over any piece of paper that way, and you'll get a long, narrow, compact set, admirably suited for stuffing the lining of a hat. And do you remember what he said besides? The manuscript was wrapped in tissue paper. Taken all together it was the obvious thing for Marks to use.'
`But Bitton said it was in the drawer.'
`I doubt that,' said Dr Fell. `Was it, Marks?'
Marks brushed a handkerchief over his damp forehead. 'N-no, sir,' he faltered. `It was lying there on the desk. I–I didn't think it was important. It was tissue-paper with some crackly stuff inside, the sort of thing they use to pack objects in cardboard boxes.'
`And then,' said Dr Fell, `you learned next day what you'd done. You learned it was worth thousands of pounds. And so you were afraid to tell Sir William what you'd done, because in the meantime the hat had been stolen.' He turned to Hadley. `I rather thought this was the case, from Sir William's description of Marks's behaviour when he interviewed him afterwards. Sir William made us an invaluable suggestion, which he thought was satiric. He said; 'Do you think I go about carrying valuable manuscripts in my hat?' And that's precisely what he did.'
`And that,' Hadley said in a queer voice, `that was why Sir William's hat fitted him. It's what you meant by your hint'.'
`It's what I meant by telling you we had got to clear away all the nonsense from this case before we could see the truth. That one little accident precipitated a whole series of ghastly events. I was staking everything on my belief that that's what had happened. Now I know the whole truth…. But you can see for yourself why I couldn't have Sir William with me when I was questioning Marks.'
The valet removed the opera-hat and was holding it like a bomb. His face was dull and helpless.
`All right,' he said in a normal, human, almost even tone.' `All right, gents. You've, got me. That means my job. What are you going to do with me?'
`Eh?' said Dr` Fell. `Oh! No, Marks. You're safe enough. Now you walk out to the car again, and sit there till you're called. I won't tell Sir William.'
The mild little man thrust himself out violently. `Honest to God?' he demanded. `Do you mean it?' `I mean it, Marks.'
There was a pause. Marks drew himself up and adjusted his, impeccable coat. `Very good, sir,' he said in a precise tone. 'I'm sure I'm very grateful, sir.''
'Turn on the centre lights,' Dr Fell suggested to Rampole, `and give Hadley's notebook back before he gets apoplexy.' Beaming, the doctor sat down behind the table and produced the rubber mouse. He pushed his shovel- hat to the back of his head, and set the mouse to running in circles over the table. `This almost marred my effect. I say, Hadley, I'm devilish sorry I didn't think to buy a pair of false whiskers.'
As the lights went on, Hadley, Rampole,' and a very excited Dalrye almost literally seized him.
'Let me get all this straight,' the chief inspector said, heavily. `On Saturday night Bitton walked out of his house with that manuscript in his hat. And this Mad Hatter chap stole the hat….'
`Ah,' said the doctor, sombrely. 'There's where everything started to go wrong. Over and over, with tears in my eyes, I've implored you to believe that the last thing in the world Driscoll wanted to do was even to touch Bitton's beloved manuscript. And so what must have been his horror when he discovered he'd done the one thing in the world he didn't' want to do….!'
During a frozen silence Dr Fell picked up the mouse, put it down, and glanced thoughtfully at his companions. `Driscoll was the hat-thief, you see,' he said.
15. The A fair of the Rubber Mouse
'Wait a minute!' protested Rampole. `They're coming over the plate too fast for me You mean… '
`Just what I say,' the doctor answered, testily. `Nobody could have doubted it from the first. I had proof of it here to-night; but I had to come here and get the proof before you would have believed me.
`Consider. Here's a crazy young fellow with a sense of humour and lots of intelligence. He wants to make a name for himself as a newspaperman. He can turn out a good, vivid news-story when he has, the facts; but he has so little news-sense that one managing editor swears he wouldn't scent a wedding if he walked through an inch of rice in front of a church.
