THE DAY following upon the one when he had received his payment from the professor Mangan smiled a cold, grim smile when he read in the newspapers that the loss of the Corot painting had been discovered. It had not been done by either of the two maids but by Canon Drew himself who had come down from Scotland upon a flying visit to his house and, noticing at once that the painting was gone, had immediately informed the police.

Mangan was not surprised. He had anticipated it and, always shrewd and far-seeing, was realising that his possession of the painting was the one weak spot in his armour and which, if it became known, would be a most damnable piece of evidence, pointing direct to him as the double murderer.

He often wished he had left it alone, and several times was minded to burn it. However, each time he took it out of the drawer in which he had locked it, its delicate loveliness so appealed to him that he put it back there again with no hesitation at all. Still, he told himself frowningly, he would have to do something about it and do that something soon, if only to give him peace of mind. Though he had scoffed boldly at all the professor had told him about Gilbert Larose, some enquiries he had made at one of his clubs had been anything but reassuring.

Talking to some of the older members, he found they knew all about the one-time detective and were quite agreeable to recall old memories of the wonderful things he had done when in the Criminal Investigation Department at Scotland Yard. One loquacious old colonel in particular was most enthusiastic.

“Generally, he used to work all by himself,” he said, “and for the time take no one into his confidence. Say a murder had been committed somewhere and not the slightest clue found. The public would grumble and swear at the police, but with the interest gradually dying down. Weeks and even months might pass, and then suddenly one morning everyone would start at seeing in their paper big headlines, ‘Suspect committed for trial for the so-and-so murder.’ ‘Larose gets his man again.’”

“Wonderful!” sneered Mangan. “He must have been a remarkable man.”

“He was,” agreed the old colonel, “for all along like an old and well-trained bloodhound he’d been nosing up the trail, following tracks invisible to everybody else.”

“Probably he’d had luck,” smiled Mangan. “Most likely that was all.”

The colonel shook his head. “No, no, it wasn’t luck. It was all due to his great gift of imagination. As I tell you, his ways were so different from those of any other detective. It used to be said that, right off in the very beginning of a case he would put himself in the murderer’s place and go back step by step along the way he had come.” He held up his hand to emphasise his point. “So, if as they say he’s now helping the police to find out who killed that German scientist and the detective who was supposed to be guarding him, I’d like to bet any money that he’s spent hours in that garden where the two men were killed, in the darkness and at the same time of night as it all happened, just sitting still and thinking”— he laughed —“and maybe calling up the ghosts of the dead men to help him. Oh, yes, he was wonderful in his way, this chap, and I shouldn’t like him to be after me now.”

Mangan felt positively angry at what he stigmatised as the old colonel’s childishness. “Old wives’ tales,” he commented disgustedly. “From what you tell me one could imagine he had radar leading him direct to the criminal.”

“Yes, that’s it!” exclaimed the colonel triumphantly. “You’ve put it in a nutshell. His imagination was the radar which was guiding him.”

Now Mangan, though as iconoclastic and hard-boiled a man as could be found anywhere, had yet a hidden streak of superstition in him, and there could be no doubt that for a few days he was decidedly perturbed about Gilbert Larose. However, with the days and weeks passing and all the excitement about the Cambridge murders dying down, with no further mention of them appearing in the newspapers, he gradually recovered his nerve and became as confident as he ever had been that he was perfectly safe. He thrilled, too, at the exciting thought that he was so greatly a wanted man, a veritable little “Shadow Band” all by himself, with everyone stretching out their hands to catch him and yet with him being safe and untroubled in their very midst.

Accordingly, with the intention of keeping up this pleasurable mystery and excitement his thoughts were soon reverting to the professor’s suggestions of executing more commissions for him. He was the more inclined to carry out the professor’s wishes now, because it happened he was wanting a large sum of money rather badly.

Firstly, his partner, Wardale, with the plea of ill health, was anxious to dispose of his half of the business in Wardour Street. Although he did not say so, Mangan was very pleased about it, because, from meeting him often at the sales, he, Mangan, had become very friendly with another dealer who had a snug little business just off Hanover Square. This dealer was getting old and wanted to retire, too, but the sum he was demanding for the goodwill and stock of the business was the staggering one of ￡10,000.

Still, Mangan had gone through his books and realised the price was quite a moderate one, as the man had many wealthy customers and his turnover was a large one. So Mangan’s idea was to buy out his Wardour Street partner as cheaply as he could by beating him down, and then get rid of the whole concern there altogether. He reckoned he would have no difficulty, having already in his mind’s eye a probable purchaser.

Accordingly, he approached the professor and expressed his willingness to carry out another commission. The professor was delighted, though at the back of his mind he still harboured something of a lingering fear about Larose. He mentioned him again to Mangan.

