it escape beyond this room. But it is a fact. Active inquiries, having resulted in exactly nothing, are to be stopped. There is always hope of course that some fresh fact may turn up, but without it the authorities have come to the conclusion that they can get no farther. My proposal is, therefore, that this Club should take up the case where the authorities have left it.' And he looked expectantly round the circle of upturned faces.
Every face asked a question at once.
Roger forgot his periods in his enthusiasm and became colloquial.
'Why, you see, we're all keen, we're not fools, and we're not (with apologies to my friend Moresby) tied to any hard - and - fast method of investigation. Is it too much to hope that, with all six of us on our mettle and working quite independently of each other, one of us might achieve some result where the police have, to put it bluntly, failed? I don't think it's outside the possibilities. What do you say, Sir Charles?'
The famous counsel uttered a deep laugh. ''Pon my word, Sheringham, it's an interesting idea. But I must reserve judgment till you've outlined your proposal in a little more detail.'
'I think it's a wonderful idea, Mr. Sheringham,' cried Mrs. Fielder Flemming, who was not troubled with a legal mind. 'I'd like to begin this very evening.' Her plump cheeks positively quivered with excitement. 'Wouldn't you, Alicia?'
'It has possibilities,' smiled that lady.
'As a matter - of - fact,' said the writer of detective - stories, with an air of detachment. 'I'd formed a theory of my own about this case already.' His name was Percy Robinson, but he wrote under the pseudonym of Morton Harrogate Bradley, which had so impressed the more simple citizens of the United States of America that they had bought three editions of his first book on the strength of that alone. For some obscure psychological reason Americans are always impressed by the use of surnames for Christian, and particularly when one of them happens to be the name of an English watering - place.
Mr. Ambrose Chitterwick beamed in a mild way, but said nothing.
'Well,' Roger took up his tale, 'the details are open to discussion, of course, but I thought that, if we all decide to make the trial, it would be more amusing if we worked independently. Moresby here can give us the plain facts as they're known to the police. He hasn't been in charge of the case himself, but he's had one or two jobs in connection with it and is pretty well up in the facts; moreover he has very kindly spent most of the afternoon examining the dossier at Scotland Yard so as to be sure of omitting nothing this evening.
'When we've heard him some of us may be able to form a theory at once; possible lines of investigation may occur to others which they will wish to follow up before they commit themselves. In any case, I suggest that we allow ourselves a week in which to form our theories, verify our hypotheses, and set our individual interpretations on the facts that Scotland Yard has collected, during which time no member shall discuss the case with any other member. We may achieve nothing (most probably we shall not), but in any case it will be a most interesting criminological exercise; for some of us practical, for others academical, just as we prefer. And what I think should be most interesting will be to see if we all arrive at the same result or not. Ladies and gentlemen, the meeting is open for discussion, or whatever is the right way of putting it. In other words: what about it?' And Roger dropped back, not reluctantly, into his seat.
Almost before his trousers had touched it the first question reached him.
'Do you mean that we're to go out and act as our own detectives, Mr. Sheringham, or just write a thesis on the facts that the Chief Inspector is going to give us?' asked Alicia Dammers.
'Whichever each one of us preferred, I thought,' Roger answered. 'That's what I meant when I said that the exercise would be practical for some of us and academic for others.'
'But you've got so much more experience than us on the practical side, Mr. Sheringham,' pouted Mrs. Fielder Flemming (yes, pouted).
'And the police have so much more than me,' Roger countered.
'It will depend whether we use deductive or inductive methods, no doubt,' observed Mr. Morton Harrogate Bradley. 'Those who prefer the former will work from the police - facts and won't need to make any investigations of their own, except perhaps to verify a conclusion or two. But the inductive method demands a good deal of inquiry.'
'Exactly,' said Roger.
'Police - facts and the deductive method have solved plenty of serious mysteries in this country,' pronounced Sir Charles Wildman. 'I shall rely on them for this one.'
'There's one particular feature of this case,' murmured Mr. Bradley to nobody, 'that ought to lead one straight to the criminal. I've thought so at the time. I shall concentrate on that.'
'I'm sure I haven't the remotest idea how one sets about investigating a point, if it becomes desirable,' observed Mr. Chitterwick uneasily; but nobody heard him, so it did not matter.
'The only thing that struck me about this case,' said Alicia Dammers, very distinctly, 'regarded, I mean, as a pure case, was its complete absence of any psychological interest whatever.' And without actually saying so. Miss Dammers conveyed the impression that if that were so, she personally had no further use for it.
'I don't think you'll say that when you've heard what Moresby's got to tell us,' Roger said gently. 'We're going to hear a great deal more than has appeared in the newspapers, you know.'
'Then let's hear it,' suggested Sir Charles, bluntly.
'We're all agreed, then?' said Roger, looking round as happily as a child who has been given a new toy. 'Everybody is willing to try it out? '
Amid the ensuing chorus of enthusiasm, one voice alone was silent. Mr. Ambrose Chitterwick was still wondering, quite unhappily, how, if it ever became necessary to go a - detecting, one went. He had studied the reminiscences of a hundred ex - detectives, the real ones, with large black boots and bowler hats; but all he could remember at that moment, out of all those scores of fat books (published at eighteen and sixpence, and remaindered a few months later at eighteen - pence), was that a real, real detective, if he means to attain results, never puts on a false moustache but simply shaves his eyebrows. As a mystery - solving formula, this seemed to Mr. Chitterwick inadequate.
Fortunately in the buzz of chatter that preceded the very reluctant rising of Chief Inspector Moresby, Mr. Chitterwick's poltroonery went unnoticed.
CHAPTER II
CHIEF INSPECTOR MORESBY, having stood up and blushingly received his tribute of hand - claps, was invited to address the gathering from his chair and thankfully retired into that shelter. Consulting the sheaf of notes in his hand, he began to enlighten his very attentive audience as to the strange circumstances connected with Mrs. Bendix's untimely death. Without reproducing his own words, and all the numerous supplementary questions which punctuated his story, the gist of what he had to tell was as follows: -
On Friday morning, the fifteenth of November, Graham Bendix strolled into his club, the Rainbow, in Piccadilly, at about ten - thirty and asked if there were any letters for him. The porter handed him a letter and a couple of circulars, and he walked over to the fireplace in the hall to read them.
While he was doing so another member entered the club. This was a middle - aged baronet, Sir Eustace Pennefather, who had rooms just round the corner, in Berkeley Street, but spent most of his time at the Rainbow. The porter glanced up at the clock, as he did every morning when Sir Eustace came in, and, as always, it was exactly half - past ten. The time was thus definitely fixed by the porter beyond any doubt.
There were three letters and a small parcel for Sir Eustace, and he, too, took them over to the fireplace to open, nodding to Bendix as he joined him there. The two men knew each other only very slightly and had probably never exchanged more than half - a - dozen words in all. There were no other members in the hall just then.
Having glanced through his letters. Sir Eustace opened the parcel and snorted with disgust. Bendix looked at him enquiringly, and with a grunt Sir Eustace thrust out the letter which had been enclosed in the parcel, adding an uncomplimentary remark upon modern trade methods. Concealing a smile (Sir Eustace's habits and opinions were a matter of some amusement to his fellow - members), Bendix read the letter. It was from the firm of Mason & Sons, the big chocolate manufacturers, and was to the effect that they had just put on the market a new brand of liqueur - chocolates designed especially to appeal to the cultivated palates of Men of Taste. Sir Eustace being,
