 Chapter number one 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 Genie of Northern Virginia. Call Mr. Fortune by H.C. Bailey. The Archduke's Tea. Mr. Reginald Fortune, M-A-M-B-B-C-H-F-R-S-C, was having a lecture from his father. You only do just enough, Dr. Fortune complained. Never brilliant, no zeal. Now, Reginald, it won't do. Just enough is always too little. Take my word for it and do be attentive to the Archduke. God bless you. Have a good time, sir, said Mr. Reginald Fortune, and watched his father settle down in the car a long process. Beside his mother and drive off, they were gone at last, which Reginald had begun to think impossible, and the opulent practice of Dr. Fortune lay for a month in the virgin hands of Reginald. Beautifully patient the mater is, Reginald communed with himself as he ate his third muffin. Fratful game to spend your life waiting for a man to get ready. Quaid old bird, the pater. Deathbed manor for a tummy ache. Wonder the patients to lap it up. But old Dr. Fortune was good at diagnosis, and he had his reasons for saying that Reginald lacked zeal. At Oxford, at his hospital, Reginald did what was necessary to take respectable degrees, but no more than he could help. It was remarked by his dean that he did things too easily. He always had plenty of time and spent it here, there, and everywhere on musical comedy and prehistoric man, golf and the newer chemistry. Barges and psychial research. There was nothing which he knew profoundly, but hardly anything of which he did not know enough to find his way about in it. Nobody except his mother had ever liked him too much, for he was a self-sufficient creature, but everybody liked him enough. He got on comfortably with everybody from bar maids to dons. He was of a round and cheerful countenance and a perpetual appetite. This gave him a solidity of aspect emphasized by his extreme neatness. Neither his hair nor anything else of his was ever ruffled. He was more at ease with the world than a man has a right to be at 35. It is presumed that he had never wanted anything which he had not got. Old Doctor Fortune possessed a small fortune and a rich practice, and Reggie enjoyed the proceeds and proposed to inherit both. The practice lay in that pleasant outer suburb of London called West Hampton, a region of commons and a large park, sacred to the well-to-do, and still boasting one or two houses inhabited by what auctioneers call the nobility. In Boulderwood, the best of these places, there lived at the moment in Reggie Fortune's existence, the Archduke Maurice, the heir apparent to the Emperor of Bohemia. You may remember that the Archduke came to live in England shortly after his marriage. It is, however, not true, as scandal reported, that his uncle, the Emperor, sent him into exile. There is reason to believe that the Archduchess, a woman equally vehement and beautiful, was not liked in several European courts. On her return from the honeymoon, she made a booby trap for that drill sergeant of a king, Maximilian of Swabia, and for some weeks, the central powers were threatening to mobilize. But she was a serene highness of the house of Urback Whittlesback, which traces this descent to Odin and had an independent realm of nearly two square miles, which Parliament and Army complete, and even the Emperor of Bohemia could not pretend that Maurice had married beneath him. History will affirm the simple truth that the Archduke and the Archduchess sought seclusion in England because they were bored to death by the Bohemian court, which was perpetually occupied in demonstrating that you can be very dull without being in the least respectable. The Archduke Maurice was a man of gentility and extraordinary natural taste. His garden, a long walk, a pint of beer in one of the old West Hampton Inns made him a happy day. The Archduchess was not so simple, but she loved to drive her own car, a ferocious vehicle. But Archduchesses may not do that in Bohemia. Reggie, having eaten all the muffins, lit his pipe and meditated on the cases left him by his father. Old Mrs. Smythe had her autumn influenza and old Tabith Brown had his autumn gout, and the little Robinsons were putting in their whooping cough, a kindly world. He was dozing in the dark when the telephone bell rang. Was that Dr. Fortune? Would he come to Boulderwood at once? At once? The Archduke had been knocked down by a motor car and picked up unconscious. Poor old Pater, Reggie Grinde, as he put his tools together, the Pater would never forgive himself for being out of this. He loved a Lord did the Pater. And since he had been called in to remove a fishbone from the Archduke's throat, he could not keep the Archduke out of his conversation. The royal gentility of the Archduke, the royal disdain of the Archduchess, Dr. Fortune had been much gratified thereby, and Reggie was prepared to loathe their royal highnesses. Thank heaven the Pater was safe on his holiday. If his head swells so over an Archduke's fishbone, he would have burst over an Archduke knocked down. Reggie was practical, if without sympathy. He made haste in his neat way, and the sedate chauffeur of Dr. Fortune was horrified by instructions to let the car win. The streets of West Hampton are not adapted to this. The district has tried hard to keep itself rural still, and its original narrow winding lanes remain ill-lighted and overhung by trees. Boulderwood stands high in its grounds border upon West Hampton Heath, across which there is one lamp per furlong. Just as Reggie's car swung round to the Heath, it was stopped with a jerk. What's the trouble, Gordon? Reggie said to the chauffeur. Gordon was leading sideways, impuring into the gloom of the gutter. A gleam from the sidelight winked at a body which lay still. Give me a turn, Gordon muttered. His face showed white. Reggie jumped out, but Gordon was quicker. Let me, it's the Archduke, he said, and his voice went up high. Don't be futile Gordon, Reggie bent over the body. Get the lamps on him. Gordon backed the car and the body came into the light. Its face was crushed. Gordon gasped and swallowed. But it's not him, neither, he muttered. After a minute, Reggie stood up. He was the fine chap about an hour ago, he said gently. All over, sir, Reggie nodded. Some hog done him in. As you say, Gordon, running down case, big car, took him in the back, went over his head. But I don't see how he got in the gutter. He walked around the body, moved it a little and picked up two matches, unusual matches in England, very thin vestors with dark blue heads. Why did you think he was the Archduke, Gordon? Such a big chap, sir, not many his measure. And there's something about the make of the poor chap that's very like. But thank God it's not the Archduke anyway. Why? said Reggie, who was without reverence for Archduke's. Well, let's take him along. They brought the dead man to the lodge at the main gates of Boulderwood, and there left him with a message to be telephoned to the police. The hall at Boulderwood is in Victorian baronal style, absurd, but comfortable. Reggie was still blinking at the light when a woman ran at him. His first notion of the Archduchess Iainthi was vehemence. She came upon him, a great fur cloak falling away from her speed, panting, black eyes glowing, and then stopped short and her pale face was distorted with passion. Dr. Fortune, you're not Dr. Fortune. She cried. Dr. Fortune, Junior Madam, my father is away and I am in charge of his practice. She muttered something in a language he did not know and looked as if she was going to kill him. His second notion of her was that she was wickedly beautiful, a Greek perfection in the pale face, but Lord, what a temper. The daintiest grace of body, but it moved and quivered like a whiplash. My dear Iainthi, a man came smiling from behind the screen by the fire. He was tall and slight and dandy-ish, a lot of color in his clothes, an odd absence of color in him, a bright blue tie with an emerald in it, a bright blue handkerchief hanging half out of the pocket of this silver-gray coat. But his face had a waxy pallor. His hair, his mustache, and little-pointed beard were so fair that they looked like patches of paint on a mask. We are much obliged by Dr. Fortune's coming so quickly. The Archduchess world round. He is too young, she said in German. Look at him. He is a boy. I beg your pardon, Madam, said Reggie in the same language. May I see the patient? The man laughed. I'm sure we have every confidence in your skill, Dr. Fortune. All the laughter was smoothed out of his face and your discretion, he said in a lower voice. I am the Archduchess Leopold. You may be frank with me and rely upon my help. Reggie bowed. How did the accident happen, sir? The Archduchess turned to his sister-in-law. You know that I do not know, she cried. I was out in the car. As my sister says, Dr. Fortune, she was out in the car. The Archduchess paused. She drives herself. It is with her little passion. My brother was out walking alone. Those long walks, how I hate them, the Archduchess broke out. Again, it is with him a little passion. Well, he did not come back. I grew anxious. I'm staying here, you understand. My sister was late too. I sent out servants. My brother was found lying in the road, not far from the gate of the lodge. He remains unconscious. I fear he spread out his hands. You always fear, the Archduchess cried. They exchanged glances like blows. May I go up, madam, Reggie said solemnly. She whirled around and rushed away. The Archduchess is much agitated, said the Archduke. It is most natural, Reggie murmured. Most natural? Pray, follow me, Dr. Fortune. I will take you to my brother. The Archduke Maurice lay in a room of ostrich simplicity. A writing table, a tiny dressing table. Three chairs and a narrow iron bed were all its furniture. Only three small rugs lay on the floor. At the head of the bed, a man stood watching. The Archduchess was on her knees. Her face pressed to her husband's body as she sobbed violently. The Archduke Leopold looked at Reggie, made a gesture towards her and said, My dear Iainthi, she looked up flushed and tear-stained. I beg your pardon, madam, this is dangerous to the patient, Reggie said. She gave a stifled cry and rushed out of the room. The Archduke Leopold seemed to intend to stay. But in a moment, the voice of the Archduchess was