Anthony coughed. The secretary heaved himself to his feet. The process took a long time. The unfolding complete, he looked down upon Anthony’s six feet from a height superior by five inches. He stretched out a hand and engulfed Anthony’s. A tremendous smile split his face.
He boomed softly: “You must be Gethryn. Heard a lot about you. So you’re here disguised as a bloodhound, what? Stout fellah!”
They sat, and Anthony produced cigars. When these were well alight,
“Queer show, this,” said Deacon.
“Very,” Anthony agreed.
Silence fell. Openly they studied each other. Deacon spoke first.
“Boyd,” he said, settling a cushion behind his great shoulders, “is quite wrong.”
“Eh?” Anthony was startled.
“I remarked, brother, that your Wesleyan-lookin’ detective friend was shinning up the wrong shrub.”
“Indeed,” said Anthony. “How?”
“Your caution, brother, is commendable; but I think you know what I mean. Chief Detective-Inspector, or whatever he is, W. B. Boyd of Scotland Yard’s Criminal Investigation Department—bless his fluffy little bed-socks—is labourin’ under the delusion that I, to wit Archibald Etcetera Deacon, am the man who killed John Hoode. You apprehend me, Stephen?”
Anthony raised his eyebrows. “How much do you know, I wonder?”
“All depends on your meanin’, If you’re asking whether I know anything about how the chief was done in, the answer’s ‘nothing.’ But if you mean how much do I know of Scotland Yard’s suspicion of me, that’s a different story.”
“Number two’s right,” said Anthony. “Fire ahead.”
“Comrade Boyd,” said the secretary, “is a tenacious, an indefatigable old bird, and he’s found out some funny things. But what he doesn’t see is that they’re only funny and no more. First, I didn’t contradict him—very foolish of me, that—when it was obvious that he thought I’d been in my room last night from ten until after they found the chief done in in his study. I didn’t contradict him because the mistake seemed as if it would get me out of a very compromising position. You see, at about a quarter-past ten I left my room, went downstairs, out of the front door, and enjoyed a cheery stroll on my lonesome. When I came back I found the whole damn place in an uproar, the murder having been already discovered. There was such a general shemozzle that nobody noticed me come in until I got there, what! My—what’s the officialese for it?—‘suppression of the truth’ gave Boyd clue number one.
“Clue number two was the money. And the money was what had made me seize on an alibi when it was handed to me on a plate—the alibi, I mean. You see, it was so hellish awkward, this money business, and I let old Bloodhound Boyd fog himself because I wanted time to think. It was like this: the chief and I really were very good friends indeed—he was a damn good fellah—though we did growl at each other occasional-like; and I believe the poor old lad was really attached to me; anyhow the money made it seem like that. He was a very canny old Haggis, you know, but he was subject to fits of extraordinary generosity. I mentioned some days ago—forget how it came up—that Wednesday was my birthday. Well, last night, or rather yesterday afternoon about five—when I took some papers in to him in the study, he wished me many happy returns of the day before, apologised for having forgotten the ceremony, and shoved an envelope into my mit: in that envelope were ten crisp little tenners, all nice and new and crumply-lookin’. Of course I did the hummin’ and haain’ act, but he’d have none of it.
“ ‘No, my boy,’ he says, ‘you keep it. Must let an old fellah like me do what I want.’ So I scraped at the old forelock and salaamed. Thought it was damned decent of him, you know. As I was clearin’ out, though, he stopped me, coughin’ and hum-hummin’ and lookin’ all embarrassed. ‘Deacon,’ he said, ‘er-um-er-um—don’t you mention that little memento to—to anyone, will you?’ ‘Not if you’d rather I didn’t, sir,’ says I. He gave a sickly sort of grin and muttered. But I understood him all right. He meant his sister. She’s one of those holy terrors that’s not a bad sort really. I always knew she kept a pretty Jewish fist on the purse-ropes, though. P’r’aps that’s why he didn’t give me a cheque.”
Anthony took the cigar from his mouth. “And Boyd,” he said, “finds out that Hoode had this money in the house, institutes a search, and finds it in your collar-box, which looks like an ingenious hiding-place but was really just an accidental safe. He also finds out that you weren’t in your room last night during all the time that you let him think you were, and that you entered the house—probably by the verandah door—just after the body was found. He looks at you and connects your obvious strength with the ruts in Hoode’s skull. He sees your titanic length of leg and argues that you’re the only person in the house likely to be able to step through that open study-window without marking the flowerbed by treading on the flowers. He does a sum, and the answer is: x equals the murderer and Archibald Deacon equals x. That’s what you know, isn’t it?”
“You have it all, old thing, all! Quel lucidité!”
“But you haven’t,” said Anthony, thinking of the fingerprints and his promise to Boyd. “There’s more in it than that, I’m afraid.” He puffed at his cigar. “By the way, you didn’t do it, did you?”
“No,” said Deacon, and laughed.
Anthony smiled. “I shouldn’t have believed you if you’d said yes. You can’t give me a line, I suppose? Any private suspicions of your own? I’ve a bag of data, but nothing to hang it on.”
“The answer, old thing, is a lemon. Nary suspicion. But what’s all this about data? Found anythin’ fresh?”
“Oh, well, you know”—Anthony waved vague hands. “Possibly yes, possibly no, if you follow me.
