The Reader Is Warned

'What would you be wanting to know, now?'

'What are you going to do about her?'

'Her?'

'Mrs Constable. Has it occurred to you that she may be in a good deal of danger?'

Never before had he felt so cut off from two whom he considered his friends. Communication was a snapped line, both of thought and feeling. Even H. M., whom he would have trusted to see anything, remained sombre and sour-faced. Masters was bland but positive.

'Oh? Just what kind of danger were you thinking of, Doctor? Danger from whom?'

'From Pennik. I don't think you fully understand that fellow's character. Whether he kills with thought-waves or whether he doesn't, the point is that he's capable of killing. And didn't you hear Mrs Constable's challenge?'

'Mrs Constable's challenge?' mused the chief inspector. 'Yes, sir, I heard it. I've also heard the story about the boy who cried 'Wolf!' Haven't you ?'

'All I remember about that story,' said Sanders, 'is that the wolf came.'

'Well, we won't worry about him just yet,' said the chief inspector comfortably. 'And I shouldn't let it worry you either. In fact, if I were you I should just forget all about it-'

There was a silence, while Sanders stared at him.

'But when Pennik comes back -'

'He's not comin' back, son,' interposed H. M. sombrely. 'We've just been up to his room. He's done a bunk. Packed his bag and cleared out while We were havin' a bite of dinner. And he left somethin' behind on the dressin' table. -Show it to him, Masters.'

From his notebook the chief inspector took a folded sheet of notepaper, which he handed across to Sanders. On it was written in ink, and in neat small handwriting:

To the police:

I regret that certain circumstances, no less than those which may arise in the future, make it both inadvisable and inconvenient for me to remain at Fourways any longer. Lest, however, I should be thought to be running from the law, I may say that I mean to put up at the Black Swan Hotel, where I met Chief Inspector Masters this morning. It is the only hostelry I know in this district, and appeared very tolerable in the brief inspection I was able to give it. I shall be available there at any time.

Yours, etc.,

‘HERMANPENNIK

The letter, Sanders thought, contained reason both for relief and further uneasiness. He handed it back. 'But Mrs Constable -'

'Listen, son,' said H. M., in a quiet tone he very seldom used. 'I'd like to be able to think different. But the fact is, d'ye see, that the heroic and grief-stricken Mrs Constable has been tellin' us a pack of deliberate lies.'

Sanders did not know why this startled him so much; or, in a sense, shocked him. He only knew that it did.

'Want to hear what they were, son?'

'Very much.'

'Item,' growled H. M., running his hand round inside his collar. 'Cast your mind back to that little adventure, about fifteen minutes before the murder, when Sam Constable hears the lamp go smash-in your room and comes peltin' down to investigate. Now, two persons gave a minute description of that, didn't they? You heard it. Young Chase described it, and Mrs Constable described it. Chase told us how Constable came rushin' out of his bedroom, in his bare feet and bedroom slippers, stumbling all over himself to get his feet properly into the slippers. We've all had that same experience. We know how it works. It's too circumstantial. It couldn't be a mistake. It's either the truth or a plain lie.'

'Well?' said Sanders - and knew what was coming.

'But what's the lady say, on the other hand? She tells us that when Constable heard the crash and ran out she had just finished tyin' up his shoes for him. So she says he was wearing shoes and socks. Again it's detailed and circumstantial. It's either truth or a plain lie. And I'm afraid, son, that it's a plain lie.'

'Why couldn't Chase be lying?'

H. M. ruffled his hands across his big bald head.

'Because I know liars, son,' he said rather wearily. 'She's not one of the best. But if you want proof further than what's maybe cloth-headed maunderin' on my part, think back! You saw the feller, didn't you? Well? Was he wearin’ shoes or slippers?' '

Sanders had not before considered this. He had been too intent on other things to notice discrepancies. And though he did not want to remember it, the scene returned with too much vividness.

'Slippers,' he admitted.

'Uh-huh. So she was lying...

'Item two,' continued H. M. 'You heard her swear with touchin' simplicity and fervour that she knew nothing at all about the two candles that somebody had been burnin' in her husband's bedroom? Sure. She hadn't been walkin' about with those candles? Maybe you didn't notice her jump when I spotted 'em, though. But we won't count that. Now, on Friday night she was wearin' a big pink padded silk dressing-gown, wasn't she? Masters and I have been snoopin' round a bit, and we've had a look at that same dressing-gown. The right-hand sleeve is still all mucked up with spots of candle-grease where her hand was shaky.'

(Sanders did not question that. He did not try. For insistently there returned to his mind a memory of Mina Constable crouching in the padded chair, the padded dressing-gown drawn round her and the spots of candle- grease on the sleeve.)

'Y'see, son?' inquired H. M. meekly. Silence.

'There's also,' H. M. went on, 'the question of that big press-cutting scrap-book she says she burnt. She didn't, though. You can't burn one of those whackin' tough imitation-leather books without leaving some trace: not unless you drop it into a furnace. But there's no furnace here, not even a single wood or coal fire where it could 'a' been burned; and no trace of a burned book either. It's all lies, son. Let her sleep. If there was just some shred of proof how she did it, she might be on her way to Kingston on a charge of murder.'

'Damn and blast,' said Sanders.

'Sure,' agreed H. M.

'But everything she said and did. ... After all, what difference does it make whether Constable wore slippers instead of shoes? Or whether she burned a couple of candles and said she didn't?'

H. M. was malevolent. 'I wish I knew, son. Of all the rummy clues I ever heard of, there's a couple of the rummiest.'

'And you also maintain,' persisted Sanders, 'that everything about her - her crying, her faints, her lowered vitality, even that attempted challenge to the newspapers this evening - was all a part of a hoax and a flamboyant piece of acting?'

Masters chuckled benevolently.

'Well, sir, what do you think? You notice she was very easily persuaded not to issue her challenge, don't you?' 'I think you're wrong.'

'Free country, Doctor. Every man to his own opinion! And now, if you don't mind,' Masters bustled out with his watch, 'Sir Henry and I will have to cut along. First to Grovetop, and then on to the Black Swan to see Mr Pennik. I don't mind telling you there's an interview I'm looking forward to! When Sir Henry meets him -'

'That woman is still in danger.'

'All right, Doctor. You guard her. Good night, good night, good night!'

He opened the door and motioned H. M. to precede him. H. M., picking up his ancient top-hat and his equally ancient coat from the rack beside the door, lumbered forward two steps and stopped. He turned round.

He said:

'Look here, Masters. Just supposin' this young feller happens to be right?'

Masters almost howled at him: 'Now what do you want to go thinking things like that for? We've been all over this, sir. We know what we think, don't we ?'

'Oh, sure. Sure. We always do. Every time anybody in this world takes a toss and goes full-tilt down a butter