`That's not only understandable, Hadley, but it's a further clue to his character. His long suit was imagination. The very imaginative people never make good straight reporters, they're looking for the picturesque, the bizarre, the ironic incident; and very often they completely neglect to bother about essential facts. Driscoll would have made a thundering good columnist, but as a reporter he was a failure. So he resolved to do what many a reporter has done before him: to create news, and the sort of news that would appeal to him.
'In every one of these important hat-thefts there was a sort of ironic symbolism, as though the stage had been arranged by an actor. Driscoll loved gestures, and he loved symbolism. A policeman's helmet is propped on a lamp-standard outside Scotland Yard; 'Behold the power of the police!' says the Byronic Mr Driscoll, with the usual cynicism of very young people. A barrister's wig is put on a cab-horse, which was the nearest approach Driscoll could get towards underlining Mr Bumble's opinion that the law is an ass.'
Dr Fell paused to settle more comfortably. Hadley stared at him, and then the chief inspector nodded.
`Now I shouldn't go into this so thoroughly,' the doctor went on, `except that, it's a clue to the murder, as you'll see. He was preparing for another coup, a real and final coup, which couldn't help making — in his eyes — the whole of England sit up.' The doctor pawed among the papers he had taken from Hadley's brief-case. `Here's his notebook, with those notes which puzzled you so much. Before I read them to you again; let me remind you that Driscoll himself gave the whole show away. You recall that drunken evening with Mrs Bitton, which Mrs Larkin described for us, when Driscoll prophesied what was going to happen a week before it did begin to happen? He mentioned events which were shortly to occur, and which would make his name as a newspaperman. An artist, when comfortably filled with beer, can talk at length about the great picture he intends to paint, without exciting the least surprise. But when a newspaperman casually mentions what corking stories he is going to turn out about the murder which is to take place next week, there is likely to be considerable curiosity about his powers of foresight.
`But let's return to this big stroke Driscoll was planning, after having built up to it by degrees with lesser hats. First, you see, he carefully stole the crossbow bolt out of Bitton's house…'
`He did what?' shouted the chief inspector.
`Oh, yes; I must tell you about that,' Dr Fell said, frowning as though he were a trifle annoyed with himself: `It was Driscoll who stole it. By the way he rummaged on the floor at the side of his chair, and brought up the tool-basket. After fumbling inside it, he produced what he wanted… `by the way, here's the file he used to-sharpen it. It's rather an old file, so you can see the oblique lines in, the dirt-coating where lie sawed at the barbs of the head. And here are the straighter marks to show where he had started effacing the Souvenir de Carcassonne, before somebody stole the bolt from him to use for another purpose… Hadley took the file and turned it over. `Then I asked you, you know, why that engraving hadn't been entirely obliterated, provided the person who had sharpened the bolt was really the murderer. Let's suppose it had been the murderer. He started in to do it, so why in the name of madness didn't he go on? It was obvious that he didn't want the bolt traced, as it would have been and as it was. But he stopped after a neat job on just three letters. It was only when I realized what was up — an explanation provided by those abstruse notes in Driscoll's notebook that I realized it wasn't the murderer's doing at all. It was Driscoll's. He hadn't finished his job of effacing when along came the murderer: who didn't care where the bolt came from, or whose it was. But, actually this bolt was planned as a part of Driscoll's most daring venture.’
`But, good God, what venture?' demanded Hadley. `There's no way to associate it with the hats.'
`Oh yes, there is,' said Dr Fell. `Hadley, who is the man, above all you can think of, who ranks in the popular eye as England's leading jingo? Who is the man who still makes speeches in private life, as he used to do in public life, about thee might, of the sword, the longbow, the crossbow, and the stout hearts of old? Who is always agitating for bigger armaments? Who is for ever attacking the Prime Minister as a dangerous pacifist? Who, at any rate, is inevitably the person Driscoll would think of in that role?'
`You mean — Sir William Bitton….'
`I mean just that,' nodded the doctor. A grin creased up his chins. `And that insane nephew of his had
