wilfully
go against his wishes or do anything likely to be at
variance with what she thought was right, but—and
a big "but"—Inspector Higgins had his wits about him.
This address, now. If fictitious, it would tell him a
lot, and if the truth, might tell him still more.
The Angel had told his wife that there was a trunk
packed in her flat with all the clothes she would need
for a month's holiday.
Why packed?
When Worthington Westmore had kidnapped (?)
the Angel, had she even then been upon the point of
flight? The packed trunk argued yes. And if flight—
from what?
Hapstead Mansions—off the Maida Vale—that was
the given address. A fairish way off. If the Angel
were preparing to make a bolt for it, in spite of her
promise, then she had bargained for an hour's start,
for it would take Higgins twenty-five minutes each
way, allowing the odd ten minutes for entering the
flat and removing the packed trunk. And if she were
so preparing to make a dash for liberty, she might
just as well—and better—have given some address
further away. She had possibly calculated the
inspector's "economic limit'' and Hapstead Mansions
were the required distance away; for, obviously, High


144
THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
Street, China, would be too far, and next door too near,
and
minutes. Ah! Here we are.
A large block of flats with one common entrance,
a large pillared doorway, and upon each pillar a brass
plate:
Numbers two to fifty-eight were in the block opposite,
and the Angel's flat was number twenty-four.
Higgins crossed the road. An almost identical
block, but with a further plate announcing "Street
Cries Prohibited".
Number twenty-four was on the fifth floor. Instead
of using the lift Inspector Higgins decided to walk
up. The thought had suddenly crossed his mind that
the whole thing might be a trap, though how it had
been worked he couldn't guess. Common sense came
to his aid, or the memory of those six floors
at Preston Building, for he used the elevator after all.
And the key fitted. So it was not a mild hoax.
Higgins switched on the hall light.
Quite a nice flat. Bit on the large side for a single
girl, but . . . And here was the packed trunk,
awaiting removal.
So far, so good. And now for a quiet inspection of
the flat.
Jerusalem! The significance of the packed trunk
might have been that the Angel had been on the point
of flight; not when Westmore had taken her into his
service, but after she had escaped from Preston Building,
and before Tommy Tucker had advised her to go to
Scotland Yard. This must have been the place to
which she fled on that occasion. Straight from Preston
Building to here.
Then where had she met Tommy Tucker? Here,
too, perhaps.

Ground. Another couple o'
Hapstead Mansions
Nos. 1 to 57 (odd).


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 145
More lights.
The sight of a telephone instrument decided Higgins
as to his course of action. He dialled a number.
"Hallo I That you, Muriel? Awfully sorry an'all
that, but the car's gone back on me. Take an hour
to put the damn—ahem !—to put it right. Sorry.
Better tell the Angel she'll have to wait a bit for her
trousseau. She's all right, I suppose? Good!
Bye-bye."
That was that. Inspector Higgins stretched his
arms and flexed his muscles, yawning the while. If
he couldn't go over this place in an hour he didn't know
his job.
The trunk first, as offering the most likely source
of information. Of course it was locked, but a little
juggling and the spring catch nicked back. The
straps were quickly unbuckled and the lid thrown back.
Packed with clothes. With infinite care the
inspector removed layer after layer. All very
innocuous. At last the trunk was empty. Business
with a tape measure. No, not a false bottom. A
pocket at the side which he had overlooked.
And in the pocket a passport and a wad of
notes.
Martha Mountjoy. Of course, to go with the widow's
weeds. So that was or wasn't her name; one could
never tell with the Angel. And the photograph was
none too nattering either. Like her, of course, but
only just. Higgins couldn't imagine her giving copies
away to her friends; but who ever did with passport
photographs? Aged thirty-two. That was a lie.
Born in Paris. Oh, yes! So she was! Height—
about right.
H'm. A mixture of truths and half-truths; and
Higgins could not differentiate.
And about three thousand pounds in notes. H'm.
Now to re-pack. Higgins had been very careful to
disturb little, and also to rectify any signs of his search
as he made them, yet he was surprised to find that he
K


146 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
had seemingly half a hundredweight of feminine
attire over after he had filled the trunk.
He scratched his head in perplexity, then, man-
like, decided to defer packing for the time being.
It was quite a nice flat. Two bedrooms, kitchen, bath-
room, and scullery. From the kitchen window one had a
splendid view of the quadrangle formed by four blocks
of flats; and there was a balcony outside the scullery
door. Against this balcony were the guy-ropes of a
service lift, hand-worked, by means of which tradesmen
delivered their goods. It might also serve as a means
of escape from the flat were one to trust one's weight
to its apparently flimsy cables. Still, the Angel
didn't weigh a great deal.
And the bedrooms. The furniture of one was
covered with dust-sheets and had obviously not been
used for a long time. The other room was different.
A pleasing wooden bedstead, with two chairs, ward-
robe, chest of drawers and dressing-table to match.
On the dressing-table an ebony trinket set, hair-
tidy—with some wisps of dark hair inside—hair
brushes and hand mirror. Each with a monogram on
end. Silly way to put it. M. M. For Martha
Mountjoy, of course. Gosh I That must be her name.
Might be W. W. . . . Jerusalem I
Worthington Westmore. Did that explain the dust-
sheeted bedroom adjacent?
Of photographs there were none.
A lot of papers had been burnt in the fireplace.
And thoroughly burnt, too. Higgins nodded grimly
as he stirred the ashes with speculative forefinger.
The Angel took no chances. In a book, now, a small
piece of paper would be found, charred at the edges,
but containing, in the few letters remaining visible,
some vital clue to the solution of the mystery.
But burnt paper was burnt paper, and that was all
there was to it.
"Gosh!"
Higgins pulled out his finger and thrust it in his


148 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
Inspector Higgins closed the case and thrust it into
his jacket pocket. His search of the flat had not been
so barren, after all. He couldn't understand, however,
how the Angel had been so careless as to leave such a
clue behind, unless she had forgotten the case
altogether.
It also followed that the Angel had had that
revolver with her all the while she had been imprisoned
at Preston Building. She must have had plenty of
opportunities to use it before she actually did. . . .
Here, Higgy ! be careful with your reasoning. Surely
Westmore would have searched her? But if she had
killed Westmore she must have had the revolver on
her person at the time of her capture—for want of a
better word—for no one had had the opportunity to
give her the gun whilst she had been at Preston
Building.
But perhaps Westmore's hold upon the Angel had
been so great that he had been indifferent to whether
she had a gun or not. Perhaps he even knew she had
it and let her keep it as a protection against—say—
the Chinaman. All conjecture I All conjecture!
Inspector Higgins stared at his reflection in the dress-
ing-table mirror as though to seek inspiration or
explanation therefrom.
Thus he was conscious of movement behind him
before he heard any sound. He whirled round in a
flash.
"Admiring yourself?"
Leaning negligently against the doorpost, one hand
in his trouser pocket, the other hanging loosely at his
side, with a revolver swinging idly by the trigger guard
from his index finger, was Tommy Tucker. One of
his eyes was slightly puffed and there was the semblance
of a bruise on his cheek.


CHAPTER XVIII
IN WHICH AN INQUEST IS HELD
"Er—good evening," said the inspector lamely.
Tommy Tucker said nothing, but surveyed the
inspector through narrowed eyelids.
Inspector Higgins advanced a step, and the revolver
stopped its idle swinging. Higgins took another step,
and the butt of the weapon was gripped in Tommy's
hand.
"I think you're being very foolish, Tommy."
"Possibly, but there's no need for you to be"—
meaningly.
Higgins stopped. He wondered whether his famous
Rugby tackle would come off. . . .
"I shouldn't if I were you."
Higgins changed his mind. He must guard those
tell-tale eyes of his. He guessed that thugs and such
gentry got their leery expressions from the constant
lidding of the eyes. . . .
"I want you, Tommy."
"Not exactly an opportune moment to come and get
me, is it?"
This was getting him nowhere. What was Tommy
Tucker doing here? And where had he been hiding?
Not here, for the Angel would never have thus betrayed
him. And no use asking him for the information;
he would only lie, and who could blame him? Not
like Tommy Tucker to do monkey business with a gun,
and the odds were about a hundred to six it wasn't
loaded. Might pay to call his bluff and chance a
spectacular dive at Tommy's legs. . . .
149


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 151
Higgins jumped across the room and threw himself
against the door. It was locked. A second later he
heard the slam of the outer door. Higgins switched
on the light and then hurled himself at the bedroom
door. It was five minutes before the catch gave way
to his assault. He charged through the darkened
hall for the outer door, tripped over the pile of lingerie
which he himself had left there half an hour before,
and landed in a heap on the doormat.
His language was fulsome.
The lift, of course, was on the ground floor, and
another precious minute was wasted before he had
brought it to the fifth-floor level.
And down in the street below was but a solitary
policeman strutting contentedly on the other side.
Tommy Tucker had doubtless made good use of
his seven minutes' start and might be almost anywhere,
yet the inspector called over the constable as a forlorn
hope.
And such it proved.
'E 'adn't seen nobody nor nothin'.
And what was the use of broadcasting the number
of the car which had been seen in that garage of the
Wembley house when Tommy Tucker had first led
the trailer there? For one thing, there was no proof
that the house was Tommy's, and for another, Tommy
Tucker probably had half a dozen different numbers
quickly interchangeable. There was still a further
reason: Tommy Tucker might not have left the district
by car at all. Higgins had been very intent upon the
contents of the Angel's flat, but surely not so engrossed
that he would not have heard a car draw up to the kerb
in the street below? But five floors up one might
not have heard it . . . and was Tommy likely to have
driven right up to the block of flats? Would he not
have parked his car round a convenient corner, well
within jumping distance, in case he had to beat a hurried
retreat? Tommy Tucker, like the Angel, left little
to chance.


152 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
And why should Tucker be afraid of him? Perhaps
he was afraid on the Angel's behalf, in which case it
looked very black for the Angel. Surely he was not
afraid for himself!
"All right, Constable, don't bother."
He dismissed the uniformed policeman who, with a
perfunctory salute, resumed the even tenor of his
way.
Back to the flat. With a combination of brute
force and ignorance he managed at long last to force
the lid of the trunk until the catch engaged. What
the Angel would say he shuddered to think. And
the weight of it! Bit o' luck the trunk was sturdily
built. He got it eventually into his car and returned
homewards. A carefully engineered accident outside
his house, and the lock smashed and sundry underwear
was precipitated to the pavement. Higgins was
delighted ... his wife was deceived and sarcastic
. . . but the Angel . . . Higgins couldn't guess.
The following morning the inquest on the body of
Worthington Westmore was duly held.
The jury did not consist of "twelve good men and
true", for there were only ten members all told, two
of whom were women. The coroner knew his job,
and furthermore had been well-primed by the police.
The Angel gave her evidence in a clear voice and
obviously impressed the jury—at least, the male
members thereof. Higgins both looked and felt an
ass, and was not complimented on his handling of the
case. Lu's deposition, taken at the hospital, was almost
irrelevant.
The jury wasted a good two hours of his time whilst
they were considering their verdict, and Higgins
half expected the Angel to be implicated in their
finding, but at last they returned.
"Murder by some person or persons unknown."
Inspector Higgins was relieved, and guessed that the
male members had managed to overrule the objections
of the two ladies, who undoubtedly disbelieved the


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 153
Angel's statement that she was merely employed as
a confidential private secretary to the deceased.
Had the verdict implicated the Angel, then the
coroner would have been forced to issue a warrant
for her arrest, and Higgins did not think the time ripe
for such a procedure, and sincerely hoped it never
would be.
About every tenth member of the public who
attended the inquest was a policeman in plain clothes,
but Tommy Tucker did not put in an appearance.
The coroner annoyed the inspector, inasmuch as
he half apologized for the police, asserting in all good
faith that they were only human—as though both he
and the world at large expected them to be super-
human.
A few formalities and it was over.
The Angel was smuggled out of a side entrance, and
Muriel Higgins took her under her protective wing.
As far as Higgins himself was concerned, it was a
morning wasted.
Over lunch he reviewed the case, and as a result
came to the conclusion that he was either giving too
much time to Tommy Tucker or not enough. His
sole reason for connecting Tommy with the case at
all was the similarity of his writing to that of the
threatening letters, which, on the whole, was a pretty
flimsy connection. Of course Tommy had behaved
in a suspicious manner with regard to the deceased
millionaire, and had shown marked interest in Preston
Building, and it was obvious that there had been bad
blood between the two which the millionaire himself
had accentuated that time at Scotland Yard, but . . .
There was nothing for it: he must trace, if possible,
Tommy Tucker's movements on the night of the
murder.
This should not be very difficult, for had not the
inspector, by a fortunate oversight, forgotten to call
off that extra-special sleuth until the very evening
Worthington Westmore was killed?


154 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
This sleuth, Harper by name, had been very fortunate
over the Harrow train episode, and had duly reported
that Tommy Tucker had slept in a temperance
hotel that night; but the very next evening, that of
the murder, Tommy Tucker had been followed to a
public house where he had—what were the constable's
words ?—engaged in the process of filling up.
One less suspect would give the inspector more time
to devote to the other. He must trace Tommy's
movements after he had left the Broken Window, until
ten o'clock, when Westmore was killed. If Tommy
had stayed till closing time, then he had a perfect
alibi. If not, well, the progress of a drunken man
would be easy to trace, and the killing of Westmore was
certainly not the work of a man in liquor.
Looked uncommonly as if Tommy would have to
be erased from the painfully small list of suspects. In
fact, Tommy gone, there would remain but the Angel—
although the Chinaman could not definitely be ruled out.
Higgins sighed. The chances were it was neither,
and he was simply wasting his time.
The Broken Window was a City public house which
specialized in quick lunches, but had practically no
trade in the evening after office hours, so Higgins did
not expect any great difficulty in bringing Tommy
Tucker to the mind of the barman.
The saloon bar, Harper had said; so Higgins pushed
open the swing doors and entered the place. He
walked to the counter, and, after ordering half a pint
of bitter ale, asked for the manager.
"That's me, sir."
"Oh! I'm Higgins, inspector of Scotland Yard,
and . . ."
"I thought so, sir. Recognized you from the photo
in to-night's Evening World."
"I see. Well, don't run away with the idea that
I'm after anything in connection with the Westmore
business, but . . . Cast your mind back to Wednes-
day evening."


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 155
"Easy, sir. That was the night of the murder, and,
although I didn't read anything about it till the
morning, I . . ."
Higgins ignored the interruption, and knew it would
be futile to try to dissociate the manager's mind from
the Preston mystery.
"You had a man here who, I am told, put about
five per cent, on your takings that evening."
The man laughed. "Hardly that, sir, but drunks
are so scarce in the City—I don't remember one in this
house for fifteen years—that I should think I do
remember him. Youngish chap, happy smile; just
pulled off a big deal, so he said."
"That's the fellow. When did he leave?"
"'Bout half-past eight, sir. 'Smatter of fact, I
asked him to leave. Getting a bit too merry for my
house. Gotter be careful of the license."
"Half-past eight, eh? Did that cause any marked
diminution in his hilarity?"
"No, sir. He said there were plenty 0' more pubs
in the City where he could get a drink. I told him to
try 'em."
"Where was he sitting? Or standing?"
"The very seat you've got, sir."
"H'm. Anyone speak to him?"
"Nearly everybody in the bar, sir. He insisted on
it. Treated 'em all once, too."
"I see. He was fairly oiled, I suppose?"
The landlord laughed.
"Was he not I" he said.
A pause.
"Half-past eight, eh?"
"Yessir."
"H'm."
And at ten o'clock Worthington Westmore was
killed. Might mean nothing, or everything. Yet
how could Tommy Tucker have known that he would
be asked to leave? As far as the inspector knew,
Tommy Tucker was not even aware that he had been


156 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
followed to the Broken Window. That left an hour
and a half. Plenty of time for Tommy to get to Pres-
ton Building, which was not more than ten minutes'
away. Not much time to sober up, though. In fact,
if Tommy Tucker had been half as tight as the land-
lord hinted he would not have been sober till the
morning. And . . .
Inspector Higgins rested an elbow on the counter
and tried to reason the thing out. Tommy Tucker
was slick, the whole of the Metropolitan Police Force
knew this, to its cost, but ... Ah, well! He'd
carry on inquiries outside.
"Have one on the house, sir?"
"No, thanks. I'm nearly a teetotaller." Shades
of New Year's Eve! "Many thanks. Keep my
inquiries under your helmet."
Higgins reached over the bar, nearly knocking over
a faded fern in a wonderful pot of beaten copper, and
grasped the publican's hand.
"Good-bye. . . . Sorry."
He righted the monstrosity.
"Wouldn't 'a' mattered if you'd busted it, sir. It's
gone right off lately."
The inspector stared at the wilting plant, then
transferred his gaze to the ceiling.
"I'll lay you six to four, landlord, that your customer
was not drunk," he said at last.
"Done I"—the landlord promptly accepted.
He would have lost. For when the analysts at the
Yard had inspected the mould in the pot, they dis-
covered that the moisture was twenty-three per cent
neat spirit. A good ad. for the Prohibitionists.
Tommy Tucker's inebriation was a fake.


