THEY STOOD round the body in the dead man’s study while the police surgeon, bending down upon one knee, made a quick examination. “Two blows struck,” he said briskly, “the first taking him from behind when he was standing up, and the second made when he was lying here prone. Either would have killed him and death would have been practically instantaneous. Very violent blows by a strong man! See in both places where the bone has been crashed in.”

He bent lower to inspect more closely and tut-tutted several times. “A very callous murderer! Note, where, to steady the head for his second blow, he pressed his foot hard upon the poor man’s neck. See the dirt there from the sole of his shoe.” He nodded frowningly. “Yes, a very brutal individual, the assassin here!”

“About when do you think he was killed, Doctor?” asked Inspector Stone.

“I should say he’s been dead all night. Rigor is well-established down to his legs, but I shall be able to tell you with more accuracy when I’ve made the P.M. Do you know when he had his last meal?”

It was the local police-sergeant who had first arrived upon the scene of the murder who answered the question. “His housekeeper says, Doctor, that the maid cleared away his evening meal just before seven.”

The doctor nodded. “Good! Then according to how far digestion has proceeded we shall be able to tell within half an hour or so when he died. Yes, that bloodied poker there was undoubtedly the weapon. Its heavy knob would have made just such indentation as there.” He picked up his bag and added with a smile, “Well, that’s all I can say for the present, gentlemen, and it’s up to you now to find the murderer.”

With the departure of the police surgeon, the Chief Commissioner took his leave, too, and after Inspector Stone had turned out the pockets of the dead man, finding among other things a bunch of keys, the body was taken off in the ambulance. Some half an hour later, after the finger-mark expert had done all he wanted, Larose and Inspector Stone, in company with a second inspector, Inspector Isaac Mendel, sat themselves down and proceeded to go over everything.

Inspector Mendel, whom Stone generally picked to work with him, was in the early thirties and the youngest inspector attached to the Criminal Investigation Department at Scotland Yard. Undeniably good-looking in a dark Hebraic way and of a refined appearance, he owed his high position for one so young to sheer merit. Possessed of a lively imagination and remarkable powers of deduction, no one was better versed than he in the annals of crime, and, continually drawing upon that knowledge for inspiration, he had achieved not a few outstanding successes. He and Larose had met before and he held the latter in the highest esteem. Coming along in the car, he had been told briefly of Larose’s suspicion of the professor.

“Now, Gilbert,” said Stone with a grim smile, “with your knowledge of the dead man, tell us what you think of it. Are you inclined to make out this is a separate crime, or is it another of that series which has been so baffling us?”

“It’s linked up with the others,” replied Larose without the slightest hesitation. “Harleck Glenowen had raised up a devil to carry out those murders for him, a callous unscrupulous and clever devil who was shrewd enough to realise that his employer was now becoming a danger to him. He must have seen as well as I did that the professor was no longer a hundred per cent safe to hold any secret. As I told you, every time I saw him he seemed to me to be more and more like a little child, and you know how a little child bursts to tell all he knows.”

“Perhaps he was keeping a diary,” suggested Mendel. “I noticed the callous on his right forefinger was shiny and there was a trace of ink there, too. So that means he must have been writing since he last washed his hands, yet we found no manuscript or papers about.”

“Excellent!” exclaimed Larose warmly. He made a wry face. “I must be getting old or I should have noticed that, too. Then maybe there had been papers in that safe and that’s what his murderer had come after.”

“We’ll talk with the maids at once,” said Stone. He nodded to Mendel. “Fetch the elder one in, first. I understand she’s the cook-housekeeper.”

“One moment,” said Larose as Mendel was moving to the door. He turned to Stone. “Remember Captain Selwyn told me a maid of his whom he had dismissed had entered Glenowen’s service. Well, perhaps the housekeeper is the one. Assume that she is, and she’ll be so surprised at us knowing it that she’ll think it best to be quite straightforward and open with us.”

“A good idea,” nodded Stone. “Bring her in, Mendel.”

The cook-housekeeper was a small slim woman apparently in the middle forties. She had sharp features and a pointed nose. She wore glasses with thick lenses, and looked of the inquisitive kind.

Stone motioned her to a chair. “Your name, please?” he asked.

“Norah Wenn,” she replied.

“And for how long have you been the cook-housekeeper here, Miss Wenn? Oh, two years! And before that, I believe you were with Captain Iver Selwyn?”

The woman’s eyes boggled and her mouth opened. She cleared her throat and answered, “Yes.”

Stone smiled kindly at her. “Now, Miss Wenn,” he said, “this is a very dreadful business and I’m sure you’ll want to help us all you can.” He became confidential. “You see we think your poor master was killed by someone he knew quite well and whom he regarded as a friend, and of course he had opened the door to him himself. Now, was he expecting anyone to call last night?”

