 Call Mr. Fortune by H.C. Bailey, phases three and four of the business minister. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Thomas Sesson Ewing, Mount Angel Oregon. Phase three, The Man Under the Snow. The porter of Montmorency House, awakening next morning, discovered that even in the well of his flats, where the air is ever the most stagnant in London, the snow was melting fast. After breakfast, he saw some clothes emerging from the slush. This annoyed him, for he cherished that little court. The tenants, he remarked to his wife, were always doing something messy, but dropping their trousers down the well was the limit. He splashed out into the slush and found a corpse. After lunch, Reggie Fortune, drowsing over the last published play of hair of Vindican, was aroused by a telephone, which, speaking with the voice of Superintendent Bell, urged him to come at once to the mortuary. Who's dead, he asked. Sanford hanged himself in red tape. Kimball had a stroke. It's what you might call anonymous, said the voice of the Superintendent, just the sort of case you like. I never like a case, said Reggie, with indignation and rang off. At the door of the mortuary, Superintendent Bell appeared as his car stopped. You're damn mysterious, Reggie complained. Not me, sir. If you can tell me who the fellow is, I'll be obliged. But what I want to know first is, what was the cause of death? You'll excuse me. I won't tell you how he was found, till you formed your opinion. What the devil do you mean by that? I don't want you to be prejudiced in any way, sir, if you take my meaning. Damn your impudence. When did you ever see me prejudiced? Dear me, Mr. Fortune, I never heard you swear so much, said Bell, sadly. Don't be hasty, sir. I have my reasons. I have, really. He let the way into the room where the dead body lay. He pulled back the sheet which covered the body. Well, well, said Reggie Fortune, for the dead man's face was not there. You'll excuse me. I shouldn't be any good to you, said Superintendent Thickley, and made for the door. Reggie did not look around. Send Sam in with my things, he said. It was a long time afterwards when, rather pale for him, his round and comfortable face veiled in uncommon gravity, he came out. Superintendent Bell threw away his cigarette. Gastly, isn't it, he said, with sympathy. Mad said, Reggie, come on. A shower of warm rain was being driven before the West Wind, but he opened everything in his car that would open and told the chauffeur to drive around Regent's Park. Come on, Bell, the rain won't hurt you. I don't wonder you want to blow, poor chap, as ugly a mess as ever I saw. I suppose I'm afraid, said Reggie, slowly. It's unusual and annoying. I suppose the only thing that does make you afraid is what's mad. Not the altogether crazy. That's only a nuisance. Oh, what's damn clever and yet mad. Enable fellow with a mania on one point, I suppose that's what the devil is, Bell. Good Lord, sir, said Superintendent Bell. What I want is muffins, said Reggie. Several muffins, and a little tea in my domestic hearth. Then I'll feel safe. He spread himself out, sitting on the small of his back before his study fire, and in that position he contrived to eat and drink with freedom. In another world, Bell, he said dreamily, in another and gayer world it seems to me you wanted to know the cause of death, and you didn't want me to be prejudiced. Kindly, fellow, but there's no prejudice about it. It's quite a plain case. Is it indeed, sir? You surprise me. The dead man was killed by a blow on the left temple from some heavy blunt weapon. A life-preserver, perhaps, a stick, a poker. At the same time, or immediately after death, his face was battered in by the same or a similar weapon. Death probably occurred some days ago. After death, but not long after death, the body received other injuries. A broken rib, left shoulder blade, probably by a fall from some height. That's the medical evidence. There are other curious circumstances. Just a few, said Bell, with the grim chuckle. You're very definite, sir, if I may say so. I suppose he couldn't have been killed and had his face smashed like he did by the fall. You can cut that right out. He was killed by a blow and blows smashed his face in. Where did you find him? He was found when the snow melted this morning in the well at Montmorency House. Under the snow? That puts the murderer on the night of the fifteenth. Yes, that fits. That accounts for his sodden clothes. There's a good deal of don't account for, said Bell gloomily. I saw him just as he was found. Bell nodded. Somebody took a lot of pains with him. He was fully dressed, collar and tie, boots, but a lot of his internal buttons were undone. And there's not a name, not even a maker's name on any of his clothes. His linens new and don't show a laundry mark. Yes, somebody took a lot of pains, we should know him. I don't know what you're getting at, sir. Don't you? Is it likely a man wearing decent clothes would not have his linen marked and his tailor's name somewhere? Is it likely a man who had his tie and collar on wouldn't do up his undershirt? No. The beggar's clothes were changed after he was killed. That must have been a grisly business, too. He's not a tender-hearted fellow who did this job. Fellé, the body you've killed, and then bash its face in. Well, well, have some more tea? Not me, said Bell, with a gulp. You talked about a madman, sir, didn't you? Oh, no, no, no. Not the kind of mad that runs amok. Not a homicidal mania. This isn't just smashing up a chap's body for the sake of smashing. There's lots of purpose here. This is damn cold, calculating crime. That kind of mad. Some fellow's got an object that makes it worthwhile to him to do any beastliness. That's the worst kind of mad, Bell. Not homicidal mania. That only makes a man a beast. What's here is the sort of thing that makes a man a devil. You're going a bit beyond me, sir. It's a bloody murder, and that's all I want. Yes, that's our job, said Reggie thoughtfully. Together they went off to Montmorency House. How would you describe to see, sir, said Bell? Man about fifty, under middle height, inclined to be stout, unusual bald. It ain't much to go by, is it, Bell sighed. We don't know so much as know if he was clean-shaved or not. He was, I think. I saw no trace of facial hair. But it's rash to argue from not finding things. And he might have been shaved after he was killed. And then smashed? My lord, and they smashed him thorough, too, didn't they? Very logical bit of crime, Bell. Logical. God bless my soul. But I mean to say, sir, we haven't got much to go on. Suppose I advertise there's a man of fifty missing, rather short and stout and bald. I shall look a bit of an ass. Well, I wouldn't advertise. He had had an operation, by the way, on the year. But I wouldn't say that, either. In fact, I wouldn't say anything about him just yet. Hold your trumps. Trumps? What is trumps, then, Mr. Fortune? Anything you know is always trumps. You'll excuse me, but it's not my experience, sir. They came to Montmorency House where detectives were already domesticated with the border and had done the obvious things. The body, it was to be presumed, had fallen from one of the windows opening on the well. The men who had flats around the well were all accounted for save one. Mr. Rand, tenet of a flat on the top-story, had not been seen for some days. Ringing at Mr. Rand's door had produced no reply. Well, we do seem to be getting a bit warmer, said Superintendent Bell, and his subordinate in charge of the inquiries at the flats beamed and rubbed his hands and remarked that Rand seemed to have been a mysterious chap. Only had his flat a few weeks, not used it regularly, not by any means. No visitors to speak of, civil but distant. That sounds all right, said Bell, and looked at Reggie. What was he like, said Reggie? Middle-sized to big-ish, wore glasses, well-dressed, brown hair, which you wore rather long, they say, the inspector reeled off glibly. That's put the lid on, said Bell. Won't do for the corpse, Warren, not a bit like it. Well, sir, where are we now, he turned to Reggie? You will go so fast, Reggie, complained and sat down. I'm panting after you in vain. What's the primary hypothesis, Bell? Sir? Do we assume the corpse is