Reggie was worried—a rare state for him—and he took himself to his least sociable club. He was sitting there, glowering at a scientific American paper, when the voice of Lomas addressed him.
“Care killed a cat, Reginald. Why so blue?”
Reggie sat up. “Life is real, life is earnest, Lomas. And the grave is not the goal. That’s because of our filthy profession, which is always bothering the corpses. Come away. I am worried. I am going to worry you.”
As they walked in St. James’s Park, Reggie told him of the queer talk in the studio. “I want comfort, Lomas, old thing,” he concluded. “Comfort me.”
“My dear Fortune! It’s quite clear, what? Unsatisfactory case, profoundly unsatisfactory. But it’s quite clear. I always thought those two were in it. Probably the sweet young wife did it, or put Geoffrey up to it. Now he funks and she doesn’t. Women carry off these things better than men, don’t you know?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything. Lomas, old dear, you are grateful and comfortin’, you really are. I knew you’d say that. And I know it’s all wrong.”
“My poor dear fellow! You never will reconcile yourself to an unsatisfactory case. It’s so common too—a case you can’t act on while you know it’s sound.”
“Oh, Peter! You can always act on a sound case.”
“You’re so young,” Lomas smiled indulgently.
“We’ve missed something, don’t you see?”
“And what have we missed, Reginald?”
Reggie pulled him up and looked at the ducks. For a long time he looked at the ducks. Then, “Cousin Herbert,” he said. “The evasive, elusive Cousin Herbert. Why do we never come up against Cousin Herbert?”
“Because he had nothing to do with it, what?”
“Because we haven’t looked for him.”
Lomas gave an impatient laugh. “This is absurd, my dear fellow. That pallid, tame cat of a man!”
“You let some of your fellows sniff round him.”
“My dear Fortune! Of course they have. He’s quite a blameless sort of fellow. Plays a bit, spends a bit—nothing more.”
“Oh, he wanted money—did he?”
“My dear Fortune, you’re right off the wicket. He had an alibi. He was with some people at Maidenhead at the time of the murder.”
“Oh, my aunt, anybody can have an alibi,” Reggie grumbled.
Lomas laughed and shook his head. “It won’t do, Reginald. Don’t try to be subtle.”
“Well, that isn’t your complaint,” Reggie snarled, and for once they parted in nasty tempers.
Three days afterwards a telephone message called him to Scotland Yard, and he found Lomas in conference with Superintendent Bell.
“Ah, here’s the prophet,” Lomas smiled. “Do you remember—in the Charlecote murder—you backed Herbert both ways? Well, the latest from the course is that Herbert has vanished.”
“Then it’s damned careless of you. I told you to watch him. You’re not intelligent in the force, but, hang it, you might be active.”
“His valet reports him disappeared. He had a dinner engagement last night. Didn’t come home to dress for it. Didn’t come home at all. He went out after lunch yesterday, and hasn’t been seen since.”
Reggie sat down. “One of your larger cigars would do me, good, Lomas,” he said, and helped himself. “Oh, Mr. Lomas, sir, this is so sudden. Cousin Herbert was feeling nervous, no doubt. But why this dramatic exit? What gave Cousin Herbert cold feet yesterday?”
Superintendent Bell coughed. “I was wondering, sir, if Mr. Fortune had taken any steps on his own with regard to Herbert. To alarm him, so to speak.”
“Nary step. Why the blazes didn’t you watch him?”
“After all, sir, we’ve not a thing against him.”
“Not now?”
“Well, sir, it’s not criminal to disappear. But I don’t mind saying it’s odd, quite odd.”
“Oh, I expect Geoffrey and the angel wife murdered him too. Just to round it off, Lomas, old thing.”
“You’re very merry and bright,” Lomas grumbled. “I wish you’d tell me how this helps us. Why should he bolt now?”
“There is another unknown quantity somewhere,” Reggie admitted.
The telephone claimed Lomas. He took it up, and his face was eloquent as he listened. He put it down again very gently. “Afraid you’re right out of it, Fortune. Herbert Charlecote didn’t bolt. Herbert Charlecote has been found drowned in the Basingstoke Canal.”
“Good Lord, sir!” the Superintendent exclaimed.
“Pretty conclusive, what?” Lomas shrugged.
“And why the Basingstoke Canal?” said Reggie placidly. “Lots of nice places to drown in nearer home. I ask you, why the Basingstoke Canal?”
Lomas and his Superintendent looked at each other. “It really is a crazy case,” Lomas said slowly, “I don’t quite—”
Reggie jumped up. “Oh, come on. Let’s go and look at him. My car’s outside. Where is he?”
“Woking. Half a minute.” Lomas rang his bell and turned to his papers.
So Reggie went down first. He dismissed his chauffeur with some long instructions, and himself took the chauffeur’s seat. Superintendent Bell joined him. “Darker and darker, sir, isn’t it?”
“Changeable weather,” Reggie said. “Come on, Lomas, all aboard! Are we downhearted? No!” The car shot forward. And when it stopped in Woking:
“Is my hair white, Fortune?” Lomas said.
The two stood humbly aside while the expert was busy with the corpse. “As often as I’ve seen this game, sir, I’ll never like it,” Bell said, and Lomas nodded. But Reggie
