“You’re a dear to say so, and I don’t see what we can do but try. How do you propose to set about it?”
“First of all, I propose that we make a map of the wanderings of Ulysses—shall we call it?—showing exactly where he went, whom he spoke to and when, and so on. That will help us to see exactly what’s the best way of getting to work.”
So Ellery took a sheet of paper, and they sat down side by side at the table. Under Joan’s directions, Ellery made a map of Walter Brooklyn’s journeyings on Tuesday evening. It took an hour to do, and this is what it looked like when it was done, with notes to help them in prosecuting their inquiries.
“It isn’t very hopeful, I’m afraid,” said Joan, as they looked together at the finished plan; “but I’m afraid it is all we have to go upon.”
“Not quite all, I hope. Did he tell you what the man he spoke to looked like—I mean the chap who gave him a match outside the Monico?”
“Yes, he was a tall, dark man, clean-shaven and very blue in the chin, wearing a long black overcoat and a squash hat. And he almost certainly had some trouble of the eyes. He wore glasses; but he kept blinking all the time behind them.”
“That ought to help. Now what about this woman, Kitty? What is she like?”
“He says she is about forty, but dresses—and paints—to look younger. She’s getting fat, has bright golden hair—certainly dyed—and wears a great many rings. She’s fairly tall, and walks with a bit of a waddle. Her eyes are dark and piercing, he says, and she has a smile that looks as if it was switched on and off like an electric light.”
“I must say she doesn’t sound attractive.”
“But he says she is—extraordinarily; and, what is more, she’s very well known. He has heard her other name, but he can’t remember it. He thinks she has had several surnames.”
“That seems to be all we can get to start with. What I propose to do is to follow your stepfather’s route, trying to find someone who saw him at each point where he stopped.”
“Yes, but you can leave a bit of it to me. We know that Marian and Helen and Carter all saw him coming here at a few minutes past ten, and the servants here say he left at about a quarter-past. He tells me he stopped outside the theatre just after that. If so, someone very likely saw him. I’ll see about that, and I’ll try to find out as well whether anyone saw him passing again later. He must have passed at about 11:20 to half-past—I mean when he stood at the corner of Liskeard Street, and again just before twelve on his way back to the Club.”
“Very well. You take this end and I’ll follow the rest of his wanderings. And there is no reason why I shouldn’t get to work at once. It will be best to go over the ground in the evening, just as he did.”
They sat and talked of the case for a while longer; and then they sat for a time without talking at all, happy in each other’s presence despite the tragedy in which they were involved. At length Ellery started up, saying that he must go out and get some dinner, and then go to work seriously.
“And by the way, Joan,” he added, “why shouldn’t you come out and have dinner with me? I’m sure Mary would look after Sir Vernon.”
“My dear boy, does it occur to you that I’ve left him to himself for a good long time already—or rather left poor Mary alone to look after him? I couldn’t have done it if Marian had not promised to come in and help.”
“I’m sure Mary wouldn’t mind,” Ellery began, pleading with her to come.
“Oh, of course, Mary’s an angel. She never minds anything. But that’s no reason why she should be put upon. No, my boy, you go and have your bachelor dinner, and I’ll get Winter to send me up an egg.”
“Mayn’t I share the egg?”
“Certainly not. Get along with you.” And Joan sped her lover on his way with the taste of her kiss fresh on his mouth. It seemed a profanation to eat anything after that; but all the same, while Joan ate her egg and then took her turn in watching over Sir Vernon, Ellery, seated alone in the grill room at Hatchett’s was making a very solid and satisfactory meal. Somehow, love seemed to give one an appetite, he reflected, as he lighted a cigar. Then he set forth upon his quest, walking slowly down Piccadilly towards the Circus. He had no fixed plan of action. As he put it to himself, he was following the route Walter Brooklyn had taken and just keeping his eyes open, in the hope that something might turn up. Nothing did turn up till he reached Piccadilly Circus. There, as he knew, Walter Brooklyn had hung about for a few minutes, but had spoken to no one.
The quest certainly did not seem to be hopeful. Piccadilly Circus was crowded with people, some hurrying this way or that in pursuit of some definite object, others standing or strolling about as if they had nothing to do and nowhere in particular to go. The flower-women who sit on the island in the middle of the