heard calling for him. Better go to her, sir, keep her out of here, Reggie said, and turned to his patient. It was obvious that the Archduke did not relish so brusque in order. But the passionate voice was not to be denowned. The man by the bed and Reggie took each other's measure. English, said Reggie. Yes, sir, Holt, I am the Archduke's valet. You undressed him? Yes, sir, was that wrong? Depends how you did it, Reggie began his examination. The Archduke Maurice was a big man. This is a habit in his family. He had their fairness, but even in coma, his cheeks showed more color than his brother Leopold's. And his yellow hair and beard had a reddish glow, a bold, honest face with plenty of brow. Reggie went over his body with an anatomical enthusiasm for so splendid a specimen. Give me some warm water, will you? Holt went out of the room. Reggie bent over the broad chest. From it, from just above the heart, he drew out a thin sliver of steel. He made a face at it and put it away. Holt came back and there was sponging and bandaging. You washed him before I see. Anyone else touch him but you? Only carrying him, sir. I've been with him the whole time. I found him. Oh, lying on his face, I suppose. No, sir, on his back, just like he is now. Oh, notice anything? No, sir, I wish I had. I'd like to have the handling of the bounder that did it. Well, well, we mustn't get excited. Preserve absolute calm, Holt. He's well liked, is he? Why, sir, we'd do anything for him. He, oh, he's a gentleman. Why, so, you mustn't leave him a moment. No one, see, no one is to come in the room. I'll be back soon. Very good, sir. Beg your pardon, sir. The good Holt flushed. What's the verdict? It's not all over yet. Reggie went downstairs and it appeared to him that he interrupted the archduke and the archduchess in a quarrel. But the archduke was very pleased to see him, effusive and offering a chair and so forth. Reggie was not gratified. I must have nurses, sir, he announced. I should like another opinion. You see, the archduchess cried. It is as I told you, this boy. The archduchess is naturally anxious, the archduke apologized. By all means, nurses. But another opinion, you must have confidence in yourself, my good friend. I have, but I want Sir Lawson Hunter to see the case. The archduchess shrugged. It is serious then, Dr. Fortune. We do not wish a great noise. Is it not so, B. Anthony? I would give my soul to be quiet, she cried. Quite, said Reggie. Very well, discretion then, you understand, my good friend. I'll telephone Sir Lawson at once. Indeed, is it serious then? It's a bad concussion, Reggie bowed and made for the door. You, Dr. Fortune, the archduchess cried. Will he, what will happen? There's no reason we shouldn't hope, madam, Reggie said, and paused a moment watching them. Emotion plays queer tricks with faces. They were both in the grip of emotions. Sir Lawson Hunter is rather fat and his legs are rather short. His complexion is grayish and his eyes look boiled. People call him dyspeptic, though his capacious stomach has never known an ache or imagine that he drinks, though alcohol and physicians are his chief abominations. His European reputation as a surgeon has been won by knowing his own mind. Reggie met him at the door and took him upstairs before that puzzling pair, the Archduke and Archduchess, had sight of him. Glad you could come, sir. It's an odd case. Every case is odd, said Sir Lawson Hunter. He was knocked down by a car. The, if he was, I can find it out for myself. Damn fortune, don't bias me. Most unprofessional. That's the worst of general practice. You fellows always be saying something. Reggie held his peace. He knew Sir Lawson's little ways, having been his house surgeon. The faithful hope was turned out of the room. Sir Lawson Hunter went over the senseless body with his usual speed and washed his hands. Splendid animal, he remarked. They run to that, these preggers. I remember his uncle's abdominal muscles, heroic. Well, he was walking, a big car driven fast, hit him from behind on the right side, fractured two ribs and knocked him down. Impact of his head on the road has caused a serious concussion. That car should have stopped. Reggie smiled. Oh, one of the odd things is that it didn't. There's a damned lot of road hogs about my boy, said Sir Lawson Hardly. He was himself fond of high speed. Well, they sent out, I suppose, found him lying on his face unconscious. No, sir. What? Sir Lawson jumped. He was lying on his back. Oh, that's absurd. Yes, sir. But I've seen his valet who found him. These fellows have no observation, Sir Lawson grunted. But there was some animation in his boiled eyes. Damn fortune, he ought to have been in his face. Yes, sir. Miracles don't happen. No, sir. Now these abrasions on the leg, as if the car had been driven at him again while he lay. A queer thing. Or have there been two cars at him? And there is this too, sir. Reggie held out the sliver of steel. I saw the puncture. I was coming to that. Whoever put this in meant business and didn't know his job. It slipped along the bone and missed everything. Sir Lawson turned, sing over. A woman's hat pin, about half a woman's hat pin, fresh fracture broke as it was pushed in. They're a wild lot, said Sir Lawson and smiled. You have no nerve, Sorchan. I believe not, sir. This ought to be the making of you. If you want shaking up, you must stay in the house. By the way, who's in the house? The Archduchess, of course. Iyenthe, yes. Aunt's in a madhouse, Iyenthe. Yes, crazy on motoring, drives her own car. And have you seen Iyenthe since Sir Lawson nodded at the body on the bed? She's very excited. Is she really, Sir Lawson laughed? Is she, though? How surprising. She is surprising, sir. Well, what be careful, my boy? Handsome creature, isn't she? Yes, sir. Reggie declined to be amused. The Archduke Leopold is staying with them. Leopold, he's the dandy entomologist. He's tame enough. Well, he's the head of the house after this fellow. Better tell him he blinked at Reggie. You have nurses you can trust? Well, we'll stay in the room till one comes, my boy. Our friends of the hatpin won't miss a chance. These royal families, they're criss-crossed of criminal tendencies. Paul Hanselernes, Habsburgs, Pragueers, Woodlesbox. Look at the heredity. There was another running down case right here tonight. The man was killed, fractured skull. He was left on the road, too. And another queer thing. He was much the same build as the Archduke Maurice. Good gad, Sir Lawson was startled out of his ominous manner. An event unknown in Reggie's experience. There's something devilish in it, Fortune. One murder, the wrong man dead, and then try again at once the same way. Imagine the creature looking at that poor dead wretch and jumping on the car again to drive it on at the other man. Diabolical, diabolical. I don't think I have much imagination, sir, said Reggie, who was not impressed by ineffective emotion. There was a gentle tap at the door. A nurse came and was given her instructions. And the two men went down to the Archduke Leopold. He had changed his clothes. He was now in a cleric colored velvet, which did violence to his complexion and his pale beard. He sat in the smoking room with a book on the entomology of Java and a glass of all sucre. He smiled at them and waved them to chairs. I have to tell you, sir, that your brother lies in grave danger, said Sir Lawson. Reggie looked at him sideways. Ah, the concussion. Is it serious then? I'm deeply distressed. The concussion is most serious. There's another matter in your brother's chest above the heart at which it must have been aimed. We have found this. Mondeul, it's a hatpin, a woman's hatpin. But it's incredible. It is murder, attempted murder. But what do you suggest, sir? Do you accuse someone? Not my function. That pin was driven at your brother's heart by someone. Can you tell me any more, sir? The Archduke buried his face in his hands. I will not believe it, he muttered. I will not believe it. After a little, he controlled himself. Gentlemen, you have a right to my confidence. I will tell you everything. I trust you to do all that is possible for my poor brother and for the honor of our family, which to him as to me is dearer than life. You know that he is the heir to the throne of Bohemia. My uncle, the emperor, has long been vexed with his living in England. I came here to persuade my brother to go back to his country. My poor brother had made his home here at the wish of the Archduchess, who dislikes the duties of royalty. He was passionately madly in love with her. But alas, in these love marriages, there is often difficulty. They were not of the same mind upon many things. And the Archduchess is of vehement temper. I fear, but you will forgive me if I say no more. I take one small thing. My brother loved to go walking. The Archduchess is passionately fond of her motor car, drives it herself, loves wild speed. My brother detested motor cars. I feel that my coming gave them cause for fresh quarrels. My brother was ready to go back to Bohemia. The Archduchess was violently opposed to it. I confess to you, gentlemen, I have feared some scandal, some madness. I thought she would leave him, but this it is appalling. The Archduchess was out in her motor car tonight, Sir Larsen said. Yes, yes, it is true. But this must we think it. We have to think of nothing but our duty to our patient, said Sir Larsen. The Archduch grasped his hand. You are right. I thank you. I shall not forget your fidelity. The Archduchess whirled into the room. She, as Reggie remarked, had not cared to change her clothes. She had not even touched her hair, which was escaping in a wildest order from under her hat. They will not let me see him. She cried, Leopold, it is by my instructions, Madam, Sir Larsen said. I am responsible for the Archduke's safety. She bit her lip. Is he so hurt? She said unsteadily. He lies in a very grave danger, Madam. I permit no one in his room. She stared at him, her throat quivering, her great eyes, bold and bright. Then with a little shrug, she turned away and plucking at the gold things which jinkled from her waist, took out a cigarette and lit it. Reggie saw one of those foreign matches with the violet heads. Sir Larsen made his bow and Reggie went with him to his car. Why did you tell him that the Archduke was in