CHAPTER XIX
IN WHICH A MORNING IS WASTED
This was different. Inspector Higgins half suspected
now that Tommy Tucker had been fully aware that he
was being watched on that occasion ; perhaps, even,
he had known that he was followed after that Harrow
train business. He had slept openly at that temperance
hotel, and had allowed himself to be followed all the
succeeding day, and had courted publicity at the
Broken Window.
Why?
Had he been building up one of his notorious alibis?
It looked uncommonly like it. In any case, for Tommy
Tucker to take to drinking was so abnormal, so out of
the ordinary, that it looked fishy on the face of it.
And all efforts to trace his movements after leaving
the Broken Window had failed. None of the cops
on the beats in the locality had seen a drunken or semi-
drunken man. No taxi-driver had taken an intoxi-
cated fare. It all looked so very suspicious, however
congratulatory it might be as to the sobriety of the
citizens of London.
From the moment he had left the Broken Window
till Higgins had seen him at the Angel's flat Tommy
Tucker had apparently been invisible.
Jerusalem!
Higgins had just remembered Tommy Tucker's
puffed eye and bruised cheek on that occasion; and that
magnificent pile carpet in Westmore's apartment
had given evidence of what might have been a
struggle.
Tommy Tucker must be found.
137


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 159
embossed with the dead man's initials and broken in
two, possibly as a result of that terrible fall down the
lift shaft, or as a result of the problematical struggle
beforehand; a propelling pencil which had escaped
damage, even the lead being intact; a pocket-knife
battered and bent; a diary which Higgins eyed
askance—he had searched every page until he was
nearly blue in the face, but it was merely a domestic
diary in which nothing of a business nature was entered,
and only social engagements, mostly of a charitable
nature, found place; a packet of cigarettes—Higgins
wondered grimly whether the millionaire had collected
the coupons; an automatic lighter which failed to
function ; two broken cigars; a small key which had been
proved to belong to the lift gates of the first five floors
of Preston Building; a dirty ten-shilling note, four
half-crowns, two separate shillings and a halfpenny
with a hole in it. A separate heap contained but a
few coppers and a blood-stained cheque-book which
had been retrieved from the floor of the lift shaft.
Inspector Higgins stared blankly at the two separate
heaps.
The only point at all unusual was the complete
absence of any notes of a larger denomination. There
was an absurdly small amount of loose cash for such
a wealthy man, but that might be merely a coincidence.
Westmore had his cheque-book and was so well
known that possibly ready money to him was not a
necessity. Yet it would be a convenience. And
thirty shillings in all was not a large sum.
Did this mean anything?
Higgins cast his mind back to that first interview
he had had with Worthington Westmore. There was
something then which was now niggling at his memory.
What was it?
Westmore had pulled out a packet of papers
from his inside pocket and had handed him that
original letter from "You-know-who."
Higgins frowned, then his face cleared.


160 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
"Got it!"
That five-pound note which had fluttered to the
floor, and which the millionaire had stated was a
souvenir which he kept for luck. Didn't bring him
much luck, anyhow . . . But kept! Kept!
Then where was it?
Had robbery been the motive of the murder and not
revenge? Jerusalem! This would put an entirely
different complexion on the unsavoury business.
But to murder for a five-pound note was not sense.
Certainly not sense if the fiver had been on its lone-
some. But supposing there had been dozens of fivers!
Supposing . . .
What was the number of that note? Something
pretty outstanding, for the number supplied the reason
for Westmore keeping it. A frown of concentration.
A series of the same figures. . . .
Higgins nodded his head in satisfaction.
EE 66666. Yes. That was it. Might be one more
or less six, but that was the essence of the number.
Someone else must look into that. Higgins couldn't
afford the time; and the tracing of a five-pound note
was something which could easily be passed on to a
subordinate. It merely entailed a trip to the Bank
of England in the first place, from there to the bank
which had collected the note, and thus to that bank's
client—assuming, of course, that the note was no
longer in circulation.
The fiver, on the whole, was in the nature of a forlorn
hope.
Another point which might lead to a clue was the
absence of any safe in Westmore's apartment on the
top of Preston Building. He had a safe at his office
on the lower floor, but this had revealed nothing save
that the dead man's fortune was not only immense,
but wisely invested in sound securities. His bank,
too, could tell nothing. They collected the coupons
from his debenture holdings and the dividend warrants
from his stocks and shares, but no other cash ever


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 161
came to his account unless as a result of the selling of
some shares, which invariably preceded a drop in the
market price of those shares. Any sale was quickly
followed by a purchase which generally predicted a
rise. Worthington Westmore was either pretty
shrewd in his City dealings, or well advised. Higgins
did not believe it was a question of luck.
His stockbrokers could tell him nothing; they merely
carried out his instructions, which, incidentally, they
followed themselves to their own profit.
From the information which Higgins had been able
to obtain it would appear that Worthington Westmore
had led a blameless life. He had hopes of the South
African police telling him something in due course,
but up to now they remained unfulfilled.
And no will. Higgins, remembering his earlier
thought that the State would benefit by Westmore's
death, wondered, if and when a will turned up, whether
there might not be a clue in it.
The following morning Inspector Higgins was out-
side a firm of jewellers before the shop was opened,
and fumed impatiently whilst an enormous commis-
sionaire removed the trellis gates from the shop doors.
The man looked up in amazement when Higgins
entered the shop. His attitude suggested that it was
unheard of for a customer to call so early in the morning,
a fact which he seemed inwardly to resent.
"The manager, please."
"Not 'ere yet," replied the man, adding "sir" as
an afterthought.
"How long will he be?"
"Dunno, sir"—faintly resentful.
"Have a guess."
"'E's genally 'ere by now . . . 'ere 'e is, sir. A
gemman to see you, sir." This to an immaculate,
top-hatted, frock-coated, white-buttonholed, debonair
youth of nearly sixty years of age.
"For me? T'c'k! T'c'k! And so early in the
morning. Well, sir, and what can I do for you?"
L


162 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
"Private"—with a meaning glance at the open-
mouthed commissionaire.
"Yes! Yes! Yes I Of course."
The commissionaire faded away and the manager
led the way to an ornate office behind a steel grille.
"And now, sir ?" queried the manager, after having
flourished the inspector to an upholstered chair.
Inspector Higgins felt in his pocket and produced
what looked like a jewel case.
"One of yours, I think, sir."
The manager took the proffered case, which he opened
and inspected.
"How did you guess?" he asked sarcastically, as
with horn-rimmed glasses he inspected the firm's
name in flowing gilt letters on the lid of the box.
Inspector Higgins produced his official card. The
manager read it, blinked rapidly, coughed, then
asserted that he sincerely trusted nothing was wrong.
"I want to trace the owner."
"H'm. Revolver case. Lady's. We have a work-
ing arrangement with the Camton Small Arms Company
with regard to this sort of thing. I'll look it up."
He pressed a bell-push near at hand and asked the
clerk who appeared in response to his summons for
the "A" book.
Much fluttering of leaves.
"Long time ago, Inspector. We haven't sold one
of these things for yahs and yahs." He reached over
for the case and gently prized up a corner of the plush,
then compared an entry in the "A" book with some
minute figures which he read at the bottom of the case.
"H'm. This is seemingly the one." Another ledger
had to be consulted. "Here we are, Inspector. Lady's
revolver, mother-of-pearl handle, or butt, as we say,"
he stated sententiously, peering at the inspector over
his horn-rimmed spectacles. "Number CS—er—why
these fools don't write clearly I do not know—er—
CS 435896." He beamed at Higgins. "There you
are, sir. That's system, that is."


CHAPTER XX
IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS GOES HOME FOR LUNCH
Home for lunch. Quite an unusual thing for Inspector
Higgins. His wife suggested that he could not keep
away from the Angel's side and that he had merely
come home at this unusual hour in order to see the Angel;
and in this she was not so very wrong. It was after his
wife had cleared away the cutlery and crockery—Higgins
had not yet aspired to a maid—that the inspector,
having filled his pipe, stolen a box of household matches
and lit the tobacco, withdrew from his pocket the re-
volver case and laid it ostentatiously on the cleared table.
The Angel gave a gasp.
"Why, Higgy, that's mine! Where did you find it?"
Higgins blinked. He had anticipated a great deal
of difficulty in extracting this information, and here
was the Angel volunteering it I It rather took the
wind from his sails.
The Angel rose and inspected the case.
"Where did you get it?"
"Ahem! From-your dressing-table drawer. I—er
—thought you might have left something behind you
when you—er—packed, so I—er—nosed round a bit."
"I—see"—very slowly. Higgins felt uncomfortable.
"And where did you get it from, Angel?" he queried.
"Why—er—" A pause. For a long time the Angel
gazed at the case without answering, then: "I've had
it a very long time, Higgy."
"I daresay. But where did you buy it?"
"Oh, I didn't buy it. As though I should! I—I—
yes, I did buy it."
164


166 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
"Go on, man. Go on," said Higgins irritably,
somewhat provoked by the sergeant's long-windedness.
"Yes, sir. The manager informed me that the—er—
note in question had been paid into his bank by the
Metropolitan Tobacco Company. Upon inquiry I
discovered that the Company's branch which paid in the
note was the kiosk at the corner outside."
"Close home, eh?"
"Yes, sir. And what's more, I interviewed the girl
in charge of the kiosk. A charming ..."
"Yes, yes. You'll be hoarse soon."
"She said that the fiver was presented by a man in
payment of a box of one hundred cigarettes on Thurs-
day, her early closing day."
"She asked him to sign his name on the back as
usual—I don't think. Why not?"
"She'd often seen him, sir. That's why. What's
more, she knew, or I should say thought him to be
an officer of Scotland Yard."
"Eh?"
"Yes, sir. She watched him turn the corner and
enter Scotland Yard."
"Jerusalem I"
"Yessir." Not exactly intelligible, but Inspector
Higgins knew what Brownall meant.
"You mean that someone here changed that fiver?"
—unbelievingly.
"Yessir."
"Oh I"
A long silence. To Higgins, to whom the Metro-
politan Police Force was little short of a god, the news
was a bombshell . . . unbelievable . . . inconceivable
. . . patently untrue . . . yet . . .
"Thank you, Brownall"—sombrely. "There's some-
thing mighty fishy here. No use advertising the
discovery. I must think it over. Meanwhile keep
your discovery to yourself. It's unthinkable—it's dis-
couraging—it's... All right, Brownall. You may go."
Someone in the Yard, eh? Had one of those helpers


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 167
at Preston Building stumbled across Worthington
Westmore's wallet and been tempted by the size of
its contents? Not a nice thought, although the
probable explanation. And the police could not
afford a scandal at this time, for they were in bad
enough odour, goodness knows, without further
notoriety. Lord! How the Press would seize this
opportunity. It could hardly be suppressed, either.
And what was he to do about it?
Of course he could get that girl from the kiosk
to come along and wait at the entrance of the Yard
until the unsuspecting culprit turned up; or he could
make open inquiries amongst his colleagues—each of
which was equally distasteful.
Still, it was perfectly simple to obtain a list of those
officers from the Yard who assisted the night Worthing-
ton Westmore was killed, and to make careful inquiries
with regard to each.
Yes. That was what he would do.
And before he ran in the culprit he'd tell him exactly
what he thought of him. The swine I
Perhaps the wallet had been at the bottom of the
lift-shaft. Who had helped him remove the body
of the millionaire? Brownall was one; couldn't very
well be him. And Brown, strange coincidence of
names, was the other. Brown? H'm. Worth look-
ing into, perhaps, but . . . And what about that
uniformed constable who had been on the beat near
Preston Building? Higgins had wondered on one
occasion whether the man had been bribed by the
murderer, and had banished the thought as being
ridiculous. The only thing against it now was that
the man was a uniformed constable whose head-
quarters were not Scotland Yard. That washed him
out.
Still, the case might almost have been dropped any-
where, either by the millionaire himself before his
death, or by the murderer subsequently, and might
have been found by a man at the Yard. True, such


168 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
finding without giving up was tantamount to stealing
. . . but the temptation might have been very great.
Higgins grinned derisively at himself. Already he
was manufacturing excuses for the culprit, merely
because he was a fellow-policeman.
For the present he would dismiss the matter from
his mind, leaving Brownall to make some quiet
inquiries. Meanwhile, he'd run over to Preston
Building again in the forlorn hope of finding some-
thing which had been overlooked. He must do
something soon, or make a mighty show of doing some-
thing, for Chief Inspector Dryan and some of the other
bigwigs at the Yard were already howling for results.
A thirty-minute drive, twice as long as on that
former occasion.
A disillusioned constable took him up in the private
lift, and he was once more deposited in that room where
Worthington Westmore had met his death; then to
that switch behind the picture and thus into the
private room with the bed.
Hell! he'd looked at everything here until he was
sick of the place.
What about the bookcase? Anything to be learned
from, say, the titles of the books? In the latest thriller
which the inspector had been reading, the super-sleuth
had made most amazing and wonderful deductions
from the titles of a man's books. He'd try it himself.
The Pilgrim's Progress. Jerusalem! The Complete
Works of William Shakespeare. Jerusalem again!
Criminals I Have Met. Hallo-allo-allo! This was
more like home. Higgins removed the volume only
to find some of the pages uncut. "Mistakes which have
led to the gallows.' Well-thumbed. Cuss it I He was
finding things out from the titles I What would West-
more's interest be in mistakes of criminals? Purely
academic, or had he an ulterior motive? Famous
Crime Investigators. Was he featured? Higgins opened
the volume—or at least made to open it—only to find
that it was not a book at all, but a book-shaped box.


