 THE COIN OF DIONISIS by Ernest Brahmah, pseudonym for Ernest Brahmah Smith. 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 Mike Harris. THE COIN OF DIONISIS by Ernest Brahmah. It was eight o'clock at night and raining, scarcely a time on a business so limited in its clientele as that of a coin dealer could hope to attract any customer. But a light was still showing in the small shop that bore over its window the name of Baxter. And in the even smaller office at the back the proprietor himself said reading the latest pal mill. His enterprise seemed to be justified, but presently the doorbell gave its announcement and, throwing down his paper, Mr. Baxter went forward. As a matter of fact, the dealer had been expecting someone in his manner as he passed into the shop was unmistakably suggestive of a caller of importance. But at the first glance toward his visitor the excess of deference melted out of his bearing, leaving the urbane, self-possessed shopman in the presence of the casual customer. Mr. Baxter, I think, said the latter. He had laid aside his dripping umbrella and was unbuttoning overcoat and coat to reach into an inner pocket. You hardly remember me, I suppose. Mr. Carlyle, two years ago I took up a case for you. Oh, to be sure, Mr. Carlyle, the private detective inquiry agent, corrected Mr. Carlyle precisely. Well, smile, Mr. Baxter, for that matter I am a coin dealer and not an antiquarian or a numismatist. Is there anything in that way that I can do for you? Yes, replied his customer. It's my turn to consult you. He had taken a small wash-letter bag from the inner pocket and now turned something carefully out upon the counter. What can you tell me about that? The dealer gave the coin a moment's scrutiny. There is no question about this. He replied it's a Sicilian tetradram of Dionysus. Yes, I know that. I have it on the label out of the cabinet. I can tell you further that it's supposed to be one that Lord Seastope gave two hundred fifty pounds for at the price sale in ninety-four. Well, it seems to me that you can tell me more about it than you might, Mr. Baxter. What is it that you really want to know? I want to know, replied Mr. Coller, whether it's genuine or not. Oh, has any doubt been cast upon it? Certain circumstances raised a suspicion, that's all. The dealer took another look at the tetradram through his magnifying glass, holding it by the edge with a careful touch of an expert. Then he shook his head slowly in a confession of ignorance. Of course I could make a guess. No, no, don't, interrupted Mr. Coller, hastily. An arrest hangs on it, and nothing short of certainty is any good to me. Oh, is that so, Mr. Coller? I'll, said Mr. Baxter, with increased interest. Well, to be quite candid, the thing is out of my line. Now, if it was a rare Saxon penny or a double noble, I'd take my reputation and my opinion, but I do very little in the classical series. Mr. Coller did not attempt to conceal his disappointment as he returned the coin to the bag and replaced the bag in the inner pocket. I had been relying on you, he grumbled, and approached, where on earth am I to go now? Well, there's always the British Museum. Ah, to be sure, thanks, but will anyone who can tell me be there now? Now? No fear, replied Mr. Baxter. Go round in the morning, but I must know to-night, explained the visitor reduced to despair again. Tomorrow will be too late for the purpose. Mr. Baxter did not hold out much encouragement in the circumstances. You can scarcely expect to find anyone at business now, a remark. I should have been gone these two hours myself, only I happened to have an appointment with an American millionaire who fixed his own time. Something indistinguishable from a wink slid off Mr. Baxter's right eye. Offaminson, he's called, and a bright young pedigree hunter has traced his descent from Offa, king of Mercia, so he quite naturally wants his set of offers as a sort of collateral proof. Ah, very interesting murmured Mr. Carlisle fidgeting with his watch. I should love an hour's chat with you about your millionaire customer some other time. Just now, look here, Baxter. Can't you give me a line of introduction to some dealer in this sort of thing who happens to live in town? You must know dozens of experts. Oh, I bless my soul, Mr. Carlisle. I don't know a man of them away from this business. Said Mr. Baxter, staring. They may live in Park Lane or they may live in Petticoat Lane for all I know. Besides, there aren't so many experts as you seem to imagine. And the two best will very likely quarrel over it. You've had to go with expert witnesses, I suppose. I don't want a witness. There'll be no need to give evidence. All I want is an absolute authoritative pronouncement that I can act on. Is there no one who can really say whether the thing is genuine or not? Mr. Baxter's meaning silence became cynical in its implication as he continued to look at his visitor across the counter. Then he relaxed. Oh, stay a bit. There is a man, an amateur. I remember hearing wonderful things about some time ago. They say he really does know. There you are, explained Mr. Carlisle, much relief. There always is someone. Who is he? Funny name replied Baxter. Something. Win, or win something. He craned his neck to catch sight of an important motor-car that was drawing to the curb before his window. Oh, yes, Win Carados. You'll excuse me now, Mr. Carlisle, won't you? This looks like Mr. Offmanson. Mr. Carlisle hastily scribbled the name down on his cup. Win Carados, right? Where does he live? Oh, I haven't. The remotest idea, replied Baxter. Referring the arrangement of his diet or the judgment of the wall mirror. I've never seen the man myself. Now, Mr. Carlisle, I'm sorry I can't do any more for you. You won't mind, will you? Mr. Carlisle could not pretend to misunderstand. He enjoyed the distinction of holding open the door for the transatlantic representative of the line of offer as he went out, and then made his way through the muddy streets back to his office. There was only one way of tracing a private individual at such short notice, through the pages of the directories, and the gentleman did not flatter himself out of his chances. Fortune favored him, however. He very soon discovered a Win Carados living at Richmond. Oh, and better still, further search failed to unearth another. There was apparently only one householder at all events of that name in the neighborhood of London. He jotted down the address and set off for Richmond. The house was some distance from the station, Mr. Carlisle learned. He took a taxi cab and drove, dismissing the vehicle at the gate. He prided himself on his power of observation and the accuracy of the deductions which resulted from it, a detail of his business. That's nothing more than using one's eyes and putting two and two together, he'd molestly declared, when he wished to be deprecatory rather than impressive, and by the time he'd reached the front door of the turret he'd formed some opinion of the position and tastes of the man who lived there. A man's servant admitted Mr. Carlisle and took in his card, his private card, their request for an interview that would not detain Mr. Caradus for ten minutes. Locke still favored him. Mr. Caradus was at home and would see him at once. The servant, the hall through which they passed and the room into which he was shown all contributed something to the deductions which the quietly observant gentleman was half unconsciously recording. Mr. Carlisle announced the servant. The room was a library area studying. The only occupant, a man of about Carlisle's own age, had been using a typewriter up to the moment of his visitor's entrance. He now turned and stood up with an expression of formal courtesy. It's very good of you to see me at this hour, I apologize the calling. The conventional expression of Mr. Caradus's face changed a little. Surely my man has got your name wrong, he exclaimed. Isn't it Lewis calling? The visitor stopped short and his agreeable smile gave place to a sudden flash of anger or annoyance. No, sir, he replied stiffly, my name is on the card which you have before you. Oh, I beg your pardon, said Mr. Caradus, with perfect humor, I hadn't seen it. But I used to know a calling some years ago at St. Michael's. St. Michael's, Mr. Carlisle's feature, underwent another change no less instant in sweeping than before. St. Michael's win, Caradus, good heavens! It isn't Max win, old winning win. A little older and a little fatter, yes, replied Caradus, I have changed my name, you say. Extraordinary meeting like this at his visitor dropping into a chair and staring hard at Mr. Caradus. I've changed more than my name, how did you recognize me? The voice, replied Mr. Caradus, it took me back to that little smoke-dried attic den of yours where we—my God! explained Carlisle bitterly, don't remind me of what we were going to do in those days. I furnished handsome Roman and recalled the other signs of wealth that he had noticed. At all events you seem fairly comfortable, win? I am alternately envied and pitted, replied Caradus, with a placid tolerance of circumstance that seemed characteristic of it. Still, as you say, I am fairly comfortable. Envied, I can understand, but why you pitted? Because I am blind, was the tranquil reply. Blind exclaimed Mr. Carlisle to recognize superlatively. Do you mean literally blind? Yes, literally. I was riding along a bridal path through wood about a dozen years ago with a friend. He was in front at one point a twig sprang back. You know how easily a thing like that happens. It just flicked my eye, nothing to think twice about. And that blinded you? Yes, ultimately. It's called amorosis. I can scarcely believe it. You seem so sure and self-reliant. Your eyes are full of expression. Only a little quieter than they used to be. I believe you were typing when I came in. Aren't you having me? You miss the dog and the stick, smiled Caradus. No, it's a fact. But what an awful inflection for you, Max. You were always such an impulsive, reckless sort of fellow. Never quiet. You must miss a fearful lot. Has anyone else recognized you? Asked Caradus quietly. Ah, that was the voice you said, replied Caradus. Yes, but other people hear the voice as well. Only I had no blundering self-comfort in eyes to be hoodwinked. You know, that's a rumway of putting it, said Caradus. Are your ears never hoodwinked, may I ask? Not now, nor my fingers, nor any of my other senses that have to look out for themselves. Well, well, well, well, well, but murmured Mr. Caradus, cut short in his sympathetic emotion. I'm glad you'll take it so well. Of course, if you find it an advantage to be blind, he stopped and reddened all. I beg your pardon, he can do this differently. No, not an advantage, perhaps, replied the other thoughtfully. Still, it has compensations that one might not think of. A new world to explore, new experiences, new powers awakening, strange