C3n the very day that the Rev. Samuel
Wykeham complained, "Nothing ever hap-
pens in Little Whippering" the gentleman
whom the villagers grew to call "the in-
visible man" moved into the Wilderness.
This mysterious gentleman was to live
indoors for two years, except at night,
only to make his first public appearance
with a sunburned face. And when he was
so poor that he was starving he could
still wash his hands in gold dust. Even in
death he was mysterious, for he was found
with his throat cut, his head shaved, and
all the blood drained from his body. After
that, the Vicar ceased mumbling about
the dullness of Little Whippering.
Then George Crumbles was found
hanged. Mr. Neptune Jones descended on
the village and called the vicar's wife "a
cow hippopotamus." Another murder oc-
curred. And someone took to stealing hens
with amazing regularity.
As far as Inspector Archibald Camp-
bell of the C.I.D. was concerned, Whip-
pering had developed into a minor Bed-
lam. But eventually the inspector was
able to fit the gold bracelet, the dyed hair
in the basin, the assassination of a dog,
and the mystery of the beating drum, into
a logical chain of events that led him
unerringly in the direction of the mur-
derer. And when he learned why O'Leary
began tearing down the walls of the
Wilderness a few days before the end of
his sojourn there the inspector knew
definitely that the final answer to his
problem lay in Africa. Finally, in the
Nigerian back-country, in one of the most
dramatic and amazing scenes in mystery
fiction, he brought to an end this startling
case.





THE CORPSE
WITH
THE SUNBURNED FACE


Books by
C. ST. JOHN SPRIGG
THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
DEATH OF AN AERMAN
THE PERFECT ALIBI


SO POOR HE WAS STARVING
YET HE WASHED HIS HANDS IN GOLD DUST.
HE LIVED INDOORS FOR TWO YEARS
YET WHEN MURDERED HE WAS
THE CORPSE
WITH
THE SUNBURNED
FACE
BY C. ST. JOHN SPRIGG
A re-

published for The Crime Club, Inc. by
DOTJBLEDAY, DORAN & COMPANY, INC.
Garden City 1935 New York


printed at the Country Life Press, garden city, n. y., u. 3. a.
COPYRIGHT, I93S
BY DOUBLEDAY, DOR AN fc COMPANY, INC.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
FIRST EDITION


NOTE
Although the customs, history, and beliefs of the kingdom
of Ashanti have been largely drawn on in depicting the king-
dom of Balooma in the latter part of this book, the characters
in this as in all other parts of the book are entirely fictitious,
and their actions have no relation to the real history of that
picturesque Confederacy.





CONTENTS
I. Little Whippering
I. Miser into Wilderness. 3
II. Tuffy Samson Dead. 18
III. George Crumbles Dead. 33
IV. The Miser Much Alive. 47
V. The Vicar Shocked. 63
VI. Yet Another Body? 80
VII. The Vicar Shocked Again. 94
VIII. Inspector Campbell Strikes Gold. Ill
IX. Buff Orpington Dead. 125
X. Mr. Jones Drops a Catch. 140
II. West Africa
XI. Inspector Campbell Recapitulates. 165
XII. Reappearance of an Anthropologist. 173
XIII. Confusion Twice Confounded. 183
XIV. What Really Happened. 198
XV. A. Watt Again. 208
XVI. The Dance of Loosened Hearts. 229
XVII. A Question of Principle. 246
XVIII. The Sacred Lake. 266
XIX. Wisdom of a Witchdoctor. 288
XX. End of a Detective? 302





I
LITTLE WHIPPERING





CHAPTER ONE
Miser Into Wilderness
"I ought to have been a Polar explorer," murmured
the Rev. Samuel Wykeham, vicar of Little Whipper-
ing, in the County of Berkshire, as he slowly climbed
the road that led to the Downs.
"Or an African missionary," he added as he breasted
the slope, puffing a little. The vicar was a man of about
fifty, with firm bronzed features, a scholar's stoop, and
a short-sighted forward projection of his head.
"Nothing ever happens in Little Whippering," he
finished irritably, murdering a dandelion with the thick
end of his knobbly stick. He had an uneasy sensation
that he had heard the complaint, or one like it before,
but the occasion evaded his always unreliable memory.
At that moment the vicar was startled to hear
screams of terror. A small boy shot down the hill, his
head held low. Seeing the vicar's black legs in front of
him, the child made a detour, without pausing to raise
his head. But the Rev. Samuel's long arm shot out and
arrested him. Then the vicar turned up the child's face.
It was one of the Bundling boys, freckled little imps,
but now the freckles had a peculiar mottled effect on
the boy's pale face.
"Compose yourself, William! What is all this fuss
about?"
3


4 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
"The Invisible Man's come," panted the boy. "I seen
him." He was trembling in the vicar's grasp.
"Now, now, William," said the vicar kindly. "Your
story shows a complete lack of logic from its inception.
If the man in question was invisible, how could you
have seen him?" The vicar patted his curly head sooth-
ingly.
"All the same I seen him," insisted William. "Just
like I saw him on the pickshers in Wantage, with great
gloves on, and a cloth thing over his face."
"And where did you see this remarkable phenome-
non?" asked the vicar, realizing now that the child had
certainly been frightened by something concrete.
"It's the new chap at 'Wilderness'," answered the
boy. "I saw him getting out of Harry Thompson's car.
All smuwered up!"
The vicar laughed. "Really, William, I'm surprised
at you! A boy of your age frightened because a gentle-
man wears a muffler. Perhaps he's got a bad cold; in
any case it is quite chilly today, and I would blame no
man for taking precautions if he had a catarrhal tend-
ency!"
William wriggled sulkily at this rebuke. Feeling that
he must somehow justify his terror, he added: "Oo. He
had a great nose on him like an elephant, a foot
long!"
The Rev. Samuel looked reprovingly at William, and
the boy reddened under the look. "I fear you depart
from veracity, William! You know what happens to
little boys who are mendacious. Not—" went on the
vicar dreamily, following the current of his thoughts,
"that I believe in threatening children with hell-fire for
comparatively innocent fibs. After all "The vicar


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 5
was recalled to reality again by the wriggles of his
captive.
"I were hiding in the bushes," William blurted out,
"and the chap saw me, and twisted my arm, and he said
he'd split my belly up if he cotched me round there
again!"
"Ha, ha! William Bundling!" said the vicar, "Now
we feel solid ground beneath our feet. The truth was
that you were detected in the act of espionage, and were
very properly rebuked. Evidently the new tenant is a
person with a sense of humour. But he did not allow for
the literalness of the Bundling temperament. Well, well,
the warning was perhaps all the more salutary for being
taken in earnest. You can accept my word for it, Wil-
liam, that you are in no immediate peril of life or limb.
But all the same, take the lesson to heart! Never be
inquisitive, my dear boy. Never. Never!" The vicar
released the boy, who was now grinning. The vicar al-
ways spoke to children in precisely the same tone and
manner as he did to grown-ups. As a result they all
liked him, but had only the vaguest idea of what he said
to them. In this case William understood in a general
sense that there was nothing to be alarmed about, and,
soothed by the vicar's gentle murmur, he trotted quietly
home. Meanwhile the vicar resumed his walk up the hill.
So the new tenant of the Wilderness had arrived!
The Wilderness was an eyesore of a cottage, with a
violent pink asbestos roof, standing a mile from the
village itself, on the edge of the Downs. Little Whip-
pering itself was a charming old-world village without
a jarring note, carefully kept so by the Marions, who
had owned—and lived in—Little Whippering, ever
since written record ran.


6 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
The Wilderness, however, had been built on land out-
side the Marion property by a crotchety old retired
sailor, and its hideousness had always been a sad grief
to the old squire, and equally of course to his son, the
new squire. Since the sailor's death six years previously
the cottage had been empty, but now, apparently, the
executors, a firm of London solicitors, had found a
tenant. A man with a liking for solitude.
"Though if he thinks a few threats will cure the in-
quisitiveness of Little Whippering villagers, he's sadly
in error," thought the vicar, shaking his head and re-
membering the many sermons he had preached against
this vice, "for when it is carried beyond certain bounds
it becomes a vice."
"All the same," the vicar admitted to himself a
moment later, "I think I will turn to the left here and
go past the Wilderness. After all, he is a new pa-
rishioner. I owe him a call sooner or later."
Presently the Rev. Samuel arrived outside the front
gate of the Wilderness. The cottage was built in a
clearing in a copse, and so could hardly be seen from
the gate. From the Downs its abominable salmon pink
roof showed up all too plainly. The vicar hesitated with
his hand on the gate, stopped; and then peered. There
was no sign of occupation. The windows were still
shuttered.
"Odd," thought the vicar, "very odd!"
"After all," he told himself, "now I am here, I ought
to call. It will give the man, whoever he may be, a
favourable impression of the zeal of our rural clergy."
With which comforting thought the vicar opened the
squeaky gate, strode up the weedgrown path, and
tapped smartly with his stick on the oaken door. Then,


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 7
to his surprise, he saw that a kind of square hole had
been cut in the door. The edges of the wood were still
new. A grating and a little flap had been nailed in the
hole. The vicar remembered that a builder had come in
from Abingdon to do the place up. Evidently one of his
duties had been to fix up this contraption.
"Quite like a monastery grille," thought the vicar
examining it. "Dear me, I hope this person is not re-
ligious."
This hope, at first surprising as coming from a
clergyman, was explained by a recent experience, when
the Orchard had been tenanted by a self-styled "Master
Nostrodomus." It had been rechristened "The Abode of
Love," and turned into a nudist colony, to the dreadful
scandal of Little Whippering, and the perplexity of
Police Constable Collop. The vicar had got up one
morning recently to be told that "Master Nostro-
domus" had fled, leaving behind him several unpaid
bills. And now this
The vicar's reflections were cut short by a furious
barking, and what appeared to be a large dog began to
scrabble with its paws on the other side of the door. The
vicar was fond of dogs. All the same he hoped that the
tenant would not open the door wide and give this ani-
mal a chance to do what it evidently wanted to do,
namely tear the vicar to fragments.
Then he heard approaching steps, and the grille in
the door rattled. The vicar saw two eyes glimmering
behind it, and realized that he was being scrutinized.
"What the blankety hell do you want?" said a rough
uneducated voice.
"I want nothing," said the vicar with Christian
meekness, "except—in a metaphorical sense—the pleas-


8 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
ure of your company. I am the incumbent of this
parish, and I came to call on you, as you have just
arrived here. However, if the moment is inconvenient
—no doubt you are unpacking your household
gods"
The vicar heard the new tenant muttering behind the
grille, and realized that, whatever he might be, there
was not the least fear that he was religious.
Suddenly there was a click, the grille was swung back
and the vicar saw before him the barrel of a gun—or
rifle, in his consternation he did not notice which. Its
muzzle actually touched the vicar's chest. He stepped
back hastily.
"I'll give you twenty seconds to get off my prop-
erty," roared the voice, "and then I'll blast your
blankety head off, devil-dodger or no devil-dodger! And
that goes for any other blankety nosey-parker in this
blankety village! so put that in your pipe and smoke
it!"
The vicar's hand closed on his knobbled stick. He felt
a sudden unchristian desire to be able to bang the owner
of the voice over the head with it. Indeed the wish was
taking the form of a prayer when he repressed it forci-
bly, heedless of what dire damage it might do in the
realms of his unconscious. He bowed his head meekly.
"Very well, my good man." He walked slowly away
down the gravel path, with the uncomfortable feeling
the bravest man has if he knows that a firearm of some
kind is levelled by a lunatic at his back. When he gained
the gate, the vicar found to his surprise that he was
quivering, and the palms of his hands were damp with
sweat. He wiped them thoughtfully.
"Dear me!" he said to himself. "There must be some-


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 9
thing peculiarly alarming about that man! First Wil-
liam and then myself!"
By the time the vicar reached the foot of the hill
again—for he had now given up his project of having
a blow on the Downs, Little Whippering was already
well informed about the new arrival. William Bundling
was one source of information. Another, and more
authoritative, was Harry Thomson, a youth with a
lobster-red face and large hands. Harry Thomson ran
the local garage and hire car, which he drove rather as
if it were a plough, encouraging it with an occasional
"Giddap!"
He had three days before received a curt note, signed
"S. O'Leary," ordering him to meet the 4.15 from
Abingdon, and asking for the number of his car. Mr.
O'Leary had darted out of the 4:15, his face com-
pletely muffled up, and had shot straight into the wait-
ing car.
"And it's my belief," said Harry Thomson weightily,
"that he doesn't want his face to be seen."
"Why?" asked old Mr. Padding, who was sitting on
an upturned oil-drum.
"Ar," answered Harry. "Ar," according to Little
Whippering convention, is a sufficient answer to any
question. It is impolite to press further.
"He's a murderer, that's what he is," said Mr.
Padding, now revealing that his original question had
only been a trap, which Harry had however evaded.
They were interrupted by young Herbert, Harry's
assistant. Herbert was educated on twopenny bloods,
and felt a simple murder to be rather flat.
"He's a leper, that's what he is!" said Herbert.


10 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
"A leopard, hark at the boy!" exclaimed Mr. Pad-
ding, spitting contemptuously. "Do you think he's
escaped from the circus?"
"Not a leperd, a leper!" exclaimed Herbert. "One of
those people with 'orrible diseases, like I read about,
what they have to shut up."
"You can do a "bit of shutting up yourself, young
Herbert," said Harry severely, "we don't want no
nastiness. You cut along and finish washing Mr.
Horace's Austin."
Mr. Padding rumbled obscurely for a few minutes
after young Herbert's departure.
"Him with his lepers. . . ."
Then he hoisted himself to his feet, and with a mum-
bled farewell, departed to make sure that the village
was not deluded by an absurd invention of young
Herbert's morbid mind.
"Lepers indeed," he muttered as he walked past the
Marion Arms to Mr. Gudgeon the baker's. Gudgeon him-
self was behind the counter, and Mr. Padding went in.
Gudgeon was one of the personages of Little Whip-
pering, a large genial man with a walrus moustache
and red arms, who held positive views about the equality
of man, a Radical surviving in the backwaters of Little
Whippering. Gudgeon prided himself on his independ-
ence, which meant being genially rude to everyone
in the village, however rich or important, except the
Marions. He was always ready to threaten people with
the Law, that obscure menace about which he was
believed by the judicious to have a knowledge rivalling
that of old Fotherthwaite of Abingdon, with the
added advantage that Gudgeon was always prepared to
advise without charge.


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 11
Mr. Padding briefly told Gudgeon the story of the
new arrival, and aired his theory.
"What I say is, Gudgeon, you ought to go up there
and have a look at that murderer. You could pretend
to have come about an order."
"You think that, do you?" said Mr. Gudgeon.
"It might be that there was a reward out of him,"
suggested Padding. -
"Ar, it might be," admitted Mr. Gudgeon slowly.
There was a silence, during which Mr. Padding filled
his pipe.
"On the other hand it might not," went on Mr.
Gudgeon. "And as it happens I've already got my order
from him, so I should look a precious fool going up
there asking for one."
"What, has he been in here?"
"He has not, Silas Padding."
The two men were silent. Padding did not show any
interest. When Gudgeon was ready to tell the story he
would. Meanwhile there was plenty of time. He lowered
himself gently on to a sack of flour, and his knee-joints
cracked. "Rain," he muttered dolefully.
"Yes, I got a letter from him," said Mr. Gudgeon at
last. "Just, 'Deliver a small loaf to me daily, S.
O'Leary,' that's all it said!"
Mr. Gudgeon fumbled beneath his apron and at last
produced a floury piece of paper. He unrolled it.
"Deliver a small loaf to me daily," he read out
slowly.
Mr. Padding took the note, smoothed it, and spread
it on his knee. Then he put on his spectacles.
"Deliver a small loaf to me daily," he read out with


12 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
an air of surprise. "Well, there's a proper caution for
you!"
Mr. Gudgeon reflectively dribbled a handful of brown
sugar through his large red fingers.
"Well, Silas Padding, I sent young Dick up there
with a small loaf, and I'm blest if this chap didn't stick
his hand out of a hole in the front door when Dick
knocked, and took that loaf from him. You could have
knocked Dick down with a feather, he was that
startled!"
"Ar," said Mr. Padding. "Didn't want his face to be
seen, see?"
"That's as maybe. But he's not a murderer!"
"So you say," said Mr. Padding, a little wounded by
this defection. However, Gudgeon always was one to
take up an independent line.
"He's a miser, that's what old Small-Loaf is," pro-
nounced Mr. Gudgeon. "You mark my words; he'll
bury his money in the floor of the Wilderness and just
live there like a pig. I mind the time when they had a
miser at my cousin's, beyond the town. Miser they calls
'em, but I say misery. And certainly he come to a mis-
erable end, for they found him with his throat cut from
ear to ear, bleeding like a pig."
"Well, now, and who might have done that? Or did'n
do it hisself?"
"Oh, some tramp did it," answered Mr. Gudgeon,
"and took all the money. Leastways they never found
it."
Mr. Padding sucked his teeth in silent contemplation
of this pleasant prospect. Then, after getting painfully
to his feet, he tottered out of the shop, without another
word, and set off to Miss Tipton's, the village Post


14 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
P.C. Collop nodded and placed a broad toe on his
bicycle pedal. "I'll go up and see him this moment, sir.
A gun you say? Ho! We'll give him guns."
Collop swung a huge blue-swathed haunch over his
ancient bike, and pedalled off with quiet dignity. The
vicar looked after him. The broad and massive beam of
the policeman seen from behind, supported by a narrow
pedestal of steel and rubber, with the huge feet slowly
reciprocating each side, gave him a feeling of reassur-
ance. Collop lowered his head as if about to butt, rang
his bell authoritatively, and swayed round the corner.
The vicar turned and went on, past the low stone wall
of the Marion's Park, with a feeling of relief. Collop
would settle him!
Had Mr. Padding been beside the policeman when he
knocked loudly on the door of the Wilderness he would
have seen confirmation of his wisdom in abandoning his
original theory. So far from showing the terror of a
hunted murderer, Mr. O'Leary gave no sign of alarm at
seeing, on opening his grille, the tall helmet and impos-
ing grey whiskers of Collop. On the contrary, above the
wild barking of his dog: "God, is this village crazy?" he
shouted. "First a devil-dodger and now a slop! What do
you want, you blasted bluebottle? An Englishman's
home is his castle, ain't it?"
P. C. Collop took off his helmet and wiped the inside
carefully—it had been a stiff pedal up the hill—while
he reflected on this. The insult he would pass, but he was
not prepared to agree lightly to any legal maxim,
without first looking in his book.
"That's as may be," said P.C. Collop.
"What's as may be, you blankety b "said the
mystery man, evidently unfamiliar with local idiom.


16 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
slowly away from the porch, watched by the unseen
eyes behind the grille.
"I take it then," said Collop blandly before going,
"that I can tell the village you don't want callers."
"Callers!" screamed the other, in a sudden burst of
apparently uncontrollable rage. "You can tell your
blankety village that if any parson, copper, district
nurse, meddling old lady, snuffling brat, or any mortal
soul but an errand boy or postman comes up this drive,
they'll get the seat torn out of his or her pants by my
dog, and a charge of buckshot in their gizzards to help
them on their way as well."
Feeling that he had done his duty, and secured an
interesting entry for his notebook, Collop left the
Wilderness.
"There's a pleasant spoken chap!" he muttered as he
shot down the hill. "Something fishy about him if you
ask me. Just let him start letting off his buckshot, what-
ever that may be. You can't do that kind of thing in
Little Whippering!"
However the new resident's message of goodwill was
duly spread abroad, and was taken as proof of Mr.
Padding's hypothesis. "Afraid someone will get his
money, the old miser!" Heads were wagged in the
Marion Arms and the Fox and Fancy. The miser legend
began to grow.
Secluded in its fold of the Berkshire Downs, Little
Whippering thereafter equably endured the changes of
two twelve-months. The Miser had arrived, and though
legend grew round him, so that any villager could have
described to you his hook nose, his lean clutching fingers


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 17
dribbling their hoard of notes and gold, he became
accepted as a matter of course in his isolation, out there
on the Downs, outside the kindly circle of the village,
beyond the utmost pub.
The winds of winter howled cruelly round the pink
asbestos roof of the Wilderness. Down below the vil-
lagers were snug and warm, but looking out of their
windows, they could see the lights glimmering in the
Wilderness windows, and could picture the strange
demented creature huddled over his fire, stoking it
stingily with the wood he had gathered from his copse
at dead of night.
Well, there he was; but meanwhile there were more
important things than the existence of a miser in Little
Whippering. Old Mrs. Cabney swallowed her false
teeth and asphyxiated herself. Farmer Bunn was
swindled at Abingdon Market by a Londoner. The
Misses Tibble had a telegram telling them they had
come into money. The young Bundlings got chicken
pox. Young Squire Marion sold all his father's hunters.
Tom Hand got a cold from falling into a ditch while
tipsy. As long as Little Whippering was full—and was
it not always full?—of such a ferment of events, fresh
every day, events with a poignancy and excitement
unknown to towns, it was natural that the Miser should
be neglected, except by a few daring and shuddering
boys peeping through the fence. Perhaps he might have
mouldered away to death, years and years later and
become only a dim legend—an ancient grey-bearded
corpse found by a tradesman one winter's day, his
emaciated arms clasped round his chest of treasure.
Bu


CHAPTER TWO
Tuffy Samson Dead
It was a cold spring morning. A black-bearded man,
with a battered felt hat pulled down low over his fore-
head, and his coat collar turned up, trudged into Little
Whippering. As he wandered from street to street,
staring thoughtfully into shops, he was taken by the
inhabitants for one of those cranky bodies who come to
the village from time to time, generally with a guide-
book in their hands. They peer vaguely at the church,
and the disgraceful old tumbledown cottages in Cat and
Dog Lane, and then depart again, ignoring the real
glories of the village—for instance the fine new parish
hall, the rebuilt "public" down by the common, and
Harry Thomson's new petrol pump.
After wandering helplessly for an hour, the black-
bearded man stopped diffidently near the vicar, who was
talking to Mr. Jennings, the artist, at the corner of
Telegraph Hill. The vicar was persuading Mr. -Jen-
nings to give his aid in the scenic decoration of the
"Mikado" at the Church Hall. To the stranger, Mr.
Jennings doubtless looked like a local farmer; at least
that was the impression the artist always tried to give.
He had a round red face with sidewhiskers, wore gaiters,
and cultivated a slightly bowlegged walk. He was recog-
nized in Little Whippering as a reliable source of free
18


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 19
drinks, if properly handled, that is to say encouraged
to give his'strange views on rural topics. Mr. Jennings
was at his happiest however on Market Day in Abing-
don, when he could be seen walking round with a wise
air and knowledgeably prodding cattle with his stick.
As for Mr. Jennings' art, it was touchingly faithful
to life. No one except a few cynical horse-copers had
ever been able to "fault" Mr. Jennings' horses. This was
hardly surprising as he always worked from photo-
graphs. Indeed he considered the invention of the in-
stantaneous camera had done more for painters of
hunting scenes than any other product of the human
mind.
Mr. Jennings never talked about his art. Indeed he
seemed a little ashamed of it, practising it furtively in
a bedroom in his house. At dinner parties of hunt break-
fasts (he rode to hounds of course) when paintings were
mentioned, he would start, as if something in his remote
past had been mentioned. "Oh, that," he would say
vaguely. "Well . . ."
However Mr. Jennings was successful. An intermi-
nable succession of his notabilities, mounted on sleek
bloodstock, had ambled, trotted, cantered, and galloped
their amiable way through Exhibitions of the Royal
Academy.
Mr. Jennings' reluctance to help with the "Mikado"
scenery was a part of his affectation of robustiousness.
If the vicar had asked him to slaughter a pig at the
Harvest Festival or help plough his glebe he would
have consented with alacrity, but painting—in public.
"Why not ask the squire to do it?" he said at last,
with a heavy wink. Young Marion was known to be an
amateur of painting. Incidentally he was a bitter enemy


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 21
"Good Lord!" interrupted Jennings, "I wonder if
it's our old miser up at the Wilderness?"
"Miser, eh? Why should it be him?"
"Well, we call him the Miser," explained Jennings,
"but that's only a village nickname. His name's O'Leary
and he certainly keeps himself to himself. He arrived
here with his face hidden behind a scarf and nobody's
seen him by daylight. If he's your friend, all I can
say is, we don't like his manners. The vicar here went
to call on him and the brute actually threatened him
with a gun."
"His pejorative range," remarked the vicar thought-
fully, "argues a life spent entirely in low company, or
else a remarkable facility in picking up undesirable lo-
cutions and metaphors."
"He swears like a trooper," translated Jennings.
"Ah, that would be my pal, then," said the black-
bearded man, nodding.
"But you don't want to be frightened by his little
ways," he said to the vicar. "It's all bark and no bite
with him. He's got the 'eart of a child really, but he
covers it up by swearing and blinding. You just want
to kick him in the pants when he starts his games, and
he'll calm down as quiet as a little lamb."
"Upon my word, I felt strongly tempted to try some-
thing of the sort," confessed the vicar, "but my kicking
days are over. In any case rugger was my game, not
soccer."
"Well, many's the time I've broken a bottle over
Spike's head," said the stranger reminiscently, "and
afterwards butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Now
where would this Wilderness be?"
"If you like," said Jennings, "I'll put you on your


22 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
way. I'm going up to the Downs, and I can as well go
past the Wilderness as any other way."
"That's uncommonly kind of you, sir," said the
stranger without much enthusiasm. "But I don't want
to trouble you."
"No trouble at all," Jennings assured him heartily.
"Good-bye, Vicar! I'll let you know about that scenery
when I've thought it over, but Marion's your man, not
a doubt about it!"
The two tramped side by side up the hill leading out
of the village, while Jennings gave a brief sketch of the
Miser's arrival and subsequent history. He attempted
to draw out the black-bearded stranger. But he was not
to be drawn. In spite of his genial loquacity, he evaded
all leading questions with a skill which showed a shrewd
brain beneath his stolid exterior. Jennings soon realized
that it was useless to press him farther. They turned off
the main road to the Downs down the track that led past
the cottage and when they reached the gate, the
stranger hesitated.
"Well," he said uneasily, "I dunno as I'll look in on
my pal just now. He's an odd cuss, sleeps most of the
day, you know. I think I'll wait till the evening. Maybe
I can get a bit to eat and a can of beer at a pub,
where?"
Jennings felt irritated, for he had accompanied the
stranger on the tramp up hill solely to witness the en-
counter. He might even, he had thought, see the famous
charge of buckshot loosed at the presumptuous intruder.
In the normal course, walks on the Downs were not
at all in the artist's line. He preferred to hack
picturesquely about the countryside, distributing
hearty salutations to yokels as he trotted past them. 


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 23
"Well, thanks for showing me the way," went on
the stranger, "I'll be able to find it myself this evening.
Is there a pub near here?"
"There's the Fox and Fancy at the bottom of the
hill," said Jennings curtly. "Turn left before you reach
the village."
Repeating his thanks, the bearded stranger turned
back. Mr. Jennings went on to the Downs. As he had
got so far, he might as well make a walk of it. Presently
his feet were on the springy turf, and he quickened his
pace. It was early for the full spate of flowers or butter-
flies which in late summer would liven the drab curves
with an evanescent efflorescence. For mile after mile the
hills undulated monotonously with an occasional copse
like some vegetable waif abandoned in a great arboreal
migration. Up above, the clouds scudded, hurried by the
east wind. Towards all this familiar landscape Mr.
Jennings felt the same proprietorial air that a tailor
might feel towards a roll of material lying on his
shelves. How many yards of this knobbly hill-land, with
its soft depressions like marks of a giant modeller's
fingers, he had snipped neatly off to put between the
legs of horses! How often he had fitted an acre or two
of this thin cloudy sky behind the haughty faces of
M.F.H.'s, their pink coats carefully contrasted with
the cold grey clouds behind them!
Sound stuff all of it, he thought. It seemed peculiarly
appropriate that, on the brow of the Devil's Knoll
across there, he could see a string from Mr. Billock's
Hinton stables, cantering down a track marked out
with gorse.
Then Mr. Jennings gave an exclamation of disgust.
There, right in the foreground, was a young man seated


24 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
languidly in front of an easel—young Marion! Paint-
ing!
Impelled by a contemptuous curiosity, Mr. Jennings
strode on until he reached the amateur artist. Claude
Marion looked round at the approaching steps and
greeted him politely enough. The landowner was thin,
with a sallow oval face and dark brown eyes inherited
from his Italian grandmother, and fine arched eye-
brows and a sensitive mouth coming from Heaven knows
where, for all the Marion ancestors had been hard-
riding, hard-drinking gentlemen. Today their por-
traits, all painted by the Jennings of their periods
—looked down in disapproval from the walls of Marion
Hall, on the strange parties of communists, poets, biolo-
gists, and other persons ignorant of horses, port, and
farming, invited by their descendant.
"Good morning, cher mditre!" said Claude Marion,
continuing to paint. Mr. Jennings snorted. It was part
of young Marion's sarcasm always to address the elder
man in the tones of a humble disciple.
Then Mr. Jennings looked over his shoulder, and
paled. It was positively outrageous! He felt all the
indignation of the tailor already referred to, as if some
young urchin had seized his most useful roll of material
and dragged it through the mud. Marion was painting
the Downs, but good Heavens! what was he doing with
them? Those pleasant green undulations had become
j agged brown rocks. They glittered with a morbid steel-
blue light. Great chasms cleft the skyline, and the sky
itself, that clear spring sky, looked like a bowlful of
melted thunder and lightning poured indiscriminately
upon the scene.
"And what," asked Mr. Jennings stung beyond


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 25
endurance, "if I may venture to ask, are those apples
doing in the foreground?" He pointed with his stick.
"Here, this huge bunch hanging down from the top left-
hand corner. I don't see any apples!"
"It's my signature tune, cher maitre," said Claude
Marion, rising and wiping his hands on a rag. "You
always have a horse in your pictures, why shouldn't I—
in my humbler way—have an apple in mine?"
"Well, I know I'm one of the Old Guard," began Jen-
nings, "but I can't see the necessity for deliberate dis-
tortion, all this Neolithic business . . ."
"But you're a little Neolithic yourself, dear man,"
cooed Claude, slowly packing up his painting appara-
tus, "with your smelly tweeds and your beer-drinking,
positively primitive."
"You know," he went on, as, his folding easel tucked
under his arm, he stood beside Jennings, "I believe the
stage is set for the revival of your school of Art. If you
like to pay me a percentage on sales, I'm quite prepared
to lead the Reaction. We might issue a little magazine
'jenningsart' with a small J and start an artistic
colony here, all wearing smelly tweeds and gaiters."
"Unfortunately I happen to take my art seriously,"
said Mr. Jennings austerely.
"Really?" giggled Marion. "Lady Brutell said you
told her you painted as other people played bridge, to
occupy the time between the end and the beginning of
the hunting season. Frightful liar, isn't she?"
Mr. Jennings blushed. Although Marion and he dis-
liked each other cordially, Marion had an infuriating
habit of seizing every opportunity of talking to him.
Now for instance he had evidently* resolved to accom-
pany him all the way back to the village.


26 THE CORPSE "WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
Jennings decided to change the subject. "Sorry to
see you've sold your hunters, Marion," he said
brusquely, "death duties, I suppose."
"Something of the sort. And one has one's duties to
oneself. If you were forced to choose, Jennings (which
Heaven forefend), would you give up your hunter or
your mistress?"
Mr. Jennings coughed. "The eventuality has never
arisen, so I can't say."
"Oh, don't misunderstand me, I was only suggesting
a hypothetical case. Dear me, what a lovely dandelion!"
Claude Marion bent down to pick the flower. "Now,
really, Jennings, I ask you, as a fellow artist, is there a
more effective flower? And we call it a weed! When one
thinks of the cheap vulgarity of roses, and those fright-
fully Fascist tulips, all standing in rows, one wants to
simply denude one's garden and plant nothing but
masses and masses of dandelions. Only my tenderness
for old Bundling's feelings prevents my doing so. He'd
probably resign his job, and then what would become
of his hordes of children? Really, I often tell him it's
time he thinned out his family." Marion bent his head
confidentially towards Jennings. "Do you know, I'm
thinking of doing a Venus in the Dandelions. Can't you
see it? Perfect masses of dandelions in unbroken chrome
with a very plastic nude, a Bushman nude, with just the
subtlest suggestion of pure English womanhood about
her, to offset the enormous haunches. Rather cynical,
don't you think? Or don't you?"
Mr. Jennings, as always after an artistic conversa-
tion with Marion, felt his head swimming away from
him. He evaded the question by waving his stick to
Farmer Bunn, who was leaning against some wire fenc-


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 27
ing contemplating a herd of young bulls, a pipe in his
mouth. Farmer Bunn gave a brief salutation to Jen-
nings, whom he thought a well-meaning idiot, and a
heartier one to Claude Marion, about whom he did not
think at all, for a Marion was a Marion in Little
Whippering, and always had been, whatever he might
say or do.
Claude Marion put down his painting tackle for a
moment and leaning on the wire, looked at the bulls.
"What very farouche creatures, Bunn! Do look at
that one over there with the black muzzle and the Clark
Gable eyes! I really shudder to imagine what he can be
thinking of. Don't you ever feel your personality
wilting among all these primitive souls, with their dark
mysterious lives?"
"I can't say I do, sir," said Farmer Bunn.
Mr. Jennings snorted. Fancy talking to a farmer
like that! He prided himself he knew the tone of agri-
cultural conversation.
Unfortunately he could not prod these animals with
his stick, as the nearest was ten feet away, but he waved
his thick stick in their direction. Then he gave an
appraising grunt. "Fine beasts these, Bunn!"
Bunn removed his pipe from his mouth, and stared at
Jennings, remaining dumb for two or three minutes
from sheer astonishment. Then he spat reflectively.
"Fine beasts, Mr. Jennings? Why, they ain't worth
a damn! I only keeps 'em for their manure and their
company."
Marion giggled, and dug Jennings in the ribs.
"Remember that, Jennings! If we could say only half
as much for some of the people in this world, it would
be something."


28 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
Jennings did not reply, and at the cross-roads he
took the first opportunity of shaking off his companion.
"And that's the younger generation. My God!" he
exclaimed stumping viciously towards the Fox and
Fancy.
Humming gently to himself, Claude Marion walked
on his way alone. It was already getting dark, and as he
neared the village, he saw a stranger, a black-bearded
man, quietly seated on a railing, apparently waiting,
though for what, it was difficult to imagine. Perhaps he
had a sweetheart among one of the village girls, and was
keeping a tryst. In any case Claude Marion did not
bother his head further about him, for his Venus among
the Dandelions was taking shape already in his mind.
Later he was to regret that lack of incuriosity.
What is more, he must have been the last person in
the village to see the black-bearded stranger there, for
after that he appears to have faded out of Little Whip-
pering's ken. But not out of their minds. For it was, as
it was later discovered, through his action that the
village next day was set in a minor turmoil. The vicar
detected the excitement in Miss Tipton's eyes as she
hurried down the main street. "Whither away, so fast
and so free?" he asked her. "Has anything untoward
occurred?"
"Yes, sir, there's a telegram for the Miser from
someone in Abingdon. Such a funny telegram, sir, it's
put us all in a flutter. I'm taking it up myself for if I
send the child goodness knows what he may say, some-
thing she oughtn't to hear, I'm sure! Mr. Gudgeon
thinks there's something queer about the telegram, sir,
but Mr. Padding says it's just what he always
expected."


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 29
The vicar was not surprised at this committee meet-
ing's report on the telegram. He knew it was a Little
Whippering custom to save time by making public the
contents of wires on their receipt. After all, they
argued, if the matter were private, it would not be dis-
cussed in a telegram which, as everyone knows, is seen
by the Post Office people. However, the vicar felt it his
duty to make some remonstrance, however feeble,
against the practice.
"I really don't think you should hand round a tele-
gram in this way, Miss Tipton."
"But it's only among friends, sir. And it's that
queer, sir. It says"
The vicar raised his hand. "No, really, I don't think
I should become a party to this." He hesitated. "Yet, on
the other hand, as everyone seems to have heard it, and
no doubt my wife will have heard it by now . . ." He
lowered his hand.
Miss Tipton produced the envelope magically from
her voluminous skirts.
"Yes, sir, you just have a peep at it. The flap's been
pulled up once or twice, so it comes off easy enough."
"Dear, dear, this is making me a party to crime with
a vengeance," said the vicar as Miss Tipton handed
him the slip. Then suddenly the word "dying" caught
his eye. If anyone was dying, thought the vicar, he had
a professional interest in it. He took the telegram.
o'leary,
the wilderness, south fancifell.
am dying. come at once to 5, ethelred
street, abingdon. have good news for you.
tuffy samson was killed in a car accident


30 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
IN KADUNA SIX WEEKS AGO. WILL TELL YOU
ALL ON ARRIVAL. COME QUICKLY GEORGE
CRUMBLES.
"Well, upon my soul," said the vicar. "This smacks
of violence, or at least a strange lack of charity. 'Good
news for you—Tuffy Samson killed.'"
He returned the slip, and Miss Tipton replaced it in
its envelope with hands that quivered with excitement.
"Er—lick it well," said the vicar. "At present, it
looks unconvincing even to a simpleton like myself. I
trust he will not be violent, Miss Tipton. And if he is
profane, well, you must be like the sailors of Odysseus;
stop thine ears and make all haste from thence. I will
wait at the bottom of the hill in case you want any
assistance."
The vicar waited, and presently Miss Tipton came
hurrying down the hill.
"Well, what did he say?"
"I'd not bemean myself by repeating it, sir," said
Miss Tipton. "All the same, I oughter have stuck that
flap down more carefully. To be called a nosey-parker
at my age! I gave him a piece of my mind, sir, you can
be sure, and then he calmed down a bit. Apologized in
fact!"
"Apologized!" exclaimed the vicar. "You must have
the tongue of Charity herself."
"Well, he had to soothe me down a bit, seeing as how
he wanted me to take a message," answered Miss Tip-
ton triumphantly. "He wants Harry Thompson to take
him into Abingdon at once!"
"Well, well, upon my soul, this is exciting. It is not
often our simple daily round is disturbed in this


32 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
you wouldn't believe, if he doesn't get his number di-
rectly he lifts his receiver. 'I'm not a Jack-in-a-Box,' I
often feel like telling him, but it never pays to be rude."
"It doesn't," agreed the vicar, lifting his hat in
farewell.
He walked back slowly muttering to himself: "Am
dying—Tuffy Samson killed."
Then he stopped in the road and apostrophized him-
self sternly. "Samuel Wykeham, Clerk in Holy Orders,
you have given way to a most degrading curiosity. As a
penance you will dismiss the subject altogether from
your thoughts."
He forced himself to decide there and then the vexed
question of who should fill the role of the Executioner
in the "Mikado."
But somehow it suggested nothing but George
Crumbles.