“Not that we know of, sir,” replied the woman, “but then he very seldom tells us about his visitors and, if he’s been expecting one, he’s nearly always been ready to open the door himself directly he hears the bell ring. Sometimes, he’s even been waiting on the doorstep for them.”

“Has he had many visitors lately?”

“Not different ones, sir, only his doctor and two other gentlemen who have often been coming lately, a Mr. Brown and another one whose name we have never heard, he’s a foreigner this gentleman and comes from some Embassy.”

“How do you know he came from some Embassy?”

“Because Emma, sir — she’s the other girl here — once overheard him say he couldn’t stop long as he had to be back at the Embassy soon.”

“You say he was a foreigner? Well, what sort of foreigner?”

“He didn’t look like a Frenchman or an Italian or a German, sir, and Emma says she once heard Master call him Captain something ending with off, so we thought he must be a Russian. He was big and tall, with big front teeth like a horse.”

“And had a loud laugh, the few times he laughed?” broke in Larose.

“Yes, sir, that’s him,” exclaimed the housekeeper in great surprise. “We could hear it then right away in the kitchen.”

“I know him,” said Larose, addressing himself to Stone. “I’ll tell you about him later.”

Stone went on with his examination. “And now this Mr. Brown — what about him?”

She shook her head. “We don’t know anything about him, sir, either what he is or where he lives. He was a new friend of Master’s and it’s always puzzled us what he came here for. He always arrived about the same time, eight o’clock, but never stopped for much longer than half an hour, except once when Master had invited him to dinner.”

“Has he been coming often?”

“Well, I should say about a dozen times.”

“When did he start coming?”

“It must have been about the beginning of July. I know it was summer-time because Master took him out into the garden to show him some shooting with his pistols.”

“What was he like to look at? Was he old or young?”

“Oh, quite young, sir. Emma — the other girl — says he’s well under thirty. I can’t tell you exactly what he’s like, because I’m short-sighted and have never been close up to him. When he went into the garden that evening I saw him in the distance and could just make out that he was tall and well-built and soldierly and looked very smartly dressed. A real gentleman about Town, I thought.”

“And you never opened the door to him?”

“No, sir. Nearly always Master must have known he was coming and was on the lookout to let him in himself. Still, Emma has let him in a few times. She says he is very good-looking.”

“But do you think he always came by appointment as if there was some business between them?”

“Yes, all but once, sir, and that was one evening last week. Then Master had got that foreign gentleman with him when he called. Emma answered the door and, thinking she was doing quite right, showed him straight into the study. For some reason, Master was very angry with her afterwards for having done it and called her a stupid fool.”

“How used he to come here, driving in his car, of course?”

“No, sir, not often in his car and then, when he did, he would leave it some little way up the road where it couldn’t be seen from the windows here. We know that because one evening when Emma was coming home a car passed her in the road here and then pulled up. She saw Mr. Brown jump out and walk up to our house. She was just in time to see Master open the door to him.”

“But how do you know,” asked Stone, “that he didn’t always leave his car up the road when he was visiting your master?”

“Because, generally, sir,” she went on volubly, “he had got his gloves on and was carrying a walking-stick.” She smiled. “The stick was a beautiful ebony one with a curved handle with a silver band round it. He used to leave it with his hat in the hall, and it was such a nice one that Emma brought it into the kitchen once to show me. When he was driving, of course, he had no stick, and then he had no hat, either. We thought he used to leave his hat in the car. That last evening, when he met the foreign gentleman here, he came in with no hat or stick. So we could tell he was driving. We happened to be certain of that because Emma went to the pillar-box almost directly after he had left here and was just in time to see his car starting away from the place where he usually left it.”

Remembering her reputation as an eavesdropper when in her former situation with Captain Selwyn, Stone asked casually, “And when he was with your master what did they usually talk about?”

The housekeeper smiled slyly. “We don’t know, sir. The door was always shut and they talked very quietly.”

Stone thought for a moment. “And has your master been doing much writing lately?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, he’s been very busy. You see he’s not been able to go out lately because of his bronchitis and so he’s been writing, instead.”

“In a book?” queried Stone.

“No, sir, on sheets of paper and he’s always locked them up in his safe, even if he’s been away from his study only for a few minutes. He’s been making a scrap-book, too, and pasting in a lot of cuttings, mostly about those dreadful murders that have been happening lately.”

“But how do you know that?” frowned Stone.

“From the newspapers we clear out of his waste-paper basket every morning. We noticed the murder parts had been cut out.”

“Did you ever actually see the scrap-book?”

“Only when he was pasting in the cuttings. He always kept the book locked up in his safe, along with his writings.”

A pause followed before Stone asked, “Then you can give us no idea what this Mr. Brown came for?”

