“I see. You want me to help justice. But you want me to help you, not the police.”
“We are helping the police ourselves. Only the police are not always very—what shall I say?—the police don’t always encourage help from outside; there is a good deal of red tape about their methods. I was in the Military Intelligence myself during the war, and had some opportunity of seeing the unfortunate effects of rivalry and jealousy between the various departments. We have not approached the police; we thought it best to work on our own until we could present them with a fait accompli. That is why we have not even mentioned to the police the existence of this photograph which we found on the body.”
“Mr. Reeves—”
A woman can use a surname as a bludgeon. That title of respect, “Mr. So-and-So,” which expresses our relations to the outside world, has often, indeed, had an ominous ring for us. Deans used it when they were protesting at our neglect of chapels; proctors, when they urged the immodesty of going out to dinner without a cap and gown. But nobody can use it with the same annihilating effect as a woman scorned. “Mister”—you are a man, I a defenceless woman. “Mister”—you have the title of a gentleman, although you are behaving like a cad. “Mister”—you see, I treat you with all possible politeness, although you have not deserved any such respect from me. There is irony in the word “Mister”; it makes one long for a title.
“Mr. Reeves, I am sorry to say that you are not telling me the truth.”
Reeves sat stunned. It was too bad, that he should have thrown away disguises only to be called a liar. It was too bad that Gordon should have been right when he said “Nothing deceives like the truth.” He sat there humbled, waiting for more.
“Of course, I don’t see at all why you and your friends see fit to treat me in this way. The only thing that seems quite clear to me is that it is unfair to expect me to be frank with you when you are not being frank with me. I am sorry to say that I cannot help you.”
“May I say something? I am afraid you feel that you are being left in the dark because I am not telling you everything, all the suspicions we have formed as well as the facts which have come to our notice. I can quite understand that, if that is what you mean, but—”
“I mean nothing of the kind. I mean that the statements which you have made to me are, to my certain knowledge, untrue.”
Reeves gave a rather ghastly smile. “Would you mind telling me exactly which statement of mine it is that you call in question?”
“Really, Mr. Reeves, you seem to expect a great deal of me. You come to me, a complete stranger, asking for private information. You ask for it on the ground that you are conducting a private investigation, and you tell me your story. I do not know whether there is a word of truth in your story. I only know that one detail in it is demonstrably false. You now expect me to tell you which that detail is, so that you can correct the only part of your story which I know to be false; is that reasonable? Come now, Mr. Reeves, tell me the whole story again, exactly as it happened, and I will see if I can help you.”
“I’m really very sorry, but I have already told you the truth to the best of my ability. I am afraid I could not alter my ‘story,’ as you call it, without falsification.”
“Well, I am afraid we seem to be at cross purposes. Perhaps it would be best if you conducted your researches independently, since we cannot agree?”
There was no mistaking the hint of the front door about this last suggestion. Reeves rose with what dignity he could muster, and took his leave. It must be regretfully admitted that Gordon received the account he gave of his experiences with tempestuous laughter; and Reeves was glad of that mantle of inaudibility which cuts off the motorcyclist from his sidecar when it is in motion.
Carmichael, who met them at the door of the club, was more sympathetic. In his view, Miss Rendall-Smith had given the photograph to Davenant, not realizing his identity with Brotherhood, and had thought it impossible that Davenant should have allowed so precious a document to pass out of his possession. But he was in high spirits, having made, he said, a little discovery of his own.
“You know you told me about your efforts to identify the book from which the cipher was taken—the cipher on the postcard? Well, you went the right way to work, but not, if you will excuse my saying so, taking all the possibilities into account. Supposing that Brotherhood had the actual book with him in the carriage when he left London, you have to remember that he changed at Paston Oatvile. Now, I asked myself, what if, from some carelessness or want of interest, he should have left the book in that first-class railway carriage? That train, you see, stops for good at Paston Oatvile, and is cleaned out there the same night.”
“Of course. I was a fool not to think of that.”
“Well, I went off to the station while you were away, and repeated your own trick.”
“Selecting an imaginary book of your own, I suppose?”
“No; it is always better to put one story about the countryside rather than two. I said that a friend of mine had lost a copy of The Sorrows of Satan, and was anxious to recover it. The porter referred me to another
