Try Anything Twice

Roy Glashan's Library
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PETER CHEYNEY

TRY ANYTHING TWICE

RGL e-Book Cover^©
(Based on a men's fashion advertisement, ca. 1948)

First UK edtion: William Collins, London, England, 1948

First US edition: Dodd, Mead, New York, NY, 1948
Reprinted as Undressed to Kill, Avon paperback, 1959

This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2022
Version Date: 2022-11-14

Produced by Gordon Hobley and Roy Glashan

All original content added by RGL is protected by copyright.

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"Try Anything Twice,"
William Collins, London, England, 1948

To
George H. Lidstone,

Editor of The Torquay Times and Directory,
in whose office this story had its inception

and to

"Bill" Maydwell, his Chief Reporter.

Chapter 1. Monday: Lana
Chapter 2. Tuesday: Claudette
Chapter 3. Wednesday: Denise
Chapter 4. Thursday: The Voice
Chapter 5. Thursday Night: Denise
Chapter 6. Friday: Tredinor
Chapter 7. Saturday: Climax
Chapter 8. Sunday: Anti-Climax

Chapter One
MONDAY: LANA

THE rain had stopped and the sun came out. The asphalt surface of the road, winding over the hills, looked like a glistening silk ribbon. On my left, as I flashed past, I saw that the hedge bounding some country estate was thick with rhododendron bushes.

I put my foot down and the speedometer went up to sixty-five. I felt as pleased with myself as I ever do. I began to think about life.

Someone once called life an attitude of mind. I don't quite agree with that. It's more than an attitude of mind; it's being ready to take chances sometimes. If you don't take chances you can't know anything about life. See what I mean?

If you don't take a chance life is just nothing at all—just a series of routine events punctuated with occasional fireworks that often turn out to be damp squibs. Sometimes it's very good for you not to be quite certain about what's waiting round the corner.

Not that I was taking much of a chance—at least I didn't think so, except I wasn't quite certain how I was going to wear being married; whether it would suit my temperament and character, which some people consider to be a trifle peculiar. Anyhow, somebody else said that character is the result of experience. If he was right, I ought to have one hell of a character because I've had some experience. You're telling me!

My name is Gale. Nicholas Gale. My mother was an American who came from Vermont. Why she came from Vermont and how she came to England, I don't know. Maybe she was following her nose—a process which she always advised me to adopt. But when she got here she met an Anglo-Irishman called Gale, and that was that! She never went back home. She preferred him to the home town and the maple syrup for which it was famous.

I think she was right too. She was a beautiful woman who could have married any man she wanted. But she went for Gale because he was tough and adventurous, double-loaded with guile, with the soft tongue and blarney of the Irish plus the hard common sense of the English. She told me that he could have charmed a bird off a tree. She said that when I grew up I'd be like him, but a damn sight worse. Thinking about her made me smile.

I ran through Rickling village, turned off into a long country lane and got myself on to the road that leads from Pevensey to Eastbourne. I didn't mind very much where I was driving. All the time now I was thinking about something else—the something else being a woman. I've spent a lot of time thinking about women. In my business—or in the business that was my business—you had to. It was a relief. It took your mind off all the other things. But somehow I had an idea that thinking about this particular woman was different.

I went through Eastbourne and got on the coast road to Brighton. Why I stopped at the hotel at the end of the Brighton front just where Hove begins, I don't know, but I did. Maybe the clock on the dashboard showed me it was half-past six and I needed a drink.

I went into the bar. It was empty except for—Finney! Finney was standing at the far end of the mahogany bar wise-cracking with the barmaid. He looked just like he always looked—plump, easy-going, with a twinkle in his eye. He always looks like that. I've seen him look like that when he was choking a man. No matter how tough the situation is he always manages to look angelic.

He saw me and cocked an eyebrow. He said: "Well, life can be funny, hey? Fancy seeing you, fella. The world's a small place."

"No soap!" said Finney. "In spite of all the things they say about this country I still like it. I heard you were through. Have they paid you off?"

I said: "I don't know. I haven't got used to it yet. They gave me five thousand pounds and a medal. I feel like a fish out of water."

He said: "You ought to. I reckon you're lucky. Nobody else except you would have got through that goddam war the way you did. You look just the same too. What are you gonna do?"

He drank some whisky. Then: "If you don't know, I don't." He took a packet of Lucky Strikes from his pocket and lit one. He was looking at me through the flame of his lighter. He had a very leary look in his eye.

I said: "What goes on? What's this about a brunette? I'm not marrying any brunette."

I said: "Somebody you wouldn't know—a very beautiful woman. Not only that but something out of the top drawer—a General's daughter. Can you imagine that?"

I said: "Look, Finney, what goes on? What are you being so goddam mysterious about?"

"I'm not being mysterious, but I reckon when you get around to marrying this General's daughter, you'd better steer clear of that brunette's brother. I don't think he likes you."

"Sure... you wouldn't know anything about her, would you? I suppose you've never heard of Grant Ruthenal?"

Finney grinned. "I'll tell you because it looks like you lost your memory. Don't you remember Ruthenal's sister—Dolores? That cute piece with the black hair. A tropical type."

I nodded. "Now you come to mention it, I do. I met her once. I met her at a cocktail party somebody threw at Nuremberg. I've never seen her since."

He said: "That's all right. If that's your story, you stick to it, but I don't reckon it's gonna be good enough for Grant."

"All right," I said. "Let me have a little more information about this. Why isn't it going to be good enough for him?"

He looked at me for a long time; then: "Nicky, maybe this is just one of your alibis. Maybe there've been so many women in your life that you can't even keep a check on them. But if you're serious about this General's daughter, I reckon you ought to handle this Ruthenal thing with hooks. I reckon it's one of those things that's likely to come back and hit you, Nicky."

"Meaning this: Ruthenal's sister Dolores was engaged to some mug when she met you at Nuremberg. You got that?"

"O.K.," he went on, "but a month or so afterwards this egg wants to get married. She says no. She won't go through with it. And everybody is all steamed up about this because they're stuck on this marriage—especially her brother. And he wants to know why. So eventually she comes across. The reason is you."

"All right," said Finney. "You don't get me, but it looks like this babe Dolores sort of hands the idea around that you've been quite a lot in her life; that things being the way they were between you an' her it wouldn't be sort of fair to get married to anybody else, see?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I wouldn't know. But I know you. I reckon that song 'I'll be glad when you're dead, you rascal you,' was written about you. I always reckoned that some honey-lamb was gonna land you into trouble one day. It looks like this is it."

I said: "Listen, Finney. I told you the truth. I met this girl Dolores Ruthenal at a cocktail party at Nuremberg. I said how-d'you-do, and that was that! I've never seen her again."

"Maybe," he said. "There's a lot of different ways of saying how-d'you-do, but maybe they told you about that."

I didn't say anything for a bit. I chewed over that one. He finished his whisky; ordered two more.

He looked at me sideways. "He's sort of old-fashioned. You know what these New Englanders are. He says that any guy who seduces his sister when she's gonna get married to somebody else is for the high-jump as far as he is concerned. He's been thinkin' up what he's gonna do to you for a long time."

I said: "Some of these women have got sweet imaginations. Maybe it was the war."

He said: "Sure... he's in London. He's got some clearing-up job—liaison with the Embassy or something. He reckons to go back home in about a month's time. All you gotta do is to duck into a corner till he goes an' you'll be safe." He grinned amiably at me.

I said: "Maybe that's the thing to do. I suppose Dolores went straight back to the States from Nuremberg?"

He shook his head. "She's in London, too. She's sticking around till he goes back. She's going back with him. The idea was he was gonna try and find you in the meantime."