CHAPTER THREE
George Crumbles Dead
It was getting dark when Harry Thompson drew up
outside the Wilderness. There was a scrunch of tires on
the gravel as he lugged back the hand brake with a
sinewy right arm. His brick-red face beneath the bat-
tered uniform cap looked stolid enough, but behind it
Harry Thompson's mind was seething with the parting
injunctions of Gudgeon, Padding, Miss Tipton, and
even, in a humble way, young Herbert.
Harry Thompson knew that he would be expected
to bring back a detailed account of every incident on
his drive to Abingdon and back, of every word said to
him, and his replies, and any gestures or meaningful
actions. Above all, they relied on him for a preciser de-
scription of the Miser's person than had been so far
available to Little Whippering.
His report, he knew, would be the basis of all dis-
cussions in Little Whippering for at least a month.
His accuracy was the more essential in that it was
generally felt without being actually said that Harry
Thompson had been unobservant on the previous oc-
casion. He had recalled nothing of the drive from
Abingdon Station to the Wilderness except the vague
impression that the Miser was a middle-aged man,
muffled up like.
Most people pictured the Miser in outdoor garb as
33


34 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
a kind ©f mummy, with a head completely swathed in
bandages except for two sinister eye-holes. In fact,
however, the mystery man went no farther than wear-
ing a muffler to cover the lower part of his face, as
might any sufferer from asthma, and in addition, per-
haps his hat was pulled unusually low down over his
eyes. It was in this guise that Mr. O'Leary, amid
furious barking from his dog, stepped out from the
front door of the Wilderness.
"Good evening, sir!" said Harry Thompson, politely.
He had turned on the roof light, and now stood hold-
ing the door of the landaulet open.
Mr. O'Leary gave an ill-tempered mumble. He
stumbled into the car past Thompson with his head
down and, with his back to him, switched off the roof
light. Then he sat down.
Harry Thompson remained with the door open for
a moment, debating whether to venture a further word
of conversation, but something about the posture and
impatient twitching of Mr. O'Leary decided him
against this. He closed the door and jumped into the
driver's seat, which was separated from Mr. O'Leary
by a partition of glass.
"Come on, old girl," said Harry, as he reversed the
car in jerks round the tricky drive.
"None of that, dang you!" he added, as the offside
front wing scraped the gate. Then he bumped out along
the track, turned down the hill, and once clear of the
village, rushed along the white dusty road to Abingdon.
No sound came from the passenger huddled in the cen-
tre of the seat in the back. A melancholy whistle
emerged from Harry's pursed lips as the ancient vehi-
cle swayed and bumped along the rutty road.


THE COKPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 35
Harry had expected No. 5, Ethelred Road to be
a nursing home of some kind. To his surprise he found
that Nos. 4, 5 and 6, Ethelred Road were all repre-
sented by the Ethelreda Hotel, and it was before the
hotel therefore that he stopped.
"Wait till I come out!" mumbled O'Leary, his words
muffled by his scarf. He hurried up the hotel steps.
Ten minutes passed. Then a porter flung himself
down the steps. He ran up to Harry Thompson.
"Drive round to the police station as quick as you
can," he cried, "and put a snap in it, son! Tell them a
man's just done himself in."
"Crumbs!" said Harry, staggered at the dreadful
possibilities this opened up.
Then he pressed the starter button, let in the clutch
with a jerk, and leaped forward with a convulsive roar.
As the car swayed round the corner awful visions sug-
gested themselves. He imagined Mr. O'Leary prevailed
upon to remove his muffler. At the sight of that ghastly
face—for Little Whippering had long agreed it must
be ghastly—the beholder had been driven mad and in-
continently shot himself. By the time Harry Thompson
reached the police station he was perspiring with ex-
citement.
Sergeant Jobling heard his story without showing
any emotion. Leaving a message for Inspector Gregson
and the police surgeon to be rung up, he jumped into
the car beside Harry Thompson and was whirled to the
Ethelreda Hotel.
Harry accompanied him up the steps and into the
reception hall. Here they were met by the manager, a
thin man with large horn-rimmed spectacles whose
eyes blinked nervously as he fussed round the sergeant.


36 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
"Absolutely inexplicable. The man had only just
come . . ."
Sergeant Jobling did not make any comment or
comforting remark, did not in fact commit himself in
any way, but asked to be taken at once to the dead
man. The manager led the way to the first floor, still
talking nervously, and flung open the door of a large
bedroom. Thompson pressed behind the policeman.
Sergeant Jobling stood on the threshold and stroked
his large black moustache with one vast hand as he
looked round the room. On the bed was stretched the
body of a man, a black-bearded man. The livid and
distorted features, and the deep red marks round the
neck, showed that he had been strangled. In the chair
facing them sat a figure which made Sergeant Jobling's
eyebrows rise.
Only his eyes and the bridge of his nose were visible.
The rest of his face was hidden by a silk scarf. He
was wearing a hat, pulled well down on his forehead.
For the moment, however, the sergeant did not com-
ment on this remarkable phenomenon. With Harry's
frightened aid, he took the body off the bed, placed
it prone on the floor, and began to apply artificial
respiration.
"Not much hope," he explained to the manager,
"but if he's only just been cut down I ought to try it
till the doctor arrives."
The man in the muffler got up and went towards the
door.
"Now then, sir," barked the sergeant, who in spite of
his task, had apparently been keeping a wary eye on
him. "Stay till the inspector comes, if you please!"
"Certainly," answered the other, in the indistinct


38 THE COKPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
contortions was set a pair of small hard, blue eyes.
These hard blue eyes were fixed sharply on the
stranger's face for about a minute. Then: "Before we
talk together, sir," he said, "may I ask you to have
the goodness to remove your hat and muffler?"
The stranger sat there without answering for a little.
During that time the eyes of everyone in the room—
even of the doctor—with one accord fastened them-
selves on that face, on that white silk muffler sur-
mounted by an indistinct nose-bridge and two eyes
deep in shadow. His chair, as the inspector had at once
noticed, had its back to the light.
"I don't see what right you've got to ask me to do
that," answered the man at last.
"Don't you?" said the inspector, his blue eyes glit-
tering. "You don't, eh?"
"No. I don't."
"I see. Well, sir, I shouldn't take that attitude if I
was you. It's true I can't here and now order you to
take that scarf off your face. But the circumstances
are rather suspicious, and it might be necessary to ar-
rest you, and charge you with the murder of this per-
son. Well, people don't wear mufflers in prison. Again,
if we find that no suspicion attaches, you'll still be
summoned to the Coroner's Court as a witness, and
he'll order you to take that muffler off before you give
evidence. If you refuse, it will be contempt of court.
So unless you've some special reason, in which case you
must state it, you'll kindly take off that disguise. You'll
have to, sooner or later."
The man got up from the chair slowly. "Disguise!
Come, that's a bit strong, isn't it? Still, if you insist!"
His hand went up to his head.


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 39
Harry Thompson gasped. Even Sergeant Jobling
and Inspector Gregson showed signs of excitement.
With a twitch of his fingers, the man sent muffler
and hat flying on the chair.
Before them stood a man with a bronzed sunburnt
face, open and genial, but its thick lips and heavy
jowls gave a brutal emphasis to what otherwise would
have been a normal enough countenance. He was mid-
dle aged and cleanshaven, and his red hair was
cropped, emphasizing the squareness of the skull. His
eyes had a humorous twinkle in them, but at the mo-
ment they were wary.
The inspector let his breath out with a little hiss.
"Thank you, sir!" he said.
Then he turned to Harry Thompson and the man-
ager. "Will you please wait for me downstairs?"
The two left the room, Harry Thompson with a
final unbelieving backward glance at the stranger.
Meanwhile the inspector sat down on the arm of a chair
and swung one leg easily.
"Your name, if you please?"
"Sam O'Leary," said the other. "At present tenant
of the Wilderness, Little Whippering."
"Did you know the dead man?"
"I did. Poor old George, I've known him ever since
we was lads."
"Why are you here? And what happened?"
"Well, it's like this, inspector. I got a telegram
from George saying he was dying, but had good news
for me." The man unfolded a telegram, and handed it
over. The inspector looked at it, and without any com-
ment put it in his pocket.
"Well," went on O'Leary, "I reckoned George was


40 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
in a hospital here, or something, so I was surprised
to find he was at a hotel. But anyway they told me in
the hall that he'd left a message for me to go straight
up to his room. I went straight in and found no one
here."
"No one here?"
"No, not a soul. That's funny, I thought, he's sup-
posed to be a-dying and here he is slipped out for a
quick one! But George was always one for a joke, so
I made myself comfortable in a chair and waited.
Well, after ten minutes I began to have a queer feel-
ing, I dunno quite how to describe it, a sort of creepy-
crawly feeling. Imagination, I tells myself. All the
same I started to poke round cautious-like, and blessed
if I didn't feel sure there was someone else in the room.
It struck me that George was hiding and was going
to pop out of a cupboard sudden-like. So I shouts,
'Hi, are you in here, George, you old . . .?' There
weren't no answer, so I looked in the cupboard. But
there weren't nothing in there but a few clothes and
a half-empty bottle of whisky. Then I pulled back
the curtain in front of the wash basin there, and God
strike me dead but there was poor old George, staring
me in the face, hanging on a rope with his tongue
stuck out, looking something awful, with his body just
a-swinging gently to and fro, like as if he were doing
it for a game. I whipped out my knife and cut him
down and hollered for help, but it was too late."
"Only just too late," said the doctor looking up.
"He can't have been dead long when you came in."
"Ay, that's the pity of it! If only I'd a-known at
once! If only I'd guessed poor George was hanging
there! Hang me if I know why he killed himself though!


42 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
From him he got a lurid account of the Miser's arrival
at Little Whippering two years before and his subse-
quent seclusion. He also ascertained that the period
of Harry's wait outside the hotel agreed with O'Leary's
own statement of the time he had been sitting in the
dead man's room.
From the manager, Gregson learned that the dead
man had turned up the previous night and had taken
a room. He had had his meals sent up and had ap-
parently spent most of his time gazing dreamily out
of the window. He had only tasted the food, sending it
away uneaten. He had signed the Register as George
Crumbles, but for address had written "None."
He had given everyone the impression of being de-
pressed or disagreeable. Thus, when Jim the boy who
brought up his meal, had set it down on the table, he
had heard the bearded man remark, in tones of abysmal
melancholy, still gazing out of the window: "Gawd,
what a town! What a climate!" And then, turning to
the table: "And what a bleeding meal!"
"What do you make of it, Doctor?" said the in-
spector when his interrogation was finished. "Is it
suicide?"
Dr. Harringay tapped his nose thoughtfully. "I
don't really see how I can say. He was strangled with
this cord, and violently too. Judging from the length
of the rope, and the fact that he piled one stool on
another, he took a fairly long drop, and he's not a
lightweight. So the suicide hypothesis is reasonable
enough, though I must say one suspects our sinister
friend instinctively. If it was a suicide it was a neat
job. The knot right under the left ear, you see, to jerk
his head over. The jerk would have compressed his


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 43
spinal cord so that he probably never struggled, but
just hung limp and was soon asphyxiated."
"I see." The inspector began to make a careful
tour of the room. "We'll check up on the fingerprints,
of course, but a hotel bedroom is a pretty hopeless
proposition from that point of view."
He turned out the contents of the wardrobe and ran
through them. "Ready-made clothes. London tailor.
G.C. in marking ink on the lining."
He examined the fatal rope carefully, and then sent
for the manager.
"Take this around among the servants and see if
any of them identify it!"
Presently the manager returned.
"Yes, sir, the porter says the gentleman asked him
last night to buy a length of stout cord to tie up his
suitcase as the lock had broken, and this was it."
"Right!" The inspector fingered the cord thought-
fully, and then examined the man's empty suitcase.
The lock was in perfect condition. Prowling round the
room: "It does look like suicide, doesn't it?" he said.
Then he stopped at the wash basin, of the built-in
variety, and looked carefully into it.
"The taps ought to be good for fingerprints," he
murmured. With a quick movement he put his two
fingers down the plug hole, fingers which, the manager
noticed, were surprisingly thin and long. They came
up holding what looked like a bunch of wet fluff.
The inspector brought it to the light.
"Odd," he remarked, "a tuft of black hair!"
He went up to the corpse, and ran an exploratory
finger through its beard and neatly brushed and parted
hair.


44 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
"Doesn't look as if it's off him, but of course it may
be," said the inspector doubtfully. "Trimming his hair
perhaps."
"Perhaps the hair is from a previous occupant of
the room," suggested the doctor.
"I expect so," answered the inspector. "However,
you never know. It's dark at any rate."
He folded the hair up carefully in a piece of paper.
Then he began to go through the dead man's pockets.
In the trousers pocket he found a handkerchief marked
G.C.; and in the outer pockets of the coat a driving
licence and a map of Abingdon and its environs. In
the hip pocket of the trousers he found a revolver.
"Fully loaded," said the inspector with a whistle
as he peered into the cylinder. "That's odd! You'd
have thought he'd have shot himself since he had a
revolver."
Then he put his hand into the breast pocket and
drew out a wallet. As he opened it two envelopes slipped
out.
"Ah-h," said the inspector slowly. "Here's some-
thing addressed to the Coroner." The inspector took
out the letter and read it.
"Dear Sir,—Being depressed and ill I have decided
to make away with myself. I haven't been myself since
I came back from Africa, what with the rain and the
thoughts racing round and round in my head. I came
here to give my old pal Spike O'Leary some good news
and all I ask is that he should see me buried proper."
"Well, that seems clear enough!" The inspector
examined the letter closely. "Do you see he wrote some


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 45
other name instead of 'Spike O'Leary' and then care-
fully crossed it out?"
"Yes," said the doctor. "If they were such old pals
it's odd he shouldn't be sure of the name. Overwrought,
perhaps!"
"Perhaps," commented the inspector meaningly.
"Ah, and now the other letter. Addressed to Spike
O'Leary. He seems surer of the name this time."
"Good-bye, old man, I just can't stand it with the
thoughts going round and round in my head. You'll
understand. You'll be glad to hear Tuffy Samson was
killed in a car accident as soon as he came out of jail. I
saw his body myself. See I'm buried proper, that's all I
ask."
"It certainly seems suicide," mused the inspector,
"though there's a good deal to investigate between
now and the inquest. This Tuffy Samson for instance.
I think I'll just make sure these letters are genuine
too."
The manager was sent to fetch the register and it
also turned out that he had luckily kept a note which
the visitor had pinned to his door, asking to be called
early. The inspector compared the handwritings on
these with the letters.
"Genuine all right," he pronounced. "All the
same . . ."
He walked to the window, turned, and gazed thought-
fully at the dead man, his eyes pinpoints of distrust.
"All the same?" prompted the doctor.
"All the same," replied the inspector, and now his
puffy face looked tense and energetic, "I should like


46 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
to know why friend O'Leary, who's lived for two years
indoors and never come out except at night, has a face
as sunburnt as a man who's lived in the sun for
months!"
Dr. Harringay gave a whistle. "By jove, you're
right! It's odd, damned odd!"


CHAPTER FOUR
The Miser Much Alive
Next morning Mr. O'Leary without hat or muffler,
and exhaling good humour, walked into Inspector
Gregson's office in Wantage. He was prompt to time.
"Now, Inspector," he said heartily, "what can I do
for you? Say the word, and O'Leary's your man."
Inspector Gregson leaned back in his chair and
looked at Mr. O'Leary. There was no answering smile
on his face. If the corners of his mouth twitched at all,
it was in a grimace of contempt.
After a moment of this quiet scrutiny, the burly
red-headed man seemed to lose something of his jollity.
He shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.
"Sit down, Mr. O'Leary," said the inspector at last.
"And the first question I'm going to ask you is, are
you Mr. O'Leary?"
Mr. O'Leary's eyes transferred themselves warily
from the inspector's face to the wall above his right
shoulder.
"What makes you think I wouldn't be?" he asked
cautiously.
The inspector took out Crumbles' letter to the
coroner. "Your pal didn't seem sure of your name him-
self. You see he's crossed out the name he put first,
and then written 'Spike O'Leary' over the top. More-
47


48 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
over I have learned that George Crumbles was in Lit-
tle Whippering making inquiries about you a day or
two previous to his death, and the name O'Leary meant
nothing to him. He recognized you only by your man-
ner of life. The deduction's obvious."
"I can see you're quick in the uptake, Inspector.
That's a bit of what I call Sherlock Holmes. Well, be-
tween you and me and the gate-post, O'Leary ain't my
name. Leastways George Crumbles always knew me
as Spike Galloway, though I'm not saying I was born
that."
"And why did you change your name, Mr.
O'Leary?"
"Well, that'd be a long story."
"All the same I should like to hear it. Particularly
if it has something to do with this Tuffy Samson. We
want to know why George Crumbles thought you would
be pleased at Tuffy Samson's death. Is it a part of
your story?"
Mr. O'Leary slapped the desk in front of him with
his open palm.
"You're a corker, Inspector. Right on the nail each
time! Yes, it's all one story. And it's a long one. But
you know all of us, except you coppers of course, have
got a thing or two in our pasts we don't like making
a palaver about. Well this story's about something of
the kind. Just a bit of adventure, really, but folk in
England mightn't understand it that way."
The inspector grunted understandingly.
"That isn't exactly a new experience for a policeman,
Mr. O'Leary, and I don't think you will find us easily
shocked. If you make a clean breast of everything
you know of Crumbles, I promise in return to divulge


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 49
nothing that isn't absolutely essential to clearing up
the cause of death. At present it seems a clear case of
suicide. All we require is further light on the motive
for Crumbles' action, and then no doubt we'll let the
matter drop."
The inspector oifered O'Leary a cigarette. He took
it, made himself comfortable in his chair, and cocking
his head back stared thoughtfully at the ceiling.
"Well, there were three of us, down on our luck at
Kano—that's in Nigeria—more'n twelve years ago—
Tuffy Samson, George Crumbles, and myself. We got
talking about how to make money, having met Tuffy
casual like, and he told us he was in on a good thing.
He'd learned from some drunken native where the
treasure of the nigger kingdom of Balooma had been
buried during a British punitive expedition. We'd
continued to occupy the country, so the Royal family,
who were in exile, had left the treasure hidden. Only
the Guardian of the treasure knew where it was. Well,
this drunk was one of the Guardians, only he'd got
kicked out for making trouble, and there in Kano he'd
sunk lower and lower the way a black can when he's
cut off from his tribe and fetiches and so forth. Now
Balooma wasn't far down the coast and Tuffy Samson's
idea was that we should lift the treasure. Of course it
was a risky business. First of all the local blacks would
have it in for us if they knew. We reckoned we could
make rings round them all night, but the Administra-
tion had been trying to find the treasure too. If they
caught us pinching it we should be in for a term of
gaol under some damnation law of theirs. If there
wasn't one, they'd invent it.
"Any way Tuffy Samson knew where this treasure


50 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
was buried. Of course he didn't tell us where it was at
first. As it happened it was about fifty yards out from
the shore of a sacred lake in Balooma, in the shallows.
He'd have tried to go after it alone, only he was fairly
new to Africa, and anyway couldn't raise the wind to
hire bearers and so forth. Crumbles and I had a little
cash between us, and so we agreed to fit out the expedi-
tion. The treasure was to be split four ways, George and
I taking a part each, and Tuffy two parts.
"Then came the job of getting into Balooma, for of
course we had to get permission from the Administra-
tion. Finally I got hold of some moth-eaten professor
in Kano belonging to a German learned society, and
kidded him we were great hunters who could bring
him back some new beasts and bugs. We told him we'd
seen the Devil Pig, which all the natives round that
part of the world believe in, in Balooma and that it
was a kind of pigmy rhinoceros. He got quite excited
and soon got permission for a Zoological Expedition
from the Administration. They stipulated that he must
lead the Expedition, but that suited us, for we knew
we could jolly the old fool along, and get him to go
wherever we wanted.
"And so we started off. The Society paid part of
our expenses and our bearers were all hung round with
killing bottles, and snares, and cages, and butterfly
nets, and God knows what. We told old mossyface we
had seen the Devil Pig on the shores of the Sacred
Lake.
"When we got there we stole out at night, pulled up
the treasure—all thick gold and ivory and stuff—and
filled eight boxes with it. The next day when the pro-
fessor was out with half the carriers, browsing among


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 51
the orchids and what-not, we loaded up the rest of the
carriers with our treasure and beat it like stink out of
Balooma.
"But somehow or other we were spotted. I don't
know to this day how it happened. I don't see how
anyone can have guessed what was in our loads, for
they were all corded and sealed. But the bush telegraph
started going when we were hopping as fast as we could
drive our carriers through the swamps at the mouth
of the Nwama River. We'd arranged for an Arab fish-
ing boat to hang round in the harbour there, to pick
us up if we were successful. But those bloody drums!
They're eerie enough when you don't understand them
—pink boom I pink-boom pink-boom pinkety-pinkety,
boom boom! that's the way they go all the time. When
you know that they're sending a message calling for
your blood it makes the sweat come out all over you.
I saw those blasted blacks' lips moving as they tried to
read the message. Presently one of them got it, then
they all started jabbering together.
"I thought they'd turn on us at once, so we all got
out our rifles and stood by. But they didn't even make
an attempt to attack us. They just dropped their loads
where they stood and beat it into the swamp as if
they'd been carrying snakes. I tried to stop one, and
he went as white as a black can go—and I tell you it's
a nasty mouldy colour. You'd have thought he was
afraid one touch of my hands would strike him dead.
And so we were left alone, like three fools, and those
bloody drums still going.
"Well, it was twenty miles still to the harbour, and
we knew we couldn't hoick the loads all that way. We
should have to run like hell to get away with our skins.


52 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
So we dumped the treasure in a spot where no one
would think of looking for it, and then started to make
ourselves scarce.
"We managed to get to the shore and be picked up
by our Arab friend but when he found we hadn't got
the treasure he threatened to put us ashore again. Then
he said he would take us only on condition we told him
where the treasure was. We knew what that meant.
He'd come back and pinch it himself. We had a hell of
an argument, and then stuck a gun in his stomach and
told him to order the crew to up with the sail and
shut up. So we got going, but two or three hours after-
wards, on purpose I reckon, he ran us practically under
the bows of a Balooma Administration gunboat. The
johnny in charge spotted three white men on board and
ordered us to heave to. Then we knew the game was
up."
Up to this point O'Leary had been telling his narra-
tive with a fire and a freedom which argued either that
it was the plain truth, or else had been frequently re-
hearsed. Now he hesitated visibly.
"It gets a bit complicated at this point," he said
awkwardly. "You see we were tried and Crumbles and
I had a bit of a quarrel with Tuffy. Crumbles and I
were in favour of telling the Administration where the
treasure was, so as to get away with a light sentence.
Tuffy wasn't, like an obstinate fool. So he got sentenced
to ten year's imprisonment while George and I got off
with three months."
"And the Administration got the treasure?" asked
Inspector Gregson.
"Yes, the Administration got the treasure," said
O'Leary, an evasive look in his eyes. "Well, while


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 53
we were in prison, we saw Tuffy. He was feeling sore.
He tried to get us once with an iron bar when we were
exercising. Traitors, he called us, and you wouldn't
believe how wild the man was. You'd have thought he
blamed it on to us that he was in prison at all. As they
dragged him away he swore that directly he got out
of prison he'd do us in even if he had to drag us out
of hell. And the trouble was we knew Tuffy would keep
his word. We knew one or two things in his past, you
see. He used to boast when he was drunk that he'd shot
a man who'd been rude to him once, and knifed another
who'd been a bit too sharp for him in business. Tuffy
was a pleasant-spoken sort of man to meet, but if
you ever irritated him and saw the nasty look in his
eyes, well, you took good care to keep out of his way
in future.
"Of course a gust of temper is all right, it's soon
over, but if a man has ten years to brood over it, a
man like Tuffy, it's a different thing. So we were a
bit nervous, George and I when we came out. I went
back to England, but George hung around the West
Coast, partly because he liked it, partly to keep an
eye open for when Tuffy came out.
"There was the difference between our temper-
ments, you see George couldn't abear to think of a
danger hanging around somewhere coming goodness
knows when. He wanted to rush up to it and get it over,
whatever happened. Contrariwise I reckon myself a
prudent chap. I keep out of the way of trouble.
"Well, two years ago, Tuffy was due to come out of
prison. And I started to take precautions. I changed
my name, went to live in Little Whippering, which
seemed about as peaceful a place as I could find, and


54 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
kept my weather eye lifting for trouble. I was reckon-
ing on his getting tired of looking for me, you see.
With the trouble I'd taken to cover up my tracks it
stood to reason that he'd never find me. I reckoned
he'd try to bump off George first, I hoped George would
get him first—for he was pretty smart—else if he got
George first that he'd get hung for George's murder.
And I was right. He must have gone after George, for
you see two years passed and he must have been out
on the West Coast all the time looking for George until
he got killed in that car accident."
Mr. O'Leary looked at the inspector and winked
confidentially. "Now that George's dead, I don't mind
saying I'd be surprised if it was an accident. It was
altogether too lucky from George's point of view. And
i happening in the same town as George too!"
"Your idea is that Crumbles murdered Samson?"
asked Gregson quietly. "And afterward killed himself
out of remorse?"
O'Leary shifted uneasily. "Well, I wouldn't say mur-
dered exactly. I mean it ain't a nice word to use of a
pal. But after all George was entitled to protect him-
self. Self-defence is legal, ain't it? And I reckon he
attended to Tuffy. He was a clever little devil, George
was, to give him his due. But he was moody, never
contented with what he'd got, and it's just like him to
worry hisself silly with a thing like that, which an
ordinary man takes in his stride, as you might say."
"Well, I wouldn't have said it," said Inspector Greg-
son. "Not in this country at any rate. It may be differ-
ent on the West Coast of Africa. However, thank you
for your frankness, Mr. O'Leary. It is a very interest-


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED PACE 55
ing story in itself, and certainly throws light on the
deceased.
"I don't think I shall need to trouble you again,
but it will be necessary to repeat a portion of your
story at the inquest. How much I cannot say. That
will depend on the coroner. You will find him very rea-
sonable. As you doubtless know you need to say nothing
that would tend to incriminate yourself. However that
hardly arises, for your old offence in Balooma has been
purged by your trial and imprisonment. Meanwhile
you must not change your address without letting us
know."
"That's all right, Inspector, I'm not proposing to
leave Little Whippering for a bit. Now that I know
Tuffy's dead I feel a sight more cheerful. Bless you,
you might say I'm a new man."
After Mr. O'Leary's departure, Inspector Gregson
remained lost in thought, studying his copious notes
of O'Leary's strange and somewhat glamorous story.
Then he put a trunk call through to the Colonial
Office. As a result of that telephone conversation (as
the inspector would no doubt have expressed it in a
court of law) he sent a telegram to an official in
Nigeria. . . .
That evening the public bar of the Marion Arms was
exhaustively discussing the sensation provided by
Harry Thompson who, for the moment, was the most
important man in the village. There was not, of course,
the slightest doubt of what had actually happened.
"He done him in," said Mr. Gudgeon, "the foul-
mouthed old curmudgeon! There can't be a doubt of


56 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
it. An' I'd like to know what the inspector means
letting him come back here. Why any of us might
be asflixeated in our beds."
"'E's a murderer," quavered Mr. Padding from
the corner, "and I always knowed it."
He reflected with some annoyance that this had been
his original theory, out of which he had been argued
by Gudgeon. If only he had stuck to it he might now
have been basking in all the glory of a successful
prophet. As it was he did his best.
"I always knowed it, but naterly I didn't want to
skeer the wimmen."
"Well, tell us what he's like, Harry," asked Mr.
Bundling, wiping the froth off his beard. "I can't
somehow picture un. Is he fierce-like?"
Harry scratched his head. "Well, he ain't anything
particular, he looks ordinary enough, just like you
or me."
"Who does?" said a voice.
Mr. O'Leary was standing in the doorway, a tanned
square-jawed man in flannel trousers, a hat stuck on
the back of his cropped head, and a disarming smile
on his face.
"Good-evening, Harry! Good-evening, gentlemen."
No one in the room had looked on the countenance
of Mr. O'Leary except Harry Thompson. Consequently
they all, except Harry, returned the stranger's good-
evening with an equable murmur, and prepared to
continue their discussion. Harry himself was for a mo-
ment stricken dumb by the sudden appearance of the
recluse. But he pulled himself together with an effort.
At all costs the community must be warned of the
murderer in their midst,
ft


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 57
"Why, good-evening, Mr. O'Leary!" he said loudly.
"We didn't think to see you here, Mr. O'Leary!"
There was a sudden awe-struck silence, then a volley
of clinks as glasses and cans were hurriedly put down.
Jaws opened in horror or surprise. Even Mr. O'Leary
felt the sudden change in the social temperature.
"Surprised to see me, were you, gentlemen?" Mr.
O'Leary laughed loudly and carelessly. "Well, I admit
I've been a bit of a hermit as you might say. But I
had my reasons. I had my reasons! It's all over now.
And I'm going to make up for lost time. You watch
me! I'm going to celebrate, and when Spike O'Leary
says celebrate he means it. Yes, you sons of guns, I'll
show you what we mean by celebration where I come
from!"
"Where do you come from?" said Mr. Gudgeon
argumentatively.
"Where do I come from? That's a good 'un." Mr.
O'Leary laughed again. "I come from a place where
it's as hot as hell, as thirsty as the Sahara, and as smelly
as the bilge of an Arab dhow."
Without waiting for comment on this cryptic remark
Mr. O'Leary flung a handful of silver on the counter.
"Drinks all round!" he exclaimed to Mrs. Hipple, a
little white-haired old lady dressed in rusty black. Mrs.
Hipple looked at Mr. O'Leary, looked at the silver,
and sniffed.
"Anything wrong with it, darling?" asked Mr.
O'Leary, leaning one elbow on the counter with an ex-
pansive smile.
Mrs. Hipple jerked her head back indignantly.
"That's as may be, and my name's Mrs. Hipple."
"Lor', you don't half shrivel a man up, do you?"


58 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
said Mr. O'Leary, the focus of a tense silence, which,
however, he showed no signs of noticing. "Well, I ain't
easily 'urt. Don't forget to include one for yourself
in the drinks, with my respecks!"
The company in the Marion Arms waited for some-
one to voice their sentiments. The duty clearly fell on
Mr. Padding, as the oldest. He piped up bravely:
"Thanking you, but I don't want no drink!"
Mr. O'Leary swung round abruptly, causing the
ancient nearly to topple off his seat. Mr. Padding sup-
ported his quivering hands on his stick, and stared up
at the stranger defiantly.
"You don't want no drink!" repeated Mr. O'Leary
slowly, and his voice was cold and tense. "Are you ill?"
"No, I ain't ill."
"Are you T.T.?"
At any other time this ludicrous question would have
provided laughter from the assembled company. But
as it was they gazed silently at Mr. Padding's trem-
bling lips. His eyes still fixed by the reptilian gaze of
the stranger, he answered in a strangled voice:
"No, I ain't T.T."
"Then is it because you object to my company?"
roared Mr. O'Leary, suddenly seeming to expand to
twice his normal size. "Say so, if it is! Say so by all
means! Then we'll know where we are. Go on, it's quite
simple. Just say, I don't like your company!"
Mr. O'Leary towered over the awestruck yokel, his
fists swinging gently by his side, their freckled backs
turned towards the other, who stared fascinated at the
dense growth of red hair running up to the knuckles.
Blue fire seemed to shoot out of Mr. O'Leary's eyes.
Mr. Padding, justifying himself to his cronies after-


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 59
wards, explained, "He 'ipnertized me, that's what
'appened. I meaned to tell un to get out of a respectable
public, but something went clickety in my throat."
"Do you object to my company?" thundered Mr.
O'Leary again.
"No!" exclaimed Mr. Padding at last, with a kind
of squeak.
"Then you'll have a drink with me?"
"Yes."
"Here's what I call a pal," roared Mr. O'Leary
patting him on the back with a wolfish grin. "Hearty!
Matey! Up-and-coming! Forward with the beer for
Old Jollywhiskers here, Mrs. Hipple, darling! And
here's yours, Harry! Help yourself, everyone."
The rest of the company did not feel it incumbent
on them to stand where Mr. Padding had given way.
The drinks were accepted, but if they thought they
were going to finish with Mr. O'Leary so simply, they
were mistaken in their man.
"Hey, drink up, lads! What are you, a lot of sissies?
Bless my soul, I thought Little Whippering had a
name for beer drinking. Down with the stuff. Come on,
I'll show you. Mrs. Hipple, a quart of beer!"
"A quart?" said Mrs. Hipple incredulously.
"Yes, a quart, dearie."
"We ain't got a quart tankard."
"Don't be awkward, angel-face. Shove it in anything.
Bowl, basin, jug, flowerpot, or," with a wink, "even
'umbler utensils!"
Mrs. Hipple eventually returned with a brimming
Toby Jug, which she placed on the counter with an
expression as who should say, "I won't be answerable
for the consequences."


60 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
"Now watch me, lads," said Mr. O'Leary. Taking
a deep breath, he threw his head back, applied his
mouth to the jug, and began to drink. He was watched
in an awestruck silence until he waved the jug trium-
phantly upside down in the air to prove its emptiness, at
the same time expelling his breath in a long sigh.
"That's the way to lap it up, lads, bless my soul! A
quart between breaths. It's good for the lungs."
He banged the jug on the bar. "That's some good
beer you've got there, sweetest. Bring me another pint,
and a pint all round. Damnation take it, make it a
quart all round! And a bottle of Scotch for the man who
can drink his off without taking a breath!"
The bottle of Scotch was won by Harry. Panting,
with popping eyes, he staggered slightly, when Mr.
O'Leary clapped him on the back.
"There's a man for you! We could do with more lads
like him in Britain today!"
It is impossible to drink beer continuously at a man's
expense and continue to preserve a frigid attitude
towards him, particularly a man with a dominating
personality like Mr. O'Leary.
Mr. O'Leary, moreover, was assiduous in his atten-
tions to the company. With Harry he was patronizing.
To Mr. Gudgeon he was respectful. With Mr. Bundling
he was matey. With Mr. Snugg courteous. Even Mrs.
Hipple thawed after the fifth gin, and smiled when Mr.
O'Leary asserted that she had the most fetching dimple
he had ever seen, it made him feel young again.
Then Mr. O'Leary jumped up on the bar. "Come
on, lads, a song," he said, waving a siphon, "I'll lead
you."
Little Whippering had always been proud of its


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 61
glees, and it seemed that Mr. O'Leary, sojourning in
heathen lands, had learned a number of songs, some of
them with strangely attractive catches. Presently even
Mr. Padding was opening his toothless gums and join-
ing in the ditties, gently waving his mug, while Mr.
O'Leary roared encouragement and from time to time
bestowed smacking kisses on Mrs. Hipple's hand or any
other available portion of her venerable person.
One song in particular appealed to Little Whipper-
ing, and it was only next morning that it struck them,
in the circumstances, as peculiarly ill-chosen. It recited
the sufferings of one Ted, a parson's son, condemned
to live in a tropical port. The ending was sung with
tremendous gusto and imitative gesture by O'Leary:
He said: "I've missed the bleeding boat!"
(Poor old Ted, the parson's son!)
He tied a rope around his throat.
(Poor old Ted, the parson's son!)
He jumped upon the nearest chair,
(Poor old Ted, the parson's son!)
He swung his feet into the air.
(Poor old Ted, the parson's son!)
He waved his ankles to and fro!
(Poor old Ted, the parson's son!)
He kicked and jerked like billyo!
(Poor old Ted, the parson's son!)
When Mrs. Hipple for the last time called beseech-
ingly, "Time, gentlemen, please," Mr. O'Leary ap-
peared to be the only person in full possession of his


62 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
faculties. It was a dark moonless night, and for more
than an hour afterwards figures wavered uncertainly
among the lanes, making encouraging noises to each
other, seeking their dwelling places. Once there was an
appalling objurgation, when Mr. Bundling was caught
by the ditch as it pounced on him for the second time.
He tripped headlong into it. He was helped out by
Harry Thompson, who, by some extraordinary freak
of nature, suddenly found himself in the ditch, being
helped out by Mr. Bundling. This gave him a horrible
uncertain feeling, as if he were not quite sure whether
he were Harry Thompson or Mr. Bundling. One per-
son, believed to be young Bunn, made no attempt to
go home, but remained huddled up outside the Marion
Arms.
Meanwhile the steps of Mr. O'Leary could be heard
tapping loudly on the macadam surface of the hill, and
then suddenly dying away as he turned off on the long
track which led towards the Wilderness. Even when his
footsteps had become inaudible, and for long after-
wards, the strains of his loud melodious voice could be
heard, floating over the thatched roofs of Little Whip-
pering:
He waved his ankles to and fro!
(Poor old Ted, the parson's son!)
He kicked and jerked, like billyo!
(Poor old Ted, the parson's son!)


CHAPTER FIVE
The Vicar Shocked
Inspector gregson smoothed out the cable and read it
aloud to his chief.
Gregson—Berkshire County Constabulary.
REF. YOUR COMMUNICATION ERNEST SAMSON
KNOWN AS TUFFY KILLED IN CAR ACCIDENT
THREE MONTHS AGO. DEATH BY MISADVEN-
TURE. TWELVE YEARS EARLIER SAMSON WITH
ACCOMPLICES CRUMBLES AND GALLOWAY
POUND GUILTY ROBBERY WITH VIOLENCE,
DESECRATION OF LOCAL SHRINE, AND OBTAIN-
ING PERMITS UNDER FALSE PRETENCES BY
EUROPEAN COURT AT LORANGO, BALOOMA.
CRUMBLES AND GALLOWAY GOT LIGHT SEN-
TENCES, SAMSON GOT TEN YEARS, AND AFTER
RELEASE WAS IMMEDIATELY CONCERNED IN
BANK ROBBERY AT LAGOS AND GOT FURTHER
SENTENCE. CRUMBLES FHIST CAME TO NIGE-
RIA TWELVE YEARS AGO.
MacPHERSON, Nigerian Police.
Gregson looked up at his chief.
"That seems clear enough. It confirms O'Leary's
story. He is the Galloway mentioned in the cable. It's
ss


64 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
a discreditable story at the best in any case, and doesn't
seem the kind a man would make up. It's obvious that
Crumbles and O'Leary played a despicable trick on
Samson. I fancy if we got the whole record of the case
we'd find that they not only gave away the hiding
place of the treasure, but also threw all the blame on
him. They may even have pleaded that they were
ignorant of the object of the expedition. O'Leary
seemed ashamed of that part of the story, so I fancy
my guess is right. In any case it all explains O'Leary's
terror of Samson.
"I suppose Crumbles and O'Leary kept in touch with
each other throughout the ten years. Probably they
promised to warn each other. Otherwise it's difficult to
see how Crumbles managed to hit on the very village
O'Leary was hiding in.
"Well, we've got to assume that Crumbles is the
sort of man who would kill himself in this rather the-
atrical way, out of remorse for doing in Tuffy. It's a
tall order. First of all he sounds far too tough a char-
acter for that. Secondly we don't know that he did kill
Tuffy. . . . The finding was 'Death by Misadventure.'
I suppose I ought to send over for the record. . . ."
Gregson sighed dismally.
The chief smiled quizzically at Gregson. "I gather
from all this that you're not at all sure that it is sui-
cide?"
"No, sir, I'm not."
"But, man, why not, in the name of goodness?
You've got evidence of preparation for suicide. You've
got his last letters. And you've got an explanation.
What more do you want?"
"I don't like O'Leary's sunburn!" burst out the


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 65
inspector, "It isn't natural. And I don't like his man-
ner. He's too damn pleased with himself about some-
thing."
"Tuffy's death."
"No, it isn't only that. If it was, it would be just
sheer relief. But he's got the look of a man who's just
brought off a damned good deal thanks to his own
cleverness."
The chief shook his head reprovingly.
"Gregson, you're getting fanciful in your old age.
Sunburn, indeed! Perhaps he has one of those ultra-
violet lamps."
"Yes, perhaps." The inspector grinned mirthlessly.
Then he pulled a twist of paper out of his pocket and
unwrapped it, producing a tuft of hair.
"Look at that!"
"Ginger hair," said the chief, examining it carefully.
"Rather dirty."
"It's ginger now" said Gregson, "but it wasn't when
I found it. It was dark."
"Dyed?"
Gregson nodded. "I think so. The manager can't
remember any red-haired men's having occupied
Crumbles' room. My opinion is that it's O'Leary's
hair."
"O'Leary's? But why should he want to dye his hair?"
"For the same reason as he sometimes wore a muffler,
to disguise himself."
"Why both?"
"Well, sometimes the muffler would attract atten-
tion. O'Leary's red-headed, and without a hat and
muffler his most conspicuous feature would be his red
hair. Red hair's a thing everyone notices. Assume for


66 THE COKPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
argument's sake that to disguise himself at some time
he dyes it. Now you can't get hair-dye off instantane-
ously. So supposing O'Leary wanted to get back to
normality quickly, what would he do? Why, crop his
hair down to the skull, to show the red roots."
"I don't quite see why there should be any red roots."
"Well, hair grows all the time, so a week after you've
dyed it, it's its natural colour for a millimetre or so at
the base. Cutting it short, therefore, restores its natural
colour. Now it's obvious at a glance that O'Leary has
had his hair cropped. Very recently. Perhaps in the
last day or two. On top of that there's this tuft of dyed
hair."
The chief constable whistled.
"That's odd, certainly! But why should he disguise
himself? What do you think happened?"
"It seems to me O'Leary must have visited Crumbles
before his death. Either that morning, or the evening
before. He would have been hatless, with dark hair, and
perhaps wearing glasses. Then, at some later time, he
cropped his head in Crumbles' room, and tried to get
rid of the dyed hair. But some of it got trapped in
the basin. Of course we can't say whether he visited
Crumbles in disguise so as not to be known by him, or
simply to escape outside observation, but I feel sure
that O'Leary saw Crumbles before he drove into Abing-
don with Harry Thompson. In fact if he cropped his
hair in Crumbles' bedroom, this must have been at some
earlier time, for he could hardly have done it in the ten
minutes between his arrival and his discovery of the
dead body."
"It's a great deal to build on a tuft of hair."
"That's not all. O'Leary also made a thorough search


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 67
of Crumbles' room. I found his fingerprints everywhere.
Whether he found what he wanted, of course, I don't
know, but the search certainly took more than ten
minutes."
The chief constable perked up at the mention of
fingerprints.
"Ah, now we're getting down to something."
"Another thing," went on the inspector. "Take the
wire sent by Crumbles to O'Leary. Apart from the
oddness of the wording, why was it ever sent at all?
We have evidence from several people at Little Whip-
pering that Crumbles went to Little Whippering two
or three days previously to call on O'Leary. Why, if
he saw O'Leary then, didn't he give him the good news?
Why all this business about wanting to give a dying
message? It all links up with my belief that there is
something fishy about that wire. I don't believe it means
what it says. I believe that Crumbles and O'Leary had
met at least once, if not twice, before it was ever sent.
Probably once in Little Whippering at the Wilderness
and once in Abingdon at the hotel."
"Have you got the original of that wire?"
"Yes, sir, the Post Office sent it over to me this
morning. It's in Crumbles' writing all right, and the
assistant remembers his sending it. No, I don't suggest
Crumbles didn't send it, but I think it was either a
blind or a code."
"Yes, but after all, Gregson," interposed the chief,
"you can't get away from the evidence about Crumbles'
depression! Here you are, in your notebook: 'He
wouldn't eat anything, but pushed the food gloomily
aside.' After all, appetite is a pretty good sign! No one
commits suicide on a full stomach, so they say."


