 Chapter number three of Call Mr. Fortune. 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 Lola Janey of Northern Virginia. Call Mr. Fortune by H. C. Bailey. The nice girl. Some are born great, some achieve greatness. Some have greatness thrust upon them. That was Dr. Reginald Fortune's trouble. He had become a specialist and, as he told anybody who would listen, thought it an absurd thing to be. For he was interested in everything, but not in anything in particular. And it was just this various versatility of mind and taste which had condemned him to be a specialist. Obviously, an absurd world. The criminal investigation department solicitors and others dealing with those experiments in social reform, which are called crimes, by continually appealing to his multifarious knowledge and his all-observant eye turned Dr. Reginald Fortune, general practitioner at West Hampton, into Mr. Fortune of Wimple Street, specialist in, what shall we say, the surgery of crime. And Reggie Fortune, though richer for the change, was not grateful. He liked ordinary things and any day would have gladly bartered a murder for a case of chicken pox. This accounts for his unequal sanity of judgment. Reggie was in that one of his clubs, which he liked best, because no member of it knew anything about his profession. He had just completed an animated discussion on the prehistoric art of the French Congo and was going out when the tape machine buzzed and clicked at his elbow and he stopped to look. Murder of Sir Albert Lund, said the tape. And oh, my aunt, said Reggie. The tape continued the conversation thus. Sir Albert Lund, the well-known mining magnet, was found dead this afternoon in the deer park of his estate at Pryor's Colony Box. The body was discovered by an employee in circumstances which suggested foul play, a medical examination led to the conclusion that the deceased has been shot. The local police have the case in hand and the search is being actively prosecuted for. Words failed the tape and it relapsed into a buzz. Reggie stared at it with gloomy apprehension. I believed the beggars get murdered just to bother me, he was reflecting. When a jovial tea merchant wholesale, that club is the most respectable club, collapsed him on the shoulder and asked what the news was. They only do it to annoy because they know it teases, said Reggie and held up the tape. Albert Lund, said the tea merchant and whistled. Well, he won't be missed. Don't you believe it? Reggie groaned and went out. Upon his way home, the passionate interest which the world expressing its emotions on newspaper placards took in Sir Albert Lund was heaped upon him. When he left himself in his factumum, Samuel Baker was hovering in the hall. Oh, don't look so alert, Sam. It's maddening, Reggie complained. Samuel Baker grinned. You'll want all the papers, sir? I suppose so. I'm getting each edition as they come along, sir. Would you like a photograph of Sir Albert? Go away, Sam, Reggie waved at him. Go quite away, Sam. Do you know one reason why many fellows get murdered? It's because other fellows can't live up to them. As he changed, Reggie looked through the papers. They were eloquent upon Sir Albert Lund. His career, even when treated with the delicacy due to those who die rich, was a picturesque subject. Sir Albert Lund, with his surviving brother Victor, had gone out to South Africa in the early days of diamonds. His first vocation was discreetly veiled. Some references to his lifelong passion for sport reminded the knowing of the story that he and his brother had been in the front rank of the profession, which works with three cards, the thimble, and the pee. Sir Albert, always in close alliance with Victor, had come out into daylight in the second stage of the diamond field when the businessman was following the steps of the lucky adventurers. It had been Sir Albert's habits throughout life to appear in the second stage of things. The polite newspaper biographies called this Prudence and Sound Judgment. He had always been fortunate in reaping other people's harvest. There were strange tales of his devices at Kimberley and Johannesburg, and just a hint of a clash with Cecil Rhodes, in which Rhodes had said what he thought of the brothers Lund with a certain gusto. So ways that were dark and tricks that were anything but vain in Kimberley and Johannesburg made Albert Lund a millionaire. He was not satisfied. South Africa was too small for him. South Africa was too small for him. Or was it too hot for him? He had spread his operations around the world. He was interested in cementurion tin and the copper belt of the Belgian Congo. One of our modern empire builders, as the evening paper sagely said. How Sir Albert came by his title was a problem left in decent obscurity. Much was said of the magnificence of his life in England, his Rococo Palace not quite in Park Lane, his pantomime splendors at Pryor's Colney, the ballroom which was in the lake, and the dining room which was paneled in silver. The knowing reader could divine that Sir Albert had lived not only blatantly but hard and fast. Yeah, said Reggie Fortune. Just as he was putting on his coat, Sam arrived with a photograph of Sir Albert and Reggie sat down to it. A plump man of middle height, rather loudly dressed, a long heavy face, rather like a horse's, but with protruding eyes, commonplace enough. It was only the expression which made Reggie examine the fellow more closely. Under the photographic smirk was a look of insolence and conceit of singular force. The man who owned that would never allow any creature a right against him. Behold the secret of Sir Albert Lund's success. And, oh Peter, I don't wonder someone murdered the animal. Said Reggie, justifiable force aside, on which he went off to dinner with his sister, who had married a man in the treasury and gave him the pleasant somnit evening you would expect. When he came back, there were two telegrams waiting for him. Number one was called into Lund case. Desire consult you. Lady Lund also anxious your opinion from Gerald Barnes. Number two, Desire consult you Lund case. Please see me priors conely morning from Lomis. Reggie whistled, let them all come, he said. Gerald Barnes had been house surgeon when Reggie was surgical registrar at St. Simon's Hospital and had gone into practice somewhere in Buckinghamshire. The Honorable Stanley Lomis was the head of the Criminal Investigation Department. Have they had a scrap? Reggie smiled to himself. Lots of zealot priors conely. Sam, the car after breakfast, will go and see life. And he went to bed. But in the morning, just as he was finishing breakfast, he was told that Nurse Doncey wanted to see him and said it was most urgent. Nurse Doncey was at St. Simon Hospital and had a partiality for Reggie, who quite paternally liked her for being gentle and kindly and pretty. A trim figure, a pair of honest gray eyes, a wholesome complexion, and an engaging red mouth were the best of Nurse Doncey's charms. But there was a simplicity about her which commended them. Types of English beauty, third prize, Nurse Doncey, somebody once said. And it was felt to be just. On this morning, Nurse Doncey's nice face was troubled, and she had lost her usual calm. Oh, Mr. Fortune, will you help me? She rushed at Reggie. It's the Lunt Case. Now what in wonder have you to do with the Lunt Case? Nurse Doncey blushed. I'm engaged, Mr. Fortune, she said. Well, he's a very lucky man, and I hope you're a lucky girl. Oh, I am, said Nurse Doncey, with conviction. He has been arrested. They say he murders Sir Albert Lunt. Mr. Fortune, will you help us? Who in creation is the lucky man? His name is Vernon Cranford. He's the mining engineer. Oh, he's been everywhere. He's the born explorer, you know. He discovered a copper mine in Portuguese East Africa, one of the richest mines in the world. He came home last year and told Sir Albert Lunt about it, and Sir Albert sent him out to show the place. There was this sort of expedition, you know, and then somehow, on the way up country, Vernon was left behind. The other men tricked him, and when he got back to Mozambique, he found that the other men had claimed the place was theirs. They had, what do you call it, secured the concession, the rights in it? Wasn't it a shame? Vernon was just furious. I don't know quite how it happened. He only came back on Monday. I know he thought it was Sir Albert Lunt's fault. He said he was going to see him and have it out with him. He was going to see him yesterday, and then, last night, I had this note from him. She held it out. Then, couldn't bear to let it out of her hands, and so, read it to him. Dear Joe, you mustn't worry. Lunt's been found shot, and the police have pinched me. Take it easy and go slow, and we'll comb it all out. Yours be. Nurse Doncey gazed at Reggie with very big eyes. Sounds as if he knew his own mind, Reggie murmured. And all this being thus, you want me to take up the case? Why? Nurse Doncey was startled, but to get him off, of course, to defend him. Yes, but don't let's be previous, speak and frankly, did he do it? Nurse Doncey stood up. I am engaged to him, Mr. Fortune, she said with dignity. Quite, that's the best thing I know about him, but I don't know much else. And I'm sure he's not guilty. That kind of a man, is he? Just that kind of a man, said Nurse Doncey, and her eyes glowed. He couldn't do anything that wasn't fair and clean. Then he'd better have a solicitor. Do you suppose he's got one? He'd never think of such a thing. Make him have Morrison Gordon, ask for Donald Gordon, and say I sent you. But I want you, Mr. Fortune, you know there's no one like you. I blush, we both blush. Reggie smiled at her. Well, Nurse, two other people have called me into the lunt case. Nurse Doncey cried out, and her nice face was pitous. Take it easy and go slow, as V. Cranford says. I'm going down to Prius Coney now, to find out who I'm acting for. Oh my dear girl, don't cry. I'm guessing it may be you. Now you be a good girl and take Donald Gordon to him. Nurse Doncey held out her hands. Oh, Mr. Fortune, don't go