new perceptions, life in the fourth dimension. But why do you beg my pardon, Lewis? Well, I'm an ex-slicitor, struck off in connection with the falseifying of a trust-account, Mr. Caradus, replied Carlisle, writing. Sit down, Lewis, said Caradus, swervely, his face even his incredibly living eyes beamed, placid, good nature. The tear on which you will sit, the roof above you, all the comfortable surroundings to which you have so amably eluded are the direct result of falsifying a trust-account, but do I call you Mr. Carlyle in consequence? Certainly not, Lewis. I did not falsify the account, replied Carlyle heartily. He sat down, however, and added more quietly. But why do I tell you all this? I have never spoken of it before. Blindness invites confidence, replied Caradus. We are out of the running. Human rival receases to exist. Besides, why shouldn't you, in my case, the account was falsified. Of course, that's all Bunker Max! commented Carlyle still. I appreciate your motive. Practically everything I possess was left to me by an American cousin on the condition that I took the name of Caradus. He made his fortune by an ingenious conspiracy of doctoring the crop reports and unloading favorably and consequent. I need hardly remind you that I was equally guilty with the thief. But twice as safe, I know something of that, Max. Have you any idea what my business is? You shall tell me," replied Caradus. I run a private inquiry agency. When I lost my profession I had to do something for a living. This occurred. I dropped my name, changed my appearance and opened an office. I knew the legal side down to the ground and I got a retired Scotland yard man to organize the outside work. Caradus, do you honor if many murders? No, admitted Mr. Carlyle, our business lies mostly in the conventional lines among divorce and defalcation. Oh, that's a pity, remarked Caradus. Do you know, Lois, I always had a secret ambition to be a detective myself. I've even thought lately that I might still be able to do something at it if the chance came my way. That makes you smile? Well, certainly the idea. Yes, the idea of a blind detective, the blind tracking the alert. Of course, as you say, certain faculties are no doubt quickened, Mr. Carlyle hastened to add, considerably. But seriously, with the exception of an artist, I don't suppose there's any man who is more utterly dependent on his eyes. Whatever opinion Caradus might have held privately, his genial exterior did not betray a shadow of descent. For a full minute he continued to smoke as though he derived fuel enjoyment from the blue sprays that travelled and dispersed across the room. He had already placed before his visitor a box containing cigars of a brand which that gentleman keenly appreciated, but generally regarded as unattainable. And the matter of fact eased certainly with which the blind man had brought the box, and put it before him, and sent a questioning flicker through Carlyle's mind. You used to be rather fond of art yourself, Lois, he remarked presently. What is your opinion of my latest purchase? The bronze lion on the cabinet there. Then as Carlyle's gaze went about the room he added quickly, no, no, not that cabinet, the one on your left. Carlyle shot a sharp glance at his house as he got up, but Caradus's expression was merely benignly complacent. Then he strolled across to the figure. Very nice, he admitted, late Flemish, isn't it? No, no, actually it's a copy of Vidal's Roaring Lion. Vidal? A French artist, the voice became indescribably flat. He also had the misfortune to be blind, by the way. You old humbug, Max, shriek Carlyle, you've been thinking that out for the last five minutes. Then the unfortunate man bit his lip and turned his back toward his house. Do you remember how he used to pile it up on that obtuse-ass sanders? He asked him, asked Caradus, ignoring the half-smothered exclamation with which the other man had recalled himself. Yes, replied Carlyle quietly, this is very good. He continued addressing himself to the bronze again. However did he do it with his hands? Naturally, but I mean how did he study his model? Also with his hands he called him. In such cases he required the services of a keeper, who brought the animal to bear while Vidal exercised his own particular gift. You don't feel inclined to put me on the track of a mystery, Louis? Unable to regard this request as anything but one of old Max's unquenchable pleasantries, Mr. Carlyle was on the point of making a suitable reply when a sudden thought caused him trouble. Now that he remembered the doubtful Dionysus and Mr. Baxter's recommendation, he immediately assumed that some mistake had been made. Either Max was not the wind Caradus he had been seeking, or else the dealer had been misinformed, for although his host was wonderfully expert on the face of his misfortune, it was inconceivable that he could decide the genuineness of the man. Yes, Mr. Carlyle said. He accordingly replied with crisp deliberation as he recrossed the room. Yes, I will, Max. Here is the clue to what seems to be a rather remarkable fraud. He put the tetraduram into his host's hand. And what do you make of it? For a few seconds Caradus handled the piece with the delicate manipulation of his fingertips Then with equal gravity the blind man weighed the coin in the balance of his hand. Finally he touched it to his tongue. Well demanded the other. Of course I have not much to go on and if I was more fully in your confidence I might come to another conclusion. Yes, yes, it opposed Carlyle with amused encouragement. Then I should advise you to arrest the parlor maid Nina Brune, communicate with the police of Brunesse, and suggest to Lord Seastoke that he should return to London to see what further depredations had been made in his cabinet. Mr. Carlyle's groping hand sought and found a chair under which he dropped blankly. His eyes were unable to detach themselves for a single moment from the very ordinary spectacle of Mr. Caradus's mildly benevolent face while he sterilized ghost of his now forgotten amusement still in the heavens he managed to articulate. How do you know? Isn't that what you wanted of me?" asked Caradus suavely. Don't humbug Max," said Carlyle severely. This is no joke. An undefined mistrust of his own power suddenly possessed him in the presence of this mystery. How do you come to know of Nina Brune and Lord Seastoke? You are a detective, Lewis, replied Caradus. How do you know of the other things by using one's eyes and putting two and two together? Carlyle groaned and flung out an arm petulantly. Is it all bunker Max? Do you really see all the time, though that doesn't go very far toward explaining it? Like Vidal, I see very well at close quarters, replied Caradus lightly running a forefinger along the inscription on the tetradrome. Mr. Carlyle's assent was not very gracious. It was, in fact, faintly sulky. He was suffering the annoyance of feeling distinctly unimpressive in his own department. But he was also curious. "'The bell is just behind you, if you don't mind,' said his house. "'Parkinson will appear. You might take note of him while he is in.' The man who had admitted Mr. Carlyle proved to be Parkinson. "'This gentleman is Mr. Carlyle, Parkinson,' explained Canada's the moment the man entered. You will remember him for the future?' Parkinson's apologetic eyes swept the visitor from head to foot, but so lightly and swiftly that it conveyed to that gentleman the comparison of being very deftly dusted. "'I will endeavour to do so, sir,' replied Parkinson, turning again to his master. "'I shall be at home to Mr. Carlyle whenever he calls. That is all. Very well, sir.' "'Now, Louis,' remarked Canada's briskly, when the door closed again, you had a good opportunity of studying Parkinson. What is he like?' "'Oh, in what way? I mean, as a matter of description, I am a blind man. I haven't seen my servant for twelve years. What idea can you give me of him?' I asked you to notice. Well, I know you did, but you're Parkinson is the sort of man who's very little about him to describe. He's the embodiment of the ordinary. His height is about average. Five feet nine, the moment, Canada's, slightly above the mean. Scarcely noticeably so. Clean shaven, medium brown hair, no particularly marked features. Dark eyes, good teeth. False!' interposed Canada's the teeth, not the statement. Possibly admitted Mr. Carlyle. I'm not a dental expert, and I had no opportunity of examining Mr. Parkinson's mouth in detail. But what is the drift of all this? His clothes. Oh, just the ordinary evening dress of a valley. There's not much room for variety in that. You noticed in fact nothing special by which Parkinson could be identified. Well, he wore an unusually broad gold ring on the little finger of the left hand. Yes, but that is removable. And yet Parkinson has an ineradicable mole, a small one, I admit, on his chin. And you, a human sleuthound. Oh, Lewis! At all events, retorted Carlyle, writhing a little under this good human satire, although it was easy enough to see in it Canada's affectionate intention. At all events I dare say I can give as good a description of Parkinson as he can give of me. Well, that is what we are going to test. Ring the bell again. Seriously? Quite. I'm trying my eyes against yours. If I can't give you fifty out of a hundred, I'll renounce my private dictatorial ambition forever. Oh, it isn't quite the same, objected Carlyle, but he rang the bell. Come in and close the door, Parkinson's, at Canada's when the man appeared. Don't look at Mr. Carlyle again. In fact, you would better stand with your back towards him. He won't mind. Now describe to me his appearance as you observed it. Parkinson tended his respectful apologies to Mr. Carlyle for the liberty he was compelled to take by the denferential quality of his voice. Oh, let's see. Mr. Carlyle, sir, wears patent leather boots of about size seven and very little used. There are five buttons, but on the left boot one button the third up is missing, leaving loose threads and not the more usual metal fastener. Mr. Carlyle's trousers, sir, have a dark material, a dark gray line of about a quarter of an inch wider on a darker ground. The bottoms are turned permanently up and are just now a little muddy, if I may say so. Very muddy and opposed, Mr. Carlyle, generously. It's a wet night, Parkinson. Yes, a very unpleasant weather. If you will allow me, sir, I will brush you in the hall. The muddy is dry now, I notice. Then, sir, continued Parkinson, reverting to the business at hand. There are dark green cashmere hoes. A curved patterned key-chain passes into the left-hand trouser pocket. From the visitors' nether garments the photographic eyed Parkinson proceeded to higher ground, and with increasing wonder Mr. Carlyle listened to the faithful catalogue of his possessions. His feather and link, Albert of Gold and Platinum, was minutely described. His spotted