“But I don’t think he’s doing much to help the police,” he said. “though I do know he’s been once to Scotland Yard to have a long conflab with his old friend, Chief Inspector Stone. I learned that from my housekeeper who’s got a brother, a sergeant in the police force. However, I made an excuse to call in and see Larose a couple of weeks ago at Carmel Abbey, his place in Norfolk, and came away with the impression that he wasn’t much interested in the matter. Upon my bringing round the conversation to what has happened, he just laughed and remarked that most people were thinking one German less in the world so much the better. No, I don’t think we need worry about him.”

“I never did,” commented Mangan scornfully. “I don’t believe a word of any of the tall stories they tell about him.”

“Still,” frowned the professor a trifle doubtfully, “I’ll keep in touch with him and find out if he’s much away from home just now. You see, he’s a most conceited fellow and would just love to succeed where the police have failed.” A sudden thought came to him and he snapped his fingers together. “Ah — it’s funny, but I remember I saw him yesterday in the Strand, walking along with a man I know well by sight and one, too, I’d very much like you to get hold of. I only saw them for a few moments as I was passing by on the top of a bus.”

“Who was the man,” frowned Mangan, “from Scotland Yard?”

The professor shook his head. “No, he’s a Captain Iver Selwyn. He was a Secret Service agent during the war, one of the most trusted as he was head of all the British Intelligence working inside Germany.” He nodded. “It happens that by chance I came to learn a great secret about him. He was a capsule man, that is, he’d undergone a slight operation and had a glass capsule of cyanide of potassium embedded in the flesh underneath the top of his left arm. Then, if he had been caught by the Germans, so that he should not be made to disclose by torture who the other agents were, all he had to do was to strike himself a hard blow over the glass capsule and it would break and he’d be dead in less than a minute. They say he was given a ￡5,000 gratuity after the war.”

“But if he’s still in the Secret Service,” said Mangan rather testily, “he’s not likely to be interested in what has happened to von Bressen.”

“Oh, isn’t he?” exclaimed the professor. “I’m not so sure there, as they may be thinking it was the work of someone employed by the Baltic Embassy, and you know how envious the Baltics have always been about the atom bomb and how they would like to hinder any work upon it.” He took a paper out of his wallet. “Well, never mind about Captain Selwyn now. We may try to get him later. For the moment I’ve a much easier job for you.”

“Not Otto Bernstein?” queried Mangan with a frown. “He won’t be easy.”

“No, not him,” said the professor, “as for the moment I can’t find out where he is. He used to be staying in South Kensington, but they whisked him away somewhere after von Bressen’s death. No, it’s Professor Rodney you’ll go for next. He’s Professor of Physical Science at Oxford, another of the damned atom bomb mob, and I’ve made full enquiries about him. At present he’s working here in London in a laboratory somewhere in Hampstead and walks home every evening by way of the Outer Circle by Regent’s Park. He passes there regularly a few minutes after six o’clock. The Outer Circle is always fairly lonely, and I suggest you have a shot at him when you’re going by at a good speed in your car.”

“But how shall I know him?” asked Mangan.

“Very easily. He’s got long white hair and walks with a pronounced stoop. I think he’s about sixty-three. But to be sure you make no mistake about him you can see him at the pictures in Hampstead every Saturday night. He goes to the Victoria Picture Palace there and invariably sits in the very front row of the stalls because he’s rather deaf. Once you’ve seen him you’ll never forget him.”

Then, in the ensuing weeks Mangan was well upon the way of acquiring the whole ￡10,000 needed for the purchase of the Hanover Street business, as he had carried out four more murderous commissions with ridiculous ease. Still considerably worried, however cunningly he was thinking he had hidden it, about his possession of the Corot painting, and now more embarrassed than ever by the large number of banknotes which the professor had paid over to him, he resolved to take further precautions for his safety.

If through some misfortune suspicion ever came to him, nothing must be found to back up that suspicion, and how then, he asked himself, even if he had burnt the incriminating painting, would he be able to account satisfactorily for the possession of all that money?

It would be ridiculous to attempt to hide the banknotes in his flat; he dared not pay them into any bank; and placing them in a safe deposit might turn out to be equally as dangerous.

Finally though, considering it risky in a different way and with no liking for the idea, he decided to take everything to a little shack which he had bought about a year previously on Canvey Island, in the Thames Estuary. Of course, he realised he would not be able to keep any proper watch on anything he left there and was quite aware of the thousands and thousands of all sorts of people who poured over the island at holiday times. Still, he was reckoning that the shack was much too poor looking for anyone to think it would be worth while breaking into. Then if they did, apart from a few articles of tinned food, a cheap camp bed, two chairs, some crockery, a few kitchen utensils and a small paraffin stove would be all they would find. The very cheapness of everything would never suggest that anything of value could be be hidden there.