grave danger? He said, he'll be safer if they believe he's going to die, said Sir Larsen. Oh, do you think so? Said Reggie as the car shot away. Then he made an excellent supper and slept sound. He found his patient peaceful in the morning. No sign of consciousness yet, but more color in the cheeks, a deeper breathing and a stronger pulse, more warm. The Archduchess has come twice in the night to ask about him, doctor, the nurse said. I told her he was no better. Did she make a noise? Reggie frowned. No, she was very good. Reggie went out to take the air and the air is not bad on the West Hampton Heights. He made a good pace under the great beaches of Boulderwood and came out on the open road across the Heath. Just there he had found the dead man. A dull red stain could still be seen. It was farther on that the Archduke was struck just beyond the turn to Brendan. He found the place. There was a loosening of the road as if a heavy car had been brought up sharply or made a violent swerve. He walked to and fro scanning the ground, another of those foreign matches. He was just picking it up when a motor car stopped a few yards away. Two men jumped out and came towards him. One was middle age and singularly without distinction. The other had a youthful, very jaunty air, and it was only when he came near that Reggie saw the fellow was old enough to be his father, an actor's face with that look of calculated expression and an actor's way of dressing, a trifle too emphatic. His present part was the gay young fellow. Dr. Fortune, I think he smiled over his face. I am Dr. Fortune. Reconstructing the crime, eh? Oh, you needn't be discreet. I'm Lomas Stanley Lomas, criminal investigation department. Don't you know? Sir Lawson Hunter came round to me last night, patients doing well, I see. That's providential. Just a moment, just a moment. He skipped away from Reggie to his companion and they went over the ground. But Reggie thought them very superficial. Lomas skipped back again. He didn't bleed then. The other man did, though. The man you found in the middle of the road and I found him dead in the gutter. It's quaint what the criminal don't think of. I'm surprised every time. Did you find anything here? Reggie held out his match. There were two more like that by the other man. Lomas turned it over. Belgian make you buy them all over the continent. Don't you know? The Archduchess carries them. Now that's very interesting. If you don't mind, I'll walk up to the house with you. Upon the way, he praised the beauties of nature and the quality of the morning air. As they came to the door of Boulderwood, a big car passed them with the Archduchess driving alone. Lomas put up his eyeglass. She's not overcome with grief. What? Not quite. Might be bravado, don't you know? I don't know. It takes some of them that way, Lomas said pensively. He turned on the steps of the house and looked after the car as it wound in and out among the beaches. Striking woman. Yes, I'll come up to your room if you don't mind. I thought you wanted to say something, Reggie said. Lomas did not answer until they were upstairs. Well, no, not say anything. He resumed and lit a cigarette. I want another opinion, as you fellows say. Sir Lawson Hunter has made up his mind. Oh, he always does that. Lomas lifted an eyebrow. Well, look at it. Somebody in a car laid for our Archduke. The other poor devil was cut down by a mistake and the somebody had nerve enough to go on. That's striking. The Archduchess comes up pretty well stock. In love or out of love, she wouldn't stick at a trifle. You find her matches by each body. You find a hatpin in the Archduke. That's a blunder. What? Yes, but it's a woman's blunder. She finds he isn't quite dead after all her trouble. She is desperate and voila, he made a gesture of stabbing. So you've made up your mind, too, Mr. Lomas, Mr. Lomas blue smoke rains. I'm wasting your time, doctor. I want to know has it occurred to you the Archduchess and the Archduke Leopold working together? If she's fallen in love with Leopold, that straightens it out. Don't you know? Guess again, Reggie said. Lomas lit another cigarette. Well, that's what I want to know. You saw them together just after the crime. He lifted an eyebrow. Nothing doing, said Reggie. I'm afraid so. It's a disturbing case, doctor. Nothing doing as you say. If I had all the evidence in my hands, I'd expect there's no one I could touch. You can't indict royalty, the Archduke's smash. Well, let's say it's all in the family, but this poor devil they killed, who's to pay for them? These royal daggers come over and run a muck on an English road. And I can't touch them. This heartening, what? That's the trouble, doctor. Reggie nodded and asked his breakfast made his appearance. Lomas rose to go. He would not have even coffee. Better get busy. Don't you know, we must see if we can put the fear of God in them. If they'll go scurry and back to Bohemia, it's the best way. He skipped off. His jauntiness put on again like a coat. Reggie was standing at the window with his after breakfast pipe when the Archduchess brought her car back. She was very pale in spite of the morning air and her face had grown haggard. Something will snap, Reggie was saying to himself. When a voice behind him said aloud, nice car, sir. He jumped round and saw standing at his elbow the insignificant little companion of Mr. Lomas. After all, there's nothing like an English car, said the little man. Oh, you've noticed that, Reggie said. You do notice something, then? Of course we aren't gifted, sir, but we're professional. Something in that, don't you think? Yes, sir, as you say, we have noticed something. It was a foreign car and foreign tires did the trick last night. And the Archduchess drives English. And yet, did you know we had the other half of the hatpin? I picked it up last night. He held out a scrap of steel with a big head of rot silver. German work, they tell me. Viennese, Reggie said, you know everything, sir, such a convenience. But Vienna, being quite near Bohemia, as I've heard, looks awkward, don't it? Is that what you came to say? Not wholly, sir, no. I'm Superintendent Bell. Mr. Lomas sent me to you. He considered you might find it convenient to have someone in the house who could keep an eye open. Very kind of Mr. Lomas. It was a tap at the door. The Archduke Leopold's valet appeared. The Archduke Leopold was much surprised that Dr. Fortune had not brought him news of the patient. The Archduke Leopold desired that Dr. Fortune would come into him immediately. Really, Reggie said, Dr. Fortune's compliments to the Archduke and he is much occupied. He can give the Archduke a few moments. The valet having the appearance of a man who has never been so surprised in his life, retired. It's a gift, Superintendent Bell murmured. It's a gift, you know, I never could handle the knobs. Reggie began to get together some odds and ends, a bottle full of tiny white tablets, a graduated glass, a jug of water, a hypodermic syringe. You better clear out, you know, he said to Superintendent Bell. Will he come? He'll come all right, Reggie said and took off his coat. When he turned, Superintendent Bell had vanished. Just setting the stage, sir, said a voice from behind the curtain. Confound your impertinence, Reggie growled, here. But the Archduke came in. He was now a decoration in a russet brown. You are very mysterious, Dr. Fortune, he complained. I expect more frankness, sir. My patient is my first consideration, sir. I desire that you will consider my anxieties. Well, sir, how was my brother? You may give yourself every hope of his recovery, sir. The Archduke looked round for a chair and was some time in finding one. This is very good news, he said slowly and slowly smiled. Mondeur, doctor, it seems too good to be true. Last night you told me to fear the worst. Last night was last night, sir, Reggie said. This morning we began to see our way. All the symptoms are good. I believe that in a few hours the patient will be able to speak. To speak, but the concussion, it was so dangerous. But this is bewildering, doctor. Most fortunate, sir, you might talk of the hand of Providence. Well, we shall see what we shall see. He might be able to tell you something of how it all happened. You'll pardon me. I'm anxious to prepare the injection. He dropped a tablet in the glass and poured in water. Fact is, this ought to make all the difference. Wonderful things, drugs, sir. A taste of Strychnine. One of these little fellows and a man has another tried living. Two or three of them, just specs, aren't they? Sudden death. Excuse me a moment. I must take a look at the patient. He was gone some time. When he came back, the Archduke was still there. All goes well, doctor. I begin to think so. I must not delay you, my dear doctor. If only your hopes are realized. What happiness? He slid out of the room. Reggie went to the table and picked up the glass of Strychnine solution. From behind the curtain, Superintendent Bell rushed out and caught his arm. Don't use it, sir, he said hoarsely. Superintendent Bell was flushed. Don't be an ass, said Reggie. He put the glass down, took up the bottle of tablets, turned them out on a sheet of paper and began to count them. Good Lord, said Superintendent Bell. You laid for him, didn't you? What a plant. You know you're an impertinent, Reggie said, and went on counting. I'll get on to Mr. Lomas, sir, said the Superintendent humbly. Don't you telephone or I'll scrag you. Telephone? Not me. I say, sir, you're some doctor. He fled. Reggie finished his counting and whistled. He did himself proud, he said, the blither. He shot the tablets back into their bottle and found another bottle and poured into it the solution and locked both away. Number one, he said with satisfaction. Now for number two, he went off to his patient and spent the placid half hour chatting with the day nurse on dancing in musical comedy. But it was hardly half an hour before the archduchess tapped at the door. Reggie opened it. This way, if you please, madam, he led the way to his room. I'll have something to say. She stood before him, fierce, defiant and utterly wretched. I can promise you that the archduch will recover consciousness. She caught at her breath. He, he will live. It was the most pious cry he had ever heard. He will live, madam. She trembled, swayed