Rand, or the Rand chucked the corpse out of the window? Ah, there's that, said the inspector, eagerly. We hadn't worked on that. We haven't worked on anything, if you ask me, said Bell, gloomily. What's your opinion, then, Mr. Fortune? The primary hypothesis is that we're looking for an able, masterful madman. Therefore my opinion is that the whole thing will look perfectly rational when we've got it all combed out, granting the madman's original mad idea. Am I to go around London looking for a rational madman, Bell protested? My dear chap, you could catch him by the thousand. There's nobody so damned rational as the lunatic. That's where he falls down. Do not be so discouraged. He's logical. He don't keep his eye on the facts. That is where we come in. We've come in all right, but we don't seem like getting out, Bell grumbled. I'm keeping my eye on the facts all right, but they won't fit. You're very hasty today, Bell, said Reggie mildly. Why this? I can see that fellow's face Bell muttered. Well, well, he's told us all he can, poor devil. We'll get on, if you please. Because Rans away, you don't follow that Rans the corpse. It might have come out of some other tenant's window. Know anything about the other tenants? Almost respectable, sir, said the inspector. My dear man, the whole affair is most respectable. Do get that into your head. I dare say we'll find the corpse was a conveyancer murdered by a civil servant. A crime of quiet, middle-class taste. What sort of fellows are the other fellows? Well, sir, there's a retired engineer and a young chap just married in the Remington firm and a naval officer and several young doctors with consulting rooms in Harley Street and one of the Mainards, the Devonshire family. That's all with any rooms on the well. I've seen them all, and if you ask me, they're right out of it. They're not the sort, not one of them. I dare say, said Reggie. They don't sound as if they would fit, none of them. Did they hear anything? No, sir, that's queer to be sure. It happened the night of the blizzard. You wouldn't have noticed a bomb. Well, who was Rand? That's what no one knows, sir. He's only been here a few weeks. Their service flat, you know, and furnished. He gave a banker's reference. Bank says he has no money reason to be missing. Quiet, stable account. Income from investments. Balance, three hundred odd. But the bank don't know anything about him. He had an account for years. He used to live off Jeremy Street, apartment house. The landlady died last year. And the landlady died last year, Reggie repeated. Easy Lucy, this Mr. Rand. Same like our corpse. But his Rand missing bell? He's not been seen for a few days. There's not much in that. He never used the flat regularly. And so far as we know, deceased isn't Rand. Well, I don't know quite as far as that, said Reggie. Good Lord! The porter who found him didn't recognize the body. Remember his face. My God, don't talk about his face. Sorry, sorry. Well, I daresay the porter was upset, too. Yes, but the porter said Rand was bigish and the body's on the small side. The porter said he had a lot of hair and the body's absolutely bald. My dear chap, give a man a straight back in a bit of manner and lots of fellows think he's bigish. Well, he's alive. And a man that's absolutely bald is just the man to wear a wig. I thought we were to go by fax, said Belle gloomily. And so we are, Belle, just to go on to begin, Mr. Snodgrass, sir, no rash haze. Have you got something up your sleeve? Not one little trump. Oh, my dear Belle, how can you? Did I ever, my simple open heart is broken? You're damn cheerful, aren't you? My dear man, I've never made you swear before. My dear Belle, sorry, let's get on, let's get on. I want to call on the illusive Rand. There was nothing individual about the rooms of Mr. Rand. He had been content with the furniture supplied by the owners of the place, which was of the usual wholesale dullness. Reggie turned to the manager of the flats. I suppose there's nothing in the place Mr. Rand owns, not even the pictures. The pictures were supplied by the contractors for the furniture, sir. So the Lord have mercy on their souls, said Reggie. So there's nothing of the tennis personal property except his clothes. He is illusive, our friend Rand, Reggie murmured, wandering about the room. Smoked a rather showy cigar, drank a fair whiskey, doesn't tell us much about him. Do the servants come here every day? The manager was embarrassed. Well, sir, in point of fact, we're shorthanded just now, not unless they're wrung for, not unless we know the tenants using the rooms. Don't apologize, don't apologize. In point of fact, they haven't been here since. He looked critically at some desk upon a grim bronze since when? I should say some days to the manager with diffidence. I should say a week, no matter many things. Superintendent Bell with some urgency ushered the manager out. When he had done that, he turned upon his inspector. Confound you. Warren, what do you want to stare at the waste-paper basket for? That chap would have seen it if Mr. Fortune hadn't gotten interested in the smokes and drinks. Reggie laughed and the inspector abased himself. Very sorry, sir, didn't know I stared. But it is so blooming odd. Bell snorted and lifted the basket onto the table. It was nearly full of black-burned paper. Why did they burn it in the basket, said the inspector. Because the fireplaces are all gas stoves, I suppose, said Bell. But I don't know why they couldn't leave the stuff on the hearth. Because this is a tidy crime, said Reggie. Nice, quiet, middle-class crime. No ugly mess. I told you that. The superintendent gazed at him. Now, what can you know, you know? I don't know. I feel. I feel the kind of man that did it, don't you? I'll lay you odds. He came with a neat, virtuous, middle-class home. The superintendent started. Who are you thinking of? You are so hasty today, Bell. I haven't got a who. Still anonymous is the slayer. But I'll swear I've got his character. Have you, though, said Bell? Tidy fellow, don't make a mess. Over that face, oh I said he was mad. Well I'm not yet. I'm only feeling what I can feel. He began to examine the burnt paper. Letters mostly, some stoutish paper, some stuff looks a bit like a notebook. That's all we'll get out of that. We'll accept the one thing. Whoever did that was clearing up. Clearing up something that might have left traces that might have been dangerous. Seemed like he cleared up the dead man's face. Don't you see, somebody in some affair had to be absolutely abolished. Yes, what was it? We may not ever know that, said Reggie slowly. I believe you, said Bell, and laughed. I feel that, sir. The inspector and he began to examine the room in detail, opening drawers and cupboards. But except for tobacco and spirits, they found no trace of Mr. Rand. Nothing had been broken open, but nothing was locked. No keys on the deceased were there, Mr. Fortune, said Bell, suddenly. And that's a point, too. Very few men go about without any keys. Well, hang it. Very few men go about without any money, Reggie expostulated. The corpse hadn't a copper. You can take the way we found him wasn't the way he used to go about. He'd do his vest up, for instance. I said, Bell, sagely, you've got it all in your head, I must say. That's the thing about you, Mr. Fortune, if you don't mind my saying so. You've always got a whole case in your mind at once. There's some of us only see it in bits, so to speak. Reggie smiled. He understood that Superintendent Bell was repenting of having lost his temper and anxious to make it up. I never found so good a fellow to work with as you, Bell, he said. You always keep a level head. Superintendent Bell shook it and stared at Reggie. Not today. As you know very well, Mr. Fortune, begging you pardon, I've been rattled. And that's the truth. I ought to know better at my time of life, to be sure. I've seen a good deal, too, you might say. But there's some things I'll never get used to. And that chap's face upset me. Reggie nodded. Yes, I was saying, the only things that make you afraid are the mad things. And the only thing that does you good is to fight him. That's why I cheered up. That's right, sir. Well now these facts of yours. There's no papers anywhere. All burnt in that