Having at last made his decision, he motored down to Benfleet one dark evening and, leaving his car in a garage there, went on foot the rest of the way to where his shack was, just under the high sea wall. Shutting himself up inside, by the light only of an electric torch so as not to attract attention, he buried both the painting and the packet of banknotes a good two feet deep in the sand under one of the floorboards. Everything was well protected from the damp by being carefully wrapped round in a groundsheet.

Returning without event to his flat in Fitzroy Square, he breathed a great sigh of relief. At last he was quite safe and free to enjoy the exciting life he was now leading.

Certainly he was enjoying his life. The danger of his adventures thrilled him to the very core and the more the newspapers howled for the uncovering of the murderer among them the better he was pleased.

And there was no doubt he had ample grounds for pleasure there, as the public had been worked up into a state of frenzy that the police had not been able to discover anything. Murder after murder had been committed, they averred, with the authorities apparently standing idly by.

“What has happened to us?” shrieked the Daily Megaphone in its most yellow style. “Is it to be taken for granted that we all have to live in a land where law and order no longer prevail? Are we always to be at the mercy of a murderer who strikes unhindered where and when he wills? Six bloody crimes within three months and their perpetrator walking unconcerned in our very midst!”

“To all appearances,” it went on, “these assassinations are all the work of one and the same man, and surely, from the happenings of all six of them taken together, some clue should have been picked up, something common to them all which should lead unerringly to the assassin?”

“What is Scotland Yard doing? They say nothing, they tell us nothing, and so we know nothing of what is going on! Now that is not as things should be. The public are not all fools and to the utmost extent they should be taken into the confidence of the authorities, as in many ways they might be of help. For instance, many might be acquainted with someone among them who possesses all the qualifications of the assassin, a bold and resolute individual of athletic build, very probably a returned soldier, who is seemingly well to do, runs a good car and is known to be in the possession of firearms. Possibly, he may not be a man who makes many friends and is reserved and moody in his disposition.

“Thousands among us may know of such a man and, once their attention is focussed, scores of us may perhaps notice something suspicious about him. At any rate the idea is worth trying, and Scotland Yard should certainly broadcast an appeal for help. Otherwise the community will continue to be at the mercy of this human beast of prey who, emerging from his jungle hiding place, leaves his dark trail of blood and violence behind him wherever he goes.”

Mangan scoffed in amusement. “Let them catch me if they can. The proverbial searching for a needle in a bundle of hay!”

Still, at the back of his mind there was one uneasy doubt that he would never be found out and that doubt had begun to loom up larger and larger as the weeks had gone on. It was the professor himself of whom he was now afraid.

He was not at all pleased with the mental state of his half-crazy employer. The little man was now living in a constant whirl of excitement and every time he, Mangan, saw him he thought he seemed more unstable than ever. He couldn’t keep still half a minute at a time and jumped about as if he were on springs, talking his head off all the while and exulting in the great services he was doing to humanity. He talked so quickly, too, that Mangan had to keep his distance to avoid the splutterings as he spoke.

One thing, however, gave Mangan some satisfaction, and that was that the cold nip in the autumn air had brought on the professor’s annual bronchitis, with his medical man not permitting him to set foot out of doors. So, apparently he was having no contact with any outside people.

Still, though when taxed he denied it emphatically, Mangan felt almost certain that he had started upon writing his threatened memoirs, and Mangan was most uneasy about what he might be putting in them. Another thing, too, which was rather disturbing. The silly little fool had got a thick scrapbook in which he had pasted scores and scores of cuttings from the newspapers, all dealing with the murders.

Mangan had pointed out angrily to him that, if because of his so well-known unsocial views, the police ever came to interview him or even perhaps to make a search of his flat, the collection of all these cuttings would look very bad. After a lot of persuasion the professor had promised to burn his scrapbook and stop making any more such collections. However, Mangan did not think much of his promise, believing him to have now become a consummate little liar.

To make matters worse, the professor had taken to drinking a lot of champagne, and whenever Mangan appeared at the flat would insist upon his sharing with him the contents of a large bottle. He said, too, that he was now drinking it regularly with his meals, as he found it was the only thing which would steady his nerves. He added that he was taking it medicinally as a tonic and upon the advice of his medical man, who had told him to drink two bottles every day.

When Mangan frowningly hazarded the opinion that it was an expensive tonic the professor only laughed. “I have plenty of money,” he said, “and never have to consider the expense. Yes, it is certainly pretty costly. I am paying nearly ￡60 a case.”

So things were up to one evening when Mangan paid an unexpected visit to the professors flat. At the request of the professor he had arranged to come there the following evening to discuss another commission that the former had in view, but an unanticipated invitation to a card party where he thought he might be able to make some good money cropping up for that particular night, he decided to make an earlier visit to St. John’s Wood and go there straight away.

