pocket of his dress waistcoat. “Do you know”—he looked from face to face, with a sort of naive astonishment—“I have no idea what killed this man!”
“This is really terrible,” declared Sir James Clare. “Personal considerations apart, his death here in London under such circumstances cannot fail to set ugly rumors afloat. I take it that you mean, Lord Moreton, that you are not prepared to give a certificate of death from natural causes?”
“Honestly,” the physician replied, staring intently at him, “I am not. I am by no means satisfied that he did die from natural causes.”
“I am perfectly sure that he didn’t,” the police surgeon declared.
Nayland Smith, who had been staring down at the body of the dead soldier, now began sniffing the air suspiciously.
“I observe, Sir Denis,” said Lord Moreton, “that you have detected a faint but peculiar odor in the atmosphere?”
“I have. Had you noticed it?”
“At the very moment that I entered the room. I cannot identify it; it is something outside my experience. It grows less perceptible—or I am becoming used to it.”
I, too, had detected this strange but not unpleasant odor. Now, apparently guided by his sense of smell, Nayland Smith began to approach the writing desk. Here he paused, sniffing vigorously. At this moment the door opened and Inspector Leighton came in.
“I see you are trying to trace the smell, sir. I thought it was stronger by the writing desk than elsewhere, but I could find nothing to account for it.”
“You have searched thoroughly?” Smith snapped.
“Absolutely, sir. I think I may say I have searched every inch of the room.”
Nayland Smith stood by the desk tugging at the lobe of his ear, a mannerism which indicated perplexity, as I knew; then:
“Do these gentlemen know the identity of the victim?” he asked the minister.
“Yes.”
“In that case, who actually saw General Quinto last alive?”
“Mr. Bascombe, Sir Malcolm’s private secretary.”
“Very well. I have reasons for wishing that Mr. Kerrigan should be in a position to confirm anything that I may discover in this matter. Where was the body found?”
“Where it lies now.”
“By whom?”
“By Mr. Bascombe. He phoned the news to me.”
Smith glanced at Inspector Leighton.
“The body has been disturbed in no way, Inspector?”
“In no way.”
“In that case I should like a private interview with Mr. Bascombe. I wish Mr. Kerrigan to remain. Perhaps, Lord Moreton and Doctor Sims, you would be good enough to wait in the library with Sir James and the Inspector . . .”
* * *
Mr. Bascombe was a tall fair man, approaching middle age. He carried himself with a slight stoop, although I learned that he was a Cambridge rowing Blue. His manner was gentle to the point of diffidence. As he entered the study he glanced in a horrified way at the body on the settee.
“Good evening, Mr. Bascombe,” said Nayland Smith, who was standing before the writing table,”I thought it better that I should see you privately. I gather from Inspector Leighton that General Quinto, who arrived here yesterday morning at eleven o’clock, was to all intents and purposes hiding in these rooms.”
“That is so, Sir Denis. The door behind you, there, opens into a bedroom, and a bathroom adjoins it. Sir Malcolm, who is a very late worker, sometimes slept there in order to avoid disturbing Lady Locke.”
“And since his arrival, the general has never left those apartments?”
“No.”
“He was a very old friend of Sir Malcolm’s?”
“Yes, a lifelong friend, I understand. He and Lady Locke are in the south of France, but are expected back tomorrow morning.”
“No member of the staff is aware of the identity of the visitor?”
“No. He had never stayed here during the time of Greaves, the butler—that is, during the last three years— and he was a stranger to all the other servants,”
“By what name was he known here?”
“Mr. Victor.”
“Who looked after him?”
“Greaves.”
“No one else?”
“No one, except myself and Greaves, entered these rooms.”
“The general expected me tonight, of course?”
“Yes. He was very excited when you did not appear.”
“How has he occupied himself since his arrival?”
“Writing almost continuously, when he was not pacing up and down the library, or glancing out of the windows into the square.”
“What was he writing?”
“I don’t know. He tore up every shred of it. Late this evening he had a fire lighted in the library and burnt up everything.”
“Extraordinary! Did he seem very apprehensive?”
“Very. Had I not known his reputation, I should have said, in fact, that he was panic-stricken. This frame of mind seemed to date from his receipt of a letter delivered by a district messenger at noon yesterday.”
“Where is this letter?”
“I have reason to believe that the general locked it in a dispatch box which he brought with him.”
“Did he comment upon the letter?”
“No.”
“In what name was it addressed?”
“Mr. Victor.”
Nayland Smith began to pace the carpet, and every time he passed the settee where that grim body lay, the right arm hanging down so that half-closed fingers touched the floor, his shadow, moving across the ghastly, greenish face, created an impression that the features worked and twitched and became still again.
“Did he make many telephone calls?”
“Quite a number.”
“From the instrument on the desk there?”
“Yes—it is an extension from the hallway.”
“Have you a record of those whom he called?”
“Of some. Inspector Leighton has already made that inquiry. There were two long conversations with Rome, several calls to Sir James Clare and some talks with his own embassy.”
“But others you have been unable to check?”
“The inspector is at work on that now, I understand, Sir Denis. There was—er—a lady.”
“Indeed? Any incoming calls?”
“Very few.”
“I remember—the inspector told me he was trying to trace them. Any visitors?”
“Sir James Clare yesterday morning, Count Bruzzi at noon today—and, oh yes, a lady last night.”
“What! A lady?”
“Yes.”
“What was her name?”
“I have no idea, Sir Denis. She came just after dusk in a car which waited outside, and sent a sealed note in