against him, she cried. Safe in his car, Reggie communed with himself. She's a lamb, but disturbing to the intellects. Well, well, I'll have to make Braille Lomas sit up and take notice. It was a clear cold morning of early spring, and Reggie shrank under his rugs. He had no love for east winds. He thought that there should be a close time for murders. He was elaborating the scheme by which the murder and the cricket season should be counter-minious. When, at about 25 miles from London, they passed a horrible building. It was some distance from High Road, perched on the top of a small hill. It was a very red brick and very white stone, so arranged as to suggest the streaky bacon, which might be made of pig, who had died in convulsions. It was ornate with the most improbable decorations, colonnades, battlements, a spire or so, Oreo windows, a dome, two-ter chimneys, and some wedding cake for our bellows. Reggie writhe and called to his factum, who was sitting beside the chauffeur. Sam, who had that nightmare? That must be Colony Tower, sir, Mr. Victor Luntz place. Reggie groaned, and Victor yet lives. A mile or two farther on, they ran into a village, which, before ruthless fellows struck garden city cottages onto it, must have been placid and pretty. The car drew up at an honest Georgian lump of red brick, which bore the plate of Dr. Gerald Barnes. Gerald Barnes was a ruddy young man who looked and dressed like a farmer. I say, this is very decent of you. Jolly day, isn't it? He bustled. Have you a fire, Barnes? A large fire? Put me on it, said Reggie. And don't be so cheerful. It unnerves me. Still, in his fur coat, Reggie planted himself in front of the consulting room hearth. Now, what do you want me for? Well, it's not me so much, though, I'd like your opinion. It's more Lady Lunt. Medically speaking, it's a pretty straight case. Lunt was shot in the chest and the bullet lodged in the spine. Thirty-eight revolver bullet. So there's not much doubt about the cause of death, what? But there are one or two odd things. The right thumb seems to be sprained. There's a nasty wound over his left eye. Seems to have been made by a blow. Sounds messy. Where do I come in? Why, I don't quite see my way through it. If a fellow had a pistol ready to use, why bash the beggar? It's a futile sort of wound, too. Nasty mess. But not dangerous. But you'd better see the body, Fortune. Oh, let me thaw. So Lady Lunt's not satisfied with the police. No, by Joe, she isn't. I say, Fortune, how did you know that? Genius. Just genius. And what's Lady Lunt like? Well, you know, she isn't quite a lady, and yet she is in big things. He married her about ten years ago, somewhere on the continent. But she's English. She was a dancer or singer or something. Pretty low class, I believe. She was awfully handsome. Big, dark, dashing type. She hasn't kept her looks, but she's still striking. She was pretty rowdy at first. Went the pace like he did. He was an awful old bounder, you know. But for a good while now, she's been different. Quiet and serious. Looking after things down here. Good work on the estate, that sort of thing. She quieted him down, too. But he was pretty bad. I think she was getting him in hand slowly. But she must have been having a rotten time for years. What does Lady Lunt want now? I'm hanged if I know, said Barnes, after some hesitation. She thinks there's more in it than the detective see. And she's not satisfied about this arrest. Now go easy. Two other people have called me in. And I don't know who I'll act for. So don't spoil anybody's game. Lomas wired for me. Lomas? So Scotland Yard isn't so mighty cocksure. Did Lomas seem so? Rude fellow. And then there's V. Cranford. Cranford's got you already. He's lost no time. Oh, he's in very good hands. Now let's take a walk. You show me where Lunt was killed. And I'll have a look at him. Reggie shed his fur coat and became brisk. He was his bailiff who had found Sir Alpert Lunt taking the news to the house and telephoned for Gerald Barnes. Sir Alpert Lunt had been walking back from his home farm across the park, which was an undulating stretch of turf over chalk, broken here and there by some fine beaches and covers of gorse and bramble. A gravel path ran straight from the home farm to the main Chestnut Avenue. Barnes halted at a place where the turf was trampled in half frozen footprints. Reggie looked around him, well out of sight of any house. Nobody heard the shot? Nobody noticed it. It's a good way from the house you see and a mile from the farm. A shot or so, what's that in the open country? You often hear guns somewhere. Quite. Where's that path go to? Reggie pointed to a track across the turf diverging from the gravel. That? Oh, over to Victor Lunt's place. His park, he calls it a park too, but it's a small affair. Almost joins this, you know. Well, well, let's see the body. Reggie yawned and they marched on to Pryor's Coney. It had once been a calmly place in a state 18th century fashion. Oh, my only aunt, Reggie grown. Looks like your grandmother put into the Russian ballet. It was loaded with excretions and contorted ornaments still raw and new against the mellow solemnity of the original homely house. A motor car stood at the door. While they were detaching hats and sticks in the hall, they could hear someone being told that Lady Lunt was not leaving her room. Then being shown out came a bulky man muffled in a fur coat with a big astrakhan collar. He had a large head and a long face of unhealthy complexion. Across the forehead from right eyebrow to hair was a red furrow. He had prominent pale eyes. Who is the sportsman with the scratched face, Reggie said as the door shut on him? Oh, that's Victor Lunt. Been inquiring after Lady Lunt, I suppose. Bright and brotherly, Reggie murmured. There appeared briskly a man of grave and military aspect who was presented to Reggie as Radner Hall, Sir Albert Lunt's secretary. Radner Hall, in a faintly American accent, was very glad to see Mr. Fortune, hoped for Mr. Fortune's company to lunch, after which Lady Lunt was most anxious to see Mr. Fortune. I want to see the body, Reggie said gruffly. So to the body he was taken and saw that Gerald Barnes was right enough. There could be no doubt of the cause of death. A pistol bullet fired from some little distance had entered the chest and lodged in the spinal vertebrae. Sir Albert Lunt might not have died on that instant. He could not have lived long, but that mortal wound was tiny. What made the dead man look horrible was the gash in his forehead and the bruise around it. And over that, Reggie frowned and pondered. Showy, isn't it? Very showy, he complained. Such a hurt a man might get by falling on a stone, but Sir Albert Lunt had fallen on his back on the turf. If someone had hit him with a stone or some such jagged thing, but why should any man take a stone who had a pistol and was not afraid to use it? If there was any sense in it, I'd say it was a fake, Reggie grumbled. He gave up the wounds at last and moved around the body. Oh, you're looking at the wrong hand, Barnes said. Am I, though? Yes, this is the one where the thumb sprained, the right hand. Well, you know, he seems to have been busy with his hands. What did you make of this? Barnes came to look. The fingers of the left hand were bent toward the thumb as if the dead man had been plucking at something. Not much in that, is there? What was he wearing? Rough brown overcoat, brown tweeds. Oh, ah, delicately. Reggie extracted from the stiff fingers some little curly black tufts. Well, that's queer, Barnes said. Looks like a nigger's hair. You know, you've got an imagination. Reggie put this stuff very carefully in his pocketbook. Some oppressed nigger from the compounds at Johannesburg came all the way to Pryor's Coney for vengeance, threw a stone at him, shot him, and then butted him. Thorough fellow, very thorough. What is it then, Barnes said sulkily? Seek not to participate. Allo! The interruption was the honorable Stanley Lomas chief of the criminal investigation department, dapper and debonair. Ah, fortune good man. Why didn't you ask for me? I'm at the end in the village. That's very haughty of you. Why not in the house? Have you put Lady Luntz back up? Or has she put up yours? Oh, best to have a free hand, don't you know? Well, what do you make of it? Reggie shrugged. Curious features, what? What I want to know is, was that blow on the forehead before the shot or after? What you want is not a surgeon, it's a clairvoyant. Anyway, you don't want me. You've got your man. Have I? Lomas put up his eyeglasses. You mean Cranford. Now, how did you know about Cranford? Sorry Lomas, nothing doing. I'm the independent expert this time. Lomas frowned. My dear fellow, oh my dear fellow, unless you're acting for someone, you've no business here, don't you know? I'm acting for someone alright, for V. Cranford. Hello, you've made up your mind, Barnes-Garde. Lomas dropped his eyeglasses. Well, well, things must be as they may. What? It's a pity. Afraid you've made the bad break this time, fortune. It's a straight case. I wonder, said Reggie. My dear fellow, I'd hate you to be at a disadvantage. Lomas seemed suddenly to have become older, paternal, protective. Well, it's not strictly official, but I may tell you, we found the pistol. It was in Cranford's rooms. A Smith's Sotherin, 38? Fancy. I don't suppose they're more than half a million of them in circulation. It's a good gun. I've got one myself somewhere. My dear fellow, Lomas was young and jaunty again. Why tried to bluff me? Lunt was killed by a particular kind of pistol, and we find the particular man to whom all suspicion points owns one of these pistols. It's quite simple, don't you know? Yes, oh yes. Duisid lucid duisid convincing. But I wondered why you want to convince me. That was the first skirmish over the Lunt case, and Reggie, Gerald Barnes, discreetly excused himself. Ate a little teter-teter lunch with Radner Hall, not in the silver panel dining room. When the servants were gone, I don't want to hear anything under false pretenses, Mr. Hall, Reg