Three weeks later he found himself at Lincoln. A man had died of heart failure in a Turkish bath--a fat man, of sedentary habits. The jury added a rider to their verdict of Misadventure, to the effect that the management should exercise a stricter supervision over the bathers and should never permit them to be left unattended in the hot room.
As Pender emerged from the hall he saw ahead of him a shabby hat that seemed familiar. He plunged after it, and caught Mr Smith about to step into a taxi.
'Smith,' he cried, gasping a little. He clutched him fiercely by the shoulder.
'What, you again?' said Smith. 'Taking notes of the case, eh? Can I do anything for you?'
'You devil!' said Pender. 'You're mixed up in this! You tried to kill me the other day.'
'Did I? Why should I do that?'
'You'll swing for this,' shouted Pender menacingly.
A policeman pushed his way through the gathering crowd.
'Here!' said he, 'what's all this about?'
Smith touched his forehead significantly.
'It's all right, officer,' said he. 'The gentleman seems to think I'm here for no good. Here's my card. The coroner knows me. But he attacked me. You'd better keep an eye on him.'
'That's right,' said a bystander.
'This man tried to kill me,' said Pender. The policeman nodded.
'Don't you worry about that, sir,' he said. 'You think better of it. The 'eat in there has upset you a bit. All right, all right.'
'But I want to charge him,' said Pender.
'I wouldn't do that if I was you,' said the policeman.
'I tell you,' said Pender, 'that this man Smith has been trying to poison me. He's a murderer. He's poisoned scores of people.'
The policeman winked at Smith.
'Best be off, sir,' he said. 'I'll settle this. Now, my lad'--he held Pender firmly by the arms--'just you keep cool and take it quiet. That gentleman's name ain't Smith nor nothing like it. You've got a bit mixed up like.'
'Well, what is his name?' demanded Pender.
'Never you mind,' replied the constable. 'You leave him alone, or you'll be getting yourself into trouble.'
The taxi had driven away. Pender glanced round at the circle of amused faces and gave in.
'All right, officer,' he said. 'I won't give you any trouble. I'll come round with you to the police-station and tell you about it.'
'What do you, think o' that one?' asked the inspector of the sergeant when Pender had stumbled out of the station.
'Up the pole an' 'alf-way round the flag, if you ask me,' replied his subordinate. 'Got one o' them ideez fix what they talk about.'
'H'm!' replied the inspector. 'Well, we've got his name and address. Better make a note of 'em. He might turn up again. Poisoning people so as they die in their baths, eh? That's a pretty good 'un. Wonderful how these barmy ones thinks it all out, isn't it?'
The spring that year was a bad one--cold and foggy. It was March when Pender went down to an inquest at Deptford, but a thick blanket of mist was hanging over the river as though it were November. The cold ate into your bones. As he sat in the dingy little court, peering through the yellow twilight of gas and fog, he could scarcely see the witnesses as they came to the table. Everybody in the place seemed to be coughing. Pender was coughing too. His bones ached, and he felt as though he were about due for a bout of influenza.
Straining his eyes, he thought he recognised a face on the other side of the room, but the smarting fog which penetrated every crack stung and blinded him. He felt in his overcoat pocket, and his hand closed comfortably on something thick and heavy. Ever since that day in Lincoln he had gone about armed for protection. Not a revolver--he was no hand with firearms. A sandbag was much better. He had bought one from an old man wheeling a barrow. It was meant for keeping out draughts from the door--a good, old-fashioned affair.
The inevitable verdict was returned. The spectators began to push their way out. Pender had to hurry now, not to lose sight of his man. He elbowed his way along, muttering apologies. At the door he almost touched the man, but a stout woman intervened. He plunged past her, and she gave a little squeak of indignation. The man in front turned his head, and the light over the door glinted on his glasses.
Pender pulled his hat over his eyes and followed. His shoes had cr?pe rubber soles and made no sound on the sticking pavement. The man went on, jogging quietly up one street and down another, and never looking back. The fog was so thick that Pender was forced to keep within a few yards of him. Where was he going? Into the lighted streets? Home by bus or tram? No. He turned off to the left, down a narrow street.
The fog was thicker here. Pender could no longer see his quarry, but he heard the footsteps going on before him at the same even pace. It seemed to him that they were two alone in the world--pursued and pursuer, slayer and avenger. The street began to slope more rapidly. They must be coming out somewhere near the river.
Suddenly the dim shapes of the houses fell away on either side. There was an open space, with a lamp vaguely visible in the middle. The footsteps paused. Pender, silently hurrying after, saw the man standing close beneath the lamp, apparently consulting something in a notebook.
Four steps, and Pender was upon him. He drew the sandbag from his pocket.
The man looked up.
'I've got you this time,' said Pender, and struck with all his force.
Pender had been quite right. He did get influenza. It was a week before he was out and about again. The weather had changed, and the air was fresh and sweet. In spite of the weakness left by the malady he felt as though a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He tottered down to a favourite bookshop of his in the Strand, and picked up a D. H. Lawrence 'first' at a price which he knew to be a bargain. Encouraged by this, he turned into a small chop-house, chiefly frequented by Fleet Street men, and ordered a grilled cutlet and a half- tankard of bitter.
Two journalists were seated at the neat table.
'Going to poor old Buckley's funeral?' asked one.
'Yes,' said the other. 'Poor devil! Fancy his getting sloshed on the head like that. He must have been on his way down to interview the widow of that fellow who died in a bath. It's a rough district. Probably one of Jimmy the Card's crowd had it in for him. He was a great crime-reporter--they won't get another like Bill Buckley in a hurry.'
'He was a decent sort, too. Great old sport. No end of a legpuller. Remember his great stunt about sulphate of thanatol?'
Pender started. That was the word that had eluded him for so many months. A curious dizziness came over him and he took a pull at the tankard to steady himself.
'. . . looking at you as sober as a judge,' the journalist was saying. 'He used to work off that wheeze on poor boobs in railway carriages to see how they'd take it. Would you believe that one chap actually offered him--'
'Hullo!' interrupted his friend. 'That bloke over there has fainted. I thought he was looking a bit white.'
THE FOUNTAIN PLAYS
'Yes,' said Mr Spiller, in a satisfied tone, 'I must say I like a bit of ornamental water. Gives a finish to the place.'
'The Versailles touch,' agreed Ronald Proudfoot.
Mr Spiller glanced sharply at him, as though suspecting sarcasm, but his lean face expressed nothing whatever. Mr Spiller was never quite at his ease in the company of his daughter's fiance, though he was proud of
