Mr. Tuke nodded as he thrust the paper in his pocket.
“I was looking for the damp patch on the carpet.”
“I’ll show you.”
They edged their way through the crush. At the end of the room near the bookshelves, beside a low round table, a considerable area of the grey rug had evidently been recently cleaned with a wet cloth.
“Funny little things seem to pursue this family,” Mr. Payne remarked, again in an undertone, though in the clamour of talk all round this precaution seemed superfluous.
“As you say,” Mr. Tuke agreed, staring at the damp rug.
“All this mob, by the way,” the editor continued, “will be pushing off soon. There’s another and more splendiferous do on at Bailey’s Hotel. The family are staying for a little symposium about their own troubles. That includes Charles and Mainward. Charles asked me to stop. He’s out of his depth in crime. Arboriculture’s his passion. He’s rather like a tree walking himself.” Mr. Payne was craning his head to peer about the crowded room. Suddenly he called and waved. “Oy, Audrey!”
A young woman fought her way to join them, and Harvey was introduced to Mrs. Rockley Payne, who was small and neat and dark, with a lively intelligent face. Her large brown eyes regarded him with faint amusement but no surprise. No doubt, like Sergeant Webley, she had been given a portrait parle.
“Let us see what the bin has produced,” Harvey said.
The young couple looked puzzled. As they all moved away, the editor with his slight limp, he stooped to pick up some small object from the carpet. It was a splinter of glass.
“I trod on it. A bit of the missing tumbler, perhaps.”
Mrs. Tuke having been collected and introduced, the combined party struggled out into the hall, to which Miss Ardmore and Sir Bruton had returned. The Director, cigar in one hand, spectacles on his nose, was holding up to this in his handkerchief a fragment of a tumbler, at which he was sniffing. Vivien Ardmore, looking harassed, was conveying two other fragments in a duster.
‘‘Been doing a bit of sleuthing,” said Sir Bruton, scowling over his spectacles at Mr. Tuke. “Deductive reasoning, if you know what that is. Found this in the bin. There’s half a lemon there too—or most of it. Someone’s cut off a slice. It don’t fit the other half that wasn’t used. The slice isn’t in the bin—we turned the damned thing out. And this glass has been washed—it’s still wet. Not a sniff of Pernod or anything else.”
“Why wash a tumbler after it has been broken?” Harvey asked.
“Whaddayou mean, after?”
Rockley Payne showed the sliver of glass from the carpet. It was found to fit into one of the larger fragments held by Miss Ardmore. That young lady’s air of uneasiness was now marked. Her wide-set eyes were dark and troubled, and the little frown was etched deep in her forehead.
“What does it all mean?” she said. “It’s so silly\ I can understand a thief going off with the Pernod—though I don’t know why he left all the other stuff. But if the tumbler was broken in there”—she gestured with a capable, long-fingered hand towards the room where her unsuspecting guests still chattered and laughed—“why wash the bits afterwards, as Mr. Tuke says? And what’s happened to the slice of lemon? It was a whole lemon this morning, when I went to the office. It was on the dresser. The other half’s there now. Why on earth throw half into the bin, and .take the slice away? It’s nowhere about. We’ve looked.” She made a little grimace of exasperation. “Oh, the whole thing’s crazy! ”
“It is indeed,” said Mrs. Tuke, giving her a smile of sympathy. “For who in the world takes lemon with Pernod?”
Cecile Boulanger appeared in the doorway of the living-room, the noticeable horn-rims of Mr. Mainward flashing inquisitively over her shoulder. But before she could be enlightened as to the cause of this conference in the hall, a rush of departing guests, en route for Bailey’s Hotel, followed after her. Hasty farewells were made, and hats were seized. Miss Ardmore acknowledged the former in an abstracted and perfunctory manner. For a minute or two the noisy crowd clattered down the steps and over the cobbles of the mews. Then comparative peace descended upon No. 10. Mile Boulanger and Guy Mainward had withdrawn again out of the way: in the room there remained with them only Charles Gartside and four or five more.
During the confusion Sir Bruton had relieved his hostess of the pieces of the tumbler which she was holding, and adding his own fragment had carried this treasure trove in the duster down the hall to the kitchen. Mr. Tuke followed his chief’s movements with a speculative eye. Was the old boy on to something? No high degree of deductive reasoning was required to suggest an exploration of the bin; but the Director’s test with the halved lemon was ingenious, and its upshot decidedly odd. Why, indeed, should anyone walk away with a slice of lemon?
Mr. Gartside now loomed gloomily in the doorway, apparently seeking his betrothed. He peered at Harvey and then at Mrs. Tuke with the air of wondering whether he ought to know them, but rather hoping that he would not be expected to. Even Vivien Ardmore’s harassed expression lightened a little as she watched him, and she smiled faintly.
“Yes, Charles,” she said. “You have met. On Monday evening, though I don’t suppose you caught the names.
Mrs. Harvey Tuke. And Mr. Tuke. And this is——” She threw a comically apologetic look at Sir Bruton, who had just rejoined them. “I oughtn’t to talk. Because I never caught your name. When one’s throwing a party, one’s mind is so full of things—seeing that everyone has a drink, wondering if the glasses will go round——”
“Don’t let a little thing like that spoil your sleep,” said Sir Bruton graciously, waving his spectacles about. “Karnes is the name, ma’am. I’m Tuke’s boss, though you’d never think it