Trying three times, however, to contact the professor over the phone and upon each occasion finding the line engaged, with his usual impatience he decided not to ring again but go to see him at once. It was a cold and foggy night and he knew he would be certain of finding him at home.

Arriving at the flat, the maid who answered the door knowing Mangan as a frequent and privileged visitor with no hesitation smilingly ushered him into the study where the professor was. To his annoyance Mangan found there was another visitor there, a tall and good-looking man of foreign appearance, seemingly in the middle thirties.

The professor looked most embarrassed and got very red. “This is Mr. Brown,” he stammered to the stranger, “an old friend of mine. Brown, this is”— he hesitated a long moment —“Mr. Fernand from Madrid.” He nodded smilingly to Mangan. “He says he can get me better champagne at only half the cost.”

Mangan was not deceived. The man was no Spaniard. He was a Baltic if ever there was one, and he looked all over a soldier, too. However, he took the proferred hand smilingly and started to discuss Spanish and French wines, about which he was not surprised to find the other seemed to know very little, contenting himself with agreeing to everything he, Mangan, said. The man spoke excellent English.

They had not talked together for long when Mangan was sure he caught a meaning look pass between the professor and this Mr. Fernand, and the latter, with most polite bows, at once rose up and took his leave.

With his departure, the professor seemed more embarrassed than ever and began to talk very quickly about the next commission, with the object Mangan was sure of evading any question which might be asked about his Spanish visitor.

“But I’m not ready for you tonight,” he said irritably.

“I expect to get the information I want tomorrow. If you can’t come then, what about coming Sunday?” He heaved a big sigh. “That man tired me out and I want to go to bed at once. I feel my bronchitis is going to worry me tonight. So you won’t think me rude, will you, if I ask you to go?”

Mangan was quite agreeable. Evidently, something not quite above board was going on and he wanted time to think over it. “All right, I’ll come on Sunday,” he said, “and I hope there’ll be no other visitors about then. With your so well-known views, the fewer people who know I come to see you the better.”

“Then Sunday will fit in admirably,” said the professor, “as there won’t be anyone here except me. The maids always go out on Sunday evenings.”

Mangan was frowning hard as he let himself out of the flat. The professor had obviously been most annoyed that he had met his visitor, and there must be some good reason for it. The half-crazy little man was like a child in some ways, with all his passing emotions showing in his face, and he had just looked as if he had been caught doing something wrong. The devil! If he went wholly out if his mind there would be all hell to pay!

Walking up to his car which he had left about fifty yards away, to his amazement he found the professor’s other visitor standing there and evidently waiting for him. The man raised his right hand in salute. “I thought this was your car,” he said, “and at any rate I meant to catch you when you came out.”

“What do you want?” asked Mangan, by no means too pleased at meeting the man again.

“I want to have a talk with you, Major Mangan,” said the other man solemnly, “and it will be a most important one. Oh, yes, I know your real name and much more about you, too. That little fool is becoming as dangerous as a bomb both to you and us as well.”

“But who are you?” asked Mangan with a sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach. “That you don’t come from Madrid I am quite certain.”

The man shook his head. “No, I’m a Baltic and come from the Embassy here. I’m Captain Feodor Michaeloff.” He spoke sharply. “Now, where can we have this little talk?” and when Mangan stood hesitating, he went on, “Better come with me to the Embassy. Happily, I didn’t come in my car. So you can drive me there.”

“Jump in,” said Mangan, his voice hoarse in his uneasiness. “I know where it is.”

They made the drive in complete silence and, just before arriving at the important building in Portland Place, the captain suggested they should pull up in a little back street. “We’ll go in by the side entrance,” he said. “In these days you never know who’s on the look-out.”

In a very few minutes Mangan was installed in a small room upon the ground floor and the captain, closing the door very deliberately, drew a heavy curtain across the doorway.

“Now what about a good brandy and soda?” he said. “I think we need some kind of stimulant to face the situation we are up against.”

The drinks mixed, Mangan imbibed a deep draught. He was feeling most uneasy, wondering what was coming next.

The captain at once came straight to the point. “Major Mangan,” he said with the utmost gravity, “the excitement has been too much for Professor Glenowen and he has become stark, staring mad. He is right over the border-line now and, caring for no consequences both to himself and you, with very little encouragement will boast to anyone what you have done at his request, and,”— he frowned angrily —“as he’s untruthfully making out now, at ours as well.”

Then, noting Mangan’s scared and ashen face, he went on quickly, “But you are perfectly safe with me, and indeed, all of us here are very pleased with what you have done. So don’t have the very slightest worry about us. We shall never give you away.”

Mangan steadied his voice with an effort. “But what did he tell you about me?” he asked hoarsely.