blue ascot with its gentlemanly pearl scarf pin was set forth, and the fact that the buttonhole in the left lapel of his morning coat showed signs of use was duly noted. What Parkinson saw he recorded, but he made no deductions. A handkerchief carried in the cuff of the right sleeve was simply that to him, and not an indication that Mr. Carlyle was indeed left-handed. But a more delicate part of Parkinson's undertaking remained. He approached it with a double cough. Up, as regards Mr. Carlyle's personal appearance, no enough cried the gentleman concerned hastily. I am more than satisfied. You are a keen observer, Parkinson. I have trained myself to suit my master's requirements, so replied the man. He looked toward Mr. Carlyle's received a nod and withdrew. Mr. Carlyle was the first to speak. That man of yours would be worth five pounds a week to me, Max, he remarked thoughtfully, but of course. I don't think he would take it, replied Carlyle's, in a voice of equally detached speculation. He suits me very well. But you have the chance of using his services indirectly. You still mean that seriously? I notice in you a chronic disinclination to take me seriously, Lewis. It is really, to an Englishman, almost painful. Is there something inherently comic about me or the atmosphere of the turret? No, no, my friend, replied Mr. Carlyle. But there is something essentially preposterous. That is, what points to the improbable. Now, what is it? It might be merely a whim, but it is more than that, replied Canada. It is, well, partly vanity, partly ennui, partly certainly there was something more nearly tragic in his voice than comic, now, partly hope. Mr. Carlyle was too tactful to pursue the subject. Those are three tolerable motives, Carlyle acquiesced. I'll do anything you want, Max, on one condition. Agreed? Agreed. And it is, that you tell me how you knew so much of this affair. He tapped the silver coin which lay on the table near him. I am not easily flabbergasted, he had it. You won't believe that there is nothing to explain that it is purely second sight? No, replied Carlyle, terrously. I won't. You are quite right, and yet the thing is very simple. Well, they always are when you know, soliloquy, as the other. That's what makes them so confoundedly difficult when you don't. OK, here is this one, then. In Panjoy, which seems to be regaining its old reputation as the birthplace of spurious antiques, by the way, there lives an ingenious craftsman named Pietro Steli. This simple soul of possesses a talent not inferior to that of Covino at his best, as for many years turned his hand to the not unprofitable occupation of forging rare Greek and Roman coins. As a collector and student of certain Greek colonials and a specialist in forgeries, I've been familiar with Steli's workmanship for years. Laterally he seems to have come under the influence of an international crook called at the moment Don Pierre, who soon saw a way of utilizing Steli's genius on a royal scale. Helen Brunessi, who in private life is and really is, I believe, Madame Don Pierre, readily lent her services to the enterprise. Quite so, nodded Mr. Carlyle, as his host paused. You'll see the whole sequence, of course. Well, no, not exactly in detail, confessed Mr. Carlyle. Don Pierre's idea was to gain access to some of the most celebrated cabinets of Europe, and substitute Steli's fabrications for the genuine coins. The princely collection of rarities that he would thus amass might be difficult to dispose of safely, but I have no doubt that he had matured his plans. Helen, in the person of Nina Brun, an anglicized French parliament, apart which she fits to perfection, was to obtain wax impressions of the most valuable pieces and to make the exchange when the counterfeits reached her. In this way it was obviously hoped that the fraud would not come to light until long after the real coins had been sold, and I gather that she has already done her work successfully in several houses. Then impressed by her excellent references and capable manner, my housekeeper engaged her and for a few weeks she went about her duties here. It was fatal to this detail of the scheme, however, that I have the misfortune to be blind. I am told that Helen has so innocently angelic a face as to disarm suspicion, that I was incapable of being impressed, and that good material was thrown away. But one morning my material fingers, which of course knew nothing of Helen's angelic face, discovered an unfamiliar touch about the surface of my favourite Euclidias, and although there was doubtless nothing to be seen, my critical sense of smell reported that was had been recently pressed against it. I began to make discreet inquiries, and in the meantime my cabinets went to the local bank for safety. Helen counted by receiving a telegram from Angiers, calling her to the deathbed of her aged mother. The aged mother succumbed, duty compelled Helen to remain at the side of a stricken patriarchal father, and doubtless the turrets was written off the syndicate's operations as a bad debt. Very interesting, admitted Mr. Colla, but at the risk of seeming obtuse—his manner had become delicately chastened—I must say that I failed to trace the inevitable connection between Nina Brun and this particular forgery, assuming that it is a forgery. Set your mind at rest about that, newest replied Canada. It is a forgery, and it is a forgery that none but Pietro Stelly could have achieved. That is the essential connection. Of course there are accessories—a private detective coming urgently to see me with a notable tetradram in his pocket, which he announces to be the clue to a remarkable fraud. Well, really, Lewis, one scarcely needs to be blind to see through that. When Lord Seastroke—I suppose you happen to discover that Nina Brun has gone there—no, I cannot claim to have discovered that, or I should certainly have warned him at once when I found out, only recently, about the gang. As a matter of fact, the last information I had of Lord Seastroke was a line in yesterday's morning post to the effect that he was still at Cairo. But many of these pieces—he brushed his finger almost lovingly across the vivid chariot race that embellished the reverse of the coin—and broke off to remark, You really ought to take up the subject, Lewis. You have no idea how useful it might prove to you some day. I really think I must, replied Carlisle Grimley. Two hundred and fifty pounds the original of this cost, I believe. Cheap, too. It would make five hundred pounds in New York today. As I was saying, many are literally unique. This gem by Kimmon is—oh, here is his signature, you see—Peter is particularly good at lettering. And as I handled the genuine tetradrama about two years ago, when Lord Seastroke exhibited at a meeting of our society in Albemarle Street, there is nothing at all wonderful in my being able to fix the locale of your mystery. Indeed, I feel that I ought to apologize for it all being so simple. I think, remarked Mr. Carlisle critically examining the loose threads on his left boot, that the apology on that head would be more appropriate from me. End of The Coin of Dionysus, read by Mike Harris. The Field of Bazaar. A Story of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Connandoil, written in 1896. Oh, I should certainly do it, said Sherlock Holmes. When I started, that the interruption from my companion had been eating his breakfast with his attention entirely centered upon the paper which was propped up by the coffee pot. Well, now I looked across at him to find his eyes fastened upon me with a half-amused, half-questioning expression which he usually assumed when he felt he had made an intellectual point. Do what, I asked. He smiled as he took his slipper from the mantelpiece and threw from it enough shag to back out to fill the old clay pipe with which he invariably rounded off his breakfast. A most characteristic question of yours, Watson, said he, You will not, I am sure, be offended if I say that any reputation for sharpness which I may possess has been entirely gained by the admirable foil which you have made for me. Have I not heard of debutants who have insisted upon plainness in their chaperones? Well, there is a certain analogy. Our long companionship in the Baker Street rooms had left us on those easy terms of intimacy when much may be said without offence, and yet I acknowledged that I was nettle'd by his remark. I may be very obtuse, said I, but I confess that I am unable to see how you have managed to know that I was asked to help in the Edinburgh University Bazaar, but precisely the letter was only just come to hand, and I have not spoken to you since. In spite of that, said Holmes, leaning back in his chair and putting his fingertips together, I would even venture to suggest that the object of the Bazaar is to enlarge the University Cricket Field. I looked at him in such bewilderment that he vibrated with silent laughter. The fact is, my dear Watson, that you are an excellent subject, said he. You are never blasé. You respond instantly to any external stimulus. Your mental processes may be slow, but they are never obscure, and I found during breakfast that you were easier reading than the leader in the Times in front of me. Well, I should be glad to know how you arrived at your conclusions, said I. I fear that my good nature in giving explanations has seriously compromised my reputation, said Holmes. But in this case, the train of reasoning is based upon such obvious facts that no credit can be claimed for it. You entered the room with a thoughtful expression, the expression of a man who is debating some point in his mind. In your hand you held his solitary letter. Now, last night you retired in the best of spirit, so it was clear that it was this letter in your hand which had caused the change in you. Yes, this is obvious. Well, it's all obvious when it's explained to you. I naturally asked myself what the letter could contain, which might have this effect upon you. And as you walked, you held the flap side of the envelope toward me, and I saw upon it the same shield-shaped device which I had observed upon your old college cricket cap. It was clear, then, that the request came from Edinburgh University or from some club connected with the university. When you reached the table, you laid down the letter beside your plate with the address uppermost, and you walked over to look at the framed photograph upon the left of the mantel, please. It amazed me to see the accuracy with which he had observed my movement. And what next, I ask? I began by glancing at the address, and I could tell even at the distance of six feet, that it was an unofficial communication. Thus I gathered from the use of the word doctor upon the address to which, as a bachelor of medicine, you have no legal claim. I knew that university officials are pedantic in their correct use of titles, and I was thus enabled to say with certainty