The Man Who Was Not. John Russell Fearn

it?”

      “The Café Criterion—just off the Strand.”

      “I know the place.... Was it a celebration, an evening of fun, or what?”

      “A mutual friend of ours—Trudy and me, I mean—threw the party to celebrate his engagement to a socialite. It was quite a big affair.”

      “About how many guests?”

      “Quite a lot—mainly stage people. David Warlock—the chap who threw the party—is a small time West End actor, and you know what pros are when they throw a party.”

      “Was there anybody there whom you would describe as enemy of yourself, or Trudy? Or even of Sir Robert?”

      “Good heavens, no!” Mason laughed rather incredulously. “They were all good friends, full of the party spirit...or are you suggesting that somebody there administered the poison?”

      “I’m not suggesting anything,” Hargraves answered calmly. “I am simply exploring possibilities.”

      “Then I’m afraid you’re up a tree there, inspector. It was a perfectly happy party.”

      “By invitation, of course?”

      “Yes. By ticket—or rather invitation card.”

      Hargraves nodded slowly and seemed to be thinking about some­thing. Then he apparently changed his mind. He picked up his hat from the side table, considered it, then asked another ques­tion.

      “You know of course that Trudy was warned that she would die? A telephone message?”

      “Yes—I know.” Mason was grimly serious now. “When we first discovered she was dead I jumped to the conclusion that she had had a fatal heart attack due to her emotional upset prior to nine o’clock. Now we know that it was the poison causing the trouble.”

      “You can’t think of anybody likely to send such a phone message, even for a practical joke?”

      Mason reflected for a long time, then finally he shook his head

      “All right—never mind,” Hargraves said. “But I don’t see any harm in telling you that Trudy’s brother, Gerald, had a similar phone call before he died in a motor smash on the south coast road.”

      Mason looked genuinely astonished. “He did? But how do you know?”

      “The maid told us. She should have given the information at the inquest, but nobody asked her about it—and she’s not a girl of immense initiative.... So you see, doctor, it looks as though whoever killed Trudy also killed Gerald—but the ‘how’ is the big problem. Anyway, thanks for your help.”

      Hargraves put on his hat and moved to the door with Sergeant Brice beside him; then he turned.

      “By the way, doctor. How much regard has Sir Robert for his family?”

      “That’s a bit of an odd question, isn’t it?” Mason gave a rather grim smile. “You don’t suspect Sir Robert, surely?”

      “I suspect everybody, doctor; that’s my job.”

      “I see.... Well, in regard to Sir Robert, I should change my opinion, if I were you. There couldn’t be a more devoted husband or kinder father than Sir Robert. At least, that’s been my experience.”

      “You work in this hospital with him. How do you get along?”

      “Fair enough. Sir Robert’s quite popular with the staff.”

      Hargraves nodded. “Right! Thanks for the information, doctor. I’ll be on my way now. I know where you are if I want you again.”

      With that Hargraves shook hands and took his departure. He remained in grim thought as Brice drove back to towards the Yard. On the way they stopped for lunch, which Hargraves ate mostly in silence; then they continued on their way to the gloomy office overlooking the Thames embankment.

      “What’s the next move, sir?” Brice asked.

      “I don’t know yet.” Hargraves put hat and coat on the hat stand. “I’ve got to think a bit. Get your notes typed out into a report and let me have it quick as you can.”

      “Right, sir.”

      Hargraves lighted a cigarette, drew at it thoughtfully for a moment or two, and then sat down at his desk. He pulled towards him the photographs that had been made of Trudy’s death fall in the lounge; and then the fingerprint report. From the latter it appeared that the prints on glasses, crockery, and various articles of furniture, were those of the family—but of course absolute proof of this could only be obtained by taking the prints of each person for comparison tests.

      “And the law does not permit of taking prints without a conviction first,” Hargraves muttered. “Wonder how many more regulations they can think up to hamper a hard-working policeman?”

      “Pardon, sir?” Brice glanced up from his keyboard.

      “Nothing—just thinking out loud. Look, sergeant, what strikes you as the most puzzling thing in this case?”

      “Well, sir, there are quite a few puzzling points—but most outstanding of the lot is the matter of time. The nine o’clock business. Take Gerald Dawson first—If he had been warned that he would die at nine—and presumably he was—how was the killer so sure that he would meet with a fatal accident at that moment? Again, how did the killer know Gerald was going to take the road he did? Presumably, from what we know now, the smashup on the road was deliberately planned—and for nine o’clock. What on earth made Gerald go in the right direction? It kind of savors of witchcraft, clairvoyance, or...or something.”

      “I agree; though I don’t think either possibility is likely. Certainly, it would seem that our killer has an all-round know­ledge of when and where his victims will die, enough knowledge to tell them beforehand. He even gets away with it with police protection all round, as in the case of Trudy.”

      “In that case, sir, I think she was poisoned at the party the night before, and the killer knew how long the poison would take to act on a girl of her physical reactions.”

      “I incline to the same belief,” Hargraves said. “Somebody was at that party for the especial purpose of poisoning Trudy—and to find that somebody will be no easy job, but we can make a start. Since everybody was by invitation it ought to be poss­ible to get a list of the guests from—er—” Hargraves snapped his fingers indecisively.

      “David Warlock?” Brice suggested.

      “That’s the fellow. Make a note to track him down—either through the stage managements, the Café Criterion, the telephone directory, or something. Even Actors’ Equity could probably give you his address. I don’t want to get it direct from Dr. Mason.”

      “I’m rather curious, sir. Why not?”

      “Because I don’t want him to know my moves any more than I can help. Reason: he’s a doctor. A hypnotherapist, true, but that wouldn’t stop him getting supplies of poison if he wanted them, and no questions asked. We’ve absolutely nothing to pin on him as yet, but I don’t agree with putting him in the picture too much.”

      “For that matter, Sir Robert is a doctor too.”

      “A fact which had not escaped me,” Hargraves said, stubbing out his cigarette. “But, as in the case of Dr. Mason, I’ve no reason for suspecting him of dirty work—yet. If it comes that, I think Sir Robert will have more trouble to face before long—even as I told him.”

      Hargraves meditated through an interval, then he said:

      “We’d take a definite short cut ii we could catch our murdering friend red-handed at the telephone—and unless I’m dead off the mark he’ll certainly repeat his actions. Criminals always do. There may yet be one more call—”

      Hargraves thought further for a moment and then picked up the telephone.

      “Post