explained. I shall act in this case for Cranford. Is that so? Radner Hall rubbed his back here. I guess I'll take you right into Lady Lunt. Lady Lunt stood in front of the fire with a cigarette in her mouth. She was a big woman, a little flat of figure and gaunt a face, but still handsome. She thrust a hand on Reggie's, gripped his hand, and shot a glad to see you at him. Reggie was sorry he could not act for Lady Lunt, but had to consider that Cranford had the first claim on him. I don't mind, she cried. It seemed her habit to be explosive. If you're against the police, that's good enough for us, eh, Radner? Sure, said Radner Hall, who was watching Reggie closely. I want you to hear what we've got to say about the case, the lady explained. We think it matters. Quite a lot, said Radner Hall. Lady Lunt nodded at him, and he began. You see, Mr. Fortune, Sir Albert left everything to Lady Lunt. Reggie murmured that it was very natural. As Lady Lunt regards the proposition, it's up to her to see that justice is done about the murder. Justice, see? Lady Lunt broken vehemently, and not to have some poor devil hanged because the police think he's an underdog and don't count. Radner Hall frowned at her. Mr. Fortune will realize when we make the position clear. Sorry, Radner, you go on. Lady Lunt threw her cigarette away and dropped into a chair. Well, Sir, to commence, Radner Hall smoothed his black hair. This firm never was Albert Lunt. It was Lunt Brothers. Delayed Sir Albert, he was sure master. He put in the get up and get. But quite a lot of the head work came from Mr. Victor Lunt. And lately, Sir Albert, having largely relapsed into living on his rents, Mr. Victor Lunt has had considerable control. Now, Sir, speaking as man to man, I would wish to say that the methods of Lunt Brothers have been complex, highly complex. I conjecture that in the early days of Albert and Victor were both alpha scouts. But in my time, Sir Albert, having mellowed, largely mellowed, under prosperity and certain influences. Oh, don't blather, Radner, Lady Lunt, exploded. Well, Mr. Fortune, Sir Albert has lately showed a tendency to more conservative methods of finance. Mr. Victor Lunt has gone on putting in his sharp head work. There has been friction, Sir, some friction. Now, in this affair at Cranford's, without prejudice, I would like to say that Mr. Cranford has been hardly used by Lunt Brothers. He's been damnably cheated, said Lady Lunt. There's a point of view, said Radner Hall. Lady Lunt had put her point of view to Sir Albert. Well, Sir, the Cranford case was largely handled by Mr. Victor Lunt. I wouldn't say Sir Albert disavowed the methods used, but he considered Mr. Victor was taking too much control. Words passed, and we find Sir Albert shot. That's the proposition, Mr. Fortune. Reggie smiled. Reggie put the tips of his fingers together, and over them looked blandly at the military face of Radner Hall. Your view is that Sir Albert was murdered by his brother Victor, he said. Lady Lunt started and looked at Radner Hall. Radner Hall gave no sign of surprise. Pitch up another doctor, he smiled back. No, Sir, your guess, not mine. I'm giving out facts. Oh, cut it out, Radner, said Lady Lunt. Well, well, Reggie surveyed her benignly. And so Sir Albert's death leads Victor in control of the firm. Sir Albert's share comes to me, Lady Lunt said. Five eighths. I'm master now. A responsibility, Reggie murmured. If I understand one cause of quarrel between the brothers was that Victor resented your influence, Madam, which Sir Albert encouraged you to use. Yes, that's the proposition, said Radner Hall. You know it's not, Lady Lunt cried. They both hated me to metal. Is that so? Reggie said dreamily. And you were asking me to find out who murdered Sir Albert? No, I wasn't. Lady Lunt flashed at him. I was asking you to save that poor boy, Cranford. Ah, well, let's hope it's the same thing, Reggie stood up. I can play about in the park, I suppose. Many thanks. And he did play about in the park till dusk. And when he went back to London, Sam, the Factimum, was not with him. In the evening, Donald Gordon rang him up. Donald Gordon thought Cranford was a bit of a tough but was going to act for him. It would be a fruity case. He had arranged a consultation with Cranford at the prison tomorrow and hoped Reggie would be there. What did Reggie think of the case? Rotten, Reggie said, and rang off. The fact is that from first to last, the Lunt case annoyed him. He never saw his way through it and has always called it one of his failures. The one thing which he did, he will tell you, was to grasp that the police were mucking it, to divine that whoever killed Sir Alpert and whoever he or she did it, it was not a simple common bit of pistoling. He was right about nothing else. His apology is that he has no imagination. At this stage, he was prepared to believe anything. When he went gloomily to bed, it was with the conviction that if he were chief of the criminal investigation department, he could make it or fake it into a hanging matter for any one of the ballet crowd. The unknown Cranford, the enigmatic victor, Lady Lunt, Radner Hall, you could put each of them in the dock or several of them together. Lady Lunt stood to gain most by the death or perhaps Radner Hall. What were her relations with Radner Hall? Cranford had the worst quarrel with the dead man or perhaps brother Victor. In favor of Cranford was only the oddity of the business and nice nurse Doncie, a lamb, comfortable versions of her sent him to sleep. Seen in the gone room at the prison, the unknown Cranford came up to expectation. He was a dark fellow, lean and powerful, with a decisive jaw. The little Jewish solicitor, Donald Gordon, became nervous before him. Miss Doncie says, I'm devilish obliged to you, doctor, said Cranford sharply. So I am, you understand, I admit nothing. That's the best way the little Jew listened. But Cranford told his story and admitted a good deal. He had offered his discovery of copper to Lunt brothers and been sent out to Mozambique with a party of their men. On the way up country, he had gone out of camp to shoot for the pot. Out of the bush came a native spear and broke his thigh. By the time he struggled back to camp, there was no camp. The party had gone on with the food and the baggage, his baggage too, in which was the map of his copper belt. He was left wounded and alone in the bush. After some desperate days, he struggled into a native village and laid there a month before he could travel. When he came back to Mozambique, he found that Lunt brothers were enrolled as the owners of all the copper belt. He sailed for England. There was in him, he confessed, no proclaimed the single purpose of getting his own back from Sir Albert Lunt. And so his first day in England took him to the office of Lunt brothers. Victor Lunt received him. Victor Lunt had been civil, even sympathetic, but had nothing to offer. Victor Lunt admitted that they had jumped his claim, did not conceal that the trick had been planned by Sir Albert Lunt. Agreed that Cranford had been damnably swindled, but gave him no hope that Sir Albert Lunt would do anything. You didn't kill Victor anyway, Reggie said. Victor, poor beast, there's nothing to him. He's all talk, said Cranford. Albert ran that show. Victor, as good as told me so, said he was just a clerk in Albert's office. So I told him a few things about Albert. Poor devil, he was in a funk. He got cold feet, said I had better go right on to Albert. Albert was down at Prius Colney. Would I go to Albert? I would so, and I did. Yes, by train, you got to Colney Road Station 1220, Reggie said. You came back by the 250. That's so, Cranford stated him. You know something, Doctor, I walked up to Prius Colney. Flunky, said Albert was out. I walked back and caught the 250. There was a silence for a moment. Then the little Jew said. That's the story. You'll have to tell it in the witness box, you know. Can do, said Cranford. That's nice, the little Jew listened. Now you know some fellow will ask you. Don't you tell me if you don't want. Did you murder Albert Lunt? I did not, sir. The little Jew rubbed his hands. That's nice, ain't it, Doctor? That gives us a free hand. He got up. Well, Doctor, any questions? I wonder what coat you were wearing, Mr. Cranford, Reggie said. Coat? Brown raincoat. Devilish coat it was, too. Only coat I've got. I've not had time to fit out for an English spring. Quite. We'll carry on then, Reggie got up, too. He's shaping all right, Mr. Cranford. Shouldn't worry. Not me. Tell Ms. Dauncey, Cranford said. Outside in the car. What's the verdict, Doctor? Gordon said. He's telling the truth, Reggie said. Fancy. And they became technical. On the day of the inquest, Reggie went down to Pryor's Coney, but the inquest he did not attend. The Honorable Stanley Lomis noticed that and remarked on it with surprise to Donald Gordon. It was the one thing in a successful day which gave Mr. Lomis concern. But at the close of that day, Mr. Lomis, going back to the end for his car and his tea, found Reggie eating buttered toast. I envy you, fortune, don't you know? Lomis sat down beside him. Oh, Mr. Lomis, sir, Reggie Mamel, go along with you. I envy your stomach, Lomis explained. Put up his eyeglass and surveyed the buttered toast more closely. Oh, Lord, and after a bad day, too, you've heard the verdict. What will for murder against Cranford? And all is gas and gators. And horror for Scotland Yard. And you shall pay for my tea. It was the pistol did it for him, you know. Lomis smiled as a man who can afford to smile. Childhood's years are passing over us, Lomis, Reggie murmured. Soon our school days will be done. Cares and sorrows lie before us, Lomis. Hidden daugies, snares unknown. I found the real pistol, old thing. Goodbye. Lomis caught him up outside. I say fortune without prejudice. What's your line? Seek not to participate, Reggie smiled. This gentleman is paying for my tea, Mary. You would be so hasty, you know. Mr. Lomis drank whiskey and soda. That was the second skirmish in the Lunt case. The general action was