“None at all, sir,” she replied, but, seeming to remember something, she added quickly, “Oh, we think he was as interested in pistols as Master was, and we believe Master must have given him some of his.” She went on, “You see, sir, Master’s great hobby was shooting with a pistol. He has a target fixed up in the rockery and some days he’s been shooting quite a lot at it. He used to have seven or eight pistols and would spend hours some days cleaning and polishing them up. Then, lately, when he was doing the polishing we noticed he had not so many pistols as usual on the newspaper spread upon the table, quite three or four less, we thought.”

“And where did he keep these pistols?” asked Stone.

“All except one, locked in his safe,” she said. “This one he had always by him, either in the drawer in his desk during the day, or at night by the little table near his bed.” She sighed. “Poor Master was always eccentric and of late we’ve thought he was getting worse.”

“How worse?” queried Stone. “What did he do?”

She made a faint show of speaking with reluctance. “He seemed queer in his head, sir, we think from drinking too much wine. He had taken to laughing and talking to himself.”

“And what did he say?” asked Stone. He smiled confidingly. “Come now, don’t tell me you didn’t try to listen. I know I should have done so. It wouldn’t be human not to be curious.”

She smiled back. “Well, yes, we did, sir, but we couldn’t catch what he said. His door was always shut, and we could just hear him mumbling to himself and that was all.”

A short silence followed before Stone said, “Well, to go back to that foreign gentleman — what did he come here for? Have you no more idea about him than you have of Mr. Brown?”

She shook her head. “None whatever, sir. All the many times he’s been here we’ve never learnt anything.”

“And when he came last week — do you think he came by arrangement? Was your master expecting him?”

“Oh, yes, we are sure he was waiting to answer his ring, but he was rather slow in getting to the door because he had to shut up the safe first, and so Emma nearly got there before him. She says he waved her back very crossly, but she dawdled long enough in the hall to see who it was he let in.”

“How do you know he had to shut up his safe?” frowned Stone.

“Because, sir, we heard him bang it to. He always shut it with a bang you could hear all over the house. We heard it bang again a little later that evening — so we thought he’d been showing the foreign gentleman something.”

“And what was in the safe?” smiled Stone. “Had it not become quite an interesting mystery to you?”

The housekeeper smiled back. “Yes, it had, sir, but only quite lately since Master had started to write so much. We had never heard it bang so often before.”

Another short silence followed. “Well, thank you, Miss Wenn,” said Stone. “That’s all we want of you for the present. We’ll be ringing the bell in a minute or two and then will you please send in the other young lady.”

When the door closed behind her, Stone snapped his fingers together exultingly. “A sure thing, this Mr. Brown! Everything fits in-the time when he first took to calling upon the professor, those pistols which were given him so that he never used the same one twice and that’s why all the bullets found in the murdered men came from different weapons. Then the manuscript he kept so carefully locked up in that safe, and the scrap-book, too. Those were what Mr. Brown came after, sure enough. Now a good description of him from other girl and we shall be well upon the trail.”

Unhappily, however, the inspector soon found that no good description was going to be forthcoming, as Emma Hobson, the second girl, seemed anything but as sharp as the housekeeper. Not much over twenty, she was insipid and rather uninteresting with a pale, unhealthy colour. She had weak and watery eyes which she screwed up a lot when she was looking at anyone. There was nothing smart about her and she was dressed dowdily in clothes which seemed much too old for her. She appeared very nervous. Asked by Stone to describe Mr. Brown’s appearance, she hesitated a long moment and then stammered out that he was tall and good-looking.

“But was he dark or fair?” asked Stone, trying with his most winning smile to put her at her ease.

She hesitated again. “I really can’t tell you, sir,” she replied. “I think he was half way in between.”

Stone was very patient. “Well, to begin with, was he clean shaven?”

She nodded. “Yes, sir, he had no moustache.”

“And what was the colour of his eyes?”

“I think, I think they were dark, sir,” she said slowly. “No, I can’t be sure. They may have been blue.” Her voice shook. “I am very sorry, sir, but I am always bad at descriptions.”

“But if you met him again would you recognise him?” asked Stone.

She brightened up. “Oh, yes, I should know him at once.” She smirked. “As I say, sir, he is very good-looking. Besides, I should recognise his voice anywhere. It is such a nice one.”

Stone tried something else. “Well, Miss Hobson, I understand he’s been here to dinner once and you waited at the table. How long ago was that?”

“Not very long, sir. I should say only about a month.”

“And what did your master and Mr. Brown talk about at this meal?” asked Stone. He smiled. “Being, as you say, such an interesting gentleman, of course you’ll remember something of what they said.”

“Oh, yes, I do, sir,” smiled back the girl, “as we had thought Master was never interested in such things. It was all about sport and athletics and boxing and things like that.”