He grinned at me. "You're an odd mug, Nicky. In the old days when we were doing that funny stuff with the Germans, kickin' around in French villages behind the lines, callin' ourselves something we weren't and generally raisin' seventeen hundred different kinds of skulduggery, you had a brain that worked like an addin' machine. That's because there weren't too many women around, and if there were, there was nobody they could complain to. But directly the war's over you have to get yourself tied up in a lot of stuff like this. Fella, it's not worthy of your mentality."

"I'm in London," I said. "I'm living at the same place I used when I was over here in '44—in Jermyn Street. Come and see me sometime."

He said: "Sure, Nicky... I'd like to. Look, this might be good for you. You remember a smart guy called Mike Linnane—a top-notcher in the Office of Strategic Services, U.S. Army?"

"I ought to," I told him. "I was working for him when the Gestapo picked me up in Marseilles. The S.A.S. lent me to him. A nice one, Linnane. Clever too."

"He was askin' after you," said Finney. "He's out now. He's started some office in London—Linnane Research and Investigations. He was doin' some clearin' up work for the U.S. Government, but now he's workin' on private cases. He said if I ever ran into you an' you wanted a job he had a spot for you."

"Yeah," said Finney. "You told me. Some General's daughter. Maybe you'll find her a bit starchy. Maybe you'll get tired an' want to take a powder on her—you never know."

"She's not so starchy and I shan't want to take a powder," I told him. "I'll be seeing you, Finney."

I went out of the hotel and walked to where I'd parked the car. I was thinking about Dolores Ruthenal. I thought that babe had one hell of an imagination.

When I got to the car I decided I didn't feel like driving. So I began to walk. I walked through the back streets and lanes of Brighton, doing a little quiet thinking. I began to think about Lana. I thought maybe it wouldn't be so good if Lana got to hear about this Dolores business. She wouldn't like that, and I didn't know her well enough to take any chances. Maybe she wouldn't hear about it.

I passed some place with a Club sign outside. I went in and down some steps to a basement. It was the usual sort of dive that calls itself a Club, and the character sitting in the little office at the end of the passage-way seemed to think I was a member. Anyway, I went in. There was a bar at one end and tables dotted about the place. I sat down at a table and after a minute a tired waiter came up. I ordered whisky. When he brought it I paid for it and sat looking at it. I was still wondering about the Dolores piece.

Women do funny things. You never know how a woman's brain is going to tick over. They're like cats. They'll be sitting nice and quiet in the middle of the carpet and suddenly, for no reason at all, they'll jump sideways—just for the hell of it. Maybe Dolores was doing that. How would I know?

At the other end of the room was a party—two men and two women. The women were pretty ordinary sort of creatures with too much paint and imitation film-star hairdos. One of them had a good figure and was almost well dressed. I looked at the two men. Both of them were thin, hard-faced and near-tough. They wore the wrong sort of clothes with padded shoulders and tight waists. One of them—the one nearest me—had a mouth like a rat-trap. He had long, white fingers that were drumming on the top of the table in front of him. I didn't like him much.

I sat there thinking, drinking the whisky, looking at the woman at the table who was facing me—the one whose clothes weren't too bad. But I wasn't seeing her. I was thinking about Lana. Suddenly, the boyo who was drumming on the table-top stopped. He got up and pushed the chair away with his foot. He walked towards me. He took long, easy steps and he moved like a cat. Underneath the clever clothes, the white face and the long fingers, maybe there was something that wasn't quite so soft.

He stood on the other side of the table and looked down at me. He said viciously: "Hey... you ..."

He said: "Nothing. I just don't like the way you're looking at the girl friend."

I said: "If I was looking at her I didn't even know it. But since you raise the matter I'll have a look." I looked. "So she's your girl friend?"

I said: "Well, you ought to go back and tell her to wash her face. And somebody ought to give her a lesson in make-up. While you're about it, you ought to wash yours. And you haven't shaved to-day, have you, Sourpuss?" I smiled at him.

He picked up my whisky and soda off the table. He was quick, but not quick enough. I ducked as he threw the glass. It hit the wall behind me.

He said something. Then he slipped open his coat and I saw his hand go towards the fob pocket in his trousers top. I saw the razor.

I jerked the table towards him. He hadn't thought of that one. As it fell the edge cut across his shins. He pitched forward towards me and I gave him an elbow punch on the point of the jaw. He went over sideways.

As he went down I saw the other man push his chair back. I got up and threw my chair at white-face on my right. Then, I cut across the room very quickly before the other one had got well away from his chair. He was a slow type. I hit him twice—once on the mouth, the second time just under the heart. He went over and stayed there. I went back to the razor boy. He was up now. He stood looking at me, his hands hanging down by his sides.

I said: "Punk. I don't like people with razors. Maybe you've got that idea. Just go over to the bar and get me a double whisky and soda or I'll take you apart."

He called me a rude name. As he did so his foot came up. I was waiting for it. I twisted round, caught hold of his heel as it came on a level with my stomach and hit him in the face hard. This time he stayed down.

I looked round. The two women were still sitting at their table. The razor-boy's girl friend was smoking a cigarette. The bar-tender was looking bored. Nobody seemed very surprised. I put out my hand and yanked razor-boy to his feet. I took him over to the bar. I put one arm behind his back and put a wrist-lock on it. He came quietly. Possibly because his nose was broken.

After a bit he asked for it. The bar-tender mixed the drink. I picked it up, still holding razor-boy's wrist in my left hand, and drank it.

The bar-tender said in a wheezy voice to no one in particular: "Look... we don't want any more trouble, do we?"

I said: "Of course not. Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen." I went out—up the stairs.

I began to walk back to the car. I was thinking that maybe Lana wouldn't have liked that. Not very much.

IT was half-past nine when I stopped at my rooms in Jermyn Street, and dropped my baggage. I drove to the garage, parked the car, walked back to the apartment and considered life. The process didn't get me anywhere so I gave it up.

I stripped, took a shower, put on some fresh clothes that the valet had pressed and drank a whisky and soda. Then I walked over to the telephone and stood looking at it.

I felt just a trifle odd—that's the only word I can think of—at the idea of talking to Lana. Too much anticipation maybe, although, believe it or not, I never anticipate much. If you don't, you're seldom disappointed. But there was a kick in the idea of talking to her. Maybe I've had too much experience in shooting a line to women—which is another process that can have drawbacks. If you don't agree, you haven't been a line-shooter, or if you have, you've tried it on the wrong sort of girl.

I dialled the number, spoke to a manservant and waited. After a moment or two she came on the line.

Her voice was as I remembered it. One of those voices, very low, very soft, with a cadence that did things to you. An unhurried, cool and very musical voice that reminded me of a poem that I'd read in the days when I was young enough to read poetry. A poem that said something about a voice like 'a husky flute.' A poor description, but I hope you've got the general idea.

I said: "I got back this afternoon. I came over on the Autocarrier and brought the car with me. I drove to Eastbourne, because I wanted time to think about you, and then to London. I'm at the Granville Apartments in Jermyn Street. Can I see you, or do I have to wait until to-morrow?"

"I'd like to see you," she said. "In fact I want to see you as soon as possible. Will you come round now?"

I said yes. She told me where the house was in Pont Street. When I said so long and hung up, I had a vague sense of anti-climax. Something I couldn't quite put my finger on—or could I?

I got out the car and drove to Pont Street. The house was old-fashioned and had an air. The butler was like that too. There were a couple of oil-paintings of old-time soldiers on the walls, who might have been ancestors of Lana's, I thought. One of the pictures seemed to give me a grin as I went up the stairs.

