“And, so far as we know, deceased isn’t Rand.”
“Well, I don’t know quite as far as that,” said Reggie.
“Good Lord, the porter who found him didn’t recognize the body.”
“Remember his face.”
“My God, don’t talk about his face.”
“Sorry, sorry. Well, I dare say the porter was upset too.”
“Yes, but the porter said Rand was biggish, and the body’s on the small side. The porter said he had a lot of hair, and the body’s absolutely bald.”
“My dear chap, give a man a straight back and a bit of manner and lots of fellows think he’s biggish—while he’s alive. And a man that’s absolutely bald is just the man to wear a wig.”
“I thought we were to go by facts,” Bell said gloomily.
“And so we are, Bell. Just a-going to begin, Mr. Snodgrass, sir. No rash haste.”
“Have you got something up your sleeve?”
“Not one little trump. Oh, my dear Bell, how can you? Did I ever? My simple open heart is broken.”
“You’re damned cheerful, aren’t you?”
“My dear man, I never made you swear before. My dear Bell! Sorry. Let’s get on. Let’s get on. I want to call on the elusive Rand.”
There was nothing individual about the rooms of Mr. Rand. He had been content with the furniture supplied by the owners of the place, which was of the usual wholesale dullness. Reggie turned to the manager of the flats. “I suppose there’s nothing in the place Mr. Rand owns? Not even the pictures?”
“The pictures were supplied by the contractors for the furniture, sir. So—”
“The Lord have mercy on their souls,” said Reggie.
“So there is nothing of the tenant’s personal property except his clothes.”
“He is elusive, our friend Rand,” Reggie murmured, wandering about the room. “Smoked rather a showy cigar. Drank a fair whisky. Doesn’t tell us much about him. Do the servants come here every day?”
The manager was embarrassed. “Well, sir, in point of fact, we’re short-handed just now. Not unless they’re rung for. Not unless we know the tenant’s using the rooms.”
“Don’t apologize, don’t apologize. In point of fact, they haven’t been here since”—he looked critically at some dust upon a grim bronze—“since when?”
“I should say some days,” said the manager, with diffidence.
“I should say a week. No matter. Many thanks.”
Superintendent Bell with some urgency ushered the manager out. When he had done that he turned upon his inspector. “Confound you. Warren, what do you want to stare at the waste-paper basket for? That chap would have seen it if Mr. Fortune hadn’t got interested in the smokes and drinks.”
Reggie laughed and the inspector abased himself. “Very sorry, sir. Didn’t know I stared. But it is so blooming odd.”
Bell snorted and lifted the basket on to the table. It was nearly full of black burnt paper. “Why did they burn it in the basket?” said the inspector.
“Because the fireplaces are all gas stoves, I suppose,” said Bell. “But I don’t know why they couldn’t leave the stuff on the hearth.”
“Because this is a tidy crime,” said Reggie. “Nice, quiet, middle-class crime. No ugly mess. I told you that.”
The Superintendent gazed at him. “Now what can you know, you know?”
“I don’t know. I feel. I feel the kind of man that did it. Don’t you? I’ll lay you odds he came of a neat, virtuous, middle-class home.”
The Superintendent started. “Who are you thinking of?”
“You are so hasty today. Bell. I haven’t got a ‘who.’ Still anonymous is the slayer. But I’ll swear I’ve got his character.”
“Have you, though!” said Bell. “Tidy fellow! Don’t make a mess! Remember that face?”
“Oh, I said he was mad.”
“Well, I’m not yet. I’m only feeling what I can feel.” He began to examine the burnt paper. “Letters mostly. Some stoutish paper. Some stuff looks a bit like a notebook. That’s all we’ll get out of that.”
“Well, except the one thing. Whoever did that was clearing up. Clearing up something that might have left traces that might have been dangerous. Same like he cleared up the dead man’s face. Don’t you see? Somebody and some affair had to be absolutely abolished.”
“Yes. What was it?”
“We mayn’t ever know that,” said Reggie slowly.
“I believe you,” said Bell, and laughed. “I feel that, sir.”
The inspector and he began to examine the room in detail, opening drawers and cupboards. But except for tobacco and spirits they found no trace of Mr. Rand. Nothing had been broken open, but nothing was locked. “No keys on the deceased, were there, Mr. Fortune?” said Bell suddenly. “And that’s a point, too. Very few men go about without any keys.”
“Well, hang it, very few men go about without any money,” Reggie expostulated. “The corpse hadn’t a copper. You can take it the way we found him wasn’t the way he used to go about. He’d do his vest up, for instance.”
“Ah,” said Bell sagely. “You’ve got it all in your head, I must say. That’s the thing about you, Mr. Fortune, if you don’t mind my saying so. You’ve always got a whole case in your mind at once; there’s some of us only see it in bits, so to speak.”
Reggie smiled. He understood that Superintendent Bell was repenting of having lost his temper, and was anxious to make it up. “I never found so good a fellow to work with as you. Bell,” he said. “You always keep a level head.”
Superintendent Bell shook it and stared at Reggie. “Not today. As you know very well, Mr. Fortune, begging your pardon. I’ve been rattled, and that’s the truth. Ought to know better at my time of life, to be sure. I’ve seen a good deal, too, you might say. But there’s some things I’ll never get used to. And that chap’s face upset me.”
Reggie nodded. “Yes. I was sayin’—the only things that make you afraid are the mad things. And the only thing that does you good is to fight