that your letter was unofficial. When on your return to the table, you turned over your letter and allowed me to perceive that the enclosure was a printed one. The idea of a bazaar first occurred to me. I had already weighed the possibility of it being a political communication, but this seemed improbable in the present stagnant condition of politics. So when you returned to the table, your face still retained its expression, and it was evident that your examination of the photograph had not changed the current of your thoughts. In that case, it must itself bear upon the subject in question. I turned my attention to the photograph, therefore, and saw at once that it consisted of yourself, as a member of the Edinburgh University Eleven, with the pavilion and cricket field in the background. My small experience of cricket clubs has taught me that next to churches in cavalry ensigns they are the most debt-laden things upon earth. When upon your return to the table, I saw you take out your pencil and draw lines upon the envelope. I was convinced that you were endeavouring to realise some projected improvement, which was to be brought about by a bazaar. Your face still showed some indecision, so that I was able to break in upon you with my advice that you should assist in so good an option. I could not help smiling at the extreme simplicity of his explanation. Of course it was as easy as possible, said I. My remark appeared to nettle him. I may add, said he, that the particular help which you have been asked to give was that you should write in their album, and that you have already made up your mind that the present incident will be the subject of your article. But how, I cried, it's as easy as possible, said he, and I leave its solution to your own ingenuity. In the meantime he added, raising his paper, you will excuse me if I return to this very interesting article upon the trees of Primona, and the exact reasons for the preeminence and the manufacture of fire limbs. It's one of those small, outlying problems to which I sometimes tempted to direct my attention. End of The Field a Bazaar by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, recording by Mike Harris. A Foreign Office Romance by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. 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 Mike Harris. A Foreign Office Romance by Arthur Conan Doyle. There are many folk who knew Alphonse Lacurre in his old age, from about the time of the Revolution of 48 until he died in the second year of the Crimean War. He was always to be found in the same corner of the Café de Provence, at the end of the Rue Saint-Lauret, coming down about nine in the evening, and going when he could find no one to talk with. It took some self-restraint to listen to the old diplomatist, for his stories were beyond all belief, and yet he was quick at detecting the shadow of a smile or the slightest little raising of the eyebrows. Then his huge rounded back would straighten itself, his bulldog chin would project, and his Rs. would brrrr like a kettle drum. When he got as far as ah, Monsieur Ritt, oh, d'une microillée pas bonc. It was quite time to remember that you had a ticket for the opera. There was his story of tally-round on the five oyster shells, and there was his utterly absurd account of Napoleon's second visit to Ajacchio. Then there was that most circumstantial romance, which he never ventured upon until his second bottle had been encorked, of the emperor's escape from St Helena, how he lived for a whole year in Philadelphia while Count Hébert de Bertrand, who was his living image, personated him at Longwood. But of all his stories there was none which was more notorious than that of the Quran and the foreign office messenger. And yet when Monsieur Otto's memoirs were written, it was found that there really was some foundation for Ola Curle's incredible statement. You must know, Monsieur, he would say, that I left Egypt after Clébert's assassination. I would gladly have stayed on, for I was engaged in a translation of the Quran, and between ourselves I had thoughts at the time of embracing Mohammedanism, for I was deeply struck by the wisdom of their views about marriage. They had made an incredible mistake, however, upon the subject of wine. And this was what the mufti who attempted to convert me could never get over. Then when old Clébert died and menu came to the top, I felt that it was time for me to go. It's not for me to speak of my own capabilities, Monsieur, but you will really understand that the man does not care to be ridden by the mule. I carried my Quran and my papers to London where Monsieur Otto had been sent by the First Council to arrange a treaty of peace. For both nations were very weary of the war which had already lasted ten years. Here I was most useful to Monsieur Otto, an account of my knowledge of English tongue, and also, if I may say so, an account of my natural capacity. They were happy days during which I lived in the square of Bloomsbury, the climate of Monsieur's country as it must be confessed detestable. But then what would you have? Flowers grow best in the rain. One has but to point to the Monsieur's fellow countrywomen to approve it. Well, Monsieur Otto, our ambassador, was kept terribly busy over that treaty and all of his staff were worked to death. We had not pit to deal with which was perhaps as well for us. He was a terrible man, that pit, and wherever a half a dozen enemies of France were plotting together, there was a sharp pointed nose right in the middle of them. The nation, however, had been thoughtful enough to put him out of office, and we had to do with Monsieur Eddington. But my Lord Hawkesbury was the foreign minister, and it was with him that we were obliged to do our bargaining. You can understand that it was no child's play. After ten years of war, each nation had got hold of a great deal which had belonged to the other or to the other's allies. What was to be given back and what was to be kept is this island worth that peninsula. If we do this at Venice, will you do that at Sierra Leone? If we give up Egypt to the Sultan, will you restore the Cape of Good Hope which you have taken from our allies, the Dutch? So we wrangled and wrestled, and I have seen Monsieur Otto come back to the embassy so exhausted that his secretary and I had to help him from his carriage to his sofa. But at last things adjusted themselves, and the night came round when the treaty was to be finally signed. Now, you must know that one great card, which we held, the one great card, and which we played, played, played at every point of the game, was that we had Egypt. The English were very nervous about our being there. It gave us a foot on each end of the Mediterranean, you see, and they were not sure that that wonderful little Napoleon of ours might not make it the base of an advance against India. So whenever Lord Hawkesbury proposed to retain anything, we had only to reply, in that case, of course, we cannot consent to evacuate Egypt. And in this way we quickly brought him to reason. It was by the help of Egypt that we gained terms that were remarkably favourable, and especially that we caused the English to consent to give up the Cape of Good Hope. We did not wish your people this year to have any foothold in South Africa, for history has taught us that the British foothold of one half century is the British Empire of the next. It's not your army or your navy against which we have to guard, but it is your terrible younger son and your man in search of a career. When we French have a possession across the seas, we like to sit in Paris and to felicitate ourselves upon it. With you it is different. You take your wives and your children and you run away to see what kind of a place this may be. And after that we might as well try to take that old square of Bloomsbury away from you. Well, it was upon the first of October that the treaty was finally to be signed. In the morning I was congratulating Monsieur Otto upon the happy conclusion of his labours. He was a little pale shrimp of a man, very quick and nervous, and he was so delighted now at his own success that he could not sit still, but ran about the room chattering and laughing. While I sat on a cushion in the corner as I had learned to do in the East, suddenly in came a messenger with a letter which had been forwarded from Paris. Monsieur Otto cast his eyes upon it and then, without a word, his knees gave way and he felt senseless upon the floor. I ran to him as did the courier and between us we carried him to the sofa. He might have been dead from his appearance, but I could still fill his heart thrilling beneath my palm. What is this, then, I asked? I do not know, answered the messenger. Monsieur Talian told me to hurry as never man hurried before and to put this letter into the hands of Monsieur Otto. I was in Paris at midday yesterday. I know that I am to blame, but I could not help glancing at the letter, picking it out of the senseless hand of Monsieur Otto. My God, the thunderbolt that he was! I did not faint, but I sat down beside my chief and I burst into tears. It was but a few words, but they told us that Egypt had been evacuated by our troops a month before. All our treaty was undone then and the one consideration which had induced our enemies to give us good terms had vanished. In twelve hours it would not have mattered, but now the treaty was not yet signed. We should have to give up the cape. We should have to let England have Malta. Now that Egypt was gone we had nothing to offer in exchange. But we are not so easily beaten, we Frenchmen. You English misjudge us when you think that because we show emotions which you conceal that we are therefore of a weak and womanly nature. You cannot read your histories and believe that. Monsieur Otto recovered his sense presently and we took counsel what we should do. It is useless to go on the alphons, said he. This Englishman will laugh at me when I ask him to side. Courage! I cried, and then a sudden thought came into my head. How do we know that the English will have news of this? Perhaps they may sign the treaty before they know of it. Monsieur Otto sprang from the sofa and flung himself into my arms. Then it falls, he cried. You have saved me. Why should they know about it? Our news has come from Toulon to Paris and then straight to London. There's will come by sea through the Straits of Gibraltar. At this moment it is unlikely that anyone in Paris knows of its save-only tally of land in the First Council. If we keep our secret we may still get our treaty sign. Ah, Monsieur, you can imagine the horrible uncertainty in which we spent the day. Never, never shall I forget those slow hours during which we sat together. Starting at every distant shout lest it should be the first sign of the rejoicing which this news would cause in London. Monsieur Otto passed from youth to age in a day. As for me I