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 169
Higgins cursed himself for missing it before. It was
empty. Famous Prelates—also a box and also empty.
Famous Artists contained a pound-note.
Were these "Famous" books Westmore's money-
boxes? Stuck indiscriminately in the bookcase they
would be very convenient and very safe. Why,
hadn't Higgins himself missed them?
The inspector, by this discovery, was made to feel
very humble.
Having missed the books, might he not have missed
some valuable clue? Of course the boxes had no
significance, he was sure, but . . .
Perhaps the murderer had left a written confession
somewhere knocking around. . . . Again his mental
sarcasm was a sure indication of the disturbed state
of his mind.
What about the roof? He hadn't had a good look
over there in daylight since he had first renewed his
acquaintance with the Angel that time he had called
on Westmore to calm his own uneasy conscience over
that threatening letter.
The weary constable took him to the roof.
Again Inspector Higgins was impressed by the evi-
dence of the late millionaire's wealth. The fountain
was no longer playing, the plants in the greenhouse
were withered for want of watering (Higgins was
grieved at this, for he was a lover of flowers and, with
Westmore dead, Lu in hospital, and the Angel not
available, he felt a personal responsibility in the matter),
and the ground level seemed even further off than on
that horrifying occasion of the rope-ladder.
The view was magnificent.
Preston Building topped its neighbours by many
feet, in fact, the nearest rival as to height was a good
half-mile away, and the serried chimneys below gave
an added aspect of altitude.
Although Hartford House was contiguous at the base
of the buildings, after the third floor there was a break,
and at the fourth floor another break in the walls of


170 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
the two structures, so that the fifth floor of Hartford
House was at least thirty feet away from the side of
Preston Building. This, of course, explained why
Westmore had to descend to the third floor before he
could get into Hartford House via the Oriental Com-
merce Corporation's office.
The same with the building on the other side and at
the back.
And opposite, on the other side of the main road, the
buildings were much lower than the overtopping
Preston Building.
Inspector Higgins stood enthralled at a magnificent
sunset, until his conscience urged him that this was
neither the time nor the place for poetical rhapsodies.
At his present rate of progress the murderer of Worth-
ington Westmore would probably die of old age
before . . .
He stood perfectly still.
On the roof of Hartford House a man was hiding
behind a chimney-stack. Or was it a workman?
Higgins strode to the lift gates and told the constable
to descend, whilst he himself hid behind the "potting-
shed". Then he crept to that protective balustrade
which still gave him the shivers as he realized its
apparently flimsy structure, and peered over.
If a workman, why did the fellow hide? And why
did he remain hidden?
Perhaps the man was not hiding, but merely engaged
in some repairs behind that chimney-stack. Still, it
was getting late. Time the man had knocked off.
Higgins cursed himself heartily for not instructing the
constable to go to Hartford House and investigate.
But what a fool he would have looked if the man
turned out to be a plumber or chimney-sweep or . . .
A movement in the gathering dusk. A face peered
from behind that sheltering brickwork and Higgins
thanked the screening balustrade.
Inspector Higgins gasped. The man was Tommy
Tucker.


CHAPTER XXI
IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS DRIVES A CAR
Inspector Higgins was well-nigh frantic.
He must have betrayed his presence by some in-
voluntary movement when he had become cognisant
of the man's identity, for immediately afterwards
Tommy Tucker, abandoning all attempt at concealment,
had bolted for a trap-door and had vanished within.
And the constable who had worked the lift in Preston
Building must have taken the inspector's instructions
literally when told to descend, for he was taking an
unconscionable time to answer Higgins's signal.
Higgins kept his thumb on the bell-push and swore
feelingly. Then he ran once more to the edge of the
roof and peered over. He saw a lilliputian figure dash
from the door of Hartford House and bolt for the
corner. He would have blown his police whistle,
but for the futility of trying to shout instructions from
the roof. A brief vision from a street lamp of a two-
seater car going all out. A blue or black body, and . . .
"Yes, sir?"
The constable at the lift-door put his query in a
scared voice. He thought his superior must have got
tired of waiting and have chucked himself over the
roof.
It was not until they had almost reached the ground
level that Higgins remembered the ladder down the
greenhouse trapdoor; and it was only the further thought
that he would have been no better off in Worthington
Westmore's room than on the roof as regards descend-
ing the building, that quietened his conscience.
m


172 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
"Tommy Tucker—two-seater—black or blue body
—tell the Yard—and the locals." Terse directions
flung at the constable-liftman as he was opening the
ground-floor gate.
"Pardon, sir?"
Higgins stopped his mad rush towards the large gate
of Preston Building, and raised his hands to Heaven.
"Telephone the Yard what I said—they'll do the rest."
"But this lift, sir"
"Do as I tell you—blast you!"
Inspector Higgins dashed to the door, squeezed
through the small opening in the main gate, and hoped
for the best. For the first time in his life he was
prepared to meet the Press half-way when they asserted
that the police force did not attract the best brains.
Into his car and away.
Round that corner by which he had seen the two-
seater but three minutes before. One could get a
deuce of a long way in three minutes by car. ... A
long stretch of road . . . then the arm of a policeman
on point duty. . . . Higgins seized the opportunity
thus thrust upon^him.
"Yes, sir. A couple o' minutes ago, I should say.
I'll 'phone ahead in five minutes' time. Daren't leave
traffic here till relieved, sir. Due now." .
"Good man."
Away again. Rather like groping in the dark. . . .
The traffic constable would 'phone all right, but what
about that idiot at Preston Building? . . . A long
line of electric lamps lit up at that moment and Higgins
half-thought he could see the car some distance ahead.
There were so many cars in between, and . . .
Inspector Higgins gave his attention to his own car.
He was not built for racing, and neither was the car, for
that matter, yet he thought that he was at least as well
suited as the fugitive in this respect.
A long uphill pull, and when at last the inspector
reached the crest of the hill he saw the two-seater but
a couple of hundred yards ahead, and slowing down.


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 173
Higgins followed suit, but even as he drew alongside,
a young girl alighted from the car and stood staring up
at a building.
Higgins cursed. He credited Tommy Tucker with
a great deal of ability generally, but did not believe he
was capable of changing in a two-seater whilst driving
it at the limit of its speed.
He had been following the wrong car.
Still, this was the general direction, and Tommy
Tucker must be ahead somewhere. Where did this
road lead?
Oh, yes! The Wembley road. Wembley? A slim
chance.
Three minutes later the inspector's car was stopped.
"Oh, you, sir, is it? We've been here three minutes
and already stopped three blue two-seaters. Needle-
haystack sort o' business."
"Who put you on to this?"
"The Yard, sir."
Mentally the inspector apologized to that constable
at Preston Building.
"Better call it off and 'phone ahead. No. It's a
waste o' time. I can't even give you the make of car.
I'm playing a hunch at Wembley—but it's only a
hunch. Many thanks."
A wave of his hand and Inspector Higgins was off
once again. It was unlike his usual procedure to play
a hunch, although he was merely clutching at a straw.
What on earth had Tommy been up to on the roof
of Hartford House? Higgins remembered the time
when he had surveyed the roofs of the neighbouring
buildings after Worthington Westmore had received
his second warning, calculating the chances of an
assassin with a rifle, and wondered whether he might
not have been very near to the truth. Was it possible
for a rifle bullet to look like the missile from a lady's
revolver? The answer was such an emphatic "No"
that the inspector was even more intrigued at Tommy's
behaviour on that roof.


174 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
Perhaps he had been merely curious as to what the
police were up to? Or even as to Higgins's own
activities. It would possibly all come out in the wash
when the inspector eventually came up with Tommy
Tucker—as one day he was determined he would!
Tommy Tucker had had all the breaks up to now,
but such luck surely could not last! It was high time
Higgins himself had a slice of good fortune. He had
trained himself all his life to accept the buffetings of
Fate with a gay heart and the smiles of Fortune with
a ready thanksgiving, but this case was getting a bit
too thick!
Here was he—a staid, prosaic old woman of the
Metropolitan Police Force—following a hunch, the only
reason for its existence being that Tommy Tucker had
used the Wembley road when fleeing from Preston
Building.
Contrary to all expectations, it turned out to be a
winner! For as Higgins came almost within sight ©f
that house at Wembley he was nearly run down by a
two-seater—and Tommy Tucker was at the wheel.
A heartbreaking delay whilst Inspector Higgins turned
the car in a narrow road, and then the pursuit was on.
No longer was there any chance of a traffic congestion
—the roads were open. If Higgins hoped to do any-
thing at all he must rely upon his own skill and tenacity.
He would have longed to have stopped at a police
station which he flashed past, to give instructions for
a watch ahead, but dared not spend the time. Never-
theless he half-guessed it would have been the better
policy.
A swift glance from the road ahead to the speedo-
meter on the dashboard. Thirty-five miles an hour.
Nothing exciting yet—but near the car's capacity.
Forty—forty-five. Inspector Higgins was amazed
at his own temerity and at the power of his car. Fifty.
Higgins drew a deep breath. He knew his own limi-
tations. No performance of the car would now amaze
him—it might be capable of a hundred miles an hour


176 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
Perhaps Tommy Tucker was feeling a shortage of
petrol! Or had he again made a mistake and was
chasing the wrong car? Not a comforting thought!
No! He was on the right track without a doubt, for
the car ahead was, contrary to law, showing no tail-light.
"Aha!"
Swinging in the dead centre of the road, a few hun-
dred yards in front of Tommy Tucker's car, was a red
lamp. That enforced wait at the filling station was
bearing fruit!
Higgins urged another mile or two out of his car,
but was amazed to find that instead of gaining on the
car in front the distance between the two was in-
creasing! Jerusalem! Tommy Tucker was going to
charge the obstruction.
A medley of sounds! Curses and shoutings! A
scaffold-pole on tri-footed trestles was incontinently
swept aside and Inspector Higgins hastily applied his
brakes to avoid colUding with some blue-coated figures
gesticulating wildly at the disappearing car and with
their backs toward him.
"He's gone!"
"Never stopped!"
"Not a scratch!"
A blare from his klaxon and the police turned their
attention to the inspector's car. A sergeant jumped on
to the footboard.
"Sorry, sir, but we're . . . Inspector Higgins!" The
uniformed sergeant immediately recognized his col-
league at the Yard.
"Jump off, man. Too much weight as it is. 'Phone
ahead again."
Would he never catch the elusive Tommy Tucker?
And now there were no street lamps to guide him.
His own headlights revealed but fifty yards of the road
in front, and a thin ribbon of roadway, hedged on either
side, flashed beneath him.
A railway bridge, each brick picked out by the power-
ful lamps, stood out in bold relief for a brief second,


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 177
rushed toward him—a roar as he flashed under,
and it was gone. A sleepy village was passed even
as he entered.
Level-crossing gates were in the very act of closing
as Higgins squeezed through with but inches to spare,
and a signalman's lurid curses were lost in the wind.
A hare, possibly flushed by the car in front, tore along
in front of the inspector's car for about forty yards,
then crashed into the hedge, wellnigh exhausted.
Higgins shuddered to think what would happen were
he to meet with any obstruction, however slight. On
occasions such as this he was badly underpaid!
A bat smashed against the windscreen, and Higgins
was nauseated.
And still the telegraph-posts whirled past in a never-
ending stream, and the hedges on each side became a
blur without form. Even a break such as a gate was
no sooner seen than it was gone. A sharp bend in
the road. More by luck than judgment Higgins
negotiated the corner and for the first time the back
of Tommy Tucker's car was caught in the ray of the
lamps.
Grimly, Higgins was determined to hold on. He
dared not glance at his speedometer; he guessed now
that Tommy Tucker was going all out, and thrilled to
think that he was more than holding his own.
If only he dared let go the driving-wheel with
one hand he'd be tempted to try the effect of a shot.
Supposing he managed to hit a tyre, what would
happen? Perhaps Tucker's car would overturn—
almost certain to !—and then a second later the in-
spector's car would be piled on top. Result—two
corpses! Perhaps it was just as well he couldn't try
any funny business!
He was gaining! An exhilaration he had never before
experienced thrilled his blood! A sobering thought,
as to what his next move could be when he had once
caught up the car in front, rather damped his rising
spirits.


178 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
And honestly now—what could he do?
Call upon Tommy to pull up, when he daren't let
go his own driving-wheel? Ridiculous. By skil-
ful driving, force Tommy into the hedge? Haw!
haw! haw I Get in front and then slow down?
Good idea, if only he could get in front! Take a mighty
good driver to squeeze through between Tommy
Tucker's car and the hedge. And if Tommy stuck
to the crown of the road, Higgins was done. His only
hope then would be to hang on until Tommy's petrol
ran out.
Another yard and a half gained! He'd have to
think of something mighty soon.
Supposing Tommy Tucker tried to put a spoke in
his wheel? Tommy was undoubtedly the better
driver, and if he turned and fired a gun . . . Higgins
lost a dozen yards by the very thought I
And now he was gaining hand over fist. Too late
he realized that Tommy Tucker was merely checking
his speed a trifle in order to negotiate a corner.
Inspector Higgins wrenched at the wheel, his off
tyre missed by inches the unlit tail-lamp of the car in
front as Tucker successfully turned the bend, there was
a screech of skidding tyres, the crack and hiss of a
burst tube, a crash through a hedge.
Falling—falling—an icy cold plunge—then black-
ness. A frantic struggle for breath—a laxity of limbs
—an excruciating throbbing at the temples.
Inspector Higgins essayed to sit up, but was re-
strained by a gentle hand. He opened his eyes to
pitch darkness. A freezing clamminess in his cloth-
ing. Gosh t He was wet through.
Jerusalem! He must get on—Tommy Tucker must
be miles away by now. With a mighty effort of will
he forced himself to a sitting posture.
"Easy, laddie! Easy I"
Higgins gasped, and tried once more to pierce the
gloom.
The voice was that of Tommy Tucker.


CHAPTER XXII
IN WHICH SERGEANT BROWNALL DISTINGUISHES
HIMSELF
Inspector Higgins groped in his pocket for his electric
torch. Not that he dreamed it would function after
its recent immersion, but ... he pressed the button.
A blinding ray.
Standing in front of him and also drenched to the
skin was Tommy Tucker, a quizzical expression in his
eyes, his mouth set in a half-grin.
It was a few seconds before the inspector grasped
the full significance, then:
"You—you fished me out, Tommy," he said, in a
low voice.
Tommy Tucker grinned.
"That was nothing, Higgy, me lad."
"But—but . . . Better push off, Tommy, whilst you
may."
No one would ever know what it had cost him to
utter the words. Tommy Tucker, instead of seizing
the advantage thrust upon him by the accident, had
stopped to save his life . . . and, strictly speaking,
this should have made no difference to the inspector's
attitude, but ... he couldn't lift a hand, anyway,
should Tommy choose to carry on . . . and . . .
Hell! The sudden realization came upon him that he
didn't want to see Tommy Tucker caught. The zest
had gone from the chase.
And his Duty?
"For God's sake leave me, Tommy. You don't
know"
"I think I do, Higgy, and I honour you for it.
»79


18o THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
But," Tommy Tucker shrugged his shoulders ex-
pressively, "I couldn't get far like this, anyway."
A long pause.
Wet through, what chance now had Tommy Tucker
to escape? And the longer he stayed the less his
chance. Higgins got to his feet and swayed un-
steadily for a moment. Then he took a grip on him-
self.
He released the button of his torch and felt in the
darkness for Tommy's hand.
"I'll resign, Tommy. I—I won't split on you."
And then a diversion.
The rays of a dozen torches lit up the pair. A
strident voice shouted a command and three pairs of
willing hands seized Tommy Tucker.
"Well done, sir! You got him after all!"
Tommy Tucker smiled with his eyes. . . . Inspector
Higgins lurched forward. Even as he fell Tommy
Tucker wrenched himself free from those restraining
hands and caught the inspector in his arms.
"Here you! Keep your paws off him. He's a
better man than you are—or ever will be."
Gentle hands felt over the inspector's body.
"Clean out I Nasty bump on the forehead I Gosh!
Our friend here's got something to answer for." The
sergeant, whose providential arrival was a result of
some hurried telephoning from the smashed barricade,
turned to the captive. "Your car?" he queried
tersely, pointing to the wreckage near the stream.
"Or pinched?"
"I don't know whose it is, but it certainly isn't
mine," replied Tommy Tucker.
"Pinched, eh?"
Tucker smiled delightedly.
"That is quite possible," he asserted.
"Blimey I You're a cool one, you are. You're the
famous Tommy Tucker, I suppose?"
"Infamous, you mean, surely?"
"None o' yer lip, me lad. 'Ere I You two I Better


182 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
position which reflected the true position warranted by
his merits and ability.
He was seated at the desk of Inspector Higgins, and
"feeling his oats".
When the news had first been telephoned to Scotland
Yard that Inspector Higgins was laid up and unlikely
to be available for duty for a few days, Sergeant Brown-
all had been torn betwixt a certain regret at the in-
spector's indisposition and his own elation at the extra
responsibility thrust upon him. For that old man o'
the sea, Chief Inspector Dryan, had forthwith called
for the sergeant and instructed him to ferret round the
inspector's desk and to do his best to carry on from
where the inspector had left off.
He was more than elated at these instructions, for he
had been doing none too brightly with the five-pound-
note business—in fact, not to put too fine a point upon
it, he was absolutely at a standstill in this regard—
and thought the moment opportune to retrieve his
own self-respect and at the same time force upon his
superiors a long overdue realization of his own abilities.
If Inspector Higgins were to be absent for, say, a
couple of days, he would return to find that matters
had been progressing even more speedily whilst he had
been away.
He'd show 'em!
And it was all made so very easy by reason of the
very full entries in a note-book which he had found in
the top drawer of the inspector's desk. There was a
heading : "The Preston Mystery", and a sub-heading:
"Tommy Tucker", and under this sub-heading two
terse notes:
1. Identification. Manager of Broken Window.
Try assistant of Anderson & Goddard. Did T.T. purchase
the gun?
2. A Caveat emptor.
The last note was a bit too cryptic for the sergeant,


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 183
but the remarks with regard to identification were
easy to construe.
Tommy Tucker must have fallen under the notice
of the Broken Window manager—Brownall knew the
hostelry well—and also possibly bought a weapon
from the jewellers. This last didn't seem sense, but the
sergeant had a sublime faith in his superior's ability.
Unfortunately, the news had reached Scotland Yard
that, as a result of his total immersion the previous
night, Tommy Tucker had been taken, in a state of
collapse, to the same hospital as that in which Inspector
Higgins was recuperating. Thus the usual procedure
of an identity parade could not be carried out until
the prisoner was released.
Pity I Identity parades were fairly new to the
sergeant, but he was well aware that half a dozen or
more men, of the same station in life as the prisoner,
and, as near as possible, of the same height and dress,
should be collected haphazard from the streets, and
the witness asked to try and pick out the prisoner
from amongst their number. But a hospital . . .
And why not? The patients were dressed alike
. . . the beds were alike . . . and . . . the chance of
a witness recognizing a prisoner in pyjamas was prac-
tically nil! Bit of a snag, that. Not that the sergeant
wished to be unfair to the prisoner—but he certainly
had no wish to be unfair to the police.
People look so very different in night attire. Height
looked dissimilar—cut of clothes—oh, dozens of
differences. But suppose, despite all these dissimilar-
ities, a witness did manage to pick out a prisoner?
More power to his elbow! And if he failed, then one
could always wait until a full-dress identity parade
was possible, and repeat the business.
Brownall frowned. He well knew what a hopeless
muck of such an identification would be made by a com-
petent defending counsel if the first attempt failed.
Nasty hints that the police had suggested points of
difference between . . .


