“Eh?”
“A sixty-nine inch brain,” explained Tab, and there was really no excuse for Babe Lander to be puzzled, for Tab was on his favorite topic, “is the brain of a man who is chosen for the subtle business of criminal investigation, not because he is clever, or shrewd or has a knowledge of the world, but because he stands sixty-nine inches in his stockings and has a chest expansion to thirty-eight. Funny, isn’t it? And yet detectives are chosen that way. They have to strip hard, very hard, but they need not think very hard. Do you ever realize that Napoleon and Julius Caesar, to mention only two bright lads, could never have got into the police force?”
“It hasn’t struck me before,” admitted Rex. “But I’ve never had any doubt as to the size of your brain, Tab.”
There were exactly seventy inches of Tab, though he did not look so tall, having thickness and breadth to his shoulders. He had a habit of stooping, which made him seem round-shouldered. This trick came from pounding a typewriter or crouching over a desk which was just a little too low for him. He was fresh-coloured, but brown rather than pink. His face was finer drawn than is usual in a man of his build, his eyes deep-set and steadfastly grey. When he spoke he drawled a little. Those who knew him very well indeed detected one imperfection of speech. He could not say “very”—it was “verthy” but spoken so quickly that only the trained and acquainted ear could detect the lisp.
He came to journalism from one of the Universities bringing no particular reputation for learning, but universally honoured as the best three-quarter back of his time. Without being rich he was comfortably placed and as he was one of those fortunates who had innumerable maiden-aunts he received on an average one legacy a year, though he had studiously neglected them because of their possessions.
It would be more true to say that Tab leapt into journalism, and that particular department of journalism which he found most fascinating, when he dived off the end of a river pier and rescued Jasper Dorgon, the defaulting banker who had tried to commit suicide, and had extracted an exclusive story from the banker whilst both sat in a state of nudity before a night watchman’s fire watching their clothes dry.
“Let it strike you now, Babe,” he said. “The sixty-ninth inch brain, the generally accepted theory that anything under the sixty-nine inch level is solid ivory is the theory that keeps Lew Vann and old Joe Haspinell and similar crook acquaintances of mine dining in the Grand Criterion when they ought to be atoning for their sins in the Cold Stone Jug. But Carver is a good man. He thinks, though it is against regulations.”
“What does he think about Wellington?”
“Didn’t tell him,” said Tab. “You ought to warn your uncle.”
“I’ll see him today,” nodded Rex.
They went out together before the lunch hour. Tab had a call to make at the office and afterwards he was meeting Carver for lunch. Carver, a lanky and slow-speaking man, was ordinarily no conversationalist. On some subjects he was impressively interesting, and as Tab provided the subject, two hours slipped away very quickly. Before they left the restaurant, Tab told him of the drunken stranger and his threats against Jesse Trasmere.
“I don’t worry about threats,” said Carver, “but a man with a grievance, and especially a Number One grievance, like this man has, is pretty certain to cause trouble. Do you know old Trasmere?”
“I’ve seen him twice. I was once sent to his house to make an inquiry about an action that the municipality started against him for building without the town architect’s permission. Rex Lander, who is a kindergarten architect, by-the-way, and rooms with me, is his nephew and I’ve heard a whole lot about him. He writes to Rex from time to time; letters full of good advice about saving money.”
“Lander is his heir?”
“Rex hopes so, fervently. But he says it is just as likely that Uncle Jesse will leave his money to a Home for the Incurably Wealthy. Talking of Trasmere, there goes his valet, and he seems in a hurry.”
A cab dashed past them, its solitary passenger was Walters, a pinched-faced man, bareheaded, and on his face a tense, haggard look that immediately arrested the attention of the two men.
“Who did you say that was?” asked Carver quickly.
“Walters—old Trasmere’s sergeant,” replied Tab, “looks pretty scared to me.”
“Walters?” The detective stood stock still, thinking. “I know that man’s face. I’ve got him! Walter Felling!”
“Walter who?”
“Felling—he was through my hands ten years ago and he has been convicted since. Walters, as you call him, is an incorrigible thief! Old Trasmere’s servant, eh? That’s his speciality. He takes service with rich people and one fine morning they wake up to find their loose jewelry and money and plate gone. Did you notice the number of the cab?”
Tab shook his head.
“The question is,” said the detective, “has he made a getaway in a hurry, or is he on an urgent errand for his boss? Anyway we ought to see Trasmere. Shall we take a cab or walk?”
“Walk,” said Tab promptly. “Only the detectives of fiction take cabs, Carver. The real people know that when they present their cab bills to the head office, a soulless clerk will question each item.”
“Tab, you certainly know more about the interior economy of thief-catching than an outsider ought to know,” responded the detective gloomily.
Between them and Trasmere’s house was the better part of a mile. Mayfield, the dwelling place of old Jesse, was the one ugly building in a road which was famous for the elegance of its houses. Built of hideously yellow brick, without any attempt at ornamentation, it stood squat and square in the middle of a cemented “garden.” Three microscopic
