THE WHODUNIT COLLECTION: British Murder Mysteries (15 Novels in One Volume). Charles Norris Williamson

had a hundred things to think about."

      "And I," mourned Jimmie, "have only had one. By the way, how is Miss Greye-Stratton?"

      "As fit as could be expected, all things considered. Ninety-nine girls out of a hundred who had gone through what she has would have been knocked out. I told her I should probably be bringing you home to dinner."

      "Things been all right today? No hitches of any kind?"

      "One or two little points," admitted the chief inspector. "I'm expecting a telephone call when I get home. Perhaps I'll tell you then."

      They had the top of the car to themselves. Jimmie laughed. "Still as cautious as ever. I'll begin to have doubts soon whether you're as wise as you seem."

      "I've begun to have doubts myself. We're none of us infallible. If I was I should be on the Stock Exchange, not in the C. I. D."

      Although Menzies lived in Magersfontein Road, Upper Tooting, the dinner that had been arranged smacked little of the suburbs. Jimmie felt that he had eaten many worse at Princes and Delmonico's. Perhaps a difference was made by the slim black-clad figure that sat opposite to him. Some of the melancholy had gone from the blue eyes, though she was still sober and subdued. Mrs. Menzies, discreet and tactful, watched her closely, and Jimmie noticed that the conversation was never allowed to flag.

      "I don't know how many years we've been married, Hallett," said Menzies reflectively, as he poured out a glass of claret, "but this is the first time I've ever taken my wife into my confidence on a professional subject and the first time she's ever asked me."

      Jimmie's eyes dwelt on the smiling, genial face of his hostess. "Effect and cause," he murmured. "If Mrs. Menzies ever wanted to know a thing you'd have to capitulate."

      "Don't you believe that, Mr. Hallett," interrupted Mrs. Menzies. "He's like a bit of stone sometimes a most aggravating man to get on with. Don't you ever marry a detective, Miss Greye-Stratton."

      "She won't," said Jimmie promptly, and watched the rich flood of colour that surged into the girl's cheeks.

      "One minute," said Menzies, standing. "Fill your glasses. I'm going to propose a toast. Oh, da bless the telephone." With an apology he hurried to the instrument.

      "Yes... yes. This is Menzies speaking.... That you, Mr. Foyle. Oh, yes, yes.... I see, that clears everything up.... Yes, I'll be along early in the morning. Good-night."

      He returned to the dining-room. "To break another professional rule," he said quietly, "I don't mind telling you that my mind is perfectly at ease for the first time since Mr. Greye-Stratton was killed."

Chapter XXXV

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      Jimmie presented a French roll sternly at Menzies, pistol wise.

      "You don't get away with it like that," he warned. "Look at him. Cold-blooded isn't the word. He's got a perfectly clear mind and he can sit down and eat and drink in our presence as though we didn't matter."

      The chief inspector brushed his moustache with his serviette. "Plenty of time," he murmured. "Let's have some coffee in my room, my dear." His eyes twinkled at his wife. "I must try to satisfy this insatiable young man, even if I get broken for betraying official secrets."

      "If you betray any secrets to Mr. Hallett you betray them to us," assented Mrs. Menzies definitely.

      "But, my dear "a series of humorous wrinkles formed around the corners of his eyes "you know you don't like smoke in the drawing-room. How can I talk--"

      "Oh, very well." Mrs. Menzies spoke in laughing resignation. "You may smoke there but not a pipe. Mind, I totally forbid a pipe."

      Menzies winked at Jimmie. "It shall be my very Sunday best cigars," he said. "Come along."

      In the drawing-room he took up his favourite posture with one arm on the mantelpiece and a foot on the fender. He lit his cigar with deliberation and drew silently at it for a second or two.

      "You know pretty well as much as I do about this business up to last night," he said to Jimmie. "If you had to guess who would you say was the actual murderer?"

      "Ling?" said Jimmie promptly. "Why, you told us yourself--"

      "That's what comes of talking before a case is complete," said the chief inspector oracularly. "If I'd kept my mouth shut and said nothing you wouldn't have been able to convict me in my own house of being a liar. I was too quick with the cockadoodledo act, though," he added quickly. "I was right in my main facts. Ling is certainly a murderer legally all of the gang are murderers, and I don't doubt that they'll all receive the same punishment. But even so, there's something more than an intellectual satisfaction in clearing up the last fragments of doubt. Ling is not the murderer. He was present in the house when the shot was fired, he was the man who, posing as a doctor, knocked you out, but the real assassin was Mr. William Smith otherwise, Dago Sam."

      "The gentleman who wanted to persuade me not to say anything."

      "That same gentleman. Funny, isn't it, that he should have been under lock and key all this while and we never dreamt of considering him anything but a subordinate which in point of fact he is, although he killed Greje-Stratton.

      "In one way or another we've now got roughly the life of the five persons involved in the conspiracy since its inception in the brain of Gwennie Lyne. Pinkertons and the New York police have helped us a lot on that. I won't burden you with a lot of detail about that. Big Rufe was brought into it by Gwennie because she didn't want Ling to boss the show, and Rufe, though he's got no brains, is a handy man in a row. Dago Sam was the man who originally knew Errol and he seems to have slid into the scheme because he wouldn't be left out.

      "Now about the murder. Mr. Greye-Stratton did not seem in any hurry to die naturally and the gang of course found expenses running up. There was every probability that Errol was right and that he had left his fortune to you, Miss Greye-Stratton, but there was no certainty only Errol's word. Now Dago Sam was an expert burglar. There wasn't one among them who objected to the idea of making certain. Errol had spoken of the safe. The chances were that if the old man had made a will he would not have confided it to Ills lawyers I am answering their line of argument but would keep it in his own safe under his own eye. If it was in Miss Greye-Stratton's favour, well and good; if it was not the scheme was that it should be destroyed and a dummy substituted. Then she would automatically inherit."

      "Hold on a minute," interrupted Jimmie. "Is this a hypothesis or?"

      "It's concrete fact. I'll tell you how we got at it in a moment. Very well. Dago Sam was delegated to do the burglary on the first convenient night. It so happened that when the fog came down he decided that his chance had arrived and set off without confiding in anybody but Errol. That was the night, Miss Greye- Stratton, that you got the cheques.

      "After missing you in the fog Ling went on to the Petit Savoy, where he met Errol, who spoke about Sam's decision. Now Ling, it seems, wasn't quite certain that Sam hadn't some game of his own to play. Crooks rarely trust one another entirely and what must he do but start off to Linstone Terrace Gardens himself to keep an eye on things. He must have acted just on general principles, because, unless by accident, he hadn't a ghost's chance of getting into the house. You see, he's no burglar.

      "The accident happened. While he was kicking his heels outside the door opened softly and old Greye- Stratton, a pistol in his hand, looked out. To a man of Ling's acuteness it was obvious what had happened. He walked casually by and was, of course, stopped. ' There's a burglar in here,' says Greye-Stratton. ' Will you fetch a constable? ' ' It's not much of a night to find one,' said Ling. ' I'll come in if you like. The two of us ought to manage him.'

      "They went in Ling taking the pistol and it proves what his nerves were like putting up a play of holding up Dago Sam, who was hiding behind a curtain. ' Bring him into the other room,' said the old man. ' There's a telephone there. I can send for the police.'