184 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
The sergeant rose from the desk, his mind made up.
He would carry on at once. If he failed—then it was
by reason of the paucity of the information at his
command. If he succeeded—well, wasn't he already
a sergeant?
An inquiry at the hospital elicited the fact that
Inspector Higgins was in a private ward and "doing
as well as could be expected", which, of course, meant
nothing. Also that Tommy Tucker was in a ward
with six other cases. Six. Good enough.
The landlord of the Broken Window was ushered into
the ward, and having entered on tiptoe, peered fur-
tively round.
A weak hail from the further end and he immediately
saw Tommy Tucker waving a hand. He retired
hurriedly from the room.
"Him?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good."
That was one. And that assistant from Messrs.
Anderson and Goddard shouldn't be long. My!
But wouldn't Inspector Higgins be pleased!
But the elegant gentleman from the jewellers was
not nearly so emphatic. For one thing, Tommy
Tucker was lying perfectly still, with closed eyes and
hectic colour, when he passed round the ward. Still,
without any undue promptings from Sergeant Brownall,
the assistant thought that the—er—gentleman who
had purchased that revolver was—er—the gentleman
at the further end of the room.
"Thank you. I'm very much obliged indeed."
The assistant did not know it, but he very nearly
suffered from the indignity of being offered a tip by an
exalted detective-sergeant. Brownall, however, re-
membered himself just in time.
"Ahem! If you will send in your expenses to
Scotland Yard I will arrange a cheque in com-
pensation. You have rendered a service to the com-
munity."


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 185
The peacock strutted out, and Sergeant Brownall
grinned.
He would have reported progress to the inspector
there and then, but was forbidden by the resident
doctor.
"Mr. Higgins is not to be bothered. I don't care if
he's chief of the police of the entire world. In this
hospital my word goes."
"Of course, sir. Of course. And the other
patient?"
"You can speak to him if you like, but . . ."
Thus in due course Tommy Tucker, under a subtly-
worded request from the sergeant, was removed to the
"safer" place of a private ward, and a husky uniformed
policeman was posted in a chair outside. Sergeant
Brownall was already feeling the responsibility of an
enhanced position which he had never before dreamed
to exist!
And one of the nurses was very nice. Not so charm-
ing, perhaps, as the girl in the kiosk outside Scotland
Yard at which that fiver had been changed, but . . .
very nice.
She was unduly impressed to have such a high official
of Scotland Yard ask her opinion as to a certain patient
... it was most flattering. . . . And though merely a
probationer, she did her best.
Brownall was determined to call at the hospital
periodically to—well, ask after the progress of In-
spector Higgins!
Perhaps he could find time to-morrow—her after-
noon off, was it? Well! Well! Well!
He did find opportunity to call on the morrow,
but in the morning, and early at that. We regret that
he forgot the young nurse entirely. A 'phone message
was the cause of all the trouble.
"Sergeant Brownall? Doctor Grafton here. Of
the Chumley Hospital. That man o' yours has gone.
The Tucker person. Bolted with my best suit an' all.
Eh? What's that? Who? Dunnoher. Why didn't


CHAPTER XXIII
IN WHICH SOME QUESTIONS ARE ASKED
Inspector Higgins, sitting up in his cot at the hos-
pital, did not know whether to be glad or sorry at the
news imparted by a crestfallen Sergeant Brownall.
Since his collapse after the accident he had spent many
weary hours of mental adjustment. He realized more
fully what he had always known, that there is a mite
of good in the worst of us ; he forgot the exact quotation
—Burns, wasn't it ?—and he was none too sure that
Tommy Tucker was the "worst of us". Higgins had
wrestled with his position from every angle. For in-
stance, if he remained in the Force, both duty and
honour bound him to use every endeavour to protect
the public and hound down the malefactor, and Tommy
Tucker seemed to come within the purview. He
remembered how often he had used the phrase that
"personal considerations do not count" in police work.
Of course he could resign from the Force, but what
else could he do? He was good at his job and liked it
—and he had no private income. His wife had a little,
but . . .
If he stayed on, then he must press the Tommy
Tucker matter to its bitter end, even though that led
Tommy to the gallows.
Tommy Tucker might not be guilty, but things
looked black, or, at least, a very dark grey, against
him.
And he had escaped.
And Higgins half hoped he would never be caught.
Tommy Tucker had fainted that night at the police
station, and having been brought round with brandy,
187


188 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
had asked for a cup of tea. He shivered as with ague,
and the police surgeon was fetched from his bed.
He learned of the immersion and that Tommy Tucker
had been fitted out with a dry suit. Then he took
Tommy's temperature.
A hundred and five. Visions of pneumonia. A
hospital case.
Higgins, rather cynically, suspected that the tem-
perature and the request for a cup of hot tea were not
entirely dissociated, and, knowing Tommy Tucker,
wondered!
And the brilliant Sergeant Brownall had made
matters more easy by getting the prisoner transferred
to a private ward.
Tommy Tucker was a quick thinker. He must have
realized at once that his chances of escape from a police
station were exactly nil; he must have faked the chatter-
ing teeth business, then his temperature, and awaited
his opportunity at the hospital.
The man outside the door was all right in his way.
The nurse, by telling the sergeant that Tommy Tucker
was very ill, had unconsciously helped—and the window
was not barred.
"What's your theory, Brownall?"
"The window, sir. He escaped through that.
Then he entered the resident doctor's cottage close at
hand, nobbled a suit, and bolted."
"H'm. You've circulated reports, I suppose?"
"Of course, sir. The doctor gave a very full des-
cription of his suit." A shake of his head at the
remembrance of that last interview with the doctor.
"Still, he can't get far, sir."
"Can't he? You don't know Tommy Tucker."
Higgins looked at the sergeant. "Well, Brownall,
you've done your best—or your worst. I'm taking
over to-morrow."
Thus ended Sergeant Brownall's first essay into the
higher realms of detection! And the sergeant, strange
to say, was more than glad!


1go THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
look on the inspector's face and dropped the facetious-
ness. "Sorry I he murmured.
"What was he like?"
"Short and fat. Clerical garb. Bow-legged. Curly
hair. And now I come to think of it, didn't look
exactly my idea of a parson."
"Quite. But that probably means he was genuine.
The real parson is as far removed from the comic-papers,
splay-footed, lah-de-dah, sing-song-voiced, music-hall
monstrosity as chalk from cheese. Well, good-bye!
And again—many thanks."
But Inspector Higgins was far from satisfied. He
made inquiries at the local police station as to the
local clergy, and none of the descriptions fitted. He
also discovered that a local reporter had ferreted out
some information as to the accident and that Tommy
Tucker's name had been published as one of the victims,
with his own as the other.
The clerical hospital visitor might be genuine, but
again might not. If an associate of Tommy Tucker,
he had acted with promptitude and a certain amount
of circumspection and acumen.
Yet Tommy Tucker had hitherto been deemed a
one-man business—a lone wolf. Of course it did not
follow that he never worked with others, but, on the
face of it, it looked fishy to the suspicious inspector.
And what was the reason, if any, for the visit? The
parson hadn't made any arrangements for Tommy's
escape—or had he? Tommy had entirely disappeared,
and that argued a car or some other means of conveyance
from the hospital or its environs. The parson had
stayed for three minutes only, and had visited three
other patients subsequently. Perhaps Higgins was
being unduly suspicious, for he learned that Tommy
Tucker had been the third patient with whom the
clergyman had spoken. And he had stayed three
minutes with each, and had left ten shillings in the
hospital box. Still, the incident was worth bearing
in mind.


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 191
And now there was a much more important matter
which needed attention, something which (possibly
fortunately) Inspector Higgins had had no opportunity
to enter into his note-book, and of which he alone had
any knowledge, and that was: What was Tommy
Tucker doing on the roof of Hartford House on the
evening of the car chase? Had he gone there to spy
upon the inspector, or had he some ulterior motive?
And the only way to find out was to go and see for
himself.
Thus, in due course, he was once again ensconced
with the fat, jovial comptroller of Hartford House,
who stated that he was delighted to receive such a
distinguished visitor for the second time in such a short
period, and hoped he was in the very best of health,
and . . .
"I want a look over the roof, if I may?"
"The roof? No longer interested in the Eastern
Trading Company, eh? Most satisfactory clients those,
or at least they were, but with Mr. Westmore no longer
with us ..." He pursed his lips and frowned thought-
fully. "Guarantor gone—requires some thinking
over ..."
"The roof," suggested Higgins, quietly insistent.
"Oh! Ah! Yes! To be sure. The roof. You'll
have to get permission from—er—Messrs. Quintin
and Company, who are on the top floor. The only
way through to the roof is via their office. Awkward,
but we never have to go on the roof for anything.
You'll have to ask them. And—ahem !—don't say
you came from me, please. We've been having a
little trouble with them over the roof—it leaks a bit,
and"—heartily—"no need to remind them, is
there?"
"All right."
But there was no one at home when Inspector
Higgins, having been deposited on the fourth floor
by the liftman—the lift went no further—climbed
the remaining stairs and tried to open the locked


192 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
door. Bit of a nuisance this. What about the
adjacent door marked "Private"?
Gosh! It had been forced at some time or other.
And it opened by the merest push. No one to stop
his entry. Bit of a risk entering thusly without a
warrant, but Higgins could hardly get a warrant
for the roof! And Tommy Tucker must have forced
that door, which meant he had urgent reasons for
wishing to get on the roof. And what about Messrs.
Quintin and Co.? Queer sort o' clients not to have
noticed the broken lock!
Ah, yes. There was the trap-door. And a desk
conveniently underneath, with two footprints on the
blotting-pad. So Quintin and Co. hadn't used this
office since Tommy Tucker's forcible entry. Probably
got no business, poor devils. Trade was pretty bad
generally. . . .
Where Tommy Tucker had been, Inspector Higgins
could go.
The trap-door raised most easily. . . . Higgins
frowned as he realized that the hinges had been well
oiled. A mighty pull upwards, a pair of flailing legs,
then a grunt of satisfaction as-he sat upon the ledge,
his legs dangling into the office. He climbed up and
closed the trap-door. If Mr. Quintin or any of the
"and Co." returned then he was virtually a prisoner,
and would remain so until they left. It would take
too much explaining. . . .
"Ah!"
Preston Building but a stone's-throw away. There
was that wall up which he had climbed with the aid
of a very unstable rope-ladder. It looked higher
than ever. It seemed to grow whenever he viewed
it from a different angle. It'd be a devil of a time before
he did any more funny business like that.
And this was the chimney-stack behind which Tommy
Tucker had attempted to hide . . . and what a
disgusting state the roof was in! The accumulation
of the high winds of generations. Papers, feathers,


194 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
trust to his ears to know whether the man had left
the building, for there wouldn't be a dog's chance of
finding out otherwise. Perhaps he had better climb
down—trusting that Mr. Quintin had not a weak
heart—and try to explain. That would be better.
A convenient handle at the top of the trap-door.
Higgins gave it a tug.
The hinges justified the oil which had been expended
upon them, for the door swung upwards and the
inspector staggered backwards. His heart missed a
beat as he realized how near was the edge of the
roof. He peered through the opening, giving an
apologetic cough preparatory to a weak explanation.
A scramble below ... a slammed door . . . then
quiet.
Higgins jumped and landed on the desk, which nearly
collapsed.
The outside corridor was empty.


CHAPTER XXIV
IN WHICH A CHASE ENDS ABRUPTLY
A SOUND of pattering feet. Inspector Higgins dashed
down the passage to the stairs, which he negotiated
in pairs. The last "pair" of the flight was unfor-
tunately a single stair and he landed on the floor
level with a bump which jarred his spine. He ought
to have remembered that there was usually an odd
number of stairs in a flight.
Still those pattering footsteps. The lift was at
the ground level, which perhaps was lucky, for he could
chase the fellow down the stairs with a reasonable
hope of eventually catching him. And by the noise
the man was making, Inspector Higgins guessed he was
not Tommy Tucker, for Tommy was an athletic
person, who as a consequence moved speedily and
quietly. This fellow, whoever he was . . .
A stumble and muttered cursings from the floor
below.
On, Stanley, on I
Higgins tripped over the same stair where a portion
of the coping had broken away. His curses were
possibly more fulsome.
Another flight; he was gaining rapidly. A fleeting
glimpse of the man in front, a short fellow. Half-
way down the next flight Inspector Higgins could
almost touch the man, and then at the bottom of the
stairs a portly gentleman who was about to ascend
received the full force of the runaway, and Higgins,
unable to retard his impetus, completed the
debacle.
Higgins sorted himself out and laid a hand on the
195


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 197
"Good-bye," said the inspector a little coldly.
Five minutes later he was seated in a first-class
carriage bound for Wembley. He travelled first-
class because he wanted to be free from interruption,
wanted to think . . . and the State paid his fares.
Lu, the late Worthington Westmore's Chinese
servant. What would he have to say? The time
had arrived when Higgins would have to make some
sort of a decision with regard to Lu. Not that the
man was yet fit to move, but he might ask what the
police proposed to do; and remembering the man's
seeming knowledge of the law, the time he was chased
from that house at Wembley, Higgins had no wish
to tangle himself in some legal technicality. He
must decide forthwith whether the Chinaman was to
be charged with unlawful entry or some similar
crime, or told he was free from arrest, in order that he
might be followed in the hope of gaining information.
The train pulled up at Wembley Station before the
inspector had reached any decision. He decided to
await developments before arriving at any conclusion.
Mr. Lu was sitting up in bed with his leg in
splints.
He greeted the inspector with great dignity, but no
trace of fear. Higgins felt he must go warily, very
warily indeed.
He shook hands with the patient.
"You sent for me, Lu?" he suggested, seating himself
in the hardwood chair by the side of the bed.
"Yes, sir. I feel that you are anxious to know what
happened the night—the night Mr. Westmore was—
was killed."
"I should rather," Higgins acquiesced. An
understatement.
"Quite frankly, Mr. Higgins, how do I stand?"
The inspector smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
"How do I know till you tell me? And perhaps not
then. You yourself must be the better judge."
"I see. You're very fair, sir. I must take my


198 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
chance. To begin, Mr. Westmore sent me to that
house at Wembley."
"Whose house is it?"
"I really do not know. Not Mr. Westmore's, I am
fairly certain. He had no key."
"Yes?"
"He instructed me to go there, to the house, force
an entry by some means, and when there to endeavour
to open a safe and extract any documents which I
might be so fortunate as to find therein."
"A very dangerous proceeding, Mr. Lu."
"So I discovered"—dryly.
"I mean from the legal point of view."
The man shrugged his shoulders.
"What would you?" he asked. "Mr. Westmore
was a kind employer. He was wealthy, not without
influence, and . . ."
"No influence is big enough to get over burglary, Lu."
"I know. But he offered me a thousand pounds if
I pulled it off, and a thousand pounds if I were caught,
provided I kept his name out of it and took my—
'medicine' he called it. I mean, of course, should
I be so unlucky."
"I see. And why tell me now?"
"Mr. Westmore is dead"—philosophically. "It
cannot harm him now, and I haven't got my thousand
pounds. I must save myself."
"What time did you leave Preston Building?"
"Eight o'clock."
"You are sure?"
"Absolutely certain, inspector. I cannot prove it,
of course, for naturally I was very circumspect in my
actions, but I can assure you it is true."
"I hope you will be able to substantiate that, Lu."
"I cannot, sir."
"Not even to circumvent a charge of murder?"
"No, sir. I am sorry—for my sake."
"I presume you were up to the same dodge that
other time, when you were caught?"