“And so friendly as your master was with Mr. Brown,” went on Stone, “Miss Wenn tells us he was yet very angry for you for showing him in without notice when that foreign gentleman was here.”

The girl nodded. “Very angry, sir. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so angry before.”

“But why?” asked Stone.

“He said he was doing some very important business, sir, with that foreign gentleman and hadn’t wanted to be interrupted.”

“But had this foreigner and Mr. Brown never visited your master together, at the same time before?”

“No, sir, they didn’t even know each other, because when I was shutting the door that evening after I had shown in Mr. Brown I heard Master starting to introduce them to each other.”

And that was all they could get out of her and, when she had been dismissed, the stout inspector made a wry face. “Bang goes all our hope of getting upon an easy trail. It’s most disappointing.”

Larose shook his head. “No, Charlie, we’ve still got an excellent chance. As I said just now, I’m sure I know who that foreigner is the housekeeper spoke about. He answers to the description of Captain Feodor Michaeloff, the senior attache at the Baltic Embassy with whom I did a little bit of work during the war when I was in the British Intelligence. He was a quiet reserved man, but a very capable one. So, if I go to him at once and tell him what’s happened here before it has appeared in the newspapers, he’ll certainly do his best with a description of this Brown, and, perhaps, even be able to tell us where he lives and all about him.”

“But as likely as not he’s mixed up in all this business too,” growled Stone. “Some of those killings would not have been displeasing to his Embassy.”

“Of course, we all know the Baltic lot are a bit rough,” frowned Larose, “and in their own country hold life much cheaper than we do, but I hardly think they’ll have dared to encourage killings here. Besides, consider how angry Glenowen was when, through the stupidity of this Emma, Brown was shown straight into the room where Michaeloff was. If Michaeloff knew all about what we imagine this Brown has been doing — then there would have been no earthly reason for the professor not wishing them to meet here and get to know each other. No, I’ll go round and see Michaeloff at once and, with him and Glenowen having been friends, he should certainly be as anxious are we are to have his murderer brought to book.”

The inspector saw the force of Larose’s argument and proceeded to sum up the whole position. “So, if we are right about this Mr. Brown, this is how things stand. The perpetrator of all these murders is no longer a shadow to us. We now know him in the flesh, as an assassin who was hired by Professor Harleck Glenowen to carry on his dreadful work. Becoming fearful that his employer was now a danger to him or, on the other hand, being told there was no more blood-money for him to earn, he thought it safest to silence the one man who could give him away. So, of set and deliberate purpose and taking all precautions, he destroyed him. That is why we shall in all probability find no finger-marks or clumsy clues left behind him. We must not expect them and also, we can understand the rifled safe. It was a well-calculated and cold-blooded murder.” He paused a few moments. “Now who is this man?”

“A returned soldier,” said Larose promptly, “because one violent death after another came easily to him — a man of good physique and, more than probable, one who had had commando training because of those throttlings in Cambridge — almost certainly one who had held commissioned rank when in the Army, because he was educated enough to know the value of that Corot painting and also because he dined here once with Glenowen. The professor was not likely to have asked a common man to share a meal with him. Lastly, this assassin does not live far away from here because upon some occasions he must have come on foot carrying a walking stick with him.”

“But we know he must have a car,” frowned Stone, “because of what that housekeeper has told us and because of those poor devils he shot from one.”

“Of course he has,” agreed Larose, “but perhaps his normal occupation during the day is a sedentary one and he used to walk here for exercise. Mentioning cars of course again, he came back that night from Cambridge in one.”

“A guess, Gilbert,” smiled Stone, “because we can’t be sure of anything there.”

“Much more than a guess,” smiled back Larose, “because to my thinking it was he who killed that policeman when the poor devil was returning home from his ten-mile patrol along the Cambridge–London road.”

Stone shook his head. “We’ve no proof there.”

“No actual proof,” agreed Larose readily, “but there’s a strong probability. You see — whoever it was who happened to come across the policeman that night met him coming from the opposite direction and did not overtake him. We know that, according to his schedule, just before midnight the policeman should have been somewhere in the neighbourhood of that bridge cycling towards Cambridge, where his subsequent killer must have been motoring away from that town.”

“How do we know that?” asked Stone.

“Because,” said Larose, “the policeman was killed and his body and bicycle thrown over the bridge on the off-side of the road, on the side of the road upon which he should not ordinarily have been. As I see it, the Cambridge assassin was motoring with all haste to Town when he met with some trouble to his car just when he arrived at the bridge, most probably he’d got a punctured tyre. The constable arrived upon the scene and, crossing over the road, offered to help him. Most likely he jacked up the wheel, because when his body was later examined in the mortuary there were traces of thick black grease upon his fingers and one naturally associates that kind of grease with a car-jack. The motorist had to kill the poor chap, so that later he should furnish no description of him or his car.”