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 69
Directly he's dead, O'Leary, who must have known
about Tuffy's death at least two days earlier, when
Crumbles called on him in Little Whippering, suddenly
perks up, as if he'd cleverly turned the tables on every-
one.
"There's a good deal wrong here, sir, as you'll admit.
My own guess is that the both of them were playing
a game, and either something went wrong, or else
O'Leary double-crossed the other. A game within a
game you might say. Of course it may still be suicide
for all that. But if it is, let's have the true story. We
haven't got it yet, by a long chalk."
"Yes, it certainly sounds odd, though no doubt
there's some simple explanation. There generally is.
What do you want me to do, Gregson? For I can see
you want something by the look in your eye."
"Well, sir, I think we ought to go to the C.I.D."
"Really. At this stage?"
"Yes, sir. Those London chaps always say, when we
do call them in, that of course it's really too late, all
the clues are stale, but they'll do their best. So win or
lose, they get the credit. Not that I blame them, I'd do
the same myself. And they're smart lads, I'll give them
that, but if we're going to call them in at all, we ought
to do it now, I say. We needn't tell the press we've done
it yet, sir."
"But is there anything we can't tackle locally?"
"Yes, sir, there's a lot. First of all I want to get a
line on what this fellow O'Leary was doing before he
came here. Where was he living? Where did he pick up
the money to live on? He may be a London burglar for
all we know. And where was Crumbles staying before he
came here? It's an odd thing, sir, but there were practi-


70 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
cally no small personal possessions on him such as you'd
expect, only a suitcase of clothes. He must have a trunk-
ful of stuff somewhere. All that's C.I.D. routine. Then
I want to get reports about the Treasure Trial and
Samson's death cabled out here. That's a C.I.D. job.
Those foreign chaps don't take much notice of us
country fossils."
"All right," said his chief. "You probably know best,
though all this Scotland Yard business annoys me. It's
these damned detective story writers. Anyone would
think there'd never been a murderer that the C.I.D.
hadn't discovered." Grunting to himself, he made a
note on his pad.
"And while you're about it, sir," put in Inspector
Gregson. "May I suggest you ask for Inspector Camp-
bell—Archibald Campbell I think it is? He's a smart
boy, and easy to work with. You remember he was
down here on that bank robbery."
"Archibald Campbell," wrote the chief with a grin.
"Another Scot, eh? How you do hang together! I sup-
pose you two will get together and discuss us godless
Berkshire yokels for hours."
"I wouldna' waste ma time on sich havers," said the
inspector primly, with a stage Scottish accent. "Dis-
cussing Southrons indeed! There wouldna' be ony end
to that."
"Well," smiled the chief, getting up and going to
the sideboard, "I think you can find something worth
discussing here. Scottish too! Say when! You like it
pretty strong, I know."
"I don't mind if I do," said Inspector Gregson.


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED PACE 71
The vicar looked up from his letters timidly. "Oh, my
love, I don't know whether I have told you or not, but
Mr. Jones is arriving today."
Mrs. Wykeham glared at him sharply. "Mr. Jones?
Who is he? And what is he coming for? Tea?"
The vicar rubbed his hands together and smiled nerv-
ously.
"No, Pattie, dearest, to stay, of course."
"What, to stay the night?"
"No, my love, to stay—er—permanently."
Mrs. Wykeham put down the coffee pot and stared
at her husband. She was a large woman, with an imperi-
ous nose. Two lines running from the nostrils down the
inner edges of the cheeks and on to a double chin made
her look rather like a bulldog.
"Samuel!" she said solemnly. "What have you done
now?"
The Rev. Samuel wiped his mouth with his napkin to
hide his agitation. Then he beat his forehead feebly
with his fist.
"Dear me, my love! I do believe I forgot to tell
you."
"What is it this time? And whatever it is, tell me
quickly," said Mrs. Wykeham, beginning to quiver
with annoyance. "I can't bear the suspense. Have you
been gambling?"
For some reason unexpected bad news and gambling
had become inevitably associated in Mrs. Wykeham's
extreme youth, and now whenever one happened, the
other also popped into her mind.
"No, darling, on the contrary! Don't you remember,
some time ago, when we found the dilapidations so


72 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
heavy, we decided we couldn't keep up this big house
alone? And so we decided to take boarders!"
"I remember nothing of the kind!" exclaimed Mrs.
Wykeham, shutting her mouth firmly. "Boarders in-
deed! As if I should agree!"
"But you must remember," wailed the vicar, feeling
the ground trembling under his feet. "You were sitting
there, just as you are now, and I picked up my coffee
cup like this, and putting down the bill from Higgs
the builders, I said quite distinctly, 'Pattie, my love,
we must take in paying guests or, to use their grosser
but older name, boarders'! You, I am sure, agreed.
And from that moment I started to look out for them.
"In fact," blurted out Mr. Wykeham, everything
coming with a rush, as it does so often when one em-
barks on a confession, "I advertised for one!"
"You advertised for one?" breathed Mrs. Wyke-
ham, unable to let go the coffee pot, which appeared
to be the only steady thing in a shifting world. "You
advertised! Go on, Samuel. Tell me everything."
"But surely you remember," wailed the vicar for the
third time, licking his dry lips.
"I tell you, I do not, Samuel!"
"I remember," interposed Psyche, Mr. Wykeham's
only child, a girl of sixteen. "Only it was me you
said it to, not mother. Mother was out of the room.
You asked me what I thought of the idea. And I said it
would be top-hole if you could get someone who could
dance."
Mr. Wykeham beat his forehead again violently.
"Now I remember. Of course, Pattie, will you ever
forgive me? My terrible absent-mindedness! Hav-
ing mentioned it to Psyche, I thought, as the result of


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 73
the association of ideas, which is the foundation of
human psychology, that I had mentioned it also to
you, and got your approval. And dear me, he's coming
today."
"Samuel, don't flutter" said Mrs. Wykeham, com-
posing her hands resignedly before her vast bosom.
"I suppose I shall have to forgive you, as I usually
do. If you spent a little less time with your nose in
those adventure books with all those pictures of savages,
hardly decent I call it, and gave more time to ordinary
things, this wouldn't happen, but there, what's the
use of talking?"
Mrs. Wykeham patted her hair. "Let's know the
worst by all means. Who is he?"
"Can he dance?" asked Psyche eagerly. "And is he
good-looking?"
"Well, I can hardly say," said Mr. Wykeham
evasively.
"SAMUEL!" asked Mrs. Wykeham in her most
terrible voice. "Have you seen this person?"
"I can't say I have, my dear," confessed the vicar
miserably.
"But don't worry," he added. "He was at Oxford,
one of the better colleges. I am sure he is quite all right.
He has a good scholastic record. And his batting aver-
age appears to have been distinctly good, at any rate
during his last year. He will be an asset to our local
team. After all," rattled on the vicar, feeling that he
was navigating a difficult passage with skill, "he is
certain to be a gentleman. At the worst he will have
good manners. He enclosed a testimonial from his tutor
about his character. 'Cheerful, intelligent, and diligent.'
Even if I had seen him, it could tell me no more. You


74 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED PACE
know how short-sighted I am. Don't keep jumping up
and down, Psyche. What is it you want to know?"
"If he's from Oxford, will he be as wet as young
Marion? Because if so it will be rather stinking."
"Psyche, Psyche, where did you pick up such ex-
pressions! And at your age you should refer to him as
Mr. Marion. As for what you mean by wet"
"You'd better not ask her," said Mrs. Wykeham
wisely. "But one thing I must know, Samuel. Is he a
FOREIGNER? For really I would have to think twice
before I could permit a Frenchman to stay here."
"No, he can't be a foreigner. Not with the name of
Jones. N. Jones, he signs himself. And now I come to
think of jt, he mentions, among other things, that he is
a British subject. He would be Welsh, of course,
Joneses always are."
"Well, I only hope so," said Mrs. Wykeham darkly.
"I am sure it will be all right," answered the Rev.
Samuel. Although he had got the confession off his
chest, he did not seem cheerful. Mrs. Wykeham re-
garded him anxiously.
"In my advertisement I stipulated that we would
only take University graduates," he went on. "In both
cases the University is quite sound."
"In both cases?" exclaimed Mrs. Wykeham, "did
I hear you say both?"
"Er, yes, my darling, I did make use of the dual
number. You needn't trouble your pretty head about
the second arrival, however. He is not due here for
another week. He is comisg from America."
"From America!" groaned Mrs. Wykeham.
"My angel pet, would you be so kind as not to re-
peat the final phrase of my sentence? I find it so dis-


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 75
trading. You see, I am so used to preaching, where
no one ever dreams of making any remark at all. Ex-
cept that once when Mr. Bundling absent-mindedly
said, 'Hear, hear,' and as the text was 'Blessed is he
that hath his quiver full,' he no doubt felt called upon
for an opinion. As it is, my head is swimming with all
this business, I hardly know where I am. Ah, yes, the
person from America. A Dr. Ridge. A very learned
man, judging by his degrees, and although we know
that not all American universities are—well, this is
difficult. I have heard of the seat of learning that has
honoured this gentleman. Harvard by name, and really
I am quite delighted at the prospect of having someone
who cares for scholarship here.
"The only thing is," added the vicar, staring at the
letter thoughtfully and pulling his upper lip, "I am
beginning to wonder if the doctor is quite—well, I
hardly know how to put it, but he has some extraordi-
nary ideas."
Mrs. Wykeham, thanks to considerable experience,
had managed to get the general drift of the vicar's
vague ramblings.
"Do you mean to say that the man's a lunatic?" she
asked with brutal simplicity. "It only needed that!
A madman, and a Frenchman under my roof and a
murderer up at the Wilderness. Good Heavens!"
"My dear, as I said, I feel sure that Mr. Jones is
not French. As for the American, I am no doubt being
unjust to him. I am quite unfamiliar with American
academic expressions. Dr. Ridge writes to me on note-
paper headed 'First Themistocles Berkshire Anthropo-
logical Expedition.'"
"Themistocles! Anthropological!" exclaimed Mrs.


76 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
Wykeham. "Why the man must be positively danger-
ous!"
"Oh, what fun, Mother!" exclaimed Psyche. "Do you
think it will be like that lovely film we saw about the
man who murdered hundreds and hundreds of chil-
dren!"
"Be quiet, Psyche! If I'd known what that film was
like we'd never have gone to it. What is all this about,
Samuel? This Themistocles business?"
"Well, my dear, it is not quite so odd as it sounds.
Themistocles happens to be the name of the university
where Dr. Ridge is pursuing his post graduate re-
searches. Anthropological usually connotes research
into primitive culture in England, but of course that is
a specialized meaning. No doubt over the water it is
used in a wider way. Even so, the letter itself is odd."
"Let me see it," said Mrs. Wykeham. She read it out
slowly:
"Reverend sir,
"Thank you for your letter of the 15th instant. I am
glad to hear that you will be able to fix me for the
period in question. The terms you mention are very
reasonable. As to references, Professor Valinoff of
Kings (University of London), or Dr. Hope-Smith,
of Cambridge, both know my work.
"7 may bring a Miss Philberry with me."
"Indeed," muttered Mrs. Wykeham, "you will do
nothing of the sort. At least this place will be kept re-
spectable."
"But this depends on whether the funds of the ex-
pedition can afford to finance two workers. In any


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 77
case I should warn you well in advance should she ac-
company me. If you are pressed for room, we could
occupy the one bedroom."
"The beast!" exclaimed Mrs. Wykeham. "Does he
realize what a vicarage is?"
"I am expecting great things of this expedition and
hope the natives will be friendly. Meanwhile, I am
learning the language.
"Yours faithfully,
"V. RIDGE, Ph.D."
"Natives, language!" exclaimed Mrs. Wykeham.
"What on earth does he mean by the final sentence?"
"I think, my dear," said the vicar mildly, "that Dr.
Ridge must be pulling my leg. Mr. Vansteem, over at
the Elms, is fond of chaffing me in such a way that one
never knows whether he is in earnest or not, so I think
it must be an American characteristic."
"Well, we'll see, but I warn you," said Mrs. Wyke-
ham masterfully, "that if there's the slightest thing
wrong about either Mr. Jones or Dr. Ridge, out they
go at once!"
"Yes, my pet," answered the vicar mildly.
The vicar was always mild, and Mrs. Wykeman was
always masterful, which gave people the impression
that Mr. Wykeham was henpecked. Nothing could be
farther from the truth. In his mild fussy way, Mr.
Wykeham always did exactly what he liked, while Mrs.
Wykeham toiled panting after him, putting down her
foot or drawing the line repeatedly, without any effect,
except possibly the harmless one of consoling herself.


78 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
Such states of affairs are common. Indeed the
psychologist will recognize that they are the rule rather
than the exception. The really henpecked husband is
the blustering bully with a meek timorous wife who,
by skilful sapping and well-organized non-coopera-
tion, always gets precisely what she wants, and leaves
him beating the air.
"All the same," thought Mr. Wykeham, walking
downstairs to the peace of his library, "it will be a
little awkward if this Jones person turns out to be
what dear old Toby used to call 'not the clean potato.'
Such an expressive term! But it is hardly possible.
After all, Balliol is surely Balliol, even in these un-
regenerate times."
The vicar settled down to a comfortable reading
of "Ten Years Among the Head-hunters." He had
just reached a thrilling incident, when he heard his
wife's startled voice outside.
"Samuel. Come at once."
He put down the book with a sigh.
"And drawing his knife across my throat, the Dyak
said," he repeated, memorizing the final sentence until
he could pick the book up again.
Then he opened the door. "What is it, Pattie, my
darling poppet, whatever is the matter? You look quite
scared!"
Mrs. Wykeham tottered feebly to a chair. "Samuel!"
she moaned. "Go downstairs, at once. I can't face it.
Mr. Jones has come. Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!"
Trembling slightly the vicar hastened down the
stairs. The front door was open. There, lounging
casually against the door post and clad in an im-
maculate flannel suit, was a negro.


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 79
For one moment Mr. Wykeham thought he was back
among the head-hunting Dyaks, then he pulled himself
together with an effort. "Mr. Jones?" he faltered.
The negro smiled, showing a dazzling array of per-
fect teeth.
"Yes, Neptune Jones. I say, Vicar, what a perfectly
charming old-world village this is, isn't it?"
"Er, yes. Oh, yes! Delightful. Er—you must excuse
my wife," fluttered the vicar. "She is liable to faint
suddenly. Yes. Yes. Most distressing. At any moment.
Er, come in, will you?"
So arrived the vicar's first paying guest.


CHAPTER SIX
Yet Another Body?
Inspector Archibald Campbell was thirty-five years
old. He was methodical, and although he had never
startled his Department by any brilliant feats of in-
tuition, he could be relied upon not to miss any obvious
clues, and to keep hammering away at a case until all
the rough edges had vanished.
He was the graduate of a Scottish University, who
had come south to find a niche for himself. A chance
acquaintance with a superintendent of the C.I.D. had
suggested that there might be opportunities in criminal
investigation for his combination of practical common-
sense and mental tidiness. He had soon attracted atten-
tion by a scheme evolved in cooperation with the big
car dealers, for keeping a better check on the stolen
motor-car industry. He had been noticed as a clever
youngster and had been able to prove his soundness
in a number of other departments. Hence a fairly rapid
promotion. But this would be his first connection with
sudden death.
"Not that I think it's at all likely to be murder,
Campbell," remarked his chief. "As far as I can see
it's a plain case of suicide. The only thing is that there's
some dirty business mixed up with it, as there so often
is. Old Gregson wants to clear that up. You can't blame
him, of course. So do your best to get a good line on
80


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 81
the whole thing, even though there won't be any bou-
quets going."
Campbell also, as the train hammered along the
Great Western track, was of opinion that there was
not likely to be much in it. It was a commonplace of
police work that suicides always looked fishy, always
caused endless trouble, and always ended up by being
—well, just suicides.
"It stands to reason, that a suicide must be ab-
solutely potty," thought Campbell, serenely confident,
out of the glow of health and the zest of a change of
scene, that it was good to be alive. "So you can't apply
any of the ordinary criteria to them."
At Abingdon he saw Gregson's familiar countenance
flaming ruggedly beside the ticket collector, and the
two men greeted each other with the restrained cordi-
ality of Scots in exile.
They made a contrast, a contrast so acute that it
was difficult to believe they belonged to the same pro-
fession. Gregson was large, clumsily built, and added
to his awkwardness by wearing clothes which hung
around him like a rhinoceros's hide. Above this was
that formidable face, with its fiery contortions, bald
dome, and fringe of silvery hair.
Campbell's slight but broad-shouldered figure was
as usual clothed in a well-fitting suit which gave him
a touch of the dapper, an elegance regarding which he
had often been teased by his colleagues. It resulted in
rather more than his fair share of allocations to night-
club round-ups. Campbell had a pleasant face, dis-
arming rather than good-looking. In any case it had
not been improved by an unregulated enthusiasm for
boxing. A broken nose was one of the results. Even


82 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
when feeling cheerful, Campbell looked serious. On
serious occasions he appeared preternaturally solemn.
But when he did laugh his merriment was prodigious.
As a colleague said once: "Campbell doesn't often
see a joke, but, my God, when he does!"
Gregson took Campbell round to the chief's private
house and, sitting in his library, the three men dis-
cussed the situation.
"Gregson's crime," the- chief called it good-humour-
edly, disclaiming any responsibility for bringing
Campbell down. "If you ask me, all Gregson's wanted
is someone to roll his r's with over a glass of whisky."
"I don't think he would bring me all the way down
for that, sir," answered Campbell seriously, after care-
fully considering this suggestion against the profes-
sional honour of his colleague.
"Well, we'll see. Gregson, give Inspector Campbell
an outline of the case."
Gregson did so, from time to time handing the C.I.D.
man relevant documents and reports. Campbell made
no comment, and only occasionally asked a question.
At the end of the story he remained for some time
in silence, thinking. His first hasty reaction had been
to agree with the verdict of his own and Gregson's
chief. But soon, even at second-hand, he began to get
a whiff of the sinister peculiarities of O'Leary's char-
acter, which had really been the governing motive for
Gregson's doubts.
Then Gregson's discoveries—the tuft of hair, the
fingerprints proving an exhaustive search by O'Leary
of Crumbles' room, and the queer incident of the meals
outside the hotel—combined to leave rough edges which
offended his orderly mind.


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED PACE 83
"It's certainly odd. All the same," he said hesitantly,
"I can't see any reason yet, to doubt that it's suicide.
You've got an unstable criminal type in Crumbles, and
there's no knowing what he mightn't do if his plans
went wrong. It may be that remorse for having killed
Samson had something to do with it, but I don't see
how the report of the motor-car accident will help us.
If it were really a faked up accident, it would need a
fresh inquiry on the spot to prove it. No, we've got to
focus our attention on what happened here in England.
First of all I'll get headquarters on to seeing where
Crumbles stayed before he came to Abingdon. If he
came from London, as seems likely, there's probably a
trunk of his knocking round at a cloakroom or a hotel.
The shipping companies will help too. We can go
through the recent sailings, for it's evident he was in
Nigeria not less than three months ago.
"We'll also go into O'Leary's previous history. The
solicitors who let the Wilderness should help us there.
And I think we must see if we can't pick up some gossip
in the village itself. If O'Leary really has been making
expeditions under cover of pretending to be a hermit,
surely someone must have spotted something suspicious.
We all know villagers don't miss much."
"Yes, but the Wilderness is all by itself on the edge
of the Downs. It would be easy for him to be picked
up by a car on the other side without anyone's know-
ing. Even if he had been spotted walking over the
Downs, they would just have thought of him as a
stranger, never having seen his face, you see!"
"Well, we've got to take that chance. As for your
famous sunburn, Gregson, why not be obvious, and
ask him? Naturally he'll give us some excuse, but his


84 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
face will be worth watching. And often a lie is more
informative than the truth."
The 'phone bell rang, and after lifting the receiver
the chief handed the instrument over to Gregson.
"For you."
Gregson put the receiver to his ear and heard the
robust voice of Police-Constable Collop. His excite-
ment was evident.
"Don't shout so loudly," exclaimed Gregson, as the
earpiece jangled. "I can hear you all right!"
"Sorry, sir," said Collop, "seeing as how you were
right over at Abingdon, I thought I'd better speak up.
It's about O'Leary, sir. The William Bundling boy
has seen him burying a corpse in his garden."
"What?" exclaimed Gregson. "Don't be a fool,
man!"
"It's a fact," answered Collop stolidly. "Saw him
with his own eyes, and the corpse too!"
"The child must be potty. When was this?"
"The night Crumbles hanged himself, sir. I've got
the boy here and can bring him over, sir, if you like."
"Yes, do. Get Harry Thompson to run you over.
I'll be round in my office in half an hour."
Gregson turned to Campbell apologetically.
"These villagers! Here's a child ready to swear he
saw O'Leary burying a body in the garden. Absolute
bosh, of course, but we'll have to see him and hear his
story. You'd be amazed, Campbell, at the imagina-
tion of a villager!"
Gregson and Campbell returned to find Collop sit-
ting solemnly beside the small figure of William Bun-
dling. The boy was quivering with excitement.
Gregson smiled benevolently on him.


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 85
"Well, Tommy, what's this I hear? Tell me exactly
what you saw. And don't make anything up. Here's
Inspector Campbell from Scotland Yard. He'll see in
a jiffy if you're not telling the truth."
William Bundling's eyes opened larger as he stared
at Campbell.
"It's just as I'm telling you, mister. As I was acom-
ing back from the Downs"
"Snaring for rabbits, I wouldn't be surprised," re-
marked Collop heavily.
William Bundling ignored the interruption. "I saw
a lamp hoppiting about Wilderness garden. At first I
were scared and then I heard a kind o' clanketing, as
it might be someone turning of stones wi' a spade. So
I crept up to the gate, and then I saw old Miser dig-
ging a grave for a corpus."
"Did you actually see this corpse?" asked Gregson.
"Yes, mister, with my own eyes I seed her. All cold
and stiff and the eyes of it glooming in the light. It
was all wrapped up in a cloth like but its arms was out-
side, and he dragged it by the arms and rolled her in
the hole, and then he covered it up with dirt like fury."
Gregson rubbed his chin and looked significantly
at Campbell.
"Whereabouts was this, Tommy?"
"In the front garden, mister, as it might be by a
lump o' stone."
"That would be by the sundial," said Collop.
"I see. Right-ho, Collop! You were quite right to
bring the child over."
When they were gone, Gregson looked thoughtful.
"There's no doubt the kid's seen something. But
what the devil can it have been?"


86 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
"Well, it sounds like a body all right. A pretty
graphic description, you know, for a kid. Those arms
. . . Anyone missing?"
"Never a soul. The last thing I bargained for was
another body. Crumbles is causing quite enough trou-
ble as it is. Well, it's getting dark now. We'd better go
over first thing tomorrow morning. I'll call round for
you at your hotel."
"Right. I'm staying at the Ethelreda. In Crumbles'
bedroom. The surroundings may give me an idea. Will
you lend me that chart of the room showing the posi-
tion of the fingerprints?"
"But after all, he's very well-spoken," said the vicar,
"and he's a Christian. He told me so himself."
"A Christian," moaned Mrs. Wykeham. "What's
that got to do with it? A negro and in my house! I
tell you it made me feel quite creepy, seeing him sitting
there at the end of the table eating toast."
"Why particularly eating toast?" asked the vicar
curiously.
"The way he crunched it with those teeth of his,
for all the world as if it was human bones."
"My love, my love, you are letting your imagina-
tion get the better of you. And to think how often you
have knitted jumpers and run bazaars for the Church
Missionary Society. And Neptune Jones is a very in-
telligent young man. I gather he is a chief or a prince
or something in his native land. After all, all men are
brothers, whatever the colour of their skins."
"I don't deny he's my brother. All I say is, I don't
want him in my house."


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 87
"That, my lovekin, is hardly logical, if I may
say so.
"And," added the vicar with unexpected guile, "he
has a great admiration for you."
"Oh, has he, indeed," sniffed the vicar's wife. "I
know those beasts with their harems." She hesitated.
"What did he say about me, anyway?"
"He said you were a cow-hippopotamus, darling."
"Samuel, you allow me to be insulted in my own
house by a savage!"
"But, my pet," explained the vicar hastily, "I under-
stand that in Mr. Jones' country the hippopotamus is
sacred, and is considered a symbol of maternal love. It
was the highest possible compliment that he could
pay you."
"Indeed! In any case, Samuel, have you forgotten
that Dr. Ridge is arriving next week? He thinks he
is coming to a respectable English country village.
What will he say when he finds he is expected to live
in a home for negroes?"
"Oh, I am sure he won't mind in the least," said
the vicar lightly, "I understand that the Americans
are a very democratic people. I am quite sure that they
have no prejudices of that kind. Let me see, if I re-
member my history aright, they even fought a war to
liberate the oppressed negroes of their states."
"Well, I only hope you are right. All the same, I
should ask Mr. Vansteem. And if my wishes are to be
respected, Samuel, I must insist that you get rid of Mr.
Jones at the earliest possible opportunity."
"Your wishes are always respected, my love," an-
swered her husband meekly, "all the same it is quite
impossible for me even to mention the departure to


88 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
Mr. Jones at the present moment. Apart from the fact
that he is a Christian and a member of my own Uni-
versity, we are playing Great Whippering next week,
and it is essential we have all the sound batsmen we can
muster. In any case he is a most interesting young
man. You have no idea of the way they hunt elephants
in his country. Upon my word, it almost made me wish
I were a savage myself. I can picture myself worming
my way through the depths of the jungle and then
springing up with a yell"
"Oh, well, if he's starting to talk like that," said
Mrs. Wykeham resignedly, "I suppose he'll be here
for ever. I should like to know what the villagers think
of it, that's all."
The villagers, however, took it with remarkable calm.
"Another furriner," said Mr. Padding, "so they
says. Up at the vicarage. A black one this time."
"A black one, hey? Well, how would that be? These
Londoners are a proper caution," replied young
Sawyer. "What will they be a-doing next!"
"He ain't no Londoner. He's a converted heathen
from Afrikker."
"Ar."
"Same as we had that jumble sale for. And if you
ask me, we bin done. What's the use of jumble sales
for black men that drive round in their cars like Chris-
tians? It ain't natural!"
"You're right there, Silas Padding. That ain't
natural."
"All the same, they do say he plays cricket like a
Christian."


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 89
"Ah, we could do with un then. We're playing Great
Whippering next week, and I'll lay a black man will
be useful in the. fighting arter. And what may the
vicar's missis think of him? A heathen in the house
with all that silver of hers?"
"They do say she doesn't hold with it. Young Ann
up at the vicarage heard her creating something fierce."
"I'll be bound she did, you mark my words."
Meanwhile the vicar, not unstung by his wife's
Parthian shaft, had made a point, on his next walk,
of calling in at the Elms, to have a talk with Mr.
Vansteem.
Mr. Vansteem was a tall white-haired American who
had lived in Little Whippering now for ten years, and
who combined the peaceful cultivation of roses with a
connoisseur's knowledge of ecclesiastical brasses, on
which he had written several monographs. The vicar,
sometimes a little torn and harried by the strenuous
cares of village life, found Vansteem's peculiar blend
of mildness and acerbity tonic, and often sought it.
Mr. Vansteem listened to his story without comment.
"So you see," concluded the vicar, "I have come to
ask your advice. Is this American doctor likely to mind
having a negro as a fellow boarder? I can't think it
likely of your great free country, but in view of my
wife's remarks I feel I ought to put the case to you.
Do you think, when Dr. Ridge finds he has to share
our hospitality with a negro, he will be likely to say
anything wounding to the young man's feelings?"
"What part of the States does this Dr. Ridge come
from?" asked Mr. Vansteem curiously.
The vicar took out Dr. Ridge's letter, and looked at
the address.


90 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
"It appears to be Georgia."
A slight twinkle appeared in Mr. Vansteem's eyes.
"Oh, no, I don't think he'll say anything," he said.
"Oh, well, that is a great relief. Not that I thought
it was at all likely, but still it is so easy to be tactless."
"He won't say anything," repeated Mr. Vansteem
slowly, as if he had not heard the vicar's answer. The
twinkle in his eyes had spread to his mouth, "I guess
he'll just up and shoot him."
The vicar began to flutter. "Oh, dear, Mr. Vansteem.
You are jesting surely? Do you really think he would
shoot him? Oh, dear, my wife was right! I should
never have put that unfortunate advertisement in.
What do you advise me to do?"
"I should cable Dr. Ridge something short and
snappy. 'Sorry cannot fix you, negro'," suggested Mr.
Vansteem.
"Unfortunately he will have sailed by now, and I
don't know what boat he is coming on. What a most
unfortunate situation. Do you really think he would go
so far as to shoot Neptune?"
"Oh, well, things may have changed since the
N.R.A.," said Mr. Vansteem helpfully, "but I wouldn't
count on it if I were you."
"This is most awkward. I shall have to warn Mr.
Jones to keep out of the way. I can't possibly have
shooting in the drawing room. My wife would never
tolerate it, with all her silver about. We shall have
to break the news to Dr. Ridge gently. I count on you,
Mr. Vansteem! You must find some excuse for disarm-
ing him tactfully outside the vicarage!"
"No, sir," said Mr. Vansteem with a delighted grin.
"I wouldn't interfere with a delicate matter like this,


92 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
mon. It will be on the text 'Strong drink is raging.'
I am not a Puritan, Mr. Vansteem, but there appears
to have been an orgy last night led by this person
O'Leary, whom I should never before have suspected
of conviviality. I am informed that many of them were
so intoxicated they went back to the wrong cottages.
As you can imagine, I feel it is my duty to stop that
kind of thing! It might have the most regrettable con-
sequences."
"It certainly might," agreed Mr. Vansteem, "par-
ticularly if they happened to be married."
"Er—yes. Er—quite. Most awkward.
"A little wine for the stomach's sake certainly,"
said the vicar, holding up to the light the excellent
sherry which Mr. Vansteem had poured out for him.
"I will go further," said the vicar, as he sipped it
slowly, "enough may be taken to induce a feeling of
benevolence. After all, charity is charity, even if it
comes out of a bottle. Though possibly that opinion
is bad theology. I shan't refer to it in my sermon. Re-
gard it as obiter dictum not ex cathedra. But the line
must be drawn somewhere. Firmly. Thank you, I think
I will have another, and then I must take myself off.
The line, as I say, must be drawn. Liberty, yes. Licence,
no."
The vicar walked slowly back, across the Common,
over the stile, and up the poplar-lined path to the
vicarage. The air was balmy, and the vicar, taking off
his hat, let the breeze caress his iron-grey locks.
"After all," thought the vicar, feeling a gentle glow
in his soul, " 'the labouring hind hath little to rejoice.'
I think the harm of overindulgence in alcohol is ex-
aggerated. Perhaps it would be more fitting if I re-


CHAPTER SEVEN
The Vicar Shocked Again
The morning after William Bundling's revelation, the
two policemen drove over in Gregson's car to the Wil-
derness. They pulled up some distance from the front
gate, and before going in, cautiously surveyed the gar-
den through the hedge.
"Good night!" exclaimed the Scotland Yard man.
"Has there been an earthquake here?"
"It certainly looks like it," admitted Gregson.
The garden looked like a battlefield. The long-neg-
lected flower beds were pitted with craters; the lawn had
been torn up and trenches had been ploughed through
the gravel paths. The basin of a concrete lily pond
had been cracked, evidently with the sledge hammer
that lay beside it. Several shrubs had been uprooted.
Indeed the scene did not seem so much the result of an
earthquake as of the efforts of a giant terrier which
had had a glorious twenty-four hours' romp through
the garden.
"Well, this is a bit odd," said Campbell, "if we are
to believe William Bundling's evidence, it looks as if
O'Leary has been burying corpses on a large scale!"
"Yes, I expect to find a whole school missing when
I get back," replied Gregson smiling.
94


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 95
"Well, let's go in and see."
The two policemen went up the gravelled path, pick-
ing their way among the debris. As they neared the door,
they heard the rattle of a spade and a weary curse,
coming from the back of the cottage. They turned their
steps towards the sound. O'Leary was digging a flower
bed, with a kind of stolid resignation, varied occasion-
ally by a curse. He dug for some time before he realized
the presence of the policemen behind him. Then he
turned round suddenly. His expression of irritation
vanished, and his face assumed a look of wary good-
humour.
"Why, Inspector Gregson, this is a pleasure! You
needn't have put yourself out though. I could have
come over any time. Or is it what you might call a social
call? I see you've brought friends."
"Yes, this is a colleague of mine, Inspector Camp-
bell."
"You seem to have been busy, Mr. O'Leary," said
Campbell gravely.
"Yes, sir. I let things get behind-hand you see. Then
I thought to myself. 'Damnation, here's summer com-
ing round again and not a flower to be seen! It's time
you did something about it, O'Leary, my boy!' I said,
and without another word I got my spade. And here
I am, as hot as the hobs of hell, confound it!"
He mopped his scarlet forehead and grinned.
"Well, the garden certainly was neglected," said
Gregson, without an answering smile. "What are you
planting?"
"I've not come to the planting yet. It's making the
ground ready I am now. Getting the soil nice and clean,
as you might say."


96 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
Inspector Gregson's eyes wandered to the ploughed-
up gravel paths and the demolished lily pond.
"You're going to have some beds in rather awkward
places. Still, I suppose you know best."
O'Leary's face took on an appearance of preter-
natural stupidity.
"Yes, Inspector, that's me all over. I rush into a
thing like a bull in a china shop, and before I know
where I am, I've done more harm than good. That lily
pond now. Don't say another word! I know it's not
right. I oughter have left it alone. I just blinded in
and rooted it up without thinking about it."
"We can't all be experts," said Gregson heavily,
who was an expert gardener himself.
He looked at O'Leary's blistered hands.
"If I may say so, that's not the way to dig. You're
giving yourself twice the trouble you need, and a pain
in your back as well."
"Surely there's only one way of digging?" said
O'Leary, beginning to turn over the earth again.
"Yes, the right way, and that's not it. Allow me."
O'Leary, somewhat mystified, surrendered his spade
to the inspector, who tucked it under his arm, and
slowly and deliberately walked to the front garden,
followed by Campbell and O'Leary.
Without hesitating, the inspector walked up to the
freshly dug bed under the sundial, planted his spade
with a firm gesture, and began digging rapidly and
dexterously.
"Hey!" said O'Leary, "I've just dug that."
"All the better," replied Gregson placidly.
An odd expression passed over O'Leary's face. He
laid his hand on the spade as if to take it back.


98 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
ing and dragging his hindquarters behind him. Then he
started snapping at me when I fed him. So I put a
bullet through him. If you hear of anyone in the village
who's got a nice watch-dog for sale, you might let me
know."
Gregson accepted his defeat gracefully.
"Yes, of course I will, Mr. O'Leary. Well, at any rate
you've had a lesson in digging!"
He began to cover up the dead dog.
Meanwhile Campbell, who had been strolling round
the garden inspecting the ruin, came back to O'Leary
again.
"I'm afraid I'm going to ask you a personal ques-
tion, Mr. O'Leary," he said slowly, "but then we C.I.D.
men are fond of personal questions."
Mr. O'Leary indicated that he was all attention.
"That's some very fine sunburn on your face. How
did you get it? I understand that you never went out
of the house during the two years before Crumbles'
death."
O'Leary smiled affably.
"Well, that's a funny way to put it, I must say. Any-
one would think it was poor George's death that made
me sit up and take nourishment as you might say. But
no doubt having come down fresh, you don't know the
ins and outs of the case. It was my hearing of Samson's
death that made me a different man. Which is hardly
surprising, seeing as how he'd sworn to kill me, and
Tuffy was the man to keep his word."
"Quite," said Campbell. "I understand that, but the
sunburn, now?"
"Don't you worry about that, mister! You wait here
half a tick and I'll show you how I got that sunburn."


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 99
O'Leary hurried back into the house, leaving Camp-
bell staring at Gregson in some surprise.
"Well, I've struck some odd criminals, but he'll be
the oddest. Do you think the explanation is that he's
just mad?"
Gregson rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"It certainly makes one think, but here he is coming
back again, and good lord with a basin of water!"
O'Leary gravely put down the basin. A rag and a
piece of soap were floating in the water. He picked up
the rag, soaked it, and rubbed vigorously at his chin.
Then he rinsed his face. The two policemen saw a large
white patch where he had rubbed his chin.
Campbell picked up the rag, it was covered with some
brownish dye, rubbed off O'Leary's face.
"Pure vanity, gents!" said O'Leary, with a pro-
digious sigh. "Promise me you won't tell the girls?
Yes, it's all done with sunburn dye. Handsome men are
slightly sunburnt, what, what? You see I looked at my
face in the mirror, white as a cheese, and I said:
'O'Leary, old boy, this won't do. No nice girl loves a
walking corpse. You gotter spruce yourself up.' And
this's the result."
"Well, I must admit that clears up the puzzle," said
Gregson ruefully.
Meanwhile Campbell leaning against the sundial on
which the basin of water had been placed, had his atten-
tion caught by some specks of dirt in the bottom of the
basin. They glittered slightly. O'Leary's back was to
him, and he carefully put in his finger and scooped up
the specks. Taking out his wallet, he wiped them off
his finger into the interior of an old envelope. The
action was not noticed either by Gregson or O'Leary.