basket. Rather odd that there is not so much as a book. I don't think he was a man of culture, the elusive rand. But you've missed something, haven't you? I daresay, Belgrind. I generally do when you're around. There's not a sign the murder was done in this room. Oh, I saw that all right. But we hadn't any reason to think it was. No, Reggie sighed. No. So tidy, so tidy. And they went into Mr. Wren's bedroom. That also was tidy. No trace of a struggle, of blood. That also had no papers, no books. Nothing personal but clothes. Spent a good time at his tailor, said Bel, looking into a well-filled wardrobe and rid out the name of a man in Savile Row. Hello. They're not all the same mate. Some cheap for stock. Why, what's the matter with this boot, sir, for Reggie was taking up one pair after another? Nothing. All quite satisfactory. About a nine and rather broad. The corpse were about a nine and had a broad foot. What's that about his clothes? Different tailors? Are the clothes all the same size, all made for the same man? Suit after suit was spread out on the bed. They were to the same measure. They all were marked W. H. Rand. Quite satisfactory, Reggie purred, that fit the corpse all right. Many different styles, though. He dressed to look different at different times. He is illusive, is W. H. Rand. They began to open drawers. There was the same abundance, the same variety of styles, in Mr. Rand's hosiery. Yes, he meant to be illusive, Reggie murmured. Anything from a bookmaker to a church warden at a funeral. Sixteen-and-a-half colors, though, and that's the measure of the corpse. Is all the linen marked? It was, and with ink, so that the mark could only be removed by taking out a piece of the stuff. If the corpse is Rand, where the devil did his shirt come from, said Reggie. The slayer unpicked a name from his coat. That was one of the Savaro suits. But the shirt, did the slayer bring a change of linen with him? Provident fellow, very provident. All on his knees by a chest of drawers gave a grunt. Lord, here's a drawer tumbled, and that's the first jet. It's new stuff, too. Not worn. Reggie bent over him and whistled. Not marked. Same sort of stuff as the corpse wear, and the drawers left untidy. The first untidy drawer. Well, well, everybody breaks down somewhere. He began to be untidy, then, when he got to the shirt and the vest. He shivered and turned away to the window. The damned place looks out on the well, he cried out, and turned back and sat down. Bah! The slayer did that, I suppose, he muttered, and sprang up. Believe in ghosts, you men? Oh, good lord, sir! Don't you start giving us the jumps, said Belle. Reggie was at the dressing table. Sorry, sorry, he said over shoulder, opening and shutting drawers. Then he turned with something in his hands. That wasn't such a bad shot of mine, Belle. Here's a wig. The corpse is uncommon bald. The elusive rand had lots of brown hair. Here's a nice brown wig. There's no blood on it, Belle cried. No, I guess this is Mr. Rand's second best. The one he had on when he was killed wouldn't look nice now. That about settles it, Belle said slowly. We haven't seen the bathroom, Reggie said. Belle looked at him and shrugged. Not likely to be much there, said the inspector. There could be, said Reggie gravely, and led the way. It was a bathroom of some size, but no luxury. Only the sheer necessities of bathing were provided. The lower half of the walls was tiled, the floor of linoleum. Reggie stopped in the doorway. Anything strike you about it, Belle? Looks new, sir. Yes, nice and clean. Tidy, don't you know? But there's no towels and no sponge. Yet in the bedroom everything was ready for Rand to sleep there tonight. Pajamas, brushes and comb, everything. Didn't he use the towels? Didn't he have a sponge? What do you mean, sir? This is where the slayer cleared up after the murder. And he took the dirty towels and the bloody sponge away with him. Tidy, fellow, always tidy. Just wait, will you? And he went into the bathroom in all fours. About the middle of the room he stopped and poured over the linoleum and felt it with the tips of his fingers. Then he stood up, went to the window and opened it, looked out. He examined the sill and then sat himself on it in the manner of a window cleaner and began to study the window frame. After a minute or two he pulled out a pocketknife and with great care cut a piece of wood. He put this down on the edge of the porcelain basin and resumed his study. When he had finished he went down again on his hands and knees and wandered over the floor. He made an exclamation. He laid down on his stomach and stretched underneath the bath. When he stood up he had at his hands something that glittered. He held it out on his palm to bell. What's that, sir? A matchbox? It might be. A gold matchbox, provisionally. No name. No initials. On opening we find inside a little white powder. He smelt it, put a fragment on the tip of his finger and tasted it. Which is cocaine. Well come in, Bill. Come and see what you can make of the place. I can't find a fingerprint anywhere. He slipped a gold box into his pocket. The two detectives came in and went of the room even more minutely than he. There's nothing that tells me anything, said Bill. Reggie sat on the edge of the bath. Well, well, I wouldn't say that, he said mildly. It's not what we could wish, Bill. But there are points. There are points. All right, sir, call Mr. Fortune, bell-grinned. I don't say it'll ever go into court, but some things we do know. The dead man is Rand, the illusive Rand. He had papers worth burning. He was killed by a powerful man with one or two blows, probably in the sitting-room. After death he was stripped and dressed in the unmarked clothes, probably here. Where his body was brought, where a mess could be cleaned up to have his face smashed in. You see the dents in the linoleum where his head lay, and then he was pitched out by that window. There's a bit of animal matter, probably human tissue, on that scrap of wood. Then the slayer packed up everything that was bloody and went off. And one of them, the tidy slayer, or the illusive Rand, one of them used cocaine. The superintendent bell shrugged his shoulders. It don't take as very far, sir, does it? It don't mount to so much. What should I call a baffling case? I mean to say, we don't seem to get near anybody. Reggie Grunted got off the bath, and taking with him his bit of wood went back to the sitting-room the two detectives in silent attendance. There he tumbled Mr. Rand's cigarettes out of their box and put his bit of wood in it. I suppose there's nothing more here, he murmured, his eyes wandering around the room. Try it with the lights on. Switch on, inspector. No. Ah, what's that? He went to the gas-fire and picked out of its lumps of sham coal a scrap of gleaming metal. The next moment he was down on his knees, pulling the fire to pieces. Give me an envelope, will you? He said over his shoulder, and they saw he was collecting scraps of broken glass. What is it, sir? That's the bridge of a pair of rimless eyeglasses, and if we're lucky, we can reconstruct the lenses. When Rand was hit, his glasses jumped off and smashed themselves. That's the fourth thing the slayer didn't think of. You don't miss much, Mr. Fortune. Still it is baffling, very baffling. Even now we don't know anybody, so to speak. We don't even know Rand. Who was Rand, would you say? It was worth somebody's while to do him in. I suppose he knew something. But what did he know? Who was Rand? Reggie was putting on his overcoat. He collected his envelope and his cigarette box, and put him away, looking the while with dreamy eyes, his superintendent Bell. Yes, he said. Yes, there's a lot of unknown qualities about just now. Who the devil was Rand? Well, well, I think that finishes us here. Will you ring for the lift, Inspector? When he was left alone with Bell still gazed dreamily at that plump, stalled face, yes, who the devil was Rand? And if you come to that, who the devil is Sanford? Good Lord, Mr. Fortune, do you mean this business is that business? Well, there are a lot of unknown qualities about it, said Reggie. End Phase 3 of The Business Minister by H. C. Bailey. Phase 4, The Charge, now begins. When they talked about the case afterwards, Reggie and Lomas