“It’s plausible,” commented Stone thoughtfully, “and we may be able to lay this other charge when we catch the bloody gendeman.” He spoke briskly. “Well, I don’t think for the moment that we can do anything more. So you, Gilbert, go off to see this friend of yours at the Baltic Embassy at once. If we can find out straight away who this Brown is we may be able to pick him up before he has the slightest idea anyone is looking for him.”

“And with any luck and I find the captain in,” said Larose, “I’ll be reporting to you at the Yard within an hour.”

However, he did not have the luck he had hoped for, as the captain was out and no one at the Embassy appeared to know where he had gone or what time he would be back. So it was not until well into the afternoon that Larose got speech with him and by then the news of the professor’s murder was being well splashed in the early evening newspapers.

He appeared to be extraordinarily pleased to see Larose. “Just like old times to see you here,” he said as he shook him warmly by the hand. “I’m delighted.”

For some reason which for the moment he could not understand Larose repressed a frown. He indicated a spread-out newspaper lying upon the desk. “Then you’ve read what’s happened to Professor Glenowen?” he asked.

“Yes, and what a dreadful thing,” exclaimed the captain, throwing out his hands. “I’ve been wondering what could have been the motive for his murder. Was it robbery, do you think?”

“We can’t be certain,” said Larose. “At any rate the safe had been rifled.”

“And I see he was killed last night,” said the captain, tapping the newspapers upon his desk.

“The police surgeon says so,” said Larose, “but it wasn’t found out until quite late this morning. I happened to be calling on the Chief Commissioner when the news came through to Scotland Yard, and as one who had known the professor for some years I went up to St. John’s Wood with him and the members of the C.I.D.” He regarded the captain intently. “You were a friend of his, too, and were visiting him only last week, weren’t you?”

The captain was a shrewd and capable man or he would certainly not have risen to his present position as senior attache at the Embassy. So now, repressing a start with difficulty, most puzzled and decidedly uneasy that Larose had come to learn of his visit to the professor the previous week, he realised his only course of action was not to deny it.

“Yes,” he replied readily. “I was up there last Thursday evening.” He made a grimace. “But I would not say the professor was exactly a friend of mine, as, with his well-publicised views as to the desirability of shooting everyone who was working on the atom bomb, for any of us here at the Embassy to claim friendship with him would discredit us very badly. People would argue we were encouraging him and that wouldn’t have done at all. No, he was not a friend of mine, merely an acquaintance.”

“And you met a Mr. Brown that evening up at his place, didn’t you?” asked Larose, and upon the captain nodding carelessly he went on, “Well, Scotland Yard is very curious about that man, and learning you were a friend of mine asked me to come to you and find out all I could about him. They thought it would be less formal than coming themselves.”

“Quite so,” agreed the captain. His eyes opened as if in great surprise. “But they don’t think he was the murderer, do they?”

“Not necessarily,” replied Larose, “but they know from the maids that he’s been visiting Glenowen quite a lot lately and therefore surmise the two must have been on pretty friendly terms.” He spoke very seriously. “You must take in, captain, that as there is nothing to show that the house was broken into last night, they argue the professor himself must have admitted the murderer into the house as a seeming friend.”

The captain spoke quickly. “But this Mr. Brown didn’t look at all the type of man to harm anyone,” he said. “He struck me as being a quiet and most inoffensive individual, much too shy, as I thought at the time, to be a commercial traveller.”

“Oh, a commercial traveller, was he?” queried Larose. “Then what did he travel in?”

“Wines,” replied the captain, “and Glenowen had expressly arranged for me to meet him in the hope that I would give him an order from the Embassy.”

A sudden thought avalanched itself into Larose’s mind and for a few moments he lowered his eyes so that the captain should not see the expression of surprise upon his face. Glancing up again, he asked quickly, “Well, what kind of man was he to look at? Unhappily, neither of the two maids there can give us any good description. The housekeeper says that though he has called a good many times she has never been close up to him, and she is very short sighted. As for the other girl, she is intensely stupid and can give us no description that will help us at all. So now all depends upon you to help us. What’s he like?”

The captain considered. “He is a fairly good-looking man, about forty I should say. As far as I recollect, he is of medium height and build. He is clean shaven, rather fair than dark, and has weak blue eyes. He dresses rather slovenly.”

“Did he strike you as being of a military type?” asked Larose.

The captain smiled. “No, certainly not. He holds himself badly and there is nothing smart about him.”

“Would you call him an educated man, or did he belong to the working class?”

