“There’s one thing in all this that I can’t understand, sir,” he said. “And it’s this—it’s very evident that whoever killed Kitely wanted the papers that Kitely carried in that pocketbook. Why did he take ’em out of the pocketbook and throw the pocketbook away? I don’t know how that strikes you—but it licks me, altogether!”
“Yes,” agreed Brereton, “it’s puzzling—certainly. You’d think that the murderer would have carried off the pocketbook, there and then. That he took the papers from it, threw the pocketbook itself away, and then placed the papers—or some of them—where your people have just found them—in Harborough’s shed—seems to me to argue something which is even more puzzling. I daresay you see what I mean?”
“Can’t say that I do, sir,” answered the superintendent. “I haven’t had much experience in this sort of work, you know, Mr. Brereton—it’s a good bit off our usual line. What do you mean, then?”
“Why,” replied Brereton, laughing a little, “I mean this—it looks as if the murderer had taken his time about his proceedings!—after Kitely was killed. The pocketbook, as you know, was picked up close to the body. It was empty—as we all saw. Now what can we infer from that but that the murderer actually stopped by his victim to examine the papers? And in that case he must have had a light. He may have carried an electric torch. Let’s try and reconstruct the affair. We’ll suppose that the murderer, whoever he was, was so anxious to find some paper that he wanted, and that he believed Kitely to have on him, that he immediately examined the contents of the pocketbook. He turned on his electric torch and took all the papers out of the pocketbook, laying the pocketbook aside. He was looking through the papers when he heard a sound in the neighbouring coppices or bushes. He immediately turned off his light, made off with the papers, and left the empty case—possibly completely forgetting its existence for the moment. How does that strike you—as a theory?”
“Very good, sir,” replied the superintendent. “Very good—but it is only a theory, you know, Mr. Brereton.”
Brereton rose, with another laugh.
“Just so,” he said. “But suppose you try to reduce it to practice? In this way—you no doubt have tradesmen in this town who deal in such things as electric torches. Find out—in absolute secrecy—if any of them have sold electric torches of late to anyone in the town, and if so, to whom. For I’m certain of this—that pocketbook and its contents was examined on the spot, and that examination could only have been made with a light, and an electric torch would be the handiest means of providing that light. And so—so you see how even a little clue like that might help, eh?”
“I’ll see to it,” assented the superintendent. “Well, it’s all very queer, sir, and I’m getting more than ever convinced that we’ve laid hands on the wrong man. And yet—what could, and what can we do?”
“Oh, nothing, at present,” replied Brereton. “Let matters develop. They’re only beginning.”
He went away then, not to think about the last subject of conversation, but to take out his own pocketbook as soon as he was clear of the police-station, and to write down that entry which he had seen in Kitely’s memoranda:—M. & C. v. S.B. cir. 81. And again he was struck by the fact that the initials were those of Mallalieu and Cotherstone, and again he wondered what they meant. They might have no reference whatever to the Mayor and his partner—but under the circumstances it was at any rate a curious coincidence, and he had an overwhelming intuition that something lay behind that entry. But—what?
That evening, as Bent and his guest were lighting their cigars after dinner, Bent’s parlourmaid came into the smoking-room with a card. Bent glanced from it to Brereton with a look of surprise.
“Mr. Christopher Pett!” he exclaimed. “What on earth does he want me for? Bring Mr. Pett in here, anyway,” he continued, turning to the parlourmaid. “Is he alone?—or is Miss Pett with him?”
“The police-superintendent’s with him, sir,” answered the girl. “They said—could they see you and Mr. Brereton for half an hour, on business?”
“Bring them both in, then,” said Bent. He looked at Brereton again, with more interrogation. “Fresh stuff, eh?” he went on. “Mr. Christopher Pett’s the old dragon’s nephew, I suppose. But what can he want with—oh, well, I guess he wants you—I’m the audience.”
Brereton made no reply. He was watching the door. And through it presently came a figure and face which he at once recognized as those of an undersized, common-looking, sly-faced little man whom he had often seen about the Law Courts in London, and had taken for a solicitor’s clerk. He looked just as common and sly as ever as he sidled into the smoking-room, removing his silk hat with one hand and depositing a brief bag on the table with the other, and he favoured Brereton with a sickly grin of recognition after he had made a bow to the master of the house. That done he rubbed together two long and very thin white hands and smiled at Brereton once more.
“Good evening, Mr. Brereton,” he said in a thin, wheedling voice. “I’ve no doubt you’ve seen me before, sir?—I’ve seen you often—round about the Courts, Mr. Brereton—though I’ve never had the pleasure of putting business in your way—as yet, Mr. Brereton, as yet, sir! But—”
Brereton, to whom Bent had transferred Mr. Christopher Pett’s card, glanced again at it, and from it to its owner.
“I see your address is that of Messrs. Popham & Pilboody in Cursitor Street, Mr. Pett,” he observed frigidly. “Any connection with that well-known firm?”
Mr. Pett rubbed his hands, and taking the chair which Bent silently indicated, sat down and pulled his trousers up about a pair of bony knees. He smiled widely, showing a set