100 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
"Well, this is a nice place you've got, Mr. O'Leary!"
went on Gregson, with dangerous affability. "Where
would you have been before you came here?"
"Africa," said O'Leary shortly.
"I mean after that?"
"Various places."
"Such as?"
"London."
"Ah, what part now?"
"Various parts," said O'Leary slowly. "Which in
particular is my business, I think. And what I says,
gents, is, what does it matter? Tuffy's dead, ain't he?
And George has killed himself, hasn't he? You're not
denying that, I suppose?"
"No, we're not denying that. At present," said Greg-
son, gently.
"Then what do you want to come bothering me,
axing a lot of questions? I spoke out straight, didn't I?
I told you I'd been in stir out in Africa. Well, what
about it? Plenty of better men than me has got into
trouble, but it don't follow that wherever they go they
gotter be treated suspicious. I ain't on ticket o' leave.
So police or no police, gents, I'm asking you to keep
your noses out of my cottage. If you want to dig up my
dogs, well and good! But when it comes fishing about
asking this and that and where have I been, I says,
why? That's all. Just, why?"
"A sound question, O'Leary, and not easy to answer.
As you say, why? These questions will probably be
asked at the inquest."
"Oh, will they? And suppose I refuse to answer
them?" O'Leary's affability had quite worn off, and he


2qq THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
.uldn't go into the Wilderness by daylight? Suppose
Crumbles intended to rob O'Leary? Or even murder
him? And suppose he found the place too difficult to
break into and had to shoot the dog, and beat it? Per-
haps the wire to O'Leary was just another device to
lure O'Leary into his clutches?"
"And then?"
"Well, O'Leary guesses who has shot the dog, guesses
what is behind the wire, goes over there in the morning
in disguise and does Crumbles in. Then he gets back
in time to go over there the second time, with Harry
Thompson, having dropped the disguise; cropped his
hair and so forth; and pretends to discover the suicide."
"But how do you explain Crumbles' letters?"
"I can't at the moment," admitted Campbell, "but if
I am right they were part of Crumbles' plot for mur-
dering O'Leary, which miscarried. The faked sunburn
bears this out. When O'Leary went over to call on
Crumbles, in disguise with dyed hair, his face had its
natural pallor. Then before his second visit, knowing
that the police would ask him to take his muffler off, he
painted his face with sunburn tan. This would com-
pletely transform his appearance and eliminate the
risk that anyone in Abingdon who had seen him on his
first visit might recognize him again."
"It's certainly a possibility," said Gregson thought-
fully, as they drove along the main road, "I wish we
could discover some reason for Crumbles and O'Leary's
being enemies. By all accounts they should be friends."
"Has O'Leary a banking account?" asked Campbell
a moment later. "It would be interesting to know where
his money comes from."
"He doesn't appear to have one. Not locally at any


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBUENED FACE 103
rate. And all his bills were paid with cash, through that
ingenious trap door of his."
Seated again in Gregson's office, Campbell took out
his wallet and shot out the specks of dirt he had col-
lected on to the desk.
"Hello, what's that?" asked Gregson.
"I don't know, yet. I got it from O'Leary's basin.
It looks to me like metallic dust. The question is, what
metal? It may be brass from the pump bearing. On the
other hand— Well, we'll see."
Gregson looked puzzled.
"I don't see what you're after. Still I always believe
in following a hunch."
Campbell put the dust carefully into a cellophane
envelope, sealed it and put it in another envelope ad-
dressed to the C.I.D.
Meanwhile Gregson, leaning back at his desk with his
eyes closed, was thinking. Then he sat up and opened
them.
"There's one flaw in your theory, Campbell, it doesn't
explain O'Leary's digging mania. Unless he really has
developed a passion for flowers."
"I think that is unlikely. So that leaves us with two
possibilities. One. He's looking for something. We can
dismiss that, I think, for he's been at the Wilderness
two years, so he wouldn't start so frantically now."
"He may only have just heard. By Jove, could that
have been Crumbles' good news?"
"It's a possibility," admitted Campbell, "but it's
more likely that he's hiding something. Something
bulky."
"Dead dogs," muttered Gregson. "No more of that,
thank you! Anyway why so many holes?"


104 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
"Perhaps that's bluff. He may only have hidden the
stuff, whatever it is, in one of them. I admit it's damned
difficult to account for everything. The simplest way
would be to suppose he's mad. He can't be quite sane,
certainly; there's a queer look in his eyes. But I
wouldn't say he was mad in that kind of way."
"Neither should I. A nasty customer. Thank the
Lord we don't get many of that kind in this part of the
world, Africa is welcome to 'em."
"Plantains, plantains, plantains!" sighed the vicar,
as he crawled on his knees across the immemorial turf of
the vicarage lawn. "Did they have plantains in the
Garden of Eden, I wonder? If so, the blissful peace of
our ancestors' lot is surely exaggerated. I often think,
if one may, without irreverence, that had there been
lawns in Palestine, the parable of the Tares would have
been the parable of the Plantains. And going out to his
lawn, he said, 'Some enemy hath done this.' Come up,
thou thing of naught! Dear me, what long roots they
have!"
"Excuse me," said a clear feminine voice. Its tone
suggested that the owner had been watching the vicar
gently crawling over the lawn for a long time, with
increasing impatience. As indeed she had.
"Are you the vicar?"
The vicar looked up and beamed.
The speaker was a girl of about thirty, with a slight
slim figure and a strikingly beautiful face. Her eyes
were grey and her mouth was firm. If any fault could
have been found with her, it was that there was a certain
self-confidence and calmness, betokening an independ-


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 105
ence, even a contempt for human trivialities and emo-
tions. To many, however, this would prove an added
attraction.
The vicar was human, and there were few pretty girls
in Little Whippering. Certainly none so pretty as this.
He beamed again, but paternally, of course. Then he
got up from his hands and knees.
The stranger was wearing a simple, rather severely
tailored costume.
The vicar now noticed that she had a suitcase in her
hand, and that Harry Thompson was hovering in the
background.
"Yes, I am the vicar.
"These are really my gardener's clothes," he added
simply, "and I need a bath."
The girl smiled. "You're liable to get mussed up
gardening."
"I am not sure whether the real attraction of garden-
ing is not the getting thoroughly dirty. None of us
would confess it, of course," said the vicar, waving his
trowel, "but we all love a rollic in the earth. We like
to feel its primitive humours on our hands and skin!"
"Do you eat it?" asked the girl gravely.
The vicar recoiled.
"Eat it. Good Heavens, no, my dear child! Why
should I?"
"I beg your pardon. I thought it might be a local
custom. Geophagy is practised among the Paramuiti
Indians in Brazil, by certain phratries of the Sea Bon-
gos, and by at least two Micronesian peoples."
"Really, how strange! It is preferable to anthro-
pophagy, no doubt. But excuse me, may I ask who you
are? I don't think you belong to my parish."


106 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
"I'm Virginia Ridge."
"Really," said the vicar vaguely, "what a pretty
name! Well, my dear, can I do anything for you? Or
have you come to look round our garden? The box
hedges are rather fine, are they not? I clipped them
myself."
"I've come to stay," said the girl patiently. "Didn't
you get my letter?"
"To stay!" exclaimed the vicar startled. "Well, of
course that's very nice but—er"
Suddenly enlightenment came to him.
"What did you say your name was?"
"Ridge, Virginia Ridge."
"Not," faltered the vicar, "not Dr. Ridge?"
"Why, yes. Didn't you expect me?"
"Of course," answered the vicar hastily, "that is to
say, we didn't. I mean we expected you, but we didn't
expect you to be like this."
The girl smiled. "I'm sorry. Don't I come up to ex-
pectations?"
"Oh, of course we don't mean that," fluttered the
vicar.
"On the contrary," he added gallantly. "You ex-
ceeded them. To quite a considerable extent. The sex,
you see. Not at all what we expected. . . . However, of
course we are delighted. And Psyche, my little girl, will
be delighted too. And my wife—er—of course, she also
will be delighted. Yes, of course. Let me take your suit-
case."
The girl surrendered it.
"I hope I won't soil the handle," remarked the vicar.
"My hands are really quite uncommonly dirty. I don't


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 107
know what you will think of us, you know. Such a bad
impression!"
"Oh, don't worry," replied Virginia Ridge seriously,
"we field workers are trained to be shocked by nothing.
The last expedition I went on, Miss Philberry and I
walked into the chief's house, and found him naked,
toasting a piece of human flesh in front of a fire."
"Good gracious me!" said the vicar, putting down
the bag, the better to listen. "This is most interesting.
You must tell me all about that. Everyone, positively
everyone, seems to have adventures here except me.
Little Whippering will seem a very quiet place after
that. Yes, indeed, you won't see anything of that kind
here! And of course Miss Philberry. Yes, that explains
her. We were wondering. ... So you're not easily
shocked?"
"I reckon I'm unshockable."
"That's excellent, my dear—I mean Doctor," said
the vicar, rubbing his hands. "Really excellent."
He hesitated a moment. "Do you happen to have a
firearm of any kind on you?"
The girl looked at him, momentarily startled, and
then a flicker of amusement came into her eyes.
"Well, I believe I've got an old automatic tucked
away in my trunk somewhere. Shall I get it out for
you?"
"No, no, no. By all means, no!" exclaimed the vicar
hastily. They walked a little farther up the path. "I
must warn you, you have a fellow lodger."
"That's all right by me."
"An unusual man. Most unusual. He is more or less
of royal blood. A minor royalty, so to speak."
"Say, that's interesting!"


108 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
"The only thing is that—-well, he's rather dark."
"Do you mean he's a wop?"
"I don't quite know what a wop is. I should describe
him as a negro."
"A negro!" exclaimed the girl mildly, without, to
the vicar's relief, any signs of an explosion.
"Well, I never thought to meet one here. Where does
he come from?"
"Africa," said the vicar vaguely.
"Yes, but what tribe does he belong to?"
"Let me see now," said the vicar thoughtfully, "it
was West African. The Ngama people."
"Ah, yes. Black skin, straightish nose, above the nor-
mal height. Fetish-worshippers. Matrilineal, high civil-
ization with a developed system of taboo. They practice
hoe tillage with a certain amount of stock-raising.
Polygynous of course, and addicted to cannibalism."
"Well, really!" said the vicar. "How on earth did
you know that?"
"Part of my job," answered Virginia Ridge coolly.
"But, say, have I been sold or something? Your vil-
lagers don't know their own language!"
"Their own language? I'm afraid I don't understand.
What precisely did you say to them?"
The girl spoke a few sentences in Berkshire dialect
so broad that the vicar was unable to understand it.
"Where on earth did you pick that up? It's positively
startling!"
"At the Institute. Gramophone records. We field
workers always learn the language before we go to a
district. It's essential; interpreters are always mis-
leading. Have I been sold or did they give me the wrong
set of records?"


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 109
"It's perfectly good Berkshire," admitted the vicar,
"but unfortunately, since the wireless and the talkies,
Little Whippering doesn't speak dialect, except when it
gets excited."
"What does it speak then?"
"The younger ones who go to the pictures use a
variety of expressions which Mr. Vansteem tells me are
American."
"Land sakes!" exclaimed the startled anthropologist.
"The older ones, who only listen-in, speak in a curious
mincing way which I am told is now current at Oxford.
It certainly wasn't in my time, but no doubt I am a
back number. However, don't look so downcast, my dear
lady. There are a good many old men and women in
those dreadful cottages in Cat and Dog Lane who still
speak dialect. Not only will they be delighted to speak
to you, but you will have difficulty in getting away from
them. Yes, indeed."
"I'm glad to hear it."
"And now we are on the subject, if it is not rude, may
I ask why you have come to our village?"
"It's simple enough, Vicar. Anthropology is con-
cerned with the study of backward peoples. Our
museums and libraries are full of data about tribes no
one has ever heard of. We know their religions, their
morals, their beliefs, their customs, their diet, their
superstitions, their relationship system, and the most
intimate details of their life. We actually know more
about them than we do about the equivalent customs of
European villages, where life is also primitive, but
which are rapidly dying out. It is the object of our
Institute at Themistocles to obtain a record of them
before it is too late. I am prospecting the ground for


CHAPTER EIGHT
Inspector Campbell Strikes Gold
"You remember that dirt in O'Leary's basin?" said
Campbell to Gregson.
"Oh, yes. What happened to it? You were going to
have it analyzed, weren't you."
"Yes. I have. Here's the report. It's gold dust."
"Gold dust!" exclaimed Gregson, momentarily stag-
gered. "Why, good Lord, of all the impossible things!"
"Impossible, but very interesting. O'Leary washes his
hands in water and leaves gold dust behind. It makes
one wonder, doesn't it?"
"Gold dust," mused Gregson. "And of course
Crumbles had just come back from Africa. From near
the gold district. It suggests, doesn't it, that there was
something behind Crumbles' visit besides Samson's
death?"
"It does. And it also suggests a reason for O'Leary's
sudden joy. And a motive for killing Crumbles, which
we always lacked before."
"Have your people been able to get a line on
Crumbles' movements in London?"
"Yes. I've just been speaking to Sergeant Finch on
the phone. They're sending down a trunk which was left
by a black-bearded man at Paddington Station cloak-
Ill


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 113
ing. But why does he come at all? I think we can assume
all these men are as crooked as hell, so it's a question of
what material advantage he gets."
"H'm." Gregson meditated a moment. "I can't see
any."
"I don't know. There are several possibilities. The
difficulty is to say which one is likely to be correct. We
want one which can account for O'Leary's peculiar
behaviour. Suppose we assume that O'Leary's entitled
to a share of Crumbles' gold. He may have provided the
information which resulted in the haul. The obvious
thing then would be for Crumbles to double-cross him.
So we must assume that O'Leary has some means of
enforcing his rights. It wouldn't be physical power, for
O'Leary is evidently a coward. Look at the way he hid
from the moment he expected Samson to be out of gaol.
He must have had a moral hold over Crumbles. Prob-
ably O'Leary knew some secret which could get
Crumbles into gaol. Perhaps he knew that Samson had
been murdered, and could get Crumbles hanged for it."
"That sounds the most likely."
"Right. Let's assume it then. So Crumbles comes
obediently to O'Leary to diwy up. But he doesn't want
to divvy up. So he secretly explores other possibilities
during his month in London and makes a plan. First
of all he tries to catch O'Leary out at the Wilderness,
but finds he's too well entrenched. So he tries to lure him
to his hotel. But meanwhile, as we've previously de-
cided, O'Leary's been too clever for him. He, in his
turn, has been spying on Crumbles, only with more
subtlety. He calls on Crumbles in disguise, and murders
him, then hurries back to the village. We don't know
how yet. Perhaps he got a lift from some passing motor-


114 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
ist. Meanwhile the telegram Crumbles has sent to lure
O'Leary to his death (and this would explain the loaded
revolver in Crumbles' pocket) is going on its way at the
very moment when the sender is swinging on the end of
a rope. By the time it arrives, O'Leary has got rid of his
disguise. He got rid of a part of it—the dark hair—as
we know, in Crumbles' bedroom. And there too, in a long
search, he either found the boodle, or else found a paper
which told him where it was. O'Leary then, or later,
brings it back to his house rejoicing, and buries it in
his garden. Meanwhile he has acted the farce of going
over with Harry Thompson to discover the death of the
man he murdered."
"It still leaves one difficulty. How do you explain
Crumbles' depression? And that business of getting
the rope. And how do you explain the letter to the
Coroner?"
"They were obviously part of Crumbles' original plan
for murdering O'Leary. As it miscarried, we don't know
what it is. But perhaps we can guess at it. I suggest that
we would have found an unrecognizable corpse with its
face blown to fragments, lying in Crumbles' bedroom,
with the suicide letters to suggest it was Crumbles, and
dressed in Crumbles' clothes. We should have never seen
any more either of Crumbles and O'Leary again, and we
should have assumed either that Crumbles had com-
mitted suicide or, failing that, that O'Leary had mur-
dered him and had fled. In any case Crumbles would by
then have been on the Continent."
"It certainly hangs together," admitted Gregson.
"Let's call it our working hypothesis. What's our next
step?"
"Well, we must wait to see if there's any news from


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 115
Nigeria of a gold robbery in that part of the world in
the last few months. Then we must either search
O'Leary's house officially, or, better still, one of us can
have him over here for an interview while the other digs
up the stuff in the garden. Once we've got the link
between Crumbles and the gold, and the gold and
O'Leary, I think we can call our case complete."
Campbell ticked off the points one by one. "We've
got proof of O'Leary's disguise. Of O'Leary's search of
Crumbles' room. Of his behaviour before and after
Crumbles' murder. We know O'Leary's criminal record.
We're certain to discover a good deal more after arrest.
I think it's a good case."
"Fair to middling," said Gregson without enthu-
siasm.
"There's one thing we ought to put in hand though,
and that is an inquiry to find if Crumbles has been
seen round here before he came here openly the day
before his death. If my theory is right, he must have
come down more than once to spy out the He of the
land before he concocted his little plot."
"Well, he's a reasonable easy man to identify. I'll
see what we can do."
Tea on the vicarage lawn. The afternoon sunlight
filtered through the trees and shimmered back from
large pools on the lawn. There was a drowsy hum
from the bees as they reaped where they had not sown.
A wasp from time to time turned its attention to the
well spread table which, to its annoyance, instantly
blossomed with flipping handkerchiefs.
From behind the trees came the peaceful pat-pat of


116 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
a decorously struck tennis ball. The vicar, conscious
that he added the final decorative touch to so English
a scene, leaned back in his chair with his panama pulled
over his eyes. From under its shade he contemplated his
wife, operating a massive silver teapot.
So far all was drowsy and harmoniously lazy. But
Virginia Ridge, with a notebook on her knee, sitting
bolt upright, looked altogether too cool and strenuous
to blend with the scene. It became frankly exotic with
Mr. Jones, whose black face gave a startling emphasis
to his white tennis shirt and flannels.
Presently the patting ceased, and Claude Marion
and Psyche came towards the tea.
"Beaten again," groaned Marion. "I never had a
chance."
"If only you'd run about more, you'd beat me easily,"
said Psyche severely.
"Don't be so painfully obvious, my dear child. When
you are old enough to be tactful—however it is too hot
to explain anything. I feel so old today. A million years
old! Not primeval but just ancient, jaded, with all the
wisdom of the ages on my brow. My eyelids are a little
weary."
"Have a cucumber sandwich," said Mrs. Wykeham.
"Perhaps that would be best. And how is the Anthro-
pology going, Dr. Ridge?"
"Quite all right, thanks. I've spent the last few days
measuring. Heads mostly."
"Indeed, and what conclusion have you come to?"
"Field workers don't come to conclusions. However,
it's a dolicocephalous village. Unexpectedly so."
"Dear me, is dolicocephaly a new form of vice? Or a
disease?" Marion sniggered.


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 117
"If you are really interested in the subject, I shall
be glad to lend you a text book," said Dr. Ridge
gravely.
Virginia's firm treatment of the conversation pro-
duced an awkward silence.
"Well," said the vicar brightly at last, "that reminds
me! I have often meant to ask you, Mr. Jones, how you
came to be called Neptune."
"It's the nearest equivalent of my native name, Nga-
ma-Nwama," explained Mr. Jones with a grin.
"Oh, I think I understand. Nga-ma-Nwama is your
god of the sea and you were named after him."
Mr. Jones shook his head.
"No, not named after him. I am the god of the
sea."
"Dear me," said the vicar blankly. "Well."
There was another silence.
"Do us a miracle," pleaded Marion archly.
"I'm afraid I have no miraculous powers in an Eng-
lish vicarage, old chap," replied Mr. Jones with a flash
of white teeth. "You need an African sun, you know.
And blood. And tom-toms."
"Really, Jones, you're positively barbaric under
your academic veneer. Is this all Alma Mater and the
missionary have done for you? What are you doing
here anyway?"
"Reading law," said Mr. Jones.
"Reading law! The African god reads law!" ex-
claimed Marion in disgust.
"It's rather necessary," pointed out Mr. Jones, "if
we are to keep our ends up with the European gods."
"Why not go back to your native land? It must be
so nice to be a god!"


118 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
"It has its disadvantages. There are so many things
one mustn't do. I mustn't walk barefoot for instance.
Or sleep when anybody else is in a room higher than my
head. I'm generally carried when I leave my house in
Africa. In case I stumble, you see. And of course they
watch me carefully to see that I am not getting weak,
as I get older."
"Really. Do they depose you?"
"No, they cut my throat."
There was an awkward silence.
The vicar smiled. "You're joking of course!"
Mr. Jones made no reply.
"But of course you're a Christian," said the vicar
happily, "and don't believe any of that sort of thing?"
There was another awkward silence. Even Virginia
Ridge, who had been filling up the time occupied by this
desultory and, as she felt, entirely time-wasting conver-
sation by running through her notebooks, looked up and
felt it. She hastened to the vicar's assistance.
"I've got some very interesting notes here on your
vegetation ceremonies," she said.
"My dear child," answered the vicar blandly, "what
are you talking about?"
"Your May-Day fertility rites. Most interesting. It
appears that after the villagers have made an efligy of
the vegetation God"
"Really!" protested the vicar.
"They call him Jack-of-May. He is taken round to
the local farmers to make their fields fertile, and then
kept to be put under the pulpit at the Harvest Festival.
A most interesting survival. Its place under the pulpit
is very significant. I fancy you are considered the risen
spirit of vegetation, Vicar."


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 119
"Ah, Vicar!" exclaimed Marion. "You see the
heathen is at your very gates."
"Oh, but surely—a harmless little custom!" protested
the vicar. "I am sure it would be impossible to find a
more Christian village than Little Whippering."
"Their views with regard to betrothal and marriage
are also very interesting," went on Virginia, flicking
over the pages. "They have a certain resemblance to
the social tenets of the Wahina tribe, a Melanesian
people. A case of convergence no doubt, unless one is a
rabid diffusionist. It appears"
"Please," interrupted the vicar. "Remember Psyche
is here! I know perfectly what you are alluding to, Dr.
Ridge, and I must admit there is a certain laxity about
village beliefs in this respect ... I have done my best
. . . very deeply engrained ... I beg of you . . ."
"Oh, that's nothing, Vicar. I should say they are
positively repressed in Little Whippering compared to
Huicha-Veltra."
"That may be. I still cannot approve."
"There are also some very interesting remains of
ancestor worship," went on Dr. Ridge.
"Ancestor worship!" exclaimed the vicar.
"Yes. It appears that food is spread for the spirits
of the dead on a table after the funeral. Only the older
members of the community are aware of the significance
of the custom. I also have some interesting notes on
wart-charming, from old Mrs. Boggins, who is I under-
stand an expert witch. The methods used are virtually
those of the Northern Todas. By the way, talking
about Mrs. Boggins, her maiden name is Boggins, and
when she married a Fritton, she called herself Mrs.
Boggins."


120 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
"Yes, many of the older women did not take their
husbands' names. It is an old Little Whippering cus-
tom."
"A relic of a matrilineal system," said Dr. Ridge,
writing in her notebook. "This is a real discovery! Little
Whippering is more primitive than I thought!"
"I find this most unsettling," said the vicar, pressing
his brow. "Really, my dear young lady, since you came
to stay with us, I have begun to feel that I am living
among savages. I even fear that one of these days I will
find I have some savage habits myself."
"You have a few," said Dr. Ridge judicially. "A
trace of fetish worship, for instance."
"Fetish worship! My dear girl, you can hardly expect
me to take this seriously!"
"When you are giving a sermon, do you or do you
not always fumble with a lose button in your pocket?"
The vicar blushed. "A purely nervous trick. I feel
uncomfortable without it."
"A fetish. Your unconscious endows it with magic
power. And do you or do you not always tap the left
gate pillar with your stick when you come in to the
house?"
"Dear me, how dreadfully observant you are. I sup-
pose I do. Pure habit!"
"Another fetish. You unconsciously evoke luck on
the house. You also show traces of animism."
"Animism!"
"Yes, you go upstairs two at a time, always trying
to finish on your left foot. I've noticed it. You act, in
other words, as if the stairs were alive and had power
to harm you."
"Good Heavens," said the vicar tapping his forehead


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 121
feebly, "my place is in the African jungle. I beg your
pardon, Jones. Nothing personal, of course."
"Quite all right, Vicar. I should be delighted to see
you there at any time. No doubt you would like to see
an African domestic interior."
"Certainly. Are you married?"
Mr. Jones' white teeth flashed. "I think I might say
so. Yes, quite definitely."
At this point Mrs. Wykeham suddenly found her
conversational depth. "Quite definitely, Mr. Jones? Do
you mean you have more than one wife?"
"Yes."
"How many, may I ask?"
"About sixty last time I was in Africa. But there are
sure to be more since. There always are," sighed Mr.
Jones wearily.
Mrs. Wykeham turned a trifle pale. "Really, how can
you? As a Christian!"
"Unfortunately it is essential, Mrs. Wykeham. You
see as a point of royal etiquette I have to have exactly
ten more wives than anyone else in my little kingdom.
So I am absolutely at the mercy of my subjects in this
respect. Of course from your missionary point of view,
my chief wife is the only one that counts and the others
are"
"Handmaids," interposed the vicar hastily. "Quite!
Psyche, will you run and fetch some more milk?"
The sun sank lower and lower. The midges massed
themselves for a final assault on their human banquet;
and, for the first time, the trees sighed. At first it was
like a sigh of well-being. The sigh grew to a steady
rustling. A cold evening wind was getting up. The vicar
shivered slightly, and then, quite suddenly, he heard,


122 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
prefaced by an odd preliminary rattle, a distant band
strike up. It was so far away that only the drums—the
big drum and the kettle drum—were audible:
Pink, pink, boom! Pinkety, pinkety, boom-boom!
Pink. Pink. Boom.
Mr. Jones listened, his head cocked on one side, his
eyes dark pools of fire in the setting sun. Dr. Ridge also
listened, with a surprised air, her beautiful profile tense
against the greening sky.
"Well, now, that's odd!" said the vicar. "Where can
that band be? It doesn't sound like a march, but I
suppose it's soldiers."
Pink—Pink—Boom! Pinkety, pinkety boom!
"How deliciously eerie!" said Marion with a shudder.
Mr. Jones got up.
"Excuse me," he said. "I think I'll go in and *
change."
Dr. Ridge followed his retreating back with a brow
wrinkled in thought. She shivered.
"Are you cold, my dear?" asked the vicar.
"No. Just someone walking over my grave I guess. I
have a kind of hunch something queer is going to
happen here."
The vicar laughed. "Here? No, my dear young lady,
nothing queer ever happens in Little Whippering!"
"I've got someone interesting coming this morning,"
said Gregson. "A man here who saw Crumbles two
weeks before his death. That seems to confirm your
theory."
"Who is he?"
"A jeweller in Wantage."


124 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
it, what with the man's being queer and the goods being
out of the way."
"Thanks, Mr. Farthingale. This has been most help-
ful. We are very grateful."
"Nothing to thank me for, Inspector. In my profes-
sion we're always glad to help the police."
Mr. Farthingale bowed himself out.
Gregson slapped the desk.
"My God, there's the proof. Crumbles had gold. And
now O'Leary's got it. And Crumbles was in this neigh-
bourhood before he called on O'Leary. Campbell, that's
our missing link!"
"Yes, but I wish we could get a line on that gold,"
said Campbell, with Scottish caution. "We haven't had
an answer to our wire to Nigeria yet. If only we could
find where this gold comes from!"
"We'll find, laddie, don't you worry! Things have
started to run our way," said Gregson, in happy igno-
rance.


126 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
"have no record of any recent rob-
beries WHICH WOULD ACCOUNT FOR MATTER
MENTIONED IN ifOUR CABLE.
"macpherson"
"Oh, damnation! Gregson, I'm beginning to feel the
whole damn thing's unnatural. Do you know what else
I found in Little Whippering?"
"I'll buy it."
"O'Leary's not paying his bills."
"Well, that's a common trouble."
"No, but it's serious. Gudgeon is only going to
supply O'Leary with bread for another week, and then
he's going to stop supplies. Miss Tipton won't send him
any more groceries, and none of the farmers roundabout
will let him have any milk. The bailiffs are likely to be
in at any moment as a matter of fact, because old
Grimble, the butcher, has already got a judgment. The
man must be starving to death shut up in that wretched
cottage of his, and yet he washes his hands in gold
dust. It beats me, Gregson. Where have we slipped
up?"
"Are you sure it's not shamming? It may just be a
device to attract our attention."
"Well, if Bunn's right, it's so serious that O'Leary's
taken to stealing chickens from him. He's no actual
proof that it's O'Leary of course, but O'Leary's the
nearest to his chicken-houses, and he used to supply
O'Leary with poultry until he developed a habit of not
paying. Also Bunn swears he saw some spots of blood
leading from his field down the road to the Wilderness.
Quite a Sherlock Holmes in his way is old Bunn. And he
loathes O'Leary."


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 127
"Chicken-stealing! I say, that's rather a come-down
from murder, isn't it?"
"Yes. Collop's on the job watching Bunn's fowl
houses, but you know I've half a mind to try myself.
Of course it may be only some tramp. But if it is
O'Leary, and we jail him for theft, I think we'll be
able to wring something interesting out of him."
Gregson's lips twitched sardonically.
"Well, we didn't call the C.I.D. in to guard our local
fowl houses. However, if you want to ... I still can't
believe O'Leary isn't shamming. He always gives me
the impression of a man who's acting all the time."
That night, therefore, Campbell found himself lying
on his tummy in the grass keeping a careful eye on the
long lines of diminutive dwellings in which Farmer
Bunn's cherished Buff Orpingtons spent their nights.
There should have been a moon, but it was almost com-
pletely hidden by the thick clouds that drifted slowly
across the night sky.
"So much the better," thought Campbell. "O'Leary's
more likely to try to replenish his larder."
There is something about lying flat on the ground in
the country watching on a dark chilly night which
unhinges even the most stolid mind. First the rustlings
begin to obtrude on the silence. Disconnected footsteps
flutter round one, resolve themselves into bits of paper
or dry branches, then vanish abruptly. Then dim
objects distend themselves, quiver and move. "Only the
whitened end of Bunn's cow byre!" you tell yourself,
but slowly it begins to swell, and shift, and presently
... With a start you pull yourself together, and at that


128 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
moment there is the sudden agonized cry of a rabbit
caught by a weasel. By a purely reflex action, your skin
suddenly contracts, and a cold shudder runs up your
spine.
A puff of wind blows the cloud off the moon. For a
few minutes everything is flooded with a clear, a blind-
ing light. All your carefully identified blurs take on
fresh shapes, and a moment later the light perishes, and
your eyes, temporarily dazzled, see nothing but blank-
ness and menace.
Campbell, though not particularly given to night
fears, felt jumpy. He told himself that it was merely
primitive instinct, and remembered having read some-
where that, in such circumstances, if a man climbs a
tree, he at once feels safe, the inherited instincts of his
apish ancestors being set at rest. But there were no
trees near. He tried to think of something highly ra-
tional. His mind roamed from aeroplanes to philosophy,
and just as he was musing vaguely on the Categorical
Imperative, a cow coughed. The unearthly sound,
resembling the cry of a damned soul, made him nearly
leap out of his skin.
"What a damned fool I was to take this on!" thought
Campbell, turning over from one sore hip to the other
on his mackintosh.
Another hour passed.
"This must be getting on my nerves," muttered the
detective to himself. "I could almost swear that shadow
there is moving."
Campbell looked casually away from the shadow, and
then looked at it again. It had moved another two or
three paces. The detective pulled himself together, and


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 129
made a resolute effort to focus his attention on reality.
But the shadow moved again.
"My God, I believe it's human," said Campbell,
straining his eyes in the darkness to make out the vague
outlines of the shadow.
It was beside a door now, and Campbell saw the door
open. The door remained open. The shadow—or man
if it was a man—made no attempt to go in. Campbell
waited for the indignant squawking of a disturbed
roost. But there was none.
Campbell took a tight grip of himself. Unless he was
mistaken, he could hear a kind of buzz. It was a low
penetrating note, that seemed to make the bones in his
head tremble in sympathy. Was it the pounding of
blood in his head? No, it was a distinct noise.
A hen, ruffling its feathers and staring about it as if
it was still not quite awake, walked out of the door. It
was bathed in the rays of the moon, filtered through the
cloud. But the shadow merged in the shadow of the
building.
Immediately the door closed, with a slam of wood
meeting wood that Campbell seized on as a gratifying
assurance of reality.
He strained his eyes to make out what the hen was
doing. But it remained, even in the glimmer of light
from the obscured moon, a mere blur. It was standing
quite still. The buzz had stopped.
Then it began to move, jerkily, towards the shadow.
The moon's light was less obscure now, and, even though
the shadow was standing in the penumbra of the shed,
Campbell could make out its outline distinctly. It was
satisfyingly human. There were the arms, there were


130 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
the legs. That was the head. Round the torso was
wrapped tightly some black material.
But there was something horrible about the face. It
was blank, featureless. Simply nothing. He caught a.
glint of eyes, but for the rest it might have been a blank
wall of flesh.
Campbell, with an effort, transferred his eyes to the
hen. It had walked right up to the man and now
suddenly jumped in the air. It landed on a kind of
mound, as it might be an upturned basin, in front of
the shadow. It stood there quite still. Then suddenly,
with a kind of ghastly busy-ness, the figure knelt down.
There was a wild cry, which blended with the abrupt
squawk of the fowl.
Campbell leapt forward, and covered the few yards
between them in four bounds. He heard the quick intake
of breath near him, and his hands closed round some-
thing solid, but infernally slippery, and damnably
strong. Before he could gain enough knowledge of the
shadow's anatomy to apply an effective grip, he found
himself swung off his feet like a child and dashed full
tilt against the fowl house. His head hit it with a re-
sounding bang, and his field of vision flowed with
melting colours.
Immediately the fowls set up a loud resentful
squawking. Campbell took the count for about fifty
seconds, and when he staggered to his feet with an
aching head, all trace of the shadow seemed gone. He
shone his torch on the ground. A decapitated fowl was
evidence that he had not been dreaming.
Then he heard a rustle about two or three yards from
him, and saw a figure move. His blood boiled with rage
again and he flung himself on it.


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 131
The figure was however strangely soft and yielding.
It emitted a feminine squeal. Campbell let go and shone
his torch on it.
It was a girl. Even seen under the present conditions,
recovering from a violent physical attack and blinking
in the rays of a high-powered torch, it was a remark-
ably pretty girl.
"Good Heavens, what are you doing here?" he ex-
claimed.
"Would you mind switching off that thing?" said the
girl. "I was doing the same as you were, I suppose,
watching."
"Who are you? Where do you come from?"
"I am an American. My name is Virginia Ridge. I
am an anthropological field worker. I am staying as a
boarder with the vicar of Little Whippering. Who are
you?"
"I am a police detective."
The moon came out, as if someone had pressed a
switch. Campbell peered at the girl. She seemed per-
fectly calm and self-possessed.
"What on earth made you come here tonight?"
"Curiosity!" said the girl equably. "I'm interested in
your local customs, and when I heard a hen-roost was
being robbed, I thought I'd watch."
"What did you see?"
"The same as you saw, I suppose. Most interesting!"
Campbell passed a hand over his aching brow. The
girl's coolness, in contrast to his own excitement, irri-
tated him.
"Do you realize this is highly suspicious, your pres-
ence here? I'm not sure I oughtn't to take you into
custody."


132 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
"Now then, captain, I've read something about
English police methods. You can't do that, unless you
bring a charge against me. And you can hardly get
anyone to believe I came here to rob hen-roosts. You've
got my name and my address, and I think I'll go back
home. Good-night, captain."
"I shall call in and see you tomorrow," threatened
Campbell, feeling foolish, as they both walked towards
the fence.
"Any time," said the girl with a laugh. "Would you
mind holding this wire down while I get over?"
Rather sulkily, Campbell did so.
Campbell duly came round to the vicarage, and veri-
fied the fact that a Virginia Ridge was staying there.
As he went down the garden path he heard a voice:
"Hey, captain!"
He turned and saw the girl. By the light of day she
looked really beautiful, and Campbell remembered with
contrition how violently he had struck her.
"I am a detective inspector," he confessed. "We don't
have captains. You must excuse me for my roughness
last night. I hadn't the remotest idea who you were
until you cried out."
She looked at him curiously.
"You look quite mild! I imagined something huge
and rough . . . My arms are black and blue."
Campbell hesitated and then thawed.
"Well, now that you see I'm quite harmless, won't
you tell me why you were hanging round there?"
"I've told you the truth," she said with a smile.


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 133
"Cross my heart. It was sheer curiosity. And you see I
was rewarded."
"But what did you expect? What made you expect
something?"
"Only that I'd heard chickens were being stolen. And
where I come from, when we hear of hen-roosts being
robbed, we always think of "She paused.
"Of what?"
The girl smiled. "Oh, I don't know, it would sound
silly to you I expect And here comes Mr. Jones.
He's promised to answer a questionnaire about his
country's classificatory system."
"Good Lord, a black man!" exclaimed Campbell, as
he saw Mr. Jones's amiable figure approaching.
"What's he doing down here?" he added suspiciously.
"Oh, he's just a negro student reading law."
"Oh, is he? Well, Miss Ridge, if you feel disposed at
any later time to give me further information, I shall
be glad to call on you. You can always send a message
through Collop here."
With a curt nod, he was gone. He had an uneasy feel-
ing, as soon as his back was turned, that Miss Ridge
was laughing at him. It had been quite obvious that she
understood perfectly the significance of last night's
incident, and equally obvious that she did not propose
to tell him. It was of course impossible to prove that Mr.
Jones had been the chief actor in the scene. But he now
felt certain that the mysterious man had been black,
although it had not occurred to him at the time. That
blank featureless face . . . Surely a white face would
have been more distinct.
On the other hand, had the fowl-house affair any-
thing to do with O'Leary? How could it? It was true


134 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
that twelve years before O'Leary had been in Africa,
and the man was a negro
"But I shall go potty soon," muttered Campbell,
"and start seeing Africa in everything."
For no particular reason, five minutes later, Camp-
bell said aloud: "A damned pretty girl!"
Looking at his watch, Campbell saw that the Marion
Arms would be open, and he turned in there for a drink.
Mrs. Hipple already knew him and gave him a cheerful
greeting.
He looked round. There were no strange faces in the
private bar, only Jennings and Bunn, and as Campbell
thoughtfully imbibed a glass of beer, he tried to sort
out his puzzled impressions.
"We've got hold of the wrong end somehow," he
thought. "I suppose if we keep teasing it, we'll see a
glimpse of the right thread. I'm damned if I can see it
now!"
Mrs. Hipple returned from serving the public bar,
to smile amiably at the private.
"Seen any more of our friend O'Leary?" asked
Campbell.
Mrs. Hipple bridled.
"No, indeed. And I'll be thankful to see the last of
him, even if he doesn't pay for that last lot of drinks I
sent up. I don't like those gentlemen who come in here
and Create. They may be free with the drink, but what
I says, sooner or later Creating gets you into trouble
with the police—begging your pardon, sir—and then
your licence goes."
"So he used to create, did he?" said Campbell with
a smile.
"He did, sir, something awful. The row that used to


. THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 135
go on some nights, you wouldn't believe. Well, he soon
shot his bolt. 'Pay you any day now, Mrs. Hipple!'
H'm, I've heard that story before. I can whistle for my
money, I can see that."
Brooding darkly, Mrs. Hipple retired to the saloon.
The private and public bars were opposite one
another, and were served from the same point, so that
it was possible, during lulls, to hear anyone speaking
loudly in one bar while in the other. In one such lull,
Campbell heard a curious jabbering noise coming from
the public bar. It sounded like the meaningless slobber
of a lunatic, but as there were two voices, it could
hardly be that.
He pushed aside one of the glass screens whereby the
"privates" could conceal themselves from the contami-
nating gaze of the "publics," and stared into the public
bar.
The jabbering was coming from two men in the
corner. One was—Campbell suppressed an exclamation
of astonishment—a negro. In contrast to Mr. Jones'
black elegance, he was a very seedy-looking negro, bald
and dressed in a ragged and shiny blue serge suit. One
cheek bore a reddish scar. He was talking to a dapper
young gentleman with a tanned face and neat tooth-
brush moustache, wearing flannel trousers and a tweed
coat. This young man in the intervals between his eject-
ing a spirit of incomprehensibility, sucked stolidly at
his pipe. The queerly assorted couple talked on for
about five minutes, and then the Englishman got up
and went out abruptly.
Campbell strolled casually out of his own door, and
was in time to see the young man jump into a sports
two-seater and drive off. Campbell made a note of the


136 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
number, and then went back into the bar. Ten minutes
later the negro got to his feet, picked up a pedlar's tray
from the seat beside him, sighed, and walked out.
Campbell saw him trudging up the street. He followed
him for about half an hour, but the man did nothing
but go from door to door trying to sell his wares. He
seemed bona fide enough, if rather unexpected in a
Berkshire village.
Campbell saw his carefully reared pile of hypotheses
beginning to totter.
"But at least all this proves there is something fishy
about this business," he thought. "Fishy—why it posi-
tively stinks! What is it that girl knows and I don't?"
He jumped irritably into his car and pressed the
starting button. A hen shot out from under the car,
startled by the noise. Miss Tipton emerged from the
Post Office and after a word of reproof to the hen,
popped back again. Mr. Padding leaned against the
pump and regarded him thoughtfully, then spat.
What could have been more peaceful, more rural?
Yet Campbell, in spite of his matter-of-fact tempera-
ment, suddenly had the feeling of something hot and
livid, something like an evil influence borne on the wind,
without any visible change, infecting the drowsy village
with some insidious disease. He could almost smell it in
the air. . . .
"Pshaw," he said, and shot up the main road.
Mr. Padding straightened himself, steadied himself
on his unassisted feet, and limped, painfully, away. The
bush telegraph was about to acquaint Little Whipper-
ing with the arrival and departure of the policeman
from London.