“Neither,” replied the captain promptly. “He looked to me just like a clerk out of some office.” He spoke quickly. “You must understand that I saw him for only a few minutes, five at the utmost, as I was anxious to get away. I had an appointment here at half past eight.”

“Glenowen had arranged for you to come that evening?” asked Larose slowly. “Your visit wasn’t just a chance one?”

“No, I had gone to see him on purpose, and he was expecting me to come. You see, he had phoned me earlier in the day with some cracked idea in his head that he must go to Moscow to have a talk with Marshal Stalin. He wanted to come here to discuss it with us, but we were not anxious to have him as a visitor for the reason I have told you, and so I went up to see him at his house instead.”

“And he had arranged for that Mr. Brown to come at the same time,” asked Larose carelessly, “so that, as you say, you could give him an order for some wine?”

“For some champagne,” nodded the captain, “and he seemed rather hurt because I didn’t do it, though I explained that all such matters were dealt with direct from Moscow.”

“And that’s all you can tell us about this Mr. Brown?” asked Larose after a short silence.

“Yes, that’s all,” nodded the captain. “I’m sorry, but I know nothing about the man, not even the name of the firm he represents.”

Leaving the Embassy, Larose went straight to Scotland Yard and upon being shown into the inspector’s room the latter asked eagerly, “You got a good description, eh?”, but upon Larose shaking his head, he exclaimed incredulously, “What, you don’t mean to tell me you have learnt nothing?”

“I’ve learnt a devil of a lot,” said Larose grimly, “but not what we wanted or expected.” He spoke very gravely. “Charlie, that Embassy friend of mine knows that chap we call Brown murdered the professor and is now trying to shield him in every way he can.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Stone with his eyes as wide as saucers. “What makes you think that?”

“Because after declaring he’d seen Brown only once,” replied Larose, “and knew absolutely nothing about him except that he was a commercial traveller in wines, he gave me a description so markedly different from everything the two girls said that it could only have been done to put us off being eager to pick up his trail.”

“But in what way could it have been so different?” growled Stone. “They told us practically nothing at all.”

“Ah, but they did say he was tall,” said Larose, “whereas the captain told me he was only of medium height. Next, that girl Emma declares he looks under thirty, while Michaeloff says he’s middle aged and about forty. Then that housekeeper was positive that, even seen by her only at a distance and with her being short sighted, he was smart and soldierly-looking, a regular man-about-Town were her words. However, Michaeloff says he held himself badly and looked slovenly, with nothing suggesting a soldier about him. Yes, Charlie, the whole time I was questioning the captain I am sure he was deliberately lying to me, with his only motive that he wanted us not to bother about finding Brown because he couldn’t possibly have been the criminal.”

“But one moment,” frowned Stone. “If he had been, as you say, so wanting to deceive you — knowing you must have had some sort of description from those girls — surely he wouldn’t have dared to risk giving you so directly an opposite one.”

Larose held up his hand smilingly. “Ah, but I had set a trap for him there, Charlie, and he fell into it. Before we had come to his giving any description of this Brown right at the beginning of our talk I had caught him out in one downright lie, and so I gave him the opportunity to find out if he would tell a few more. You see, I had told him Glenowen’s two maids had practically given us no description at all. One of them I had said was very short sighted and had never been close up to Brown, while the other was too damnably stupid to be able to describe him in any way.”

“But in what lie had you caught him out?” asked Stone.

“Oh, he had told me, almost at once when we had started to talk, that of the express purpose the professor had arranged for him and Brown to meet that evening in the hope that he could give Brown an order from the Embassy for some wine. Now I knew that to be untrue because Glenowen had afterwards been so savage with Emma because, by her stupidity in showing Brown into the room where Michaeloff was, the two had met.”

“But if he was lying to you so freely as you make out,” asked Stone, “how was it he admitted quite readily that he had gone to see the professor by arrangement that night. He didn’t try to deceive you then.”

“Ah, but he evidently thought he’d better not,” exclaimed Larose. “He didn’t know what the maids had told me. I am sure that he’s very puzzled how I came to know he was a friend of Glenowen’s or, as he says, only an acquaintance. I saw his eyebrows go up when I mentioned it.”

“Then if he had never given in his name to the maids,” commented Stone, “when he was calling upon their master, depend upon it there was some fishy business going on between them.”

“Yes,” agreed Larose, “and he gave me what I thought was a very stupid explanation for his calling. He said he wanted to make Glenowen give up all idea, as the professor was so anxious to do, of going to Moscow to interview Stalin.” He scoffed contemptuously. “Just as if any bad bronchitis sufferer such as the professor was would ever dream of going to Russia in the very worst months of the year. He wanted to make out he was only calling upon Glenowen to prevent him coming to the Embassy. He said that, with his well-publicised views about the desirability of shooting everyone who was working on the atom bomb, it was by no means desirable for the public to think he was a welcome visitor with them.”