and fell. Reggie grasped at her, took her in his arms and put her in a chair and waited frowning. She panted a little and began to smile. Then faintly, softly, no, no, no more now. Dearest, it was in her own language. She opened heavy eyes. What is it? The archduchess spoken, madam. He said, your name. Then she began to cry and holding out both hands to Reggie. Let me go to him, please, please. Not now, not yet. He must have no emotions. You will go to your room and sleep. You, you are a boy. She laughed through her tears and thrusts her hands into Reggie's. I beg your pardon, madam, Reggie said stiffly. The creature was absurdly adorable. You, oh, Englishman. It was made plain to him that he was expected to kiss her hand. He did it like an Englishman. Then the other was put to his lips. He cleared his embarrassed throat. I must insist, madam, you will say nothing of this to anyone. It's necessary the household should suppose the archduched Duke still in danger. Why a spasm crossed her face? You are afraid of Leopold. And you, madam, Reggie said, afraid? No, but she shuddered. But he is not a man. Have no anxieties, madam. I have none, Reggie said, and opened the door. Then a bit of a deer he said to himself and rang for his lunch. Four times that afternoon, the archduched Leopold sent to ask for news of his brother. And each time Reggie answered that the patient was much the same. Leopold will be doing some thinking, Reggie chuckled. Happy days for Leopold. Towards tea time, the honorable Stanley Lomas arrived jauntier than ever. Well, doctor, been enjoying yourself what? He took hands heartily. Best congratulations and all that. Sounds scheme, very sounds scheme. Well, I'll expect you'll be glad to be rid of Leopold. What? I can see if I can put the fear of God into him now. Free hand, don't you know? Let's take him on. It was announced to the archduched Leopold that the honorable Stanley Lomas of the Criminal Investigation Department desired to confer with him. The archduch who was drinking tea was pleased to receive Mr. Lomas. He also received Reggie. Dr. Fortune, you have something to tell me. There's no change, sir. No change yet, and you gave me such hopes this morning. These are anxious hours, Mr. Lomas. I can imagine it, sir, but I hope to relieve some of your anxieties. I believe we shall discover who is responsible for last night's outrage. So and so soon, but you are wonderful, you English police. You will sit down, Mr. Lomas. He looked at Reggie, whose lingering naturally surprised him. Is there anything more, Dr. Fortune? Dr. Fortune is part of my evidence, sir, said Dr. Lomas. Is it possible? But you interest me. You interest me exceedingly. Permit me one moment, he slid out of the room. Lomas turned in his chair and lifted an eyebrow at Reggie, who was settling his tie before an old Italian mirror. Probably going to change his clothes, Reggie said. He's only worn one suit today. A footman brought in more tea things and a moment after the archduch came back. I'm all in patience, Mr. Lomas, but pray, take a more comfortable chair. Dr. Fortune, I recommend the chair by the screen. Let me give you some tea. He was all smiles. Have you made arrangements to leave England, sir? Lomas said sharply. Mr. Lomas, you have time to catch the mail tonight. I hope that I do not understand you, sir. You appear insolent. Oh, sir, there will be no delicacy in handling the affair. You went to Dr. Fortune's room this morning. The archduch gave a glance at Reggie, who sat intent on stirring his tea. He was preparing an injection of strychnine for his patient. Hello, what's that? Reggie cried and nodded at the window. Oh, I suppose it's the car, Lomas. You fellows will have found her and brought her around. The car, sir, the archduch said, and Lomas put up his eyeglasses. The car that did the deed, the archduch slid across to the window. Lomas, too, stood up and looked out. They turned and stared at Reggie, who was sipping his tea. Lomas frowned, there's nothing there, Fortune. The archduch smiled. Dr. Fortune had hallucinations, and he pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed his face, sat down and drank his tea in gulps. We'll keep to the point, if you please. Lomas was annoyed. Dr. Fortune told you that two of his strychnine tablets would kill him in. He went out of the room. While he was gone, you dropped half a dozen tablets into the injection prepared for your brother. I have to demand, sir, that you leave England by the next boat. The archduch burst out laughing. The good Dr. Fortune, as you have seen, he has hallucinations. He hears what is not, dreams what never was. But if I were a policeman, Mr. Lomas, I should not make Dr. Fortune a witness. You become ridiculous. He is not the only witness, sir. One of my men was behind the curtain. The archduch poured himself out another cup of tea. May I give you some more, Dr. Fortune? No, I fear you are malicious, my friend. He laughed a little. And you, sir, we sometimes find a policeman corrupt in our country. We do not permit him to trouble us. You brought a German car into England, sir, Lomas said. Where is that car? Your spies do not seem very good, Mr. Lomas. Come, sir, enough of this. I, the archduch, started from his seat with a cry. His body was bent in a bow. A horrible grin distorted his face. He fell down and was convulsed. He gasped. His pale cheeks became of a dusky blue. He writhed and lay still. So that's it, Reggie said. I wondered what he wanted with half a dozen. What is it, Lomas muttered? Oh, strict nine poisoning. He swallowed a grain or so. My God, can you do anything? Reggie shrugged. He's as dead as the table. After a while, well, it's a way out, Lomas said. But I can't understand the fellow. Oh, I don't understand it all, Reggie admitted. He was out to kill his brother. That meant being emperor. But why kill him now more than before? And the archduchess? She is straight enough, I know. But just how she was to this fellow I don't see. There's not much in that, Lomas said. Maurice couldn't stand the court. And it was common talk he meant to resign the succession. While he was quite over here in England, Leopold felt safe. But lately they tell me Maurice had been making up his mind to go back. Duty to his country, don't you know? The archduchess was strong against it. She hates all the business of royalty. But Maurice is a resolute sort of fellow, even with a woman. Leopold came over to see what he could do. I suppose he set the archduchess on to make Maurice give up the idea and stay quiet. They work together, or that's the notion at the Bohemian Embassy. She's a gypsy. What, but she's straight. She is not in this. It wasn't her car. Well, when Leopold found there was nothing doing, he said about the murder. He was a bad egg, don't you know? There was a woman in Rome. They kicked him out there, but it was a sound scheme. He had it all straight, except the wrong tires on his car. Good touch, the hat pin seemed like a woman in rage. He knew a lot about woman, one kind of woman. There was a tap at the door. The two walked forward. Sir Lawson Hunter, sir, the footman tried in vain to see the archduchess. Yes, bring him up, Reggie said. Sir Lawson bustled in. New case for you, sir. The two men moved apart and Sir Lawson saw the body. Poisoned himself, taken strict nine, Lomas said. Oh, don't bias him, Reggie said. He doesn't like that. Good God, Sir Lawson's eyes bowled. Yes, that beats me fortune. Lomas waved his hand at the body. I would have sworn he hadn't the pluck. Oh, he hadn't. He meant it for me. I changed the cups. You, Lomas, did it him. That was when you heard the car. That was why I heard the car. And you let him take the dose? Yes, seems fair. You see, I picked up that poor fellow he smashed last night. Good God, said Sir Lawson. The footman was again at the door. Dr. Fortune was wanted at the telephone. There's one here, isn't there? Put me through. The footman, hardly able to speak at the side of the dead archduchess, retired, gulping. The bell rang. Reggie took up the receiver. Yes, yes, at once. And he put it down. I must be going serious case. Mrs. Jones's little girl may have German measles. End of chapter one. Chapter two 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 Tommy Hursant, Carlsbad, California. Call Mr. Fortune by H.C. Bailey. Case two, The Sleeping Companion. Bertie screamed like a seagull and leapt onto the stage. The audience rumbled the usual applause, and Dr. Reginald Fortune put up his opera glasses. He considered himself a connoisseur in the art of music halls, and Bertie Bolton was unique and a bizarre. She was no longer young and had never been pretty. A helmet of black hair, a gaunt face which never smiled, a body as lean as a boy's, which sometimes slouched and sometimes jerked. Such were her charms. She wore nothing much above the waist but diamonds, and below it barbaric flounces and a maze of color. She began to sing in a voice wildly unfit for the strange creature she looked, a small, sweet voice, and what she sang was a simple ditty about her true love forsaking her. And then she went mad. There was a shrieking chorus. Can you imagine a steam-whistle playing ragtime and a dance of weird, wild vehemence? The lean body was contorted a dozen ways at once. The long white arms were all instabbed. She seemed to be a dozen women fighting in each of them a prodigy of force. It was not a pretty dance, but it had meaning. Bertie sank down panting on her crazy rainbow flounces and nodded at the audience which thundered at her. Dr. Reginald Fortune shut up his opera glasses. She is a bit of a wonder, you know, he said to the naval lieutenant who was his companion. It's a wild bird, the lieutenant agreed, and as the rest of the review was merely frocks and the absence of frocks, they went off to supper. In the morning, which was Sunday, Bertie Bolton came to see Dr. Reginald Fortune. It was her remarkable creed that she would not live in a noise. And so, for years, she had owned a house in the still rural suburb of West Hampton, where Reggie and his father practiced. The elder Dr. Fortune at first looked after her. But when Reggie came on the scene, Ms. Bolton, declaring with her usual frankness that she liked her doctor's young, turned herself over to him. By daylight, Ms. Bolton dressed, or even overdressed, the part