I waited for her. When I saw the door handle turn, I thought to myself: If she comes straight over and puts her arms around my neck, every thing is going to be O.K. If she doesn't, there's going to be trouble. She didn't, so I waited for the trouble.

She looked good enough to eat. Lana is tall and has one of those figures that you don't forget in a hurry. She has auburn hair with bronze tints, an oval face with a complexion like Grade A milk, a sensitive, demure mouth that can be firm or tremulous, and violet eyes under long eyelashes. I've seen a hell of a lot of women but I've never seen one like her. Everything about her is one hundred per cent, plus an allure that you meet about once in a life-time. If you haven't got the picture by now, think of your favourite day-dream and multiply it by ten.

She didn't say anything for a bit. Then: "Sit down and let's talk. I've something to say to you."

We sat and I produced some cigarettes. I had a chance to look at her. She was wearing a black georgette dinner hock that had been cut by a master, a pearl necklace and high-heeled, black silk sandals. I thought that if I had time I could write a book about her ankles.

I said: "What's wrong, Lana? Is this just anti-climax after our last meeting, or something else...?"

"I don't quite know," she said. "Anyhow, that meeting of ours in France was very sudden and very short. I'm wondering if it counted as much as I thought...."

She nodded. "I thought so too. But then I didn't know very much about you. And I hadn't heard..."

"Quite right," she said. She looked at me for quite a while. She went on: "I think I was awfully taken with your record in the War. I'd heard the most thrilling things about you. The audacious, startling things you'd done. And then—"

"Let's take all that as read," I said. "All these things you'd heard about me, and our meeting—short as it was—and that night in Paris, and the things we said to each other; promised each other—all these things didn't matter a damn after you'd heard some poppycock about some silly piece called Dolores—"

"Poppycock!" Her soft voice sharpened. "Was it poppycock too about that Countess woman; about Madame de Palasse, and the lady in Auxerre, and that flaxen-haired girl in Nuremberg—I've forgotten her name, and the Italian lady who went with you on your last mission, and—"

I said: "Nuts, nuts, and more nuts. You're talking rubbish, Lana. All those things were before I met you and you know it."

"All except Dolores," she said. Now she was angry. She looked marvellous. Her eyes were alight and her mouth trembled a little. She looked at me steadily and I could see how wonderful her eyes really were. I thought to myself: Nicky, this is it. You're really stuck on this woman and she thinks you're a heel. Maybe you are, but you've certainly got to fight back, otherwise it's going to be no soap.

"All except Dolores," she repeated. "But I've heard about Dolores Ruthenal, and that was after we'd met, and you'd said the things you did say; the things I was silly enough to believe."

"You believed them for a hell of a good reason," I said. "You believed them because they were the truth."

She gave an imitation of me. It was funny and very attractive to hear her say it. She said prettily: "Nuts, nuts, and nuts." But she was angry.

"Why did you have to try your hand on me?" she asked. "Why? I'm not that sort of person. I never have been. I've always considered myself to be a one-man woman, and I was stupid enough to think that you were going to be the man."

She turned her head away. I could see the tears in her eyes. But only for a moment. When she looked at me again they were dry.

"Father was for you," she said. "Because of your record. He said you were definitely a man. He thought a lot of you. Until he heard about that Dolores woman. Then he said no. He was right."

"Why not?" she shot back. "He's got a pretty good record too, you know. And brains. And I agree with him."

I thought: Never argue with a woman when there's a gun about. I thought I'd try the gun. I said: "All right.... Let's get this straight, shall we, Lana? You want an excuse to get out of things. You want an excuse to release yourself from your promise to me. All that stuff you said about thinking a lot of me and my record was just so many words. Directly some baby comes along with a cock-and-bull story about what I've done, you fall for it and think it lets you out. Why don't you be honest and tell the truth, and say that you never really gave a cuss for me; that you were affected by the night and the moonlight and that you were a little bored and wanted amusing. Why don't you?"

She got up and stood looking down at me. Her eyes were blazing. For a moment I thought she was going to crown me with a flower vase off the mantelpiece.

"Damn you, Nicky," she said. "That's the lowest thing you've ever said. I'm going to tell you something. When I told you that I loved you, I meant it. Even if I had only known you for a few hours, and even if you did sweep me off my feet. I meant it and mean it now. Well, I still love you, but I'm not going to have anything more to do with you. Not after that Dolores thing...."

"Supposing I tell you that this Dolores Ruthenal business is just a lot of damned lies?" I asked.

I was as mad as hell when she said that. I got up and lit a cigarette. I said: "All right. Well, that's that. Thanks for the buggy-ride, lady. Now, maybe, I can find the servants' entrance and get out."

I went over to the door. She came after me. She stood just in front of me, looking at me.

She said: "If what you said to me in Paris is the truth, why don't you prove to me that I'm wrong? Why don't you prove to my father that what he believes is wrong? Why don't you?"

"Don't be childish," I told her. "This is one of those things that aren't easily disproved. And I'm on a bad wicket anyhow. And you know it."

I grinned at her. "Listen, you lovely thing," I said. "Why don't you grow up? You know goddam well that my reputation is not so hot where women are concerned—and why not? When a man is doing the sort of stuff that I was doing for five years he has to find some way to take his mind off the business sometimes. Didn't they tell you? The other thing is that if I say something to you and tell you it's the truth you ought to believe it. Just because I say so, and how do you like that?"

"I don't like it," she said. She walked back to the fireplace. I thought I could spend hours watching that girl walk. It was like watching a summer cloud float across the sky.

I didn't go after her. I didn't go because I had the idea she expected I would. Maybe she thought I was going to try and talk her out of what she thought. But I wasn't playing.

I stayed by the door. I looked at her and grinned; then I said: "One of these fine days you're going to discover that you've been listening to a lot of hooey about me. You're going to be so fed up with yourself that you'll want to take an overdose of something. You'll want to be rude to yourself for the rest of your life. Every time you think about me you'll wonder where I am and why you were so stupid."

I stubbed out my cigarette. I said: "Well... so long, Lana. It was lovely while it lasted and I'll always remember that evening in Paris...."

"I don't know," I told her. "I'll think something up. Maybe I'll look around and try and find Dolores Ruthenal. I might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb."

That shook her. It shook her considerably. After a moment she said in a low voice: "You wouldn't do that."

She didn't say anything for a moment; then: "Nicky, you'd better go. It's all over. I'm sorry about us. But you've let me down and I can't trust you."

She said in a different voice: "If you'll wait a moment I'll ring for Charles to show you out."

She moved towards the bell-push. She had to come a little closer to me. She put her hand out towards the bell. Then she said in a voice so low that I could just hear it: "Please let us part friends... please...." She turned her face towards me and I put my arm out for her.

She didn't even try to evade me. And when she kissed me she meant it. Then I saw her hand move towards the bell-push.

She said: "Good-bye, Nicky.... I'll never forget you. But it's better like this. Good-bye...."

I followed the butler down the stairs and across the hall; he opened the door and gave me a sedate smile. He looked a nice old boy.

I DROVE slowly around for quite a while through Lowndes Square and Knightsbridge.

I began to think about Lana. I went on thinking about her because I liked it. I could understand her point of view. She was a one-man woman right enough. She'd fallen for me because people had been telling her hero stories about me and because she liked my line. Lana was in love all right. But she hadn't liked the jolt of hearing about the Dolores thing.... She'd believed that, because she'd heard about all the other things, the other women who'd flitted in and out of my life in the way that woman must flit in and out of any man's life—especially if he happens to be a secret agent with a price on his head, and a good chance of getting his throat cut, or something even worse.

I thought quite a lot about her. And I didn't think I liked her much. I brought a picture of her back to my mind—a tall, dark girl; good-looking; with a soft, southern accent. She had her nerve all right.