find it easier to go out and meet danger than to wait for it. I set forth, therefore, toward evening. I wandered here and wandered there. I was in the fencing-rooms of Monsieur Angelo and in the salon-the-box of Monsieur Jackson and in the club of Brooks and in the lobby of the chamber of deputies, but nowhere did I hear any news. Still, it was possible that my Lord Hawkesbury had received it himself just as we had. He lived in Harley Street and there it was that the treaty was to be finally signed that night at eight. I entreated Monsieur Otto to drink two glasses of burgundy before he went. For I feared lest his haggard face and trembling hand should arouse suspicion in the English minister. Well, we went round together in one of the embassy's carriages about half past seven. Monsieur Otto went in alone, but presently on excuse of getting his portfolio he came out again, with his cheeks flushed with joy to tell me that all was well. He knows nothing, he whispered. Ah, if the next half hour were over, give me a sign when it is settled, said I. For what reason? Because until then no messenger shall interrupt you. I give you my promise. I, Alphonse Lacquer, he clasped my hands in both of his. I shall make an excuse to move one of the candles onto the table in the window, said he, and hurried into the house whilst I was left waiting beside the carriage. Well, if we could but secure ourselves from interruption for a single half hour, the day would be our own. I had hardly begun to form my plans when I saw the lights of a carriage coming swiftly from the direction of Oxford Street. Ah, if it should be the messenger, what could I do? I was prepared to kill him. Yes, even to kill him, rather than, at this last moment, allow our work to be undone. Thousands die to make a glorious war. Why should not one die to make a glorious peace? What though they hurried me to the scaffold, I should have sacrificed myself for my country. I had a little curved Turkish knife strapped to my waist. My hand was on the hilt of it when the carriage, which had alarmed me so, rattled safely past me. But another might come. I must be prepared. Above all, I must not compromise the embassy. I ordered our carriage to move on, and I engaged what you call a hackney coach. Then I spoke to the driver and gave him a guinea. He understood that it was a special service. You shall have another guinea if you do what you're told, said I. All right, master, said he, and turned his slow eyes upon me without a trace of excitement or curiosity. If I enter your coach with another gentleman, you will drive up and down Harley Street and take no orders from any one but me. When I get out, you will carry the other gentleman to Wauquia's Club in Bruton Street. All right, master, said he again. So I stood outside my lord Hawkesbury's house, and you can think how often my eyes went up to that window in the help of seeing the candle-twinkle in it. Five minutes passed, and another five. Oh, how slowly they crept along. It was a true October night, raw and cold, with a white frog crawling over the wet, shining cobblestones and blurring the dim-oil lamps. I could not see fifty paces in either direction, but my ears were straining to catch the rattle of hooves, or the rumble of wheels. It's not a cheering place, monsieur, this street of Harley, even upon a sunny day. The houses are solid and very respectable over yonder, but there is nothing of the feminine about them. It's a city to be inhabited by males. But on that raw night I'm in the damp and the fog, with the anxiety gnawing at my heart. It seemed the saddest, weariest spot in the whole wide world. I paced up and down, slapping my hands to keep them warm and still straining my ears, and then, suddenly, out of the dull hum of the traffic down an Oxford street, I heard a sound detach itself and grow louder and louder and clearer and clearer with every instant, until two yellow lights came flashing through the fog, and a light cabriolet whirled up to the door of the foreign minister. It had not stopped before a young fellow sprang out of it and hurried to the steps, while the driver turned his horse and rattled off into the fog once more. Ah, it is in the moment of action that I am best, M. You who only see me when I am drinking my wine in the Café de Provence cannot conceive the heights to which I rise. At that moment, when I knew that the fruit of a ten years war at stake, I was magnificent. It was the last French campaign, an eye of the general and army in one. Sir, said I, touching him upon the arm, are you the messenger for Lord Hawkesbury? Yes, said he. I've been waiting for you half an hour. You'll follow me at once. He is with the French ambassador. I spoke with such assurance that he never hesitated for an instant. When he entered the Hackney coach and I followed him in, my heart gave such a thrill of joy that I could hardly keep from shouting aloud. He was a poor little creature, this foreign office messenger, not much bigger than M. And I, M. can see my hands now, and imagine what they were like when I was seven and twenty years of age. Well, now that I had him in my coach, the question was, what I should do with him? I did not wish to hurt him if I could help it. This is pressing business, said he. I have a dispatch which I must deliver instantly. Our coach had rattled down Harley Street, but now, in accordance with my instruction, it turned and began to go up again. Hello. Hello. He tried. What's this? What then, I asked. We are driving back. Where is Lord Hawkesbury? We shall see him presently. Let me out. Let me out, he shouted. There is some trickery in this coachman. Stop the coach. Let me out, I say. I dashed him back into his seat as he tried to turn the handle of the door. He roared for help. I clapped my palm across his mouth. He made his teeth meet through the side of it. I seized his own cravat and bound it over his lips. He still mumbled and gurgled, but the noise was covered by the rattle of our wheels. We were passing the minister's house, and there was no candle in the window. The messenger sat quiet for a little, and I could see the glint of his eyes. He stared at me through the gloom. He was partly stunned, I think, by the force with which I had hurled him into his seat, and also he was pondering, perhaps, what he should do next. Presently he got his mouth partly free from the cravat. You can have my watch and my purse if you will let me go, said he. Sir, I am as honourable a man as you are yourself. Who are you, then? My name is of no importance. What do you want with me? It is a bet. A bet? What do you mean? Do you understand that I am on the government service and that you will see the inside of a jail? That is the bet. That is the sport, said I. You may find a poor sport before you finish, he cried. What is this insane bet of yours, then? I have bet, I answered, that I will recite a chapter of the Koran to the first gentleman whom I should meet in the street. Well, I don't know what made me think of it, save that my translation was always running in my head. He clutched at the door handle, and again I had to hurl him back into his seat. How long will it take, he gasped. It depends on the chapter, I answered. A short one, then, and let me go. But is it fair, I argued, when I say a chapter, I do not mean the shortest chapter, but rather one which should be of average length. Help, help, help! he squealed, and I was compelled again to adjust his cravat. A little patience, said I, and will soon be over. I should like to recite the chapter which would be of most interest to yourself. You will confess that I am trying to make things as pleasant as I can for you. He slipped his mouth free again. Quick, then, quick! he groaned. The chapter of a camel, I suggested. Oh, yes, yes. Or that of the fleet's stallion. Oh, yes, yes. Only proceed. We had passed the window, and there was no candle. I settled down to recite the chapter of the stallion to him. Perhaps you do not know your Koran very well, monsieur? Well, I knew it by heart, then, as I know it by heart now. The style is a little exasperating for anyone who is in a hurry. But then, what would you have? The people in the east are never in a hurry, and it was written for them. I repeated it all with the dignity and solemnity which a sacred book demands, and the young Englishman he wriggled and groaned. When the horses, standing on three feet and placing the tip of their fourth foot upon the ground, were mustered in front of him in the evening, he said, I have loved the love of earthly good above the remembrance of things on high, and have spent the time in viewing these horses. Bring the horses back to me. And when they were brought back, he began to cut off their legs. It was at this moment that the young Englishman sprang at me. My God, how little can I remember the next few minutes. He was a boxer, this shred of a man. He had been trained to strike. I tried to catch him by the hands. Back, back, he came upon my nose and upon my eye. I put down my head and thrust at him with it. Back, he came from below. But, ha, I was too much for him. I hurled myself upon him, and he had no place where he could escape from my weight. He fell flat upon the cushions, and I seated myself upon him, with such conviction that the wind flew from him as from a burst bellows. Then I searched to see what there was with which I could tie him. I drew the strings from my shoes, and with one I secured his wrists and with another his ankles. Then I tied the clavate round his mouth again so that he could only lie and glare at me. When I had done all this and had stopped the bleeding of my own nose, I looked out of the couch. Ah, Monsieur, the very first thing that caught my eyes was that candle, that dear little candle, glimmering in the window of the minister alone. With these two hands I had retrieved the capitulation of an army in the loss of a province. Yes, Monsieur, what Abercrombie and five thousand men had done upon the beach of Abelkeer was undone by me, single-handed in a hackney-coach in Harley Street. Well, of course, I had no time to lose for it. Any moment, Monsieur Otto might be down. I shouted to my driver, gave him his second guinea, and allowed him to proceed to Watiers. For myself I sprang into our Embassy carriage and a moment later the door of the minister opened. He had himself escorted Monsieur Otto downstairs, and now so deep was he in talk that he walked out bare-headed as far as the carriage. As I stood there by the open door there came the rattle of wheels and a man rushed down the pavement. A dispatch of great importance from a Lord Hawkesbury he cried. I could see that it was not my messenger but a second one. Lord Hawkesbury caught the paper from his hand and read it by the light of the carriage lamp. His face, Monsieur, was as white as this plate before he had finished. Monsieur Otto, he cried, we have signed this treaty upon a false understanding. Egypt is