Half empty bottles, glasses with dregs in them, over-flowing ashtrays, gave the room a rather sordid, after-the-party air. The door was closed. From outside, in the hall, and the other rooms, came the tramp of heavy footsteps and a subdued murmur of voices. A very different sort of party was in progress there. Inspector Vance being believed to be in Cambridge or Bedford or somewhere, on the trail of the man whose body had lain in the little lumber room but had since been transferred to the spare bedroom, Mr. Tuke’s telephone call to the Central Office had resulted in another inspector arriving to take charge of the proceedings. With him had come a finger-print expert, a photographer, and several other policemen. Soon after the arrival of this posse, a superintendent from “F” Division had appeared on the scene, and he had been followed by a police surgeon. It was at the superintendent’s suggestion that Miss Ardmore’s remaining guests, including the Rockley Paynes, had been allowed to leave. The editor of The Ludgate, as a writer of crime stories, had gone with some reluctance.
The superintendent had also pointed out tactfully that there really was no need for Sir Bruton and Mr. and Mrs. Tuke to inconvenience themselves by staying on. Sir Bruton had replied blandly that he had promised to help Miss Ardmore with her washing-up. Mr. Tuke merely said if he was not in the way he would like to remain. Mrs. Tuke said nothing: she had already decided to take Vivien Ardmore home to St. Luke’s Court. If the superintendent and his colleagues felt that their style was a little cramped by the presence on the scene of the crime of the Director of Public Prosecutions and his most notorious assistant, no doubt they also felt there was little they could do about it. They closed the door on these unfortunately influential busybodies and got on with their work. Some of the supernumeraries presently departed; but the superintendent, the inspector, the doctor and a couple of subordinates were still at No. 10.
It was now half-past eight. Double summer time notwithstanding, the cloudy sky had brought a premature dusk. Shadows crept over the living-room. Harvey looked at his watch, got up from his uneasy seat, and collected a couple of plates on which there was still some food. Mr. Mainward sprang to his assistance, and Sir Bruton opened an eye.
“Wondering when someone ’ud have the gumption to think of that.”
A faint air of animation, a sort of ghostly echo of the party so ruthlessly cut short, returned to the room. Though Vivien Ardmore at first refused nourishment, Mr. Gartside, revealing dictatorial qualities, ordered her to stop being silly. Gecile was persuaded by Mr. Mainward to eat a sandwich. Drinks went round. Everybody, in fact, realised the mundane truth that they were exhausted and hungry.
Guy Mainward, in his travels, passed the open window.
“The vultures are gathering,” he said.
Half the inhabitants of Falcon Mews, East and West, and others attracted by police cars in Brampton Street, were indeed now forming a small crowd outside. A constable was heard adjuring them to move on, please. Other voices becoming audible in the hall, Mr. Tuke, who was tired of being imprisoned, got up suddenly and went out of the room.
The inspector from Scotland Yard was talking to one of his posse.
“No news yet of Inspector Vance?” Mr. Tuke inquired.
‘ No, sir.” The inspector, whose name was Willows, and who was of a more accommodating type than Mr. Vance, looked thoughtfully at the interrupter. After all, the D.P.P.’s office was the D.P.P’s office, and he knew more about Mr. Tuke than the local superintendent. “I’m hoping we’ll soon hear from him,” he said. “I don’t know a lot about this case.”
“A bright idea of mine,” said Mr. Tuke, “has been exploded by a poet who died a century ago. If it is any news to you, the corpse is Mr. Joseph Eady, and no one else.”
“Very likely, sir,” the inspector replied. “I couldn’t say. I’ve sent for Mrs. Eady, and for a sergeant who knows Eady himself. There’s nothing to show who this man is.”
In his mood of candour, Mr. Willows went on to explain that the corpse’s pockets contained only small change, cigarettes, a handkerchief, and a bunch of keys. Letters and other papers were conspicuous (in these days of national registration) by their absence. The check jacket bore the name of a multiple clothing firm.
Vivien Ardmore, having steeled herself for a second scrutiny of the terrible dead face, declared that she had never seen the man before; and Mile Boulanger, put through the same ordeal, made the same reply. For the rest, Vivien said she had no idea how he had got into her flat. She had not been in the box-room for some weeks. She had never owned a third key. That morning she left for her office as usual at nine, and the place should have remained locked until her return after lunch at half-past two. On the previous evening, the Friday, she had been at home from seven o’clock onwards, preparing for her party; and as the intruder was in Cambridge as late as a quarter to five, his entry and death at No. 10 could hardly have occurred overnight without her knowledge. The mystery of the Pernod and the lemon had been thrashed out, and the police surgeon had an idea about this.
That official, carrying his black bag, came out of the spare room at this moment. He and Mr. Tuke were old friends.
“Hullo, Tuke,” he said. “I heard you were here. You do get about, don’t you. And the P.P. too.” He turned to Inspector Willows. “The man’s been dead six to eight hours. If I hadn’t heard something about the case, all I’d
