“It’s highly irregular,” Lestrade argued, waving his pipe. “Besides, we’ll never get the entire lot together at the same place and time.”
“We did it once already, for the séance,” said my employer, obviously pleased that he had won a standoff, however minor, with the Scotland Yard man. His pipe was smoking, too, and there was an unusual pungency to the atmosphere from the clash of the two men’s tobacco preferences. He continued: “An invitation delivered by a uniformed policeman carries a good bit of weight. I doubt anybody will plead a prior engagement if you’re the one throwing the party.”
“In appearance only,” said Lestrade, in a grumpy tone. “I’d be a lot happier with the whole affair if you’d tell me what you intend to prove.” I had to respect him for trying; Mr. Clemens had outargued him at every turn, but he was not going to give up without a fight.
“I mean to identify the person who killed Dr. Parkhurst, of course,” said Mr. Clemens. “Isn’t that what you’ve been trying to find out for most of the last week?”
“Of course,” cried Lestrade. “What I don’t understand is why you won’t just tell me, if you really know, and let my men go about their work. A murder investigation is no place for a private person to stick his oar in. Why, you’ll be endangering everyone else in the place, yourself and your family included. Do you want that daughter of yours exposed to gunplay?”
Mr. Clemens reflected on this point a moment, but then shook his head. “Not at a simple reenactment of the séance. For someone to pull out a weapon would be tantamount to confessing. Whoever it is will have to bluff it out. Besides, you’ll have your men here—they can search the apartment and all the suspects as they arrive. That includes me and my family, if you want.”
“You’re dealing with a murderer,” Lestrade insisted. “You can’t be certain he won’t snap—perhaps attacking his accusers, perhaps trying to take a hostage to cover an escape.”
“No, you forget that this is almost certainly a revenge killing,” said Mr. Clemens, shaking a finger. “The killer had a grudge against Parkhurst, something strong enough to turn a normal person into a murderer. But Parkhurst is dead, and the grudge is satisfied—and unless I miss my guess, the killer will be feeling a good deal of remorse.”
I myself was not quite certain how easy it would be. After all, someone had taken shots at us at Sir Denis’s estate. What guarantee did we have that it would not happen again—even with policemen in the room?
But Chief Inspector Lestrade rose to his feet and said, “Very well, Mr. Twain, we’ll try your experiment,” he said. “But pray that everything goes smoothly, because if it doesn’t, the Home Secretary will make my life very miserable. And I intend to pass along that misery to the person responsible for talking me into such a reckless scheme.”
“Don’t start whipping your mule until he balks,” said Mr. Clemens. “You take care of your part of the preparation, and I promise you this will all come out as smooth as butter.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” said Lestrade, putting on his hat and making his exit. Privately, I wondered if he might not be right. Mr. Clemens was staking a great deal on a belief that the murderer would give up quietly. I hoped he had not miscalculated this time—because I had no desire at all to find myself looking down the barrel of a gun. I had already had enough of that experience.
Inevitably, the impending meeting of suspects and witnesses became the central topic—indeed the only topic—of dinner-table conversation that evening. Mrs. Clemens did her best to quash the subject as soon as it reared its head, but Clara and especially little Jean were not to be shushed. The youngest of my employer’s daughters was particularly insistent that she be allowed at the meeting as a spectator.
“Absolutely not,” said Mrs. Clemens, with an expression that would have turned back a battleship. “Your father believes that one of the people in that group shot a man dead less than a week ago, and I will not have any child of mine exposed to that danger.”
“Oh, Mommy, murderers don’t shoot little girls,” said Jean. She scooped up a small pile of boiled carrots on her fork, then held it midway to her mouth as she thought of an even better argument. “Besides, the police will make sure nobody brings a gun with them, won’t they?”
“Of course they will,” said Mr. Clemens. “I’m going to be there myself, and I sure don’t want any shooting. But your mother’s right. This is serious business, not entertainment for little girls. Not even smart ones like you. What if the murderer decides to try to escape, and takes one of you hostage?”
“Mommy and Susy will be there,” Jean said, lowering her fork. “What if the murderer takes one of them hostage?”
“Wentworth and I will do our best to prevent that,” said Mr. Clemens. “Are you going to eat those carrots?”
Jean put the carrots in her mouth, which gave her mother a chance to get a word in edgewise. “Believe me, if my opinion had been asked, Susy would not have been included in your father’s plans. I am willing to face whatever danger there may be—and I sincerely hope there will be none at all—but I should have liked being consulted in advance, considering that our daughter’s welfare is at risk.”
“Don’t be so worried, Livy,” said Mr. Clemens. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and continued. “I don’t think there’s any real danger. Besides, if we don’t have the whole group there, it might alert the murderer that we’re close to solving the case. It has to look as if this is Lestrade’s idea, and that he doesn’t have the faintest ghost