used to agree that it was a piece of pure art, crime unstained by any vulgar greed or sentiment, sheer crime, iniquity neat, an impressive thing, Lomas, old dear. So it is, Lomas nodded. One meets cases of the kind, but never quite of so pure a style. Upon my soul, Fortune, it has a sort of grandeur, the intensity of purpose, the contempt for ordinary values, the absolute uselessness of it. And it was damned clever. Reggie chose a cigar. Great work, he sighed. All the marks of the real great man, if it wasn't diabolical. He was a great man, but for the hate in him. Just like the devil. You're so moral, Lomas, protested. Don't you feel the beauty of it? Of course I'm moral. I'm sane. Oh, so sane, Lomas, old thing. That's why I beat the wily criminal. And the devil got helpin'. Yes, you're as sane as a boy, Lomas nodded. But all that was afterwards. Everything that was done in the case is not, though you may have feared so, written here. We take it in the critical, significant scenes, and the next of them arrive some days after the discovery of the corpse. Lomas was in his room with Superintendent Belth, when Kimball came to them. He was brisker than ever. Anything new is there? Have you hit on anything? I came around at once to see when I got your note. Delighted to get it. Much better to have all the details cleared up. Well, what is it? I'm afraid I have nothing for you myself, said Lomas. The fact is, Fortune thought you might be able to give him some information on one or two points. I? God bless me. You know all that I know. Where is he, then, if he wants me? Reggie came in. Have you been waiting, he said, with his aroused manner? So sorry, things are really rolling up, you know. New facts by every post. Well, well, he dropped into a chair and blinked at the party. What are we all doing here? Oh, ah, I remember. He smiled and nodded to Kimball. It was that fellow I wanted to ask you about. Kimball, as was natural, did not relish this sort of thing. I understood you had something important on hand. I have no time to waste. Why, it's so jolly hard to understand what's important and what isn't, don't you know, but it all comes out in the end. You think so, do you? This is the coal affair? I wouldn't say that, Reggie answered thoughtfully. No, I wouldn't say that. After all, the coal ramp isn't the only pebble on the beach. Then why did the devil do you bother me, Kimball cried? Reggie sat up suddenly, because this is something you must know. He rearranged his coat and slid down into the chair again and drawled out what he had to say. Sometime the end of last year, point of fact, last December, being quite precise, from 5th to 29th, in one of the nursing homes in Queen Anne Street, speaking strictly, number 1003, there was a man being operated on by Sir Jenkins Totteridge for an affection of the middle ear. This chap was called Mason. You went to see him several times. Who is Mason? Kimball stared at him with singular intensity, then he swung halfway around in his chair with one of his characteristic jerky movements and pulled out a snuff box. He took a pinch. You found a mare's nest, he said, with a laugh and took another pinch. As he spoke, Reggie sprang up with some vehemence bumping into his arm. Sorry, sorry, a mare's nest, you say. Now what exactly do you mean by that? Kimball stood up too. I mean you're wasting my time, he said. This isn't what I should call an explanation, Reggie murmured. For instance, do you mean you didn't go see Mason? Don't let's have any more of this damn trifling, Kimball cried. Certainly I went to see Mason. Good. Who is he? Jack Mason is a fellow I knew in my early days. I went up and he didn't. I've seen little of him these ten years. When he had an operation, poor chap, he wrote to me and I went to see him for the sake of old times. And what the devil has to do with Scotland Yard. Mason is the man who is found at the Montmore and Seahouse flats with his face smashed in. God bless my soul, Mason. Poor chap, poor chap, but what are you talking about? The paper said that was a man called Rand. Mason otherwise Rand. Rand otherwise Mason. Who is Mason and why did somebody kill him? Paul made one of his jerky jesters. Killed, was he? I thought he fell out of the window. He was murdered. Good God, old Jack Mason, it's beyond me. I haven't a notion. You know, this upsets me a good deal. I've seen little of him for a long time. I can hardly believe he's gone. But why the devil did he call himself Rand? What was he? said Reggie Sharpley. God bless me, I couldn't tell you, Kimball laughed. He was always very close, an agent in a small way when I knew him. Colonial produce and so forth, I fancy he went in for building land. Comfortably off, always, but he never got on. Very reserved, fellow. Love to be mysterious. No, I suppose it isn't surprising he used two names. Why was he murdered, said Reggie? I can't help you. That's all you can say? Yes, afraid so. Yes. Let me know as soon as you have anything more. Good morning, good morning. He bustled out. A bit hurried, as you might say, said Superintendent Bell. Reggie picked up a paper knife and fell on his knees. He rose with some fragments of white powder on the blade. I suppose you saw me jog his arm, he said, and that's cocaine. He tumbled Lomas' paper clips out of the box and put the stuff in. Do you remember the first time we had him here? He took snuff. I thought he was rather odd about it, and after it I went over to the window where he stood to see if I could find any of the stuff he used. But he had been careful. He is careful, is Kimball. His damn careful Lomas agreed and began to write on a scribbling pad looking at each word critically. There was a pause. Beg your pardon, sir, said Superintendent Bell. You talked about the murderer being a madman's job. Do you mean Mr. Kimball being a dopefiend? Is not responsible for his actions? Oh, Lord, no. Kimball's not a dopefiend. He used the stuff same like we use whiskey. He's not a slave to it yet. Say he's a heavy drinker. It's just beginning to interfere with his efficiency. That's why he left the box behind in the bathroom. That's why he's a little jerky. But he's pretty adequate still. You talked about mad. You were emphatic, as you might say, Bell insisted. What might you have in your mind, sir? Mr. Kimball's generally reckoned uncommonly practical. He isn't ordinarily mad, said Reggie. He don't think he's Julius Caesar or a poached egg. He don't go out with his trousers. He don't see red and go out blind. But there is something queer in him. I doubt if they're physical, these perversions. Call it a disease of the soul. Ah, well, his soul, said Bell gravely. I judge he's not a Christian man. I wish I did know his creeds at Reggie with equal gravity. It would be very instructive. Lomas tapped his pencil impatiently. We're not evangelists. We're policemen, he said. And what do we do next? Take out a warrant and arrest Kimball, said Reggie carelessly. Bell and Lomas looked at each other and then at him. I don't see my way, said Lomas. The corpse can be identified as Mason. I'll swear to the operation. Toderich will swear as the man he operated on is Mason. Kimball admits several visits to Mason in the room from which the corpse was thrown was a gold snuff box containing cocaine. Shortmans will swear that box is his make and exactly similar to a box sold to Kimball. And Kimball takes cocaine. It's a good prima facie case. Yes, did you ever see a jury that would hang a man on it? We do have to be so careful, Bill murmured. Reggie laughed and Kimball's a cabinet minister. Damn it, fortune be fair, Lomas cried. If I had a sound case against a man, he would stand his trial whoever he was. I don't wink at a fellow who's got a pole. You know that. But there's a reason in all things. I can't charge a cabinet minister with murder on evidence like this. What is it after all? He picked up a scribbling pad and read three circumstances. Kimball knew the murdered man. A snuff box like Kimball's was found on the scene of the murder. That snuff box held cocaine and cocaine is what Kimball uses. Circumstantial evidence that is weakest. Neither judge nor jury would look at it. There's no motive. There's no explanation of the method of the crime. My dear chap, suppose you were on the other side. You