“I don’t mean that sort of row. It’s about Evans.”
“What about Evans?”
“He’s lost a sovereign.”
“Silly young ass.”
Pillingshot furtively helped himself to another muffin.
“He thinks someone’s taken it,” he said.
“What! Stolen it?”
Pillingshot nodded.
“What makes him think that?”
“He doesn’t see how else it could have gone.”
“Oh, I don’t—By Jove!”
Scott sat up with some excitement.
“I’ve got it,” he said. “I knew we should hit on it sooner or later. Here’s a field for your genius. You shall be a detective. Pillingshot, I hand this case over to you. I employ you.”
Pillingshot gaped.
“I feel certain that’s your line. I’ve often noticed you walking over to school, looking exactly like a bloodhound. Get to work. As a start you’d better fetch Evans up here and question him.”
“But, look here—”
“Buck up, man, buck up. Don’t you know that every moment is precious?”
Evans, a small, stout youth, was not disposed to be reticent. The gist of his rambling statement was as follows. Rich uncle. Impecunious nephew. Visit of former to latter. Handsome tip, one sovereign. Impecunious nephew pouches sovereign, and it vanishes.
“And I call it beastly rot,” concluded Evans volubly. “And if I could find the cad who’s pinched it, I’d jolly well—”
“Less of it,” said Scott. “Now, then, Pillingshot, I’ll begin this thing, just to start you off. What makes you think the quid has been stolen, Evans?”
“Because I jolly well know it has.”
“What you jolly well know isn’t evidence. We must thresh this thing out. To begin with, where did you last see it?”
“When I put it in my pocket.”
“Good. Make a note of that, Pillingshot. Where’s your notebook? Not got one? Here you are then. You can tear out the first few pages, the ones I’ve written on. Ready? Carry on, Evans. When?”
“When what?”
“When did you put it in your pocket?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“What time?”
“About five.”
“Same pair of bags you’re wearing now?”
“No, my cricket bags. I was playing at the nets when my uncle came.”
“Ah! Cricket bags? Put it down, Pillingshot. That’s a clue. Work on it. Where are they?”
“They’ve gone to the wash.”
“About time, too. I noticed them. How do you know the quid didn’t go to the wash as well?”
“I turned both the pockets inside out.”
“Any hole in the pocket?”
“No.”
“Well, when did you take off the bags? Did you sleep in them?”
“I wore ’em till bedtime, and then shoved them on a chair by the side of the bed. It wasn’t till next morning that I remembered the quid was in them—”
“But it wasn’t,” objected Scott.
“I thought it was. It ought to have been.”
“He thought it was. That’s a clue, young Pillingshot. Work on it. Well?”
“Well, when I went to take the quid out of my cricket bags, it wasn’t there.”
“What time was that?”
“Half-past seven this morning.”
“What time did you go to bed?”
“Ten.”
“Then the theft occurred between the hours of ten and seven-thirty. Mind you, I’m giving you a jolly good leg-up, young Pillingshot. But as it’s your first case I don’t mind. That’ll be all from you, Evans. Pop off.”
Evans disappeared. Scott turned to the detective.
“Well, young Pillingshot,” he said, “what do you make of it?”
“I don’t know.”
“What steps do you propose to take?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re a lot of use, aren’t you? As a start, you’d better examine the scene of the robbery, I should say.”
Pillingshot reluctantly left the room.
“Well?” said Scott, when he returned. “Any clues?”
“No.”
“You thoroughly examined the scene of the robbery?”
“I looked under the bed.”
“Under the bed? What’s the good of that? Did you go over every inch of the strip of carpet leading to the chair with a magnifying-glass?”
“Hadn’t got a magnifying-glass.”
“Then you’d better buck up and get one, if you’re going to be a detective. Do you think Sherlock Holmes ever moved a step without his? Not much. Well, anyhow. Did you find any footprints or tobacco ash?”
“There was a jolly lot of dust about.”
“Did you preserve a sample?”
“No.”
“My word, you’ve a lot to learn. Now, weighing the evidence, does anything strike you?”
“No.”
“You’re a bright sort of sleuthhound, aren’t you! It seems to me I’m doing all the work on this case. I’ll have to give you another leg-up. Considering the time when the quid disappeared, I should say that somebody in the dormitory must have collared it. How many fellows are there in Evans’ dormitory?”
“I don’t know.”
“Cut along and find out.”
The detective reluctantly trudged off once more.
“Well?” said Scott, on his return.
“Seven,” said Pillingshot. “Counting Evans.”
“We needn’t count Evans. If he’s ass enough to steal his own quids, he deserves to lose them. Who are the other six?”
“There’s Trent. He’s prefect.”
“The Napoleon of Crime. Watch his every move. Yes?”
“Simms.”
“A dangerous man. Sinister to the core.”
“And Green, Berkeley, Hanson, and Daubeny.”
“Every one of them well known to the police. Why, the place is a perfect Thieves’ Kitchen. Look here, we must act swiftly, young Pillingshot. This is a black business. We’ll take them in alphabetical order. Run and fetch Berkeley.”
Berkeley, interrupted in a game of Halma, came unwillingly.
“Now then, Pillingshot, put your questions,” said Scott. “This is a black business, Berkeley. Young Evans has lost a sovereign—”
“If you think I’ve taken his beastly quid—!” said Berkeley warmly.
“Make a note that, on being questioned, the man Berkeley exhibited suspicious emotion. Go on. Jam it down.”
Pillingshot reluctantly entered the statement under Berkeley’s indignant gaze.
“Now then, carry on.”
“You know, it’s all rot,” protested Pillingshot. “I never said Berkeley had anything to do with it.”
“Never mind. Ask him what his movements were on the night of the—what was yesterday?—on the night of the sixteenth of July.”
Pillingshot put the question nervously.
“I was in bed, of course, you silly ass.”
“Were you asleep?” inquired Scott.
“Of course I was.”
“Then how do you know what you were doing? Pillingshot, make a note of the fact that the man Berkeley’s statement was confused and contradictory. It’s a clue. Work on it. Who’s next? Daubeny. Berkeley, send Daubeny up here.”
“All right, Pillingshot, you wait,” was