of a brisk British spinster. She was very tailor-made and severely tweedy and thus looked leaner than ever. But her eyes retained a gleam of devilment. You gave us a great show last night, Reggie said. Over you in front, said Ms. Bolton, and made a face. Oh, Lord, sorry, I was rotten. Reggie understood that his professional interest was required. What's the trouble, he said, cheerfully? Well, that's your show, said Ms. Bolton. Put me through it. The conversation then became confidential and dull upon the usual themes of a medical examination. At last, well, you know, we don't get to do anything, Reggie said. This is all quite good and normal. What's making you anxious? Dreams, said Ms. Bolton. Why do I have dreams? I never dreamed in my life till now. What sort of dreams? Oh, any old sort of bolly-rot. One night it was a motor-bus chivying me on the stage. One night, May, May Weston was her companion, May would keep parrots in the bathroom. Then I hear a noise and wake up and there isn't any noise. Do you have this every night? Snakes, not much, now and again. But I say, Doc, it's not fair. I don't drink and I don't drug. But I'll be seeing pink rats if this goes on. Is there anything worrying you just now? Was it possible that Ms. Bolton blushed? Reggie could not be sure. You're a bright boy, Doc, and be good. She shook hands and gripped like a man. The big emerald as she always wore ground into his fingers. Bertie, the strong girl. Bye-bye. She laughed. On the next morning Reggie was just out of his bath when he was told that Ms. Bolton's housekeeper had rung up. Ms. Bolton had had an accident and would he go at once? Tell Sam, said Reggie, and jumped into his trousers. Samuel Baker, a young taxi driver, whose omniscient impudence had persuaded Reggie to enlist him as chauffeur and factotum, had the car round and some sandwiches inside it by the time Reggie was downstairs. Neither he nor Reggie lost time. Norman Hurst, Ms. Bolton's house, stands by itself in an acre or so of garden and is in the mid-Victorian or amorphous style. As Reggie jumped out of the car, the housekeeper opened the door. She was a brisk, buxom woman. She looked and perhaps was just what a housekeeper ought to be. What's wrong, Mrs. Betts? Reggie said. It's very serious, sir. This way, please. She led the way to Bertie Bolton's boot-wire, stopped, took a key from her apron pocket and unlocked the door. Hello! Reggie said. I'm afraid you're going to have a shock, sir, said Mrs. Betts, and opened the door for him. Reggie went in. The sunlight flooded Bertie Bolton's face, which was white. She lay on a sofa. She was in evening dress. There was an open wound in one side of her throat, and from it a red line lay across her bare shoulder, down her arm to a purple stain on the carpet. Reggie went across the room in two strides and bent over her. She had been dead for hours. Who found her, Mrs. Betts? The upper housemaid, sir. She's been having hysterics ever since. Bah! Was the room just like this? No, sir. Miss Weston was asleep in that chair. What? Reggie stared. The mistress murdered, and the companion placidly asleep by her side. Perhaps that would not have startled his calm mind. But he knew May Weston, and had written her off as a dull, simple creature, a cushion of a girl. Miss Weston was asleep in that chair. The housekeeper repeated, I saw her myself. I came in, sir, when Amelia, when the housemaid screamed. Miss Weston was in evening dress, too. She didn't wake at the screaming, either, just stirred. I went to her and shook her. And Miss Weston, I said, whatever's this, I said. And she woke up and looked around her, sort of heavy. And she saw Miss Bolton lying there and the blood. And she screamed out, I did it, oh, I did it. And she looked at me very queer and she fainted. Mrs. Betts stopped and stared at Reggie, waiting for him to express horror. So what did you do with her? said Reggie. Mrs. Betts swallowed. I had her carried to her room, Dr. Fortune, she said with dignity. I am told she's come to and been crying. Well, that's natural, anyway, said Reggie. Natural, indeed. Mrs. Betts tossed her head. And what did you do next, Mrs. Betts? I had nothing touched, sir. I locked up the room and I telephoned to you and the police. I'm sure you behaved admirably, Mrs. Betts, Reggie murmured. Mrs. Betts was appeased. I could hardly bear it, sir, such a sweet, good mistress as she was. A perfect lady with all her little ways, as you know, sir, and that Miss Weston, so soft and quiet as she seemed. I don't mind saying, sir, I felt as if I was stone. Oh, she shuddered and shook. Vicious, I call it. Reggie was looking round to the room. I suppose it is murder, sir, said Mrs. Betts in a tone that suggested she would like to have the hanging of Miss Weston. I suppose it is, Reggie said. He crossed to the chair in which Miss Weston had been found sleeping and picked up from the floor close by a pair of scissors and a pointed bodkin with an ivory handle. Both were clotted with blood, ugly things. Ah, Mrs. Betts said. That's what it did it. Put him down, sir, I left them there by her chair for the police to see. You think of everything, Mrs. Betts, said Reggie, and put them down and went back to the body of Bertie Bolton. That stab in the throat it was not so deep as a well nor so wide as a church door. It was a small wound to be mortal, a small, neat wound which had rare luck to slit the juggler vein. Reggie looked back at the bodkin and the scissors. He noticed that Mrs. Betts had gone out. There were other wounds, and half a dozen places the pallid shoulders and breast had bled. No one of these gashes was serious. They were just as such as might be expected of those on-handy weapons, scissors and bodkin. It was that neat, lucky stroke at the throat which determined the fate of Bertie Bolton. The minor wounds suggested a struggle with someone in a passion, and that Miss Bolton had struggled. Reggie found other evidence. The black evening dress had been dragged from one shoulder and torn, and there on that right shoulder were the blue marks of a hand that had gripped. Reggie's examination became more minute. Two men bustled in, a hand tapped Reggie's shoulder. Now, sir, if you please. Reggie stood up and confronted a pompous, portly little man. I am Dr. Fortune. Reggie said Miss Bolton was a patient of mine. I was, said the little man with emphasis. She is a case for an expert now, Dr. Fortune. That's why I was examining her, said Reggie sweetly. The little man laughed. A general practitioner is not much use to her now. Rather beyond you, isn't it? Well, I've not made up my mind, Reggie said. I don't worry, don't worry. He waved Reggie off, but Reggie did not go. You'll only be in our way, you know. We'll let you know if we want you at the inquest, just for formal evidence. Still, Reggie did not move. I am the divisional surgeon, sir, said the little man, loudly. I was wondering who you were, Reggie murmured. The little man swung around. We'll have the Rome-cleared inspector, he said. The detective inspector, who looked more like a policeman than seemed possible, strode heavily forward. Hope you're not meaning to give trouble, Dr. He frowned, or I'll have to take steps. A fancy, Reggie said. Well, look where you're going. He walked across to the window and looked out at the roses. A clear out, please, the inspector followed him. Zeal, all zeal, Reggie murmured and went. There were two doors to the room. He did not use that by which they had come, but the other. He happened to know that it opened into Bertie Bolton's bedroom. There was someone in the bedroom. A startled, dark face peeped around the screen by the bed. It belonged to a smart lady's maid. Dear me, I thought this was the passage, Reggie said. It is Miss Bolton's bedroom, poor Miss Bolton. The maid had a slight foreign accent. Of course it is, and you're her maid, of course. A flora, isn't it? Yes, sir, yes, doctor, you have seen Miss Bolton. You cannot do anything, no? Miss Bolton is dead, flora. I was so fond of her, flora sighed. Well, I liked her. I suppose you heard nothing last night. Ah, no, she have me sent to bed and I sleep so sound. Reggie nodded. It's a bad business, flora. Take me to Miss Weston's room, will you? Miss Weston, ha-ha! Flora said with tragic intensity. You think she, I do not think I feel. Flora said, it's a bad habit. Well, and flora led the way. She was a plump woman of some age, but still calmly enough in a dark, heavy fashion. A tap at a door. It is the doctor, Miss Weston, from flora. A sullen voice, you can come in. And in, Reggie went. May Weston was a squalid sight. Her natural prettiness, the prettiness of fresh youth, the bloom of pink and white, the grace of full, soft line, had all gone from her. She lay a shapeless heap on her bed. Her evening dress still on and all crushed and crumpled and awry. Her yellow hair half down and tousled. Her face of a bluish pallor. What do you want? She stared at Reggie heavily. Well, this won't do well it. Reggie smiled cheerfully and sat down beside the bed. So why are you like this? Haven't you heard? She cried. Oh, I've heard and seen, Reggie said. I can't do any more there, but perhaps I can hear. He began to feel her pulse. I'm not ill. Oh, well, you never know. He let her wrist go and bent over her. A sleep-rather sound, don't you? Oh, she shuddered. Why do you look at me like that? Reggie bent suddenly closer and as suddenly sat up again. Then he laughed. Like water, my dear. She stared at him and her lip quivered. You, you, oh, do you think I can be mad? Reggie shook his head. Let's begin quite at the beginning. Let's preserve absolute calm. You dined with Miss Bolton last night alone. After dinner you went to her boudoir. That would be about nine. Yes, yes, Mr. Ford came just after the coffee. Ah, and who is Mr. Ford? Mae Weston blushed abundantly. We, he has been here a good deal. She stammered. Oh, Dr. Fortune, it isn't his fault. Oh, young or old, rich or poor, what is he? Of course he's young, I suppose he's rich. His father makes engines or something and leads and he is in the London office. Sounds solid, Reggie agreed. And why does Mr. Ford call at nine p.m.? Miss Weston's blushes were renewed. Oh, he has been very often, she said, and wrung her hands. I shall have to tell Dr. Chantai. Yes, he met Miss Bolton once at supper and then