fought at the assizes. The interest in it began with the cross-examination of Victor Lunt. Victor Lunt called for the prosecution, made a good impression. He looked harassed and in ill health, affected as a good brother should be by brother's death. But he had command of himself, proof that he had brains as well as the heart displayed by his dull eye and flabby face. He was lucid and to the point. He showed no malice against Cranford. Cranford had called on him in the morning of the murder, complained bitterly of his treatment by Sir Albert Lunt, used violent language about Sir Albert, demanded to know where Sir Albert was and gone away. Such was Mr. Lunt's evidence in chief. Then arose a small pallid barrister with a priggish nose. He would ask Mr. Lunt to carry his mind back to some earlier transactions. So the story of the expedition to Mozambique was brought out and such was the simplicity of the priggish little man. The harassed mouth of Mr. Lunt was made to explain that Lunt brothers had annexed Cranford's discovery and that the expedition of Lunt brothers had left him to die in the bush. Are you justifying the murder? said counsel for the crown. You will understand my friend's uneasiness, gentlemen, said the little barrister, and pinned Mr. Lunt to the statement that it was Sir Albert who had planned this iniquitous scheme. And when Cranford had gone, Mr. Lunt, of course, you warned your brother that once this desperate fellow was on his track. No? curious. Yet you went down in your motor to your own house at Coney Towers, not much more than a mile away. You reached the house between 12 and 1230, perhaps? Oh, don't begin to forget things now. What did you do then? As far as he remembered, Mr. Lunt took a stroll. On your oath, did you not go and meet your brother? Mr. Lunt, who had sat down, started up to deny it. He had not gone outside his own park. Would it surprise you to hear that on the path from your house to Sir Albert's, there were found next day fresh footprints, which your boots fit? Mr. Lunt often walked that way. What clothes were you wearing? Mr. Lunt could not remember. He went as he was. You don't deny you were wearing a coat with an astrakhan collar? Mr. Lunt could not say. He had such a coat, he did often wear it. Very well. And as you were saying, you have had quarrels with your brother about the policy of the firm? Not quarrels, no. Mr. Lunt protested eagerly and struggled to explain them away. On the day after the murder, you had a large scratch on your forehead, which was not there before the murder. Mr. Lunt could not remember the scratch. Anybody might have a scratch. He was let go, and the jury looked at each other. After lunch, first witness for the defense came Lady Lunt to say that the scheme to trick Cranford had been victors, and that on many subjects there were bitter quarrels between Victor and Albert. Radner Hall corroborated. Reggie followed and brought the crisis of the battle. Mr. Fortune, eminent in his profession, had examined the body. Clutched in the left hand were some black tufts, fragments of astrakhan. When he visited the scene of the crime, he had found on the brambles close by other tufts of astrakhan. He had traced recent footprints which corresponded exactly to the size of a pair of Mr. Albert Lunt's boots. He produced measurements and casts. In the depths of one of the neighboring culverts, he had found a Smith's Southern 38 Magazine pistol from which three shots had been fired. And a vigorous cross-examination could do nothing with these facts. Then came other witnesses to prove that Victor Lunt had been wearing astrakhan and Cranford a raincoat. Last witness for the defense, Cranford himself. Last question for the defense, on your oath, did you murder Albert Lunt? On my oath? No. The once confident counsel for the crown went delicately now. It was plain enough that he thought his case did not justify him impressing the prisoner hard. When you were told Albert Lunt was out, you made no further attempts to see him? Why? I thought it was the plant. I thought the two of them were putting me off. So you went straight back to town? Yes, I caught the 250, you know that. Counsel for the Crown gave it up. A speech of Sledgehammer logic from the Prickish Little Barrister exhibiting Cranford as a man much wronged and Victor Lunt as the villain of the peace. A speech the more effective from its studied absence of passion. A summing up from the judge dead against Victor Lunt. A quick verdict of not guilty. Cheers in court. Nurse Doncey crying and laughing and feeling blindly for Reggie Fortune's hand. In the corridor outside. That's a case, my boy. That's a case. The little Jew solicitor jumped and gurgled. Some sensation. What, Mr. Lomas? Some sensation in the yard. Baddest break, Lomas. Zeal, all zeal, Mr. Easy, Reggie grinned. Why the devil couldn't you give it me? Lomas thrust by in a hurry. Get on, Belle. Get on. Superintendent Belle, whose lieutenant shook his head at Reggie. That night after dinner, a card was brought in to Reggie Fortune. For God's sake, see me was scrawled above Mr. Victor Lunt. Reggie went down to his consulting room. Victor Lunt was in distress. The fat face, which in the morning had been pale, was now crimson and sweating. He breathed heavily. He seemed swollen. You must expect nothing from me, Mr. Lunt. I have done with your case, Reggie said. You'll hear what I've got to say. You must hear my side, doctor. It was you who set them on me. My God, there must be a warrant out for me any moment. Doctor, for God's sake, you don't want to send me to the gallows. I never did it. I swear I never did. I have said nothing but the truth about what I found. The facts are the facts, Mr. Lunt. Defend yourself against them. I can do nothing for you. But the facts lie, doctor. God love you. You wouldn't want to hang an innocent man. I tell you the truth by God I will. Reggie sat down. I can't take up your case, Mr. Lunt. I'm committed. Anything you tell me is at your own risk. If you can convince me that your innocent is my duty to do what I can for you, but I advise you to hold your tongue. Don't you see Victor Lunt was almost screaming? If they hang me, it's you that's done it. Will you listen now? Go on, sir. Victor Lunt mopped his face, tried to speak, and stuttered. I did go out that day. The words came in half particulate rush. I wanted to see what Cranford had done to Bert. And in the park I found Bert lying shot. He had a pistol in his hand. Do you want me to believe he shot himself? Reggie frown. Oh God, I don't know. I swear it's the truth, doctor. He was lying there shot with the pistol in his hand. When I bent over him, he grabbed at me. You swine, he said, and he lifted his hand to shoot. Then I bashed his face with a stone, but he shot and it cut my head. That was the scratch, doctor. My God, do you see things? I grabbed the pistol and wrenched it away from him. The sprained thumb. Reggie murmured. Then I heard the death rattle. Victor Lunt shuddered. And again, he could not command his speech. I lost my head, doctor. I ran away. I chucked the pistol away. I don't know what I did. Doctor, I swear it's God's truth. He started up. What do you mean to do now? For Reggie sat silent looking at him. If it's the truth, Mr. Lunt, I advise you to tell it. It is the truth. Don't you know it's the truth? Oh God, I'm not God, Mr. Lunt. Victor Lunt screamed. Two men had come into the room. Mr. Victor Lunt, I'm Superintendent Bell. I hold a warrant. Victor Lunt fell upon the hearth. They rushed at him, dragged him out of the fire. A pop flexi, Reggie said. I thought it was coming. The detective's eyebrows asked him a question. Reggie shook his head. This warrant won't run, said Superintendent Bell. What was he doing here, sir? Asking for mercy, Reggie said. He's taking the case to a higher court. I wonder. I wonder. And that night Victor Lunt died. A few days after Reggie gave a little dinner to Cranford and Nurse Dauncey. And Nurse Dauncey in a shy evening frog was adorably happy. And in due time, have another peach, Reggie said. Do you want to see me blush, Mr. Fortune? But she took another. You can do pleasant things with the stones. He loves me, he loves me not. It's not interesting anymore, said Nurse Dauncey and looked amure. I'm off to British Columbia next week, Cranford announced. Alone, said Reggie, with his eye on Nurse Dauncey. This year, next year, Nurse Dauncey counted. May I have five peaches, Mr. Fortune? I'm sure you know what's good for you. So you're dropping the Mozambique Copperclaim, Cranford. Lady Lunt offered to turn it over to me. I couldn't touch it. Of course not, said Nurse Dauncey. Good thing for me Victor Lunt didn't stand his trial, Cranford said. Yes, it would have kept you in England, Reggie lit a cigar. I should have had to tell the whole story. Reggie stared at him. Yes, that's the proposition, sir. It was the case you put up against him got me off. I put up nothing, Reggie cried. Everything I had against Victor was true and he knew it was true. That's what broke him. He had a queer story of his own, though, said Reggie. And Reggie told them Victor Lunt's version of the crime. I've wondered how much of that was true. He wanted me to believe Albert committed suicide, you see, and that's impossible. Maybe it was all true, Cranford said. Poor beggar. He went through it. I didn't feel merciful, Reggie said. Whatever was the way of it, he meant to get his brother murdered. He worked you up and sent you off to do it. He meant the murder. No, I don't feel merciful. And yet I wonder. I always meant to put you wise, Cranford said. You'll pardon me. I couldn't afford to give anything away. And I told you no lies. I didn't murder Albert Lunt, but I killed him. Fair and clean, sir. On my soul is as good a bit of work as I ever did. He was a yellow dog. It was up to me to wipe him out. This is the way of it, doctor. When they said he wasn't at priors' colony, I laid to wait for him and then I saw him coming across the park. I met him and I told him off. I had it all cut out. He had to have his chance, though. He gave me