The Chief Inspector turned this over in his mind.
'Which of them was Schleicher when they got out at Euston?'
'Grant, surely. The secretary would remove his disguise at the last moment and emerge as himself, taking the thousand-to-one chance of somebody recognising him.'
Peacock swore softly. 'If that's what he did,' he exclaimed, 'we've got him on toast. Wait a moment, though. I knew there was a snag. If that's what they did, there ought to have been an extra third-class ticket at Euston. They can't both have travelled on one ticket.'
'Why not?' said Mr Egg. 'I have often--at least, I don't exactly mean that, but I have from time to time laid a wager with an acquaintance that I would travel on his ticket, and got away with it.'
'Perhaps,' said Chief Inspector Peacock, 'you would oblige me, sir, by outlining your method.'
'Oh, certainly,' said Mr Egg. ''Speak the truth with cheerful ease if you would both convince and please'-- Monty's favourite motto. If I had been Mr Grant's secretary, I'd have taken a return ticket from Birmingham to London, and when the outward half had been inspected for the last time at Rugby, I'd pretend to put it in my pocket. But I wouldn't really. I'd shove it down at the edge of my seat and go for my stroll along the corridor. Then, when Grant took my place--recognising the right seat by an attache-case, or something of that sort left on it--he'd retrieve the ticket and retain it. At the end of the journey, I'd slip off my beard and spectacles and so on, stick them in my overcoat pocket and fold the conspicuous overcoat inside-out and carry it on my arm. Then I'd wait to see Grant get out, and follow him up to the barrier, keeping a little way behind. He'd go through, giving up his ticket, and I'd follow along with a bunch of other people, making a little bustle and confusion in the gateway. The ticket- collector would stop me and say: 'I haven't got your ticket, sir.' I'd be indignant, and say: 'Oh, yes, you have.' He'd say: 'I don't think so, sir.' Then I'd protest, and he'd probably ask me to stand aside a minute while he dealt with the other passengers. Then I'd say: 'See here, my man, I'm quite sure I gave up my ticket. Look! Here's the return half, number so-and-so. Just look through your bunch and see if you haven't got the companion half.' He looks and he finds it, and says: 'I beg your pardon, sir; you're quite right. Here it is.' I say: 'Don't mention it,' and go through. And even if he suspects me, he can't prove anything, and the other fellow is well out of the way by that time.'
'I see,' said the Chief Inspector. 'How often did you say you had indulged in this little game?'
'Well, never twice at the same station. It doesn't do to repeat one's effects too often.'
'I think I'd better interview Schleicher and his secretary again,' said Peacock pensively. 'And the ticket- collector. I suppose we were meant to think that Grant had skipped to the Irish Mail. I admit we should have thought so but for the accident that the Mail left before the London train came in. However, it takes a clever criminal to beat our organisation. By the way, Mr Egg, I hope you will not make a habit--'
'Talking of bad habits,' said Monty happily, 'what about another spot?'
MURDER AT PENTECOST
A Montague Egg Story
............
'Buzz off, Flathers,' said the young man in flannels. 'We're thrilled by your news, but we don't want your religious opinions. And, for the Lord's sake, stop talking about 'undergrads', like a ruddy commercial traveller. Hop it!'
The person addressed, a pimply youth in a commoner's gown, bleated a little, but withdrew from the table, intimidated.
'Appalling little tick,' commented the young man in flannels to his companion. 'He's on my staircase, too. Thank Heaven, I move out next term. I suppose it's true about the Master? Poor old blighter--I'm quite sorry I cut his lecture. Have some more coffee?'
'No, thanks, Radcott. I must be pushing off in a minute. It's getting too near lunch-time.'
Mr Montague Egg, seated at the next small table, had pricked up his ears. He now turned, with an apologetic cough, to the young man called Radcott.