he used to come here. Ah, a good-looking fellow is he. Oh, yes, he is very big and handsome. And Miss Bolton liked him. Well, well, Reggie understood now why poor Bertie Bolton had been dreaming in dreams of nights. Yes, said Miss Weston faintly. Oh, it's a shame. But I must tell. She thought he came to see her. But, but it was really to see you. Now, let's get back to the coffee. He came last night. We were so gay, Miss Bolton, poor Bertie. We can't undo that, my dear. Let's do what we can for her. Did he stay late? Rather, I don't know. I was sleepy, but Bertie was so gay. And then, and then he went away and Bertie began to talk about him. I don't know how it happened. She said something and I felt I just had to tell her. I told her he had proposed to me. And then she was furious. Oh, have you ever seen her in one of her rages? She was terrible. She said dreadful things. And I, I felt as if I couldn't do anything at all. I was dazed and faint and just sat. I know she hit me. I saw the bruise, Reggie said gently, looking at the blue mark on her neck. Then she stormed out of the room and, oh, doctor, I don't know, perhaps I fainted. It was as if I was all led in that chair. I thought I was asleep. And then it was like a horrible, horrible dream. I saw her being killed. She was on the sofa and someone was hitting at her. Oh, doctor, did I do it? Was it a dream? Did I really do it? You saw, or you dreamed, who was it, struck her in your dream? Oh, I don't know. It was just like a dream when you can't tell. I know it was, Bertie, but was it me killed her? The door was flung open. The detective inspector strode in. A May Weston. He was more the policeman than ever. A Reggie stood up. How civil you are, he said. You make yourself very busy, don't you? The inspector glared. Don't you interfere with me? May Weston, I shall charge you with the murder of your mistress, Bertie Bolton. Get up off that bed now. He's forgotten the rest of his part. Anything you say may be used in evidence against you, Miss Weston. So you'll say nothing, please. The inspector grew red and puffed and advanced upon Reggie. Here you clear out of this. You're obstructing me in. Is it possible? Reggie drawled. Well, it isn't necessary, anyway. And he left the inspector still swelling. It is fair to him to add what he has since protested that he never liked May Weston. Pussycat is his name for her, and he is not fond of cats. From her room he went to the telephone in the hall, and there the inspector still, rather flushed, found him again. And what might you be doing now, if you please? Said the inspector with constabulary sarcasm. Oh, I'm talking to Miss Bolton's solicitors. Oh, hadn't you thought of talking to Miss Bolton's solicitors? Never you mind what I thought of. Don't you use that telephone again. I won't have it. Oh, yes, you will. Now I'm going to talk to Superintendent Bell. The inspector was visibly startled. For Superintendent Bell was near the summit of the Criminal Investigation Department. Any objection? No? How nice of you. He conferred with the telephone, and at length. Dr. Fortune, yes. Oh, is that you, Bell? So glad. I wish you'd come along here. Norman Hurst, Westampton, one of my patients murdered. No, not by me. A quite unusual case. Yes, it is the Bernie Bolton case. The inspector in charge is such a good, kind man. Sweet face he has. You'll come right on? Oh, so glad. Reggie put down the receiver and smiled upon the puzzled inspector. That's that, he said, and went out. Samuel, the chauffeur, put away his picture-paper. I want my camera, Reggie said, and Samuel touched his hat and drove off. Reggie sauntered into the garden. Norman Hurst, as you know, is a low-spreading house of a comfortable Victorian doughtiness. There are, don't count the attics, only two stories. It is old enough to be quite covered with climbing plants. Ivy on the north, roses and wisteria on the other sides. Bernie Bolton's bedroom in Boudoir looked to the south and were on the ground floor. On the north of the house is the approach from the high road, a curling drive through a shrubbery. Bernie Bolton's rooms looked out upon a rose bed and a big lawn. About her windows climbed a big glory des légions. The roses beneath were of the newer hybrid teas, well cultivated, well chosen, and, at their best, a fragrant pump of red and gold. Oh, she loved him poor soul, Reggie thought, and began to feel sentimental. That singular emotion was interrupted by the sound of a motor-car. He went back to the front of the house to meet it. A big car was drawing up. It contained two people, a uniformed chauffeur and a large young man who jumped out rather clumsily before the car stopped. He had the good looks of a hero of musical comedy, but an expression rather sheepish than fatuous and a pallid complexion. I think you are Mr. Ford. Reggie came close to him. I am Dr. Fortune. Miss Bolton was a patient of mine. I hardly expected to see you so soon. Miss Weston sent for me, sir. Mr. Ford recoiled, for Reggie's face was very close to his. Oh, did she, though, Reggie murmured. Did she really? Miss Weston had forgotten to tell him that. Pussycat. Oh, well, Flora telephoned for her. She said something terrible had happened and Miss Weston wanted me. I say, Doctor, what has happened? Oh, jolly kind of Flora, Reggie said. Oh, well, Mr. Ford, Miss Bolton has been murdered. Oh, my God, said Mr. Ford, and became livid. And Miss Weston has been charged with the murder. Oh, my God, Mr. Ford said again. Oh, damn, and put his hand to his head here. Oh, let me go to her. Oh, I don't mind, said Reggie. And Mr. Ford plunged into the house. Reggie remained on the steps, waiting for fresh arrivals. The goggle the chauffeur moved his car on out of the way, descended, and behind a lorestinius lit a cigarette. Reggie, who never smoked to them, sniffed disapproval and began to fill a pipe. A taxi cab drove up and out of it bounced a plump little man whose coat looked as if he wore stays. I'm Dr. Fortune, Reggie said. And I am Donald Gordon, Doctor, said the little man, who is emphatically a Jew, Moss and Gordon. It was the name of Miss Bolton's solicitor. Many thanks for letting us know. Poor, dear birdie, she was a peach. Let's have all the facts, please. He had an engaging lisp. There's a detective inspector inside, like a bull in a china shop. Had some, said Mr. Donald Gordon. Come on, Doctor, hands it out. Well, let's see the flowers, Reggie said, and walked him into the garden and began to tell him all that he knew. So he's pinched Miss Weston, has he? The little Jew lisped. He's a hustler. Oh, I expect he's arrested Ford too by now. Me and you in a minute. He's a zealous fellow. By the way, Gordon, who is Ford? Oh, yes, he's a dark horse, ain't he? I only met him once, Doctor. You could see poor old birdie was sweet on him. Oh, so Miss Weston was telling the truth about that. Oh, why? I didn't you believe her, Doctor? Do you know I wonder if I believe anything I've heard in this house? Oh, like that, is it? Gordon lisped. Just like that, said Reggie. A gravity had come over the perky little Jew, which he found very engaging. Mr. Gordon nodded at him. Birdie was the one and only, he said, and Reggie nodded back. Nice flowers, Doctor, a new voice said. Reggie turned to see the small insignificance of Superintendent Bell. Greeted him heartily, introduced Mr. Gordon. Am I D-Trop, as the French say, said Superintendent Bell? I know, thought it might be a council of war. Oh, is it war, Reggie said. Well, you know, you've quarreled with Inspector Morden. The superintendent shook his head at Reggie. I wouldn't dare. He quarreled with me. A such a pity, the superintendent smiled and rubbed his hands. I ought to tell you, Doctor, I quite approve of everything that Inspector Morden has done. Oh, splendid force, the police, Mr. Gordon lisped. Wonderful force, so forcible. Including the arrest of Miss Weston, Reggie asked. Well, well, anyone else you'd like to arrest? Anyone you suggest, Doctor? Now I ask you, what would you have done? Oh, I'm not in the force. We do have to be so careful, the superintendent sighed. That's a handy cap, that is. I wonder why you wanted me, Doctor? I'm frightened of your inspector. He's not chatty. I want to photograph the body. The superintendent turned to Gordon. It's a taste, you know, that's what it is. He likes corpses. Speaking as man to man, Doctor, are you working with us? May I? Oh, that's very handsome, yes. Inspector Morden, he has a kind of manner, as you might say. I'll speak to him. Is there anything you'd like to tell me, Doctor? Nice flowers, aren't they? Reggie nodded to the rose-bed under Bernie Bolton's window. It was minutely neat. Look as if they'd been brought up by hand, said the superintendent. But he looked at Reggie, not the roses. Anything queer, sir? There's that, Reggie said. He pointed to a spray of the Glory Day Dijon beside the window. It bore a bud. It had been broken, and the bud was limp and dead. Oh, that wasn't broken last night, said the superintendent. No, that's what's interesting, said Reggie, and turned away. At the door and in the driveway there was some congested traffic. Mr. Ford's big car still waited. Reggie's humbler car had come back with his camera. The taxis of Mr. Gordon and Superintendent Bell took up a more room, and yet another taxi was trying to get to the steps. Who's this, Superintendent? I daresay it'll be for Miss Weston. Taking her to Holloway at once? Well, well, I daresay it's all for the best. But Miss Weston was not to go without a noise. Mr. Ford sought of that. At the head of the stairs he conducted an altercation with Inspector Morden, in which defiance, abuse, and profane swearing were his chief arguments. It was beastly stupid, and it was damned impudence to arrest Miss Weston, and it was also beastly impudence and damned stupid, and so forth, in the midst of which the wretched girl was shepherded by two detectives downstairs. My God, you might as well arrest me! Mr. Ford cried in final desperation. Well, perhaps I will, said the Inspector heavily and glowered at him. Mr. Ford paled and drew back. On the stairs below Miss Weston stopped and turned. Oh, Edmund, don't! She said, they can't hurt me, you know they can't. Superintendent Bell drew Reggie aside. Think that throws any light, Reggie asked. Well, not a searchlight, said