Tab concentrated his mind upon Rex and all Rex’s belongings.
“No,” he confessed. “I can’t remember anything.”
Carver nodded.
“Very good,” he said rising, “and now we’ll go along and look at this trouble of yours. When did it happen?”
“About half-an-hour ago; maybe a little more,” he looked up at the clock, “yes, it was nearer an hour ago. I tried to get you on the phone—”
“The machine is out of order, it always is out of order,” said the fatalistic Carver, “when there is real trouble around. In fact, if I obeyed my impulse, I should double the men on duty every time that phone falls down.”
They were in front of the station, and the cab that Carver had called was pulling up to the curb when another cab came dashing toward them, swerved to the sidewalk and stopped dead. Out of the cab’s interior tumbled a man who was sketchily attired, and whose pyjama coat showed where his shirt should have been. Mr. Stott had arrayed himself hurriedly and for once in his life, was careless of appearance.
He fell almost into Carver’s arms and his mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. When he did speak his voice was a squeak.
“They’re at it again! They’re at it again!” he piped.
XXI
Mr. John Stott had discovered to his gratification that the association of his name with the Trasmere case had enhanced, rather than detracted from his social standing. It is true that the newspapers, having long ceased to take the slightest interest in the murder, seemed oblivious to the part he had played, or the startling discovery which he had to his credit, but a more important circle of public opinion, that circle which met daily at Toby’s and discussed an expensive lunch and such matters of public interest as deserved attention, had applauded Mr. Stott’s decision to place in the hands of the police authorities the information which, up to that moment, had been confined to some twenty commercial gentlemen, their wives, their wives’ families, their servants, the servants of their wives’ families, the families of the servants, to say nothing of personal friends of all and each, their servants and attachments.
“So far as I am concerned, the matter is ended,” said Mr. Stott one day at Toby’s. “The police have behaved very shabbily. I have neither been thanked by the Commissioners nor their underlings.”
It is true that Mr. Stott had never expected thanks; it is true that he had expected a long term of imprisonment and had shivered every time the door bell rang, lest the callers be minions of the law, armed with warrants for his arrest. It is true that he had dismissed and reengaged Eline at least twice a day, for having dragged him into this unenviable position. He had expected, at least, the severest censure and condemnation from all those who had to do with the administration of the law, but he had never expected a vote of thanks.
“I told this fellow Carver,” said Mr. Stott, “and Carver, I might say, in passing, is one of those thickheaded, unimaginative men that have made the police force what it is, I told him, ‘Don’t ever expect any further information from me. If you do, you will be disappointed.’ ”
“What did Carver say?” asked one of his fascinated audience.
Mr. Stott shrugged his broad shoulders.
“What could Carver say?” he asked enigmatically, and nobody seemed to be able to supply an answer on the spur of the moment.
“In my opinion,” said Mr. Stott impressively, “if a business man had had charge of this case, we should have had the murderer by the heels and executed by this time!”
Here every one of the business men at the long table was in complete agreement. They shared a common faith that a man who can make money by selling sugar, or can acquire a competence by trading in margins, must necessarily be the best type of mind to tackle every problem, however obscure. It was their wont to shake their heads sadly at every mistake the administration made, and hypothesize the same situation if business men had been in control. It was accepted without dispute, that no government or government department came up to the business man’s standard of requirements.
“They had their chance and they missed it,” said Mr. Stott, “when the Chinaman and the woman were in the house and I was holding them—well I was practically holding them—the police could have caught the whole gang if they had arrived in time. As it was, they allowed them to slip through their fingers. I hate to say so, though it has struck me since, that probably the police were in it!”
“In the house?” asked a foolish man.
“No,” snapped Mr. Stott, “in the plot, man! Anyway I’ve washed my hands of the whole affair.”
Mr. Stott was in the habit of washing his hands of the whole affair twice a day, once at lunch and once after dinner. He washed his hands that night to his placid wife, not only of the Trasmere case, but of Eline’s tooth, and he washed them with such effect on Eline herself, that she reluctantly agreed to have the offending ivory extracted on the following morning.
She did this after making the most searching enquiries as to whether people told their most intimate secrets when they were under the effects of anæsthesis.
Mr. Stott went up to bed at eleven o’clock, had a bath and got into his pyjamas. The night was warm—indeed it was oppressively hot, and bed was very uninviting. He opened the French window of his room and stepping out on to the small balcony, he seated himself in a cane chair which occupied exactly one half of the balcony space, and enjoyed
