Henry Morgan know Mr. Primley was here at all that night?'
'N-no. But he could have seen him come in, possibly.'
'Yet he could not under any circumstances have known Mr. Primley was staying the night?' 'I suppose not.'
'Or, above all, the room he would occupy? Ah. Thank you.' He placed the notebook carefully back in his pocket, patted his waistcoat, and assumed a benign air. 'I think that I shall presently wait upon our good authorities in the library. Shall we go downstairs now? Morley, if you will blow out that candle…? No, leave it there. We shall probably need it presently'
They were walking along the hall again before Morley spoke.
'I tell you, sir,' he said, 'your assumption is — well, ridiculous; not to put too fine a point on it. I told you Hank didn't like the old boy; all right; everybody will admit that, including Hank himself. But that's no reason for…' He hesitated, as though he could not use the word, and went on stubbornly: 'And as for sneaking upstairs to get my shoes—! No, no; That won't work. That's pure theory.'
'My boy, be careful. I wish it distinctly understood that I accuse nobody. I have not yet, even in my own thoughts, gone so far as any accusation or implication of — ah — homicide. But if this estimable gentleman, Fell, chooses to exert the letter of his authority in excluding me from his puerile councils, then he cannot be chagrined if I take steps to circumvent him.'
Hugh had never before seen his father's hobby take such a violent and spiteful hold. More than this, he suddenly became aware that the bishop was growing old, and unsteady. Nobody in the past, whatever the satirical remarks about him, had ever doubted his fairness or his intelligence. Now Hugh seemed to see only a large grizzle- headed shell, with flabby jowls, and a bitter mouth. He had lived too long, too aggressively, and now there was a faint childishness creeping into him. In only a year… Hugh realized, only then, what must have been the effect on him of being betrayed — as though the very Providence he extolled were conspiring to make a fool of him — into the ludicrous antics over which everybody had got so much amusement. It wasn't humorous. The maddest joke of all was just that; he took it seriously. There must be a moral somewhere…”
Nor did Hugh believe that Morgan was guilty, if only because he felt vaguely that people like Morgan do not commit murders; especially as they are always writing about them in books, and treat murderers as fascinating monstrosities apart from human life, like unicorns or griffins. He doubted whether his father believed it. But he had an alarming idea that the bishop was willing to accuse anybody, regardless of belief, if he could find any sort of case.
Meanwhile, his thoughts were complicated by the mess of the whole affair, and how soon he could see Patricia, and why the mess had to occur at just this time anyway. As he followed his father through the drawing- room, a door slammed violently. It was the library door. Stumping through the drawing-room came J.R. Burke, a sardonic expression on his face, and a reminiscent gleam of battle over his half-glasses. He peered at the newcomers, and grinned. Then he took the pipe out of his mouth to point over his shoulder.
'Evenin',' he said to the bishop. They told me to fetch you. And also you, young fella. I've given
The bishop drew himself up. 'I fancied,' he replied, 'that sooner or later my presence might be requested. I also fancy I shall somewhat astonish them — What is going on in there, Mr. Burke?'
'It's about Depping's lawyer,' explained J.R., chuckling. 'It turns out that, in addition to being Depping's lawyer, he's also Spinelli's. And trimming both sides as neat as you please… Join up. You and your son are both wanted.'
CHAPTER XII
Spinelli Reads the Taroc
The library was a long, narrow room, on one side of which were windows opening on the terrace, and on the other built-in bookshelves and a built-in fireplace. Its color scheme was both dark and florid; there were heavy brown drapes at the windows, and across double doors at the far narrow end of the room. All the wall lamps were burning behind yellowish shades; and the glass chandelier was also in full blaze. Blue sheets of smoke hung under it. At a cluttered table beneath the smoke, Dr. Fell sat spread out with his chins in his collar, absently drawing pictures on a pad. Inspector Murch, a whole brief-case-full of papers spread out before him, was teetering backwards and bristling over his sandy moustache. His pale blue eye looked angry and baffled. Evidently he had just finished some remarks to the smiling gentlemen who sat on the divan beside the table.
'— and you will appreciate, I am sure,' the latter was saying smoothly, 'the difficulties, both ethical and legal, in which I find myself. You are a reasonable man, Mr. Murch. We are all (I hope) reasonable men. Ahem.' He turned his head as the Donovans,
Dr. Fell blinked up from his drawing, and waved a hand. 'Gome in,' he invited. This is Mr. Langdon. Sit down. We're very much in need of help.'
Mr. Theseus Langdon was one of those smiling and expansive gentlemen, smooth of gesture and rather too practised of poise, who are all of an engaging frankness. They seem always to impart confidences, with low-voiced diplomacy and a deprecating smile. They can speak of the weather as though they were telling international secrets. In person Mr. Langdon was inclined to portliness. He had a pink scrubbed face, thin brown hair brushed back from a low forehead, eyes like those of an alert dog, and a broad mouth. He sat back on the divan with both ease and dignity, his well-manicured hands in his lap. His cutaway and striped trousers were unwrinkled, and his wing collar looked cool despite the heat. He rose, bowing to the newcomers.
Thirty-seven, Gray's Inn Square,' said Mr. Langdon, as though he were making an epigram. 'Gentlemen! At your service!' Then he sat down again and resumed in his easy voice: 'As I was saying concerning this dreadful affair, Inspector, you will appreciate my difficulties. Whatever information I possess is at your disposal, I need not tell you. But, as Mr. Burke so admirably put it a moment ago, Mr. Depping was an oyster. Precisely so. A veritable oyster, I assure you.'
Murch glowered at him. But his dogged, gruff voice persisted. ' Tes this, then. Which you won't deny. You'm the solicitor both for Mr. Depping that was, and for Louis Spinelli—'
'Excuse me, please. For Mr. Stuart Travers.'
'Eh, eh! I be and told you his name is Spinelli—'
'So far as I have any knowledge, Mr. Murch,' said Langdon, smiling composedly, 'my client's name is Mr. Stuart Travers. You see?'
'But Spinelli has told us-'
At this point Dr. Fell rumbled warningly. Inspector Murch nodded, and fell back. For a time the doctor sat tapping his pencil against the writing pad, and blinking at it. Then he raised his eyes.
'Let's get this straight from the beginning, Mr. Langdon. We happen to know that Spinelli, or Travers, put in a trunk call to you this afternoon. What you advised him is neither here nor there, at the moment. Let's concern ourselves with Depping. You have told us' — he held out his pudgy fingers and checked off the points—'that you have been his legal adviser for five years. That you know nothing about him, except that he was a British subject who had spent some years in America. That he made no will, and leaves an estate which you estimate at about fifty thousand pounds—'
'Sadly depreciated, I fear,' interposed Langdon, shaking his head with a sorrowful smile. 'Sadly.'
'Eh. Very well then. How did Depping come to you in the first place?'
'I believe I was recommended to him.'
'Urn' said Dr. Fell, pinching at his moustache. 'By
the same person who recommended you to Spinelli?' 'I really can't say.'
'Now, it's a very curious thing, Mr. Langdon,' rumbled Dr. Fell, after a time of tapping the pencil on the pad, 'about this information you volunteer. After telling you nothing of himself for five years, according to what you say, Depping walked into your office about two weeks ago and told you several things of a highly private nature. — Is that what you told Inspector Murch?'
Langdon had been sitting back, all polite attention, smiling mechanically; but his alert eyes had been