138 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED EACE
meanwhile he's run out of cash. And he also knows
someone else is round looking for it too."
"But why the devil hasn't he found it before, if it
was hidden in his own garden?"
"Well, there are two possibilities. First of all
Crumbles may have hidden it there when O'Leary was
away. The time he shot the dog."
"But why?"
"That's what we've got to find out. Either he may
have arranged with O'Leary to do so, or else he may
have reckoned on murdering O'Leary at once and be-
coming the next tenant of the Wilderness. The other
possibility is that it has been hidden there some time
before O'Leary took the place, that this was why he
took it, but that for some reason he has been searching
for it indoors. Then Crumbles comes home, having
found exactly where it is hidden, and lets on to O'Leary
that it's actually hidden in the garden. No doubt
Crumbles refuses to reveal the actual spot, intending to
bag the lion's share. Perhaps he goes to get it when he
shoots the dog. In any case, he gives O'Leary a hint of
its whereabouts, who promptly murders him, thinking
he can find it now that he knows it's buried in the gar-
den. But he still can't find it."
"Well, the first theory is the best. That Crumbles hid
it in the garden himself. For we know Crumbles was
selling gold to Farthingale a month before."
"Um, yes. That may not be the same lot of gold
though. It may just have happened that Crumbles had
a gold bracelet which he'd brought back with him. After
all, so far as we know, the stuff is gold dust, not
bracelets."
"Yes, and that's another point. If O'Leary doesn't


CHAPTER TEN
Mr. Jones Drops a Catch
Early the next morning Inspector Gregson arrived
with a car and, after a parley through the grille, the
tenant of the Wilderness was persuaded to accompany
him back to the station. Gregson was able to see that
O'Leary's nervousness was not acted. The man was as
jumpy as a cat who knows a dog is in the vicinity. In-
deed he seemed actually pleased to be sitting beside a
policeman in the comparative security of a police car.
As they were pulling out of Little Whippering in to
the main road, Gregson heard O'Leary mutter some-
thing and, looking up, was startled to see him almost as
white as a ghost. His artificial sunburn—for he was still
"tanned"—was crusted on his skin like lichen.
Gregson looked out of the back of the window to see
what had scared O'Leary but he could see nothing,
except a man who looked like a tramp, sitting by the
side of the road in the distance. The tramp's back was
towards them, and in another moment a bend in the
road had hidden him from sight. Gregson hesitated for
a moment, considering whether to order the driver to
turn back and have a look at the man, but in the end he
said nothing. A moment later O'Leary had recovered
his composure.
They reached the office.
140


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 141
"Now," said Gregson, settling himself back in his
chair. "We should like you to be so good as to make us
a more detailed statement as to your movements on the
day of Crumbles' suicide. . . ."
Inspector Gregson was "holding him."
Meanwhile, Inspector Campbell was walking care-
fully round the garden of the Wilderness carrying a
suitcase. He peered carefully in every window. He was
followed from room to room by a furious Alsatian. At
every window man and beast regarded each other in
unfriendly manner from either side of the pane of glass.
Campbell did not at present want to go into the
house. Having satisfied himself that it was empty he
opened the suitcase, and took out a queer-looking steel
contraption. It consisted of a pair of curved jaws
which, as he held the apparatus up to inspect it, were
closed. He fastened the end of a reel of fine cord to a
ring on the jaws and pulled at the cord experimentally.
The jaws expanded, actuated by a simple system of
levers to which the cord was attached. Fully open, the
jaws had a spread of several feet. Campbell seemed
satisfied.
He put the apparatus on one side. He started to tap
the compacted gravel and earth round the base of the
house with the sledge hammer which had been used
to crack the concrete bed of the lily pond. After about
ten minutes of this probing, he came upon a patch
which, to his keen ear, seemed to give out a hollow
sound.
Campbell began to dig. With the dexterity of a
surgeon, he shaved off the moss-coloured top layer of


142 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
earth and put it carefully on one side so that later it
could be replaced. Then he went on digging, piling the
earth some distance away. Presently his spade struck
something metallic.
A few minutes' more digging exposed a steel cover,
such as is used for manholes. He lifted it and found
himself, as he had expected, gazing down into the well
which supplied the Wilderness with fresh water. The
water was tapped by a suction pipe connecting with
the pump in the kitchen.
Campbell went to fetch his steel grab and reel of
cord and took out from his suitcase a coil of rope. He
attached this to the grab and lowered it, keeping the
jaws as wide open as the width of the well would permit
by means of a steady strain on the fine cord. He fished
about for a little and then released the cord and
tugged.
Campbell smiled. "Feels like a bite!"
It was a fairly heavy weight, for Campbell panted
and strained as he hauled in the last few feet and
brought his prize ashore. It was a cylindrical metal con-
tainer, two feet high, and about a foot in diameter, dis-
coloured and weedy. By tapping sharply on the lid
with the hammer, Campbell managed at last to loosen
it and screw it off. The container was quite watertight
for the contents were perfectly dry.
The main item was a table or stool. Only its carved
ivory legs were visible. The rest was hidden by a con-
fused muddle of gold, jewellery, weapons, and chains.
The stool or table had evidently been thrust into the
cylinder inverted, and the ornaments then stuffed hast-
ily into the recess so formed.
Campbell carefully replaced the cap, put the con-


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED EACE 143
tainer on one side and lowered the grab again. A few
minutes' fishing resulted in another catch. But this
time the cylinder was damaged. There was a dent in the
side and the seam had started, leaving a perceptible
gap. Campbell fished in the gap with a twig and, as he
expected, the twig came out glittering with metallic
dust. He screwed the cap off with considerable diffi-
culty. The contents included a few skin bags—evidently
containing gold dust—and some startling golden
masks, with staring white enamelled eyes and full bar-
baric lips, their cruel aquiline noses jutting out ab-
ruptly from under ape-like brows—ridges.
Campbell put this cylinder with the other, and fished
again. Again he got a catch, but this time he changed
his mind, for he slacked off the grab jaws and brought
the tackle to the surface without his prize. Then he be-
gan carefully to lower the booty he had already brought
up back into the well again. He replaced the manhole
cover, and carefully covered it with earth, finishing off
the smoothed top with the original moss-covered surface
so that all traces of his excavation had disappeared.
Then he carefully packed up the implements, hid the
suitcase in the bushes and stood for a few minutes
thinking.
His guess had been justified. The stuff had been
buried in the well, a clever hiding place. Some of the
gold dust from the leaky container had been sucked
up by the pump and discharged into O'Leary's basin.
It was ironical that O'Leary had been using water that
had lapped the very booty for which he was searching
so frantically, that had even brought him glittering
fragments of it, had he only eyes sharp enough to see
them.


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 145
with his keys. The Alsatian was in a coma, stretched
out beside the half-chewed bone. He picked the dog up
carefully and locked it in an upstairs bedroom. In
about half an hour it would wake, O'Leary would
doubtless assume that it had wandered into the bed-
room and locked itself in. By that time Campbell would
be far away.
The state of the cottage made Campbell gasp.
O'Leary had been searching it in the same wild manner
as the garden. Floors had been torn up, wallpapers
stripped, and in many rooms pieces of furniture had
been hacked to pieces. A thick mantle of dust lay on
everything except where it had been disturbed by
O'Leary's operations. The walls had been gouged in
several places, evidently while testing for secret pas-
sages. In two cases the chimney pieces had been prised
bodily from the wall.
Campbell smiled, picturing the faces of Gorringe
and Organ, solicitors, when they should inspect the
scene.
"A bit eccentric we are told," they had said to Ser-
geant Finch, "but a nice quiet tenant as far as we are
concerned. No trouble at all."
As to the rest, there seemed little trace of O'Leary's
personality. The furniture had been taken over from
the dead owner, and there seemed nothing that appeared
to belong to the tenant. The drawers were empty of
personal papers.
Campbell surveyed the gigantic disorder of the rooms
and looked at his watch. Time was getting on. He had
found the main object of his visit and O'Leary would
be returning shortly, unless he went down to the vil-
lage and phoned Gregson to keep him at Abingdon


146 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
longer. But it did not seem worthwhile, as there was
little he could expect to find in this disorder!
He paused in the act of replacing his watch in his
pocket. His keen ears had caught a suspicious sound.
Someone was cautiously scrabbling at the lock of the
front door. Campbell had carefully closed it after him
and he was, therefore, surprised when he heard it
opening slowly. Then there was stealthy padding foot-
steps in the hall.
So someone else was sufficiently interested in O'Leary
to provide himself with lock-picking apparatus!
Campbell heard the unknown go from one room
to the other. The detective was in an upstairs bedroom
and he now went quietly on to the landing.
Then, as the stranger started to climb the stairs, he
flattened himself into a recess where he would be un-
seen.
The steps came slowly up the stairs, then on to the
landing, then halted. Campbell stepped out quickly
from his hiding place, at the same time cutting off the
intruder's retreat.
"What are you doing here?" he said sharply.
The man wheeled round with a startled expression.
Campbell himself was a little surprised to find that it
was the same young man whom he had seen in the
Marion Arms talking in some lingo to the negro pedlar
with the cheek scars.
By now the young man had recovered himself.
He smiled quizzically, eyeing Campbell with a certain
wary good humour.
"I believe this is what is known as a fair-cop," he
admitted, "but come to that, what are you doing here?"
"I happen to be a police officer in execution of my


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 147
duty," said Campbell, taking out his search warrant.
The young man cocked an eye at the document and
grew more thoughtful still.
"Well, that's awkward, isn't it?"
"Why are you here?" went on Campbell.
The young man shrugged his shoulders.
"Oh, I'm just taking a look round. Pure curiosity."
"I advise you to answer sensibly," the policeman
warned him sternly. "Were you looking for one of your
negro friends?"
The young man's face grew suddenly watchful.
"You know quite a lot, don't you? I'm afraid I can't
add to your knowledge, however. I'm sorry I disturbed
you and all that. Perhaps the best thing would be for
me to trickle quietly home."
Campbell stretched an arm across the stairs. Mean-
while he mentally selected the place where he would
plant his blow, if it came to a fight, as seemed likely,
for there was a warning glint in the young man's blue
eyes.
"On the contrary," he said, "unless you can give a
proper explanation of your presence here, you will
accompany me to the station on a charge of house-
breaking."
As if by magic a revolver appeared in the young
man's hand.
"Stand aside," he said coldly. "I can't afford to get
mixed up in a charge of housebreaking now, sorry and
all that, but this isn't a joke."
Campbell hesitated, wondering whether the young
man would shoot if pushed. He decided he would, and
therefore stood aside.
The stranger went down the stairs backwards, got


148 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
as far as the front door, opened it still with his back
to it, wheeled across the threshold and then vanished
abruptly, slamming the door after him.
Campbell bounded down the stairs, flung open the
door, and saw his quarry racing down the garden path.
The young man cleared the gate with a good hurdling
style, and Campbell heard as he did so the whirr of an
engine being started. Evidently someone was waiting
for him in a car. By the time Campbell got into the
road, a green two-seater was hurtling down the hill and
the fugitive had vanished.
"But I've already got his number," Campbell told
himself, and he opened his notebook. Yes, there it was.
A green two-seater. He hurried down to the village to
phone Gregson to pull in the driver of a green two-
seater, XYX 001—Charge housebreaking.
"Right-ho!" said Gregson. "O'Leary's just gone. He
got a bit abusive towards the end, but we managed to
hold him for the agreed time. Found anything?"
"Quite a lot," replied Campbell.
"Useful?"
"Quite exceptionally so."
"You seem very jumpy today, Mr. Jones," said Dr.
Ridge. She was contemplating with disfavour the weary
poached egg that constituted the vicarage breakfast.
"Yes, it is an important day for me," replied Mr.
Jones prodding his own egg hopefully. But no blood
came. All eggs at the vicarage were solid.
"Why, what is happening today, if one may ask?"
asked Dr. Ridge innocently, "everyone seems excited
about something."


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 149
"I have to perform the most important task of my
life," said Mr. Jones, showing the whites of his eyes.
"Mr. Jones is playing for Little Whippering," ex-
plained Mrs. Wykeham. "Have some more coffee, my
dear? You aren't eating any breakfast."
"What are you playing?" asked Dr. Ridge. "Is it a
ball game?"
"A ball game!" exclaimed the vicar putting down
his paper. "Well, cricket is played with a ball, I sup-
pose."
"Oh, cricket. I've heard of that!" said Virginia.
"She's heard of it," commented the vicar with a mild
trace of sarcasm. "Well, well!"
"Do you play cricket?" asked the girl.
"Yes, I do," said the vicar benevolently beaming,
"or rather did, before my eyes began to fail."
"Were you hot?"
"Oh, no, my dear, a complete second-rater," replied
the vicar with the excessive modesty of the old Blue.
"Were you?" said Virginia Ridge, as yet unfamiliar
with the modesty that is England's inverted vanity.
"Perhaps you didn't take it seriously enough. That's
the trouble with all your sport, I guess."
There was a dead silence after this pronouncement.
The vicar got up.
"I think I will go and take another look at the
wicket," he said. "Bundling is a very good fellow, but
he's not a cricketer. Dear me, no."
Presently through the French window they could
see the vicar's long, lean figure hurry up the lane to
Marion Park.
It was a good cricketing day, a clear sky, but not
overwhelmingly hot, and the lovely cricket field of


150 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
Marion Park, its wide expanse of ancient turf set in
embosoming trees of equal age, was at its best.
The matches between the Whipperings could always
be relied upon to be epic. They were followed by equally
epic sessions at the Marion Arms where the humbler
members of the team fought their battles over again,
occasionally with somewhat sanguinary results. Even
the gentlemen, dining together in Marion Hall after-
wards, had been known in recent years to become a little
acidulous, until the Marion port had had time to per-
form its calming office. In fairness to the gentlemen con-
cerned, it must be admitted that there was some justi-
fication for this recent bitterness. Little Whippering,
animated by Gudgeon, a formidable bowler of speed-at-
any-price school, had suddenly developed a passion for
leg theory. Last match they had practised it with such
fervour that four Great Whipperingites had been car-
ried off the field.
This year fortunately the vicar, by virtue of his
cloth, had been able to heal the leg theory controversy.
It had raged during three seasons, and had bidden fair
to break short this classic series which, according to
Mr. Vansteem's researches, dated from the days of
stoolball. Feelings—and in many cases persons—had
been too wounded for Marion's intervention to heal the
breach. Major Fawcett's hearty camaraderie had been
equally vain; and it was generally acknowledged as a
proof of the still vital power of Christianity in our
rural districts, that the vicar, with the cooperation of
the rector of Great Whippering (who had found a text
in St. Paul which virtually forbade body-line bowling)
had been able to persuade Little Whippering, not that
the leg theory be specifically excluded—that would


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 151
obviously have been impossible—but that the follow-
ing compromise be adopted, namely:—
"That it is hereby understood and agreed, that while
the captain's absolute discretion to set his field as he
pleases is acknowledged, any bowling which can be
held deliberately to be aimed at the person of the bats-
man, or results in an unusual percentage of injuries to
the batting side, is to be considered unsportsmanlike."
Mr. Forgan, as a solicitor, considered the clause to
be both nonsense and bad law, apparently an unusual
combination. But with this exception, the compromise
was accepted as satisfactory. Thus, this year, the
Whipperings met on the Marion field under the hap-
piest auspices. The vicar, naturally, was beaming, and
Dr. Graham also looked carefree, since his professional
assistance was not likely to be so frequently called on
as in the days when Gudgeon, frowning like a devil,
as he roared up the pitch, would discharge the ball at
the body of the batsman was as near an approach to a
throw as the complacency of the umpire could permit.
Mr. Vansteem was also there, and his compatriot had
accompanied the vicar to the rural scene, hoping to
detect some interesting survivals in this historic game.
Claude Marion, as the host, benevolently surveyed
the scene from a deck chair, holding a sunshade to
shield his sensitive features from the sun.
"I have no wish to compete with Mr. Jones!" he had
muttered, on being taxed with softness by Psyche, who
was the proud possessor of a handsome tan. "He has
me beaten from the start."
"Did you play cricket, Mr. Marion?" asked Virginia.
"I did at one time, when I was in the public school
or grub stage. I cannot admit to being outstandingly


152 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
successful. On the field I was generally relegated to long
stop. Although perhaps I did not stop a very high per-
centage of balls, at least I can flatter myself I waited
for them with a certain amount of grace, which is more
than can be said for old Bunn. He looks like a frog."
Virginia did her best to fight her increasing drowsi-
ness as she watched the soothing scene.
"Say, why do they keep changing sides when they've
just got set?"
"It's not very logical, is it, when put in that way?
It's just the custom of the country. It makes a break,
you see."
Virginia wanted to ask more. But she was daunted
by the ineffable weariness of her companion, who seemed
barely able to murmur audibly the "Played, sir," that
his duty as host demanded from time to time. Even-
tually she strolled away to join the vicar, who was scor-
ing.
Great Whippering had won the toss and had elected
to go in first. All the players were well known locally
with the exception of Mr. Jones. The vicar, testing him
out previously, had found him a sound bat and a bril-
liant fielder. He could snap up stuff in slips like a
panther, and it was there, therefore, that he was sta-
tioned.
The game went on and the hours passed.
Meanwhile, a mile or so away, Inspector Campbell
was searching Mr. O'Leary's abode and encountering
the mysterious young man. It was tea-time before Mr.
O'Leary was released from Inspector Gregson's clutches
and had arrived home. Campbell had concealed himself
in the bushes to watch his arrival.


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 153
He looked suspiciously round the garden, but went
in without noticing the inspector's labours around the
well.
Campbell now went down to the village again and
this time in the course of a longer phone call told
Gregson the result of his researches.
"It seems to me we know enough to take O'Leary
into custody," he said. "If O'Leary is as frightened as
he appears to be, he won't be sorry to be safely locked
up in prison. Will you speak to your chief? And if he
agrees, get out a warrant for his arrest and come down
to me here? I'm going over to Marion Park to have
a word with Jones, so meet me there. Any news of that
car number?"
"We can't pick up the car, but we've found that it
was garaged in Abingdon, and the garage fellow re-
members the owner. Answers your description. He's
been staying for the last week at the John Hotel."
"Oh, has he? What's his name and address in the
visitors' book?"
Gregson laughed. "He's a young man with a sense
of humour. According to the book, Watt's his name—
A. Watt."
"And his address?"
"Ware!"
"The young puppy!" exclaimed Campbell, "wait till
I get hold of him!"
Simmering irritably, Campbell walked down to
Marion Park, and found the tail of the Great Whipper-
ing team, the bulk of which had been dismissed for the
inglorious total of 101, being polished off by Little
Whippering. Tea was just over, and the fielders had


154 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
taken their places again, so Campbell had to wait to
speak to Jones. Meanwhile he saw Virginia looking a
little bored, and went up to her.
"Why hello, Inspector, fancy seeing you here!"
"For that matter, I hardly expected to see you. Or
do you like cricket?"
"It seems a bit slow," ventured Virginia, anxious not
to wound national pride.
"Yes, it's not really a game at all," said Campbell
dourly. "It seems to me typical of the weaknesses in
the English character; lazy, feckless, time-wasting!"
"Say, you're a bit of a knocker, aren't you?" said
Virginia.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You don't think much of your home town, do you?"
"Good Heavens!" exclaimed Campbell in horror.
"You surely don't think I'm English? I'm Scottish."
"Oh, I see," said Virginia, a little blankly. As a
good field worker, she knew she should never show sur-
prise at any answers to her questions. "Why did you
come here then?"
"I wanted to have a word with Jones," he answered,
looking at her sharply. She bore his scrutiny calmly
and it was he who first withdrew his gaze and fixed it
on the ebony countenance of Mr. Jones in the middle
distance, waiting expectantly for a quick one to glance
off Mr. Burnham's dashingly wielded blade. "How's
he getting on?"
"I'm told he's doing quite well. The vicar told me
he's made three catches, whatever that may mean in
cricket. It seems to be something good."
"Well, he's dropped that one," said Campbell, with
some satisfaction, as a red-hot one slipped through the


THE COEPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 155
negro's fingers. There was a groan from Little Whip-
pering's partisans.
"Dear me," said the vicar wincing. "Of course we all
make mistakes, but really"
Worse was to follow. Mr. Burnham's tactics, aided by
the devout stone-walling of his opposite number, the
Great Whippering blacksmith, had brought Great
Whippering's total up to 129 which, for Whippering
cricket, was considered a sizeable total. The combina-
tion was showing signs of wearing down the patience of
Little Whippering.
In these circumstances, an unlucky cut of Mr. Burn-
ham's lobbed the ball—so it seemed—into Mr. Jones'
very hands. But even as Mr. Gudgeon's triumphant
How's that? rose into the air, the ball was seen to be
lying at the feet of a palpably embarrassed Mr. Jones.
"Dear, dear, but this is tragic, really tragic!" ex-
claimed the vicar, looking more upset than Virginia had
ever seen him.
"What can have happened to the lad? I fear he lacks
stamina. Well, well, perhaps there is something in the
superiority of the white races after all. Now if I were
in Major Fawcett's place . . . Ah, good man! he's
resetting the field. Jones won't do any more harm now."
Fortunately for the popularity of Africa in Little
Whippering, Mr. Graham was dismissed two runs later
by one of Harry Thompson's bucolic but effective york-
ers. As the Little Whippering team streamed off the
field, the inspector called to Jones, who was passing
within a few yards of him, but the negro took no
notice. A little annoyed, the inspector went towards
him, but, as he approached, Mr. Jones hurried off.
Campbell quickened his stride. Jones did the same, and,


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 157
down at the large bloodstain on his immaculate white
trousers, and then at the damp patch in the palm of
his hand. Taking out his handkerchief, he wound it
round the fingers.
"What was it you wanted to know, Inspector?"
"What you were doing round Farmer Bunn's fowl
houses at two o'clock in the morning on Thursday
night?"
Mr. Jones glanced sharply at Virginia. Her face
was blank.
Then he looked at the inspector.
"Confound his black face," thought the inspector,
"what the devil is he thinking? Worse than a Chink!"
Jones grinned. "I'm afraid I haven't the faintest
notion what you mean, Inspector. To the best of my
knowledge and belief I was fast asleep in the vicarage
at the time you mention."
"I see. May I ask what are you doing here in Little
Whippering?"
"Really you are rather extraordinary, Inspector!
Have I done anything to deserve these questions? I was
recommended to this place as a quiet spot where I could
catch up with some arrears of reading. I'm going in for
my Bar Finals next year, you know."
Campbell looked at him woodenly.
"What part of Africa do you come from?"
"From Nigeria," replied Jones without hesitating.
Campbell was silent for a moment. Jones came from
Nigeria; Tuffy was killed there; Crumbles had been
living there. What was the web that bound them to-
gether?
It was an awkward position, for he felt certain that
the influence he at present mentally bracketed together


158 THE COEPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
as the Anti-O'Leary Party—including the young man
self-styled Watt, the scarred negro, and Mr. Jones—
had so far committed no offences of any major impor-
tance. It was improbable that they had even been in the
neighbourhood when Crumbles was killed. And this
robbed his examination of Jones of some of its justifica-
tion. Of course when they had O'Leary under lock and
key, the whole truth might come out. Alternatively the
Anti-O'Leary Party might quietly fade away.
"Are you staying here long, Mr. Jones?" he asked,
with more politeness.
"No," said the other unexpectedly. "I find I have
got to make a flying visit to Africa. It upsets my plans,
but I shall be able to do plenty of reading on the boat."
"When do you leave?"
"Tonight!"
"Tonight!" So we've put the wind up you, have we?
thought Campbell with some satisfaction.
He saw Gregson hovering in the distance and waved
to him.
"Good-bye, Dr. Ridge. Good-bye, Mr. Jones!" He
left them and walked over to his colleague.
"A shifty fellow," he said to Gregson. "He got a
moment's fright and tried to dodge me, but then
thought better of it. Couldn't get anything out of him
though. He's going back to Africa tonight."
"Ay, and no doubt that's where Mr. Watt of Ware
will be going to. There's been no hide nor hair of him
seen round here. Well, jump in, laddie, we'll go up to
the Wilderness and collect O'Leary and all this fabulous
gold of yours. I've got the warrant in my pocket."
They drove quickly up the hill and parked the car
outside the gate of the Wilderness.


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 159
"That hound's quiet," exclaimed Campbell as they
went up the path. "Still woozy from that dose I gave
it, I suppose. It must be more susceptible than I
thought."
"Holy Moses!" Campbell had stopped short, his
hand outstretched for the knocker.
Gregson followed his stare. "The well! Somebody's
been after that stuff!"
They both rushed to the gaping hole. Then Camp-
bell went to the car and brought back the suitcase. He
took out the grab together with the rest of the tackle
and lowered the gadget into the well.
"My God! it's gone!" he exclaimed, after fishing
round in silence for a few minutes.
He went to the front door and executed thunderous
salvos on its panels. Then he waited.
There was no answer.
"What a double-dyed fool I am," exclaimed Camp-
bell. "O'Leary's found the stuff and hopped it."
He knocked again, more violently. Through the wave
of silence that flowed back afterwards came a faint
booming sound that made Gregson cock his ear.
"What's that?"
Campbell listened. In the silence the trees, feeling
the first cold breath of evening, shivered. Down at the
bottom of the hill, from the cup of fertile land in which
Little Whippering lay, came the thin high click of ball
and bat, and an occasional shout.
But there was a sound deeper-throated than that,
rudely insistent, like a threatening whisper in the
silence of the summer air.
The Downs behind them slept in the sun, which lay
on their shoulders like a cape. The silence of the Downs


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 161
cal, was the unspeakable nudity of the skull. Every
particle of the short red stubble had been shaved off.
"After death too," murmured Campbell, for several
cuts, evidently made by a clumsily wielded razor, had
not bled. It was like some appalling practical joke
played by a lunatic to whom human life was a bad jest.
"He's not been dead more than an hour or two," said
Campbell. "We'd better get Dr. Harringay on the
'phone. Or better still, Graham's down at the cricket
field. Can you drive him up?"
Gregson went while Campbell roamed round the
house without touching anything.
Dr. Graham examined the body carefully, and then
got up. "The cause of death is obvious enough. Where
was he killed?"
"Well, here I suppose. He couldn't have moved after
that cut. And there's no sign of a struggle anywhere
else."
"But look!" said the doctor patiently, holding up
the corpse's almost transparent hand. Then suddenly
the truth came to him.
"My God, he was killed here! His throat was cut
while he was held as he is now, with his head low, and
his feet up the stairs. So that when his throat was cut,
all the blood ran out of him."
"But," asked Campbell, "if that's so, where's the
blood?"
"Yes," said the doctor. "That's just it. Where is
the blood? About eight pints I should judge, and all
missing."
Campbell looked at the corpse with a scowl of dis-
gust. Then he pressed his Hps together.


CHAPTER ELEVEN
Inspector Campbell Recapitulates
On the eve of sailing for Nigeria, Campbell sat down
and wrote a resume of the case to date. It was partly
for the information of his London superiors, but also
as an agreed basis on which Gregson could work, while
Campbell, in Africa, ploughed the difficult furrow of
an investigation in what, he now realized, would be the
most troublesome case he had ever tackled.
"It seems to me (wrote Campbell) that we have been
wrong in focussing all our attention on the incident
which occurred in Balooma twelve years back. Natu-
rally O'Leary emphasized its importance, but that, as
we might have expected, was purposely to distract us.
The hate stored up by that escapade was only one of
the motives of the events in Little Whippering. It
ended as a force when Tuffy Samson died in a motor
crash in Nigeria (whether this was accident or murder
on the part of Crumbles, is a side issue). The point is
that it ended the importance of Balooma in the case.
And even before that had happened, the main interest
of O'Leary and Crumbles' lives was a valuable hoard
buried in the Wilderness garden.
"Was this buried by the first owner of the Wilder-
ness? Or after his death? Or after the tenancy of the
building by O'Leary? That is a point which Gregson
105


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 167
feared his unknown enemy was on the trail. Perhaps he
was afraid, that his mere tenancy of the Wilderness
would give certain other parties, if they discovered
O'Leary's identity with the Spike Galloway of Nigeria,
the clue to the treasure.
"We now come to another difficulty. Why was
O'Leary unable, during his two years of residence, to
discover the treasure? Admittedly it was well hidden,
but it is strange that, after completely gutting the in-
terior of the Wilderness he did not try the garden at
an early date.
"Again why did he not lose patience at his lack of
success?
"The only answer is that meanwhile he was sounding
other quarters for a clue to the exact location of the
treasure. I suggest in fact that he was working in with
Crumbles who, in Nigeria, was trying other sources of
information. I suggest further that Crumbles even-
tually got that information and—perhaps first settling
accounts with Tuffy Samson—went post-haste to
O'Leary to share the hoard with him.
"I am certain that long before sending that telegram
Crumbles had met O'Leary. I think he met him in Little
Whippering on the day he was seen by the vicar, Jen-
nings, and Marion. I believe further that, there and
then, he told him of the death of Tuffy Samson, if
O'Leary did not already know it. But I suggest that
at this meeting he was reticent as to the exact where-
abouts of the treasure. We can imagine those two
crooks, both aware that they would sell their own
mothers for a five-pound note, fencing with each other,
each mortally afraid of the other's double-crossing him.
"Therefore I think that this meeting was indeter-


168 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
minate. And I further believe that Crumbles was then
already thinking how to outwit O'Leary and get the
whole treasure for himself. I imagine that on one occa-
sion he tried to steal it and was attacked by the dog,
which he shot. And probably it was as a result of this
O'Leary came to the conclusion that the only way to
do business with Crumbles was to murder him. And I
fancy also that by this time Crumbles had come to the
same conclusion about O'Leary. But in this game
O'Leary, with his nimbler wit, had an advantage. For
whereas he suspected Crumbles' intention, I don't think
Crumbles, intent on his own game, suspected O'Leary's.
"Now we come to the difficult events attending
Crumbles' murder. Unfortunately just because Crum-
bles' murder plan miscarried, we shall never know what
it was. But quite obviously it had been the result of
careful thought. As we know, Crumbles was in Wan-
tage as early as a month before the fatal day, spying
out the land and incidentally paying his expenses by
selling a gold trinket brought back from Nigeria.
"We now know of course that this bracelet had
nothing to do with the buried hoard for at the time
the earth above it was still undisturbed. In these days
of high gold values it was quite reasonable for
Crumbles to invest in such a thing in Nigeria and
bring it home with him to realize in England at a profit.
Except as evidence of Crumbles' movements, it is of
no importance therefore.
"Crumbles' murder plan, whatever it was, had some
connection with a faked suicide. Hence Crumbles'
assumption of melancholia, the letters he prepared, and
the cord he purchased. But it failed.
"For meanwhile O'Leary had (as I think) dyed his


170 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
Gregson must make inquiries therefore for the return
to Little Whippering of a man with cropped red hair,
and face pale or tanned, but probably tanned.
"Back once more at the Wilderness O'Leary waited
for the telegram. It was duly brought him by Miss Tip-
ton, whom he asked to inform Harry Thompson of his
need of a car. Harry Thompson drove him into Abing-
don and, as we know, he now pretended to discover the
body of Crumbles.
"I need not recount the events of that day. As we
know O'Leary soon dropped his misanthropy and
started to celebrate his now undisputed possession of
the treasure with a gorgeous blind.
"But O'Leary found he was celebrating too soon.
Crumbles had been too clever for him. The clue, what-
ever it was, was a dummy one. Crumbles had kept the
real clue either in his head or in a safe place. O'Leary
dug madly all over the garden, without success. Mean-
while his stock of cash had started to run low. He got
into debt. It is impossible to imagine a more exasperat-
ing position than O'Leary's. A fortune was buried
somewhere in his cottage, yet at any moment he might
have the bailiffs in, or even be evicted for non-payment
of rent if he had not found it by quarter-day.
"His run of bad luck had only just started. Soon
afterwards he saw something or heard something that
made him realize that a fresh rival was after the
treasure. Had he always known that? And had he hoped
by murdering Crumbles to get a clear start of them? Or
did he only later realize that someone, far more danger-
ous than Crumbles, was after the hoard? I am not sure
in my mind which. The probability is that he had al-
ways dreaded these people (whom we will for the present


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED PACE 171
call the African Gang), but that he hoped and believed
he had a clear start of them.
"The African Gang brought an entirely new element
into the situation. There is little Gregson can do here
beyond making researches into the previous English
history of Jones, of the young man with the moustache,
and of the negro pedlar. But personally I believe that
all our information about them will come from Africa.
"Is it a purely criminal gang? Or a kind of secret
society? Is the treasure a secondary motive, and is it
rather a case of blood vengeance? The answer, I think,
lies in Nigeria.
"Whatever the explanation is, it has to explain cer-
tain very horrible features. What was the significance
of the queer ceremony I witnessed outside Farmer
Bunn's poultry house? What was the meaning of the
drumming we both heard in the Wilderness garden
when O'Leary was lying dead? Why was the corpse
drained of blood? Why was its head shaven? All these
happenings are quite foreign to any ordinary murder
in England. They introduce elements which open up
various alarming possibilities.
"I am also puzzled by the American girl's attitude.
While I do not think she has played any part in the
murder, I feel she knows something we do not know. It
might be as well to verify her previous history through
our American liaison office.
"Gregson will also have to investigate, so far as he
can, the movements of the suspected parties on the day
of the murder. Our preliminary investigations on the
following day seem to show that neither Jones nor the
young man 'Watt' had any part in it. Jones was field-
ing in full view of Little Whippering at the time the


172 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED PACE
murder was committed. The young man, or rather a
car bearing his number and driven by a man answering
to his description, was spotted, about the time the mur-
der was committed, fifty miles away from Little Whip-
pering, by a constable. It was then going hell for leather
for Southampton. This is an alibi. By this time Mr.
Watt is doubtless far away on the seas.
"For that matter, Jones too had completely dis-
appeared by the time Gregson and myself went to the
vicarage on the evening of the murder.
"It may be that during my absence in Africa these
two men may be found, but even if they are, I do not
see how we can charge them with anything. It seems
more probable that the negro pedlar with the scar is
the guilty party. But we must allow for the possibility
that the African Gang is a large one. Therefore Greg-
son will have to comb the neighbourhood for any re-
ports of strangers seen in the vicinity, particularly any
black men.
"During my absence I have arranged that Gregson
and I keep in close touch with each other by cable (Code
B2.) and that my colleague at the Yard, Inspector
Bernard Bray, be available for collaboration with
Gregson or his chief at any time."


174 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
dustrious nature, that he would be quite content for the
voyage to go on for ever, the ship still to glide through
blue or dark green seas without ever reaching land.
He let the book drop from his hands. He did not
know whether he altogether approved of Colonial ad-
ministration. There seemed an odd mingling of admin-
istrative with police functions, and some of the local
practices that were tolerated, even encouraged, seemed
to him very unsettling.
"Back home if I found a man had two wives," re-
flected Campbell, "I should charge him with bigamy
at once. Here apparently, it's a regular thing among
the population. Most unsettling."
"Good morning, Inspector!"
Campbell started, for he had carefully refrained
from revealing his profession to the purser or anyone
else. He had found, from sad experience, that a strange
constraint, due to a kind of guilty conscience, overtakes
even the most law-abiding of citizens when they find
themselves in the company of a full-fledged police de-
tective.
He looked round.
Lying in a deck-chair, separated from him by a few
feet of gangway, was a girl. Her face was partly hidden
by a book and still more by a large pair of tortoiseshell
spectacles.
The girl put down the book, removed the spectacles,
and revealed the features—altogether too beautiful for
an anthropologist—of Virginia Ridge.
"Good Heavens!" exclaimed Campbell, momentarily
staggered. All sorts of conjectures as to the reason for
her presence on the ship flashed through his mind.
"Well, that's not a vurry flattering remark!" said


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 175
Virginia in her soft throaty voice, with its entire ab-
sence of emotional complications.
"However," went on Virginia, "perhaps you're in
disguise or something, and I oughtn't to see you."
And, resuming her tortoiseshell spectacles and pick-
ing up the book, she switched off her attention as one
might pull down a blind.
"Not at all," said Campbell hastily, with an un-
usual breach in his customary quiet and determined
manner. He had noticed before that this girl had an
odd ability to disconcert him and he put it down to her
unusualness. Dash it all, you don't know whether to
treat her as a professor or a pretty girl.
"Not at all," he repeated. "I was only surprised at
the coincidence that we should be both going on the
same boat. I wonder why I didn't see you before?"
Virginia Ridge put down the book again and re-
garded the gently heaving ocean with distaste. "I was
ill," she said. "The least bit of sea makes me ill!"
"That's bad luck. Where are you bound for?" He
told himself that the Cromlech Castle was going as far
as Cape Town and that her presence on board might,
after all, be pure coincidence.
"Molengi," she answered.
"Is that in Nigeria?"
She smiled. "No. It's a good deal farther down the
Coast."
"May I ask you why you are coming out here? I
thought you had settled in Little Whippering. Excuse
me if I seem inquisitive."
"That's all right, Inspector. We field-workers get so
used to asking questions about people's home life, how
they address their relatives, and who they are proposing


176 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
to marry, that we've just got no sense of privacy left
at all. Well, I've finished my job in Little Whippering,
and I'm going to do some field-work in Africa."
"I seem to remember your telling me that enough
was known about Africa already!"
"Yes, but most of the field-workers have been men.
The result is that everything we know is from the native
man's point of view. We know little about the women's
real beliefs, their secret societies and initiation cere-
monies. Well, I've got a chance to do so at Molengi and
I guess I'll bring back some interesting data. It's a
matrilineal village, and I'm going to live there just
like one of the native women. I expect to find that all
we're told about native women being down-trodden and
doing all the work is only what their menfolk say. The
women probably run the whole show on the quiet just
as they do where I come from."
"Very likely. But isn't it a bit dangerous?"
"Huh, I guess I can take care of myself," replied
Dr. Ridge self-confidently.
"Yes, but after all," protested Campbell, "a woman,
I mean"
He found the sentence tailing off under the stare
of her clear grey eyes.
"I'm all right. I'd best be keeping my hand in, all
the same," she admitted. Opening a capacious bag that
lay on the deck beside her, she pulled out what looked
like a pistol.
"It's all right," she said, seeing Campbell's surprise.
"It's only an air pistol. I've got an honest-to-goodness
gun in my baggage, but I don't want to frighten the
captain!"
The girl placed a target of cardboard on the railing,


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 177
returned to her chair and fired, with a quick upward
flick of her wrist which could hardly have given her
time to aim. The target was neatly drilled through
the centre.
She repeated the hit.
"By Jove, you're a dead shot!" exclaimed Campbell.
"Oh, that's not much," she answered. "Stand up."
Somewhat amazed at this peremptory command,
Campbell obeyed.
"Don't put down your cigarette!" she added.
As she walked several paces away, her intention be-
came clear.
"I say," protested Campbell. "Er—isn't it a bit
risky?"
"There's nothing to be afraid of! I've shot the ash
off my father's cigarette hundreds of times with real
bullets. A li'l' slug won't hurt you, even if it does touch
you."
Campbell was not quite sure whether this was a jest.
Reflecting on the painful possibilities of a slug slap in
his eyes, he turned sideways as commanded and waited.
There was a faint pop. The ash on his cigarette was
unmoved.
"Hard luck!" he said politely.
"Hard luck nothing!" she replied coldly. "You
trembled."
"I did nothing of the sort."
"Well, you winced. Stand still, please, quite still."
There was another pop, and this time the ash van-
ished.
"Good Lord, that's neat."
"Oh, it's nothing much. I'll get my automatic out
later and show you some more."


