“Worse than you wot of, Charles,” said Miss Ardmore, a little grimly. “Did you know Raymond, Mr. Payne?”
“Slightly,” the writer said. “The ‘Ludgate’ published a lot of his stories in the old days, and I’ve had one in every number since I took over.”
“Oh, of course, you’re the editor now.”
“They have to put up with anything in wartime,” said the editor,, grinning. “I combine the job with far less arduous duties at the M.O.I. When I was asked to breathe life into the old hulk—it died, you know, and it’s only a quarterly now, though we’re hoping for better things—anyway, I thought at once of your cousin. We’ve had four of his stories —No, three, actually. There was a hitch over the last one——” Mr. Payne paused, adding rather hastily: “He was doing another, but now we shan’t get that. Or any more. I’m sorry, for every reason. He was a good fellow, Shearsby.”
Miss Ardmore’s room now had the air of being rather congested. Mr. and Mrs. Tuke were edging towards the door. Gecile Boulanger, frowning at her thoughts, stood apart, Mr. Mainward hovering near. Charles Gartside had so far recognised the presence of other people as to turn his peering gaze on Mr. Tuke, rather (as Mrs. Tuke remarked later) as though he were something the cat had brought in. The editor of the ‘Ludgate’ also kept turning a curious eye in Harvey’s direction. The name or the mephistophelian features were perhaps not unknown to him.
Mr. Tuke was explaining to his hostess that he and his wife must really be going, but that he was always at her service if there was anything he could do in the way of advice. When the Tukes were outside, Yvette remarked dryly:
“How polite you are becoming, Harvey. Of course, she is distinctly chic.”
“It’s the case,” said Mr. Tuke with dignity. “I don’t want to lose touch with it. I want to hear more about this red herring dredged from the grave, to be trailed so conveniently across the original scents.”
“Don’t you believe Miss Ardmore?”
“My mind is quite open. But it is all extremely interesting, anyway.”
“Your mind may be open,” Mrs. Tuke said, “but I think it is rather a horrid one.”
CHAPTER IX
MR. TUKE need have felt no anxiety about losing touch with the case of the Shearsby cousins. It continued to pursue him. More news was thrust upon him that same evening.
Sir Bruton Karnes had come to dine at 28, St. Luke’s Court. Dinner was over, and Mrs. Tuke had left the gentlemen to their port, a wine she considered fit only for the English and Portuguese. She had also remarked at an early stage of her acquaintance with the Director that though Trichinopoli had once been a French possession, the irridentist spirit should not be carried too far: and Sir Bruton was smoking one of his host’s Larranagas.
Down the hall the telephone rang; and presently Chichester appeared at the dining-room door.
“Mr. Rockley Payne would like to speak to you, sir.”
Harvey’s eyebrows lifted as he glanced at his guest, for during dinner the day’s developments in the case had been under review. Sir Bruton rose with him, and trundled away to the drawing-room, while Harvey went to the telephone extension in his study.
Over the line came the pleasant, eager voice of the editor of The Ludgate Magazine.
“Mr. Tuke?”
“Speaking.”
“We met this afternoon, if you remember.”
“Certainly I do.”
“It’s about Miss Ardmore’s cousin, Raymond Shearsby. I’ve got a bit of information I think would interest you.”
“Why me?”
“Well, I mean,” said Mr. Payne, “I thought—oh, well, dash it, as a man and a brother, Mr. Tuke, you must be interested. I mean, they’ve all been at you, or so I gather. And it is a rum show.”
“Have you passed on this information to those most concerned? To Miss Ardmore, for instance?”
“Well, no. I had a feeling I’d better keep my mouth shut. It was an effort,” Mr. Payne admitted. “But I thought I’d get someone’s advice first. Yours, for preference.”
“Gan you impart this item over the phone, or would you rather do it by word of mouth? Where are you now?”
“I’m at Victoria. I’d very much like to talk it over with you, Mr. Tuke, if I’m not being a frightful nuisance.”
“Then come along, if you care to. I shall be glad to see you. You’ll find one of your readers here.”
“Which one?”
“The Director of Public Prosecutions.”
“Moulting Manitous!” said Mr. Payne. “I’ll just ring my wife, and hop over. I’ve got your address in front of me. Thanks most awfully. . . .”
And within five minutes—for by legerdemain or charm of manner he had secured a taxi—his voice was heard in the hall. Having been introduced to Sir Bruton, the latter at once tackled him on his latest book, and conversation proceeded along these lines until coffee and cognac were brought in. Harvey then caught the editor’s eye.
“About this information of yours? . . .”
“Oh, yes, by Jove,” said Mr. Payne. “Well, it’s like this. After you and your wife left Miss Ardmore’s place this evening, everything came out all over again. I thought the atmosphere was a trifle taut, you know, and I didn’t wonder when I heard. You see, Charles Gartside had to be told the whole story—he didn’t know about this Mrs. Porteous, or that French cousin’s near miss with a lorry—and I think they more or less forgot about me. I faded into a corner, and looked at books and things. Then out came this tale of Miss Ardmore’s about the cousin who didn’t die in Belgium, and I began to take notice. I’ll tell you why, but, of course, the whole shoot makes you think, doesn’t it? I gather there’s a lot of hard cash in the background, and as a writer of crime stories the general set-up struck a homely chord straight away.”
Mr. Payne flashed his diffident and engaging smile at Mrs. Tuke, and refreshed himself with coffee.
“It does smack of the novel,” Harvey