none. I had two guns, one for him, one for me. I offered him the pick, and he snatched and fired at me while I had the other gun by the muzzle. He was sure trash. Then he put in another miss and I stretched him. That's my tail, sir. And it's just as well you didn't try it on a jury, Reggie said. Cranford started up. Mr. Fortune, sir, I'm considerably in your debt. But if you call me a liar. Oh, no, no. Do you call me a coward, then? I would have had it all out if Victor had come to trial. You've run straight, Reggie said. I sure have, Cranford fumed. Do sit down, dear, said Nurse Dauncey, in her nice, gentle voice. On her, Reggie turned. And you knew all the time. He shook his head at her. Yes, of course, Mr. Fortune. She looked surprised. Cranford, my congratulations, said Reggie. Never trust a really nice girl unless you're marrying her. Perhaps you knew that. End of Chapter 3. Chapter 4 of Call Mr. Fortune This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Call Mr. Fortune by H. C. Bailey. Chapter 4 Case 4 The Efficient Assassin There was a silence that might be felt. The judge put on the black cap. The prisoner gave a queer cackle of laughter. And Mr. Reginald Fortune, the surgeon whose evidence had convicted him, yawned and stole out of court. The Sunday School Murder One of the most popular crimes of our generation had bored Mr. Fortune excessively. And now that the Sunday School Superintendent was safely on his way to the hangman, Mr. Fortune desired to forget all about it at once. He stood on the steps of the Shire Hall, lighting a cigar. A large young man, who had been struggling to get in, detached himself from the guardian policeman, and ran at him. Fortune, my God, he said emotionally. I thought I'd never get at you. I say, come somewhere where we can talk. Mr. Fortune looked down through his smoke with sleepy eyes. One moment, one moment, he murmured. Oh, ah, you're Charlotte Cote, beaver Charlotte Cote. Well, and what's the best with ya, beaver? It's murder, old man, Charlotte Cote muttered. Everybody's doing it, Mr. Fortune frowned at him. Who's slain now? It's my father. My dear chap. Oh, my dear chap, Mr. Fortune was startled into sympathy. I say, Fortune, for God's sake, Charlotte Cote gasped. Quite, quite, said Mr. Fortune, linked arms with him, and marched him off. When Reggie Fortune ambled through his four years at Oxford, Jeffrey Charlotte Cote was one of the great men of his college, a cricket blue, socially magnificent, and even suspected of brains. The Charlotte Cote family dated from the Victorian age. When the building of railways began, Jeffrey's grandfather was a navvy. He became a contractor, made half a million, and died. Shares of his practical ability, his originality, his driving power, and his disdain for the Ten Commandments. He was a mean old sinner, or inherited in different proportions by his three descendants. Stevenson Charlotte Cote, his son, had one child, Jeffrey, and was also the guardian of an orphan nephew, Herbert. Stevenson Charlotte Cote was a capable man of business. In his hands the family wealth increased. His only ambition was that the family should get on in the world. So it was Eaton and Oxford for Jeffrey, Harrow and Cambridge for his cousin Herbert. Herbert emerged elegant and ordinary in spite of Eaton and Oxford. Jeffrey disturbed his father by showing signs of originality. He was bored by the big house in Mayfair. He would not bother himself with society. He scoffed at going into Parliament. This freakish obscenity roused the hereditary temper in Stevenson Charlotte Cote, who was the more angry with his son because his nephew Herbert obeyed him in all things, and was successful in the most pompous drawing rooms. The breaking point came when Jeffrey discovered that he wanted to go abroad and be a sculptor. Stevenson Charlotte Cote raged and decreed that he should not go. And Jeffrey went. All this Reggie Fortune, who never forgot anything when he wanted it, knew at the back of his mind. The rest Jeffrey told him as his car took them back to London. My God Fortune, it's ghastly. I found him lying dead in the street outside my place. I stepped in his blood. The old Governor. Quite, quite, said Reggie Fortune. Now begin at the beginning. What is the beginning? Well, you quarreled, didn't you? He quarreled. Oh, that sounds blood-guardedly. I daresay it was my fault. Yes, we had a big row. Damn it, man. What do you mean? Do you think I? Oh, I say, this is loathsome. I believe that's what the police think, the old Governor. Yes, but this doesn't help him, said Reggie Fortune placidly. From the beginning, please. Jeffrey Charlotte Cote stared at him, gulped, and became more coherent. Well, after the row, I went abroad. Paris, Rome, Munich. I kept up a little place in Chelsea, too. I never saw the old man. And we didn't write. I suppose I've been a brute. Hard stuff in the Charlotte Cote family. What? Yes, I'm sorry, Fortune. I swear I'm sorry. Get it out, said Reggie Fortune. Well, in Munich, I married. He flushed. You know, she's an angel, Fortune. Quite, German angel? No, she's Italian. She came to Munich singing. And we met. And in a month, we were married. I tell you, Fortune, I've been a different man since. It's as if she'd given me a soul, you know? Did you tell your father that? It was she. Made me write to my father again. Lucia. She can't bear being in a quarrel. She's so gentle. Any sort of bad feelings hurts her. So she brought me to try and make it up. I wrote to the old man and he answered. Just a short, civil, formal note. But Lucia was sure it would lead to something. And so we came back to England. Then I wrote to him again. And he came to see us in Chelsea. That was a week ago. Just a week ago today. He was pretty stiff and standoffish. But he took to Lucia. Everybody does. You know, Fortune, old man. She's wonderful. I thought he seemed a good deal aged. But he was just as brisk and sharp as ever. He had us to dine with him on Monday. And then, well, last night he called on us again. Came about four, stayed a long time. And he was so jolly and genial. And afterwards I went out to post some letters. And there he was. Lying, not a dozen yards from our door. He'd been stabbed. He was in a pool of blood. Good God. It was awful. Yes, yes. Seems to be a quiet street where you live. Vint in place. It's a little cul-de-sac. It was dark when he left. And you heard nothing? Yes. I wonder who his money goes to. What the devil do you mean? Jeffrey cried. Well, that's quite a fair question, said Reggie Fortune placidly. If I'm acting for you, and if you like I will, I look only to your interests. If I'm acting for Scotland Yard, and if it's a hard case, they'll call me in. I'm only concerned to get the truth out, whoever suffers. And do you think I don't want the truth? Jeffrey cried. What are you hinting at? Do you mean I murdered him? Preserve absolute calm, said Reggie Fortune. I'm not calm. What a beast I should be if I was calm. I want the thing cleared up, man. I want my father to have justice. Whether you act for me or act for the police. It's the same thing. If you take it that way, I'll act for the police beaver, said Reggie placidly. Jeffrey's Charlotte coat stared at him. That's enough. Thanks, he said. Stop the car. I won't worry you any more, Mr. Fortune. Mr. B. Blode. Don't be an ass beaver. It's a bad business. Let's make the best of it. Will you stop the car, Jeffrey said loudly, and stood up. Five miles from nowhere. Oh, go easy. But Jeffrey turned and opened the door. So the car was stopped, and Jeffrey's Charlotte coat left, forlorn in his rage on the road. Reggie Fortune laid back inside. Or beggar, I wonder. Or beggar, he said. And when he came back to Wimple Street, the first thing he did was ring up the hawn, Stanley Lomas, the chief of the criminal investigation department. As a consequence, you behold him sitting under the French Prince in the study of Mr. Lomas. I thought you'd be on this. Don't you know, Lomas said. It's a pretty case. Wealthy old gentleman, impeccanous heirs, sudden death. That's natural enough. But impeccanous heirs don't stab much. Not in England. Yes, you're intelligent, Lomas. But you're prejudiced. You always believe in the obvious. The obvious is what happens. Oh, Peter. If it did, we wouldn't want a criminal investigation department. Well, now, this is what I've got. Check it, please. Jeffrey quarreled with the old man, went away, commenced artist, and married an Italian girl. At her wish tried to make it up with the old man. Old man was willing, called on Jeffrey twice. And after the second visit, Jeffrey found him stabbed and dead just outside. That's all right, Lomas nodded. An odd thing is, just before the murder, the old man remade his will in favor of Jeffrey. When they quarreled, he had a will drawn up which left everything to the nephew Herbert. Under this last will, Herbert gets twenty thousand, and all the rest goes to Jeffrey. It was only signed on the morning of the murder. There's a deuce of a lot of unknown qualities in this equation, Reggie said. Silly futile things, Faxar. This set will do for anything, you please. As soon as he knew the will was in his favor, Jeffrey does the old man in? Or when he heard there was a new will cutting him out, Herbert sees red and knifes the old man. By the way, Lomas, I suppose the old boy was stabbed. What? Oh, damn, don't be clever. He was stabbed, all right. The divisional surgeon and his own doctor, Newton, they both went over the body. Stabbed in the throat. We've got the weapon, too. Sort of a stiletto or dagger. Reggie cocked an eye at the head of the criminal investigation department. Sounds Italian, he murmured. It is Italian. And Jeffrey married an Italian wife, an Italian singer, a singer at cafes. That's the kind she was. Yes, that's the proposition. Lomas, old thing, you ought to write melodramas. The diabolical Italian singer. She leapt out of the dark. She pulled a dead dagger from her stocking. And she fell upon the dear, kind old gentleman, and left him weltering in his gore. Then she put the dagger down, so the gifted