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 199
The Chinaman smiled.
"Yes."
"It is no laughing matter, Lu."
"Maybe not. But that episode was amusing, was
it not? Mr. Westmore pulled the blanket over your
eyelids very cleverly."
"You think so?"
Lu shrugged his shoulders.
"I didn't like your knife on that occasion, Lu.
I note you did not carry one on the second attempt."
"No. I was prepared to enter the house the second
time; the first I was merely scouting around. If
caught—well, a knife might have added to my sentence,
and I had no wish to serve too long for my thousand
pounds."
"Then you did not enter the house the first time?"
"No, sir."
"H'm!" Inspector Higgins had a vision of the
upstairs window in that Wembley house—the moving
curtain as though someone inside was peering without.
He had assumed it was Lu, but, if Lu were to be
believed, then there really had been someone within
the house on that occasion. The subsequent chase
and capture of the Chinaman had given the occupant
an opportunity to make himself—or herself—scarce.
The very thorough search which had been made
afterwards had told the police nothing, save that the
trap-door in front of the safe was an ingenious booby-
trap.
Not a sign of a fingerprint. It had been as though
the owner had deliberately dusted over everything
which had been touched, or had continuously worn
gloves whilst at the house.
Westmore had known to whom the house belonged,
and Westmore was dead. But whoever owned that
house had good reason to keep his identity secret,
else why wear gloves?
And it was an even bet that the house belonged
to Tommy Tucker. And if so . . . What had


200 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
Tommy Tucker kept in that safe which Worthington
Westmore was willing to risk so much to attain?
And the safe being empty, where had Tommy parked
its contents?
For it was a risk to send a servant to do some amateur
burglary, unless he was very sure of his man. Possibly,
were Lu caught, Westmore would have denied sending
him and trusted to his much-vaunted wealth and
influence to see him through. And another thought:
Lu's naive admission that he intended to break open
the safe argued that he thought he had some chance
of achieving his object. . . . And safe-breaking required
some practical experience . . . and a complete set
of tools had been found.
Higgins viewed the injured man from a new facet.
Why had Westmore employed a professional cracks-
man as a personal servant, knowing him to be such?
Obviously not to reform him, for he had deliberately
sent him to employ his art at Wembley. Was this
thought the first step in unravelling the mystery of
Westmore's secret past which had started the black-
mailing attempt? And why the deuce hadn't the
inspector thought of this before?
Another thought—the Angel's story.
"Lu."
"Sir?"
"You will swear that you left Preston Building at
eight o'clock?"
"Who would take a Chinaman's oath ?"—bitterly.
Higgins nodded sympathetically. Who would?
And a Chinese criminal at that. Yet, if Lu really had
left Preston Building at eight o'clock, then it must
have been Westmore himself who had attacked the
Angel from behind and chloroformed her, the only
other person in the apartment. It didn't make sense.
If Lu were not lying, then the Angel must be.
Not a nice thought. Someone had killed Westmore,
that was about the only certain thing in the whole
case—the Angel, Tommy Tucker, or Lu here. Which?


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 201
The Angel, what of her? An unwilling guest,
who admittedly hated the millionaire. A lady's gun
had done the deed. She could have dragged the body
to the lift-well . . . but she didn't bolt afterwards.
Jerusalem I Had she stayed to recover that letter
which Westmore had threatened to post when Higgins
had made his abortive attempt to take her away that
time he had called on Westmore ?—which threat had
effectively stopped her. Lu had known of that
letter. What had Westmore said on that occasion?
"Go and get her things, Lu . . . and that letter I
spoke to you about, post it I" And the Angel had
subsided like a pricked balloon.
The second suspect, Tommy Tucker. Acting drunk
at the Broken Window, yet he had deliberately,
according to Sergeant Brownall, recognized the land-
lord when he had called at the hospital. Of course
Tommy had not known that his faked drunkenness had
been seen through, and . . . The Broken Window
was part of his alibi! He had wanted the landlord
to recognize him, and had made sure by calling out.
And he had vanished after leaving the public house.
He, too, hated Westmore.
And Lu? Only his own word as to the time he left
the building. But Lu was the only one of the three
who would have had no need to force the catch of
Westmore's private elevator, for Lu had a key which
he had used on occasions in the inspector's presence.
If he had wanted, he could have had a duplicate made
any time. And he could also have killed Westmore
on many other occasions had he wanted to. Instead,
he goes and gets caught in that Wembley house.
Unless that was to be part of his alibi! The broken
leg rather militated against the thought.
The Angel and Lu shared first place in the inspector's
suspicions. . . . Unless all three were innocent.
The only clue was the letters, indicating blackmail.
And once a blackmailer always a blackmailer.
Higgins rose from the hardwood chair. "Well,


202 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
good-bye, Lu. I'll come and see you again some other
time."
He went.
A firebell, raucous and ear-splitting, cleared the street
of cars and a fire-engine swirled past. Higgins watched
its progress for the few seconds it was in sight, then
he resumed his walk to the railway station.
He met one of the men from the Wembley Police
who had helped the time Lu was discovered.
"Hallo, sir. Extraordinary coincidence, meeting
you here."
"Why?"
"That house, sir. Gone up in flames!"


206 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
Tommy Tucker, Higgins was sure gloves would have
been used, unless he had thought the fire would remove
all traces.
Steady, me lad! Find your prints first.
And he did. Clearly visible to the naked eye.
A thumbprint.
The superintendent was sceptical, but Higgins was
delighted.
His enthusiasm, however, was short-lived. Arrived
at Scotland Yard he had sought the aid of Sergeant
Mercier, who, after but a short while, lugubriously
announced that there was nothing doing.
"Not in our files?"
"No, sir. Perhaps he's never been through our
hands. Might be Tommy Tucker at that."
"I doubt it. Tommy doesn't make mistakes. This
is someone new. Anything to suggest?"
"Send copies abroad, if you like, sir, but it seems
needlessly expensive for a case of arson."
"I dunno, Mercier. Really, I don't. It may not
be only a case of incendiarism. I feel it to be closely
linked with the Westmore business. I'll take a chance.
Telegraph the prints to the Continent, and send
copies by post to the States."
"The expense, sir . . ."
"Damn the expense!"
"Yessir."
And he did. He wirelessed them to all countries.
And Inspector Higgins forgave him, for the following
morning a reply had been received. The South
African police.
Prints of Diamond Joe. Wanted for blackmail on
several counts. Hold him for us. Photograph following
by wireless, in case still at large. Full particulars
posted to-day.
Higgins was consumed with impatience awaiting
the wireless photo, and wondered whether it would


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 207
be any use when it did arrive. These photos were
best studied from a distance, for a closer inspection
showed them to be made up of lines and dots. . . .
"Here it is, sir."
Higgins frowned at the flimsy piece of paper which
Sergeant Mercier had thrust into his hand. What a
hope I
"Here, Sergeant, stand over there and let's have
a look at it."
Higgins stared.
Jerusalem I
It was an unmistakable likeness of Mr. Quintin of
Hartford House!
Leaving a bewildered Sergeant Mercier holding the
photograph at the two top corners, Inspector Higgins
dashed from the room. Within half an hour he was
on the top floor of Hartford House.
The offices of Messrs. Quintin and Company had been
ransacked from end to end. The jovial comptroller
was scandalized, and half blamed the inspector for
the happening. The search must have been more
frantic than systematic, for the place was in a state
of utter confusion. The drawers of the desk by which
Higgins had reached the roof had been forced open and
the contents strewn upon the floor. Upon a jagged
splinter a cotton strand . . . the intruder had worn
gloves. The stuffing of an upholstered chair had been
slashed with a knife. An attempt had been made to
rip up the floor-boards; a cupboard had been prized
open and stationery scattered about. The very
completeness of the damage proved that the search
had not been rewarded. Even the roof had been visited
again, as the trap-door was open, although Higgins
discounted this assumption when he remembered that
he had left it open himself the time he had chased this
Mr. Quintin.
And then he remembered what the comptroller
had said. Quintin had taken the offices from the
Christmas quarter-day . . . and Westmore had


210 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
"Don't tell me we're going to lose him too"—a gesture
of complete despair.
"What do you mean, sir?"
"Why, he took up his lease, after all."
"Jerusalem!" In his eagerness Inspector Higgins
seized the comptroller's arm in a vice-like grip. "You
mean he has an office here?"
"That's just what I do mean"—carefully releasing
his arm.
"Good garden gravel!"


212 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
hurry to get into the building. Why? Was it because
of its proximity to Preston Building or because of its
strategic position over the Eastern Trading Company?
Whatever the reason, the room had not been used
since the last tenant had left. Dust everywhere,
possibly by reason of the open window, but nothing else.
This place wasn't such a great find, after all. Seem-
ingly its usefulness, if it had ever existed, was past.
Anyhow, Inspector Higgins would get a man to
stay on here for a day or so, in case Tommy Tucker
returned, and, to overlook no bets, would get the key
of the safe from the makers and open it up in the
forlorn hope that Tommy Tucker had left a written
confession therein.
Again that mental sarcasm. Higgins was worried.
Diamond Joe remained at large, and his photograph
was duly circulated, together with a more detailed
description.
There was one immediate result from an unlooked-
for quarter. The resident doctor of that hospital,
still bemoaning a lost suit of clothes, had been confident
that the missing Quintin was that parson who had
visited Tommy Tucker there.
The mere fact that such a statement was unsolicited
and uninspired—so far as Higgins was concerned—
added more weight. The inspector cursed himself
for not guessing it at the time he saw Quintin, but
realized that it was the "bow-legged" attribute which
had put him off. Without a doubt that pseudo-parson
had faked the malformation when he had donned his
clerical collar.
More proof, if more were wanted, that Tommy
Tucker and this Quintin person were in cahoots.
Why had it been necessary for the man to visit
Tommy Tucker in hospital, and what passed between
them? Higgins smiled grimly. The answer to those
questions would probably clear up the whole case.
Anyhow, Tommy Tucker made his successful bolt
for liberty soon after. Higgins had half believed that


CHAPTER XXVII
IN WHICH A SAFE IS OPENED
The following morning Inspector Higgins was up
bright and early. Having partaken of his usual
matutinal cold sponge, which had become customary
more from the superiority complex which it engendered
than from the physical benefits which he derived
therefrom, Higgins ate an enormous breakfast and
then set out for Scotland .Yard.
The relief at the corner was new and presented to
the inspector, much to his disgust, a punctilious and
over-elaborate salute, which he perfunctorily returned,
hoping against hope that his wife was out of the line
of sight. Some of these fellows had no gumption I
Seated in the train, third-class this time—his own
expense—he was fingering in his waistcoat pocket
for a pencil with which to fill in his version of the cross-
word puzzle, and came across a foreign key.
Ah, yes I The safe at Hartford House. Was it
worth following up? Possibly not, but it would afford
an opportunity to go over once again those offices
on the top floor, the topsyturvy Quintin rooms.
What had Tommy Tucker, if it had been Tommy,
looked for on that occasion? Perhaps it would all
come out in the wash—if ever there was a wash I
Hartford House. He'd give that portly comp-
troller a miss this time.
Higgins climbed the stairs and walked along the
corridor to the door of that one-roomed office. He
grasped the handle.
Immediately there was a scrimmage within. The
inspector's heart gave a bound, he flung open the door
»9


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 221
Fingerprints? If Tommy Tucker had used this
drawer there wouldn't be any.
Inspector Higgins seized the brass handle and gave
a mighty tug. He nearly pulled the safe over. The
drawer did not budge.
"Here, Constable. You seem to be good at borrow-
ing things. Pop along to your pals in the office next
door and try to get hold of something strong enough
to open this."
"Righto—er—very good, sir."
The constable returned with a screwdriver, the
blade of which Inspector Higgins promptly bent in
the drawer. With the aid of a hammer, however,
he punched away at the tongue of the lock.
"Stand back, Constable," he ordered, after five
minutes' endeavour.
Another mighty wrench. A teeth-edging screech of
protesting steel as the drawer capitulated. Higgins
staggered a couple of paces and would have over-
balanced but for the constable's timely assistance.
"Now let's see what Father Christmas has brought
us."
A long envelope, and new.
And inscribed in flowing handwriting on the outside:
Hartford House Estates, Limited
TO
Thomas Tucker, Esquire.
Lease of Office . . .
Higgins hurled the offending'document away from
him with a snort of disgust. It slithered across the
room, sweeping a pathway in the film of dust upon the
floor, and rebounded from the skirting-board.
Somewhat sheepishly he followed in its wake to
pick it up. He could have kicked himself for such a
childish display of temper in full view of the constable.
The corner of the envelope had broken by reason
of the force of the impact, and just visible through the
tear . . . black levant morocco.