The engine stalled. I got out to look at the carburettor and noticed a telephone call-box in a mews off the square. I walked over to it and called the U.S. Embassy. I was lucky. I recognised the voice of the man at the other end of the line. It was Cyrus Leghorn, one-time in the O.S.S., now a Junior Secretary at the Embassy.

I told him who I was. I said: "Listen, Cyrus. Do you remember a junior legal Army Officer called Ruthenal—Captain Grant Ruthenal? He was in the Nuremberg set-up."

"I want to get in touch with him urgently," I said. "I believe he's in London. Do you know where I could find him?"

He told me Ruthenal was living in an apartment block at St. John's Wood. He said: "If you like to wait till to-morrow morning he'll be here. He's doing a clearing-up job for us on the legal side. He's our liaison with the United Nations War Crimes Commission."

I lit a cigarette, found another two pennies and dialled through to the apartment block in St. John's Wood. I thought it was time I had a show-down with this Ruthenal boyo. Although I could sympathise with his point of view. He believed what his sister had told him. If I had a sister who spun a strong line to me like that I'd probably be feeling angry myself.

I could hear the bell buzzing at the other end and then a low, drawling voice said: "Hallo..." It was Dolores.

I said: "Good evening.... My name's Nicky Gale. I want to speak to Grant Ruthenal."

"Hullo, Nicky." Her voice was like treacle. "Don't you want to say anything to me?"

"I'm afraid you can't," she told me. "He's not here. I don't think he'll be back to-night." There was a pause; then: "Won't I do?"

I thought what could I lose? I had the idea in my mind that it was going to do me a lot of good just at that moment to tell that young woman where she got off.

I went back to the car; fixed the carburettor; drove out to St. John's Wood. I went up in the lift and pressed the bell outside the Ruthenal apartment.

She opened the door. She stood just inside the hallway looking at me. She looked a picture, even if I didn't appreciate it, just at that moment. She wore a pleated pink georgette house-coat with a blue ribbon sash. She had on high-heeled gold sandals, and her dark hair was dressed low over her shoulders.

She smiled at me. She said: "Is this a surprise? I'm very glad to see you again. Come in and have a drink?"

I went in. I put my hat on the hat-stand in the hall; followed her into the sitting-room. She went to the sideboard and began to mix some drinks.

I said: "Look... maybe before I'm through you're not going to be so pleased at seeing me."

She looked over her shoulder. She smiled slowly at me. "No? Why don't you give yourself a cigarette and relax? You look to me as if you're angry about something."

She brought the drink over and gave it to me. "You couldn't be angry with me." Her eyes were mischievous.

I gave her an acid grin. "You'd be surprised! I got back this afternoon and ran into a man I knew at Brighton. He told me that people had been talking about you and me. He told me all sorts of rumours had been going around. That surprised me. Because the only time I ever met you before in night was at that cocktail party at Nuremberg. I said how-d'you-do, talked about the weather and moved on. I never saw you before and I've never seen you since till now. See?"

"So you can imagine," I went on, "I was very much surprised when I heard that your marriage to some man had fallen through because of me. I was even more surprised to hear how intimate things were between you and me, and I was more surprised than that to hear that you'd told your brother that you couldn't possibly marry this other man because I'd seduced you. How does that sound to you?"

She went over to the fireplace. She stood there, the glass in her hand, looking at me. She was smiling.

I didn't say anything. It struck me quite suddenly that this babe was tough. She meant business.

"Look, Nicky," she said, "there are two ways of doing a thing—the long way and the short way. And sometimes the long way doesn't come off. I chose the other one."

"Willingly," she said. "When I met you at Nuremberg I had one look at you and I wondered what you'd been doing all my life. Believe it or not, you're my type. So I made some inquiries. I found out all about you. Understand?"

She went on: "Then I was in a spot. You see, I'd been engaged to this other man for quite a time. I thought I wouldn't have minded marrying him in normal circumstances. But after I'd taken a quick look at you the idea didn't appeal quite so much. You still understand?"

She nodded. "What was a girl to do? I'd been practically brought up with that man. We went to school together in Virginia. Everybody had always expected we were going to be married. Everybody was mad keen on it. I knew if I said I just didn't want to go through with it they'd never have left me alone, especially my brother Grant. Grant was very set on that marriage." She smiled. "I think he's got the idea in his head he'd like to see me married and settled down. Well, I thought about it. I had to do two things. I had to get out of that marriage and I had to see you again. I took the quickest way of doing the two things."

"It wasn't too bad. I knew the one thing that would stop the marriage was my telling Grant that the worst had happened between you and me. Naturally, he believed it. He thinks I'm that sort of girl. And the other thing was that I knew that Grant wouldn't let matters rest there. He'd want to find out where you were, or alternatively you'd hear about it and come and see me to find out what it was all about. Well, that's come off too. You're here."

I drank some of the whisky. I thought I wasn't doing so well this evening. Maybe I was slipping.

She went on: "You're in a bit of a spot, aren't you? If I were a man you could do something about it. But I'm not." She looked at herself in the glass. "Another thing, as a woman I'm not at all bad-looking, am I? And there's something else besides that.... It might interest you, Nicky, and it might not, but I've got quite a lot of money."

I looked at her. I said: "Do you know what I'd like to do to you? I'd like to put you across my knee and fix you so that you'd have to eat off the mantelpiece for about three months."

I let that one go. I was thinking. After a bit I said: "It's not going to be so easy for you after all."

She came closer. "Look, Nicky... don't be a fool. I know all about you. You've had one hell of an exciting time for the last five years, and now it's all over. Grant's told me what happens to people like you. You do terrific work in a war, and take all the chances in the world; then they give you a gratuity—not too much but enough, and there's nothing for you to do because you're unhappy and unsettled. You've spent the last five years of your life matching your wits against people and taking chances, and now suddenly there's an anti-climax. If you think it over you'll see my scheme's a pretty good one. If I get to work on Grant he'll listen to reason and all we have to do is to get married, and you'll be on Easy Street."

I said: "Maybe... that is if I wanted to be on Easy Street." I grinned at her. "Fancy being married to a proposition like you. I don't think it would be so hot. I'd have to watch my step or I'd wake up one morning and find my throat cut just because you'd seen somebody else you liked the night before."

She shook her head. "No, Nicky. Believe it or not I could be very happy with you."

"That's what you think now," I told her. "But, anyway, I don't like you very much."

I said: "Look, this thing isn't quite as easy as you think it is. I'll tell you why. It's quite a simple matter for me to check back to the night I met you—the night at that party. I know what I did that night. I can pretty well account for my movements ever since. I left Nuremberg the next day and went to a place where you certainly weren't. I should think I could probably alibi myself all the time ever since the night of that party at Nuremberg. What about that? That's just going to make you out what you are—a first-class liar—a bad baby who's playing it off the cuff to get what she wants the quickest way. See?"

She smiled. "I see. But who's going to believe you anyway? What a time you'd have wandering around the place checking those alibis, and when you'd done it, nobody would take any notice of you. In a case like this, everybody believes the woman, especially if she's not absolutely ugly. And I'm certainly not ugly."

I didn't say anything to that. I was getting a little tired of this party. I thought it was boring. Just for a moment my mind went back to the afternoon, when I'd been driving my car through the Sussex lanes; when I'd been thinking that everything was going to be fine. I finished the drink and put the glass down.

I said: "O.K. You have it your way. You bore me. I'd rather deal with your brother."

She asked: "Will that be easy, Nicky? Grant's rather Southern in his ideas, you know. He's inclined to be old-fashioned. He'd probably try beating you up first of all, and if that didn't work he might even get funny with an automatic pistol. He's one of those strange guys who still talk about the honour of the family, see?"