“Everything, I say,” replied the captain, “from your killing von Bressen and the Scotland Yard detective to your unsuccessful attempt to get Iver Selwyn last week, Selwyn, the Secret Service man.” He raised his hand warningly. “And worse still, he’s got it all written down in some memoirs he’s writing, the sums of money he has paid you, the dates and everything.”

Mangan realised denials would be of no use and ground his teeth savagely. “How did he come to tell you?” he asked.

“He rang me up to come and see him. He said he had something very interesting to tell me, and he poured it all out as quickly as he could get his words. He showed me the book, too. You must understand we have known him for several years now and, at times, he has given us some quite useful information.” The captain scowled. “Now, as I say, he has dragged us into all your killings and, in this very dangerous book he is writing, seems to be making out he employed you with our full knowledge and approval all along. If what he has written ever became known, of course it will do us a lot of harm in neutral countries.”

“It won’t become known,” said Mangan savagely, “I’ll see to that.”

“But you won’t be able to frighten him,” warned the captain. “He is past all that. His mental condition is such that he gives no thought to any consequences.”

“I won’t frighten him,” scowled Mangan. “I’ll do much more than that. I’ll stop him talking once and for all.”

“That’s the spirit,” exclaimed the captain approvingly, “and I thought you’d take it that way. The sooner you get to work, the better. I’m afraid we can’t help you in any way.”

“Yes, you can,” said Mangan quickly. “Give me an automatic. If I have to shoot him, I don’t want the bullet to come from a gun I’ve used before. There must be no connection between finishing with him and anything previous that has happened.”

“Ah, a good point that,” nodded the captain. “Yes, of course you shall have one, but be very careful how you get rid of it afterwards. We shan’t want it back here.”

They chatted on for quite a long while, to all outward appearances two most gentlemanly men imbued with all the highest principles of a soldier’s calling. Who would have ever dreamed they were discussing the carrying out of a coldblooded murder, almost as if it were a very ordinary and commonplace happening, liable to occur in everyone’s life.
*     *     *     *     *

The following Monday morning, Sir Robert Edis, the Chief Commissioner of Police, and Chief Inspector Charles Stone, of the Criminal Investigation Department, were closeted together in Scotland Yard, in the former’s room. Sir Robert, tall and erect in bearing, looked every inch of him the soldier, but upon first glance a stranger might not have taken the inspector for one of the shrewdest and most capable officers of the C.I.D. that he undoubtedly was.

Now in the middle fifties, Charlie Stone, as he was affectionately called in the Yard, was of massive build. He had a big heavy face, big head, and big grey eyes which looked out upon the world from under big and scraggy brows. In repose has face was set and stern, but for all that he was a kind-hearted man and full of humour.

Old in the ways of crime, he was wont to say laughingly that he loved meeting with a really clever criminal, with the pitting of wits against wits and his delving into the dark recesses of the other’s mind. It was his boast that when he was about to question a man he could tell with his first glance if he were a liar or not.

The Chief smiled whimsically. “You know, Inspector,” he said, “I’m quite heartened that your old friend Gilbert Larose has asked to see me. He wouldn’t be ringing up for an interview if he hadn’t something on his mind that he wants particularly to tell us.”

“That’s so, Sir Robert,” commented the inspector in his big booming voice. “A bright boy, Gilbert, and he’d never waste our time for nothing.”

“Now, I’ve met him and his wife socially,” said the Chief, “but I’ve never been down to their place in Norfolk. I hear they live in great style.”

“And they’re as happy as if they were still a honeymoon couple,” nodded Stone. “Yes, they’ve got a lovely house.”

“You worked with him for several years, didn’t you?”

“Seven exactly, sir, and in those few years he climbed higher in the public estimation than any of us who’ve been here thirty. He was a splendid colleague to work with, always so hopeful and bright.”

The Chef Inspector puckered up his brows. “But I’ve heard some tales. He was a bit insubordinate, wasn’t he?”

The Inspector laughed. “We never actually caught him at it, sir, but I’ve suspected more than once that when he judged there were extenuating circumstances he wasn’t quite so active in getting his man as perhaps he might have been. Mind you, sir, we never could prove it, but that’s what I thought.”

The phone tinkled upon the Chief’s tesk, and picking up the receiver, he said at once, “Then bring him in, please.” He glanced back in the inspector. “Here he is.”

About ten years younger than his old friend, Stone, Gilbert Larose certainly had all appearances of being a happy and contented man. Of medium height, he was good-looking with good features and a merry, smiling face. He was dressed well and tastefully, though there was nothing of the fop about him. As with the inspector, he gave one the impression of being a kind-hearted man. He shook hands with the Chief Commissioner and Stone.