would tear it to ribbons in five minutes. On the other side, Reggie repeated slowly. I'm not an advocate, Lomas. I'm always on the same side. I'm for justice. I'm for the man who's been wronged. Lomas stared at him. Yes, quite, quite. But we generally take all that for granted, don't we? My dear chap, you mustn't mind my saying so, but you do preach a good deal over this case. I had noticed the same thing myself, said Superintendent Bell, and they both looked curiously at Reggie. Why am I so moral? Because this thing's so damned immoral, said Reggie van Manley. What's most crime? Human, human greed, human lust, human hostility. But this is diabolical. Share evil for evil's sake. Lomas, I'll swear, when we have it all out, we'll find that it still looks unreasonable, futile, pure passion for wrong. Meaning Mr. Kimball mad. You do come back to that, sir, Bell said. Not legally mad, probably not medically mad. I mean he has the devil in him. Really, my dear fortune, you do surprise me, Lomas said. I perceive that in all things, you are too superstitious. The right honorable gentleman hath a devil. It isn't done, you know. This is the 20th century, and you're a scientific man. Consider your reputation, and mine, if you don't mind. What the devil are we to do? Try exorcism? You won't charge Kimball, Lomas signified an impatient negative. Very well, you say you won't let a man off because he's in the government. Suppose you had a prima facie case like this against a nobody. Suppose I brought you as good grounds for resting Sanford. Wouldn't you have him in the dock when you're conscious now? Again Bell and Lomas consulted each other's faces. I wonder why you drag in Sanford, said Lomas slowly. He's in it all right. I ask you a question. Well, if you insist, wouldn't my charge a man on a prima facie case to hear his defense? Reggie struck his hand on the table. There it is, a man who is nobody. He can stand trial, not a cabinet minister. Oh, dear, no! My dear fellow, the world is what it is. You know very well that if I wanted to charge Kimball on this evidence it would be turned down. I couldn't force the issue without a stronger case. Do have some sense of the practical. Reggie smiled. I'm not blaming you, I only want to rub it in. Thanks very much. We are to suspect Kimball, I suppose. Like the devil and watching. I see, yes. I think we shall be quite justified in watching, Mr. Kimball. But my dear fellow, you are rather odd this morning. If you want Kimball watched, why the devil do you handle him so violently? You know you almost accused him of the murder. Anything more likely to put him on his guard I can't imagine. Yes, yes, I think I made him jump, said Reggie with satisfaction. Quite intentional, Lomus, old thing. He's on his guard all right, but he don't know how little we know. I meant to put him in a funk. I want to see what a funk will make him do. Lomus looked at him steadily. For a very moral man, he said, you have a good deal of the devil about you. I think I had to say, Mr. Fortune, said Belf. We've all been in a hurry to judge Mr. Kimball. I said things myself. And I do say he's not a Christian man, an unbeliever, I'm afraid. But I had ought to say, too, he lives a very clean life. Always has. Temperate, very quiet, style, a thorough good master, generous to his employees, and always ready to come downhandsome for a good cause. Who is Kimball Bell, said Reggie quietly. Sir? Bell stared. He's always been known, sir. Richard and Liverpool on the Cotton Exchange, went into rubber, came to London, that's his career, all quite open and straight. And we don't know a damn thing about him. Well, really, Fortune, you're rather exacting. You're after his soul, I suppose, said Lomus with something like a sneer. Who is Kimball, Reggie insisted. There's two unknown quantities. Who is Kimball? Who is Sanford? I'm afraid you want the day of judgment, my dear fellow, said Lomus, unto whom all hearts are open, all desires are known, that sort of thing. Well, we can't ring up the recording angel from here. It's a trunk call. I know you're worldly, but you might know your world. Look about, Lomus, old thing. I've been looking about. He took out a newspaper cutting. Lomus read. Sanford. Anyone who can give any information about Mrs. Ellen Edith Sanford, resident of Lund Fairfekin from 1882 to 1900, formerly of Lancashire, is urgently begged to communicate with XYZ. He looked up. Of Lancashire? That's a guess. Reggie nodded. North Wales is mostly Lancashire people. Well, there's no harm in it. Do you want us to advertise for Kimball's wet nurse? And his sisters, and his cousins, and his aunts, yes, all in good time, but watch him first. Watch them both. He nodded and sauntered out. Lomus lit a cigarette and pushed the box to Bell. Both men smoked a minute in silence. Then Lomus said, That's a damn clever fellow, Bell. Yes, sir. I've often thought he was too clever by half, but, dammit, I don't remember thinking he was uncanny before. I have noticed it, said Bell diffidently, in a manner of speaking. Of course he does know a lot, does Mr. Fortune, a rare lot of stuff. But that's natural, as were. What upsets you is the sort of way he feels men, as if he has senses you haven't got. Very strange the way he knows men. Phase 4 of the Business Minister by H.C. Bailey Chapter 6, Part 3 of Call Mr. Fortune. This is a LibriVox recording. A LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Mike Ferry, 252. Call Mr. Fortune by H.C. Bailey, Chapter 6. Phase 5, the reply. Their admiration for Reggie Fortune received a shock the next day. It came by telephone. Just after his late and lazy breakfast, Reggie was rung up from Scotland Yard. Bell spoke. Mr. Lomas thought that Mr. Fortune would like to know that Sanford had gone down to Mr. Kimball's place. Reggie answered, Oh, Peter. In a quarter of an hour, he was in Lomas' room asking for confirmation. There was no doubt. The detective watching Sanford's chambers had followed him to Victoria and heard him take a ticket to our install. Kimball's place almost gone with him. So that's the next move, said Lomas. And if you can tell me what it means, I shall be obliged to you. Reggie dropped his hand on the table. Not a guess. He said, How can a man guess? We don't even know how much they know. Whether one knows what's the other knows. I could fancy Sanford. What's the use? So runs my dream, but what am I? An infant crying in the night. An infant crying for the light. And with no language but a cry. Same like you, Lomas. I notice you are not so much the moral sage this morning. Lomas said thoroughly, Lomas, dear, don't be unkind. I can't bear it. I wish to God I was down there. Damn it, we've got two men down there now. One on Sanford, one on Kimball. They'll be knocking their heads together. What the devil do you think he could do? Nothing, Lord, don't I know it? Nothing, that sort of makes me pavish. Lomas said severely that he had work to do. And my G left him promising to come back and take him out to lunch, which he received as if it were a threat. But when my G did come back, Superintendent Bell was in the room and Lomas was listening to the telephone. Bell looked oddly at Reggie. Lomas raised a blank and pallet face from the receiver. Sanford has murdered Kimball, he said. Oh, Peter, I wonder if he's brought it off? Reggie murmured. Has he brought it off after all? He bit his lip. Lomas was talking into the telephone, asking for details, giving instructions. Hold the line, cut that out, said Reggie. Will go down Lomas, please. Tell your chap to meet us at the house. My car's here. Lomas gave the orders and rang off. I'll have to go, I suppose, he agreed. One doesn't kill Cabinet Ministers every day. More's the pity, damn the case. There's nothing in it to their fortune. Sanford was walking up to the house. He met Kimball in the lane. They were crossing the ornamental water in the park when they had a quarrel. Kimball was thrown in. He called out, you scoundrel, you have murdered me. When they got Kimball out, he was dead. That's all. I'm afraid it's Walsh's stuff about Kimball right out. Well, well, Reggie draw, looking through his eyelashes. Where is he that knows Lomas? From the great deep to the great deep, he goes, Lomas, will get on. What about lunch? Damn lunch, said