I went into the hall and got my hat. I went out of the flat, closed the door behind me, got into the lift and went down to the ground floor. I was hopping mad. I was walking towards the entrance when Ruthenal came down the corridor.

I thought: This is the end of a perfect evening. I stopped in the middle of the passage-way and waited for him.

Ruthenal was a type. Big, stupid, and entirely inexperienced. With the war he had acquired a superficial knowledge and importance through his Army job. He believed in being tough because he'd seen people behave like that on the movies. He had an over-developed sense of the theatre and enjoyed he-man scenes. I'd heard that much about him in Germany.

He looked at me with narrowed eyes. Then: "That sort of stuff won't help you. I suppose you've been talking to my sister?"

"Right," I told him. "But I haven't been talking so much as listening. She's got a first-class imagination. She's a cute, cunning, scheming lady-dog, and she knows she can fool you all the time, Stupid."

He cleared his throat. Then he put his arm up against the wall of the corridor so that I couldn't pass. He said in a low, dramatic voice: "If you don't marry my sister I'll kill you."

I grinned at him. "If I married your sister, I'd like you to kill me. I'd rather marry a bad-tempered crocodile. And fancy having you for a brother-in-law, you false alarm!"

I threw the cigarette away and smacked him across the face hard. He threw a right-hand punch at me that connected and nearly broke my left-side cheek bone. Then I lost my temper.

I waded into Ruthenal. I let him have the complete book. I let him have everything that I'd learned in the S.A.S. Final Parachutist Course; my six months with the Department of Investigation of the Federal Bureau, and some four years of playing it off the cuff in every place where the enemy didn't expect to find me. I gave him the lot—a mixture of catch-as-catch-can, ju-jitsu, old-fashioned slugging and what-have-you-got.

He tried very hard. But the people he'd been used to working on weren't in the Gale class—not by a long way.

After six or seven minutes I picked up the pieces; dragged him along to the lift; propped him in the corner; I ran the lift up to the third floor. Then I undid his shirt collar and tie, and tidied him up a bit, and led him along the corridor to the apartment. He was three teeth short and one eye was closed and surrounded by a beautiful colour scheme. He was breathing hard and not certain about being able to stand up.

I rang the bell. After a moment Dolores opened the door. She took a look at us and gave me a beautiful smile.

"Boy..." she said. "You certainly fixed him. But good. Nicky... I think you're wonderful. Bring in the head of the family and let's have a drink."

I led the big lug into the room she showed me and threw him on to the bed. Then I went back into the sitting-room.

I said: "He'll be all right in the morning. He's too plump and out-of-condition. You might tell him that next time I have to get tough with him I'm really going to hurt him."

She nodded. "It'll do him a lot of good," she said casually. She came over to me. "Why don't you listen to reason, Nicky? You and I would make a very good pair. We'd be an immense success."

"I bet," I told her. "If I was wrecked on an uninhabited island with you I'd rather go play with the sharks."

She spoke softly. "Nicky... why do you dislike me so? Telling stories about you hasn't hurt you. You had a reputation before I gave you one."

"Listen, Stupid," I told her. "I suppose it hasn't occurred to your funny little brain that there might be some girl I was really fond of. Someone whom I wanted to marry, suppose I'd be giving you a big laugh if I told you that she'd heard all this lying stuff that you've been putting about."

She shook her head. She said: "No... I'm beginning to realise I've been a fool. Tell me who she is, Nicky. I want to try and put this right."

"It's Grant," she said. "He'll never forgive you for beating him up to-night. Never... I know him. He'll brood over it and one day he'll go gunning for you. He's like that. I'll be worrying from now on about what he might do to you—unless I do something about it. I'll tell him the truth in the morning."

She put her hand on my arm. "Tell me who the girl is, Nicky," she said. "I'll telephone her and tell her that I got it all wrong about us. I'll straighten things out for you. You see, I'm really fond of you...."

IT was after midnight when I got back to my rooms in Jermyn Street. I lighted a cigarette and walked up and down my sitting-room. I wasn't very pleased with anything. Women, I thought, could be hell.

Life is a funny proposition. This afternoon I'd been congratulating myself on this and that, and now, for no reason that mattered, I was up to my neck in a packet of trouble.

I wondered what Ruthenal would do. I thought he might even be as stupid as his sister had made him out to be. You never know with that type. It can work itself up to doing anything. Given the right frame of mind and a couple of double whiskies and sodas he might even come after me with a gun.

I thought it would be funny if, after having got through the last five years with all sorts of different people gunning for me, I should have some stupid boyo like Ruthenal taking a shot at me, and all because his sister had a high-powered imagination.

The telephone bell rang. I went over. When I heard the voice I almost jumped. It was Lana.

"Hallo... what goes on?" I asked. "Don't tell me you've changed your mind about me."

She said in an odd sort of voice: "Nicky, my car is in Jermyn Street—just opposite your flat. I'm speaking from a call-box. Perhaps you'd like to come down and talk to me for a minute."

Lana was sitting at the wheel of a sleek, black car. She wore a short fur coat over her dinner frock. Her face was very lovely in the half-light.

She said: "Nicky, after you'd gone to-night, I thought about what you'd said to me, and I thought that a man who's done as much in the war as you did was certainly entitled to a fair deal."

She went on: "Immediately after you'd gone, my father came in. I told him what you'd said. He said he thought I ought to see Dolores Ruthenal. He made some inquiries and found out where she was. I got in the car and went round there."

She said: "When I got there she told me just what had happened. It seems that soon after you left me you went round there." She hesitated. "You tried to make love to her and when her brother came in and she told him about it, you thrashed him."

"Why shouldn't I?" she asked. "It seems to me a most extraordinary thing for you to do to go round there at all at this time of night, Nicky. I believe her. I don't believe you."

I said: "I'd like to ask you one question. When she told you this bed-time story, was her brother there?"

I said: "Well, it was very nice of you to come round and tell me. There isn't much more to be said, is there?"

"I don't think so," she said in a low voice. "I think you're an awful fool, Nicky. Why do you throw away the decent things in life for a lot of women who don't matter?"

I said: "Look, I hate lectures. If it's all over, it's all over. I'm sorry, but I think you're stupid. One day you'll find out." I grinned at her. "Maybe I've been an idiot. Maybe I stuck my neck out for Dolores Ruthenal to take a poke at. Well, she's certainly done it. So long, Lana."

I walked across the roadway, back into the apartment block; went up in the lift. I crossed my sitting-room and looked out of the window. The car was still there. I could see her fingers on the steering-wheel. After a moment the car moved off.

I was on my way to the bedroom when the telephone bell rang again. When I took off the receiver, an American voice said: "Is that Gale?"

The voice went on: "This is Mike Linnane speaking. I called Finney to-night down at Brighton. He told me he'd been you there this afternoon. He told me he'd mentioned to you about my having a spot for you in my organisation if you wanted it. He said you weren't interested."

"I wasn't," I told him. "But maybe I've changed my mind. I've come to the conclusion that I don't like England. Anywhere else but... Italy, Germany, France... or the North Pole. I'd like to get out of here."

He said: "England's all right, Nicky. Maybe you're fed up with London. If you want a job I've got one for you, but I'd better tell you here and now that you don't have to go abroad. All you have to do is to go to a rather nice place in Devonshire called Melquay."

I started to say something, but he interrupted: "Wait a minute. I know all about you, Nicky, and maybe you think this job's going to be no soap. You'd be wrong. It's the sort of job I'd elect to have if I wanted to take my mind off something. Another thing, it carries a swell expense account, and there's quite a piece of money in it for you. Are you interested?"

