Kimball stared at him with singular intensity. Then he swung half round in his chair with one of his characteristic jerky movements, and pulled out his snuffbox. He took a pinch. “You’ve found a mare’s nest,” he said, with a laugh, and took another pinch.
As he spoke, Reggie sprang up with some vehemence, bumping into his arm. “Sorry—sorry. A mare’s nest, you say? Now what exactly do you mean by that?”
Kimball stood up too. “I mean you’re wasting my time,” he said.
“That isn’t what I should call an explanation,” Reggie murmured. “For instance, do you mean you didn’t go to see Mason?”
“Don’t let’s have any more of this damned trifling,” Kimball cried. “Certainly I went to see Mason.”
“Good! Who is he?”
“Jack Mason is a fellow I knew in my early days. I went up and he didn’t. I’ve seen little of him this ten years. When he had that operation, poor chap, he wrote to me, and I went to see him for the sake of old times. And what the devil has it to do with Scotland Yard?”
“Mason is the man who was found at the Montmorency House flats with his face smashed in.”
“God bless my soul! Mason! Poor chap, poor chap! But what are you talking about? The papers said that was a man called Rand.”
“Mason, otherwise Rand. Rand, otherwise Mason. Who was Mason, and why did somebody kill him?”
Kimball made one of his jerky gestures. “Killed, was he? I thought he fell out of the window.”
“He was murdered.”
“Good God! Old Jack Mason! It’s beyond me. I haven’t a notion. You know this upsets me a good deal. I’ve seen little of him for a long time. I can hardly believe he’s gone. But why the devil did he call himself Rand?”
“What was he?” said Reggie sharply.
“God bless me, I couldn’t tell you,” Kimball laughed. “He was always very close. An agent in a small way, when I knew him—colonial produce, and so forth. I fancy he went in for building land. Comfortably off always, but he never got on. Very reserved fellow. Loved to be mysterious. No. I suppose it isn’t surprising he used two names.”
“Why was he murdered?” said Reggie.
“I can’t help you.”
“That’s all you can say?”
“Yes. Afraid so. Yes. Let me know as soon as you have anything more. Good morning, good morning.” He bustled out.
“A bit hurried, as you might say,” said Superintendent Bell.
Reggie picked up a paper-knife and fell on his knees. He rose with some fragments of white powder on the blade. “I suppose you saw me jog his arm,” he said. “And that’s cocaine.” He tumbled Lomas’s paperclips out of their box and put the stuff in. “Do you remember the first time we had him here, he took snuff? I thought he was rather odd about it and after it, and I went over to the window where he stood to see if I could find any of the stuff he used. But he’d been careful. He is careful, is Kimball.”
“He is damned careful,” Lomas agreed, and began to write on a scribbling-pad, looking at each word critically.
There was a pause. “Beg your pardon, sir,” said Superintendent Bell. “You talked about the murder being a madman’s job. Do you mean Mr. Kimball, being a dope fiend, is not responsible for his actions?”
“O Lord, no. Kimball’s not a dope fiend. He uses the stuff same like we use whisky. He’s not a slave to it yet. Say he’s a heavy drinker. It’s just beginnin’ to interfere with his efficiency. That’s why he left the box behind in the bathroom; that’s why he’s a little jerky. But he’s pretty adequate still.”
“You talked about mad. You were emphatic, as you might say,” Bell insisted. “What might you have in your mind, sir? Mr. Kimball’s generally reckoned uncommon practical.”
“He isn’t ordinary mad,” said Reggie. “He don’t think he’s Julius Caesar or a poached egg. He don’t go out without his trousers. He don’t see red and go it blind. But there is something queer in him. I doubt if they’re physical, these perversions. Call it a disease of the soul.”
“Ah, well, his soul,” said Bell gravely. “I judge he’s not a Christian man.”
“I wish I did know his creed,” said Reggie, with equal gravity. “It would be very instructive.”
Lomas tapped his pencil impatiently. “We’re not evangelists, we’re policemen,” he said. “And what do we do next?”
“Take out a warrant and arrest Kimball,” said Reggie carelessly.
Bell and Lomas looked at each other and then at him. “I don’t see my way,” said Lomas.
“The corpse can be identified as Mason. I’ll swear to the operation. Totteridge will swear it’s the man he operated on as Mason. Kimball admits several visits to Mason. In the room from which the corpse was thrown was a gold snuffbox containing cocaine. Shortman’s will swear that box is their make and exactly similar to a box sold to Kimball. And Kimball takes cocaine. It’s a good prima facie case.”
“Yes. Did you ever see a jury that would hang a man on it?”
“We do have to be so careful,” Bell murmured.
Reggie laughed. “And Kimball’s a Cabinet Minister.”
“Damn it. Fortune, be fair!” Lomas cried. “If I had a sound case against a man, he would stand his trial whoever he was. I don’t wink at a fellow who’s got a pull. You know that. But there’s a reason in all things. I can’t charge a Cabinet Minister with murder on evidence like this. What is it after all?” He picked up his scribbling-pad and read: “ ‘Three circumstances—Kimball knew the murdered man; a snuffbox like Kimball’s was found on the scene of the murder; that snuffbox