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 179
"Well, that's a point to me for a change," reflected
Campbell, sinking back into his chair and contemplat-
ing the smoothly sliding sea with a wholly novel feeling
of elation.
He thought that he might have offended her, but
apparently she had decided to assume that Campbell's
remark had not been made. She greeted him with a
bow next morning. She was leaning on the railing
watching an albatross hover in the current of air di-
verted from the hull. It soared there like a part of the
air, drawn by an invisible string behind the ship. He
leaned on the railings beside her.
They talked.
Evidently she had decided to be more human. He
guessed that the icy academic manner of the previous
day was a pose or a joke. She even admitted that it
was the glamour of her task, the lure of strange peoples,
strange customs, and alien methods of thought that at-
tracted her to her task. He confessed that, basically,
the same adventitious glamour had attracted him to his
own profession.
"So that we are really both incurably romantic
persons."
"But I couldn't be a policeman," she said, "I should
always be seeing the criminal's point of view."
"Oh, come," he remonstrated. "Right is right and
wrong is wrong!"
"You wouldn't say that if you were an anthropolo-
gist. Among the Australian aborigines in the Northern
Territory it is right to eat up your dead relatives.
Among certain Brazilian tribes, it is entirely wrong to
let anybody just die. As soon as they look seriously ill
you pop them in a large jar and bury them—otherwise


180 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
their soul will escape and get lost. Among a number of
tribes it is a dreadful calamity to look on your mother-
in-law's face. A man who does it even accidentally takes
to his bed and dies."
"Perhaps some peoples are wiser than we are," ad-
mitted Campbell, with a smile.
"It's all very well to joke!" said Virginia, "but sup-
posing you were a police officer of these tribes. It would
be your duty to see that dead relatives were properly
finished off the plates, and sick people killed in time.
You would perhaps have to arrest the man who looked
at his mother-in-law."
"That's all very well in theory," he answered, "but I
don't see how such a problem could really arise in my
line of business."
"I'm not so sure!" said Virginia thoughtfully, "you
may find yourself up against just that problem. And
very soon too."
The sun had vanished. The sky, with the abruptness
of low latitudes, had darkened almost in a second. Now
the moon, in a black velvet sky, was flooding the rising
sea with its brilliant light. Campbell, made sensitive by
the glamour of the night, detected a special meaning in
the tone in which Virginia had pronounced the last
words. He turned his head. Her eyes were fixed on him.
"What is it you know about this affair?" he said.
"It's no use your pretending you don't know some-
thing!"
"Nothing I can tell you," she said softly, her eyes
turning back to, the contemplation of the rushing
waves lit by flashes of light from the portholes.
"In any case it's of no importance," she added hast-
ily, as if regretting her confidence.


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 181
"Is your visit to Molengi connected with it?"
"Good heavens, no! I've told you that's purely
anthropological."
She seemed to answer sincerely enough, and he let
the matter slide out of his mind with an easiness that
can only be explained by the situation and the tempera-
ture.
There was a silence. The ship seemed to rush still
faster through the waves as the wind, blowing from
ahead, tore off fragments of the bow wave and splashed
their faces with it. Campbell felt exhilarated, almost
intoxicated. Virginia, however, became more and more
uncommunicative; even, he thought, a little cross. He
looked at her, her face slightly raised as she stared
at the moon, and said playfully, as the prelude to a
compliment: "What a ghostly-blue your face looks in
this moonlight!"
"So would yours," she replied coldly, "if you felt
as ill as I do. This ghastly sea coming up! Oh, why were
ships ever invented?"
Picking up her wrap, she disappeared below.
"At any rate," he told himself bitterly, "no one could
accuse us of getting sentimental!"
Whether any impartial observer would have launched
the accusation later, is doubtful. Ships are privileged
in this respect, and at first Campbell and Virginia
never reached a closer stage of intimacy than that in-
volved in exchanging childhood reminiscences.
An old hand would have suggested danger even here,
for it was obvious that they were spending a remarkable
amount of time in each other's company; to the annoy-
ance of many of the amiable youths going out to


182 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
Africa for the first time. They had all obviously hoped
great things of Virginia.
Even the "Organization of the Classificatory System
Among the Tribes of the Amazonian Delta" had not
daunted them, but now it seemed too late. That ginger
Scotsman was well ahead.
From childhood reminiscences they had proceeded to
early love affairs. Virginia admitted shyly an early
passion for a Professor of Logic at Harvard, in spite of
his bald head. Campbell confessed that he had once
fallen desperately for a tennis champion, in spite of
her sinewy legs. Both agreed that love is inexplicable.
And then came Lagos. Campbell felt a surprising
sense of resentment at having to walk ashore and leave
his pleasant shipboard life.
"Pure laziness, of course," he told himself firmly.
Virginia's cool firm hand remained in his for some
time as they said good-bye.
"And so we may never meet again!" he said gloomily.
He had, however, taken the precaution of finding her
home address. "Just in case," he had remarked vaguely.
"I'm not so sure," she answered, "I shouldn't be sur-
prised if we met again in quite a short time. In fact, I
think we're almost certain to."
She left him meditating1 this remark as he walked
ashore down the gangway.


CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Confusion Twice Confounded
Campbell was recalled to sober facts abruptly when
he stepped ashore at Lagos. He went straight to a
Captain Hollingsworth, to whom he had a letter of
introduction. Hollingsworth, he understood, would in
turn put him in touch with those police officials at
Kaduna who would be best able to help him in his
quest.
Hollingsworth, however, already had in his care a
letter for Campbell from Gregson. It had been dis-
patched four days after Campbell had left England,
had been sent by air mail as far as Khartoum and had
then been brought, with the rest of the Administration
mails, in an Air Force machine to Nigeria. The letter
was interesting but none the less disconcerting for
that.
Dear Campbell,
I am afraid there are serious holes in the theory you
have built up. First of all, the treasure you found must
have been hidden after O'Leary's determination to buy
the Wilderness, for the well in question was only in-
stalled a few days before O'Leary moved in. It was one
of the improvements he insisted on, as hitherto all water
183


184 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
had to be brought in buckets from a pump at the bottom
of the garden. Naturally that did not appeal to
O'Leary's fondness for privacy.
Secondly, O'Leary's search of the inside of the cot-
tage is comparatively recent. A builder whom I brought
down to examine it says that he is certain all the floor-
ripping, furniture breaking, etc. has been done within
the last few days.
These two facts together show (a) that the stuff was
hidden after O'Leary's tenancy (b) that he did not start
to search for it at all until the arrival of Crumbles.
Here is another odd fact. Harry Thompson re-
members O'Leary's first dog barking when he went to
drive him to the Ethelreda Hotel. Consequently the
mastiff cannot have been shot by Crumbles. Yet it must
have been shot soon after Crumbles' death, for next
day, as we know, he was burying it.
I am not as yet attempting to account for these odd
facts as I feel your investigations may bring to light a
good deal more that we shall have to fit into place. I am
continuing enquiries on the lines laid down, but so far
have found no trace of a previous visit by O'Leary to
Crumbles on the morning of his death.
I have also been able to secure temporarily the gold
bracelet which Farthingale bought from Crumbles. He
sold it again to a firm of bullion dealers who fortunately
had not melted it down by the time I got in touch with
them, and I was therefore able to borrow it. I enclose
drawings. They may possibly throw some light on the
source of the original hoard, now that we know it is of
more recent date than we believed.
Yours sincerely,
DUNCAN GREGSON.


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 185
"You look worried!" said Captain Hollingsworth
cheerfully, as the other put down the letter. "Bad
news?"
"Damn' bad," replied Campbell. He tossed Hollings-
worth the drawings. "Do you recognize this piece of
jewellery?"
Hollingsworth studied them critically, then took a
book from his bookcase and skimmed through a few of
the pictures.
"They're West African workmanship, all right," he
said. "Probably Ashanti stuff, or perhaps Beni. But I'm
not an expert, you know. If you really want a first-class
opinion, you'd better see old Goring, the padre at St.
David's, in Kaduna. He's written several monographs
on native art."
Campbell, as he jogged slowly along the line to
Kaduna, although disappointed in the news from Greg-
son, had an odd feeling of elation, a feeling that he was
getting near the secret of the murders. It was not so
much a matter of facts as of psychological atmosphere.
Here—under this blazing sun, with the sharp abrupt
contrasts of thick vegetation, arid clearings, sunbaked
native villages, and stately groups of European build-
ings—here he experienced a sense of primitive urges
which might well result in such a strange chapter as
that of the murder at Little Whippering.
He had always imagined Nigeria as a tiny red spot
on the map. Hollingsworth had told him proudly that
it covered, including the Northern Provinces, 335,000
square miles, and that the population probably
amounted to 20,000,000 souls. Of these only a few
thousands it seemed were European. The country was a
network of cultures. Not only the cultures of those


186 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
weird negro empires of Beni and Yoruba, but also
Arabian and Mohammedan influences in the north, and
Christian and European in the south. Here then was
a melting pot out of which strange mixtures could
come, where seeds of unspeakable enmities might be
sown.
Campbell got out at Kaduna and found that Thorn-
hill, assistant chief of police at this capital of the
Northern Provinces, had come to the station to meet
him. They drove back to his office through a bewilder-
ing stream of black and brown figures of all sizes and
expressions, dressed some in elaborate barbaric dra-
pery, others in European clothes, others in odd blends
of both.
Campbell sat down and told, as briefly as he could,
his story.
"Yes, we knew Crumbles well!" replied Thornhill, a
young man for his job according to English reckon-
ing, but very confident and at home with it. "You see
there are so few Europeans here that we know them
inside out; we all dine, play cards, and drink together.
Naturally though we always had a cautious eye on
Crumbles, knowing his record. But he seemed to be
playing straight. He owned several shops here, and we
kept a close watch to see that he wasn't doing any
illegal trading in spirits. He may have been, but if
so we never found it out; and the probability was that
he had reformed. He wasn't quite the ordinary crook,
you know. I mean he was the type of adventurer who
would look on pinching a native hoard of gold as per-
fectly good business, while he would shrink with horror
from picking a European pocket."
"And how long had he been in Kaduna?"


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 187
"Oh, he moved up here from Lagos about eight years
ago."
"Do you know anything about his previous history?"
"We've got a good deal about him in our records,"
replied Thornhill.
He went out and presently returned with a file.
"H'm, he'd been in Nigeria twelve years; must have
been fond of the country, God knows why!"
"You say he owned several shops. How did he make
that money?"
Thornhill flicked over the pages.
"He seems to have had plenty of it from the time
he fetched up here twelve years ago. Otherwise we
should have been less friendly. We don't encourage
ex-gaol-birds with no money to nest here. Yes, here's
a record of his depositing a bond of one thousand
pounds in connection with a land purchase soon after
his arrival."
Campbell felt surprised. How had Crumbles, almost
immediately after the Balooma scandal, come into
money? According to O'Leary's account, they ought
to have been broke.
"Do you know why he left Kaduna recently?"
"No, it was damned mysterious. Everything was at
sixes and sevens here until we got news of his death
at Abingdon. Since then his executors have been carry-
ing on. As a matter of fact there was a rumour that
he was shaky and had done a bunk, he cleared out so
quickly. But it turns out that he was quite sound
financially."
Campbell thought this over. It fitted in with the
idea already taking shape in his mind.
"Are you sure," he asked quietly, "that he didn't


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 189
by arrangement send all their European convicts there.
"Well, he got two years for that robbery, and as
you may imagine when he came out again we looked
on him as a pretty hopeless character. However, he
came to Kaduna, and apparently with a bit of money
—no doubt the proceeds of the robbery. He was
negotiating to buy something in Kaduna, he said, and
it seemed quite above board. Then, late one night, he
and his car were found completely smashed up. He had
driven straight into the bank on a lonely road and was
a thoroughly nasty mess. There was a fairish amount
of alcohol in the stomach and we concluded he had
been drunk and had crashed. No one saw the accident,
or heard it for that matter!"
"Whose car was it?"
"It was a car he had hired a month earlier. He paid
for it from week to week."
"And when did Crumbles leave Kaduna?"
"He left that day. Whether he left Nigeria that
same day, we don't know, as we didn't follow up his
movements. We had no reason to suspect any connec-
tion between the two incidents."
"But surely in view of their association . . ."
"So far as we knew there had been no association.
When we first felt suspicious of the crash we went into
Samson's movements during his month at Kaduna, but
there was no suggestion that he had ever come into
contact with Crumbles. He had not even ever been in
that part of the town. You must remember that here,
on the one hand, was Crumbles, a steady respectable
citizen. True there was a blot on his past, but many
a good citizen has worse, and the general belief was
that he had been more sinned against than sinning,


190 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
that Samson had led him on the expedition without re-
vealing its true object. That, we supposed, was why
he got let off with such a light sentence. On the other
hand we had Samson—a real criminal type. Why should
they be associated? They had not seen each other for
twelve years. We knew of no bad feeling between them.
It was natural for Crumbles not to have anything
to do with Samson. Certainly it never occurred to us
for a moment that there could be any reason for
Crumbles to wish Samson dead."
"Yes, I think I see," agreed Campbell, "there didn't
seem any particular reason for linking them together.
I suppose none of Samson's papers helped you at all?"
"None. We examined those in his wallet and his lodg-
ings. There was nothing but harmless business letters
and little personal possessions. All the same I always
had a dim feeling that there was something queer about
that death. It was such an amazingly thorough smash."
Campbell read the miscellaneous collection of docu-
ments in the dossier.
"I can tell from the dates that Crumbles must have
sailed the morning after Samson's death. That is to say
he must have left Kaduna by train for Lagos imme-
diately after the death. His passage was already booked.
We were in touch with the London offices of the line.
Well, that's pretty significant. I'm afraid, Thornhill,
that the probability is Samson was deliberately killed."
"Well, we all make mistakes!"
"Yes. But it's not often Providence does our job for
us. Even down to the hanging by the neck until dead'.
It couldn't have been much quicker if there'd been a
trial and sentence."
Already Campbell had had considerable food for


THE COEPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 191
thought, and he felt it would be necessary to digest it
before he could see his investigations completely out-
lined. However, one possible line of attack suggested
itself.
"I imagine Crumbles would have booked his passage
here at Kaduna. If so, whom would he have done it
through? Who is the Line's agent here?"
"You'd better see Gregory," answered Thornhill.
"He's agent for pretty well everything in the travel
line and a good deal else beside. He was a crony of
Crumbles, so I should think Crumbles would have gone
to him."
"Right-ho, I'll go along. I hope I can make use of
your name?"
"Sure," said Thornhill with a grin. "Make use of
anything here. But I think your own coupled with
the name of Scotland Yard as they say will carry still
more weight. Particularly as you can give friend
Gregory the low-down on his pal's grisly end. When
I say pals, I don't mean they were particularly fond
of each other, but they gave each other a good game
of contract. That's a good deal here. So long."
As Thornhill predicted, Gregory was only too
anxious to oblige Campbell. He was, if anything, a little
disappointed at the simplicity of the other's request.
"Yes, Crumbles booked a passage with me," said
Gregory, flipping through his books and giving a date
about three weeks before Samson's death. "I was a bit
surprised about it, but he said he had some business
to fix up in England, and that he'd be back shortly."
"He didn't say what the business was?"
"No. He was always a bit uncommunicative."


192 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
"Would you have described him as a level-headed
man? Strong minded?"
"No, I don't think I should," replied Gregory.
"Rather the reverse, I should say. At any rate as re-
gards his card playing. A bit inclined to lose his head
in a difficult situation."
"Yes, that is what I should expect," said Campbell
thoughtfully. "Did he strike you as being at all agi-
tated when he booked his passage?"
"I can't say. I was down at Lagos then, and for about
a week afterwards. He certainly struck me as a bit
nervous later. To tell you the truth, I thought he was
in a financial jam, but it doesn't seem to have been so,
judging from his estate. I tell you what. My young
assistant, who sold him the ticket, will be able to tell
you if he behaved oddly at the time. But he didn't know
Crumbles personally, so he wouldn't have noticed any-
thing unless it was really marked."
"Oh, I don't think it's worth troubling about," said
Campbell. "Still, if you don't mind . . ."
"Quite a pleasure," Gregory assured him, slipping
out of his chair and waddling to the door. "Bert! Come
here a moment!
"You must lunch with me afterwards," he added,
"and tell me what happened in England. I always had
a feeling poor old Crumbles would come to a bad end.
He never would call up to his hand."
Bert proved to be one of the amiable youngsters
such as had swarmed on Campbell's boat.
"You remember Crumbles' buying a ticket?" he
was asked. "What state was he in?"
Bert looked puzzled. "Crumbles? I don't remember
him for the moment."


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 193
"Yes. When I was away in Lagos. Littlish fellow.
Hook nose. Short grey beard. Bushy eyebrows."
Campbell smiled. The hopelessness of the average
man when it came to describing anyone was so familiar
to him, that it now awoke no more than a mild paternal
amusement. In the past, however, it had been a source
of very acute irritation.
"I don't think I should describe him like that," the
detective interrupted.
"How would you then?" said Gregory sharply.
"Largish. Ordinary height, but largish frame. His
beard had a few grey hairs but it ought certainly
to be described as black. And he wore it long. Again
hook nose will give a wrong idea. The nose was broad
and flat, with dilated nostrils, and a deep depression
below the brows."
Gregory looked annoyed.
"I pride myself on my gift of describing people,"
he said, "and frankly I should never recognize Crumbles
from your description. Remember I have known him
for eight years, whereas you have only seen him dead!"
"Still, it's my business to know his appearance. I've
simply given you the official description we used when
inquiring concerning his movements."
Bert grinned.
"Well, sir, I recognize the guv'nor's description, but
I don't recognize yours."
He looked through the stubs of his order book.
"Yes, here it is. Crumbles. Cromlech Castle. No, sir,
you've got him wrong. A hook nose and a short grey
beard, I remember."
Gregory was still puffing indignantly at the doubt
thrown on the accuracy of his observation.


194 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
"There, you see! Well, I'm glad to know that Scot-
land Yard isn't infallible."
Campbell felt irritated at this, and being sure of
his ground, he endeavoured to make Gregory see rea-
son.
"There can't really be room for mistake in my de-
scription," he said, "as it happens, I have the medical
report on the body here in my brief case."
Campbell read out the few phrases devoted to per-
sonal description.
"You're wrong," replied Gregory stubbornly shaking
his head. "I know the man when he was alive. It stands
to reason a man won't look the same after he's been
hanged."
"Well, it won't change the colour of his beard,"
commented Campbell, a little tartly.
"Perhaps not. But look here, I've got the manager
of my Lagos office staying at my place. It's just two
streets away. Let's go there. Crumbles would have had
to call in there to get his ticket. We only give a voucher
here. Let's see what he says!"
It was obviously a point that could not be allowed
to remain in doubt. Campbell walked slowly—Nigeria
had already taught his zeal the virtues of indolence
—to Gregory's house, and here the Lagos manager,
Perrin, was invoked to decide the point.
"You remember old Crumbles? Sailed on the
Cromlech? I sent a special message down to you with
the voucher to see he got a decent berth, as he was a
pal of mine."
"Crumbles . . . Crumbles? Oh, yes, I remember now."
"Can you describe him?"
Perrin wrinkled his brows in thought.


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 195
"Yes, I remember," he said at last. "A rather strik-
ing fellow. Red hair. Hefty frame. Blue eyes. Rather
strong face. I should describe your pal as a tough cus-
tomer."
"But the beard!" exclaimed Gregory staggered.
"Oh, there was no beard. He was clean shaven."
Campbell made no comment. He saw with crystal
clearness that an amazing confusion in identities had
occurred, and that it would be hopeless to attempt to
sort them out without far more accurate information
than mere description. Parrying, so far as he could,
the curious questions of Gregory, he went straight to
Thornhill. After giving him news of the new develop-
ments, he arranged for him to obtain from the police
surgeon any marks of identification they might have
noted on the body of Tuffy Samson.
As he expected, all the obvious distinguishing marks
had been obliterated by the crash. The man's face had
been pulped from the force of the head-on collision.
He had been identified by his clothes and papers. None
the less there were various marks—fillings in the teeth,
the scar of an appendectomy—which would still be of
assistance.
Thornhill got an order for the body to be exhumed
in case the preservative used for the autopsy, despite
the quick decomposition inevitable in a damp and
tropical soil—might have saved further distinguishing
marks. Fingerprints were the most likely.
Thornhill also despatched a cable to his colleague at
Gorango, Balooma, with a request to unearth from
the files and transmit to him the fingerprints, photo-
graphs, and Bertillon measurements of Samson,


196 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
Crumbles, and Galloway (alias O'Leary). Campbell
meanwhile despatched an urgent cable to Gregson.
BELIEVED CONFUSION IDENTITIES CRUM-
BLES O'LEARY, OBTAIN LONDON END'S AC-
COUNT APPEARANCE CRUMBLES ON ARRIVAL
PARTICULARLY BEARD, HAIE, ALSO APPEAR-
ANCE O'LEARY BEFORE TAKING WILDERNESS,
PERHAPS SEEN BY SOLICITORS. MEANWHILE
SEND FINGERPRINTS, PHOTOGRAPHS FROM
CADAVERS O'LEARY, CRUMBLES BY AIR MAIL.
CAMPBELL.
Campbell found it difficult to possess his soul in pa-
tience until the arrival of the material from England.
In the interim, however, the documents came from
Balooma, and, together with such information about
Samson's corpse as was already in his possession, showed
Campbell that he was on the track of a masterly crime.
Finally the news from England came.
First the cable—
CRUMBLES ON ARRIVAL ENGLAND, RED-
HAIRED, SHORT-BEARDED, BELIEVED GROWN
ON VOYAGE. MIDDLE STATURE, BROAD SHOUL-
DERS, BLUE EYES. O'LEARY SEEN BY SOLICI-
TORS DECLARED TO BE BLACKBEARDED, BROWN
EYES, ORDINARY HEIGHT. LARGISH FRAME.
BROAD, FLAT NOSE DEPRESSED BRIDGE GAVE
IMPRESSION MENTALLY DISTURBED PERSECU-
TION MANIA ANXIETY NEUROSIS BUT NOT NON
COMPOS. FINGERPRINTS, PHOTOGRAPHS FOL-
LOW.ATTABOY.
GREGSON.


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 197
The photographs arriving, established the whole
story beyond doubt. It needed some considerable
thought before every piece fitted into place, but when
the picture of what had occurred was completed, Camp-
bell had a wholly aesthetic satisfaction in the result.
Whereas every previous theory had left much unex-
plained and invoked various unknown movements, the
story, as now revealed, tallied perfectly with the move-
ments and psychologies of the actors. Campbell was
able to embody the whole thing in a complete report
which, despatched to his chief, soothed an official soul
somewhat outraged by the expenses of sending a man
to Africa. In addition it gave the man that contentment
which comes to every detective who sees a tortuous prob-
lem well and truly solved. Thereafter his chief was
wholeheartedly behind the African investigation.


THE COKPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 199
he has some money to spend. He goes at once to Kaduna
and lives as a person of means.
"Meanwhile Crumbles is well aware of his danger.
He is an excitable sort of person, always prone to rush
hysterically into any danger rather than bear the
suspense of waiting for it to materialize. He decides
to take Tuffy for a car ride, kill him, and after draw-
ing out all his money, fly to England. If the thing
blows over, he will return. If not, he will go into hiding.
"What actually happened on the motor drive with
Tuffy we shall never know, for the good reason that
both men are dead. I imagine that Crumbles counted on
shooting Tuffy while he was driving, and then faking
a crash which would conceal a bullet wound. No doubt
he hoped his previous lack of association with Tuffy
and the fact that the crash took place in Tuffy's car,
would keep him clear of suspicion. If not, he had his
passage ready booked.
"Whatever happened, Tuffy struck first. Perhaps
he had already guessed—for he was a subtle man—
what Crumbles was up to. The doctor reported a con-
siderable quantity of alcohol in Crumbles' stomach;
and I suspect that, as is common with the excitable
type, he took something to steady his nerves, and in-
stead merely dulled his wits.
"Anyway, it was Crumbles who was left, at the end
of that drive, dead. Doubtless Tuffy hit him over the
head, changed clothes and papers with him, drove the
car to a quiet spot, and then, engaging the gear and
jumping out after opening the throttle to the full, left
it to crash full tilt into the bank. Afterwards also it
would have been a matter of ordinary prudence to make
sure that the corpse was sufficiently battered as to be


200 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
unrecognizable. But that it was Crumbles' corpse there
can be no doubt, for it has been possible to compare the
fingerprints with those taken from Crumbles after
sentence at the Balooma trial.
"On going through his wallet, Tuffy doubtless found
the voucher for Crumbles' berth on the Cromlech Cas-
tle. He at once saw what a magnificent opportunity
this gave him, if only he could bluff others into believ-
ing that he was Crumbles. He left for Lagos that
evening. No doubt he would like to have been able to
touch Crumbles' cash as well, but as it was all banked,
that was hopeless. On the morning when the local papers
were reporting that one Tuffy Samson had been found
dead in a car accident, the real Tuffy was sailing for
England, under the name of Crumbles, having been
fortunate enough to meet no one who knew the real
Crumbles. The description of the Lagos travel agent
may be recalled here. He described the pseudo-Crumbles
as a broad-shouldered man with short red hair, blue
eyes and a rather brutal face. This description is worth
noting. It is the authentic description of Tuffy Samson.
We shall come upon it again.
"Stretched out on a deck chair on the deck of the
Cromlech Castle, Tuffy had ample time to reflect on
his next move. Tuffy was a subtle man, but I do not
think he was a very imaginative man, or he would not
have made some of the mistakes he did. Lacking imagi-
nation therefore he made the usual error of the mur-
derer, who always repeats the methods of his crime.
He had murdered Crumbles, and got away with it, by
exchanging personalities. Why not make another swap,
this time with O'Leary? It was all the more easy as


THE COBPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 201
Crumbles was an embarrassing personality for him to
be saddled with, anyway.
"It is obvious, however, that there must have been
other reasons as well for Tuffy to have been able to
plan so neatly the elimination of O'Leary. I think it is
almost certain that O'Leary and Crumbles had kept up
a correspondence. And it seems to me circumstantially
proved that Tuffy found among Crumbles' papers a
letter from O'Leary, not only giving his Little Whip-
pering address, but also revealing that O'Leary had
a hoard buried on his premises. O'Leary, as the solici-
tors who saw him confirm, was by this time a little mad.
Not legally non compos, as they were careful to explain.
But neurotic. A sufferer from anxiety neuroses. This
explains his behaviour at Little Whippering. He was
trying to flee the demons of his imagination by going
to a lonely cottage in a lonely village and hiding from
the face of man, with his carefully cherished hoard se-
curely buried beneath his eyes.
"But to give him his due, they were not demons of
pure imagination only. Also there was the tangible
fear of Tuffy, ready to murder him directly he came
out of gaol. There were other Avengers. That their
vengeance was a very real thing was soon to be proved.
And although O'Leary shut himself up, he did, con-
trary to village opinion, sometimes venture out. Thus
from time to time he sold some gold ornaments which
he had put aside from his hoard to pay current ex-
penses. One of these bracelets we traced as having been
sold by a black-bearded man with a flattish nose to Mr.
Farthingale. This man answered the description of the
corpse of Crumbles, but he also answered the descrip-


202 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
tion of O'Leary when he visited the solicitors to rent the
Wilderness. In other words, all three people were one
and the same—the real O'Leary. We have only known
the false O'Leary.
"Meanwhile Tuffy—the pseudo-Crumbles—had been
preparing himself to play the part of O'Leary. O'Leary,
he knew, in his Galloway days had worn a beard, and
therefore he started to grow one. It was well developed
by the time the Cromlech—a slow intermediate ship—
reached London.
"Tuffy now began to prepare for his coup in more
detail. He secretly visited Little Whippering and its
environs and got all the information he could about
O'Leary. He must have managed to see O'Leary, per-
haps pottering around the garden gathering wood, and
so confirmed that he had a beard still, and noticed ap-
proximately how it was cut. He then returned to Lon-
don, dyed his beard black and cut it to correspond,
cut his hair short and put on a black wig, and sallied
down to Abingdon for his final lightning stroke.
"We know how, in the brief time at his disposal, he
gave the hotel manager the impression of a man suffer-
ing from acute depression, and how he prepared, and
left, two letters to back up that opinion. They were
of course written in the same hand that punctiliously
signed the register, and took care to leave a note out-
side his door—so giving us poor fools the opportunity
to 'verify' the handwriting of the suicide letters. On
the morning his trap was ready for the springing, he
sent O'Leary the one wire which, he knew, would en-
sure his coming to Abingdon. But he counted, knowing
O'Leary's habits, on his continuing to hide his features.
The cream of the jest was that the very fear which


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 203
made O'Leary hide his features—his fear that he
would be recognized as Spike Galloway and so be de-
livered into Tuffy Samson's hands or worse—was also
the fear that enabled Tuffy to execute his vengeance.
"While the wire was in transit, Tuffy made his final
preparations. He shaved off his dyed beard—hence the
hairs we found trapped in the wash basin, which led us
to wrong conjectures. Now when a sunburnt man like
Tuffy has worn a beard for some time, it will leave, if
it is shaved off, a white area of skin on the chin and
lips, contrasting sharply with the tan of the nose and
forehead. This whiteness as good as says to the ob-
servant eye: 'I had a beard which I have just shaved
off.' Tuffy had anticipated this danger, however, for
as soon as he had shaved off his beard, he toned the
white patch with the imitation sunburn paint used by
some women nowadays to heighten or imitate a natural
tan. Either he failed to reflect that this also would
arouse suspicion, owing to O'Leary's homekeeping
habits or else (as is more probable) he foresaw how easy
it would be to bluff his way out of the difficulty. And
he did bluff his way out, very credibly, when Greg-
son and I taxed him with the inconsistency.
"His wig of course he merely removed and put in
his pocket. No doubt he had taken off his own clothes
and laid them by ready to put on the corpse—directly
he had manufactured it. And he manufactured it with
the utmost dexterity.
"As I picture the scene, Tuffy was hiding behind
the door. As O'Leary walked in unsuspectingly, Tuffy
threw the loop of rope over his head and garotted him
before he could make a cry. It was skillfully done, for
if he had strangled him with his bare hands, the marks


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 205
riedly made as a visitor for a clue to the treasure buried
in the garden.
"The false O'Leary went back to the Wilderness re-
joicing. He had disposed of both his enemies; the world
was at his feet; and he had undisputed possession of a
cottage in which a small fortune was hidden. No wonder
Tuffy came into the Marion Arms and celebrated. In
any case he was a convivial soul, unlike the neurotic
O'Leary, and in addition he had ample cause for re-
joicing.
"As he opened the door of the Wilderness with a key
taken from the dead man's pocket, O'Leary's dog
sprang at him. The mastiff at any rate was not fooled.
But Tuffy had been prepared for this, and at once shot
him. The shot dog should have led us to suspect the
change of identity.
"But now the false O'Leary began to discover the
dead man's cunning. He had thought to find the hoard
hidden in some obvious place—in a safe, or buried in
the garden. But he could not find a trace of it. As we
know, it was hidden in a rather cunning place, in the
well. Days passed. Tuffy worked like a madman, dig-
ging up gardens wholesale, ripping up floors, tearing
furniture to pieces, stripping walls. All in vain.
"And now a still more sinister colour tinged the
picture. The redoubtable and careful Tuffy began to
have a taste of O'Leary's own fears. By a comic irony,
the very hoard that he could not himself find was yet
putting him into ghastly danger. The Avengers were
after the false O'Leary too. Tuffy bought a dog, bar-
ricaded himself in, and continued his frantic search.
Meanwhile the money he had got from the bank rob-
bery had run out. A small fortune was hidden in the


THE COEPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 207
"That it's from somewhere farther north or more
inland. Hollingsworth suggested Beni workmanship,
did he? Dear me, quite ridiculous of course. Ashanti
was a better guess."
Mr. Goring pulled out a cabinet and studied it
thoughtfully, humming gently.
Then he turned to Campbell.
"This comes from Balooma. Here's an anklet with
almost exactly the same motif."
"Oh," said Campbell, "it comes from Balooma, does
it? By jove, so that's the explanation!"


212 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
bier edition of Kaduna. Hollingsworth, at Lagos, had
told Campbell that the appearance of coastal Gorango
bore no relation to the conditions he would have to
encounter if he went up-country. Even the old up-
country capital, still the residence of the Emperor, was
no more than a large native village.
It was hot, very hot, and Campbell felt limp and in-
effective as he climbed the massive steps of Government
House. He asked for Mr. Dakin, as he had been told
at Kaduna, but he was informed that Mr. Dakin was
away sick. The chief commissioner would see him.
"Well, I hardly like to trouble the commissioner him-
self," said Campbell.
"It's no trouble, Inspector. He is anxious to make
your acquaintance."
"Well, that's very nice of him!" thought Campbell.
He felt sceptical, however, when he was shown into
the commissioner's luxurious office. Peering above the
desk was a figure with rugged face and bloodshot eyes,
and the expression of a resentful walrus.
"Sit down, Inspector," said the walrus, extending a
limp flipper. "Good passage?"
"Yes, thank you sir."
"Good hotel?"
"Excellent, sir."
"Good! Very good."
There was a silence.
The chief commissioner opened his mouth as if to
speak, shut it, puffed formidably at his cigar, the puff
lifting the white hairs of his moustache, and then gave
a bellicose roar. At the same time he waved one flipper
in the direction of the inspector's letter.
"What's all this precious nonsense, eh? Murders,


THE COEPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 213
trials, gold bracelets! What? Eh? What? What's it all
about, eh?"
Campbell was startled by this onslaught. Why on
earth did they tell me in Kaduna that Smythe was the
cleverest official who ever came to Africa? he asked
himself.
Campbell put on his most official voice and told him,
as concisely as possible, the history of the Samson
case to date. He looked keenly at the chief commissioner
from time to time to see if he were following the story.
The chief commissioner's eyes were quite expressionless,
like two pools of stagnant water.
"Pshaw!" exclaimed the chief at length. He got up
to his feet and padded the length of the room and back
again. Then he shot out an accusing finger at Campbell.
"All this Box and Cox business is all very well. I
suppose you're right if the fingerprints agree. Granted
O'Leary became Samson and Samson became Crumbles
and so on, but what's it got to do with us, eh? Why
should a law-abiding place like Balooma be dragged
into your Little Whippering atrocities?"
Campbell smiled. "Simply for this reason, sir. The
motive for the final murder was the hoard buried in the
garden of the Wilderness. I saw that hoard, and it was
obviously African workmanship. O'Leary, at an earlier
date, sold a bracelet, which we believe to be from the
same hoard. Goring, at Kaduna, tells me the bracelet
is undoubtedly of Balooma workmanship. The assump-
tion I make is that the whole hoard came from Balooma.
And what is more, I believe it to be in this country now."
"Rot. Absolute rot!" shouted the chief commissioner
suddenly. "You're talking through your hat, young
man, or your helmet, or your cap, whatever it is. It's


216 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
"Yes, that is so. And naturally. For the theft was
considered a desecration, which robbed the national
fetishes of their power."
"I see, sir. But today the country is quite peaceful?"
"That is so."
"You don't think that significant, in view of the
events in Little Whippering? Doesn't it all link up?
Naturally I do not pretend to know the native mind."
"I am glad to hear it, Inspector. If so, you are the
first white man just arrived in this country not to suffer
from that illusion. I am in the same position. After
forty years in Africa I don't understand the native
mind either. But I think you are trying to reason too
logically. We have had some bad times. Well, it hap-
pens. Now we've a spot of peace. That happens too. In
this game of administration you live from hand to
mouth."
Campbell saw that the chief, with a patience doubtless
learned at native palavers, was prepared to go on like
this forever. Evidently he could look for no real guid-
ance here. He tried another tack.
"I've not been able to get hold of the accounts of the
trial, sir. One thing has always puzzled me. Why was
there such a disproportion between the sentences of
Tuffy Samson and his accomplices? Even allowing for
their turning King's Evidence it seems inexplicable."
Here at any rate the chief would have to give a
straight answer, for it was easy enough for Campbell
to check his story from newspaper files.
"Crumbles and Galloway were only charged with
robbery with violence, desecration of a native shrine,
and obtaining permits under false pretences," explained


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 217
the other. "Samson was in addition charged with man-
slaughter."
"Manslaughter!"
"Yes, it should have been murder. But I regret to
say that if it had been, in those unsettled days, with a
European jury, he would have been acquitted. You see
it was a native he killed. So we preferred the strongest
charge we could. The native he killed was one of the
Guardians of the treasure. I don't think Samson in-
tended to kill him. He was only defending himself. But
it happened while he was getting away with the treasure,
and under our code, as under English law, man-
slaughter in the commission of a felony is murder. We
would have charged all three men with it, except that
Crumbles and Galloway swore they were some distance
from the man when he was killed, and shouted to Sam-
son not to do it. Samson denied this, but Crumbles
and Galloway confirmed each other's story and, inci-
dentally, ensured Samson's conviction."
"Good Lord, no wonder Samson had such a grudge
against his partners! What hounds they were!"
"They were not very estimable characters," agreed
the chief commissioner.
There was an awkward silence, which the chief made
no attempt to relieve. Campbell was trying to decide
how far he should show the chief commissioner his de-
termination to do his duty, however much it might
interfere with the administration's desire to let sleeping
dogs lie.
Campbell saw the chief commissioner's point of view
clearly enough. None of the crimes had been committed
inside his territory. Therefore, he saw no reason why
the present peace should be threatened by stirring up


218 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
memories of the twelve-year-old desecration trial. But
equally Campbell was determined to bring Samson's
murderer to justice. A barbarous murder had been
committed. No matter that the victim was himself a
murderer. Execution was the prerogative of the law of
the land. Campbell, in his humble way, was the embodi-
ment of the law. Moreover—human pique mingling
with his ethical code—he felt determined not to be
bluffed by the chief commissioner. He concluded there
was nothing to be gained by trying to get help from
someone who was obviously unwilling to give it.
He got up.
"Well, sir, thank you very much for your informa-
tion. Naturally I have still to get my bearings here. I
should like if I may to see the records of the trial."
"Certainly, Inspector." The chief pressed a bell.
"Here, Hilton, give the inspector the verbatim of the
desecration trial, will you?" He turned to Campbell.
"And if there's anything else you want, Inspector,
don't hesitate to ask me. Or Hilton."
Campbell took his leave. The chief commissioner
spent some time after his departure, lost in thought,
staring at the battered inkpot in front of him. Then he
gave a resigned sigh.
"I'm afraid we're going to have trouble with that
young man!" he muttered prophetically.
During his short stay in Gorango, Campbell was the
object of unremitting hospitality on the part of
administrative officials. He was invited to cards, to
drinks, to the clubs, to sail in the estuary, on shooting
parties. He was shown objects of interest varying from


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 219
ant hills to museums. But he found his hosts either
extraordinarily ignorant or extraordinarily evasive
about the objects of his inquiry. They all professed
complete ignorance of what was happening "up-coun-
try."
Campbell himself strolled daily through the town,
trying to decide whether it was possible to continue his
investigations in the face of such an unpromising re-
ception. He cursed his ignorance of the native language,
which made all the black faces he saw so many meaning-
less masks instead of founts of useful information.
Was there really any secret society in Balooma,
such as he had been told of by his friends in Kaduna?
What had been the real effect on the native mind of the
desecration trial? To these, and similar questions, he
was unable to get any final answers. The interpreter
provided him by the administration had proved a
broken reed, assuring him that the questions he asked:
"Would not be answered by any of the natives, sir. I
regret to say that they are very secretive about matters
of that kind." His white teeth had flashed in his black
face in a way that reminded Campbell painfully of
Mr. Jones' naive impudence.
None the less something else besides sheer obstinacy
kept the inspector in Gorango. For he had suddenly
noticed, two days after his arrival, that he was being
shadowed—an odd experience for him. He was not
being shadowed by Europeans or by educated natives
but by the wild and dirty variety one saw even in
Gorango. He could not identify any one of them. Indeed
these shadows that always kept within a few hundred
feet of him were always changing in identity. But they
were always there, silent, watchful, menacing. Even


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 221
He strolled round the booths, where the black crafts-
men worked with leisurely skill under the broiling sun.
The heat came up from the pavement in waves. He had
inspected several booths when his eye was arrested by a
huge golden collar—as he supposed it to be—fashioned
out of intertwined snakes. Each snake was biting its
own tail and the other's head; and their eyes glittered
with bright jewels. It was a striking design. The
bracelet was of massive size; and he remembered in a
flash that, coiled round one leg of the ivory stool from
the well, he had seen a bracelet of just such a design.
He watched for some time the workman giving his
steady patient touches to the work. It seemed strange
to see the work going ahead like this on such a valuable
object in an open market. But he had been told that
the superstitious awe with which the goldsmith was re-
garded would prevent theft. The thief would expect to
waste away and die or, as the native put it, "the gold
would go to his stomach."
The man could apparently speak a few words of
English, for when Campbell asked him how much the
ornament would cost, he replied that it was not his. The
gold had been provided by the customer and he was
merely working it, as is usual with native goldsmiths,
or for that matter any native smith. Campbell there-
fore asked him whom he was making it for. The man
gabbled some name which was incomprehensible.
Could the man make one for him if he provided the
metal? asked Campbell at a venture. The workman
shook his head: No, it was a special design, a sacred
design; so at least the detective gathered from his words.
Campbell felt this was a confirmation of his theory.
The hoard sunk in the well had been of Balooma work-


222 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
manship, and the designs, it now appeared, had some
ritual significance.
As he was about to turn away, his eye was attracted
by a polished steel mirror on the man's stand, not by
the mirror itself, but by what he could see in it. Behind
him—about fifty feet behind him—were two negroes,
dressed in dirty white robes. They were evidently dis-
cussing him, for he saw one gesticulate repeatedly in his
direction. What made him stiffen with attention was the
sight of the European who was talking to them. Unless
Campbell was dreaming, it was the young man he had
seen in the public bar of the Marion Arms and again
in the Wilderness. Mr. A. Watt of Ware.
Campbell continued to watch him. Presently the
natives squatted down and the young man walked off.
As he turned his back to Campbell, the inspector
wheeled round and began to run after him. As he got
within a few feet of him, one of the natives jumped up
and uttered a warning cry. The young man whipped
round. Campbell got a close view of his face. There
could be no doubt. Campbell closed up to him and
laid his hand on the man's shoulder.
"I want to have a talk with you."
The young man stared at him. "I say, who the devil
are you?"
"You know well enough who I am," answered Camp-
bell, transferring his grip to the arm.
"Look here, damn it, let go my arm." The young
man made as though to break away.
"No, you don't," said Campbell. "Not this time. And
you'd better not try using a revolver either. I'm
armed."
"Whoever you are, you're making a mistake."


