“For keeps,” Reggie laughed. “Come and dine with me. Bring Mordan. He’s so genial.”
“We do have to take these little things so seriously,” the Superintendent murmured.
But a party of four, the Superintendent and the large Inspector, Reggie and the little Jew, packed themselves into a taxicab and drove into town. Reggie was full of elegant conversation. He grew iris, and told them all about iris, with appendices on the costumes in revue.
Once or twice Superintendent Bell tried to turn his attention to serious subjects. Vainly. At last Inspector Mordan broke out with, “I say, doctor, what’s the wheeze about the coffee?”
“The Inspector touches the spot. Care not, all will be known ere long. There’s a jolly little iris from the Himalayas—” Reggie returned with enthusiasm to horticulture.
“Where are you taking us, doctor?” said the Superintendent. The taxi, which had for some little time been running through the city, seemed to intend coming out on the other side—a locality promising no good dinner. As he spoke, it turned into Liverpool Street Station.
“Liverpool Street, by George!” the Inspector said. “This is a beanfeast. Going to take us to Epping Forest, doctor?”
“We may have to go farther,” Reggie said, and Gordon laughed.
“Are you in this, sir?” The Inspector turned on him.
“Professional secret, dear boy.”
Reggie led the way to the station dining-room. “I don’t know the cook. But let’s hope for the best. A tirin’ day, an active evening. Strength is what we need. Strength without somnolence. Salmon, I see. Lamb chops, I would add. One of your younger ducks would comfort me. Do you sleep after Burgundy, Inspector? A warm night, as you say. Larose is a genial claret. Let us all be genial.”
“Well, you’re a bit supercilious,” the Inspector complained.
“How can you say so? I am keeping all the glory for you. Glory on ice. All ready for Inspector Mordan. So gather you roses while you may. Talking of roses, what do you think of the hybrid Austrian briers?” He explained what he thought of them to a silent audience, sliding gracefully into an appreciation of salmon eaten at Waterford, at Exeter, and at Berwick. Few are the men who will not talk about food. The detectives produced much valuable experience of bourgeois cookery, and the dinner went merrily. In its later stages Reggie became silent and watched the clock. He seemed to grudge Inspector Mordan his cheese, and as soon as it was swallowed made a move.
“Well, doctor, I did think we should have had some coffee,” the Inspector chuckled.
But Reggie was already making for the door. By the door stood his chauffeur looking for him. Reggie beckoned impatiently to the detectives and followed the chauffeur out. He led them to the main line departure platforms. It was near the time of the Harwich boat-train. A dark, wiry man was registering some luggage for Amsterdam. By his side stood a veiled woman of full figure. Both he and she carried suitcases. As the man turned round he bumped into Reggie, who was looking the other way, and seemed to have some difficulty in disentangling himself. He glared at Reggie and hurried away. The woman was ahead of him.
Reggie grabbed Superintendent Bell. “See that pair. Take them both. Picking my pocket. Get the bags.”
Bell and Mordan hurried after the pair. Bell tapped the man’s shoulder, and he jumped round.
“I thought so. You’ll come with me to the station, my man,” said Superintendent Bell, with admirable calm.
“What is it?” the man cried. His accent was slightly foreign. “What station? What do you mean?”
“You know all right,” said the Superintendent. “I am Superintendent Bell of Scotland Yard.”
“I do not know at all,” the man protested. “What do you want with me?”
The woman saw Reggie. She hissed something to the man in a foreign argot, and turned to run. The Superintendent laid hold of her. Inspector Mordan closed with the man. The Inspector was large and brawny, but at the end of a moment he was on his back and the man making off. Reggie dived for his legs in the manner of Rugby football, and they went down together.
The railway police came on the scene. The man was handcuffed, and he and the woman and the two detectives packed into a cab. Reggie and Gordon followed in another to the police station in Old Jewry.
When they arrived, the two prisoners were already in the charge-room and the woman was protesting vehemently, to the great edification of the uniformed inspector at the desk and a plain-clothes friend of his, and the embarrassment of Superintendent Bell and Inspector Mordan. It was an outrage. Why did they assault her and her husband? Why? They were respectable people. She would not endure it.
“Oh, Flora, Flora!” Reggie shook his head at her.
The woman whirled round on him. “You! Ah, it is you, then, the doctor. You are a traitor. You are a wicked villain. I spit upon you.” And she did. The man said something to her in the strange foreign argot they seemed to use between themselves, and she was silent.
The plain-clothes man came forward grinning. “Why, Bunco! It is my dear old pal, Bunco! What have they got you for now, old thing?” The man scowled. Dusty and bruised from the scuffle and in the ignominy of handcuffs, he had still a certain arrogant dignity. He was well made for all his slightness, and the strength which had upset Mordan showed in his poise. It was a dark, aquiline face with a good brow, but passionate and cruel.
“What is the charge, doctor?” said Superintendent Bell.
“Oh. On the seventh instant—murder of Wilhelmina, otherwise Birdie Bolton,” Reggie drawled. “Better search them.”
“It is a lie!” Flora screamed; and continued to scream.
Reggie and Gordon were smoking in another room when Bell and Mordan came back with the results of the search. A suitcase was put on the table, opened, and seemed to be full of light, a mass of