the Superintendent. Miss Weston was driven off. Mr. Ford, looking dazed, came slowly downstairs, and to him went Gordon. Better get her a solicitor, you know, Gordon said. Oh, my jove, that's it! Mr. Ford cried and plunged out. The Inspector and the Superintendent exchanged glances and looked at Gordon. Why did you put him on that, sir? Said the Superintendent. Professional feeling, dear boy, Gordon smiled. Nice girl, ain't it? I fancy my firm are Miss Bolton's executors, and I fancy that bird is soul legatee. The Superintendent pursed his lips. The Inspector laughed. It grows, don't it, sir? Just grows, he said. I would like to get on, Reggie yawned. That's right, said the Superintendent, and took the Inspector aside. Mr. Gordon, following Reggie to the boudoir, was distressed by the sight of the dead body, and said so. Reggie went on with his photography first the stab in the throat, then the minor wounds, then the bruise on the shoulder, at which last Inspector Morton found him. I'm taking the wrong side, aren't you, he sneered. Oh, I'm taking all sides. Oh, ever try it, Reggie said. Well, have you done, Doctor? The little Jew broke in. Can't we have her covered up? I'll have the body removed, sir, if the Doctor has quite done, said the Inspector. And so, at last, the body of Bertie Bolton was taken away to the mortuary, and Mr. Gordon much relieved, flung open the windows and turned to his business, the Secretary, and its papers. He worked quickly. Nothing there but love-ledgers. Wondered where she kept her will. There's a safe in the bedroom, I think, Reggie said. You bet there is. She had all her jewels in the house, I know, and she had some good stuff, poor old girl. Well, come on, here's her keys. They went into the bedroom, and the little Jew made for the safe. Reggie wandered across the room. It was a parquet floor with Persian rugs on it. He shifted one by the bedside. There was a small, dark stain on the floor, still not dry. An exclamation from Gordon made him turn. Gordon had the safe open, and the safe, but for some papers in disorder, was empty. Not one ballet bangle left, Gordon cried. Not a sparkle of the whole outfit. Remember that ruby and diamond breastplate? Remember her pearls and the stuff that Indian Johnny gave her? My hat. Somebody's had a haul. The spasm crossed his face. I say, doctor, you were here when I opened the safe. I was here, Reggie said stolidly. I wasn't as surprised, the little Jew gasped. Oh, you remember that emerald as she always wore? It wasn't on the dead body. Oh, God, said Gordon, and with unsteady hands turned over the papers. That's her script, more or less all there, I should say. Where's the will? I know she had her will, true it's myself. What's that, Reggie said? The one untidy thing in that very tidy room, a paper lay by the fireplace. Gordon picked it up. Here we are, yes. May Grace Weston, my companion. That's the document crumbled up and torn. He whistled, as if Bertie was destroying it and then bit. Just as if she'd been destroying it, Reggie agreed. That puts the lid on, don't it? Said the little Jew. Miss Weston, oh, Lord, there's a soft kid if you ever had one. Just shows you you never know with girls, doctor. Girls, girls, girls. Well, we'd better tell those ballet policemen. So Inspector Morden, vastly to his satisfaction, was told. And Superintendent Bell, appearing from nowhere, heard and agreed to search the house for the stolen jewels. Ah, you gentlemen, come to, please. He cocked an eye at Reggie. Want to keep me under observation? Reggie grinned back. Want you to identify what we find? Said the Inspector. You'll find something all right, said Reggie. But he showed little interest in the search, moaning after their men in and out of servants' bedrooms and yawning in corners. Inspector Morden had gone straight to Miss Weston's room, and from it he came glowing with triumph. He called for his superintendent. He collected Reggie and Gordon. You gentlemen happen to recognize that? He opened his big hand and showed the ring with the big emerald which Birdie Bolton had loved. That's it! Gordon cried, that's Birdie's. Cool! What a stone, ain't it? In Weston's room, the Inspector proclaimed, on the floor, just under the bed, in Weston's room. Only that and nothing more? Reggie murmured. Yes, where's the rest, Morden? Said Superintendent Bell. The Inspector smote his thigh. By George I see it. I let that rascal Ford see the wench alone. He's gone off stuffed with the swag. That's a thought, Reggie admitted, and the superintendent lifted an eyebrow at him. You ought to have Ford watched. No, I mean it. If I was you, Inspector, I'd have his place watched night and day. The Inspector was visibly gratified. I know my business, thank you, he said. I say, Doctor, it is growing, isn't it? Ah, yes, as if it was forced, Reggie smiled. What do you mean, the Inspector flushed? You see, you're so witty, Morden, said the superintendent. And that's that, Reggie yawned. You don't really want me any more. Good-bye, oh, Inspector, I don't want you to be disappointed. The murder wasn't done in that room where you found the body. Oh, good-bye. Wasn't done? The Inspector stared after him. Good Lord, he's mad. Better get him to bite you, Morden, said the superintendent. That party did not meet again till the day of the inquest. Before the court met, Superintendent DeBell called on Reggie and found him in a bad temper. This was unusual, and equally unusual in the superintendent's experience was a power, a certain tension, across Reggie's solid, amiable face. A civil question about his health brought a snappish answer. It seemed to the superintendent that Dr. Fortune had been making a night of it. Well, what is it? Reggie snarled. Got anything to tell me? I've been rather disappointed, the superintendent said meekly. More fool you, I told you to watch forward. That's it, sir. Were you pulling my leg? Oh, damn it, man, this is serious. Miss Bolton was a patient of mine. I don't let anyone but me kill my patients. Very proper, I'm sure, the superintendent agreed, but we have watched him, Doctor. Nothing doing. I'll shut a man to stand on his doorstep, I suppose. What's the good of that? Well, as you say, the superintendent agreed. We've picked up one thing, though. Just before the murder, his father turned him down for wanting to marry this girl Weston. He hasn't a penny except from his father. That might have made him desperate, him and the girl. It does grow, you know, Doctor. Queer case, Reggie grunted. Going to the inquest, oh, sorry I can't drive you down, my chauffeur's taking a day off. So they walked to the coroner's court. And on the way, Superintendent Bell used his large experience in the art of extracting confidences in vain. But Reggie mellowed, perceptibly mellowed, as he baffled Superintendent Bell. The court was crowded to its last inch. The coroner was conscious of his importance and made the most of it in a long harangue. The divisional surgeon was more pompous than ever and made it a point of honor to use terms so technical that all his evidence had to be translated to the jury and the coroner and he argued over the translation. What a life, ain't it, Mr. Gordon murmured in Reggie's ear. At last came what the evening papers called dramatic evidence. The household maid who had found the body and had hysterics over again, as she described it, Mrs. Betts, who had found May Weston sleeping beside it, waked her and heard her say, I did it, oh, I did it. Sensation in court was the cross-head for that. The coroner looked over his glasses at the jury and the jury muttered together and May Weston came into the box. With a manner of a chaplain at an execution, the coroner warned her that she need not give answers that would incriminate her. I want to tell you everything, she said. She was very pale in her black and listless of manner, but quite calm. What she told was the queer story she had told Reggie, but she was not allowed to tell it her own way. The coroner badgered her with continual questions, designed to make the queerness of it seem queerer. He made her nervous, confused her, frightened her. You bother me so that I don't know if I'm telling the truth or not, she quavered. Then in the language of the newspapers another sensation. Mr. Ford, large and red, started up and roared, I ought to be there, sir, let her alone, I ought to be there. Reggie put his head between his hands and bowed himself, groaning. Everyone else was much excited by Mr. Ford. He was pulled down in his seat. The coroner rebuked him with awful majesty. The foreman of the jury wanted to know if he would be called. The coroner pronounced that the court would most certainly require Mr. Ford to explain himself, and came back to Mae Weston. The fool that he is, he's done the trick, though, Reggie muttered it to Mr. Gordon, and Gordon nodded and grinned. For after this interruption the coroner handled Mae Weston much more gently, almost indulgently, as a good man's sorry for a woman's weakness. And he was soon done with her. Any questions, he looked at the lawyers. Reggie bent forward and whispered to the solicitor, appearing for Ms. Weston. That large bland man stood up. Now, Ms. Weston, about that coffee. He had his reward. Everyone in the court, and Ms. Weston, not least, stared at surprise at him. Slowly he extracted from her, she seemed bewildered at each question, the whole history of that after-dinner coffee. Coffee had been brought to the boudoir just before Mr. Ford came. No one but she had expected Mr. Ford. Another cup was brought for Mr. Ford. Mr. Ford and she both had drunk their coffee. Ms. Bolton, why, no. Ms. Bolton had not. Ms. Bolton had been very gay, and in doing a few steps of a dance had upset her coffee. No more questions, sir. The large solicitor sat down, smiling. The coroner was visibly unable to understand him, and made a great business with his papers. It was now long after tea-time. I suppose we shan't finish today, gentlemen, the coroner suggested. Oh, quite impossible, sir, said the large solicitor, cheerfully. I have some long medical evidence. A Dr. Fortune, a Ms. Bolton's physician. The first medical man who saw the lady. The first medical man who saw Ms. Weston. The court rose. Reggie, with Gordon at his heels, went out by the solicitor's door, and found Superintendent Bell waiting for him. Now