“And, of course,” frowned Stone, “you gave him no idea that we are wanting this Brown for much more than murdering the professor?”

Larose scowled. “Do you think I’m quite a fool, Charlie? No, as I tell you I treated him as an enemy at once, and a very dangerous one, too, as if we are right in our conjectures that the captain is now as I say deliberately trying to shield Brown, then anything he learns he’ll pass on to Brown straight away.”

“If he knows Brown is Glenowen’s murderer,” frowned Stone, “then only Brown himself could have told him.” He heaved a big sigh. “Where is your imagination, Gilbert, that wonderful imagination of yours? Can’t you manage to dish out a bit when we’ve never wanted it more than we do now.”

A long silence followed and then Larose sprang to his feet. “Here, let’s use your telephone for a minute,” he exclaimed. “I want to speak to that Wenn girl up at St. John’s Wood. Now what was the professor’s number?”

Contact was soon made with the professor’s flat, with the housekeeper answering the phone herself. “Is that you, Miss Wenn?” asked Larose. “Well, I am one of Inspector Stone’s two colleagues who were present when he was questioning you this morning and I want to know something. You remember you told us this morning that you had heard the door of the safe bang when your master had got that foreign gentleman in his room with him — I mean that evening when Mr. Brown called, too. Then can you tell me — did the door bang directly the foreigner arrived, or was it later after they had been talking together a little time? Now don’t hurry as it’s most important. Think carefully. Oh, there’s no need to think? Splendid! You are quite sure.”

A short silence followed, with Larose still with the receiver held closely to his ear. “What . . . what,” he exclaimed with some animation, “is she quite sure?. .. Why didn’t she tell us before?. .. And she has no idea who the other man was?. .. Oh, oh! . . . And she is positive the car was Mr. Brown’s?”

Some further conversation ensued and Larose hung up the receiver. He turned to the inspector. “Things are a bit clearer, Charlie,” he said. “That evening Brown was bundled off not more than three minutes after the captain had gone and Emma, going out almost immediately after to post a letter, saw him standing by his car talking to some man. Before she got near enough to see what the man was like the two of them both jumped into the car and it was driven away.” He spoke with some animation. “Now what do you make of that?”

“You want to make out,” said Stone slowly, “that Michaeloff had something important to tell Brown and waited outside by his car to catch him when he came out.” He frowned. “But how did he know it was Brown’s car?”

“He mayn’t have known it was Brown’s car,” said Larose, “but probably he had noticed that Brown had arrived at the professor’s without a hat and therefore surmised he was not walking. At any rate, car or no car, I imagine he was waiting to catch Brown when he came out.” He snapped his fingers together. “You asked for imagination and a long shot, Charlie, and I am giving it to you. Perhaps Glenowen, bursting with excitement, had taken his papers out of the safe to show them to him. They may have recorded all the murders Brown had done, so probably Michaeloff was becoming scared about Glenowen’s state of mind, for don’t forget, Charlie, we can’t be certain that the Baltic lot hadn’t all along been in Glenowen’s confidence and known all about the murders. They may have been in it up to the neck with Brown, however, knowing nothing about their knowledge.” He spoke impressively. “For what has that captain been coming up to see Glenowen about so many times lately and always at night? What was the interest between them?”

“And you suggest, then,” said Stone thoughtfully, “that Michaeloff warned Brown of the danger he was in from what the professor had been writing and got locked up in his safe?”

“Yes, and also from his general mental condition,” said Larose, “which was making him liable to blurt out everything to anyone upon the slightest provocation.” He drew in a deep breath. “Oh, how it all fits in! Brown, most likely at the captain’s instigation, committed yet another murder, not only to silence the professor but also to get those highly dangerous papers out of the safe.”

“And there’s yet more to incriminate Glenowen,” said Stone significandy, “for from enquiries at his bank this morning we’ve learnt that in the last three months he’s sold bonds to the value of more than ￡6,000 and drawn out all the money in ￡5 notes. Great Scott, if only we could get our hands on that Brown we’d almost certainly find he’s got all that money now.”

“But for the moment,” said Larose with a grim smile, “our only hope there is to pick up a military-looking gent who’s carrying an ebony walking-stick with a silver band upon the handle.” He sighed. “I’d bet any money he and Brown are meeting to-night to have a good talk.”

“And the devil of it,” sighed back the inspector, “as you know well, we can’t trail a man in London without him becoming aware of it if he’s on the look-out.”

“But don’t worry unduly, Charlie,” comforted Larose, “I’ve got an idea and directly it is practicable I’ll come and see you again.”

Larose was quite right in his surmise that the captain and the so-called Mr. Brown would be getting in touch with each other as speedily as possible, as by prearrangement the two met for dinner that evening at a small and unpretentious Italian restaurant just off Tottenham Court Road.