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 223
exchanged at the kiosk outside Scotland Yard. Now
that was not like Tommy Tucker. Tommy must have
changed the note with the girl there, the same girl
who seemed so to have smitten the impressionable
Sergeant Brownall, and then walked straight to the
Yard to see Higgins. Half a mo. I Tommy Tucker
hadn't been to the Yard since the death of Westmore.
The time he had called on Higgins had been when he
was so perturbed about the Angel being a prisoner at
Preston Building. No I Now he came to think it
over, Tommy Tucker certainly hadn't been to Scotland
Yard since that occasion . . . except when he had
called for news of the Angel, and had been knocked
down by Worthington Westmore for his pains.
And Tommy Tucker had been effectively searched
on that occasion, and Westmore's wallet had decidedly
not been found upon him then. That had been about
a month before Westmore's death.
And then, a few days before the tragedy, Tommy
Tucker had called at Hartford House here, and
arranged this blankety lease, bluffing Higgins into the
belief that he would proceed no further.
The inspector stared at the offending document.
Hartford House Estates, Limited
TO
Thomas Tucker, Esquire.
Lease of Office at
Hartford House, London, E.C.
One month from March 25th, 19—
With an option to renew.
One month I And that month was almost up.
Tommy Tucker must know that, if he did not renew
his short lease, some other client would take over,
or the jovial comptroller would re-enter upon the
premises, and the safe would be opened and the
incriminating leather wallet brought to light. He
must, therefore, to save his own skin, return to this
very room and remove the evidence, retrieve the wallet.
And before the month was up I


230 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
Yard was almost reached, then Tucker ventured a
remark:
"Better let me go, old man."
"Too late, Tommy."
"Don't want to make a fool of you."
"You couldn't"—bitterly.
"All right."
As Tommy Tucker, preceded by the constable and
followed by Inspector Higgins, left the taxi, a reporter
from the gates outside tried a long-distance snap.
Despite his annoyance, Higgins could not help but
admire the speed with which these reporter-fellows
worked once they got their nose on a scent. That
blighter at Hartford House must have 'phoned to his
photographing colleague, and . . .
The little procession caused a minor furore within
the sacred precincts. Inspector Bowler, passed on the
stairs, solemnly raised his hat, his whole attitude
expressive of his belief that old Higgy had bitten off
more than he could chew I Tommy Tucker, of all
people! The slippery eel—the alibi king—the un-
assailable, unholdable innocent!
And Tommy Tucker, to the inspector's amazement,
was not unduly depressed. His whole attitude seemed
one of partial boredom, but Higgins strongly suspected
this to be merely a pose, for, when not aware of the
inspector's scrutiny, Tommy did not seem wholly at
ease. And then—cussed if old Chief Inspector Dryan
didn't have to spot them! His raised eyebrows were
more than eloquent.
At long last, however, Inspector Higgins shepherded
Tommy Tucker into his room, and waved him to a
chair. He offered a cigarette, but Tommy declined.
Then he filled his pipe and the whole situation became
faintly reminiscent of that time when Higgins had
invited Tommy to the Highwayman after his first
introduction to Worthington Westmore's roof-garden.
Again Tommy Tucker spoiled the effect by grinning
derisively at the inspector's slow deliberation.


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 231
"Buck up, Higgy, old man, and get it over."
Higgins struck a match—his faith in his automatic
lighter had received a serious set-back the previous
day—and eventually got his pipe drawing to his entire
satisfaction.
"The night Westmore was killed, Tommy. What
were you up to?"
Tommy Tucker placed the forefinger of his right hand
to his temple in an exaggerated pantomime of intense
thought.
"Let me think now," he said.
Inspector Higgins was not impressed.
"At—er—what time did Wessmor get his—er—
just deserts ?" Tommy queried, after a short pause.
"Soon after ten o'clock."
"H'm. I'm a bit hazy about that evening—ahem!
entirely without prejudice, of course. I'm not at all
sure, Higgy, that I ought not to sit tight and say nuffin'
until I can obtain—er—legal counsel."
"Please yourself, o' course. Tompkins is a good
man."
Higgins named a well-known criminal lawyer to
whom most criminals went for assistance, and who, by
engaging the right type of spokesman, had succeeded
in getting off at least sixty per cent, of his clients.
It was becoming an axiom to the police that when
Mr. Tompkins was engaged for the defence the odds
were a hundred to six that the prisoner was guilty.
Tommy Tucker sniggered.
"Oh no, Higgy. Things are not as bad as all that."
A pause for concentration, then:
"Ah, yes. The Broken Bottle."
"I've heard of that episode."
"You have? Well! Well! Well! But of course.
Didn't the landlord kindly come to the hospital with
regard to my—er—health! You know, Higgy, I
honestly believe that the worthy sergeant there some-
how contrived or connived at my escape at that time,
else why did he put such a poor specimen of a policeman


232 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
on guard outside my ward? He didn't exactly let me
go, but he did the next best thing."
Higgins himself had had similar thoughts, but he made
no comment.
"The Broken Window," he suggested, to bring his
prisoner back to the point.
"Window, is it? I thought it was Bottle. I had a
few drinks there, if my memory serves me rightly."
"Did you ?"—innocently.
"Why, your man in the next bar saw me. I know
he did. I watched him through those convenient
mirrors at the back of the bar."
Higgins mentally cursed the sleuth Harper. That
was twice now that the man's bubble reputation as an
efficient trailer had been pricked by Tommy Tucker.
"Yes. I'm sorry to relate I had one or two more than
were good for me."
"You did, eh? And watered the convenient plant
with the rest."
Was it a delusion, or did Tommy Tucker start at
this information? Without a break he laughed. A
long laugh which, nevertheless, rang true, but which
Higgins suspected was needed whilst the other formu-
lated his excuse.
"My word, Higgy! You don't miss much. I
poured away the drinks offered me in return for my
hospitality. Well! Well! Weill"
"I see. And after you were turfed out?"
"I was not turfed out, as you so pithily express it.
I don't think the landlord admired my method of
celebration. Very foolish. I could have kept it up for
hours."
"Then you weren't drunk when you left."
Tommy Tucker had made a mistake.
"Er—not quite—er—non compos, if you under-
stand me," he covered the slip.
"And where did you go after that?"
"I wish I knew"—expressively, each word accen-
tuated.


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 233
"As bad as that, eh?"
Or as good as that! Which did he mean? For if
Tommy had killed Westmore under the influence of drink
the crime could be reduced to manslaughter, perhaps.
"I know. I went to my car round the corner."
"You could drive?''
"My dear Higgy, I can drive a car hours after I
cannot stand."
"And you weren't pinched for dangerous driving?"
"Oh, no I"
Inspector Higgins had had a fine example of Tommy
Tucker's skill with a car that unforgettable time of the
accident. He could well believe the other's statement.
Still .. .
"And where did you go?"
"Really, Higgy, I haven't the faintest I"
"All right. We'll let it pass for the moment. Now
for a more serious question : how did you obtain this?"
Inspector Higgins held up the morocco wallet with
the gilt initials in the corner. Tommy Tucker merely
gave it a glance, then promptly replied:
"Westmore gave it to me."
"You'll have to think up something better than that,
Tommy," said Higgins sceptically.
Tucker looked pained.
"Higgy I I thought it was one of your axioms that
the truth hurt no one? I can only repeat what I've
already said, that the redoubtable and late—if not
lamented—W.W. gave it to me."
"When?"
"A day or so before his timely decease."
"Er—voluntarily?"
"I didn't knock it off, if that's what you mean."
"You wish me to believe that Worthington Westmore
presented you with this wallet, and its contents, just as
it is?"
"Whether you believe it or not is a matter of
indifference to me, my dear Higgy. It won't alter the
facts, one way or the other."


234 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
"Why did he do it?"
"Why? Ah! that's different. Higgy, my lad,
there's a great deal goes on in this world about which
you know nothing, and it's not all criminal because it's
not advertised. As a matter of fact, Worthington
Westmore gave me that wallet as an earnest of more to
follow. Westmore and I had come to an agreement,
an understanding, as regards our future conduct."
"Then it was you who were threatening him?"
Tommy Tucker smiled.
"Higgy, you don't trip me up as easily as that. I
don't intend to get arrested for threats or blackmail,
or what-not! Oh, no I"
"I'm half inclined to believe you, Tommy, but
whether or not a jury will is a very different matter.
The fact that you refuse to tell me what happened
subsequent to your leaving the Broken Window
can be made to look very black."
"It isn't a refusal, Higgy, unless it's the refusal of
a drink-fuddled memory to function."
Inspector Higgins was distressed. He was not such
a fool as to believe all that the other had told him,
yet he felt that there was a germ of truth therein. He
was far from convinced of Tommy's innocence—if
truth be told he was almost convinced of his guilt—
yet he felt that whilst a spark of doubt existed he owed
it to Tommy Tucker to fan it to a flame. Yet the man
refused to help himself, that was the damning feature.
Inspector Higgins leaned forward and tapped the other
impressively on the chest.
"Now then, Tucker," he said. "Pull yourself to-
gether and try to think. What were you doing between
ten and ten-five on the evening Westmore was killed?"
Tommy Tucker sat bolt upright. It was as though
the inspector's action had awakened some chord in his
memory. His face twitched, his eyes sparkled, then
he burst into a roar of uncontrollable laughter.


CHAPTER XXIX
IN WHICH AN ARREST IS MADE
Jerusalem! The man was mad. "Guilty but insane"
wasn't much of a verdict, but . . . The laughter was
genuine, not maniacal.
"Oh, Higgy! Higgy! But this is too rich. Oh,
dear! Oh, dear! I've got it now! I know where I was."
"Fine"—prosaically. "Well, let's have it. As long
as it wasn't Preston Building you'll be O.K."
"Oh, it wasn't Preston Building, you needn't worry
about that! Who was on the main gate here when we
made our most effective entry?"
"What the deuce . . . er—Constable Jones, I
think; but why ..."
"That's not the name. Try another."
"I dunno what the game is, Tommy, but . . . Allen,
Broderick, Higgins—my namesake—Derrick"
"Whoa! That's the boy! Send for him."
Wonderingly, Inspector Higgins pressed a bell.
"Send Derrick here." A messenger hurried to do his
bidding.
A few moments later there was a timid knock at the
door, and, in response to the inspector's bidding, a
uniformed constable entered, stood to attention, and
gazed blankly at the opposite wall. His whole ex-
pression indicated that he knew he had been caught out
doing something or other, but couldn't for the life of
him think what the delinquency might be. Red-faced
and flustered, rigid, yet trembling, he swallowed, then
gulped out:
"'Ere I am, sir."
"Hallo, Derrick, old top I" Tommy Tucker beamed
•35


236 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
upon the newcomer. Derrick gave a start, then
blinked.
"Ber-limey! You 'ere?"
He spluttered, then resumed his blank stare at the
opposite wall. Inspector Higgins was mildly amused.
"All right, Derrick. You can relax."
"Thank you, sir." Derrick hadn't the faintest idea
what the inspector meant, but he did his best.
"Er—Derrick! We had a bit of a bother the other
night, you may remember."
Constable Derrick eyed Tommy Tucker with some-
thing approaching reproach.
"Lumme, sir! You shouldn't 'a' done it. I never
reported it and ..."
"That's all right, Derrick. Tell the inspector here
what actually happened."
"Well, sir, it was like this. I was on duty one
evening, when a cove—beggin' your pardon, sir !—
comes up to me, an' . . ."
Ten o'clock . . . the first of April . . . forgets his
car. . . .
The whole story.
Inspector Higgins heard the man's recital in silence,
absolutely convinced of the constable's sincerity and
truthfulness. Derrick had no reputation for brains,
yet bis honesty was unquestioned.
"Now then, Higgy, it's up to you. Ask him what
you like."
"Thanks, Tommy. I'm glad of your permission"—
sarcastically. "Now then, Derrick. In the first place
—you are dead sure that this gentleman is the same?"
"Sure, sir? Didn't I black his eye for him after-
wards?"
So that was where Tommy Tucker had got that
puffed eye and bruised cheek, which Higgins had
noticed when they had met at the Angel's flat! And
he had thought it had been done in that hypothetical
struggle at Westmore's apartment!
"Was he drunk, do you think?"


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 237
"Well, sir, I arsts yer! Gents don't do things like
that unless in likker. I must say though as 'ow 'e
treated me all right. 'E druv me 'ome, an' we 'ad a
rare set-to in a field close by. I was a bit narked at the
way 'e 'ad played me up at the Yard, sir. Any'ow,
arter the scrap 'e gimme a fiver an' apologized."
"A fiver, eh? And you changed it at the kiosk at
the corner?"
"Lumme, sir! 'Ow did you know that?"
"Never mind. You may go."
Constable Derrick left the room almost at the double,
patently glad to escape.
A long pause.
"Well, Higgy. Satisfied?"
Inspector Higgins did not reply. That five-pound
note, number EE 66666 was now explained. It might
tend to prove that Tommy Tucker really was drunk,
for no one but a drunken man would give away such an
easily traceable note if it had been stolen ; or it might
mean that Tommy really had been given that note-case
by Westmore, in that he did not mind any of the notes
being traced back to him. In any case, Tommy Tucker
had again pulled out of the bag one of his notorious,
unshakable alibis. But this time the laugh was on
Inspector Higgins!
And he was glad. Tommy Tucker was free to go.
"I suppose I'd better see you out," said Higgins at
last.
"Don't apologize, old man, don't apologize."
"I had no intention of doing so."
If Tommy Tucker's entrance to Scotland Yard had
created a furore, his exit was in the nature of a personal
triumph. It seemed to Higgins that all his colleagues
had, on some pretext or another, some business to do
in the corridors or entrance hall as the pair passed
through. Open grins from his equals, a horse-laugh
from some hidden underling, and elaborate salutes
from all and sundry.
The funny part about it was that Higgins really


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 239
little he had seen of it—especially as to Derrick's
palpable anger when he (Jones) relieved him on the
fateful evening, the return of a man to the car as to
whose identity Derrick had seemingly no doubt, and
the subsequent driving away together. He also gave
the number of the car, and it was the same as that car
seen in the garage of the Wembley house.
This was the only crumb in the entire business. It
tended to prove that Tommy Tucker was speaking the
truth, and also that the ruined house at Wembley be-
longed to him. It also helped to substantiate Lu's yarn.
But if that house were Tommy's and Westmore had
sent Lu to burgle it, what truth could there be in
Tommy's statement that he and Westmore had arrived
at a settlement? Was Westmore trying his hand at
the double-cross? That Tommy had his doubts was
proved by the setting of his effective man-trap in front
of the safe, and by his removal of its contents.
Still, Tommy Tucker was ruled out now, leaving Lu
and the Angel. Lu was safe in hospital for a few weeks
more, and the Angel . . .
The telephone-bell.
Inspector Higgins removed the receiver.
"Hallo !"—surlily. He strongly suspected some
practical joker about to comment on the Tommy
Tucker fiasco, and was in no mood for such pleasantries.
"Hallo!"
Impatiently he tapped the receiver.
"Hallo," he roared down the mouthpiece.
"Is that you, Higgy, dear?" A sweet voice.
Gosh! The wife!
"Yes. It's me!" Inspector Higgins's tone had
suffered a remarkable metamorphosis, a gentle timbre
at which his subordinates would have marvelled.
"Oh, Higgy, dear, you must come home at once.
The Angel."
"What's the matter with her?"
"I don't know. We were out and she fainted, that's
all I know. And now she keeps asking for you. If—


240 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
if I weren't so frightened, I'd be jealous. Do buck up,
old chap, she's nearly frantic . . . and so am I."
"All right, me dear"—a shade ungraciously—"I'll be
right along."
As he replaced the receiver the inspector wondered
what on earth his wife imagined he went to the Yard for.
Still, it might be as well to get out of the place before
those anxious inquiries, whose advent he could feel in
the atmosphere, anent Tommy Tucker and over-
zealous, over-eager, impetuous detective inspectors
matured.
Furthermore, what did the Angel wish to com-
municate to him? Would it have any bearing on
the Preston Mystery? Perhaps it was his duty to go
home at once.
Thus he salved his conscience.
His wife met him at the gate, greatly agitated.
"We were out for a walk, dear, when she fainted.
It was awful. She's in the drawing-room. She
wouldn't let me send for a doctor. Such a nice man
helped us home. I've seen him before somewhere."
"Righto, dear. I'll go and see her."
Such a nice man, eh? That would be the trailer,
who had come in useful at last. In spite of the cir-
cumstances Higgins could not resist a smile at his wife's
naivete. But the Angel would have guessed. . . .
"Hallo, Angel. What's the matter, me dear?"
A haggard face, white and strained, with two eyes
ringed with black as though bruised, and showing
unmistakable signs of grief. Higgins was appalled.
"Higgy!" The Angel walked towards him with
hesitant footsteps. "Higgy! You—must—let—Tommy
-go."
"But"
"You must, Higgy. Oh, you must. He didn't do
it ... he couldn't have done it. . . . I—I"
"My dear! What are you trying to tell me?"
"I—I "She seized the lapels of his coat firmly
in her two tiny hands and gazed earnestly into the


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 241
inspector's troubled eyes, seeking to read she knew not
what behind them. "Higgy I You—you will tell me
the truth, won't you?"
Inspector Higgins laid gentle hands upon her
wrists.
"My dear, I always do."
A tiny smile from the Angel. "Oh, Higgy, what
a bad start I" The merest flash of a lost gaiety, then
again her face looked pale and drawn. "Higgy, you
must tell me the real truth."
Why didn't he set her mind at rest? What malicious
devil prompted him to withhold the news of Tommy
Tucker's release? It wasn't playing the game. . . .
"Higgy I Look at me I"
The inspector gazed down from his great height to
see the Angel's eyes brimming with tears. Jerusalem!
Was she trying to vamp him?
"Higgy, why haven't you arrested me?"
"Well, I—er"
"Is it because I'm beautiful? I know I am"—
naively.
"Your beauty has nothing to do with it, Angel.
You know me better than that."
"Then it's because I'm a woman."
"Well—er"
"Higgy I Had I been a man would you have arrested
me before this?"
"It is possible"—grudgingly.
"Then why don't you?"
"Angel, I would arrest you at once were I not
inwardly certain you never killed Worthington West-
more. But let me tell you this : the slightest evidence
more and it would be my duty to arrest you. And I'm
straining that very duty by telling you so."
The jarring sound of a telephone from the hall out-
side. Inspector Higgins half turned his head to the
door.
"You're wanted, Higgy," his wife called, a moment
later.
Q


242 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
Gently the inspector released his jacket from the
Angel's convulsive grip, then strode from the room.
"Hallo! Higgins here. What's that? Right! I'll
come at once."
Chief Inspector Dryan had telephoned from Scot-
land Yard that Diamond Joe had been arrested.