I thought for a moment; then: "Sold! I think you're right about London. I don't like it. When can I talk to you?"

I said: "O.K." I hung up. I put the whisky glasses and the decanter on the table.

Chapter Two
TUESDAY: CLAUDETTE

IT was dusk when I drove into Melquay. I stopped the car on the long, curving front where the lights were beginning to twinkle. Away on the left, towards the end of the bay on a hill, stood the Palace Hotel. There were palms and green lawns along the length of the front. The place had atmosphere.

I lighted a cigarette. I began to think about Denise Ellerdene. I thought she was certainly in a spot—and not a very nice spot. I wondered just exactly what her father, or the Linnane organisation, could do about it. To me it seemed to be one of those things. You either liked it or you didn't, and if you didn't like it there wasn't a great deal you could do about it. Maybe Miss Ellerdene would have to like it.

I restarted the car; turned off the front; drove to the Court Hotel where Mike Linnane had engaged a suite for me. It was a small, comfortable hotel on old-fashioned lines. Mike said he knew it well; that there was good service and not too much chromium, and the hotel cellar, in spite of the fact that the Americans had been stationed round about during the war, was still more or less intact—which was surprising.

My rooms were on the first floor—a large sitting-room and a bedroom with an adjacent bathroom. I unpacked my bags, took a shower and had dinner. Then I lighted a cigarette and considered my approach to the Ellerdene assignment. Quite obviously, there'd been a great deal of very funny business, and the investigation—if an investigation was possible—would have to be carried out on rather odd lines. It seemed to me that this wasn't a business which one could approach in any normal sort of manner.

After a bit I gave up thinking. I've always found it a good thing when in doubt to follow my nose. I picked up the telephone and told the girl on the switchboard to get me the Ellerdene house.

Ten minutes afterwards I was on my way round there. The place stood in its own grounds on the other side of the headland at the end of the bay. It was a big house—well kept even in these days of labour shortage.

A butler—aged, and smiling with the stock smile of well-trained butlers—let me in; took me along thickly-carpeted corridors to the study. John Ellerdene was waiting for me.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, white-haired. His face was long, but there was a certain good-humoured expression in his eyes. He looked like a retired, successful industrialist, which is in fact what he was. He wasted no time.

"Sit down, Mr. Gale," he said. "I'll give you a whisky with soda and try and condense this business as much as possible. When I've told you about it, you can tell me exactly what you intend to do."

"Not necessarily," I told him. "It's a rule of mine never to tell anybody what I intend to do, mainly because I often don't know myself. But I'd be glad to hear about it."

He handed me the drink. He said: "It's a matter which must be handled very delicately, Gale. It concerns my family intimately, and therefore I think it is only right that I should know the lines on which you propose to work."

I said: "I don't know that I propose to work on any particular lines. Linnane told me I'd have a free hand in this business. I took it on on those conditions. If I don't have a free hand you'd better get another investigator."

"All right," I said. "I'm an independent sort of person. What do you want—a stooge? If you do, why don't you do the investigation yourself?"

For a moment I thought he was going to explode. Then he smiled. "Possibly you're right. Here is the story: My family here consists of three people—myself, my wife and my daughter Denise. Denise, I ought to point out to you, is a very beautiful young woman—a very charming person." He smiled at me. "That's an objective viewpoint—not a doting father's description. She is such a delightful young woman that I am appalled at this terrible thing that has happened to her."

He went on: "During the years 1945 and the first part of 1946, we were naturally very glad to entertain many of the American officers and men who were stationed in this part of the world. Many of the American flying officers based at Exeter used to come to our coast-towns for weekends. So it is not at all surprising that Denise should have met Hart Allen. Have you heard of him?"

I said: "Yes, of course. Allen was one of their crack flyers—a first-class battle pilot. I should think he won every Allied decoration for gallantry in the air that was possible."

He nodded. "One side of him was certainly very good," he said. "There's no doubt about it, he was a crack fighting pilot, but it was when I heard about the other side of his character that I began to worry about Denise."

I said: "Whatever his character was like, why did you have to worry about Denise? Is she the sort of girl who has to be worried about?"

He answered: "No, but naturally I am rather particular about the people she goes about with. Allen had a bad reputation—if you can call it bad. By that I mean that he drank too much and was, shall we say, too fond of the company of women. Also he wasn't awfully particular sometimes about what sort of women they were."

I said: "He wasn't unique in that respect. A lot of men who were having a tough time fighting the enemy in the war were like that. It was a natural reaction."

He nodded. "I agree, but in Allen's case it was rather more than a natural reaction."

I asked: "Is the suggestion that Miss Ellerdene spent too much time in Allen's company?"

He shook his head. "No, she spent no more time with Allen than she did with any of the other young servicemen whom we entertained either at this house or elsewhere. We used to have parties sometimes here, and very often she would give a party at the Country Club here in Melquay, or sometimes at the Club at Forest Hills—about ten miles from Totnes, But Denise had no favourites among her guests, and she's never been very interested in young men."

"Twenty-six," he replied. "She's a very quiet type of girl, Gale. She loves her home and her parents. She likes reading. She likes playing golf and riding, and all the normal things a young woman does like. And she did a good job of work in the war. What I want you to realise is that the relationship between Denise and Allen was absolutely normal."

"All right. Go on from there, and don't mind if I interrupt sometimes. I want to try and get the implications of this story."

He continued: "In the middle of 1946, Allen went back to the United States. He was one of the last flying officers to leave Exeter. In fact, I think his squadron was the last one to go. Six or seven months ago—at the end of 1946—I consented to an engagement between Denise and a young man named Eustace Tredinor. Would you like to know something about him?"

"Tredinor comes of a family which settled in these parts hundreds of years ago. He is a descendant of one of the Spaniards who stayed in this part of the world—probably one of Francis Drake's prisoners. He runs a large farm, lives at the family house and has a good reputation. A first-class young fellow. I couldn't wish for a better husband for Denise. They were to be married some time this year. In fact, if this business hadn't happened, I think they'd be married now."

"Neither of us," he said. "It was Denise. She naturally felt very upset, but she was more concerned for Tredinor than for herself. Both Eustace and I thought it would be a very good thing if she had her own way. Now I hope they'll be married some time before the end of this year."

"I'll show you a copy," he said, "But first of all I'd better explain about it. We have a local weekly paper here with quite a considerable circulation—the Melquay Record. About fifteen miles away along the coast is a small town called Mapletor, and Mapletor is served by our paper. A local edition is got out here for Mapletor on the same printing day as the Melquay paper, and some special features—usually gossip and reports of local events—are run on an inside page which is specially printed for the Mapletor edition."

"I've got it," I said. "And it was in the Mapletor edition on this special page that the libel appeared. So that it must have been inserted or printed in the office of the local paper here?"

He said: "Yes. I'll show you the paper." He unlocked a drawer in his desk and brought out a folded newspaper. He opened it; indicated the page. It was the usual type of newspaper produced in seaside towns. On the inside page was a column headed Local News and Gossip. The column ran the whole length of the page, and the bottom paragraph was marked in blue pencil. I read it. It said:

Knowing readers, especially the habitués of Forest Hills Country Club, will not be surprised to hear that the wedding between the beautiful and alluring Miss Denise Ellerdene and Mr. Eustace Tredinor of Tredinor Moat has been postponed. We think that any bridegroom-to-be even if he were as good-natured and amenable to reason as Eustace Tredinor would have been shaken at the not-so-nice rumours which have been current about the sultry association between Miss Ellerdene and that dashing American flyer Hart Allen. Our bet is that the wedding will not take place.