224 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
"The Marion Arms? It sounds a good spot, but
where is it?"
"Little Whippering, Berkshire."
"But I say, old boy, I haven't left Balooma for the
last nine months. Have I, Hilton?"
Hilton, thus invoked, hesitated, and then replied,
"Certainly not!"
"There, you see?"
"Yes, evidently there is some mistake."
"Or some misunderstanding," added Campbell slowly.
"Sorry to have troubled you."
Campbell of course preferred to believe the evidence
of his eyes rather than that of Mr. Hilton. He remem-
bered, however, that the most insignificant movements
of the most insignificant members of the Colonial Serv-
ice were gazetted. Getting some copies of the local
paper for the past few weeks he searched them. Yes,
there under the "Official" section of the "Personal
News" was the information:
LEAVE
MR. LESLIE CHARLES DAKIN, B.C.S., PER-
SONAL ASSISTANT TO HIS EXCELLENCY THE
CHIEF COMMISSIONER, IS GRANTED SIX WEEKS
LEAVE OF ABSENCE BEGINNING . . .
A little later, in the "Sailings," he saw a record of
Mr. Dakin's name, and then of his return a few days
ago.
What was the object of the lie? To conceal a secret
mission of Dakin's? The idea of a secret mission, fan-
tastic in any case, was rendered improbable by the fact


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 225
that the thing was openly gazetted and that Dakin
sailed under his own name.
On the other hand, what was the connection between
his shadowers and Government House—for that it was
to two of his shadowers Dakin had been speaking,
Campbell felt certain. Was it conceivable that these
sinister persons were in any way official? But no, the
thought was absurd!
It was a biologist who opened his eyes to the next
chapter of his search—Garrod, a tall thin man with a
great mop of black bushy hair and a permanently pessi-
mistic expression. He had just returned from spending
four years alone in a hut up-country in Balooma trying
to find out how Formica hebetudiensis, a species of large
ant, found its way back to its nest at night. He had
proved to his own satisfaction that it did so by means
of the stars, and this apparently gave him a gloomy
pleasure.
"Ghastly creatures, ants!" he would confide to Camp-
bell over a glass of whisky, to which he was addicted.
"We shall all be like them some day."
Campbell asked Garrod if he had seen the new
Emperor.
"No," answered Garrod, "I did think of going up to
Molengi for the Kwana Festival. But it's not my
pigeon."
Molengi. The name struck a chord in Campbell's
mind. Wasn't that where Virginia had talked of going?
And suddenly all the suspicions in his mind revived.
"Where's Molengi?" he asked, "and what's the
Kwana Festival?"
"Molengi's the native capital. Hardly any Europeans
live there, though. It's nothing much more than a big


226 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
kraal. But it's the Emperor's sacred residence. The
Kwana is a yearly festival. It's a typical native idea.
For one day everyone says what he likes. It's your duty
then to tell your enemy (and your friends) exactly what
you really think of them. Even slaves have to abuse their
masters. The more they do it, the better luck the
master will have during the year. It's quite a good
idea really. As the native puts it, it 'gets the sin off one's
soul.' But I'm not an anthropologist. Well, it's likely
to be a pretty epic festival this year. You ought to see
it!"
"Why?"
"It's my opinion, old boy, that they've got the Ivory
Soul back! Of course there's no knowing. These devils
are as close as oysters about it. But I happen to know
the language, you see, and I've overheard one or two
natives talking about it unbeknownst."
"What's the Ivory Soul?" asked Campbell curiously.
"Oh, good Lord, it would need an hour's lecture on
the customs of Balooma and West Africa generally to
explain it. It's a Great Fetish, but it's more than that.
It's what made Balooma the Empire it is, or was."
"Is it a statue?"
"No, just a stool, such as every West African chief
uses as a sign of honour. The equivalent of our Throne
or Crown. But in Balooma a chief's stool is something
more than a sign. It contains, in some symbolical way,
his soul. When he is not sitting on it, he turns it on one
side in case a spirit should sit on it and rob him of his
soul. The stool, and the land and the chiefly power it
carries with it, descend according to Balooma law from
man to man, but through the female blood. When a
great chief dies his soul is tied permanently to the stool


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 227
by fetters; it is blackened; and offerings are made to it.
It becomes a kind of shrine or god."
"I see. And whom does the Ivory Soul belong to?"
"To the Emperor. But it's more than a family stool.
It was consecrated by a great witch doctor famous all
over West Africa, who said that he would bind to it by
fetters the soul of the whole Balooma nation. Every
chief sent portions of his hair and blood to be fastened
to it, in amulets. It is such a powerful fetish that no one
not of royal blood would dare touch it. He would waste
away. And even the Emperor himself dares not sit on
it. He pretends to sit on it, held up by two slaves. Or
perhaps he leans an elbow on it when he is seated on
the ground."
The upturned legs of an ivory stool in a dripping
container . . . Golden and sacred regalia . . . The image
was vividly present in Campbell's mind.
"Do you know what's happened to the Ivory Soul?"
Garrod swirled his whisky in the glass.
"No, I don't. As I say, it's not my pigeon. For that
matter I doubt if anyone does know. Ever since we con-
quered this country the Ivory Soul has been hidden. It's
probably just as well. If we'd laid our hands on it, it
would have been desecration. We know better now, of
course, and wouldn't touch it. As long as it was in exist-
ence and respected, the chiefs obeyed the Emperor. As
the Emperor obeyed us the Ivory Soul was the link by
which Britain held Balooma. When there was that
rumpus about the theft of the Royal treasure, every-
one thought the Ivory Soul had been stolen too. But
apparently it hadn't, for it wasn't among the treasure
mentioned at the trial. On the other hand, lots of
Europeans say that the Ivory Soul was stolen and that


228 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
it's at the bottom of all the troubles Britain has had
in Balooma during the last twelve years. They say the
Ivory Soul is always at the back of all the troubles
that ever are in Balooma. The fact remains, the natives
are talking about the Ivory Soul again, and as I say,
they seem to think it will come into the open again at
Molengi. Have another of these damned whiskies? You
may as well rot your guts like me. Did you know that
even ants took stimulants?"
"I didn't. Wise ants. But will you excuse me, old
boy? I want to pop round to Glory Hole."
At Glory Hole Campbell's request was passed from
hand to hand until it came to the chief himself. He per-
emptorily demanded to see Campbell.
"What's this nonsense, eh? What do you want to go
to Molengi for?"
"To see the Kwana Festival."
The chief grunted.
"We can't have all and sundry streaming up there
to see a purely native festival. It unsettles them. They
don't like it. I've given permits for three English people
already. One of them a girl too. What's the good of it
to you?"
Campbell hesitated. Then:
"I want to see the Ivory Soul," he said quietly.
"Oh," said the chief commissioner, leaning back in
his chair. "Oh, damnation!"
He pulled a sheet out of his desk and scribbled his
name on the bottom.
"There you are. And for the love of Mike don't do
anything without consulting me."
"I won't," promised the detective.


CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Dance of Loosened Hearts
Campbell arrived at Molengi two days later, having
covered the few miles from the plantation railhead to
the village in an asthmatic Ford that had bounded from
bump to bump of the deeply rutted track. During the
rainy season the track was a swamp. During the rest
of the year it was like rock. Campbell got the rock.
At the last moment Garrod had changed his mind and
come with him.
"It's better than rotting my guts out with whisky,"
he had muttered. All the same, Campbell had heard a
clinking from his suitcase as it was thrown in the back
of the car.
They were to be the guests of the Resident, along
with the more illustrious suite of the chief commissioner.
They bumped their way to the Residency through a
town, if it could be called a town, which was like nothing
that Campbell had ever seen. There seemed miles and
miles of whitewashed beplastered hovels, some of them
adorned with rude designs—hands, snakes, poultry,
apparently the first ornament that had come into the
native craftsman's head. Here and there a gratuitous
advertisement for some familiar English product re-
vealed that the decorator had copied his decoration
from some highly coloured advertisement page in a
discarded magazine.
229


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 231
Suddenly Campbell stiffened with surprise. He had
heard a noise which evoked memories, memories of a
peculiar kind. The noise was a thudding, a rhythmic
thudding punctuated by a higher note, as of a metallic
click. The two laced and interlaced with an irregular
formless counterpoint.
Pink-pink-boom! Pinkety-pinkety-boom! Boom!
Boom!
"What's that?" he asked.
"Only the talking drums," said Garrod indifferently.
"Talking drums. What do you mean?"
"Oh, drums to send messages with. They use them a
lot in Balooma, particularly where the jungle's thick.
Even the D.O.'s sometimes use them to communicate
with each other."
"Good Lord, is it a sort of Morse?"
"No, much more primitive than that. These natives
can't write, so they couldn't possibly send a message by
a cipher like Morse. The drums actually talk."
"How do you mean, talk?"
"They mimic a human voice speaking Balooma.
There's a small drum which makes the pinkety sound
and a big one that makes the boom. Also a few metal
gadgets fastened to them to make a kind of background
of resonance. With these two sounds they imitate the
intonation and syllables of the sentences they want to
transmit. It's just as if we were to try to speak with
drums instead of a larynx. Of course it's difficult to
understand. Unless he's heard the message or word-
group before, even a native finds it difficult to follow.
But with set messages it works perfectly. It's easier to
read than Morse, just like listening to somebody
talking."


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 233
with her mother and I—we—well—it was such an
opportunity!"
"But why did you come here of all adventurous
places?"
"Oh, we are guests of the Emperor. It turned out that
Mr. Jones was the Emperor of Balooma. Most sur-
prising, was it not? Or did you know it all the time?"
"I have known it for some time," answered Campbell
slowly.
"Most remarkable! He has three hundred and twenty
wives now, poor boy. Dear me, yes. It appears that one
of the chiefs inherited the wives of a neighbour, and
so"
"It was a case of your wives, Bill's wives, my wives
and I raise you ten," explained Claude Marion.
"Er, yes, something of the sort. I must say Jones
seems a different man in his own surroundings."
"His wives, no doubt."
"Or the clothes he wears. He seems quite to have lost
his Oxford manner. But there, what an adventurous
life he has now! No wonder he has a commanding air.
I lacked the courage to remind him of his dropped
catch."
"Then I will," answered Campbell. "I've often
thought of that dropped catch since. But tell me, Vicar,
now you've seen life in the raw, what do you think of
it?"
The vicar shook his head. "I've been very deeply dis-
appointed!"
"Disappointed! Why?"
"Inspector, Molengi is exactly like Little Whipper-
ing! The natives have exactly the same manners and as
far as I can say do exactly the same thing as the vil-


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 235
"Ants? Really, now you do surprise me! Well, I sug-
gest we go down to the square. I trust the Festival is
quite suitable for my cloth? Bearing in mind that I
am on holiday?"
"Oh, quite all right, Vicar," said Garrod. "The songs
are a bit free, but they're all in Balooma."
"Oh, that's all right. The songs the Little Whipper-
ing villagers sing are not always—well—they have a
bucolic frankness. I believe in being all things to all
men, as the Apostle so conveniently recommended. Shall
we get on our way then? Dear me, are you really going
to lug that great easel with you, Marion?"
"Certainly," replied Marion, "that's what I came
out to Africa for."
"You paint, then?" asked Garrod. A fatuous ques-
tion, in view of the fact that Marion was carrying an
easel, a paint box, and a set of brushes, while his whites
were already spattered with paint in one or two places.
"Yes. When I heard the vicar was going to Africa, I
suddenly had a blinding vision. I decided I would be-
come the Gauguin of Balooma. Do you realize Gauguin
is positively the only painter who has ever dared tackle
the tropics? And yet think of the opportunities."
Marion waved an excited hand: "Think of the skies!
the verdure! The violent fiery blooms! The huge torsos
of the men! The marvellously plastic rolls of fat of the
women! The dusky skins! I tell you when the vicar men-
tioned Balooma, at one flash I saw all my canvases, all
of them hanging in a row. The critics were staggering
round the gallery blinded. I mean it literally. They had
to be led down Bond Street back to their newspaper
offices by messenger boys. And to complete the picture
Jennings, in his foul smelly plus fours, was blowing


236 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
his brains out through sheer chagrin on the doorstep.
Well, you can imagine! I said to myself: Claude, to
hell with your complexion. Some sacrifice must be made
to art. And here I am, sore, blistered, mosquito bitten,
sweating, but with the potentialities of immortal fame
under my arm. All the Double-Zero Group have cabled
their good wishes and Schwein-Chikotsky is devoting a
special number of Damnation to me on my return."
The speech temporarily exhausted Marion, and it
also appeared to exhaust his hearers, for no more was
said until they reached the central square. Here, getting
hold of one of the Hausa soldiers who were keeping
order, Campbell saw them safely piloted to the official
enclosure through gorgeously clothed black masses of
African humanity. The recitative of the drums was
rising to a voluble finale as they took their seats.
On the beaten earth of the square the distinguished
visitors were drawn up in the ceremonial horseshoe
formation. There were hundreds of them—chiefs, queen-
mothers, young royals, priests with their fetishes, and
chiefly retinues, dressed in scarlets, greens, and purples,
and over their heads, like nodding clouds, were the
bright cupolas of state umbrellas. The Emperor and
his suite were at one end of the horseshoe and at the
other, the open end, was the chief commissioner and
the official enclosure.
The chief's umbrella was particularly large, like an
enormous distended parachute, blue and gold in colour
with a bright scarlet fringe. It was necessary to uphold
the dignity of British rule.
The chief commissioner now walked solemnly round
the horseshoe—very slowly, for to the native mind
authority is inseparable from a slow stately tread. Only


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 237
base-born persons hurry. Behind the chief followed the
giant umbrella. Behind the umbrella followed the
national fetish, that is to say, the Union Jack. Behind
the Union Jack came the chief's suite and—raggedly,
Garrod, Campbell, the vicar, and Marion. Having com-
pleted his visit of inspection the chief commissioner
returned to his enclosure.
Immediately the phiefs and the Emperor, in inverse
order of precedence, returned his visit. To have waited
even a minute would have been excessively discourteous.
The procession made Campbell feel slightly dizzy.
It was like some nightmarish pageant. Before each chief
walked, or rather danced, the sword-bearers; danced
backwards, the gold-cased hilts of their swords pointed
towards the chief. The chief walked slowly, not only
because of his dignity, but because he could hardly
support the weight of brass or gold ornaments round
his neck, arms, and legs. Behind him came his retinue—
attendants, hornblowers, warriors, women, musicians,
stool bearers. The umbrella-carriers twirled their great
umbrellas; and the bearers of the soul-horns, through
which the dead enemies of the chief were supposed to
speak, sounded their deep booming note. The horn was
enormous, a hollowed elephant's tusk, and was hung
about with a weird collection of bones and hair and
skins.
Each chief was followed by his proud sharp-eyed
queen-mother with her retinue of plump black girls.
A miscellaneous crowd of followers brought up the
rear of each chiefly procession.
At last, walking more slowly, more richly provided
with umbrellas, more deafeningly heralded by shouts,
the blowing of soul-horns, the wild beating of drums,


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 239
human blood. They boomed monotonously. Beside the
horn-bearers were boys with expressions of respon-
sibility. They were all of good birth—young royals—
and it was their important office, should the Emperor
hiccough, as was not unlikely in view of the quantity of
beer he would have to consume today, to crack their
fingers loudly for several minutes, and so frighten the
Emperor's soul back again into his nether regions.
Large parts of the Emperor's procession were mean-
ingless even to Garrod, so ancient was their connection
with Balooma lore. Some of the state umbrellas in the
Imperial procession sheltered young royals of some re-
lationship to the Emperor. Others sheltered fetishes of
virtue, borne solemnly in copper pans on the heads of
priests and priestesses, their faces daubed with white
clay, their eyes often fixed in the curious negro trance.
Other followers were carrying on their heads various
objects, some of which might be fetishes, others merely
valued possessions. Thus the ancient horn gramophone
of an antique pattern was obviously a fetish, in spite
of the fact that the Nga-ma-Nwama's palace was fitted
up with modern radio sets. Doubtless it was acquired
in the first Balooma War. The rifles were probably just
booty. Then, following the blackened stools of former
Emperors, or of great queen-mothers, came the Queen-
Mother and her retinue, then twelve drummers, then
forty horn-blowers who, when the procession stopped in
front of the chief commissioner, let out a blast that made
Claude Marion jump and overturn his easel.
There was one fetish in the procession however which
excited a murmer of excitement and wonder from all
the assembled chiefs. Before and behind it walked a
number of gaunt warriors. But the object itself was


240 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
hidden by a large state umbrella whose edge was hung
round with strips of cloth. Only the feet of the bearer
could be seen.
Garrod nudged Campbell. "That's the Ivory Soul
unless I'm a Dutchman! Look at the expressions on
those lads' faces. Of course the chief commissioner will
pretend to know nothing about it."
Campbell however was not so interested by the ex-
pressions on the faces of the warriors in general, as of
one in particular. He was an oldish negro, evidently a
man of importance. His greying hair was scant, giving
him a somewhat seedy look. A scar ran down one cheek.
Campbell's mind slipped back at once to the Marion
Arms and the negro pedlar. Yes, it was the same scar—
the same man.
"Who's that Johnny?" he asked Garrod, "the one
with the scar?"
"Oh, he's the Nga-ma-Nwama's father. Quite an in-
telligent black. Speaks English. He doesn't count for
much of course. He's only the Queen-Mother's husband.
He isn't reckoned as of Royal blood."
The procession over, there was a pause, during which
the solemn beat of the drums became joyous. The great
ceremonial dance of the festival was about to begin.
Laughter and giggles came from the huge umbrellas,
hung round with strips of linen so as to form tents,
in which disrobing was going on. Occasionally a black
feminine arm or leg was accidentally thrust through
the strips, and hurriedly withdrawn, amid cheers.
But it was necessary for the dance to be preceded
by sacrifice. Eggs, chickens, kids, or sheep were ac-
ceptable to the gods in the brass pans. Each priest had


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 241
duly provided himself with the delicacy most fancied
by his particular god, and all over the ground eggs were
being cracked, chickens' necks being wrung, and lambs'
or kids' throats being cut. The stools of office were
positively streaming with egg yolks.
Campbell was watching the sacrifice of a chicken near
him. It made no attempt to escape once it had been
put on the brass pan. It stood there quietly, its
wings slightly outstretched, occasionally swaying
gently from side to side.
"Why do they behave like that?" asked Campbell.
"Do the priests drug them?"
"It is odd, isn't it? Almost as if they were hypno-
tized. The blacks say they 'feel the power of the god.'
If the chicken flutters at all, they say it is because the
sacrifice isn't acceptable, and they don't offer it up,
then. It must be something in the African breed of
chicken."
"No, I don't somehow think it's that. I fancy our
English fowl would behave in the same way," answered
Campbell. He remembered a dark night, and an open
poultry-house door, and a fowl swaying quietly in the
moonlight, its wings slightly stretched . . .
The sacrifice over, the great dance began. Amid
polite titters and hand claps, the Queen-Mother of the
Emperor and her attendant women, including the more
able-bodied of the Emperor's wives, emerged from their
dressing rooms. They began to dance.
The dust rose in clouds, the heat rained down like
solid brass bullets, but they danced. They shook their
haunches, they stamped their feet, they pranced. The
drums beat out their brazen rhythm. The drums talked.


242 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBUBNED FACE
The drums sang a song of praise to the divine powers
that had fructified the harvest and made the sheep in-
crease.
Their black faces strangely blank above the white
robes of joy in which they had clothed themselves, the
women endlessly circled the horseshoe, their bodies ap-
parently twitching with an uncontrollable ecstasy as
they shuffled and shook, yet, all the time, as by some un-
canny instinct, obeying the intricate rhythm of the
thudding drums.
Round they swept, dancing as if their lives depended
on it. And as the women danced, the Emperor and the
chiefs watched them without moving a muscle of their
faces, and their attendants and the thousands of eager
black faces of the commoners behind urged them on
with shrieks and shuffling.
And now the Nga-ma-Nwama, the great Baloomawini,
also began to dance. Shedding his golden ornaments he
advanced into the centre of the horseshoe. Without
stopping their furious dance, the women gave way to
him. In the centre of them his sword-bearers made a
ring for him, all facing inwards, all with the gold
hilts of their swords kept pointing as steadily as rocks
towards him while the rest of their bodies pranced and
shook and quivered with the intense movements of the
dance, dancing to the royal thunder of the drums.
Slowly and gracefully, as befits an Emperor and
Bachelor of Arts, the Nga-ma-Nwama danced. Stripped
to the waist, crouching forwards, continually revolv-
ing in slow panther like movements, he danced the
dance of the Kwama Festival, the Dance of Loosened
Hearts.
And at this signal, the chiefs also started dancing,


244 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
most completely naked black maiden danced her way
past him, "Perhaps they wouldn't appreciate it."
"Don't talk to me of folk dancing, Vicar!" exclaimed
Marion, "this is the real thing. It's stupendous. Colos-
sal !" He extended his arms in a vague circling gesture.
"I feel physically giddy and spiritually vertiginous. I
don't consider I am a hysterical person, but really"
he broke off panting.
The vicar, alarmed at his young companion's tone,
looked at him more closely. Marion's eyes were dazed
and there was a hectic flush in his cheeks.
"What on earth is the matter, Marion?"
"I want to dance! I want to dance wildly!" exclaimed
the young man, "I want to throw all my clothes off and
start turning somersaults. I want to yell. I want to
chase that black girl and slap her hide in time to the
music!"
"But, good heavens, Marion, I have never seen you
like this. I should have described you as a most self-
contained man, positively repressed."
"I can't help it, this dancing has got into my blood.
Boom-boom-boom." He swayed from side to side.
"Stop twitching," said the vicar sharply.
"I can't help it. The group soul has me in its grip.
Boom-boom-boom—pinkety-boom!" He began to shuf-
fle.
"Marion!" said the vicar earnestly, "I beg and im-
plore of you not to start dancing!"
"Why not? Boom-boom-pink—pink-boomety7"
"Because if you do, I shan't be able to stop doing it
myself."
The two men looked into each other's eyes. Then
Marion put his arm through the vicar's with a sigh.


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 245
"Come on then, we must hurry home as quickly as we
can."
"And we mustn't look back," agreed the vicar. "Re-
member Lot's wife! . . .
With lingering steps, the two men made their way
back to the Residency.


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A Question of Principle
Meanwhile Campbell, less susceptible to the atmos-
phere of the Kwama Festival than the visitors from
Little Whippering, was making his way round the edge
of the ground to a kind of mud and reed pavilion. It
was into this pavilion that the Ivory Soul (if it was the
Ivory Soul) had disappeared, hidden beneath its um-
brella and followed by a bevy of warriors carrying
spears and beplastered priests waving bundles of as-
sorted unpleasantnesses.
These guardians had subsequently been posted near
the hut. But the warriors had long since joined in the
celebrations. And the priests had been so frequently
sustained with copious draughts of beer during the
afternoon by friends, that most of them had passed
clean out. The others seemed in no condition to notice
Campbell as he walked into the hut.
He wondered whether he was committing an un-
expiable sacrilege. But the matey behaviour of the other
African gods during the day had made him believe that
they had a certain generous tolerance of familiarity on
the part of human beings.
The pavilion smelt rather unpleasant inside. At first
it seemed quite empty. Then he heard a scuffle at his
feet. He leaped back hastily. Something like a large
dog was down there, but it reared up and proved to be
246


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 247
an old woman, with a shrivelled face like a monkey's.
Her grey, almost silvery hair, stuck out on all sides in
tousled masses and gave her in spite of her blackness
an odd resemblance to an elderly "char" drunk and dis-
orderly in the Old Kent Road.
The woman began to curse him or argue with him in
a high shrill monotone. Meanwhile she made shooing
gestures. As she pushed him in the chest with her un-
savoury hands, Campbell fell back. His eyes were now
accustomed to the gloom, and he saw behind her in an-
other room opening off this a tall object gleaming palely
in the dusk—the Ivory Soul. The stool he had
fished out of the well! The sight of the object made him
halt, and the old woman's curses rose to storm pitch.
Suddenly a quiet stream of Balooma from the other
room made the old woman turn round. She answered it:
an argument began. Finally the old woman moved to a
corner of the room, and with a kind of grunt sat down,
resting her head on her knees so that her grey locks
fell over her shins.
Campbell walked towards the other room to see who
the second speaker was. It was Virginia Ridge. She was
sitting on a stool in the corner, a sketching pad on her
knee. Evidently she was drawing the Ivory Soul.
"Good afternoon, Inspector," she said composedly.
"I thought we should meet again."
"Where have you been all this time?" he asked her.
"I've made several inquiries about you since I came
to Molengi, but no one seemed to know where you'd
got to."
"I've been living in the Royal Kraal. As the guest of
Mr. Jones' three hundred odd wives. I've filled fifty
notebooks already. Gee, how those girls can talk!"


248 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
"Is it all right for me to have a look at this stool
business? Or shall I get my throat cut?"
"It will be all right if you don't touch it. Otherwise
I can't say." She went on with her drawing. Her manner
had been that of a guest at a tea-party when another
guest comes into the room. Living at the kraal had no
effect on her cool efficiency. She did not even affect the
shorts of the female globetrotter in Africa, but was
wearing something Campbell vaguely described to him-
self as "sensible."
Campbell went up to the Ivory Soul and examined it.
It was a stool similar to those he had seen carried in the
procession but, unlike them, it was carved out of ivory
instead of wood. It was ornamented with a barbaric
profusion of mother of pearl, gold, ebony, and brass.
Looped golden chains were hung round the outside, and
to these was fixed a variety of weird objects—stones,
pieces of skull, complete bones, locks of hair, pieces of
skin, little bags of leather, beans, dried plants—Camp-
bell took out his pocket torch and switched it on the
better to examine it in the gloom of the hut. Then he
gave a little whistle. The top of the stool was thickly
caked with blood. Round the top was wound a thin
rope or string of hair, human hair, ginger hair.
Switching the torch off, he went back to Virginia.
"Have you finished your sketch? Because if so I
should like to have a serious talk with you. Not in here,
but in the fresh air."
"Yes, I've finished," answered Virginia. She snapped
the band round her sketch book and they walked out-
side.
It was now the fag-end of the Festival. Most of the
dancers had wandered off to their homes for the enor-


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 249
mous meal, washed down by calabashes of beer, with
which they would end the day. A few still screamed and
leaped in front of the exhausted drummers and horn-
blowers, who maintained the steady thudding of the
dance. Here and there a prostrate figure, sleeping or
unconscious, told of a performer's collapse, the effect of
too much beer on an exhausted frame. All the priests
who could walk away had disappeared from outside the
hut. The others slept. Only the old woman seemed
left to guard the sacred Ivory Soul.
"But of course no native would dare to touch it,"
explained Virginia. "And there are only a few Europe-
ans in Molengi. She'd knife one without compunction
if he tried to lift it."
They walked on a little. "Now," began Campbell in
his most impressive manner. "I think I know the whole
story."
She nodded.
"I expect you do. I knew you would discover it sooner
or later. It was only a matter of time. I always told the
Nga-ma-Nwama you were bound to find out."
"Well, that's what I want to ask you. Why did you
refuse to tell me anything? Don't you admit the serious-
ness of murder?"
"Not when the victim is a man like Samson. He'd al-
ready killed a native and two white men. And been the
indirect cause of a good many other deaths in Balooma."
"But the horrible way in which he was murdered!"
"What if they did cut off his hair and sprinkle their
fetish with his blood? He was already dead. They'd al-
ready cut his throat. It's no worse than hanging."
"That may be so. But there can be no private
vengeance for murder. If everyone started killing peo-


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBUBNED FACE 251
point to the years that followed as proof. Illogical but
very natural."
"Well, they fished the Soul up from the well. Why
weren't they content with that?"
"Because the Ivory Stool itself isn't the soul of the
Balooma people. It's just its resting place. The soul
has to be chained to the stool by 'medicine' and golden
fetters. After Samson had stolen the stool the soul of
the Balooma people passed from it into his keeping.
There was only one way it could be got back. A man's
soul is in his blood and hair. So the blood and hair
of O'Leary had to be added to the stool before it would
once again be the Ivory Soul."
"And you really think this barbarism is a justifica-
tion for murder? Upon my soul, you really have shocked
me now!"
"That's only because your mind is hopelessly bar-
baric too," replied Virginia coldly. "You think in your
crude way that lives are like coins, and if one is lost to
the tribe, another has to be sacrificed in exchange for
it. That's the barbaric European creed, no better than
the barbaric African creed!"
"I am not prepared to argue the ethics of capital
punishment," said Campbell in his most official manner.
"Fortunately I am only concerned in doing my duty.
And I must point out that you appear to have been an
accessory after the fact, if not before. Both are serious
crimes under British law, and if, after I have laid in-
formation with the police here they arrest you, you
have only yourself to blame."
Virginia lost her temper.
"Do you think I care a cent for your beastly British
law? Anyway you're only trying to frighten me because


252 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
you got the worst of the argument. You couldn't prove
I knew anything about the murder, except by my own
confession, and I haven't said I did know. I didn't, not
actually, I only guessed. I guessed who Jones was.
And I knew he had some big plans because of the sacri-
fice he made that night by the hen-roost. But I told him
I'd not say anything, if he'd help me with my investiga-
tions in Molengi. But I told him he'd be bound to get
found out sooner or later. He said he didn't mind as
long as he got a clear run to Molengi."
"Then you are most certainly an accessory after the
fact, and liable to a considerable term of imprisonment.
And so is anyone else who helped Nga-ma-Nwama to
commit the crime."
"But he didn't commit it. Even you can't prove that.
He was on the cricket field at the time of the murder."
"That shows that you know rather less than you
imagine. Jones did the murder himself, and his alibi
isn't worth a tuppenny damn. I shall go straight from
here to lay information against him with the chief com-
missioner, and I shall send in my report in duplicate
to the Colonial Office and the C.I.D. And that will be
the end of that. If the Nga-ma-Nwama isn't deposed
and put on trial within the next month, I'll eat my
hat."
Virginia looked at him, her eyes blazing. It was the
first time he had seen her cool competence ruffled. Camp-
bell on his side was equally annoyed, and his mood was
mingled with a good deal of virtuous indignation,
which may or may not have been wholly genuine.
"If you dare do that!" she said furiously, "I shall
never forgive you! I thought you were an intelligent
man. You're just a pig-headed, mean-minded, Scottish


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 253
brute. If the Nga-ma-Nwama is deposed I shall never
speak to you again!"
Campbell was used to hard words in the course of his
profession, and was as a rule unaffected by them. For
some reason, however, Virginia's remark got beneath
his skin.
"Very well," he said, his face rigid, "if I have to
choose between doing my job and never speaking to you
again, what do you suppose I can say?"
"I don't know exactly, but it's sure to be something
self-righteous!"
Virginia walked away. Campbell, feeling strangely
depressed for a detective who had just cleared up a
knotty problem by patient investigation, went slowly
back to the Residency.
"My God, you look blue!" remarked Garrod. "A
touch of the sun. Have a drink, old boy!"
"Thanks, I will," answered Campbell.
Carried on by his wave of indignation, the detective
insisted on seeing the chief commissioner in private
that afternoon.
The chief was in a convivial mood. He had with
characteristic affability partaken freely of the loving
cups of beer pressed on him during the Kwama Festi-
val. As Campbell was far from being convivial the
opening stages of their conversation were awkward.
"Well, what's on your mind?" grunted the chief
commissioner at last, "some kind of trouble, I can see!
Don't beat about the bush. Come out with it."
Campbell came out with it.
"The Nga-ma-Nwama murdered Tuffy Samson, sir,"


254 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
he said. "According to the terms of my instructions
from the Home Office, I now formally lay information
against him to that effect."
"The man's drunk," said the chief. "Good Lord! You
should leave that beer alone as a newcomer."
Campbell smiled mirthlessly.
"The Nga-ma-Nwama was staying with the vicar of
Little Whippering, sir, under the name of Jones. There
will be no difficulty in getting evidence to that effect. I
do not expect any greater difficulty in proving that he
fished up the Ivory Soul from its hiding place in the
well, cut Samson's throat, shaved his head, and fled back
to Balooma. In this he was assisted by his father, who
was also at Little Whippering under the disguise of a
negro pedlar."
"You are talking through your hat," commented the
chief commissioner. "At the time of the murder the
Nga-ma-Nwama was playing cricket."
"With all respect, sir, may I ask how you are aware
of that? So far as I know, I have not mentioned it!"
"You know perfectly well how I know it, Inspector.
I think the time has come for a show-down. I had an
observer at Little Whippering."
"Yes, Dakin."
"Quite right. There is no point in keeping it secret
now."
"Well then, sir," said Campbell heatedly, "since we
are having a show-down, and still with all respect, what
is your position in this matter? I tell you frankly it
baffles me. As far as I can see, this pleasant heathen
went to Little Whippering with the express purpose of
murdering Samson and it now seems he had the support


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 255
—the assistance—of a representative of His Majesty's
Government at Balooma."
The chief commissioner was silent for a moment. His
ruddy face was sunk forwards on his chest. When he
spoke it was with a much graver tone than he had
used during the rest of the conversation.
"Dakin had not the slightest idea of Tuffy Samson's
presence in Little Whippering. He happened to be on
leave in England, and I suggested to him that he go
to Little Whippering and keep an eye on the Nga-ma-
Nwama. I had heard native rumours to the effect that
the Nga had some game on. I told Dakin that whatever
happened, he was not to embroil himself with the local
police, and that he was to do his best to keep the Nga-
ma-Nwama out of mischief. Well, he went to Little
Whippering. He did his best to find what our black
friend was up to. He discovered it was something to do
with the tenant of the Wilderness. He cross-examined
two of the Nga's family he found lurking in disguise in
the neighbourhood. But he couldn't find out what the
game was until too late. Until the drums announced
to the Nga's accomplices that the job was done and
everyone was to fly for their lives. Then I admit he
knew well enough. But in view of his instructions he
said nothing and came back at once to Balooma."
"Excuse me, sir, but I don't think you are being al-
together frank with me. Dakin's done a good deal more
than keep quiet. I'm perfectly certain he has been
responsible for shadowing me ever since I came to
Balooma."
"Nonsense, Inspector! We shouldn't do such a thing.
It would be ridiculous, besides being useless!"
"Again with all respect, sir, I must point out that


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 257
He warned them that if you were killed, the Ivory Soul
would be taken back from them. It was only a bluff. If
we tried to do such a thing, all Balooma would be ablaze,
and every unarmed European in it would be massacred
over-night. But still, as a bluff it was effective, for here
you are standing in front of me unharmed. In spite of
the fact that you went into the tent of the Ivory Soul!
Good Lord, Inspector, do you realize the danger you
ran? If when you came out from that hut, the old
woman had made the slightest sign, you would have
been struck down by half-a-dozen spears."
"But there was no one near—no one in sight!" said
Campbell, a little astonished by the knowledge of the
chief.
"Do you think the Guardians of the Ivory Soul are
always visible? They were hidden in the hut, or perhaps
lying round pretending to be asleep."
"But how do you know all this?"
"Listen," said the chief commissioner. In the silence
that followed, Campbell heard nothing but the drums
that had been monotonously and endlessly throbbing
until they had become no more noticeable than the
sound of his own breathing.
Boom-boom-boom, pinkety-pinkety-boom!
"White spy now speaking to old Max," translated
the chief commissioner with a smile. "You get used to
living in the open in Balooma! Ever since I've been in
Molengi I've been listening in to the drums. At quite
an early date I familiarized myself with the drum
language, both for sending and receiving. Most of the
messages today have been for the chiefs attending the
festival, relayed from their own kingdoms. But a few
have been about you, and myself, and the vicar, and


258 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
so on. And so I know what you have been doing up to
the time you left Dr. Ridge."
"Well, naturally, sir, I am very grateful," replied
Campbell, a little awkwardly, "whatever risks you have
saved me from. But still we haven't disposed of the real
difficulty. I am afraid that there is no doubt that the
Nga-ma-Nwama murdered Samson. I happen to know
that his alibi is worthless. During the tea interval, he
slipped away from the cricket field. His place was
instantly taken by one of his relations—enough like him
to deceive everyone, for the European is not expert at
detecting facial differences in full-blooded negroes un-
less he lives among them. Unfortunately his relative was
not so good a cricketer as he was, and muffed two
catches later. When this relative came off the field, with
the rest of the team, I tried to speak to him, but he fled,
and ran into the pavilion. By this time Nga-ma-Nwama
had returned. I have ascertained that it is possible to
get into the pavilion through a window in the back,
without being seen by anyone on the field, as it backs
on to a wood. Jones then resumed his identity and
strolled on to the field, while his relation vanished
through the back door. Unfortunately for his alibi,
there was blood on his hands and also on his clothes.
"There is only one thing I am puzzled about."
"I'm glad to hear there is something. What is it?"
"How did Crumbles and O'Leary get possession of
the Ivory Soul and the treasure? For according to the
records of the trial, the hiding place was revealed to the
Administration, who restored the treasure to the Royal
Family. Did they get hold of it again?"
"I have cleared that point up with the Nga-ma-
Nwama. When the three Englishmen hid the treasure in


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 261
"Fiddlesticks! You know perfectly well that once the
Home Office and the Colonial Office have a report in
their files that so-and-so murdered someone in an
English village, they can't do anything but act on it,
whatever they think. It's as automatic as the phases of
the moon."
"Well, I don't see I can be blamed for that, sir."
"Of course not. I am merely asking you to look at
the consequences of your action," said the chief in his
most wooing tones. "And then not to do it. If I asked
you to do something definitely wrong, it would be
different. But I don't. I only ask you to refrain from
an action. After all, you've cleared up a difficult
mystery—the identities of O'Leary and Crumbles.
You'll get lots of credit. Then as to the murder of Sam-
son, you can tell your people that it was certainly done
by a member of the Baloomagara but that it is not
possible to ascertain which one. We'll back you up
there. No one is a penny the worse. We of course turn
in an enthusiastic report about you"
"I am sorry, sir, but I can't fake reports."
"Quite right, of course. There mustn't be any fak-
ing. It's just a matter of wording. I'll help you draw
it up."
"I am sorry"
"By Jove, you are certainly an incorruptible officer.
I wish I could get more men like you in my service." The
chief gazed thoughtfully at his blotting paper. "Take
my chief of police now. The post's empty. A good job.
A salary a good deal more than you are getting. And
a pension. A really interesting job. Very little routine,
and a C.M.G. at the end. You'd make an ideal man for
the job, Inspector."