244 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
a wig, then! But it was the man all right, and Hig-
gins could deal with men, however foolish a woman
might make him.
"Well, Mr. Quintin, you once wanted to fetch a
policeman to me, and here we are."
A shade below the belt, Higgy I But he had not
yet got over his recent interview with the Angel.
Quintin was desperately afraid, and still stared un-
seeingly at that spot upon the floor.
"Arson is a shorter word than incendiarism, but the
punishment's the same." A random cast which,
nevertheless, produced an immediate rise. Literally.
For Quintin forthwith stood up, no longer in the depths
of complete despair, and the faint vestige of hope shone
from his eyes.
"Yes, yes I" he said—nervously. "I—I'll confess if
it will help matters."
A faint eagerness in the voice. Inspector Higgins
knew at once that he had said the wrong thing. Quin-
tin's manner suggested that a great load had been lifted
from his mind, not that he had confessed to a particu-
larly flagrant criminal act. Higgins studied the man
in silence—then he guessed the reason therefor.
Quintin had been afraid of some other charge, some
charge which obviously was more serious even than that
of deliberately setting fire and burning to the ground
a man's house. And there weren't many charges,
either. Murder was one. Murder . . . and Worthing-
ton Westmore. . . .
"So you confess to setting fire to that house at
Wembley?"
"Y-yes."
"H'm. You've been warned, I suppose?"
A miserable nod.
"Will you tell me why ?—the Wembley business, I
mean."
Quintin gazed furtively round the room, frantically
afraid that his eyes in their wanderings might encounter
those of the inspector. He licked his lips, then tried


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 245
to chew the bottom lip, his whole attitude shouting
indecision. In spite of his previous confession he
seemed afraid of incriminating himself.
"Do you know Worthington Westmore?"
Another shot in the dark. The man gazed upwards
with a quick glance, then his eyes resumed their
wanderings until brought up to that frayed spot in
the linoleum at which he stared fixedly.
"You do, eh? You know he's dead . . . murdered
. . . and murderers are hanged. ... An accessory
before or after the fact is equally guilty. . . . You
know that?"
Bordering on the third degree. Of this the inspector
was well aware, but . . . What did Quintin know?
What was he hiding?
"Why did you take those offices in Hartford House?"
No reply.
"What do you know of Tommy Tucker, eh?"
"Tommy Tucker? Who is he?" A bewildered
open-mouthed stare which, however, got him nowhere,
for the inspector continued:
"Yes. Tommy Tucker. Never heard of him, I
suppose?"
"As a matter of fact, I haven't."
"Then why did you visit him in hospital? We
know all about you, Quintin. Bluffing won't help
a cent I The resident doctor will identify you, if
needs be." An overstatement, perhaps justifiable.
"Dressed as a parson. No harm in that, perhaps,
save the insult to a very fine body of men. Why
did you visit him? And, having done so, why burn
down his house?" Higgins glared aggressively at
the other's cringing form. "Answer me that I"
Quintin gazed at a spot about six inches below the
inspector's thrust-out chin and said, timidly:
"I—I want time to think."
"And you look like getting it, a hell of a lot of it,
more than you can do with." Higgins stopped his
tirade, as suddenly he remembered the dignity of his


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 249
"All right. But, inspector"—turning to Higgins,
who was mildly amused at the man's attitude—
"you'd better watch the process. I don't want any
evidence to be planted on me."
Higgins flushed resentfully, and, as a sign of his
complete disapproval, immediately turned his back
upon the pair, and concentrated upon some distant
view from the window of the office, which, considering
that he was faced by a wall pitted with windows,
could not have been so very entertaining.
Sounds behind him told him that the constable was
carrying out his instructions. A rattle as some coins
fell upon the table, the unmistakable click of a pencil,
the slither of a cigarette packet. . . .
"Here! Here I Don't try to palm that off on
meI"
Higgins turned at the sound of Quintin's voice to see
the constable eyeing the prisoner with amazement and
holding in his hand a small slip of paper.
"Thank you, Constable. Hand it over," he
remarked.
"But, sir . . ." The constable was obviously
resentful of the prisoner's imputation.
"That's all right. What is it?"
"I dunno, sir, but . . ." Flustered and bewildered.
"He tried to foist it on me, Inspector. I warned
you that ..." Quintin was determined to take full
advantage of the constable's perplexity.
"Dry up."
"I'll swear he tried . . ."
"Give over, man. I was watching everything in
the reflection of the window."
Although a lie, it sufficed, for Quintin relapsed once
more into his chair. Inspector Higgins opened the
slip of paper. It was a receipt from the parcels office
of a London railway station for one package, sealed.
The number of the receipt was A-C 554.
Higgins was well pleased.
"Carry on, Constable. I'm off."


250 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
Inspector Higgins was handed a small parcel by a
bored attendant in exchange for the receipt.
Higgins carefully untied the string and broke the
seals.
A cardboard box.
Within the box a small revolver with a mother-of-
pearl butt and numbered CS 435896.
The Angel's gun.


CHAPTER XXXI
IN WHICH ANOTHER ARREST IS MADE
Inspector Higgins turned to the bored attendant.
"Who took this in ?" he demanded.
"How do I know?"—faintly antagonistic, more than
a little supercilious.
An official card had a remarkable effect. Soon the
inspector had all the information he could have
expected. The parcel had been lodged on the morning
after the murder of Worthington Westmore by a man
whom the attendant was sorry he would be unable to
identify. Had a lady lodged it? The attendant
implied that he noticed ladies; but a man, he shrugged
his shoulders. Also, had the man been—say—
agitated, the attendant might have remembered him,
but . . .
"Or you might have done so had the man been
standing on his head, or wearing a mask I" suggested
the inspector, in irritation. He was always bumping
up against this sort of thing. It was surprising,
until one became inured, to learn the remarkable
indifference with which the average man carried out
his ordinary duties without noticing those with whom
he came in contact, and the police had good cause to
know this.
Inspector Higgins returned to Scotland Yard, more
than a little afraid at what he might soon discover,
and called on Sergeant Mercier of the Records
Department.
"Here you are, Mercier. Give this the once-over
for fingerprints. Also have the rifling of the barrel
microscopically examined with those bullets taken


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 253
found dead and that he had been murdered. Naturally
I was interested in my old patron and—er—hoped that
the rumour was untrue."
"Quite," said Higgins, somewhat sarcastically.
"I watched the police from the window of my office
at Hartford House and they were poking about West-
more's apartment. I couldn't see over-well from my
window, so I thought I'd try to get a better view from
the roof. I opened the trap-door and climbed up.
The first thing I saw was that little gun which you've
just found. I promptly climbed down again and con-
sidered the matter. I—er—guessed somehow that
the weapon had killed Westmore, and—and I was
meticulously careful not to erase any possible finger-
prints. I knew how valuable they would be to the
police."
"Quite! And even more valuable, from a monetary
point of view, to you—if you could find the owner,
eh?"
Quintin winced at this brutal exposition of the work-
ings of his mind.
"And then what?"
"I—I made it into a parcel and took it to the
parcels office for safety. Then—then I waited for
something to turn up."
"Like Micawber, eh? You were waiting for some-
one to come along to find that gun, and then you had
'em, eh? Nice fruity little spot of blackmail. You
could suck such a man dry, for he would be afraid
to come to the police with his tale. You know,
Quintin, you're a pretty pestilential sort o' rat, and
we're rather hard on blackmailers in this country
. . . thank goodness! And when we're finished with
you there's the South African Police waiting for your
carcase. Cheers! And so you waited. And in due
course you did have a visitor. I suppose you kept
well in the background so as to catch the man in the
act of climbing on the roof. And you recognized that
visitor. And the following morning you read that he


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 255
a slight resemblance. Sergeant Mercier, the expert,
was emphatic.
"They're identical, sir!" he exclaimed with en-
thusiasm. "To think that the Angel did it!"
Inspector Higgins dismissed the sergeant with a
weary wave of his hand. He had told the Angel that
the finding of the slightest additional evidence would
lead to her arrest, and . . . this evidence was damning.
Her gun had killed Worthington Westmore, her
fingerprints were on it . . . and she had been found
on the premises soon after the murder had been
committed. That last might have been a point in
her favour, for no one but a fool would stay to be
caught, but for the fact that she could not escape
except via the lift. Yet she must have sent the lift—
after Westmore's body had been thrown down the
shaft—to the ground floor by means of that controlling
dial. Why the deuce, being guilty, hadn't she gone
down with it?
Inspector Higgins laid his head in his hands, then
pressed a bell-push at his side. He asked for Sergeant
Brownall.
"Ah, Brownall. You must get a warrant for the
arrest of the Angel. Then carry it out. She—she's
at my house."
For the only time in his life Inspector Higgins
funked his duty.
He sat perfectly still for a long time after the
sergeant's departure. Then he lit his pipe for solace.
It failed him, so he lit a cigarette. He liked cigarettes.
In fact, he liked them so much that he always enjoyed
the next cigarette better than the one he was already
smoking. Five minutes later he discovered that the
cigarette must have gone out immediately after he had
lit it. He hurled it into the grate.
Hell!
The Angel would be on trial for her life. From now
on it would be his duty to assist in the preparation of
the prosecution, to confer with the Crown lawyers,


256 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
to do his best to bring the case to a successful con-
clusion . . . and his heart was in the defence.
He'd do no more to-night.
And what would Muriel say?
By this time Sergeant Brownall must have executed
his instructions, and Higgins had vaguely wondered
why he had not had an urgent telephone message
from home. Gosh, but it was tough luck I He'd
been a fool ever to have taken the Angel to his house,
for Muriel had grown very fond of the girl, and . . .
Ah, well! There was nothing for it I He had better
get it over.
Muriel was waiting for him on the step, as she had
waited for him earlier that day . . . and from the
same cause; dry-eyed, yet with tense emotion.
"Oh, Higgy! Why did you?"
Inspector Higgins placed a huge arm caressingly
round her shoulders and led her within the house.
"I had to, darlin'."
"I know! I know! But she didn't do it, Higgy!
She couldn't have done it. She's a sweet girl, and
. . . oh, Higgy I"
"Duty's very hard sometimes, kiddie."
"But—but she's a friend of yours, Higgy."
"That makes it all the harder, me dear."
"Oh, but Higgy, suppose it had been me."
"We won't suppose anything so silly, sweetheart."
"But, Higgy, dear . . ."
"Had it been you, darlin', I'm very much afraid I'd
have chucked duty, honour, and the whole bag o'
tricks overboard."
"Then I should never have spoken to you again"—
decisively.
Inspector Higgins raised his eyes to Heaven. This was
about the last straw I One day, he supposed, he would
understand women, but by that time he would probably
have been in receipt of his pension for forty years or more.
Still, Muriel had taken the blow much better than
he had hoped, and he was thankful for small mercies.


CHAPTER XXXII
IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS GIVES EVIDENCE
The preliminary examination, the prior formalities
dragged out their weary length. The Grand Jury
returned a true bill, which, whilst it spoke well of the
inspector's evidence, removed the final prop from his
hopes. The trial must now proceed.
The Angel was in prison and he could not visit her.
Neither could his wife. Whilst recognizing the
propriety of this, nevertheless the inspector inwardly
rebelled. Poor kid! Alone and friendless in her
prison cell. To think how often he had laughed at
such a scene when vividly described with a plethora
of adjectives by the editor of the Mill Girl's Magazine.
His wife's taste at one time ran in this direction.
But the heroine in those cases got off, and . . .
Hell! He'd give a great deal to ensure the same for
the Angel.
Also, how was she off for funds? Her defence would
cost hundreds. Even though she proved her innocence,
or, more correctly, if the prosecution failed to sub-
stantiate its case, the Angel must be well out of pocket.
It always nauseated mentally the inspector when,
as was so often the case, the victim of a cause celibre,
having been found "Not guilty", had to write—or at
least sign—articles for the Yellow Press on "My Escape
from Hell" in order to pay the costs of the defence.
The Angel, with her face and figure, could be assured
of this means of raising funds, but . . . her three
thousand pounds might cover it.
Mr. Tompkins had been engaged to look after her
interests.
•W R


260 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
soul. Two frail, blue-veined hands, only visible
when the judge made a note, then they were once
more tucked into voluminous sleeves as though for
warmth. For the rest, an immense disproportionate
robe. A character of the Courts, the subject of the
cartoonist's pen ; a puny body housed a mighty mind,
a brilliant brain. A brain which could strip a rhapsody
of rhetoric and leave the bare essentials, could find
the germ of truth in a cloud of verbiage. He had a
trick of laying his huge head on his arms, as though
asleep, and then suddenly asking a pertinent question
to the confusion of counsel. A just judge.
And from Mr. Justice Clarkman one naturally turned
to the leader for the prosecution, now upon his feet.
Hubert Setter, King's Counsel, was a hard nut. Short,
rotund, with curly hair obscured by his wig, he knew
the value of soft-soap!
". . . And yet, despite the receipt of intimidating
notes, despite the warning from Scotland Yard,
Worthington Westmore was eventually found, ruth-
lessly murdered, at the bottom of the lift-well at
Preston Building. Honoured, wealthy and, withal,
generous, he was foully done to death by the woman
in the dock. Worthington Westmore, blessed with
wealth, with a superabundance of this world's goods,
found pleasure in doing secret good. I do not propose
to take up the time of the court in enumerating his
many philanthropies; you members of the jury must
be well aware of these. I merely set out to prove
that his blood cries out for justice, not revenge, and
it is your duty to see that it cries not in vain." Counsel
paused and wiped his dry brow, a gesture which on
occasion he had found effective. A soft clearing of
the throat, and he continued: "The fact that Worthing-
ton Westmore was such a worthy citizen must not
weigh with you in your deliberations; were he but the
least of the citizens of this—er—mighty Empire, it
should make no difference." A sip at a glass of water.
"Yet man is but human, and Worthington Westmore


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 261
but a man, with a man's passions and a man's weakness.
I have no wish to tread upon any susceptibilities with
which any one of you may be blessed, but, bluntly,
the prisoner at the bar was Worthington Westmore's
woman." Setter rolled the alliteration round his
tongue with apparent relish, and repeated the phrase.
"Worthington Westmore's woman. Kept by the man
she killed. Having sold her body's lure she betrayed
her benefactor—after living with him for weeks!"
A murmur in the crowded public gallery. Their
long wait in the rain outside was being amply
rewarded!
Hubert Setter continued his harangue.
"Inspector Cuthbert Higgins, one of the ablest
officers of Scotland Yard, will tell you how he called on
the murdered man and saw the prisoner in his apartment;
how he was called by telephone on the evening of
the first day of April, soon after ten o'clock, with an
urgent cry for help from Westmore himself; how he
went to Preston Building; and how he found the
prisoner on the premises. If Westmore had not
telephoned to Inspector Higgins for help it is quite
possible that the prisoner would not now be on trial
for her life. Not that that fact must deter you from
bringing in a verdict of guilty"—hastily, as he realized
that the prisoner's beauty might well tell in her
favour—"but she might be still at liberty to carry on
her nefarious trade as a harlot. What happened was
undoubtedly this: growing tired of Worthington
Westmore, and possibly quarrelling on the score of
the compensation for her lost—er—virginity, she shot
him. Shot him! Not once, but twice, to make sure!
"Then she climbed to the roof of the building, and
seizing the fatal weapon by the barrel she hurled it
from the building. For it would never have done for
her to have been caught by the police leaving the
building with the fatal gun in her possession. Then
she returned to Westmore and dragged his body to
the lift-well and cast it below. It may have been that