Still, those people who have always considered that Captain Allen's taste in liquor and ladies was more inclined to quantity than quality, will agree that in this case his standards, at any rate as regards beauty, were slightly higher than usual.

I whistled. I said: "That's not so good, is it?" I refolded the paper and handed it back to him. "That must have cost the Melquay Record a lot of money. Linnane said they paid plenty. How many copies of this were issued?"

He said: "The printing of both the Melquay Record and the Mapletor edition is done very early on Thursday mornings. The paper was in Mapletor that morning by eight o'clock and some four hundred copies had been issued before the Editor spotted this appalling libel."

He shrugged his shoulders. "He couldn't say anything, because he didn't know anything. Actually, the paper had been set and the formes locked at seven o'clock the night before. Therefore, somebody got into the Composing Room to set the libel. Somebody who knew the workings of the paper broke down the Mapletor social column, re-set the last paragraph, re-locked the forme and left the paper ready for printing. At first it seemed that only one man could have done that—the foreman compositor."

"No," he replied. "He didn't do it. He couldn't have. When this thing came to the Editor's notice he was perfectly certain that this man—Charles Roakes—was the guilty person; that it must be Roakes. He was certain about this because Roakes was supposed to go back to the Composing Room and work from seven till eight o'clock, and Roakes had, it seemed, clocked himself in and out at those times on the time-clock on the floor below the Composing Room. But we now know that he didn't do that. That was done for him. He'd got through his work earlier in the day and had persuaded the night watchman, to punch his card in and out through the time-clock so that he could draw overtime pay. Actually, Roakes was never in the Composing Room that evening."

He shook his head. "The night watchman knows nothing of printing. The person who inserted that paragraph in the Mapletor edition was a skilled compositor. He must have known the workings of the Melquay Record in every way. And the night watchman is a thoroughly reliable person. Nobody entered the Composing Room, which was locked at eight o'clock that night."

I said: "Somebody did. Somebody had to. The original paragraph wasn't taken out and the libellous one re-set by fairies."

I asked: "Why is it so certain it wasn't Roakes? Maybe there was some other way into the Composing Room through a window on the landing."

"We were concerned with that question," he said. "But Roakes had an alibi. At the time we were making our original inquiries, Denise had a personal maid. She'd been with us for many years—a Scots woman—a stern Presbyterian"—he smiled at the recollection—"who could never even tell a half-lie if her life depended on it. On the evening in question—the Wednesday evening—Denise's maid—Mary McDougal—went into Newton Abbot. When she was walking down the street opposite the Cinema she saw Roakes and a woman friend going into the Cinema at seven o'clock. Roakes and his friend stayed there for the whole of the performance. They left about nine-thirty. They came back on the Melquay bus from Newton Abbot—McDougal was on the same bus—and Roakes is known to have gone straight from the bus stop to a public house where he stayed with friends until closing time. From the public house he went straight home."

I said: "Why did the maid—Mary McDougal—remember seeing Roakes? How did she remember which day it was?"

"She told Denise," he answered. "McDougal's been with us for years and adored Denise. After this thing happened Denise was, naturally, frightfully upset. She told Mary McDougal about it and said that Roakes was suspected. It was then that McDougal remembered seeing him. She'd been wanting to visit a friend in Newton Abbot for some time, but her eyes were very bad and she wouldn't go until she had her new glasses. She got them on the Wednesday—the afternoon of the day before the edition bearing the libel was printed. So she was able to identify the date. She'd been to Newton Abbot only on that one day during the last six months and that was the day on which she saw Roakes."

I said: "In fact Roakes couldn't have set the offending paragraph, and nobody, including the Editor, knows who did."

"I hope you'll find out," he said. "And I hope you'll do it in such a way that you don't start anything else."

He said: "Quite obviously, that paragraph was inserted In the paper because someone doesn't like my daughter, or me or my wife—somebody who wanted to do us harm. They might try something else. I want Denise to marry Eustace Tredinor this year. They're very much in love with each other. How do I know that the occasion of their wedding won't be used by this scoundrel for some other operation?"

"That's quite a point," I agreed. "He's done this and got away with it. Possibly he's going to do something else, unless he's prepared to rest on his laurels."

He said: "I don't think that type is usually content to rest on his laurels. He must be found, Gale. Whatever it costs, I want you to find that person."

"She doesn't take it as seriously as I do," he answered. "I told you that Denise is a very beautiful young woman. My wife thinks there is someone who is jealous or spiteful:—someone who wanted to hurt her. My wife thinks that if the thing's left alone it'll die down. That is why I don't want her to be particularly worried about this."

"That's a pity," I said. "I wanted to talk to Mrs. Ellerdene about this business. Her point of view might have helped."

He shrugged his shoulders. "She's at the theatre tonight," he said. "And, in any event, I don't think you'll any good by talking to her. She's rather inclined to regard the whole thing as a spiteful joke, and it might easily be that she'd consider me foolish in trying to find the culprit. As I said, she believes in letting sleeping dogs lie."

I nodded. "Actually, you haven't told her that you were having an investigator down here on this business?"

"No," he said. "I haven't told her. In my view, the less said about it the better. In any event, I take it that you'll handle the case very discreetly."

He shrugged his shoulders again. "The most important thing is for you to find the scoundrel who got that shocking libel into the paper," he said. "And to find out just how he managed to do it. Do that and it's going to be worth a lot of money to the Linnane organisation."

I got up. I said: "Thanks for the information. I'll get in touch with you some time. If you want me I'm staying at the Court Hotel."

I DROVE around for a bit admiring the scenery. At half-past ten I went back to the Court Hotel; parked the car in the drive outside; went up to my room and 'phoned Linnane. When he came on the line I told him I'd seen Ellerdene.

I said: "I don't think anything at all at the moment. I haven't even got the beginnings of this thing. It's just one of those things."

"I hope so," I told him. "In the meantime, tell me something. Is Finney doing anything important for you at the moment?"

I said: "Yes. Listen, Mike... this is how I want it played. Send Finney down to Mapletor. He'd better use a car because he'll probably need one down here. Tell him to put himself up at a hotel there. When he arrives he's to ring me through here to the Court Hotel and give me his address and telephone number. Then he can sit around and smoke until I want him."

"O.K.," said Linnane. "I'll send him down to-morrow. What do you think of Ellerdene?"

"I like him. He knows what he wants, and he'd like to be tough about this but he's afraid to be. He's worrying about his daughter."

"Play him along, Nicky," said Linnane. "He's paying us a lot of money, you know."

"Why should we worry about that?" he replied. "You'll find him. So long, Nicky."

I smoked a cigarette and walked around my sitting-room for a bit; then I went down in the lift; got into the car; drove round to the theatre. I left the car on a nearby parking lot, Now, it was a quarter to eleven. I walked along the long line of cars outside the theatre. Most of them were good motor cars. Melquay seemed to be an affluent sort of place. Then I looked at the pictures of the Polish Ballet outside the theatre. After a bit I went over to the uniformed man on duty in the foyer.

He said: "Yes, sir. The show's nearly over. They'll he coming out in five minutes."

He pointed towards the line of motor cars. He said: "She's driving the Rolls-Bentley coupé—the one at the end."

I went out of the theatre, along the line of cars. I tried the door of the Rolls-Bentley coupé. It wasn't locked. I got in; sat in the back seat and lit a cigarette.

Five or six minutes afterwards the door opened and she got in. I couldn't see very much of her, but what I did see I liked. The good figure of an attractive woman about forty-six or forty-seven years of age.

She looked over her shoulder. Her eyebrows, which were neatly plucked, were raised in astonishment.

