The Eight of Swords

Why? Don't you approve?'

'I wouldn't have done all that,' said Hadley fervendy, 'for' — he searched his mind for a suitable inducement —'for a thousand pounds! Close the book; I don't want to read any more… What are your plans now?'

Dr. Fell frowned.

'I don't know. My wife hasn't returned from visiting her in-laws yet; I had a wire when the boat docked this morning. I'm rather at a loose end. Still, I happened to run into an old friend of mine at Southampton — a Colonel Standish. He's a member of Standish & Burke, my publishers; though it's only a financial interest, and Burke handles the business for him. Eh? What did you say?'

'Nothing,' answered Hadley. There was a gleam in his eye nevertheless.

A long sniff rumbled in the doctor's nose. 'I don't know what's the matter with him, Hadley. It seems he'd come down to the boat to meet the son of a friend of his — a fine young fellow, by the way, and the son of the Bishop of Mappleham. I got to know him pretty well before they locked him up in the brig—'

'Locked him up in the brig?' said Hadley, sitting back in his chair. 'Well, well! What was the trouble? Did he go mad too?'

A reminiscent chuckle ran over the bulges of Dr. Fell's waistcoat. With his cane he poked at the edge of Hadley’s desk.

Tut, tut, Hadley. What do you mean, mad? It was only a matter of a pair of lady's — hum — well, undergarments of some description… '

'He assaulted the lady, I suppose?'

'I say, Hadley, I wish you wouldn't interrupt. No; good Lord, no! He pinched 'em out of her cabin. Then he and a few other stout-hearted fellows ran 'em up the mast in place of the house flag. They didn't discover it until next morning when a passing ship wirelessed congratulations to the captain. Then, d'ye see, there was a row. This young fellow is a wonder with his fists, by the way. He laid out the first officer and two stewards before they subdued him, and—'

'That's enough,' said the chief inspector. 'What were you saying about Standish?'

'Why, he seems to have something on his mind. He invited me down to his place in Gloucester for the week- end, and said he had a story to tell me. But the odd part of it was the way he treated young Donovan— that's the bishop's son. He shook his hand sadly, and looked at him in a sympathetic, pitying manner; and told him not to lose heart… Incidentally, they're both downstairs in Standish's car now, waiting for me. Eh?

What's the matter with you now?' Hadley leaned forward. 'Listen!' he said…

CHAPTER II 'Shot through the Head—'

In the short little thoroughfare called Derby Street, which runs off Whitehall to Scotland Yard, Mr. Hugh An swell Donovan sat in the front seat of the car and surreptitiously swallowed another aspirin. The absence of water made him gag, and taste the full vileness of the pill before he could get it down. He pushed his hat over his eyes, shuddered, and stared gloomily at the wind screen.

His dreary outlook was not merely physical; though that was bad enough. His farewell party in New York had become a long, curving bender which did not cease until they put him in the brig when the Aquatic was two days out of Southampton. He was a little better now. Food did not turn green before his eyes, and his stomach had ceased to come together like a collapsing telescope at the sight of it. His hand had begun to regain its steadiness, nor was his conscience crawling through him with such cold feet as before. But there was a worse thing to destroy the pleasure he would have felt at seeing London after a year's absence.

All he had left, he reflected, was his sense of humor, and he had better use it.

Donovan, an amiable and easy-going young man with a dark face, and one of the neatest middleweight battlers who ever came out of Dublin University, tried to say, 'Ha ha' to the dashboard. He only gurgled, for he was thinking of his first meeting with his father.

In some ways, of course, the old man was a stout fellow, even if he did happen to be a bishop. He was old- fashioned, which meant that within reasonable limits he believed in a young man sowing an oat or two by the way. But the old man's hobby had been betrayed, and his son shivered to think of the result.

A year's leave had been granted him on the only condition it would ever have been allowed: to study criminology. At the time he had considered it an inspiration. 'Dad,' he said, straightforwardly and frankly, 'Dad, I want to be a detective.' And the formidable old boy had beamed. Moodily his son recalled this now. Several times during his stay in America, he had seen photographs in which he had been struck by the really remarkable resemblance of his father to the late William Jennings Bryan. People who had known both of them personally said that the likeness was even more striking than the photographs indicated. There was the same square massive face and broad mouth; the same heavy brow, the long hair curling down behind; the curved nose, fluffy eyebrows, and sharp dark eyes; the same shoulders and decisive stride. Then there was the voice. That the Bishop of Mappleham had the finest voice in the Church of England was never doubted; it was resonant, Bryanesque, and effective as a pipe organ. Altogether, a commanding figure.

His son swallowed another aspirin, automatically.

If the bishop had a weakness, it was his hobby. A great criminologist had been lost to the world when Hugh Donovan, Sr., took up holy orders. His information was enormous; he could recite you the details of every atrocity in the last hundred years; he knew all the latest scientific devices for both the advancement and prevention of crime; he had investigated the police departments of Paris, Berlin, Madrid, Rome, Brussels, Vienna, and Leningrad, driving the officials thereof to the verge of insanity; and, finally, he had lectured all about it in the United States. It was possibly his warm reception in America which had induced him to grant his son permission to study criminology at Columbia University…

'Gaa,' muttered Hugh Junior, and goggled at the dashboard. He had registered there in a burst of ambition, and bought a variety of indigestible books with German tides. Afterwards he had gone no nearer West 116th Street than the apartment of a little blonde who lived uptown on the Drive.

He was now, he perceived, sunk. The old man would be down on him roaring for all the grisly details, and he didn't know one tobacco ash from another, to cap it all, there were mysterious events on foot already. His father had not been at the pier to meet the Aquatic that morning. Instead there had appeared a certain Colonel Standish, whom he vaguely remembered having met somewhere before…

He glanced sideways at the colonel, who was fidget-, ing in the seat beside him, and wondered what ailed the man. Ordinarily the colonel must have been an easy and amiable sort; fleshy and port-wine-colored, with a puffing manner and clipped hair. But he had been acting very strangely. He shifted about. He rolled round a squinted brown eye, and removed it hastily. He had taken to thumping his fist on the steering-wheel, as though he had some sort of internal agony; and several times he accidentally thumped the button of the horn, which let out a squawk that made Donovan jump.

They had driven up from Southampton with a jovial old codger named Fell; and, like a nightmare, Donovan found himself being driven straight to Scotland Yard. There was dirty work here, somewhere. He had a horrible suspicion that his old man, energetic as always, was going to send him before some sort of tribunal for an examination. The thing became worse because not a word had been said to him about his father, or what was afoot, or—

'Damme, sir,' said Colonel Standish, suddenly and energetically. 'Damme, damme, damme, damme!'

'Eh?' said Donovan, 'I beg your pardon?'

The colonel cleared his throat. His nostrils were working as though at a sudden resolve.

'Young fella,' he said in a gruff voice. 'Got to tell you. Only right I should. Eh?'

'Yes, sir?'

'It's about your father. Got to tell you what's in store for you, and warn you.'

'Oh, my God,' said Donovan inaudibly. He slouched down in his seat.

'Happened this way, you see. Poor fellow’d been overworking, and I asked him down to my place for a rest. We'd a comfortable little party: my son — don't think you've met him — my wife, and daughter; hum. Then there was Burke, my partner, and Morgan, the writer fella, and Depping who lives in the Guest House. His daughter and