262 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
she threw the body down the shaft before going to
the roof to rid herself of the weapon, but, in any case,
when the detective inspector arrived on the scene, he
found her on the roof. Then, a fatal move on the part
of the prisoner, whilst Inspector Higgins was re-
moving the body from the shaft, this woman escaped
from the building, a sure indication of a guilty con-
science. She subsequently returned to Scotland Yard
and gave herself up to the police, hoping, by such
act, to retrieve the bad impression caused by her
previous flight.
"But, in the meantime, she had made arrangements
with one Thomas Tucker, a notorious consort of
thieves, to retrieve the fatal weapon, which task he
essayed but failed to accomplish, for another person
found it on the roof of Hartford House, and the
police eventually got it in their possession. My
learned friend will doubtless argue that the prisoner,
had she committed this foul deed, which I shall doubt-
less prove to your entire satisfaction, would have
hastened from the premises. But, members of the
jury, now that she had murdered her lover she had at
the same time removed all source of her income;
she may have stayed to find something of value, or
she may not have realized how close were the police
to her heels. She left her fingerprints on the gun—
that can be proved beyond the slightest vestige of a
doubt; she was found on the premises—that, too, is
beyond question . . . and she stated in the inspector's
hearing that she hated the victim of her crime. Known
in two continents as the Angel! The Angel I The
Devil would be more appropriate. Call Inspector
Cuthbert Higgins."
"Cuthbert Higgins."
Inspector Higgins, sitting dejectedly in the ante-
room, heard his name reverberating down the corridor.
Cuthbert! Gosh! Wearily he rose to his feet and
followed an attendant. A murky Court-room, a
scent of crowded humanity, a sea of faces.


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 263
Inspector Higgins stumbled to the witness-box and
gazed around. Seemingly not a friendly face. . . .
Muriel must be one of those tiny white specks in the
gallery. ... A card was thrust into his hand and he
began mechanically to read.
". . . the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but
the truth. So help me, God."
And now he was under oath.
A series of irrelevant questions. Of course his name
was Cuthbert Higgins. Of course he was a detective
inspector of the Criminal Investigation Department
of the Metropolitan Police. Of course . . .
Poor old Angel!
"And had the prisoner at the bar not given herself
up to the police, I take it that her chances of escape
from the country were pretty slim?"
"The ports were watched."
"At your instigation?"
"Yes."
"Yet you did not arrest her forthwith?"
"No. There was insufficient evidence against her."
"But you took steps to have her followed?"
"Yes."
"Even inviting her to your home?"
"Yes."
"And when the revolver was found, you ordered
her arrest?"
"Yes."
"You don't sound very enthusiastic over your
achievement"—dryly.
"I'm not!"
Counsel gave one amazed stare and sat down.
Higgins remarked his extraordinary likeness to Quintin.
Then Sir Henry Manchester rose ponderously from his
seat. Huge, red-faced and pugnacious, he glared
at the inspector.
"Why did you ask the prisoner to your home,
Inspector ?" he queried in a deep resonant voice.
"I felt sorry for her."
1


266 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
his supercilious elegance rather dampened, told of
the purchase of the revolver from his firm, jewellers
and silversmiths to royalty, by a gentleman whom
he was told was Thomas Tucker ... an emphatic
expert witness as to the fingerprint found on the
weapon itself . . . Sergeant Brownall to substantiate
some of the inspector's evidence ... an expert on
the rifling of firearms and the consequential markings
on bullets . . . the doctor as to the cause of death
. . . even the comptroller of Hartford House, happy
and smiling at the notoriety, was dragged in to give
evidence anent the roof of his building. . . .
So tiring and so necessary. . . .
The long envelope was handed to the judge, who
scanned it with his bird-like eyes, and then viewed
the contents. He glanced from the document within
to the prisoner, and then back again. He handed
back the envelope to Hubert Setter and nodded.
Setter turned to the jury.
"Members of the jury, this document here has
only just come into my hands. It is the last will and
testament of the late Worthington Westmore which
I have just received from South Africa. It is duly
supported by affidavits; it is indubitably authentic.
My learned friend, Sir Henry Manchester, cannot help
but admit this."
"I haven't seen it"—dryly from Sir Henry.
Setter ignored the interruption.
"I will read it to you. It is short and to the point.
Hrrmp I
"This is the last will and testament of me, Worthington
Westmore, of Johannesburg, South Africa. I hereby
revoke all or any previous wills . . . (mumble, mumble,
mumble) . . . and give and bequeath my entire estate
wheresover situate to Martha Mountjoy, known as the
Angel. She will understand.
"Dated this fifth day of September in the year of Our
Lord, one thousand nine hundred and ..."


270 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
almost an affront to your intelligence. I wonder the
Crown is not ashamed of the paucity of its evidence
and the unreliability of its instruments. Their case I
Let us examine it for what it is worth! First of all
we have Inspector Higgins. Let me state here and
now that I am and have long been an admirer of that
gentleman. He is so very human. One could tell
from his very manner that his heart is not in this
prosecution, but that, naturally, must not count with
you. He is an honest and an upright gentleman
doing what he conceives to be his duty. He extends
the hospitality of his household to the prisoner. Is
it logical to assume that he would have done this were
he convinced of the prisoner's guilt? Would he have
risked contaminating and possibly endangering his
wife by bringing a murderess to his home? There has
been some suggestion that the prisoner consented to
go with him in order that she might ensnare his mind,
and perhaps his body, with her arts. You can dis-
abuse your minds of that contention."
A short pause for effect.
"And what of the other witnesses? First we have
Mr. Lu, the Oriental servant of the late Worthington
Westmore. What of him? Found by the police
in a pit before a safe in a private house with a bag of
burglar's tools! He admits he would have endeavoured
to open the safe, but suggests he was merely doing his
master's bidding. It would have been amusing to have
seen what sort of an attempt he would have made
upon the safe, were he an amateur. Were he an
amateur! But he was confident of his ability to open
that safe, else he would not have undertaken the
job, and neither would Worthington Westmore have
asked him—if he did ask him. You must ask yourself
whether you can rely on Lu's evidence. We come to
the next witness—er—Quintin, known to the police of
South Africa as 'Diamond Joe'. Another very peculiar
customer. I wonder if we can rely upon his evidence.
He says he found the revolver on the roof. Did he?


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 271
"And then we had several minor witnesses. A
certain Tommy Tucker was mentioned, and I under-
stood my learned friend had been unable to find him."
Sir Henry wilfully omitted mention of his own unavail-
ing efforts I "Another strange character. Barring
Detective Inspector Higgins, the other important
witnesses are a weird crew, are they not? And what
of the fingerprints on the revolver ?—the fingerprints
which an expert went to great pains to prove were made
by my client. Of course they were her fingerprints I
We have never troubled to deny it. And it was her
gun, too! Is it to be wondered at, therefore, that her
fingerprints were found thereon? I have a sporting
gun in my hunting lodge not very far from here. I
do not doubt that my fingerprints could be found there-
on somewhere; the groom in charge of my gun-room is
occasionally lax in cleaning my firearms"—a mild
titter of amusement from the public gallery—"but
if anyone is murdered with that weapon it would be
a poor outlook for British justice were I to be arrested
because my prints were found upon itI"
Sir Henry Manchester reached for the water-bottle
and glass, poured out a little water, held the glass up
to the light, and then took a fastidious sip. He
carefully placed the glass in front of him. Inspector
Higgins, who had been staring fixedly before him and
had shied each time his name was mentioned, gave a
surreptitious glance at the Angel. She was standing
and resting her arms upon the rail of the dock,
apparently unmoved. She looked pale, but immobile.
Old Manchester wasn't putting up such a bad show,
the case didn't look nearly so black . . . and the
witnesses were a pretty scaly lot when one gave it a
thought. The Angel looked like getting off. Cheers!
Sir Henry Manchester smacked his lips, as though
he found the water greatly to his liking, then he leaned
backwards and gazed for a moment at a shaft of light
from the windows as the sun peeped for one brief
instant from behind the clouds.


THE DOUBLE SOLUTION 273
from whatever cause, refuse to enter the witness-box
on his own behalf, a not unnatural inference is that he
is afraid of cross-examination. This, of course, is
blatantly unfair to any prisoner, and counsel are
becoming increasingly dubious of the propriety of
advising their clients to take advantage of their
privilege to refuse to give evidence. That, however,
is not the reason why I am calling, as the first witness
for the defence, the prisoner herself, Martha
Mountjoy."
A Court official led the Angel from the dock to the
witness-box. She looked neither to the right nor the
left, but kept her eyes downcast as she picked her way
across the Court-room and mounted the stairs to the
box.
Inspector Higgins glanced at Hubert Setter and
noticed an unholy light in his eyes as he realized the
opportunity for cross-examination which would shortly
fall to his lot. This, without a doubt, was much more
than he had hoped.
The Angel took the oath in a clear voice.
Sir Henry Manchester beamed upon his client.
"And now, my dear Miss Mountjoy, I have to ask
you a few questions. Obviously you have nothing to
fear, there is no one here of whom you need be afraid,
and my first question is one to which all present in
this Court already know the answer. It is always
asked—sometimes, I fear, merely as a matter of form;
but this is the first opportunity we have had of question-
ing you under oath, and the jury will note the manner
of your answer." Then with a solemn, impressive
air: "Miss Mountjoy, did you, or did you not, on the
evening of the first of April last, kill Worthington
Westmore?"
"I did!"
"I'm afraid, Miss Mountjoy, you misunderstood."
"There was no misunderstanding. I killed him.
And I'm glad I did."
s


CHAPTER XXXIV
IN WHICH A VERDICT IS GIVEN
The cold, precise tones of the judge reduced the hubbub
which immediately followed. Higgins stared at the
Angel with unbelieving eyes.
"Witness, do you realize the gravity of your
statement?"
A mute nod of affirmation.
Sir Henry Manchester flung some papers on his
desk with a dramatic gesture.
"I am afraid, my lord, that under the circumstances
I have no option but to throw up my brief."
"I am not so sure, Sir Henry. The prisoner is
entitled to a defence."
"May—may I speak, my lord ?"—from the
witness-box.
The judge gazed reflectively at the prisoner. This
case was beyond his experience, yet it was his duty
to protect the prisoner, even from herself. He closed
his eyes for a moment as though praying for guidance—
possibly he was—then:
"What have you to say?"
"I—I don't know how to begin, sir, it—it's all so
terrible. But Worthington Westmore was a bad man.
He—he kept me at Preston Building because he told
me that if I didn't stay there with him he could and
would put a very dear—very dear friend of mine
into prison. He kept a letter ready to post to the
authorities, and held it over my head. I was a fool!
I ought to have known my friend better than that.
Worthington Westmore was bluffing, and I fell for it!
When Lu stated that he had seen Westmore in my
*74


276 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
after all! And he had ordered her arrest! But he
got no sense of personal triumph out of the case; he
would rather have failed than that his suspicions
should have been proved in such a manner. The
Angel! Why hadn't she kept quiet? She must have
got off.
Higgins shook his head wearily, faintly conscious
of a murmuring within the court-room, and paced the
corridor outside. What was happening there? It
was bad enough to be within the room, it was infinitely
worse remaining outside . . . wondering. . . .
He lit a cigarette to steady his nerves, suddenly
remembered where he was, and threw it away.
Mumble . . . mumble . . . mumble. . . .
What was happening there?
A reporter came dashing out and almost collided
with the inspector. Higgins grabbed his arm. The
man, recognizing the inspector, clapped him on the back.
"Hell! What a scoop! Old Clarkman's summing
up!"
He hurried away.
Inspector Higgins could stand it no longer. He
sneaked back and tiptoed to that hard bench. The
Angel was back in the dock . . . the judge . . .
". . . the confession was voluntarily given. No
inducement was offered and apparently none was
expected by the prisoner. I took the unusual course
of ordering Sir Jonathan Victor into the witness-
box to give evidence, not of the prisoner's purity,
but of her sanity. You've heard what he had to say.
The prisoner is of sound mind. He went further:
she has unusual intellect. Then the medical evidence
was emphatic on a main point—that shot in the chest
would not have killed Worthington Westmore, it
was the shot through the head which ended his life.
The first shot, in defence of her honour, had it killed
Worthington Westmore, would have been justifiable
homicide, and then the second shot, even though she
intended to kill, might not have mattered. But it


CHAPTER XXXV
IN WHICH OUR TALE IS ENDED
"You can sit down, Higgins. No I Not at your
desk! I don't intend you should give any alarm—
yet! That's right! There will do."
Inspector Higgins seated himself at the chair
he usually reserved for visitors and Tommy Tucker
took his place at the desk, never for one moment
letting his eyes move from the inspector's face. It
was uncanny! Higgins, in a wave of pity, guessed
that the sentencing of the Angel had turned Tommy's
brain, and that Tommy blamed him for the whole affair.
"I'm going to tell you a story, Higgins, and"
Inspector Higgins rose to his feet. "I'll send for
Doctor Pape, Tommy, and I'm sure . . ."
"Sit down I When the time comes I'll send for the
doctor—and it won't be for me, either."
Higgins reseated himself, wondering what to do.
Tommy Tucker's brain had turned; it might pay to
humour him. "All right, Tommy, let's hear that
story."
"Good. It goes back many years. The Angel and
I are twins. Our father was a humble prospector in
South Africa, who sent us to France to be educated.
I lost touch with the Angel and we never heard of my
father for years and never saw him again. I went to
South Africa to find him, or to gain some news of him,
but failed. Then I returned to France to find a letter
awaiting me there which told me what had happened.
My father had been lucky. He had discovered a
wonderful field of alluvial diamonds of which only he
had knowledge.
180


382 THE DOUBLE SOLUTION
more had a knowledge of medicine. I had to be sure.
I sent him a note: 'You have three years to live'—the
words he had spoken to my father. I saw him. He
denied it, and immediately left for England, to Preston
Building. I didn't know that and thought he had
hidden himself away in the underworld. I made
friends with thieves and robbers, merely to find West-
more.
"I found my sister queening it in the Parisian under-
world. The cosmopolitan couple whom my father
had paid to keep her, and whom everyone thought
were her parents, had done their best—but this was their
world. I told my sister about Westmore and we swore
to find him. Then the Angel did a foolish thing. She
found him first and tackled him on her own without
telling me. He took her address and promised to
write to her. Then Westmore burst forth into his
philanthropies—it was as though he were no longer
afraid of me—and advertised his presence at Preston
Building. I had an interview with him in his private
room under a guard of about a dozen personal gunmen-
secretaries! He promised to look after the Angel,
sending her a monthly sum, and would turn over some
securities to me as soon as he could get them from
South Africa. That was fair. Westmore had a brain,
and I doubt whether my father could have made such
a pile out of his diamond field as Westmore had done.
I was satisfied. But he wanted that letter from my
father in exchange, and I wasn't having any. Negotia-
tions broke down. Then the Angel disappeared . . .
and you, Higgins, came on the scene."
"But I came because of the threatening letters."
"I intended to write one, on official paper, demanding
her release. The others? You thought I had written
them. You showed me one—and I guessed. West-
more was trying a double-cross on me and was being
double-crossed himself. I don't doubt but that he
put someone on my track when I sent him that letter,
'You have three years to live'. And that someone