I sniffed suddenly and suspiciously. Was the smell of moth balls becoming an obsession with me? I could swear that the roll of films smelt of it also? I held them under my nose. They had, as usual, a strong smell of their own, but apart from that I could clearly detect the odour I disliked so much. I soon found the cause. A minute shred of cloth had caught on a rough edge of the centre wood, and that shred was strongly impregnated with moth balls. At some time or another the films had been carried in the overcoat pocket of the man who was killed in the tube. Was it he who had dropped them here? Hardly. His movements were all accounted for.
No, it was the other man, the “doctor.” He had taken the films when he had taken the paper. It was he who had dropped them here during his struggle with the woman.
I had got my clue! I would have the roll developed, and then I would have further developments to work upon.
Very elated, I left the house, returned the keys to Mrs. James and made my way as quickly as possible to the station. On the way back to town, I took out my paper and studied it afresh. Suddenly the figures took on a new significance. Suppose they were a date? 17 1 22. The 17th of January, 1922. Surely that must be it! Idiot that I was not to have thought of it before. But in that case I must find out the whereabouts of Kilmorden Castle, for today was actually the 14th. Three days. Little enough—almost hopeless when one had no idea of where to look!
It was too late to hand in my roll today. I had to hurry home to Kensington so as not to be late for dinner. It occurred to me that there was an easy way of verifying whether some of my conclusions were correct. I asked Mr. Flemming whether there had been a camera amongst the dead man’s belongings. I knew that he had taken an interest in the case and was conversant with all the details.
To my surprise and annoyance he replied that there had been no camera. All Carton’s effects had been gone over very carefully in the hopes of finding something that might throw light upon his state of mind. He was positive that there had been no photographic apparatus of any kind.
That was rather a setback to my theory. If he had no camera, why should he be carrying a roll of films?
I set out early next morning to take my precious roll to be developed. I was so fussy that I went all the way to Regent Street to the big Kodak place. I handed it in and asked for a print of each film. The man finished stacking together a heap of films packed in yellow tin cylinders for the tropics, and picked up my roll.
He looked at me.
“You’ve made a mistake, I think,” he said, smiling.
“Oh, no,” I said. “I’m sure I haven’t.”
“You’ve given me the wrong roll. This is an unexposed one.”
I walked out with what dignity I could muster. I dare say it is good for one now and again to realize what an idiot one can be! But nobody relishes the process.
And then, just as I was passing one of the big shipping offices, I came to a sudden halt. In the window was a beautiful model of one of the company’s boats, and it was labelled “Kenilworth Castle.” A wild idea shot through my brain. I pushed the door open and went in. I went up to the counter and in faltering voice (genuine this time!) I murmured:
“Kilmorden Castle?”
“On the 17th from Southampton. Cape Town? First or second class?”
“How much is it?”
“First class, eighty-seven pounds—”
I interrupted him. The coincidence was too much for me. Exactly the amount of my legacy! I would put all my eggs in one basket.
“First class,” I said.
I was now definitely committed to the adventure.
VIII
(Extracts from the diary of Sir Eustace Pedler, M.P.)
It is an extraordinary thing that I never seem to get any peace. I am a man who likes a quiet life. I like my club, my rubber of bridge, a well-cooked meal, a sound wine. I like England in the summer, and the Riviera in the winter. I have no desire to participate in sensational happenings. Sometimes, in front of a good fire, I do not object to reading about them in the newspaper. But that is as far as I am willing to go. My object in life is to be thoroughly comfortable. I have devoted a certain amount of thought, and a considerable amount of money, to further that end. But I cannot say that I always succeed. If things do not actually happen to me, they happen round me, and frequently, in spite of myself, I become involved. I hate being involved.
All this because Guy Pagett came into my bedroom this morning with a telegram in his hand and a face as long as a mute at a funeral.
Guy Pagett is my secretary, a zealous, painstaking, hardworking fellow, admirable in every respect. I know no one who annoys me more. For a long time I have been racking my brains as to how to get rid of him. But you cannot very well dismiss a secretary because he prefers work to play, likes getting up early in the morning, and has positively no vices. The only amusing thing about the fellow is his face. He has the face of a fourteenth-century poisoner—the sort of man the Borgias got to do their odd jobs for them.
I wouldn’t mind so much if Pagett didn’t make me work too. My idea of work is something that should be undertaken lightly and airily—trifled with,