Reggie. The other two, who liked food far less than he but could not go without it, lingered to collect sandwiches and found him chafing in the driver's seat. They exchanged looks of horror. I'm too old for Mr. Fortune's driving and that's a fact, bell mumbled. When I got out alive after that day it's working, I swore I'd never go again, said Lomas. But they quailed before Reggie's virtual impoliteness when he asked them if they would please get in. It is in the evidence of Lomas that they only slowed once. When an old lady dropped her handkerchief in the middle of Croydon, he is in conflict with the statement of Bell as to the most awful moments. For he selects the episode of The Traction Engine with trucks at the Alwenstow Crossroads and Bell choose the affair of the motorbuss and the caravan and to burst them. They agree that they arrived at Alwenstow Park in a cold sweat. A detective came out onto the steps to meet them and watched reverently Bell and Lomas helping each other out. Reggie ran up to him. Which are you? Beck Pardons, sir. Oh, I'm Hall. I had Mr. Kimball. It was Parker had Mr. Sanford. He turned to Lomas. Good morning, sir. I tried to get you on the telephone, but they said you were on your way down. Oh, you've been on the telephone too? When I heard what Parker's information was, I rung up quick, sir. It's a very queer business, sir. Where is Parker and where is Sanford? I suppose you've arrested him? Well, no, sir. Not strictly speaking. We detained him pending instructions. Damn, you're very careful. Parker saw them out of commitment, didn't he? Well, sir, if I may say so, that's strong conclusions. I don't understand Parker where it goes as far as that. Good God, said Lomas. Well, the devil is Parker. Keep him as to Sanford under observation, sir, according to instructions. Peggy, I pardon, sir. I've heard his story and I quite agree it all happened like that. But you haven't heard mine. Lomas looked around him. The house was too near. Well, walk on the lawn, he announced. No, then. Parker says the two men quarreled on the bridge over the lake where Kimball was thrown in. As he fell, he called out, you scoundrel, you've murdered me. And you say that isn't murder. Did Sergeant Parker say thrown in? Zid Hall would surprise in his face and in his voice. I believe he didn't, said Lomas slowly. No, he said Kimball was thrown off and as he fell in, he called out. That's right, sir, said Hall heartily. But I reckon there is more to it than that. When Mr. Kimball came out this morning, I was waiting for him in the park. It was rather touch and go because he had some men at work above the lake. He went down that way to the station. As he was crossing the bridge, he tried the rails. It was very odd, sir, but a bit of the bar. It's sort of a rustic stuff. Was that loose? It came off in his hand. He put it back and went on. He met Mr. Sanford in the road and turned back with him. I had to get out of the way quick. I just say we're coming back to the house. So I did a run and dropped over the fence and was away on the other side of the lake. Then I went into the rhododendrons and waited for them to pass. You see, sir, park are to keep well out of sight behind and I was as near makes no matter. Well, if you'll believe me, it was Mr. Kimball made the quarrel and all in a minute, he made it. One minute they were walking quite friendly. The next he whips round on Mr. Sanford and he called him a bad name. I couldn't hear all he was talking so quick, but there was ugly words in it. Then he made strike Mr. Sanford and Mr. Sanford closed and chucked him back and into the water he went just where that same rail that he looked at was loose. But it's true, as he felt, he called out, you scoundrel, leave murdered me. Well, well, sir, he didn't bring it off after all. Said Reggie, we trumped his last card. Sir? Said the detective. You are the trump, said Reggie. Oh my aunt, I feel much better. I wonder if there's any lunch in these parts. What about to learn this old thing? I'm damned if I understand, said Lomis. I want Sanford. Let's go up to the house. They found Sanford sitting in an easy chair in the dead man's library. He was reading to Reggie's ineffable admiration. He was reading a book by Mr. Sidney Webb on the history of trade unions. Sergeant Parker, the detective, made himself uncomfortable at the table and poured over his notebook. All right, all right, Parker. Quite understood. Lomis waved him away. Good afternoon, Mr. Sanford. Sorry to detain you. Most unfortunate affair. Good afternoon. It is not necessary to apologize to Sanford completely himself. I realized that the police must require my account of the affair. Yesterday afternoon, Mr. Kimball rang me up to my rooms. I did not learn from where he was speaking. He said that my affair, that was his first. My affair had taken a new turn and he wished me to come and see him here this morning. He named the train by which I was to travel. I thought it strange that he should bring me into the country, but I had no valid ground of objection. Accordingly, I came this morning. I thought it strange that he said no conveyance to meet me. I started to walk to the house. In the lane, he met me walking. He talked of indifferent things in a rather broken manner, I thought, but that was common with him. And yet I was surprised he did not come to the point. He was, however, quite friendly until we reached the bridge of the lake. Then without any warning or reason, he turned upon me and was violently abusive. His language was vulgar and even filthy. He attempted to strike me and I defended myself. I was, in fact, a good deal alarmed, for he was, as you know, much bigger and heavier than I. And he was in a frenzy of rage. To my surprise, I may say my relief. I was able to resist him. I pushed him off. Really, you know? It seemed quite easy and the handrail behind him gave way and he fell into the water. As he fell, he called out, you scoundrel, you've murdered me. I can only suppose he was not responsible for his actions. Much obliged, said Lomis. I'm afraid he've had a distressing time. It has been a remarkable experience, said Sanford. May I ask if there is any reason why I should not return to town? No, no, Lomis looked at him clearly. You have an uncommon cool head. They'll want your evidence at the inquest, of course, but it's bad to say. I quite accept your story. I'm obliged to you, said Sanford, in a tone of surprises if he could not conceive that anyone should not. I am told there is a train at 335. Good afternoon. One moment, one moment, said Raji. Do you know of any reason in the world Kimball had to hate you? Certainly not, said Sanford, in offended dignity. Our relations were short and wholly official. I conceived that he had no reason to complain of my services and yet he meant to murder you or have you hanged for his murder? If he did, I can only suppose that he was out of his mind. Was he out of his mind when he walked the call ramp to ruin you? Dear me, said Sanford, do you really suggest, sir, that Mr. Kimball was responsible for that scandalous piece of finance? Who else? But really, you startled me. That is to say, as a minister, he betrayed the secrets of the department. Well, he didn't stick out a trifle, did he? The poor fellow must have been mad. Said Sanford with grave sympathy. Yes, yes, but why was he mad? Why did he hate you? My dear chap, do such a memory. Can you think of any sort of connection between Kimball and you? I never heard of him till he became prominent in the house. I never saw him till he came into the office. Our relations were always perfectly correct. Now, I can only suppose that he was insane. Is it any use to try to discover reasons for the antipathies of madness? I have not studied the subject, but it seems obvious that they must be irrational. I am sorry I cannot help your investigations. I believe I better catch my train. Good afternoon. You know, I begin to like that fellow. He's so damned honest, said Raji. He's a cold, blooded fish. It's enormous. Beg ad, you don't know how near he was to death. Did you ever hear anything less plausible than that yarn of his? If we didn't know it was true, we wouldn't believe a word of it. Good God. Suppose Hall hadn't been down here watching. We should have had the outside