in our hands. What cried Monsieur Otto? Impossible. It is certain. It fell to Abercrombie last month. In that case, said Monsieur Otto, it is very fortunate that the treaty is signed. Very fortunate for you, sir, cried my Lord Hawkesbury, and he turned back to the house. Next day, Monsieur, what they called the Bow Street runners were after me, but they could not run across salt water. An Alphonse LeCœur was receiving the congratulations of Monsieur Telligrand and the First Council before ever his pursuers had got as far as Dover. End of A Foreign Office Romance by Arthur Conan Doyle Recording by Mike Harris The Greenstone God and the Stockbroker by Fergus Hume 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 Alan Winteroud The Greenstone God and the Stockbroker by Fergus Hume As a rule, the average detective gets twice the credit he deserves. I am not talking of the novelist Miracle Monger, but of the flesh and blood reality who is liable to air and who frequently proves such liability. You can take it as certain that a detective who sets down a clean run and no hitch as entirely due to his ostusity is young in years and still younger in experience. Older men who have been bamboozled a hundred times by the craft of criminality recognize the influence of chance to make or mar. There you have it. Nine times out of ten chance does more in clenching a case than all the dexterity and mother-wit of the man in charge. The exception must be engineered by an infallible apostle. Such a one is unknown to me out of print. This opinion, based rather on a collective experience than on any one episode, can be substantiated by several incontrovertible facts. In this instance, one will suffice. Therefore, I take the Brixton case to illustrate chance as a factor in human affairs. Had it not been for that Maori fetish, but such rather ends then begins the story, therefore it were wise to dismiss it for the moment. Yet that piece of green stone hanged a person mentioned hereafter. When Mr and Mrs Paul Vincent set up housekeeping at Ulster Lodge, they were regarded as decided acquisitions in Brixton society. She pretty and musical, he smart and looks moderately well off and an excellent tennis player. Their progenitors, his father and her mother, both since deceased, had lived a life of undoubted middle-class respectability. The halo thereof still environed their children, who were in consequence of such inherited grace and their own individualisms much sought after by Gentile Brixtonians. Moreover, this popular couple were devoted to each other and even after three years of marriage they posed still as lovers. This was as it should be and by admiring friends and relations the Vincent's were regarded as paragons of matrimonial perfection. Vincent was a stockbroker, therefore he passed most of his time in the city. Judge then of the commotion, when pretty Mrs Vincent was discovered in the study, stabbed to the heart. So aimless a crime were scarce imaginable. She had many friends, no known enemies, yet she came to this tragic end. Closer examination revealed that the Escortoir had been broken into and Mr Vincent declared himself the poorer by 200 pounds. Primarily therefore, robbery was the sole object, but by reason of Mrs Vincent's interference the thief had been converted into a murderer. So excellently had the assassin chosen his time that such choice argued a close acquaintance with the domestic economy of Ulster Lodge. The husband was detained in town till midnight. The servants, cook and housemaid, on leave to attend wedding festivities were absent until 11 o'clock. Mrs Vincent therefore was absolutely alone in the house for six hours, during which period the crime had been committed. The servants discovered the body of their unfortunate mistress and raised the alarm at once. Later on Vincent arrived to find his wife dead, his house in possession of the police and the two servants in hysterics. For that night nothing could be done, but at dawn a move was made towards elucidating the mystery. At this point I come into the story. Instructed at 9 o'clock to take charge of the case, by 10 I was on the spot noting details and collecting evidence. Beyond removal of the body nothing had been disturbed and the study was in precisely the same condition as when the crime was discovered. I examined carefully the apartment and afterwards interrogated the cook, the housemaid and lastly the master of the house. The result gave me slight hope of securing the assassin. The room, a fair sized one, looking out on a lawn between house and road, was furnished in cheap bachelor fashion. An old-fashioned desk placed at right angles to the window, a round table reaching nigh the sill, two armchairs, three of the ordinary cane seated kind, and on the mantelpiece an arrangement of pipes, pistols, boxing gloves, and foils. One of these ladder was missing. A single glimpse showed how terrible a struggle had taken place before the murderer had overpowered his victim. The tablecloth laid disorderly on the floor. Two of the lighter chairs were overturned and the desk with several drawers open was hacked about considerably. No key was in the door lock which faced the escutoir and the window snick was fastened securely. Further search results resulted in the following discoveries. One, a hatchet used for chopping wood found near the desk. Two, a foil with a button broken off lying under the table. And three, a greenstone idol edged under the fender. The cook, defiantly courageous by reason of brandy, declared that she had left the room at four o'clock on the previous day and had returned close on eleven. The back door to her surprise was open. With the housemaid she went to inform her mistress of this fact and found the body lying midway between door and fireplace. At once she called the police. Her master and mistress were a most attached couple and so far she knew they had no enemies. Similar evidence was obtained from the housemaid with the additional information that the hatchet belonged to the woodshed. The other rooms were undisturbed. Poor young Vincent was so broken down by the tragedy that he could hardly answer my questions with calmness. Sympathizing with his natural grief I interrogated him as delicately as was possible and I am bound to admit that he replied with remarkable promptitude and clearness. What do you know of this unhappy affair? I asked when we were alone in the drawing room. He refused to stay in the study as was surely natural under the circumstances. Absolutely nothing he replied. I went to the city yesterday at ten in the morning and as I had business to do I wired my wife that I would not return till midnight. She was full of health and spirits when I last saw her but now incapable of further speech he made a gesture of despair. Then after a pause he added have you any theory on the subject? Judging from the wrecked condition of the desk I should say robbery. Robbery he interrupted changing color. Yes that was the motive. I had 200 pounds locked up in the desk. In gold or notes. The ladder. 450's Bank of England. You are sure they are missing? Yes the drawer in which they were placed is smashed to pieces. Did anyone know you had placed 200 pounds therein? No save my wife and yet ah he said breaking off abruptly. That is impossible. What is impossible? I will tell you when I hear your theory. You got that notion out of novels of the shilling short I answered dryly. Every detective doesn't theorize on the instant. I haven't any particular theory that I know of. Whosoever committed this crime must have known your wife was alone in the house and that there was 200 pounds locked up in that desk. Did you mention these two facts to anyone? Vincent pulled his mustache in some embarrassment. I guessed by the action that he had been in the street. I don't wish to get an innocent person into trouble he said at length but I did mention it to a man named Roy. For what reason? It is a bit of a story. I lost 200 to a friend at Cards and drew 450's to pay him. He went out of town so I locked up the money in my desk for safety. Last night Roy came to me at the club much agitated and asked me to loan him 100. Said it meant ruin else. I offered him a check but he wanted cash. I then told him I had left 200 at home so at the moment I could not lay my hand on it. He asked if he could not go to Brixton for it but I said the house was empty and but it wasn't empty. I believed it would be. I knew the servants were going to that wedding and I thought my wife instead of spending a lonely evening would call on some friend. Well and after you told Roy that the house was empty he went away looking awfully cut up and swore he must have the money at any price but it is quite impossible he could have anything to do with this. I don't know. You told him where the money was and that the house was unprotected as you thought. What was more probable than that he should have come down with the intention of stealing the money? If so what follows? Entering by the back door he takes the hatchet from the woodshed to open the desk. Your wife hearing a noise discovers him in the study. In a state of frenzy he snatches a foil from the mantelpiece and kills her. Then he camps with the money. There is your theory and a mighty bad one for Roy. You don't intend to arrest him? Asked Vincent quickly. Not on insufficient evidence. If he committed the crime and stole the money it is certain that sooner or later he will change the notes. Now if I had the numbers here are the numbers said Vincent producing his pocketbook. I always take the numbers of such large notes but surely he added as I copy them down. Surely you don't think Roy guilty? I don't know. I should like to know his movements on that night. I cannot tell you. He saw me at the Chestnut Club about seven o'clock and left immediately afterwards. I kept my business appointment went to the Alhambra and then returned home. Give me Roy's address and describe his personal appearance. He is a medical student and lodges at number Gower Street. Tall, fair-haired, a good-looking young fellow. And his dress last night he wore evening dress concealed by a fawn-colored overcoat. I duly noted these particulars and I was about to take my leave when I recollected the Greenstone Idol. It was so strange an object to find in prosaic Brixton that I could not help thinking it must have come there by accident. By the way Mr. Vincent said I producing the monstrosity. Is this Greenstone God your property? I never saw it before replied he taking it in his hands. Is it ah he added dropping the idol? There is blood on it. It is the blood of your wife sir. If it does not belong to you it does to the murderer. From the position in which it was found I fancy it slipped out of his breast pocket as he stood over his victim. As you see it is stained with blood. He must have lost his presence of mind else he would not have left behind so damning a piece of