'Excuse me, sir,' he said, with some diffidence. 'I didn't intend to overhear what you gentlemen were saying, but might I ask a question?' Emboldened by Radcott's expression, which, though surprised, was frank and friendly, he went on: 'I happen to be a commercial traveller--Egg is my name, Montague Egg, representing Plummet & Rose, wines and spirits, Piccadilly. Might I ask what is wrong with saying 'undergrads'? Is the expression offensive in any way?'
Mr Radcatt blushed a fiery red to the roots of his flaxen hair.
'I'm frightfully sorry,' he said ingenuously, and suddenly looking extremely young. 'Damn stupid thing of me to say. Beastly brick.'
'Don't mention it, I'm sure,' said Monty.
'Didn't mean anything personal. Only, that chap Flathers gets my goat. He ought to know that nobody says 'undergrads' except townees and journalists and people outside the university.'
'What ought we to say? 'Undergraduates'?'
''Undergraduates' is correct.'
'I'm very much obliged,' said Monty. 'Always willing to learn. It's easy to make a mistake in a thing like that, and, of course, it prejudices the customer against one. The Salesman's Handbook doesn't give any guidance about it; I shall have to make a memo for myself. Let me see. How would this do? 'To call an Oxford gent an--''
'I think I should say 'Oxford man'--it's the more technical form of expression.'
'Oh, yes. 'To call an Oxford man an undergrad proclaims you an outsider and a cad.' That's very easy to remember.'
'You seem to have a turn for this kind of thing,' said Radcott, amused.
'Well, I think perhaps I have,' admitted Monty, with a touch of pride. 'Would the same thing apply at Cambridge?'
'Certainly,' replied Radcott's companion. 'And you might add that 'To call the university the 'varsity is out of date, if not precisely narsity.' I apologise for the rhyme. 'Varsity has somehow a flavour of the nineties.'
'So has the port I'm recommending,' said Mr Egg brightly. 'Still, one's sales-talk must be up to date, naturally; and smart, though not vulgar. In the wine and spirit trade we make refinement our aim. I am really much obliged to you, gentlemen, for your help. This is my first visit to Oxford. Could you tell me where to find Pentecost College? I have a letter of introduction to a gentleman there.'
'Pentecost?' said Radcott. 'I don't think I'd start there, if I were you.'
'No?' said Mr Egg, suspecting some obscure point of university etiquette. 'Why not?'
'Because,' replied Radcott surprisingly, 'I understand from the regrettable Flathers that some public benefactor has just murdered the Master, and in the circumstances I doubt whether the Bursar will be able to give proper attention to the merits of rival vintages.'
'Murdered the Master?' echoed Mr Egg.
'Socked him one--literally, I am told, with a brickbat enclosed in a Woolworth sock--as he was returning to his house from delivering his too-well-known lecture on Plato's use of the Enclitics. The whole school of Literoe Humaniores will naturally be under suspicion, but, personally, I believe Flathers did it himself. You may have heard him informing us that judgement overtakes the evil-doer, and inviting us to a meeting for prayer and repentance in the South Lecture-Room. Such men are dangerous.'
'Was the Master of Pentecost an evil-doer?'
'He has written several learned works disproving the existence of Providence, and I must say that I, in common with the whole Pentecostal community, have always looked on him as one of Nature's worst mistakes. Still, to slay him more or less on his own doorstep seems to me to be in poor taste. It will upset the examination candidates, who face their ordeal next week. And it will mean cancelling the Commem. Ball. Besides, the police have been called in, and are certain to annoy the Senior Common Room by walking on the grass in the quad. However, what's done cannot be undone. Let us pass to a pleasanter subject. I understand that you have some port to dispose of. I, on the other hand, have recently suffered bereavement at the hands of a bunch of rowing hearties, who invaded my rooms the other night and poured my last dozen of Cockburn '04 down their leathery and undiscriminating throttles. If you care to stroll round with me to Pentecost, Mr Egg, bringing your literature with you, we might be able to do business.'
Mr Egg expressed himself as delighted to accept Radcott's invitation, and was soon trotting along the