facts. Sanford, who had been accused and suspended by Kimball, suddenly comes down to Kimball's house, meets him, quarrels with him, and throws him into the lake. And the man working in the park, a little way off, just saw the struggle. Just heard Kimball call out that he was murdered. Said Raji, don't forget the man. They're a most interesting touch. He always thought of everything, did Mr. Kimball. He had them there, just the right distance for the evidence he wanted. I don't know if you see the full significance of those men working in the park. No more sat down. I don't mind owning. I thought they were accidental. My dear chap. Oh my dear chap, there was very little accidental in the vicinity of the late Kimball. They were there to give evidence that would hang Sanford. And that proves Kimball didn't mean to throw Sanford into the lake. He wanted to be thrown in. He wanted to be killed and get Sanford hanged for it. I suppose so, limits agreed. It's a case that's happened before. And you couldn't always say the creatures that planned it were mad. Not legally mad, not medically mad. I always said that. No, I don't know that it's even very strange. Quite a lot of people be ready to die if they could get their enemies killed by their death only. They don't see their way, but he was an able fellow, the late Kimball. Able, I should say so. If our men hadn't been here, Sanford would have been as good as hanged. Nobody could have believed his story. Why did he come here? There's no evidence of Kimball's telephone call. What did Sanford come for? There's no reasonable reason. Kimball put him under a cloud. He was furious. He meant murder and did it. The jury wouldn't to leave the box. That's right, sir, said Superintendent Bell. If it wasn't for Mr. Fortune, he'd be down and out. Well, you might call a rarity in our work to save a man from a charge of murder before it comes along. How do you mean? Reggie seemed to come back from other thoughts. Oh, because I told you to have Kimball watched. Well, it was pretty clear he wasn't the kind to go about without a chaperone. We took that trick, I suppose Kimball's thinking, whether he is, that we won the game. But I wouldn't say that. I wouldn't say that. Why did he hate Sanford? My dear fellow, the man was mad. You mean he didn't like the way Sanford does his hair or he thought Sanford was a German spy? No, he wasn't that kind of mad. There's something we don't know, Lomas, all thing. I dare say it's crazy enough. I'll bet you my favorite shirt it's something the ordinary sane man feels. If we are to go looking for something crazy which sane men feel, said Lomas. Speaking broadly, all the human emotions, said Reggie, didn't you ever hate a man because he married a girl who was pretty? Don't be so godlike. They weren't either of them married, sir. Said Belle, in grave surprise. How do you know? Reggie snapped. No, I don't suppose they were, but we don't know. We don't know anything. That's why I say we haven't won the game. Well, well, for God's sake, let's have some food. There was a modest pub in the village. I saw it when you let off your futile scream at the traction engine. Let's go. I don't seem to want to eat Kimball's grub. Two or three days after Lomas received an invitation to lunch in Wimple Street. I owe you one, Reggie wrote. I owe myself one. I want to forget the high tea of Alwin's dough. Do you remember the pickles and the bacon? What had that pig been doing? Another aesthetic I fear, students of the nematode. So naturally, when Lomas came, his first question was what made nematode be? Never mind, Reggie sighed. It's a painful subject, a disgusting subject. Same like what we make our living by. They are among the criminals of animal life, real bad eggs. A sad world, Lomas old thing. Let's forget all about crime. They did for an hour and a half, at the end of which Lomas said dreamily, you're a remarkable fellow, fortune. I didn't know how you can retain any brain. You do yourself so well. Yes, most seductive habit of life. I meant to say something when I came. What was it? I believe you have talked of everything else in creation. Ah yes, did you ever hear of the Kimball case? I think we have combed it all out. Have you though? Reggie sat up. Yes, we've been dealing with a stockbroker too. I'm really afraid there was a little bullying. We hinted that there might be developments about a certain murder case and two of them began to talk. We got found Mason's past. Oh, that? Reggie said, quite obvious, wasn't it? Kimball meant to use his call scheme to ruin Samford. He sent Mason who had probably been his go-between and other financial things to give the brokers the tip. It was also Rand Mason who paid the money into Samford's account. Remember the stout man in glasses? Then probably he struck for better pay or they had a row. Anyway, he threatened to give the show away. Kimball couldn't trust him anymore. Damned trust him. So he wiped Rand Mason out. Is that right, sir? I'm not omniscient myself, but certainly Rand Mason was the man who put the brokers onto it. There was not much doubt he went to Samford's bank. By the way, Kimball had several big sticks. His valet says he liked weight. I daresay. Had Kimball any papers? Not a line that throws light on this. As you know everything, I'd like to hear why Kimball tried this murder plan last instead of first. How can you be so unkind, though, Miss? I keep telling you I don't know anything. I calm and shout it on your ear. I don't know the thing that really matters. Who was Kimball? Who was Samford? What is he that Kimball couldn't bear him? I said that at the beginning. I say it now in italics. Good lord, you can hear Kimball laughing at us. Don't be uncanny. Well, I'm not really sure he is laughing at us. Wait a while. But why did Kimball try murder last instead of first? Oh, that's easy. He was an epicure in hate. He didn't want me a blood. He wanted the beggar to suffer, to be ruined. Not just dead. Hence, he wanted to break Samford. Then ran Mason complicated the affair. Kimball had a murder on his back and I scared him. He thought we had enough to convict him or that we'd get it. He said to himself, I'm for it anyway. I'll have to die. Well, why shouldn't my death hang Samford? And he played that last card. I suppose so, long as agreed. Anyway, it's all quite rational, isn't it? I always said it would be granted that it was worth anything to ruin Samford and Kimball's a most efficient fellow. But why was it worth anything to ruin Samford? Oh, God knows, said Lomas gravelly. Yes, I wonder if Jane Brown does. He handed Lomas a letter. Dear sir, your advertisement for information about Mrs. Ellen Edith Samford, I have some which is at your service if he can satisfy me why you wanted. Yours truly, Jane Brown. I should say Jane is a character, said Lomas. Yes, she alert me. I told her who I was and she said she'd come to tea. She kept her appointment. Reggie found himself facing a large young woman. In her construction, nature had been very happy. She had decorated its work with admirable art. She was physically in the grand style, but she had a merry eye and her clothes were not only charming, but of sophisticated elegance. Reggie, there is no doubt stared at her for a moment and a half. Miss Jane Brown, he said slowly. I haven't brought my goldfathers and goldmothers. Mr. Fortune, she smiled. But I am Jane Brown, really. I always felt I couldn't live up to it. I see you know me. If seeing one no one, I should know Miss Joan Amber very well. It's delightful to be able to thank her for the real Rosalind, all the Rosalind there is. She made a McCursey. I'm lucky, I didn't think he'd be like this. I expected an old man with glasses and this, said Reggie maliciously. This is the chief of the criminal investigation department, Mr. Lomas. Lomas led his eyeglass fall. I also am young enough to go to the theater. I shall go on being young so long as Miss Amber is acting. May I sit down? Said she, pathetically. You're rather overwhelming. I thought it would be terrific and severe and suspicious, but you know you're bland. Simply bland. This is your fault, Lomas, said Reggie severely. I have often been called flippant and even futile, but never bland before, never bland. It is a tribute to your maturity, my dear Fortune. Her