evidence. This idol sir will hang the assassin of Mrs. Vincent. I hope so but unless you are sure of Roy do not mar his life by accusing him of this crime. I certainly should not arrest him without sufficient proof I answered promptly and so took my departure. Vincent showed up very well in this preliminary conversation. Much as he desired to punish the criminal yet he was unwilling to subject Roy to possible unfounded suspicions. Had I not forced the club episode out of him I doubt whether he would have told it. As it was the information gave me the necessary clue. Roy alone knew that the notes were in the escutoir and imagined owing to the mistake of Vincent that the house was empty. Determined to have the money at any price his own words he intended but robbery till the unexpected appearance of Mrs. Vincent merged the latter in the greater crime. My first step was to advise the bank that 450 pound notes numbered so and so were stolen and that the thief or his deputy would probably change them within a reasonable period. I did not say a word about the crime and kept all special details out of the newspapers for as the murder would probably read up the reports so as to shape his course by the action of the police I judged it wiser that he should know as little as possible. Those minute press notices do more harm than good. They gratify the morbid appetite of the public and put the criminal on his guard. Thereby the police work in the dark but he, thanks to the posting up of special reporters, knows the doings of the law and baffles it accordingly. The greenstone idol worried me considerably. I wanted to know how it had got into the study of Ulster Lodge. When I knew that I could nail my man but there was considerable difficulty to overcome before such knowledge was available. Now a curiosity of this kind is not a common object in this country. A man who owns one must have come from New Zealand or have obtained it from a New Zealand friend. He could not have picked it up in London. If he did he would not carry it constantly about with him. It was therefore my idea that the murderer had received the idol from a friend on the day of the crime. That friend to possess such an idol must have been in communication with New Zealand. The chain of thought is somewhat complicated but it began with curiosity about the idol and ended in my looking up the list of steamers going to the antipodes. Then I carried out a little design which need not be mentioned at this moment. In due time it will fit in with the hanging of Mrs. Vincent's assassin. Meanwhile I followed up the clue of the bank notes and left the greenstone idol to evolve its own identity. Thus I had two strings to my bow. The crime was committed on the 20th of June and on the 23rd two 50 pound notes with numbers corresponding to those stolen were paid into the Bank of England. I was astonished at the little care exercised by the criminal in concealing his crime but still more so when I learned that the money had been banked by a very respectable solicitor. Furnished with the address I called on this gentleman. Mr. Maudsley received me politely and he had no hesitation in telling me how the notes had come into his possession. I did not state my primary reason for the inquiry. I hope there is no trouble about these notes that he when I explained my errand I have had sufficient already. Indeed Mr. Maudsley in what way? For answer he touched the bell and when it was answered asked Mr. Ford to step this way he said then turning to me I must reveal what I had hoped to keep secret but I trust the revelation will remain with yourself. That is as I may decide after hearing it. I am a detective Mr. Maudsley and you may be sure I do not make these inquiries out of idle curiosity. Before he could reply a slender weak-looking young man nervously excited entered the room. This was Mr. Ford and he looked from me to Maudsley with some apprehension. This gentleman said his employer not unkindly comes from Scotland Yard about the money you paid me two days ago. It is all right I hope. Stammered Ford turning red and pale and red again. Where did you get the money? I asked parrying his question from my sister. I started when I heard this answer and with good reason my inquiries about Roy had revealed that he was in love with a hospital nurse whose name was Clara Ford. Without doubt she had obtained the notes from Roy after he had stolen them from Ulster Lodge but why the necessity of the robbery? Why did you get a hundred pounds from your sister? I asked Ford. He did not answer but looked appealingly at Maudsley. That gentleman interposed. We must make a clean breast of it Ford. He said with a sigh. If you have committed a second crime to conceal the first I cannot help you. This time matters are not at my discretion. I have committed no crime said Ford desperately turning to me. Sir I may as well admit that I embezzled 100 pounds from Mr. Maudsley to pay a gambling debt. He kindly and most generously consented to overlook the delinquency if I replace the money. Not having it myself I asked my sister. She a poor hospital nurse had not the amount yet as non-payment meant ruin to me she asked a Mr. Julian Roy to help her. He had once agreed to do so and gave her two 50 pound notes. She handed them to me and I gave them to Mr. Maudsley who paid them into the bank. This then was the reason of Roy's remark. He did not refer to his own ruin but to that of Ford. To save this unhappy man and for the love of the sister he had committed the crime. I did not need to see Clara Ford but at once made up my mind to arrest Roy. The case was perfectly clear and I was fully justified in taking this course. Meanwhile I made Maudsley and his clerk promise silence as I did not wish Roy to be put on his guard by Ms. Ford through her brother. Gentlemen I said after a few moments pause. I cannot at present explain my reasons for asking these questions as it would take too long and I have no time to lose. Keep silent about this interview till tomorrow and by that time you shall know all. Has Ford got into fresh trouble? Asked Maudsley anxiously. No but someone else has. My sister began Ford faintly when I interrupted him at once. Your sister is all right Mr. Ford. Pray trust in my discretion. No harm shall come to her or to you if I can help it but above all be silent. This they readily promised and I returned to Scotland Yard quite satisfied that Roy would get no warning. The evidence was so clear that I could not doubt the guilt of Roy. Else how had he come in possession of the notes? Already there was sufficient proof to hang him yet I hope to clinch the certainty by proving his ownership of the Greenstone Idol. It did not belong to Vincent or to his dead wife yet someone must have brought it into the study. Why not Roy who to all appearances had committed the crime the more so as the image was splashed with the victim's blood? There was no difficulty in obtaining a warrant and with this I went off to Gower Street. Roy loudly protested his innocence. He denied all knowledge of the crime and of the idol. I expected the denial but I was astonished at the defense he put forth. It was very ingenious but so manifestly absurd that it did not shake my belief in his guilt. I let him talk himself out which perhaps was wrong but he would not be silent and then I took him off in a cab. I swear I did not commit crime he said passionately. No one else was more astonished than I at the news of Mrs. Vincent's death. Yet you were at Ulster Lodge on the night in question. I admit it he replied frankly were I guilty I would not do so but I was there at the request of Vincent. I must remind you that all you say now will be used in evidence against you. I don't care I must defend myself I asked Vincent for a hundred pounds and of course you did to give to Miss Ford. How do you know that? He asked sharply from her brother through Maudsley. He paid the note supplied by you into the bank. If you wanted to conceal your crime you should not have been so reckless. I have committed no crime retorted Roy fiercely. I obtained the money from Vincent at the request of Miss Ford to save her brother from being convicted for embezzlement. Vincent denies that he gave you the money. Then he lies. I asked him at the chestnut club for 100 pounds. He had not that much on him but said that 200 were in his desk at home. As it was imperative that I should have the money on the night I asked him to let me go down for it and he refused. He did not. He consented and gave me a note to Mrs. Vincent instructing her to hand me over a hundred pounds. I went to Brixton, got the money in 250s and gave them to Miss Ford. When I left Ulster Lodge between eight and nine Mrs. Vincent was in perfect health and quite happy. An ingenious defense said I doubtfully but Vincent absolutely denies that he gave you the money. Roy stared hard at me to see if I were joking. Evidently the attitude of Vincent puzzled him greatly. That is ridiculous said he quietly. He wrote a note to his wife instructing her to hand me the money. Where is that note? I gave it to Mrs. Vincent. It cannot be found I answered. If such a note were in her possession it would now be in mine. Don't you believe me? How can I against the evidence of those notes and the denial of Vincent? But he surely does not deny that he gave me the money. He does. He must be mad said Roy and dismay. One of my best friends and to tell so great a falsehood why if? You had better be silent I said weary of this foolish talk. If what you say is true Vincent will exonerate you from complicity in the crime. If things occurred as you say there is no sense in his denial. The latter remark was made to stop the torrent of his speech. It was not my business to listen to incriminating declarations or to ingenious defenses. All that sort of thing is for judge and jury. Therefore I ended the conversation as above and marched off my prisoner. Whether the birds of the air carry news I do not know but they must have been busy on this occasion. For next morning every newspaper in London was congratulating me on my clever capture of the supposed murderer. Some detectives would have been gratified by this public laudation. I was not. Roy's passionate protestations of innocence made me feel uneasy and I doubted whether after all I had the right man under lock and key. Yet the evidence was strong against him. He admitted having been with Mrs. Vincent on the fatal night he admitted possession of two fifty pound notes. His only defense was the letter of the stockbroker and this was missing if indeed it had ever been written. Vincent was terribly upset by the arrest of Roy. He liked the young man and he had believed in his innocence so far as was possible but in the face of such strong evidence he was forced to believe him guilty. Yet he blamed himself severely that he had not lent the money and so averted the catastrophe. I had no idea that the matter was of