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 263
"Neither do I. Well, supposing yourself a police;
officer in this country. One of your native subordinates
conies to you and says another negro whom he names
is bewitching him. The negro admits it. What do you
do?"
"Tell them they're both talking nonsense!"
"Naturally. But then your negro subordinate takes
to his bed and dies, just wastes away in spite of all
medical aid. Don't look incredulous. It happens again
and again. Every anthropologist will bear me out. And
supposing this happens often? Isn't that witchdoctor
murdering those men as much as the poisoner who
poisons their soup?"
"I suppose he is, I admit something would have to
be done about it."
"But what? Can you put a man to death for witch-
craft, a thing you don't believe in? How could we, in-
telligent white men, countenance such a thing? How
could witchcraft be proved at a trial, if you don't be-
lieve in it? The most we can do is to give the witch a
term of imprisonment, a short one. The result is, the
natives think we encourage witchcraft and every
witchdoctor who has been in prison has virtually a
government certificate of his powers. He can hold a
whole village up to ransom."
"Yes, I can see the difficulty. Of course education
"In the future," interrupted the chief, "but we're
dealing with the present. What actually happens now?
A is dying because B, his enemy, has bewitched him.
C, a friend of A, goes and spears B to save his friend's
life. A, on the point of death, now recovers. Can you
wonder that the D.O. feels lenient towards the murderer


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 265
became points of light. He seemed about to burst into
one of his famous rages. But he controlled himself.
Gradually his features relaxed, and presently he
grinned.
"Well, there is nothing more to be said. Perhaps I
am getting old and fanciful. Perhaps I exaggerate the
importance of the matter." He got up and opened the
door. "Good evening, Inspector. Pleasant dreams."
After Campbell had gone out, the chief commissioner
rang the bell for Dakin. His face was now expression-
less.
"I've just had an interview with Campbell. He has •
laid information against the Nga-ma-Nwama charging
him with the murder of Tuffy Samson.
"His report," added the chief, with a bitter smile,
"will be in triplicate, one copy to us, one to the Colonial
Office, and one to the Home Office. Possibly it will be in
quadruplicate, the fourth copy going to the chief con-
stable in Berkshire!"
"Good God, sir," exclaimed Dakin. "What the devil
are you going to do about it?"
"Nothing, Dakin. You understand my meaning?
Nothing at all. This matter is between us only. From
this moment Inspector Campbell does not exist for us.
It will no longer be necessary for you to shadow him!"
"Quite, sir," said Dakin with a smile. "I understand!"


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Sacred Lake
Campbell returned to his room and sat down to write
his report. Most of it already existed in draft, and it
was merely a matter of assembling it with fresh data
and making a formal account of the whole thing. As the
substance of it has already been related there is no
need to recount it here.
Campbell had already found that the train from
the plantation railhead was provided with a mail van,
and that letters could be posted straight into the train.
He decided to post his report here himself rather than
put it in the Residency mailbox. There was of course
no reason to suppose that his mail would be tampered
with. It would be rather ridiculous to do so, for
obviously he would keep a copy for himself of what-
ever report he sent.
None the less he decided to satisfy his impulse, to
hire a car and drive to the railhead, and so catch the
evening train. He could, he found, get back in time for
dinner, and he therefore slipped quietly out without
telling anyone at the Residency of his intention. The
garage, run by an "educated" negro, was not far up the
road.
Soon he was seated in the asthmatic Ford, bumping
his way towards the station.
After about ten minutes' driving, the engine splut-
266


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 269
"She's that American anthropologist girl, sir," ex-
plained Hilton. "You remember we gave her a permit
as she was to be a guest of the Nga-ma-Nwama."
"I suppose I'd better see her some time," said the
chief commissioner gloomily.
"She's rather pretty," added Hilton meekly.
"All right then, I'll see her now."
Virginia came in with her usual positive walk. She
acknowledged the chief's greeting curtly.
"I've come about Inspector Campbell."
"Oh. You knew him?"
"I did. He was a friend of mine. What's happened
to him?"
The chief put the tips of his fingers together and
bowed his head gently.
"Ah, my dear young lady," he said paternally, "I
wish I could answer your question. He has completely
disappeared."
"But surely you have some trace of him. You've had
men investigating?"
"Everywhere, Dr. Ridge. Everywhere. You can
imagine how distressed I am."
"I can imagine it," said Virginia sharply.
Something in her tone made the chief commissioner
look up. Could there have been a trace of sarcasm in the
words? But no, it was impossible. Merely the manner of
young America.
"We must not give up hope, of course," he went on.
"But surely, Colonel, with your knowledge of the
native mind, you can guess where he has gone?"
"I am completely baffled. I confess it with shame.
Poor young fellow!"
"When was he last seen?"


270 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
"No one saw him after he left the Residency."
Virginia was silent for a time. When she spoke, her
remark was so surprising that the chief sat up abruptly.
"Is it necessary to feed me all these lies, Colonel?"
"My dear young lady"
"Let's get this straight, Colonel. I'm a hard-boiled
scientist with a liking for cold truth. I also happen to
know the Balooma language. There isn't a native in
Molengi today who doesn't know that the Baloomagara
has got hold of Inspector Campbell. And they know
why. Moreover I've found out, just by questioning, that
he was seen to go into the garage, and was seen to leave
it in a car. I admit I can't find out anything beyond
that. I suppose he was taken for a ride by these Ba-
loomagara gangsters. You must have known it too.
Why not tell me?"
"But, good Heavens, this is invaluable information,
Dr. Ridge. We shall act on it at once, I need hardly
say. Measures will be taken at once. But why should
you suppose we should have concealed this from you,
had we known it?"
Virginia smiled. "It suits your book to get Campbell
out of the way."
"You surely don't suggest"
"I suggest nothing. Of course you wouldn't bump
him off yourself. But it's easy enough to loosen up a
bit on guarding him."
"But why should we do anything so fantastic?"
"Because he found out who murdered Tuffy Samson.
Of course I knew long ago. The Nga-ma-Nwama."
"You are a very remarkable young lady," said the
chief commissioner, a little shaken. "What do you pro-
pose to do?"


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 273
in view of the consequences you mention. You know I
should have thought that as a scientist, a hard-boiled
scientist, wasn't it? you'd have seen my point of view.
Unless"
"Unless?"
"Forgive me if I am tactless. . . . Unless there was
some unscientific interest on your part in the man
Campbell."
Virginia flushed, but failed for a moment to find an
answer. "I think you're the most unpleasant old man
I've ever met," she said at last.
The door closed behind her. The chief commissioner's
expression changed abruptly. He mopped his fore-
head, on which fine beads of perspiration had suddenly
become visible. Then he rose and started to pad up
and down the room in his carpet slippers, up and down,
his head bent. For some reason he suddenly looked
very old. . . .
Campbell's next memory after the multi-coloured
curtain of spangles was a sensation of being at sea. For
what seemed like years he was tossed about on the
surface of this sea, always floating on his back. Up and
down the waves tossed him, up and down. It was a regu-
lar endless rhythm.
What made it seem more extraordinary, even to his
dream-drugged mind, was that it was a warm sea, a
sea of boiling water. He lay in it, burning with heat,
while he rose and fell, rose and fell, in endless pitch-
and-toss. The remorseless rhythm filled all his being
with nausea; at times it seemed to him that he had
actually vomited. And then again he was no longer


274 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
conscious of his body, but only of being something
vague tossed up and down on this boiling sea.
Gradually his field of vision seemed to lighten, and
presently he saw up above him something solid, some-
thing material. It seemed that he stared at it for years,
before it took a stable shape. It melted and dissolved
into sky, rock, cloud, before he finally fixed it as some
linen or cloth stuff, a hood stretched on sticks and
covering his whole body.
He was quite content to gaze at it, without wonder,
for (it seemed) another ten years. By the end of this
time he was more conscious of his body, could realize
that it was lying on a kind of bed, on its back, with
this hood of linen shutting out vision.
But even now he continued to be tossed up and down
on the boiling sea. The whole bed tossed up and down.
It creaked and groaned with the motion. He considered
this for another twenty years without surprise. His
head kept on swelling to the size of a house and then
contracting to a pin-point. It was boiling hot beneath
his covering, like lying in a coffin of molten lead.
Presently he heard voices, and they seemed to come
from everywhere outside the covering, to be sounding
in his ears, speaking strange languages.
At last, after long flashes of unconsciousness, he
came to the muddled conclusion that somehow or other
his bed, or stretcher, or whatever it was, was being
carried. Carried by people. He heard their voices.
He felt the bed sway up and down in time to their
motion.
He was content to consider this without surprise for
a time. His arms and legs felt like sacks of earth tied
to his body. His skin seemed to have become hard and


276 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
control over it, hoisted it painfully upright, and turned
it to one side.
A bearded negro was walking beside him, swathed in
black robes, and bearing on his head a copper pan.
"A fetish," murmured Campbell, but somehow the
word seemed meaningless to him.
Presently they came to a group of natives on the road.
They knelt, bowing down their heads to the ground. A
negro, walking slightly ahead of Campbell's litter, sud-
denly turned and looked into his eyes. The negro's eyes
were extraordinarily piercing. For a moment Camp-
bell felt all consciousness of his own personality go.
"Stretch out your hand," said the negro, in a thick
throaty English, and immediately, as if without his
volition, Campbell's hand rose in some stiff yet oddly
familiar gesture. Then it sank again.
The road wound on and on. Occasionally they dis-
appeared from sight of the sun along paths that led
through the heart of steamy forests full of thick green
plants with enormous sappy leaves and blazing flowers.
Campbell had now recovered sufficient control of his
faculties to look down at himself. For many minutes he
stared incredulously. He was dressed in white robes,
leaving his arms and most of his legs bare. But his skin
had suddenly become black, and this black skin was
smeared with a kind of white clay, in barbaric criss-
cross pattern.
Once again he put his fingers to his face, and once
more he felt a thick hide, but this time he realized that
it was the coated clay covering his face.
He touched his hair. It was stiffened with clay,
standing out from his head, except at the back where
it was shaved.


278 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
And then the dream cycle started all over again. He was
nothing but a dream himself. A dream jogging along
dusty paths through Africa . . .
After that moment he never struggled again. He
seemed to have no will. A word, or a sign, from the negro
with the piercing eyes, and he rose painfully to his feet,
and tottered wherever he was told. It seemed as if he
were a mind existing separately from his body. His
body did the bidding of a brutal negro with skulls
and bones hanging at his girdle, a negro with tousled
blood-thickened hair. Meanwhile his mind dozed and
dreamed, like a thing apart.
So far from being offered violence, he was now
treated with the utmost respect. Women brought him
bowls of food, and fed him on bended knees. Twice a
day he was rubbed with oil. The clay was loosened from
his skin. His skin was massaged with the thick black
oil. And he was daubed with clay again.
Negroes, rolling up the whites of their eyes, knelt
before him and pressed offerings against the soles of
his feet and the palms of his hands, then scuttled
away.
At the end of each day he slept in a hut apart from
the village they had halted at, a hut which was almost
a shrine. Four squatting black forms, outlined against
the velvet night sky in the doorway, watched him while
he slept, motionless sentries. They were still there,
outlined against the pale dawn sky, when he awoke,
and seemed not to have moved an inch. Then they fed
him . . . "like an invalid," he thought, "but that is ri-
diculous, I feel quite well, I have never felt better, ex-
cept that my body won't do what I want." And then, as
they jogged again on the trail, he puzzled over the eter-


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 279
nal problem: Who was Campbell? Was he still Camp-
bell? Or a man who had been Campbell? Or a man who
had dreamed he was Campbell?
Meanwhile the roads and paths had been getting
wilder; the clearings and sown fields less frequent; and
the damp thickness of the jungle more continuous.
When they came to villages now, there seemed a new
air about them. Most of the inhabitants were completely
naked and there was a strange wary look in their eyes.
They stared at the umbrella without saluting it as it
passed through.
For some time the party had been climbing steadily,
up, up and up. The air grew slightly less oppressive.
The path twisted from side to side; but always their
goal was the wood-covered mass of a peak, whose bare
sides cleaved through the covering greenery in out-
bursts of excoriated volcanic rock. Sometimes indeed
the path they followed twisted so much that their backs
were temporarily towards this peak. Sometimes it was
hidden from sight as they plunged into the depths of
the jungle. But always, when it emerged to sight again,
it was nearer, its details clearer. Presently it was no
longer a peak ahead of them; it was part of their sur-
roundings.
They were on it.
And now the path sloped down again, down and
down, and down, twisting and turning. The end of
their descent was equally plain. Like a silver shield, the
waters of a lake glittered below them.
The sight of this • sheet of water, trapped in the
crater of what was evidently an extinct volcano,
aroused strange associations in Campbell's mind. The
Sacred Lake of Balooma. Worshipped as the source


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 281
to achieve a fair speed, and keep on hour after hour,
under a blazing sun, untired.
They were now engaged in driving fish, by skilful
manoeuvre, along the shallows at the edge into the fish
traps, consisting of plaited partitions of stick fencing,
with a close mesh that served as a net.
When they saw the party approaching, several of
them "paddled" rapidly to the shore. Campbell gazed
at them with lack-lustre eyes. He felt completely ex-
hausted now. He was not even curious about his per-
sonality. The last dose of drug given him had been
extra-strong. His head lolled on his chest and rolled
from side to side with the motion of the chair.
He was laid on one of the larger rafts, and four
stalwart fishermen, prone on their stomachs, two in
front and two behind, paddled him across the lake. The
lake was less than a mile across, a jewel set in dark-
green slopes from which projected in places the bare
red volcanic rock. The edge of the lake was black mud.
The fishermen chanted at their task, and the raft,
as it crossed the lake, left behind it, like the stroke
of a pen, a long furrow of ripples.
Lying on his back, Campbell stared up at the sky.
Presently the raft altered course slightly and the rays
of the setting sun sh&ne into his eyes. He closed them.
He sank into a half doze.
The raft grounded softly on the other side and he
was carried ashore, still dozing. A whole night must
have passed before he opened his eyes again, for he
found himself lying in a hut, or rather under a roof
shelter, with the sun high in the heavens. His food had
to be put into his mouth. The negro with the piercing
eyes came to look at him from time to time and once,


282 THE COEPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
when Campbell slept, rolled back his eyelids and in-
spected his eyes.
Campbell was thoroughly rubbed with oil and daubed
with clay, and extraordinary care was now taken with
his adornment. Two men, on bended knees, tied strange
objects on to his robes and girdle until he was tufted
all over like some grotesque Christmas tree.
By this time, however, Campbell was long past any
conception of the grotesque. He was completely passive
and limp, like a doll. His eyes did not focus, but re-
mained staring into space as if fixed on some invisible
object. Even apart from the blackness of his skin, the
daubing of his face, and the outlandish treatment of
his hair, his features would have been difficult to
recognize as those of a European. They had become
coarsened, almost brutal in their lack of intelligence.
It was afternoon. Outside the roof shelter several
hundred negroes had gathered in a ring. In the open
space stood a fetish, an almost shapeless figure hung
with bits of iron. At one corner drummers had seated
themselves and now, as it were spontaneously, they be-
gan to caress their drums.
Soon the whisper rose to a full-throated baying. The
people began to dance. But it was not the dance of the
Kwama Festival, the Dance of Loosened Hearts. It
was not the dance of harvest, the dance of fruitful-
ness. It was some terrifying drama of compulsion. The
drums, which had laughed and rejoiced at the Kwama
Festival, now groaned and roared with a kind of sullen
fury.
Campbell lay absolutely expressionless, as if he were
deaf. Occasionally a muscle in his leg or arm twitched
violently.


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 283
For hour after hour the drumming and the dancing
went on, until the sweat stood out on the glistening
hides of the dancers and the sun was low in the heavens.
The thud of the drummers rose to a continual rolling
roar. The voices of the watchers accompanied it in a
shriek, while they slapped their chests and haunches
furiously. The rite was a furious cry for satisfaction.
The negro with the piercing eyes, now clothed in all
the regalia of a witch-doctor, stooped over Campbell.
He spoke to him: a volley of gibberish. At the same
time, he waved the down-turned palm of one hand in
front of Campbell's eyes, up and down quickly, with
a brushing movement. Then he raised his hand steadily
and slowly to his own eye-level. As if tied to the negro's
hand by an invisible thread, Campbell also rose, his
eyes still gazing ahead, his head keeping a few inches
from the rising hand.
The negro dropped his hand, and the detective stood
upright, swaying slightly on his heels, his arms limply
by his side. The negro walked slowly into the centre
of the space.
The drums and shrieking had stopped. There was
complete and utter silence, except for a moment when
drums, apparently beating many miles away, continued
for a time after the other drums, but quickly stopped.
As the negro moved away, Campbell followed. He
walked like a blind man, stepping full into a pole which
stood in his way, and then blundering his way round
it, with the purposeless movements of a decerebrate
animal.
Arrived in the middle of the ring of faces, of which
he seemed unconscious, Campbell halted. His stiffened
figure relaxed and his head sank forward again. He


284 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
swayed, very slowly, in time to the drums, which had
started to whisper again. There was no expression on
the thousands of black faces fixed on him.
Then suddenly all these faces turned one way. A
slow sigh went up from the crowd.
The Ivory Soul was being borne down the wooded
slope towards them, on the shoulders of the Nga-ma-
Nwama. Four warriors carrying spears marched be-
fore and two behind it. Two young black virgins,
tokens of its purity, were borne before it on the
shoulders of the warriors. A huge scarlet umbrella
shielded it. The crowd made way for it, quietly but
rapidly.
The negro with the piercing eyes took the stool on
his shoulders. Then he walked towards Campbell who
leaned his head forward and put up his hands. The
Ivory Soul was placed in his care.
Slowly, with the movements of a paralytic, Campbell
started to walk. He walked straight towards the lake.
The crowd made way for him again, quietly, instantane-
ously. The whisper of the drums flamed up again into
a roar.
Campbell had arrived by the lakeside. With the un-
canny skill of the somnambulist, able to perform com-
plicated feats without a seeing eye, Campbell carefully
placed the Ivory Soul on a narrow raft. Giving it a
push, he lay down on it. Then he started to paddle it,
dipping in each arm with the swiftness and precision
of an expert crawl swimmer. With each dip the raft
rocked from side to side. In spite of the weakness he
had evidenced in the hut, he now paddled with me-
chanical regularity, stroke after stroke, without a pause.
Meanwhile the witch-doctor was following Camp-


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 289
ing enough. Fortunately Virginia was used to living
among people whose codes of ethics were ludicrously
different from hers.
She still believed that Campbell was alive; and
though she reproached herself with making the wish
father to the thought, the belief survived all reverses.
Finally it became so strong that she allowed herself the
unscientific luxury of supposing that, in some way, she
was sensitive to his continued existence; that if he died,
somehow she would know.
Nor did the chief commissioner's attitude make her
give up hope. She knew that it would be alien to the
queer position he had taken up, actively to hinder her
in any way. She also realized that, at the most, only
one or two people in the Administration would share
or even suspect this attitude. From the Resident and
district officers she could count on the fullest support.
In any case she now realized that once Campbell
took up an attitude inimical to the Nga-ma-Nwama
and his recovery of the Ivory Soul he was in grave
danger. He would probably have been killed before
he could leave the country in spite of police protection.
At the most the chief commissioner, in some strange
way, had allowed that protection to be relaxed.
Besides it was with the millions of natives, not with
the handfuls of white men, that she had to deal. In this
connection she suddenly remembered Garrod, the
entymologist, who in his four years' residence in the
wilds had acquired a thorough knowledge of the
language and habits of the Balooma native and would
not be handicapped as she was in dealing with a men's
society.
I She called on him. He was packing his clothes when
)


290 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
she saw him. Where was he going? Back to Gorango?
"No. Up-country again," he answered. He ran a
hand through his shock of hair. "God knows why! I've
just had an idea about the influence of temperature
change on the directive ability of Formica hebetudi-
ensis which I'd like to test. I've got my bearers fixed
up and I'm leaving tomorrow."
"Where are you going?"
"The usual place. A village about ten miles from the
Sacred Lake. There's a huge formicary in the volcanic
clay there."
He opened one of his packed suitcases and took out
a bottle of whisky.
"Have a drink?"
"No, not at the moment."
Virginia sat down.
"It's about Campbell."
"Yes, poor devil! He's a write-off, I'm afraid."
Then, seeing her face, "I say, were you—I mean, did
you—er "His voice trailed off.
"I liked him," agreed Virginia slowly. "I hadn't
known him long. When we were together we always
seemed to be quarrelling and now he's gone "She
stopped. There was a distinct danger of crying.
"It's generally like that, I believe," agreed Garrod
awkwardly, "I say, I'm awfully sorry. Can I do any-
thing? Dash it all, do have a drink!"
Garrod poured himself out a stiff whisky and gulped
it down. "This confounded climate. If you do fall for
anyone, you fall badly. Don't tell me, I know! Of course
there's no need to give up hope, I was talking through
my hat."


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 291
"Do you really mean that, or are you just saying
it to cheer me up?"
Garrod looked away. "Well, if the Baloomagara
have got hold of him . . . But there's always hope,
you know . . ." his voice collapsed into silence.
"I still believe he's alive," said Virginia obstinately.
Garrod made no reply.
"It's hopeless I suppose, and yet I keep on hoping!"
"I felt like that once," agreed Garrod. "I had a
young assistant, bloke named Peterson. I'd promised
his parents to keep an eye on him. One day when I
was out of the camp he wandered away following some
spoor or other and got hopelessly bushed. We searched
for him for days. By all rights he was dead after the
first night. Yet all the time I had a feeling he was
alive; used to see him alive in the forest quite clearly
in my dreams. Pure wish fulfilment by the unconscious
of course. But still"
"What happened?"
"I consulted a witchdoctor," answered Garrod
calmly.
"A witchdoctor?" exclaimed Virginia amazed.
"Why not?"
"But, good Lord, as a scientist, you don't believe
in magic, surely?"
"I don't. Though as an anthropologist you will ap-
preciate magic is only primitive science. But I have
seen enough to believe that in Africa at any rate
telepathy and cryptoscopy exist."
"But how can you admit such a thing! Surely it
upsets all the laws of nature?"
"There are none, nowadays. Only strong probabili-
ties. If we discover telepathy, it is merely a new opera-


292 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
tor defining the unknown. Put it down to mysterious
rays, if you don't like the mathematician's attitude. Or
to Levy-Bruhl's prelogical participation mystique, if
you want a psychological explanation. All I can say is
that my witchdoctor saw, or said he saw, young Peter-
son, alive, in a certain place, and we found him there.
Of course he may have already been spotted by natives
who reported it to the witchdoctor. It's not a scientific
proof. I merely recount it."
"Yes, I saw some queer things in South America,"
answered Virginia thoughtfully. "Odd things happen
in a primitive country. Where is this man now?"
"I saw him in Molengi for the Festival. I'll get hold
of him if you like. It's worth trying after all. It can't
do Campbell any harm." Privately he thought Virginia
had reached that stage of blank despair where a little
charlatanry is welcome and comforting. And certainly
the case of Peterson had been remarkable.
"But will he say anything, if Campbell is in the
hands of the Baloomagara?"
"Naturally he'll be very cautious. But he's an in-
dividual old bird. He's never had any truck with the
Baloomagara. In fact he resents its interfering with
his perquisites. So if he can tell you something without
breaking any Baloomagara regulation and getting into
trouble, he probably will.
"For God's sake don't expect too much of it," he
added.
"I'm not likely to do that!" she replied grimly. "I
look on this as a pretty desperate joke."
As a consequence, Garrod and Virginia that after-
noon were sitting in a somewhat malodorous hut while
a huge negro, with a mud-stiffened beard, and covered


294 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
"And the white man?" asked Virginia incredulously.
"He says the white man is still there," said the witch-
doctor, "there he is. He floats and floats and floats.
They tell him the white man's spirit has gone to the
spirit world. It is talking to the spirits now."
"Is he dead?" asked Virginia, turning slightly pale
in spite of herself.
"No, O white woman, they say he is not dead, but
his soul is among them. The white man's body is float-
ing, floating. They tell him. Look, look in the corner
of the lake! It is one of the gods of the lake, a crocodile
god. Now the god sees the body of the white man, and
takes it. He will eat the body of the white man. The
white man has gone, but the raft is floating, floating.
And the white man's soul is in the spirit world.
Still."
Virginia had gone quite white.
"Why, you old rascal," burst out Garrod angrily.
"You're making this up to scare us. It obviously can't
be true. Do you think I'm paying you for a lot of
rubbish like this? Crocodiles and Ivory Souls!"
The witch-doctor stared at him calmly, without re-
sentment or fear.
"It is as the boy has seen, O white man. How should
he lie, since he speaks only what the spirits of our
fathers and mothers tell him? It may be indeed that
they deceive him with a purpose, but what is a man, to
outwit the spirits? We say only what we are told."
"You are sure he is dead? Or rather are these con-
founded spirits sure that he is dead? Ask them and
tell them we don't want any nonsense."
"He's up to some trick," murmured Garrod to Vir-
ginia. "But I can't see what it is for the moment."


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 295
The witch-doctor spoke sharply to the boy, and then,
after listening to his muttering, turned to the two.
"They say the white man is not dead. His spirit has
returned from the spirit world."
"Where is he then?"
"They say find him. They have shown him to the boy.
He is lying like this, underground, so."
The witch-doctor lay down and mimicked the rigidity
of a corpse. "Go to the Sacred Lake and find him."
"How?"
"No matter. You will find him. For his spirit has
come back from the spirit world, and so he cannot die."
"Come along, Dr. Ridge, that's enough," said Gar-
rod getting to his feet. He tossed some money to the
witch-doctor. "I was a fool to bring you to this. It's
all humbug and hysteria, if not worse."
"Do you think there can be something in it? I had
an odd feeling that the boy could really see something
in the bowl."
"A pure phantasy of the subconscious."
"All the same," Garrod added thoughtfully. "There
may be some notion in the old fraud's mind. There's
something going on up by the Sacred Lake. I could
tell that from the difficulty I had in getting my bearers.
I had to postpone my starting date. It's possible this
witch-doctor has heard something and has passed on the
information dressed in mumbo-jumbo to save himself
from any awkward interrogation. There was something
oddly specific about that vision."
"Then I'm coming with you," said Virginia defi-
nitely. "If you'll let me."
"All right. We're starting tomorrow." Garrod knew
the ache of helplessness and felt that the American


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 297
on the preceding day. The shores of the lake in one
part were trodden down into a hard beaten ring, show-
ing that there had been dancing. Dancing in Balooma
is never without a religious significance, and always
has its own set times and rituals.
Taking this point as a centre, they started to search
the shores and slopes of the lake in wider and wider
circles, hoping to come on some trace of Campbell—
if only his corpse. The bearers, and even some of the
local fishermen, helped them with an alacrity which,
more than anything else, made Garrod dejected. He
did not pass on his fears to Virginia, but if there was
any likelihood of Campbell's being a prisoner in the
neighbourhood, the natives would hardly be likely to
help him in his search. It might be, however, that they
were merely acting to mislead him.
He took the bloodhounds with him. If Campbell had
been a prisoner here he would probably be carried, and
so would leave no trail. In any case the scent must be
stale. None the less the bloodhounds seemed to "find"
round the dancing place. But it led to nothing. They
were soon baffled.
Presently the party was searching farther afield.
Here, even if the bloodhounds could not pick up the
trail, there was the chance that should Campbell be
concealed by the natives in any hut or cave, they would
detect the presence of a white man.
At first the hounds proved more of a nuisance than
otherwise, becoming attracted by thickets or ant-hills
and baying them hopefully for a few minutes. In the
end they both became fascinated by a patch of earth on
the bank, not far from the lake. Here they gave tongue,
and even scratched the ground tentatively like terriers.


298 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED PACE
Garrod made several attempts to distract their atten-
tion, and was about to have them taken back to the
camp when suddenly Virginia exclaimed:
"Do you remember what that old man said about
Campbell being underground?"
"I'd forgotten! But it's impossible. Just a moment
though!"
Garrod went to the bank of the lake and inspected it
carefully. Then he returned.
"There seems an underground stream of some kind
here." He banged on the ground with his stick.
"Sounds a bit hollow! Cut back to the camp, boys,
and bring some spades."
They began to dig. After about half an hour's dig-
ging they found they had come through to the roof of
the underground stream. The dogs were baying ex-
citedly at the hole, and presently Garrod was able to
lower himself through it into the deep tunnel formed by
the stream. The water was only a few inches deep,
though doubtless it swelled and filled the entire tunnel
in the rainy season.
"There's a terrific stench down here," he exclaimed,
his voice reverberating in the hollow tunnel. "Smells
like crocs. Pass me down that torch."
A moment later he gave a cry. Revealed by his torch
was a figure stretched in the rigidity of death, half-
buried in the mud on one side of the tunnel. The re-
semblance to the outstretched form of the witch-doctor
in the hut was uncanny. The man seemed at first sight
to be a native; his skin was dark, smeared with mud
and clay. Dried blood clotted on one leg, which was
doubled up under him. His eyes were closed.
A closer inspection showed that the arms were white,


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 299
and then Garrod shone the torch on his face. Although
distorted, and disguised with hair and paint, it was
Campbell's face.
Could he conceivably be alive? Garrod placed a hand
on his chest, over the heart. He was certain he could
feel a faint throb.
The stench was overpowering here, and he saw that
near the dead man was a gruesome collection of car-
rion. The leg of a bush pig, amorphous hunks of
meat . . .
As Campbell was lifted out of the tunnel, the natives
gave a cry of astonishment, which became respectful
wonder when they realized that he was not dead. Camp-
bell was carried slowly back to the camp. As a biologist,
Garrod knew something of medicine, and by means of
massage, and injections of adrenalin when the flutter-
ing heart seemed about to collapse, Campbell was
brought back to consciousness. Long periods of delirium
succeeded, with intervals of unaccountable depression.
But after the seventh day, nursed by Virginia, though
far too weak to move, Campbell was himself again, and
able to give some account, necessarily disconnected, of
his experiences. While he was still weak, however, it
distressed him to discuss them, and Garrod did not
cross-examine him as to minute details.
"It seems evident," Garrod said to Virginia later,
"that they gave him some kind of drug that induces a
paralysis of the higher centres without affecting, or
only partially affecting, the sensory-motor system. In
that condition he would be in a similar state to that of
a hysteric subject in a hypnotic trance; that is he
would have a high degree of suggestibility. He would
be as easily open to hypnotic suggestion as a hysteric.


300 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
It is obvious that a rapport of this kind was estab-
lished. Campbell must have suffered from a partial dis-
sociation of personality for some days. Of course all
the standard hysteric phenomena have been known to
the witch-doctor for ages, and there is nothing sur-
prising in what has happened. While hypnotized,
Campbell could not do anything that would be morally
impermissible to his waking ego, such as murder or
suicide, but he could perform certain actions without
clearly appreciating their ends. This is what he seems
to have done here."
"If he suffered from dissociation of personality,
how can he remember anything?" asked Virginia.
"He is still living below the threshold of the uncon-
scious. Probably as a result of his fever. You notice
he is very uncertain as to who he is or how he comes to
be in Africa. As his strength returns he will forget this
chapter in his life, which is probably just as well for
the experience must have been ghastly."
"I can't understand how he comes to be alive at all.
The wound on his leg shows that a crocodile had got
him all right."
"Yes, he was saved by the peculiar habits of croco-
diles. They like their game to be high, and generally
have a 'larder' hidden away in the bank above the
water-line where they store their prey. It is not com-
mon for a man to escape in this way, but most people
who have lived long in Africa have met cases of the
kind. What saved Campbell was the fact that to all
intents and purposes he was anaesthetic, incapable of
feeling pain. Thus he did not struggle, but lay ab-
solutely passive in the crocodile's jaws, and so was not
mauled. In most of these cases, the victim loses a leg


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 301
or a limb, and suffers a terrific mental shock. But Camp-
bell remembers nothing after the moment he saw the
crocodile swim towards him, and he will remember even
less now. He simply lay underground for two or three
days in a coma."
They had walked down to the shores of the Sacred
Lake. All internal motion had subsided, and the lake
was as still as the water in a well.
"Garrod, how do you explain that witch-doctor's
prediction?" asked Virginia. "As a rational man?"
"There are plenty of possible explanations," an-
swered Garrod. "Everything up to the taking of Camp-
bell by a crocodile could have been known to the witch-
doctor by rumour, by the talking drums for instance.
As for the latter part, well, it could be explained as a
lucky chance. After all, what did he say? First of all
that Campbell was alive, that his spirit had returned
to earth. A pretty general statement which your dis-
tress almost forced out of him. Secondly he said that
Campbell was underground, that's another vague state-
ment. A man is either underground or overground.
Well, that's a fairly safe bet, evens. And so that is how,
as a scientist, I explain it."
"And what do you really think yourself? When
you're not being a scientist?"
"A rather personal question. All I can say is that in
Africa these things happen, and we take them as they
come. There's no explanation except—well, just that
it's Africa! They would never happen in England.
Let's go back to the camp and have a drink!"


CHAPTER TWENTY
End of a Detective?
After he was well enough to travel, Campbell returned
to Molengi with Virginia. From here they caught a
train to Gorango. Garrod remained at the Sacred Lake,
having pitched his camp beside Formica hebetudiensis,
on whose abode he had already trained a complicated
arrangement of burning glasses and mirrors. Most of
his bearers travelled back with Campbell and Virginia.
As Garrod had predicted, Campbell had now almost
lost his memory of everything that had occurred be-
tween the time he had been stunned beside the car and
the time he had awakened to partial consciousness in the
camp. When Virginia repeated his own account of
what had happened, he could hardly recognize it, ex-
cept in the kind of dim formless way one remembers
dreams. But it gave him a strange sensation of living
twice through the same events to be carried back again
by natives, in a chair, along the route he had travelled
over when under the influence of the drug.
His experience had had at least one odd effect. It
had given him a totally different attitude towards
Balooma and the affair of the Ivory Soul. As is often
the case with a serious illness or mental shock, it had
knocked all his ethical and philosophical conceptions
sideways. Or as Garrod had put it:
80S


304 THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE
stare, and then quietly vanish away. Nothing hostile
was said or done.
Outside Molengi, they were met by an official from
the British Resident, who gave Campbell a message.
"The chief commissioner has asked me to say that he
is delighted to hear of your safety. He hopes to have
the pleasure of congratulating you personally in
Gorango."
"The old fox!" exclaimed Virginia indignantly.
"How dare he?"
Campbell smiled. "Will you ask the Resident to
thank the chief commissioner for his good wishes, and
say that I shall call at Government House as soon as
I arrive in Gorango?"
Campbell duly paid his visit to Government House.
After the usual politenesses, the chief commissioner
looked at him curiously.
"H'm, you seem to have changed a bit since the last
time I saw you. But I suppose you're still the same sea-
green incorruptible? The truth and nothing but the
truth and to hell with Balooma? Well, you win! I might
have known a detective from Scotland Yard would be
unsuppressible, even by our local talent."
"You're right, I have changed," replied Campbell
thoughtfully stroking his emaciated cheek. "I'm be-
ginning to look at things differently. It's partly the ex-
perience I've been through. Also I've been so long in
Balooma now I'm beginning to look at things from the
local standpoint." He paused. "When I turn in my re-
port I shall merely state that the murder was committed
by the Baloomagara. Nor shall I refer to the Nga-ma-
Nwama.


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 305
"At the same time I shall send in my resignation,"
he added.
"Well, Inspector," said the chief commissioner
quietly. "It would be impertinent on my part to thank
you, for I realize you are not doing it out of any
personal regard. Some day you will realize what you
have done for Balooma, and what a terrible administra-
tive tangle you have saved us from. But—forgive me if
I press it—is it necessary to wreck your career in this
way?"
"Inevitable, I am afraid. It is quite impossible for
a Scotland Yard detective to justify his letting a mur-
derer go undenounced, even for the peace of a nation.
I see that I misjudged my own mentality. Or perhaps
it has been altered by this confoundedly seductive cli-
mate. I can assure you I wouldn't resign lightly. I
had hoped to settle down—marry even—but obviously
this will be impossible for a little. However, there are
plenty of other fields of endeavour."
Campbell reached for his hat, and was about to go
when the chief commissioner detained him. Colonel
Max Whittington-Hopefull-Smythe started to pad
up and down in his carpet slippers, always a sign
of mental strain. Then he stopped in front of Campbell.
"When I last saw you I made a suggestion. Then
it was a bribe. There is no question of a bribe now. But
you might think it a reward and take offence. I can
only assure you "The chief broke off embarrassed.
"Well, damn it all, Campbell! As man to man, will
you be my chief of police?"
"But really, sir!" exclaimed Campbell. "My grade
is not high enough! I'm too young. And I have only
had experience of criminal investigation!"


THE CORPSE WITH THE SUNBURNED FACE 307
obey his slightest word. I used to be thought the luckiest
person in this kingdom. But now I can't hold a candle
to you, blast you! You're the man who came back from
the spirit world! You're Great Fetish. Why when
you're chief of police you need only sit in your office
and the murderers will come to you. So none of this
damn nonsense about living anything down. I've got to
live you down."
Campbell walked back to his hotel hardly able to
believe his good fortune.
On the verandah he met Marion, who expressed ap-
propriate surprise at his survival. Marion had an easel
in front of him and was painting. Campbell leaned
over to look at the painting, and Marion seemed to
make an instinctive gesture to conceal it. Campbell,
however, had already seen the work. It depicted a
thorough-bred horse bearing a pink-coated M.F.H. on
whose rubicund face hauteur mingled with bonhomie.
Between the horse's legs stretched rolling miles of grey-
green down-country over which a pink-coated "field"
dwarfed by the distance, was galloping at full speed.
Above, in the large area of sky mingled the cold blues
and misty clouds of an English winter.
"I thought you said something about Gauguin . . ."
began Campbell.
"I know, I know," moaned Marion clutching his
hair, "I can't help it. All these tropical colours and
lights have had the most amazing effect on me. They've
been more dazzling than the most dazzling effects of
modern art. They've beaten us at our own game. And








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