“Now, Mr. Larose,” smiled the Chief, “we hope you have come to help us about those six killings. We are not getting on too well here and, as you know, the public are clamouring for our blood. So, we are expecting great things from you, one of those brilliant flashes of intuition for which in the old days, I’m told, you were so famous.”

“Well, Sir Robert,” smiled back Larose, “though I’ve nothing very startling to tell you, I feel sure I can put you on the beginning of the trail.” He shook his head. “No, it is not any cleverness upon my part that has led me to pick it up, but the foolishness and stupidity of the other fellow.” He paused a long moment. “In my opinion it is that Professor Harleck Glenowen is the key man of all these crimes.”

Inspector Stone frowned heavily and the Chief Commissioner opened his eyes very wide. “What,” exclaimed the latter, “the little mad professor who wrote that damnable letter to The Times!” He frowned, too. “But a little chap like him couldn’t have throttled those two men in Cambridge.”

“I don’t say he did,” said Larose quickly, “and I wouldn’t say he pistolled any of the others, as his nerves don’t strike me as being good enough for him to be such a sure shot. He looks to me now as if he had taken to drinking. His hands are shaking and his lips tremulous. No, I don’t think for a moment that he’s been the actual murderer, but I do believe he knows who is, and might even have to put him up to everything.”

“But how on earth could he induce any man to become a wholesale murderer?” asked the Chief Commissioner.

“Money does more than talk,” said Larose earnestly, “it shrieks, and the war has thrown up plenty of bold, reckless fellows who will do anything if they are paid well enough. The murders of that Dr. von Bressen and Inspector Barwell looked in every particular a returned soldier’s work to me and one who had been a commando for preference.”

“And you have evidence pointing to the professor, definite evidence?” asked the Chief Commissioner sharply.

Larose spoke impressively. “Except for Inspector Barwell and the Ingatestone doctor, I can prove that he had animus against all the murdered men. Against three of them he had a personal spite.”

“You know that for certain?” persisted the Chief.

Larose nodded. “As certain as I know I am sitting here. All last week I was collecting evidence and I can prove it up to the very hilt.”

“Very good, then,” said the Chief. “Now let’s hear all about it.”

“It began in this way,” said Larose. “But first you must understand I have known Glenowen, it must be quite six or seven years. He has a seaside bungalow only a few miles from where I live, and I have met him socially at luncheons and dinners and an occasional evening at cards. I have always been interested in him, far more than he has been interested in me. In fact, when we have met he has hardly ever taken any notice of me, possibly because he comes of a good old Welsh family and is a University man, whereas everyone knows I was once only a policeman.”

“A damned snob!” growled Stone. He regarded Larose affectionately. “You are as good as anyone, my boy.”

“Then imagine my surprise,” went on Larose, “when a few weeks ago he took to calling upon me quite often, with little presents of oysters, the first time not very long ago after the Cambridge murders. He brought round the conversation to them at once and remarked what terrible crimes they were. I thought what a damned little hypocrite he was, as everyone knew von Bressen’s death was exactly what he wanted. It struck me, too, that he was rather queer in the way he talked. He spoke so quickly and was so voluble and kept on jumping from one thing to another as if he couldn’t collect his ideas. Then the next time he called was just after the shooting of Professor Rodney in the Outer Circle of Regent’s Park, and he seemed very excited about it. Later, when my suspicions about him had been aroused, I remembered it had struck me, subconsciously as it were, that there was something funny about the way he had kept turning away his eyes, just like a little child who had done something wrong and was wondering if he had been found out. I thought he was childishly curious, too, about what I had been doing lately, had I been up to Town much or had I been busy with work upon the estate.”

“What did he say about his brother professor’s murder?” asked the Chief.

“Oh, that it was a dreadful thing and he couldn’t understand how no one was able to give a description of the car. He said Rodney had been a great friend of his and he was very upset about his death. Well, he came to see me four more times, upon each occasion talking a lot about the murders and wondering what the police were doing. The last time was exactly a fortnight ago, on a Monday and, harking back to the murders of von Bressen and Inspector Barwell, he remarked casually he supposed that by now the police had closed all their enquiries about them, realising that after all these weeks any discovery was hopeless.”

The Chief Commissioner turned smilingly to Stone. “You see, Inspector, what some people think of us.”

“I’ve been seeing that, sir,” commented the inspector, grimly, “all the five and thirty years since as an innocent fellow I joined the Force.”

Larose went on. “Then, when I told him that Scotland Yard never, as he called it, closed their enquiries and, though it might be many months yet before he read in his newspaper that the murderer had been caught, he would certainly hear about it one day, his expression all at once became so uneasy that I said laughingly, ‘But it won’t be you, Professor, that they’ll catch. So you needn’t lose any sleep there.’”