golden eyes sent a glance at Reggie. Mature, she said. I suppose you are real. Oh, let's be serious. I am Jane Brown, you know. Amber, of course. I had to have another name for the stage. Amber, because of my hair. She touched it and your eyes, said Reggie. Nevermind, said she with another glance, but the gayity had gone out of them. My father was a doctor in Liverpool. He is worth 20,000 of me and he never made enough to live on. For poor middle-class practice, the work wore him out by the time he was 50 and now he's an invalid in Devonshire. He can't walk upstairs even. Hot, you know. And he simply pints to work. Oh, I know this doesn't matter to you, but I can't forget it. If only people were paid what they're worth. I beg your pardon, this isn't business-like. Well, he was the doctor that the Kimball family went to. Old Mr. Kimball was a clerk and the son, the man who was drowned the other day, began like that too. The old people died about the time young Mr. Kimball and his sister grew up. She kept house for her brother. He began as a broker and got on. In a way, my father always says that, in a way he was devoted to her. Nothing he could pay for was too good for her. He always wanted her with him, but he made awful demands on her. She mustn't have any interest of her own. She mustn't make any friends, like some men aren't with their wives, you know. Horrible, isn't it? She turned upon Reggie. Common form of selfishness, passing into mania, not only male, you know. Some mothers are like that. Yes, I know they are, but it's worse with men and their wives. The wife can't grow up, the children can't. Reggie agreed. It is exactly that, said she eagerly. You understand? Oh well, this isn't business-like either. And then Kimball fell in love. He was just an ordinary sort of man, a clerk of some sort. Sanford, it was his name. Horace Kimball was furious. My father says Sanford was nothing in particular. There was no special reason why she should marry him or why she shouldn't. He was insignificant, hereditary. Reggie nodded to Lomas, I beg your pardon? Your father understood men, Miss Amber. And did he does? Of course, Horace Kimball did the absurd thing, said she mustn't marry, abused Sanford, and so on. And of course, that made him marry. Unfortunately, this really seems to be the only thing against her. Unfortunately, she was married in a sly, secret sort of way. She didn't tell her brother she made up her mind, when the marriage was to be or anything. She simply slunk out of his house and left him to find out. I suppose he had terrified her, poor thing. Or his bullying made her silent, said Miss Amber. It was rather feeble of her. Only one hates to blame her. Her brother was furious. My father says that he never saw such a strange case of a man holding down a passionate rage. He thought at one time that Horace Kimball would have gone mad. The things seemed like an obsession. Doesn't it seem paltry? A man wild would temper because he was jealous of his sister marrying? Most jealousy is paltry. No more shrugged. Jealous of his sister marrying? Reggie repeated. Yes, I dare say seven in 10 men are. Common human emotion. Commonest in the form of mothers hating the son's wives, Miss Amber. Still, men do their bit. Fathers proverbially object to daughters' marrying. Brothers, well, there's quite a lot of folklore about brothers killing their sister's lovers. Yes, common human emotion. I think jealousy is simply lonesome. Said Miss Amber with the quiver of her admirable nose. Well, it's fair to say Horace Kimball seemed to get over the worst of his. He just lost himself in his business, my father says. He wouldn't see his sister again. Not even when a child was born. It was a boy. He simply swept her out of his life. Even when Sam forgot her into trouble, he wouldn't hear of helping her. My father quarreled with him over that. He said to my father, she's made a bed and they can all die in it. Well, I know he's dead and I'm one oughtn't to say things, but I call that simply devilish. Yes, I believe in the devil too. Said Reggie. Devilish, you're exactly right, Miss Amber. Sam forgot into trouble did he. What was that? It was some scandal about his business, a breach of trust in some way. His employers didn't prosecute, but they dismissed him in disgrace. My father doesn't remember the details. It was giving away some business secrets. Reggie looked at Lomas. That's very interesting, he said. Interesting. Poor people though, it was misery for them. Sam fund was ruined. My father says he never really tried to make a fresh start. He just died because he didn't want to go on living and his wife broke her heart over it. She seemed like a woman frightened out of his senses, my father says. She got it into her head that it was all her brother's fault, that he had planned the whole thing. It was absurd of course, but can you wonder? I don't wonder, said Reggie. She was deadly afraid of her brother. She made up a mind that he would be the death of a baby too. So, she ran away from Liverpool and hid in a little village in North Wales, Lawn Fairfetcham. And nobody knew where she had gone. She had a little money of her own and her husband had been well insured. She had just enough and she lived quite alone in a cottage off the road to the mountains and there she died. My father says the son did rather well. He got scholarships to Oxford and my father found sees he wanted to the civil service but he lost sight of him after the mother died. I'm infinitely obliged to you, Miss Samba. Said Reggie in rank for tea. Oh no, don't. I always thought that poor woman's story was too miserably sad. I don't know why you wanted it. No, no, I'm not asking. But if it could set anything right or do anybody any good, it seems somehow to make it better. It wouldn't be so uselessly cruel. Over the past, the gods themselves have no power. Reggie said, we can't help her, poor soul. I dare say it's something to her to know that her son is safe and making good, in spite of all, the devilry. Something to her? Of course it is. Said Miss Amber and looked divine. There's that, said Reggie, watching her. You won't mind my saying professionally that you've been very useful, Miss Amber, said Lomas. You've cleared up what was a very tiesome mystery that was being bothered. That's serious disturbance of the machinery of empire. He succeeded as he desired in setting the conversation to a lighter tune. He made Miss Amber's eyes again merry. He did not prevent Reggie from looking at her. You must promise me another opportunity to thank you, he said as she was going. Dear me, I thought you had been doing nothing else. Said she demeritly and looked at the table and made a face. Oh, Mr. Fortune, what? What a tea! I leave all my reputation behind me. Men hate to see women eat, don't they? But do men always make teas like this? I have a simple mind, I live the simple life. She looked at him fairly. You said simple. Do you know how I feel? I feel as if I hadn't a secret left all of my own. And she swept away. He was a long time gone letting her out. And that's that. Reggie said when he came back, really, Lomas was dim behind cigar smoke. All quite natural now, isn't it? My dear fellow, you knew it all and you knew it right. You told me so, camarade, camarade. Reggie lit his pipe. Jealousy, hate, mania. He broke the man the girl married. Curious that affair, wasn't it? Even the great criminal he runs on a groove. He keeps to one kind of crime. The same dodge for the son that he used for the father. Then either he lost track of the mother or he preferred to hurt her through the son. He was an hypocrite and his little pleasures. The son came along. I dare say Kimball took that apartment because the son was in it. And then he was ready to smash everything for the sake of his hate. Damage his own career. Do it for the murder. Die himself if he could torture his sister's child. Yes, the devil is with power, Lomas. I fancy you annoy him a little, my dear fortune, but how can you believe in the devil? You have just seen her. Reggie smiled. She is a woman, isn't she? I think you might act on that theory. When is it to be? Lomas, old thing. Not only bland, you're obvious. Which is much worse. End of chapter six. Recorded by Mech Fairy 252. End of call, Mr. Fortune, by H.C. Bailey.