such moment he said to me else I would have gone down to Brixton myself and given him the money. Then his frenzy would have spared my wife and himself a death on the scaffold. What do you think of his defense? It is wholly untrue. I did not write a note nor did I tell him to go to Brixton. Why should I when I fully believe no one was in the house? It was a pity you did not go home Mr. Vincent instead of to the Alhambra. It was a mistake he assented but I had no idea Roy would attempt the robbery. Besides I was under engagement to go to the theater with my friend Dr. Monson. Do you think that idol belongs to Roy? I can't say I never saw it in his possession. Why? Because I firmly believe that if Roy had not the idol in his pocket on that fatal night he is innocent. Oh you look astonished but the man who murdered your wife owns that idol. The morning after this conversation a lady called at Scotland Yard and asked to see me concerning the Brixton case. Fortunately I was then in the neighborhood and guessing who she was I afforded her the interview she sought. When all left the room she raised her veil and I saw before me a noble looking woman somewhat resembling Mr. Maudsley's clerk. Yet by some contradiction of nature her face was the more virile of the two. You're Ms. Ford? I said guessing her identity. I am Clara Ford she answered quietly. I have come to see you about Mr. Roy. I'm afraid nothing can be done to save him. Something must be done she said passionately. We are engaged to be married and all a woman can do to save her lover I will do. Do you believe him to be guilty? In the face of such evidence Ms. Ford I don't care what evidence is against him she retorted. He is as innocent of the crime as I am. Do you think that a man fresh from the committal of a crime would place the money won by that crime in the hands of the woman he professes to love? I tell you he is innocent. Mr. Vincent doesn't think so. Mr. Vincent said Ms. Ford with scornful emphasis. Oh yes I quite believe he would think Julian guilty. Surely not if it were possible to think otherwise. He is or rather was a staunch friend to Mr. Roy. So staunch that he tried to break off the match between us. Listen to me sir I have told no one before but I tell you now Mr. Vincent is a villain. He pretended to be the friend of Julian and yet he dared to make proposals to me dishonorable proposals for which I could have struck him. He a married man a pretended friend wished me to leave Julian and fly with him. Surely you are mistaken Ms. Ford. Mr. Vincent was most devoted to his wife. He did not care at all for his wife. She replied steadily. He was in love with me to say Julian annoyance I did not tell him of the insult offered to me by Mr. Vincent. Now that Julian is in trouble by an unfortunate mistake Mr. Vincent is delighted. It is impossible. I assure you Vincent is very sorry to you do not believe me she said interrupting. Very well I shall give you proof of the truth. Come to my brother's rooms in Bloomsbury. I shall send for Mr. Vincent and if you are concealed you shall hear from his own lips how glad he is that my lover and his wife are removed from the path of this dishonorable passion. I will come Ms. Ford but I think you are mistaken in Vincent. You shall see she replied coldly then with a sudden change of tone is there no way of saving Julian I'm sure that he is innocent appearances are against him but it was not he who committed the crime is there no way no way moved by her earnest appeal I produced the greenstone idol and told her all I had done in connection with it. She listened eagerly and readily grasped at the hope thus held out to her of saving Roy. When in possession of all the facts she considered in silent for some two minutes at the end of that time she drew down her veil and prepared to take her departure. Come to my brother's rooms in Alfred Place near Tottenham Court Road said she holding out her hand. I promise you that there you shall see Mr. Vincent in his true character. Goodbye till Monday at three o'clock. From the color in her face and the bright light in her eye I guess that she had some scheme in her head for the saving of Roy. I think myself clever but after that interview at Alfred Place I declare I am but a fool compared to this woman. She put two and two together fared it out unguessed of evidence and finally produced the most wonderful result. When she left me at this moment the greenstone idol was in her pocket. With that she hoped to prove the innocence of her lover and the guilt of another person it was the cleverest thing I ever saw in my life. The inquests on the body of Mrs. Vincent resulted in a verdict of willful murder against some person or persons unknown. Then she was buried and all London waited for the trial of Roy. He was brought up charged with the crime, reserved his defense and in due course he was committed for trial. Meantime I called on Ms. Ford at the appointed time and found her alone. Mr. Vincent will be here shortly she said calmly. I see Julian is committed for trial and he has reserved his defense. I shall defend him said she with a strange look in her face. I am not afraid for him now he saved my unhappy brother I shall save him. Have you discovered anything? I have discovered a great deal hush that is Mr. Vincent she added as the cab drew up to the door hide yourself behind this curtain and do not appear until I give you the signal. Wondering what she was about to do I concealed myself as directed. The next moment Vincent was in the room and then ensued one of the strangest of scenes. She received him coldly and motioned him to a seat. Vincent was nervous but she might have been a stone so little emotion did she display. I have sent for you Mr. Vincent she said to ask for your help in releasing Julian. How can I help you he answered in amazement willingly would I do so but it is out of my power. I don't think it is. I assure you Clara he began eagerly when she cut him short. Yes call me Clara say that you love me lie like all men and yet refuse to do what I wish. I am not going to help Julian to marry you declared he so only you know that I love you I love you dearly I wish to marry you is not that declaration rather soon after the death of your wife. My wife is gone poor soul let her rest yet you loved her I never loved her he said rising to his feet I love you from the first moment I saw you I loved you my wife is dead Julian Roy is in prison on a charge of murdering her with these obstacles removed there is no reason why we should not marry. If I marry you she said slowly will you help Julian to refute this charge. I cannot the evidence is too strong against him. You know that he is innocent Mr. Vincent I do not I believe that he murdered my wife you believe that he murdered your wife she reiterated coming a step nearer and holding out the green stone idol. Do you believe that he dropped this in the study when his hand struck the fatal blow? I don't know he said coolly glancing at the idol I never saw it before. Think again Mr. Vincent think again who was it that went to the alhambra at eight o'clock with Mr. Monson and met there the captain of a New Zealand steamer with whom he was acquainted. It was I said Vincent defiantly and what of that? This she said in a loud voice this captain gave you the green stone idol at the alhambra and you place it in your breast pocket shortly afterwards you followed the bricks in the man whose death you had plotted you repaired your house killed your unhappy wife who received you in all innocence took the balance of the money hacked the desk and then dropped by accident this idol which convicts you of the crime. During this speech she advanced step by step towards the wretched man who pale and anguished retreated before her fury he came right to my hiding place and almost fell into my arms I had heard enough to convince me of his guilt in the next moment I was struggling with him it is a lie a lie he said hoarsely trying to escape it is true said I pinning him down from my soul I believe you to be guilty. During the fight his pocketbook fell on the floor and the papers therein were scattered Miss Ford picked up one spotted with blood the proof she said holding it before us the proof that julian spoke the truth there is the letter written to you which authorized your unhappy wife to give him 100 pounds. Vincent saw that all was against him and gave in without further struggles like the craven he was fate is too strong for me he said when I snapped the handcuffs on his wrists I admit the crime it was for love of you that I did it I hated my wife who was a drag on me and I hated Roy who loved you in one sweep I thought to rid myself of both his application for that money put the chance into my hand I went to Brixton I found that my wife had given the money as directed and then I killed her with a foil snatched from the wall I smashed the desk and overturned the chair to favor the idea of the robbery and then I left the house. Driving to a higher station than Brixton I caught a train and was speedily back at the Alhambra. Vincent never suspected my absence thinking I was in a different corner of the house. I had thus an alibi ready had it not been for that letter which I was fool enough to keep and that infernal idol that dropped out of my pocket I should have hanged Roy and married you as it turns out the idol has betrayed me and now sir he said turning to me you had better take me to jail I did so there and then after the legal formalities were gone through Julian Roy was released and ultimately married Miss Ford Vincent was hanged as he well deserved to be for so cowardly a crime my reward was the Greenstone God which I keep as a memento of a very curious case. Some weeks later Miss Ford told me the way in which she had laid the trap when you revealed your suspicions about the idol she said I was convinced that Vincent had something to do with the crime you mentioned Mr. Monson as having been with him at the Alhambra he is one of the doctors at the hospital in which I am employed I asked him about the idol and showed it to him he remembered it being given to Vincent the curious look of the thing had impressed itself on his memory on hearing this I went to the docks and I saw the captain he recognized the idol and remembered giving it to Vincent from what you told me I guessed the way in which the plot had been carried out so I spoke to Vincent as you heard most of it was guesswork and only when I saw that letter was I absolutely sure of his guilt it was due to the Greenstone Idol so I think but the chance also but for the accident of the idol dropping out of Vincent's pocket Roy would have been hanged for a crime of which he was innocent therefore do I say that in nine cases out of ten chance does more to clinch a case than all the dexterity of the man in charge end of the Greenstone God and the stockbroker recording by Alan Winner out boomcoach.blogspot.com