Larose paused here to light another cigarette. “Then, on the following Friday night,” he said very solemnly, “a revelation came to me and almost in a few seconds I was certain Glenowen was implicated in all these crimes. Everything stood out so clearly and ——”

“Upon the following Friday night, ten days ago, you say you were so certain,” queried the Chief frowningly, “and yet you didn’t come to us until today?”

“No,” retorted Larose sharply. “I wanted more than my suspicions to lay before you. I wanted the evidence I now have. Yes, it was last Friday week, exactly a week after that Ingatestone doctor was shot, the last so far of the series of crimes and I can assure you, Sir Robert, I have been busy ever since.” He smiled. “Inspector Stone here will tell you that I have always worked by myself until the time was ripe for team work to begin.”

“That’s so, Sir Robert,” nodded Stone to the Chief, “and he was never one to send us off upon a wild-goose chase in all the years I’ve known him.”

The Chief made no comment and Larose went on. “Now not only have I a large scrap-book of many hundreds of events which have been of interest to me, but also for many years I have kept a diary of important and unimportant happenings, the unimportant ones being such as a bitch having puppies or one of our cats having kittens, or about potatoes or what-not having been planted in the garden.”

He drew in a deep breath. “Well, upon this particular Friday night, I took up my diary to see what date certain bulbs had been put in in one of my conservatories and, on the page where it opened, ‘Professor Rodney Shot’ caught my eye, with ‘Glenowen called’ just under that entry. Then, turning back the pages to get to where I wanted, I could not help being struck with the strange coincidences, as I thought at first, that ‘Glenowen called’ was written there in close proximity to the entries recording the murders of Dr. Carmichael, Arnold Travers, and lately, that of Dr. Henderson of Ingatestone. When the first two of these dreadful crimes had been committed he had come to see me the day after it had been done, and in regard to the third, the day before.”

Larose paused for a long moment before going on very quickly. “At first, I admit I saw no particular signficance in the sequences of these entries, but then, suddenly, light seemed to come to me, and I literally gasped at my discovery. They meant, surely they could only mean that the professor was somehow mixed up with all these crimes, as they furnished so reasonable an explanation for his frequent visits to my home, his pumping me about the methods of the police and his wanting to find out if I myself had been away much from home lately, that is, I see now, to discover if I were back at my old trade, trying to pick up clues about these dreadful crimes. It all seemed as clear as day to me.”

Neither the Chief Commissioner or Stone were ready with any comment. Their mouths were both half open and they stared intently at Larose. He went on briskly, “Now, though for private reasons, I wasn’t able to leave home until the Monday, I didn’t lose much time. Looking up my newspaper cuttings, I saw Professor Rodney had been staying with his married sister at Hampstead up to the evening he was killed, and on the Monday afternoon I called there to speak to her. I explained my coming with the fib that I had a slight acquaintance with her brother and, being in the neighbourhood, thought I must call to express my deep sympathy for her. I added, that Professor Harleck Glenowen who was a friend of mine had asked me to express his sympathy for her, too.”

To the amazement of his listeners the face of Larose now became one broad and highly amused grin. “At what happened next, although the matter is so serious, whenever I think of it I can’t help wanting to laugh. Directly I had mentioned the professor and said he was a friend of mine, I saw at once that I had put my foot in it. His sister looked as furious and as if she would like to scratch my eyes out. ‘If I had known you were a friend of his,’ she said angrily, ‘I would have never let you come into the house. The horrid little hypocrite sending his condolences! Why, he and my poor brother had been deadly enemies for years! When they were at Cambridge together my brother had once referred to him as a little Welsh ape and he had never forgiven him for it. He was a spiteful little beast and we were sure it was he who kept on poisoning every dog we had. Strychnine baits were continually being thrown over into the garden and in the end it wasn’t safe for us to keep any animals, either dogs or cats.’”

“That finished the interview,” said Larose, “and I went next to Arnold Travers’ people. To cut my story short, I learnt Travers had attacked the professor in his weekly column in the Sunday Bulletin, and had received a highly abusive letter from him on return. Passing on to Dr. Carmichael, I found he had answered the professor’s infamous atom-bomb letter in The Times and given it as his opinion that a padded room was the right place for those who thought like him. He, too, had been honoured with an epistle from the professor, in which, among other abuse, he had been informed he was a disgrace to his honourable calling and most certainly as insane as any patient in his own mental asylum.”

Larose paused here for another cigarette. “Now, I come lastly to that Dr. Henderson of Ingatestone, and his case was the hardest of them all. Interviewing his family and some of his friends I could find nothing whatsoever to link him up with the professor, no contact with him in any way. Indeed, it seemed probable that he might even have never heard of Glenowen. He was always kept very busy with a large practice in the surrounding district and, so I was told, often was too tired at nights to read the daily newspapers.”