detective could find it, and went back to dinner. It is silly, isn't it, Lomas Grand? But there it is. Don't you know? I don't know, said Reggie Fortune. I don't know anything. I was born of poor, common, sensible parents. And this is all crazy. I suppose he really was stabbed. You will harp on that. Go and look at him in the morning. Hang it, man. The family doctor and the divisional surgeon, they ought to know if there's a hole in him or not. But why? Why? Jeffrey, the Italian wife. They were on velvet anyway. The disappointed nephew? Well, I suppose he still had his allowance while the old man lived. Do you know anything about nephew Herbert? Man about town. Society tamecat. Usual vices. What? Plays a bit high. He's nothing in particular. Don't sound like a lurking stabber, Reggie admitted. People don't do these things. That's the trouble. Queer case. I suppose the old man hadn't a lurid past. Lomas shook his head. Most respectable old bird. Reggie stood up and gave himself a full glass of soda water. The extraordinary efficiency of the assassin, he said carefully. Lomas, old deer, observed the extraordinary efficiency of the assassin. Mr. S. Charlecote comes out of his son's house. A few yards from the door, somebody kills him so quickly, so neatly, that he doesn't make one sound. And then this extraordinary efficient assassin leaves his dagger for you to find. Who says he didn't make a sound? Yes, Jeffrey and his angel wife. Yes, only them and no one else. That's a flaw. Little essays in the Obvious by S. Lomas. Well, it's me for the corpse then. And so in the morning he called at the mortuary. He was slightly surprised to find the divisional surgeon and Dr. Newton waiting for him. He returned thanks. Is there anything to which you'd like to draw my attention, gentlemen? In a plain case, to my mind, said the divisional surgeon. I am always glad to have a specialist opinion, said Dr. Newton. Of course. This sort of thing is rather out of my line. I confess I can hardly approach it calmly. Quite, quite, most distressing. I suppose you knew him well, doctor. An old patient, Mr. Fortune. I may say an old friend. Ah, yes. You know the family, of course. They were once such an affectionate family, said Dr. Newton. It's really terrible, he sighed. He was florid, bearded man with a sentimental expression and manner. Poor Charlicote. He never seemed to bear up after Jeffrey broke with him. But who would have thought that strange escapade would have ended like this? So you think Jeffrey did the trick? I beg your pardon? Dr. Newton was horrified. You put words into my mouth, Mr. Fortune. No, no. A most invidious suggestion. Murders rather an invidious business, said Reggie placidly. Come, doctor. What do you think of Jeffrey? I have never been able to conceal from myself, Mr. Fortune, that there is an odd strain in Jeffrey, as it were something abnormal, or thron, a certain violence of temperament. In the blood, perhaps? Perhaps, and yet there was nothing of it in his father, or in his cousin Herbert. Cousin Herbert, yes. What about cousin Herbert? Dr. Newton laughed. Frankly, Mr. Fortune, you baffle me, because there is nothing about Herbert. A very worthy young man, no doubt, but colorless. Quite colorless. Reggie nodded. No. Dr. Newton pursued his own train of thought, and my own speculations on the affair, this most deplorable affair. I find myself continually confronted by an unknown quantity, a mysterious entity, Jeffrey's Italian wife. Ah, there you have it, said the divisional surgeon heartily. Reggie looked at them. Nodded, and without more talk, led the way to the body. It did not occupy him long. Two wounds had sufficed to make the end of Stevenson's Charlicote, one in the throat, which had pierced the carotid artery, one in the chest, which had reached the heart. Superintendent Bell, in attendance from Scotland Yard, produced the weapon found by the body, a long, thin dagger or stiletto, obviously capable of causing the wounds. Obviously Italian in origin. Reggie finished his examination and turned to the two doctors, who were waiting on him reverently. Anything in particular occur to you, gentlemen? Quite straightforward, I think, the divisional surgeon shrugged. Technically speaking, a very neat bit of work. I would go even further, said Dr. Newton. The crime seems to have been committed with remarkable skill and determination. The extraordinary efficiency of the assassin, Reggie murmured. Yes, touched the spot every time. It would almost seem to suggest some experience in the use of this weapon, said Dr. Newton. That is indicated. Reggie nodded at him. Yes, deceased, been in good health lately. I have been treating him for some type of gastric trouble, a persistent gastric guitar. It was troublesome, but hardly serious. And upon that, Reggie got rid of them, and was left alone with the superintendent Bell. Superintendent Bell cocked an oldish but still bright eye. And the next thing, sir, said he. I am feeling depressed, Bell. Do you ever have feelings? I feel this is all wrong. Well, sir, the evidence is thin, very thin. Evidence? Oh, my aunt. We haven't come to evidence yet. I'm uncomfortable. Everything seems wrong, way up. Why did anybody kill the old man? He was making friends with Jeffrey, again. And anyway, he had enough to live on. Herbert had an allowance and something of his own, too. Nobody else stood to gain by his death. If you leave out the Italian girl, sir. It keeps coming back to her, Reggie said mournfully. But why? Suppose he was nasty to her when he called. Would she run out and stab him in the street? I wonder. Did he know some horrid secret about her past? What is her past, Bell? Pretty short, sir. Anyway, she's not more than 18. She was a cafe singer, all right. But we have nothing against her. In my own experience, they're no worse than others. And that's that. Have you seen his papers? Better come up to the house, sir. His solicitor will be there. But I understand there's nothing in them. Very few private papers at all. Well, well. I suppose he was murdered. Superintendent Bell stared. Mr. Lomas said you were harping on that. Pretty clear, sir, isn't it? I suppose so, said Reggie, drearily. But it's all wrong, Bell. It's all wrong. At the dead man's house, his solicitor, old Sir Thomas Long, was busy in the library, and helping him to Reggie's surprise was Herbert Sharlicote. Herbert revealed himself as a pallid, dandyish man, punctuously polite, colorless. Dr. Newton hit him off to the life. Herbert was very gratified to make Mr. Fortune's acquaintance. I don't know whether to hope you can throw any light on this, miserable affair, sir. Reggie shook his head, but your uncle was stabbed, and died immediately of the wounds. That is the whole case, Mr. Sharlicote. I suppose you can't help us. I am bewildered. Quite dazed, Mr. Fortune. Reggie nodded and lingered, and Herbert discreetly left him with the solicitor. Well, Mr. Fortune, Sir Thomas took off his glasses and pursued his lips. Nothing. Well, Sir Thomas. Nothing, sir. Ah, that was a little odd, wasn't it? Reggie nodded at the door, by which Herbert had gone out. Mr. Herbert Sharlicote offered to help me. He used to act as his uncle's secretary. It was hardly for me to point out that there might be objections. If he was afraid of none, does he know of the new will? Neither he nor his cousin Jeffrey, Mr. Herbert, I infer, believes himself sole heir, and Mr. Jeffrey believes himself disinherited. And yet, just after the new will is made, the old man is murdered. Oh, it's all wrong, Reggie said, peevishly. An odd case, a very odd case, Mr. Fortune, Sir Thomas put on his eyeglasses again, but I'm afraid I can't help you. Superintendent Bell opened the door. But Reggie seemed reluctant to go. And on the stairs, he loitered, so much that the superintendent turned. Anything doing, sir? The gastric guitar, Reggie murmured. Let's see the valet. The valet, an oldish man, was found. He testified that Mr. Charlotte Cote had been much upset by the quarrel with Jeffrey. Mr. Charlotte Cote had complained a good deal about his health, but there were no particular symptoms. Dr. Newton had been attending him for a long time, but the valet did not think that he had done Mr. Charlotte Cote any good. For one thing, Mr. Charlotte Cote did not take his medicine. There had been a good deal of medicine. Mr. Charlotte Cote's instructions were always to pour it down the sink, and that's that, said Reggie as they went out. We don't get anywhere, sir, do we? The superintendent sympathized. Anything you suggest? How does it strike Superintendent Bell? Looks like a bad case, sir. One of those where the criminal has all the luck. Verdict persons unknown. So Scotland Yard leaves it at that. Unless Mr. Fortune has something up his sleeve. Nary card. But you know, we've missed something, Bell. Have we? Indeed, sir. And where shall we look for it? Oh, watch out. Watch, everybody. Life is short, sir, said Superintendent Bell gloomily, and with that they parted. Superintendent was a true prophet. The sensational inquest upon Stevenson Charlotte Cote ended in an unsatisfactory verdict of murder by some person or persons unknown. It was obvious that the public opinion and the coroner, as the voice thereof, directed suspicion against Jeffrey. He made a bad witness. He was agitated, nervous, and under the coroner's hostile examination lost his temper. And when he was asked if he knew that his father had on the morning of the murder made a will leaving everything to him, he displayed a violent agitation. Swore, not merely as a witness but with profane oaths, that he knew nothing about it. Insulted the coroner and roared out a declaration that he would not touch the money, which disgusted everybody as a bit of false melodrama. If distrust and dislike were grounds for hanging a man, the jury would have made an end of Jeffrey. But the evidence, as Lomas complained, could not hang a yellow dog. And the next day, Reggie Fortune, bland as ever, called on Jeffrey. It was a very humble house in Chelsea, cul-de-sac. The aged servant who took in Reggie's name left