“And I’ve had two taxi rides, a short bus journey and a longish walk,” said the captain, “to make sure no one was following me. Still, it was imperative even at some risk that I should see you at once, as things are in the way of becoming more dangerous than either of us could have thought.” He spoke sharply. “Now have you heard of a man called Gilbert Larose?”

Mangan nodded sourly. “Yes, the expoliceman,” he said, “who married a rich wife.”

“Which goes to show how smart he is,” commented the captain. “Well, he came to see me this morning and, rather to my dismay, I learnt he’s come out of his shell again and is working his hardest to help Scotland Yard get hold of this Mr. Brown. They’ve dropped like a plummet on to him as the killer of Glenowen.”

Mangan felt an unpleasant sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach. “But I didn’t leave the slightest clue behind,” he said sharply. “I am sure of that. No one saw me arrive at the house and no one saw me leave. Also, I never had my gloves off the whole time.”

“But if they trace you,” asked the captain, “what alibi have you for yesterday evening?”

Mangan shrugged his shoulders. “Do I need one? I shall say I never left my flat from Saturday evening until this morning. I was in bed most of the Sunday with a touch of ‘flu and only got up to get my meals. I have no help on Sunday and no one came near me.”

“Anyone see you go out or come in?”

“I don’t think so,” said Mangan. “Remember all yesterday it was very foggy and by evening it was so thick that it took me the best part of an hour to get to St. John’s Wood. I walked the whole way.” He scowled. “But what had this Larose got to say?”

The captain gave him the gist of the conversation with Larose. “So you see,” he concluded, “they’ve got no proper description of you and that’s one splendid thing in your favour.”

“Then how can they possibly trace me?” asked Mangan.

“I don’t see how they can,” said the captain thoughtfully, “but then when I worked with Larose in the Intelligence during the war he was always springing surprises. He’s as cunning as a fox. Even in this present matter, I can’t for the life of me make out how he came to know it was I who used to visit Glenowen. The many times I’ve been there I never gave my name and I’m quite sure Glenowen would have never mentioned it, as he was always scared lest his dealings with us should leak out.”

“Another thing,” asked Mangan hesitatingly. “Do you think it’s only about the killing of Glenowen they want me? They have no suspicion about anything else I’ve done.”

The captain was a long while before he replied and then he spoke very slowly. “I don’t quite know,” he said. “At any rate I didn’t think so at the time while Larose was questioning me about you, but since then I’ve been wondering quite a lot. You see that damned little fool of a professor told me that when you were doing those other jobs for him he had been, what he called it, keeping in touch with Larose to try to find out through him how Scotland Yard was reacting to all the killings. With his bungalow near to Carmel Abbey he said he used often to go over for a chat. So ——”

“The damned little fool!” swore Mangan. “Perhaps he made him suspicious.”

“That’s what I wonder,” nodded the captain, “and this past hour I’ve been asking myself not a few times what had taken Larose down to Scotland Yard that he happened to be hobnobbing with the Chief Commissioner of Police at the very moment when the news of Glenowen’s killing came through.”

Mangan felt a sickening feeling again in the pit of his stomach. “But if they do trace me,” he said sharply, “there isn’t a shadow of anything which can link up with any of them.”

The captain gave him an intent look. “What about that Corot painting, which you took that night from the canon’s house in Cambridge?” he asked frowningly.

“Destroyed long ago,” lied Mangan glibly, “and got rid of in the same way Glenowen’s manuscript was, burnt sheet by sheet and put down the toilet.” He smiled grimly. “He had written quite a lot about you and what you had got him to find out from your Army and Air Force friends. He mentioned particularly the ￡500 you had given him to pay that Air Force sergeant for a blue print of those new gun sights.”

“Never mind about that now,” said the captain testily. “That’s all over and done with. Just concentrate upon what you’re going to do to keep out of the hands of the police. Be thankful how darned lucky you are those two maids are such fools that they could give no adequate description of you.”

“I am,” laughed Mangan, “and most grateful as well to you for the not flattering description you gave this Larose of my appearance. It should make me quite safe.”

Their meal over, they left the resaurant singly, with Mangan in quite a happy state of mind as he walked home to his flat in Fitzroy Square. That conceited cockscomb, Larose, he told himself, would have no miraculous success this time and he must be pretty despondent about it.

However, Mangan would certainly have not been quite so satisfied with everything had he been given to see the so hated Larose at that very moment. The one-time detective was returning from a visit he had just paid to the flat of the dead professor in St. John’s Wood and he was smiling confidently. Emma had shown him out and he had left her looking flushed and very excited. As she told the housekeeper, she felt like a girl in a story book.