Larose made a grimace. “I wasted two whole days in interviewing people and then it dawned suddenly upon me that it was a case of mistaken identity, with the doctor having been taken for someone else and shot in his stead. Remember — whoever shot him had been hiding among the trees in a little plantation, upon a bank some three to four feet above the road and he had had to fire from some fifty to sixty feet away. The doctor was known everywhere as a fast driver and so, passing the spot where the assassin was waiting, the latter would have had to be very quick in the identification, and I reckoned he would have made it almost entirely by the car.”

“Then was the car an unusual type?” asked the Chief.

“Yes, it was a blue Minerva single-seater, their very latest model only recently out of the factory, and to my disappointment I found it was the only one in the district. I enquired for miles and miles round, but no one knew of anyone except Dr. Henderson who had one. I visited scores and scores of garages on the main road for more than five and twenty miles, but got no satisfaction. Then, sick at heart and barely a couple of miles from Colchester, I scored a hit bang in the middle of the target and heard of the very car I wanted.”

Larose looked very pleased with himself. “It was quite a small petrol station, and when I put the usual questions to the proprietor, did he know of anyone in the neighbourhood who ran a latest model of the blue Minerva, to my delight he replied that though he didn’t know of anyone locally, yet a customer of his had been coming down from Town in one upon the last three preceding Sundays to see his mother who had been in a motor accident and was at present in the Colchester Hospital. He said he knew the old lady quite well, as she lived just up the road and he had looked after her Bentley for her for several years. Before the accident, when her son came to visit her he nearly always called in upon him, the garage man, for a fill of petrol. He was a fine gentleman.”

Larose snapped his fingers together exultingly. “Then when I asked his name, I found I knew him. He was a Captain Iver Selwyn, and both he and I had worked for the British Intelligence during the last war.”

“Does he know Professor Glenowen?” asked the Chief sharply.

“Yes, he has a slight acquaintance with him,” nodded Larose. “He was introduced to him once at a meeting of the Royal Society. Unhappily, he told me that Glenowen knows more about him than he should through a maid who had left his, the captain’s, service to go into that of the professor. The captain had dismissed her because she had been caught eavesdropping and he was strongly suspicious she had got hold of his keys once and gone through the contents of his desk.”

“Then you’ve seen this Captain Selwyn in the course of these last few days?” asked the Chief.

“I got in touch with him yesterday,” replied Larose, “after a lot of difficulty. I told him everything and gave him a very solemn warning to beware of another attempt to shoot him.”

“But what animus, Gilbert,” said Stone, “would Glenowen have had against him?”

“Only that he knows he is an Intelligence man,” replied Larose, “and guesses, probably most correctly, too, that his present job is to look out for enemy agents among the workers on the atom-bomb,” he frowned. “You know I think Glenowen is now getting right out of his mind and will be striking right and left at anyone he can.” He looked from one to the other of his audience and asked with a smile, “Well, do you think I’ve made out any sort of a case.”

“The strongest,” said Stone emphatically. “Don’t you think so, too, Sir Robert?”

“Most certainly,” replied the Chief. He turned to Larose. “We are most intensely grateful to you, sir, and now, to add to our obligations, tell us what you think we should do. Knowing Glenowen as you do, in what way do you think we should approach him?”

“Bounce him into a confession,” replied Larose instantly. “His nerves are just in that jittery state that, if you give him no warning and take him on the hop, he may not be able to pull himself sufficiently together to deny everything. At any rate, demand to look into his banking account to see if he’s been drawing out any large sums of money lately. If my contention is correct that he’s been financing all these assassinations, then depend upon it the assassin has been well paid.”

“Where in St. John’s Wood does he live?” asked Stone. “Oh, number seventeen in Grove Road, an old house that has been converted into two flats! Then, do you happen to know if he’s at home now?”

“He was up to the day before yesterday,” replied Larose, “because I rang him up then, making out I was an agent for a new carpet-sweeper and asking if I could call and give him a demonstration. One of the maids answered the phone and, going to enquire of her master, returned with the emphatic reply, ‘No, certainly not.’”

“Good,” exclaimed the inspector, “then we’ll go out there at once and, to be on the safe side, I’ll take a search-warrant with me. We won’t waste a minute’s time and ——”

But the phone tinkled on the Chief Commissioner’s desk, and he picked up the receiver. “Chief Commissioner here,” he said, and a long minute’s intense silence followed. Then, with a catch in his breath, the Chief asked sharply, “When?” Another silence ensued and he said, “All right. We’ll be with you as quickly as possible.”

He hung up the receiver and the two others in the room noted that his face had paled a little. “Gentlemen,” he said grimly, “there will be no interview for anyone with Professor Glenowen this morning, as less than an hour ago he was found battered to death in his study. He was killed last night.”