him on the doorstep, from which he had the glimpse of a narrow, bare hall and uncarpeted stairs. He was kept waiting some time, and heard confused noises. When at last he was shown into the studio, he met signs of storm. Jeffrey was flushed and visibly in the sulkiest of tempers. His wife pale and tired. Well, what is it now, Jeffrey growled? His wife smiled. Mr. Fortune, that is so kind, if you would please sit down. Some tea, yes? And Reggie was saying to himself. Oh, my aunt. She isn't a woman. She's a child. For Lucia Charlicote was so frail, of such a simplicity that she looked rather like an angel, and one of the primitive Italian pictures, than a woman. Shut up, Lucia, Jeffrey growled. What do you want here, Mr. Fortune? Trying a bit of your detective work? You're rather difficult, aren't you? Reggie said mildly. You know you told me you wanted to have the truth brought out, just as for your father. All that sort of thing. Well, I'm still on it. Much good you've done, haven't you? I don't mind confessing, we've missed something. Missed? Yes, you haven't quite hanged me. Thanks. You've only made everybody think I murdered my father, and so that doesn't satisfy you? Thanks very much. Well, are you satisfied, said Reggie? You know, you're not fair. I'm making every allowance, but you're not fair. If you want the thing cleared up, you've got to give us something more. And that's why I'm here, now. Is there anything new? Oh, go to the devil. Jeffrey, Lucia, standing behind him, touched his shoulder. Mr. Fortune is very kind. He desires to help us, and she smiled and nodded at Reggie. Oh, hold your tongue, baby. Mr. Fortune's a damned, tricky policeman. And he can take his tricks to another market. But you are impossible, Lucia cried. Mr. Fortune, you see what I have to live with. This great bear, she rumpled Jeffrey's hair, and he made an exclamation of disgust and dashed her hand away. But yes, Mr. Fortune, there is something new. This great animal, he desires not to take his father's money. He writes to the lawyer to say he will not have it. But I forbid him. I say it is mad. Say if I am right, Mr. Fortune. What is the father's it? Is the son's. And Jeffrey, he has done nothing. But if he says he will not take it, she made a fine theatrical gesture. People will think it is because he is guilty. Is it not, Mr. Fortune? Why can't you hold your tongue, Jeffrey snarled at her, and turn to glare at Reggie? There's a pretty story for you, and watch your beastly detective trademark of that. You know, Ms. Charlicote, he's always in such a hurry, Reggie said confidentially. Very disturbing, isn't it? You are difficult, Charlicote, old thing. Is your mind capable of receiving a thought? Yes. Well, just suppose that I may have refused to act for you, because it would be better for the son and heir I shouldn't be acting to his order. What the deuce do you mean? Well, I don't quite know. You know, do you? Is there anything you really want to tell me? I never want to see you again. Jeffrey, his wife protested. Oh, he's not chatty this afternoon, Ms. Charlicote. So sorry, Reggie extricated himself from her offers of tea and slid away. But he was annoyed, against his will, the opinion of Dr. Newton forced itself into his mind. An odd strain in Jeffrey. As it were something abnormal or thron, a certain violence of temperament, it was so, confound the oily old family doctor. Why did Jeffrey want to give up the money? Mere quittery, a passionate desire to clear himself from the ill fame of profiting by the old man's death? Probably. Oh, probably. But there was a feeling called remorse found in human nature. And why did the angel wife tell Jeffrey to keep the money? She ought to want her husband clear of ill fame. You would expect a woman to care more about that than the man himself. And you would expect a woman to share her husband's rage, with the horrid man who had not stuck up for him. Instead of which, the angel wife was very anxious to keep on good terms with that horrid man, because he represented the police? Or why else? She had a dubious way with her. The angel wife. Reggie was worried. A rare state for him. And he took himself to his least sociable club. He was sitting there, glowering at a scientific American paper when the voice of Lomas addressed him. Care killed a cat, Reginald. Why so blue? Reggie sat up. Life is real, life is earnest, Lomas. And the grave is not the goal. That's because of our filthy profession, which is always bothering the corpses. Come away, I am worried. I'm going to worry you. As they walked in St. James Park, Reggie told him of the queer talk in the studio. I want comfort, Lomas, old thing, he concluded. Comfort me. My dear fortune, it's quite clear. What? Unsatisfactory case? Profoundly unsatisfactory? But it's quite clear. I always thought those two were in it. Probably the sweet young wife did it. Or put Jeffrey up to it. Now he funks, and she doesn't. Women carry up these things better than men, don't you know? I don't know. I don't know anything, Lomas, old dear. You are grateful and comforting. You really are. I knew you'd say that. And I know it's all wrong. My poor dear fellow, you never will reconcile yourself to an unsatisfactory case. It's so common, too. A case you can't act on while you know it's sound. Oh, Peter, you can always act on a sound case. You're so young, Lomas smiled indulgently. We've missed something, don't you see? And what have we missed, Reginald? Reggie pulled him up and looked at the ducks. For a long time, he looked at the ducks. Then, Cousin Herbert, he said, the evasive, elusive Cousin Herbert. Why do we never come up against Cousin Herbert? Because he had nothing to do with it. What? Because we haven't looked for him. Lomas gave an impatient laugh. This is absurd, my dear fellow. That pallid, tame cat of a man? You let some of your fellow sniff around him. My dear Mr. Fortune, of course they have. He's quite a blameless sort of fellow. Plays a bit, spends a bit, nothing more. Oh, he wanted money, did he? My dear Fortune, you're right off the wicket. He had an alibi. He was with some people at Maidenhead at the time of the murder. Oh, my aunt. Anybody can have an alibi, Reggie grumbled. Lomas laughed and shook his head. It won't do, Reginald. Don't try to be subtle. Well, that isn't your complaint, Reggie snarled, and for once they parted in nasty tempers. Three days afterwards a telephone message called him to Scotland Yard, and he found Lomas in conference with Superintendent Bell. Ah, here's the profit. Lomas smiled. Do you remember, in the Charlotte Cote murder? You backed Herbert both ways. Well, the latest from the course is that Herbert has vanished. Then it's damned careless of you. I told you to watch him. You're not intelligent in the force. But hang it. You might be active. His valet reports him disappeared. He had a dinner engagement last night. He didn't come home to dress for it. Didn't come home at all. He went out after lunch yesterday, and hasn't been seen since. Reggie sat down. One of your larger cigars would do me good. Lomas, he said, and helped himself. Oh, Mr. Lomas, sir. This is so sudden. Cousin Herbert was feeling nervous, no doubt. But why this dramatic exit? What gave Cousin Herbert cold feet yesterday? Superintendent Bell coughed. I was wondering, sir, if Mr. Fortune had taken any steps on his own, with regard to Herbert, to alarm him, so to speak. Nary step. Why the blazes didn't you catch him? After all, sir, we've not a thing against him. Not now. Well, sir, it's not criminal to disappear. But I don't mind saying it's odd, quite odd. Oh, I expect Jeffrey and the angel wife murdered him, too. Just to round it off, Lomas, old thing. You're very merry and bright, Lomas grumbled. I wish you'd tell me how this helps us. Why should he bolt now? There is another unknown quantity somewhere, Reggie admitted. The telephone claimed Lomas. He took it up, and his face was eloquent as he listened. He put it down again very gently. A frager right out of it, Fortune. Herbert Sharlicote didn't bolt. Herbert Sharlicote has been found, drowned, in the Basingstoke Canal. Good Lord, sir, the Superintendent exclaimed. Pretty conclusive. What, Lomas shrugged. And why the Basingstoke Canal, said Reggie placidly. Lots of nice places to drown in nearer home. I ask you, why the Basingstoke Canal? Lomas and his superintendent looked at each other. It really is a crazy case, Lomas said slowly. I don't quite. Reggie jumped up. Oh, come on. Let's go and look at him. My car's outside. Where is he? Working half a minute, Lomas rang his bell and turned to his papers. So Reggie went down first. He dismissed his chauffeur with some long instructions, and himself took the chauffeur's seat. Superintendent Bell joined him. Darker and darker, sir, isn't it? Changeable weather, Reggie said. Come on, Lomas, all aboard. Are we downhearted? No. The car shot forward, and when it stopped and working, is my hair white, Fortune, Lomas said? The two stood humbly aside, while the expert was busy with the corpse as often as I've seen this game, sir. I'll never like it, Bell said, and Lomas nodded. But Reggie Fortune whistled as he worked. When he turned from the body and put a scrap of something in his pocket book. Well, what is it, Lomas said? He was drowned, I suppose. He was drowned, all right. About a tea time last night, say at dusk, now for the scene of death. Where is it? Just by a bridge, on a by-road, somewhere between here and by fleet station. I ask you, why does a gentleman, a fashion, about to commit suicide, come and look for a bridge, on a by-road, somewhere between here and by fleet station? Somebody's took some pains in the Charlotte Coat business, the superintendent said. Reggie laughed. The superintendent touches the spot. As ever, come on. He stopped his car some distance from the bridge, and they went forward on foot. There's a big car been over here, Bell said. Yet you wouldn't think it was much of a motor road. It was a narrow gravel road, and very loose. Just below the steep pitch of the bridge, a car had been stopped, and in stopping