are you playing the game, Doctor? said Superintendent Bell, sadly. Oh, for keeps. Reggie laughed. Come and dine with me. Bring Morden. He's so genial. We do have to take these little things so seriously, the superintendent murmured. But a party of four, the superintendent and the large inspector, Reggie and the little Jew, packed themselves into a taxi cab, and drove into town. Reggie was full of elegant conversation. He grew iris, and told them all about iris, with appendices on the costumes in review. Once or twice, Superintendent Bell tried to turn his attention to serious subjects, vainly. At last Inspector Morden broke out with, I say, Doctor, what's the wheeze about the coffee? The inspector touches the spot. Care not, all will be known ere long. There's a jolly little iris from the Himalayas. Reggie returned with enthusiasm to horticulture. Where are you taking us, Doctor? said the superintendent. The taxi, which had, for some little time, been running through the city, seemed to intend, coming out on the other side, a locality promising no good dinner. As he spoke, it turned into Liverpool Street Station. Liverpool Street by George, the inspector said. This is a bean feast, going to take us to Epping Forest, Doctor. We may have to go farther, Reggie said, and Gordon laughed. Are you in this, sir? the inspector turned on him. A professional secret, dear boy. Reggie led the way to the station dining room. I don't know the cook, but let's hope for the best. A tyrant day, an active evening. A strength is what we need. Strength without somnolence. Sam and I see, lamb chops, I would add. One of your younger ducks would comfort me. Do you sleep after burgundy, inspector? A warm night, as you say. La Rose is a genial claree. Let us all be genial. Well, you're a bit as supercilious, the inspector complained. How can you say so? I'm keeping all the glory for you. The glory on ice, all ready for inspector Morton. So, gather you roses while you may. Talking of roses, what do you think of the hybrid Austrian briars? He exclaimed what he thought of them to a silent audience. Sliding gracefully into an appreciation of salmon eaten at Waterford, at Exeter, and at Berwick. Few are the men who will not talk about food. The detectives produced much valuable experience of bourgeois cookery, and the dinner went merrily. In its later stages, Reggie became silent and watched the clock. He seemed to grudge inspector Morton, his cheese, and as soon as it was swallowed made a move. Well, doctor, I did think we should have had some coffee, the inspector chuckled. But Reggie was already making for the door. By the door stood his chauffeur looking for him. Reggie beckoned impatiently to the detectives and followed the chauffeur out. He led them to the main line at departure platforms. It was near the time of the Harwich boat train. A dark, wiry man was registering some luggage for Amsterdam. By his side stood a veiled woman of full figure. Both he and she carried suitcases. As the man turned around he bumped into Reggie, who was looking the other way, and seemed to have some difficulty in disentangling himself. He glared at Reggie and hurried away. The woman was ahead of him. Reggie grabbed Superintendent Bell. See that pair, take them both, picking my pocket, get the bags! Bell and Morden hurried after the pair. Bell tapped to the man's shoulder and he jumped around. I thought so. I'll come with me to the station, my man, said Superintendent Bell with admirable calm. What is it? the man cried, his accent was slightly foreign. What station? What do you mean? You know all right, said the superintendent. I am Superintendent Bell of Scotland Yard. I do not know at all, the man protested. What do you want with me? The woman saw Reggie. She hissed something to the man in a foreign argot and turned to run. The superintendent laid hold of her. Inspector Morden closed with the man. The inspector was large and brawny, but at the end of the moment he was on his back and the man making off. Reggie dived for his legs in the manner of rugby football, and they went down together. The railway police came on the scene. The man was handcuffed and he and the women and the two detectives packed into a cab. Reggie and Gordon followed in another to the police station in Old Jewry. When they arrived the two prisoners were already in the charge room and the woman was protesting vehemently to the great edification of the uniformed inspector at the desk and the plain clothes friend of his, and the embarrassment of Superintendent Bell and Inspector Morden. It was an outrage. Why did they assault her and her husband? Why? They were respectable people. She would not endure it. Oh flora flora! Reggie shook his head at her. The woman whirled round on him. You! Ah! It is you then! The doctor! You are a traitor! You are a wicked villain! I speak upon you! And she did. The man said something to her in the strange foreign argot they seemed to use between themselves, and she was silent. The plain clothesman came forward grinning. Why, Bunko, it is my dear old pal Bunko. What have they got you for now, old thing? The man scowled. Dusty and bruised from the scuffle and in the ignomy of handcuffs. He had still a certain arrogant dignity. He was well made for all his slightness and the strength which had upset Morden showed in his poise. It was a dark aquiline face with a good brow, but passionate and cruel. What is the charge, doctor? said Superintendent Bell. Oh, on the seventh instant murder of Wilhelmina, otherwise birdie Bolton, Reggie drawled, better search them. It is a lie! Flora screamed and continued to scream. Reggie and Gordon were smoking in another room when Bell and Morden came back with the results of the search. A suitcase was put on the table, opened, and seemed to be full of light, a mass of jewels. Can you identify, gentlemen? Morden said. Superintendent Bell laid on the table a sheath knife, an unusual knife, rather long, rather narrow, rather stiff. I'll identify that, Reggie said, and took it up. That's the thing that killed her. Coo-hoo! said Mr. Gordon. You've got a real head, doctor! This is birdie's bunch, all right. Swear to those rubies anywhere. Who's the man? said Reggie. Superintendent Bell sat down with a bump. He asks me that. He appealed to the company. I put it to you. He asks me that. The woman she's Mrs. Bolton's made, of course, but the man—oh, he's Ford's chauffeur. I told you to watch Ford, but you only sat on the steps of his flat. You've given me a lot of trouble, you know. I was up all last night. Chauffeur doesn't sleep in, of course, but who is he? We call him Bunko in the forest, said the superintendent meekly. He's a jewel thief, quite in the front of the profession. American Austrian, I think. I believe Nastich is his name. Alexander Nastich, or Soupilo. Croat, I think, Reggie said. This knife, they use him down that way. Tell us something you don't know, said the little Jew. Reggie laughed. You may have noticed that he had his vanities. He passed his cigar case round. Where will I begin, said he. At the beginning, please, Morden grinned. All the inspector touches the spot as ever. Well, it hasn't been quite fair. I had the start of you. On the day before the murder, Bertie Bolton consulted me. She hadn't been sleeping well. I heard the noises at night. Now you see your way, don't you? No, dear, dear. And I showed you the broken rose. Well, well, these two beauties, Flora and Nastich, I suppose they got their situations to have a go for the jewels. A Nastich, as Ford's chauffeur, would have an excuse for hanging round the house and a car to use. He has had the car out of the garage till the small hours several times. I think he got in by the window last week, more than once, perhaps. And each time poor Bertie stirred. Better for her if she hadn't, poor girl. But they didn't mean murder, bless them, so they chose to drug her. There was morphia in that coffee. As you heard today, Bertie didn't drink hers. Another rotten chance. So May Weston went to sleep while Bertie was storming at her. Bertie raged off to her room. Whether she got out of that will in torrent, we'll never know. It may have been Flora's little game. Nastich came in, reckoning as she was sure to be sound, and Flora was with him, I think. Bertie was very wide awake. There was a struggle, and he stabbed her. He's a hot-tempered devil, as you saw today. This is all very pretty, doctor. But it ain't all evidence, Morden said. You're so hasty. When she was dead, they took her into the boudoir where the Weston girl was asleep. They laid her on the couch and stabbed at her with her scissors and the bodkin. Filthy trick. That was what May Weston saw in the opium dream. Then, I suppose, they cleared the safe, and Nastich went off. Flora annexed the emerald ring, her perquisite, I suppose. Now, you shall have your evidence. When I came to the body, I saw those scissors never did the business. Ever tried killing anybody with a scissors, inspector? Poor game. No. We wanted something like this. He fingered the knife affectionately, just like this. Also, somebody had left his mark on Bertie. A queer hand, a hand that wasn't quite all there. Long fingers with no top joint. Did you notice Mr. Nastich's left hand? The detectives looked at each other. That was in a burglary in New York, said the superintendent. He escaped out a window and a constable smashed his hand on the sill. So I photographed of the wound and the bruise. Well, when I saw Weston, I saw she had really been drugged. Contracted pupils, bluish power, morphia, same symptoms in Ford. Why should they drug themselves and not drug Bertie? That ruled them out. Also, I surprised Flora in Bertie's bedroom doing something by the bed. When I browsed round afterwards, I found a wet bloodstain under a clean rug. When Flora knew the Weston girl was arrested and the jewels had been missed, she chucked the ring into Weston's room. While you were searching the house, I drifted into Miss Flora's room, several medicine bottles about, one of them empty, that had carried a strong solution of morphia. So I set my chauffeur to watch for Flora, and that night she went off to the lodgings of Nastich. She's been buzzing round ever since. Well, well, sir, it's a good thing you didn't take to crime, said Superintendent Bell. Oh, that's much harder, said Reggie.