or starting again, had torn up the loose gravel. Thence to the canal was only half a dozen yards. The path was much trampled, and the grass and bushes, by the bank, beaten down. All that may have been done fishing him out, Bell said. But that don't explain the car. They took him off in a wooden cart. I suppose since motors were invented, there never was one came down this road and stopped just here. Not till last night, Lomas nodded. So somebody, said Reggie, somebody put Herbert in a car, brought him down here, and chucked him in. Who was somebody? Jeffrey and the angel wife? Eh? Lomas, old thing? Somebody put in some fine work. What? He wouldn't have been found for weeks, or forever, but a barge came along and stirred him up. And they don't have a barge along here once a month. Yes, there's plenty of brains about somewhere. Well, let's get busy. Herbert's happy home comes next. The car again broke the law on the way back. Herbert Sharlicote had lived in a big block of flats several stories up. Did himself pretty expensively, don't you know? Lomas said, looking around the elaborate room. He's paid for all now, sir, said Superintendent Bell. Do you know, I don't feel sentimental about Dear Herbert's doom, Reggie smiled. You better get on his papers. I want a man on the phone. And he went out and was gone some time. When he came back, he sat himself down in the window seat and opened the big casements. There was a low stone sill which held a box of flowers. The smell of oak leaf, geranium, and verbenus came into the room. Rather oily scents, aren't they? Reggie said. I'm afraid he was rather oily, the late Herbert. How are you getting on? He was certainly pressed for money, Lomas said. Here's his passbook and a letter from his bank manager, complaining that he's overdrawn again. The twenty thousand pounds he came in for under his uncle's will. He wanted it badly. And yet, as soon as he knows of that will, he goes and gets drowned. Suggestive? Isn't it? Reggie smiled. I'm hanged if I know what it suggests, Lomas stared at him. Oh, my dear Lomas. Somebody expected Herbert was going to get more than twenty thousand pounds by his uncle's death, going to scoop the whole estate only he didn't. So he's found dead. Can you make out from that passbook when Herbert got into difficulties? About nine months ago, he's been living with nothing in the bank ever since. About nine months ago, then for nine months his uncle did nothing to help him. The murdered uncle wouldn't help the impetuous nephew. Well, Lomas, old thing, I suppose you're playing some hand of your own, Lomas frowned. Superintendent Bell came forward. Here's a sort of betting book, sir. He put his luck at cards in it, too. He was some gambler. Any names, Lomas said quickly? All sorts of names, sir. Nothing instructive, so to speak. You might say that's curious. He pointed to a page on which, in a large blank space, appeared the one letter in. Reggie leapt from the window seat and rang the bell. As ever the superintendent touches the spot, he left. Herbert Charlotte Cote's manservant, hallowed and frightened, answered the bell. Now, my man, in one minute Dr. Newton will be at the door. You will let him in. He will ask for Mr. Herbert Charlotte Cote. You will say nothing to him. Nothing at all. And Superintendent Bell will be out in the hall to see that you do say nothing. You will show Dr. Newton in here. Go on, Bell. Look after him. He bustled them out. So in stands for Newton, does it? Lomas said. How do you know he'll come? Because he's just driven up in his car. Because I phoned to say Mr. Herbert Charlotte Cote was asking for Dr. Newton. Now you get in there. He thrust Lomas into an inner room. Dr. Newton, more floored than ever, hurried in, and pulled up short at the side of Reggie. Mr. Fortune, oh, delighted to meet you. He was out of breath. But I thought I was to see Mr. Charlotte Cote. Did you, though, that was very sanguine of you? I don't understand you, Mr. Fortune. Are you here professionally for the criminal investigation department? Really, though, really, Dr. Newton was still short of breath, and it was you who wanted to see me. Anything I can do, of course. You can tell me what was your little bet with Herbert Charlotte Cote. Dr. Newton lost some of his color. You bewilder me, Mr. Fortune. I am not a betting man. Pray explain yourself, and I must request you take a different tone. Where is Herbert Charlotte Cote? Well, where is he? Dr. Newton echoed. I confess, I don't understand the situation. I am told over the phone that Mr. Charlotte Cote wishes to see me, and… That gave you a bad quarter of an hour, didn't it? There's worse coming, Newton. Yesterday afternoon, Reggie strolled round the table and put himself between Dr. Newton and the door. Yesterday afternoon, you took Herbert Charlotte Cote for a drive in your car. When you came to the Basingstoke Canal, a nice, lonely place by the Basingstoke Canal, you clapped a chloroformed wad on his mouth, and when he was senseless, you dropped him into the water and left him there to finish by drowning. It was a neat thing, Newton. But he was finished out, Newton, and I've been all the morning with him, Newton. Dr. Newton began to laugh. Do you really wish me to take this tale seriously, Mr. Fortune? Then I must refer you to my legal advisors. I am sure that you will see that I must. He made for the door. Not much, Reggie said, and stood in his way. Dr. Newton's bland expression changed. He tried to push past, and failing, sprang on Reggie. The two locked together and swayed across the room. Reggie freed himself a moment and stooped. Dr. Newton went out of the open window. As Lomas broke into the room, they heard the thud of his fall on the stones. Good God! Did he throw himself out? Lomas cried. No, I pitched him out, Reggie said, smoothing his hair. Lomas rushed out of the room. Reggie, lounging after him, went to the telephone. In the forecourt of the flats, the body of Dr. Newton lay. Lomas and Bell and the hall porter were fidgeting with it, a little crowd on the pavement gaping at them. When Reggie arrived, you don't really want me, he said, but he bent by the body. It's all over. His neck's broken. Fractured skull also, but that doesn't matter. Bell stood up and blew a police whistle. Don't do that. Don't do it, said Reggie irritably. His first sign of troubled nerves. I have telephone for the ambulance, and all that. Why don't you think of these things beforehand? Superintendent Bell was startled out of his wanton composure. God bless my soul, he exclaimed, and stared at Reggie. And Lomas took Reggie's arm. Come upstairs, fortune, please, he said gravely. Reggie let himself be taken up to Herbert Charlicote's room, and when he was there, again, flung himself down on the couch. Thirdly and lastly, said he. And that's the end of the Charlicote case, Lomas, old deer. Oh, don't take that tone, Lomas cried. We're in a very difficult position, fortune. My dear Lomas. Oh, my dear Lomas. We have emerged with credit from a most difficult case. We have tracked and caught a very cunning criminal, who in tax with the murders of which he was guilty became desperate, and committed suicide by flinging himself from a fourth story window. You said you threw him out. Lomas, dear, my little jokes aren't evidence. You'll have to give evidence at the inquest, you know. Reggie nodded. You'll tell this suicide story. Sure, said Reggie. Lomas wiped his forehead. Damn it, man. I can't leave it like this, he cried. Oh, don't be so pendantic. The scoundrel had two murders at least on his soul. We hadn't evidence enough to hang him. He was much too dangerous to live, and he gets his neck broke quietly, and without scandal, what's worrying you? And what evidence have you got? Ah, now reason resumes her sway. Let's begin at the beginning. Herbert Charlicote, rather less than a year ago, was at his wits end for money. His uncle wouldn't give him any. Remember the betting book and the passbook. But at that time, he was his uncle's heir. He arranged with the family doctor, Newton, to have the old man killed. Newton would want to be paid. Probably the arrangement was a bet. Suppose Herbert bet Newton 10,000 to one his uncle wouldn't die within the year. Remember the end in the betting book. Newton began treating the old man for gastric guitar. Sent him gallons of medicine. Probably that was poison. But nothing happened because the old man didn't take it. Remember the valet? Said he had it. All put down the sink. I suspect old Charlicote didn't much care for his family doctor. The time began to run out. And then came reconciliation with Jeffrey. There was no time to lose. If the will was altered in Jeffrey's favor, no use in killing the old man. So Newton had to hustle. He was pretty neat. He chose an Italian knife. And did the killing close to the house where the Italian Miss Jeffrey lived. Remember the extraordinary efficiency of the assassin. Neat piece of surgery that murder. And then the bottom fell out of the bucket. The will had been altered. Herbert only got 20,000. Hardly enough to pay his debts. And so he wouldn't stump up Newton's price. Newton would cut up rough, of course. He threatened, I suppose. And Herbert threatened back. You know, I don't fancy the late Newton was a man to take kindly to being built. It may have been revenge. It may have been that he thought Herbert would give him away. Anyway, he took Herbert out in his car yesterday afternoon. Now we're coming to evidence, which is evidence, Lomas. I sent my chauffeur to make inquiries. And Newton drove himself. And his car fits the marks on that road. 24 denoise or leans. Two steel-studded Blake tires. When they got to that bridge, I suppose Newton stopped the car. Pretended there was something wrong. Got down and prepared a chloroformed wad of cotton wool. He clapped that on Herbert, anesthetized him, and dropped him in the canal. I found scraps of the wool in Herbert's mouth. And nostrils. That's the case, Lomas. Old thing. Come and have tea. There's rather decent muffins at the academies. Good God, said Lomas. Muffins. End of chapter four.