"Forgive me for getting into your car," I told her, "but I didn't want to be seen hanging about waiting for you. My name's Gale. I'm an investigator. I'm working with a firm that's been employed by your husband to try and find out about that libel thing."

She said: "Oh, yes?" Her voice was quiet and attractive. The fingers that lay on the steering-wheel sparkled with valuable rings.

"Is it?" I asked. "Having regard to the fact that your husband suggested that you shouldn't be worried about this business, and also that he seemed rather pleased that you were here at the theatre when I went to the house, I thought it might be a very good idea if you and I had a little talk—in confidence, shall we say?"

Her head was half-turned towards me and I saw her lips curve in a smile. I thought her face was young and attractive for a woman of her age.

She said: "Perhaps you're right, Mr. Gale. Let's go somewhere where we can talk." She thought for a moment. "There's a dance to-night at the Palace Hotel. There are so many people there, and I meet so many of my friends there, that no one will be surprised at my talking to you. Let's go there."

She started up the car. She drove rapidly up the hill towards the big hotel. She handled the car well.

When we got there, she parked at the end of the courtyard. We went into the hotel, through the foyer, along a passageway; skirted the ballroom; went into a large alcove on the other side of the dance floor. We sat down and she signalled a waiter.

I said: "At the moment you can satisfy my curiosity. You realise, Mrs. Ellerdene, that I haven't a great deal to work on. The story as I see it is briefly this: Some person, not very well disposed to your daughter Denise, has by some means or other managed to insert a scandalous libel into a local newspaper. Nobody knows how the libel got into the paper; nobody knows who got into the Composing Room and re-set the column in which the libel appeared. The Editor, it seems, has publicly apologised in the paper and paid a large sum of money as damages to a local hospital. That's all I know, and it's not a great deal to go on."

She shrugged her shoulders. When she looked at me I could see her teeth were white and even. If I hadn't known that Mrs. Ellerdene must be forty-six or forty-seven at least, I should have thought she was in her late thirties.

She said: "I'm sure I don't know what you can find out, Mr. Gale. In any event, it's going to be a very difficult process, and I don't think that very much good will come of your being down here."

"The harm's been done, and I say 'let sleeping dogs lie,'" she answered. "Life moves quickly these days, and nobody remembers anything for long. In six or seven months this thing will be forgotten. Denise, I hope, will be married and all will be well. On the other hand, if you go about the place stirring up things—"

I interrupted. "Do I have to stir up things?" I smiled at her. "Maybe my methods are more subtle."

She looked at me with raised eyebrows. "Possibly," she laid, "you are such a clever investigator, Mr. Gale, that you will be able to discover what no one else has succeeded in doing, but I do not see how I can help you."

I said: "You might be able to. You know, Mrs. Ellerdene, I got the impression from your husband that he didn't want you worried about this business. He told me that you believed in letting sleeping dogs lie. But was that all?" I looked at her. "There wouldn't be any other reason why you don't want this matter resuscitated, would there?"

I nodded. "You don't think that there's the slightest grounds for that libellous paragraph? You don't think that Denise made a fool of herself over Allen?"

She laughed. "If you knew Denise you wouldn't ask such a question. She's a very nice, rather cold, very selective girl. Actually, she wasn't particularly keen on entertaining some of the American officers. They drank a little too much for her but it was the thing to do and so she did it. Actually, I know that she didn't like Allen. She told me so on half a dozen occasions."

I said: "I see. And you wouldn't have any idea as to who'd want to do a thing like this?"

She shrugged her shoulders again. "How should I know? Possibly my husband told you that Denise is a very beautiful young woman, and I think there are other young women here who are jealous. One of them may have been responsible for it."

I said: "That's as maybe. But it's not particularly easy for a jealous young woman to get into the Composing Room of a newspaper, break down a forme—which requires expert technical knowledge—re-set the paragraph, re-lock the forme and leave everything in such a condition that when the printing of the paper started the next morning no one noticed that anything was wrong. It rather narrows down your jealous young woman to those who have a contact with the local newspaper or an even closer contact with somebody who works on it."

She said: "Possibly." It struck me that she was a little bored. "But all that has been gone into, Mr. Gale."

She said: "Well, here's to your success. I hope you find the culprit without stirring up too much mud. But I think my husband's been very foolish, although I don't propose to tell him so."

"Which means that you don't propose to tell him that you've seen me?" I queried.

"Precisely," she said. "I don't think it would give him a great deal of confidence in you, Mr. Gale, if he knew that, after telling you he didn't want me to be worried about this, you immediately came down to the theatre, parked yourself in my car and waited for me." She smiled, and when she smiled I thought she looked very attractive.

I drank some whisky. I took out my cigarette case; gave her one; lighted it. I said: "Actually, Mrs. Ellerdene, you believe that it's stupid to start this investigation. You think if the thing's left alone nothing else is going to happen?"

"That's my opinion," she said. "Whoever's done this has shot his—or her—bolt, believing that he has hurt or annoyed my daughter. And now that they've discovered that the marriage is still going to take place—because Eustace Hill loves her and believes in her—they're just going to give up. On the other hand, an investigator—even such a skilled person as I imagine you to be, Mr. Gale—is probably going to start something here which may easily result in the culprit trying his hand again out of sheer spite. Don't you think 'let sleeping dogs lie' is a very good motto?"

I said: "Mrs. Ellerdene, if that's your opinion, I might be persuaded to agree with it."

I grinned at her. "I should go back to my hotel, pack my bag and return to London."

Her face became serious. "I'm going to make a suggestion to you, and I don't want you to misunderstand it. I know my husband is very keen to get at the bottom of this thing. I think he's wrong. You're down here professionally. You know that he's a rich man; you expect to receive a good fee for your services whether you succeed or not. Here is my suggestion: Let me pay you your fee, Mr. Gale; then go back to your hotel and spend two or three days admiring the scenery and amusing yourself in the way you like best. Then, after that time, you might care to ring my husband and tell him that you've come to the conclusion that there is no possible chance of your succeeding in this investigation."

She looked at me. She looked at me for a long time. Then she smiled. It was a slow, knowing smile. She said:

"It's rather difficult, because from your general appearance and the cut of your clothes you're definitely not cheap, Mr. Gale. So if you agree—and I have my cheque-book in my handbag—I'm going to write you out a cheque for five hundred pounds. Is that a bargain?"

"Why not?" I asked. "I do my best to please the customers." I finished the whisky.

She opened her handbag. She took out a small chequebook and a fountain pen. She said: "I'll make it payable to cash, and I'll open the cheque. You can cash it at the bank to-morrow morning."

She said: "I must go now. I'm very glad that we've had this meeting, Mr. Gale. I think you've been very sensible."

I stood up. She said good-bye and went away. As she walked round the end of the ballroom towards the exit I noted the youth of her figure, the grace of her walk. I thought Mrs. Ellerdene was quite a woman.

It was close on midnight when I left the hotel. The place was deserted. The moon was up and the ground was silver with moonlight except for the shadows thrown by a few parked cars. The night was warm and the air balmy. I thought I was going to like Melquay quite a bit.

The voice was sibilant and had an effeminate lisp. I turned as the owner of the voice came out of the shadow thrown by a nearby car.

He presented a too-perfect picture. He was inclined to be short and very slim. He was dressed in a too-well-cut, single-breasted dinner suit, with the last thing in white waistcoats set with jewelled buttons; a thin platinum chain spanned the waistcoat pockets. He wore a soft, white silk shirt and collar with a black, watered-silk butterfly bow. His trousers draped just too beautifully over very small, very smart patent shoes.

And his face was a dream. It was long with high cheek bones and a twisted smile. His mouth was shaped like a girl's and his blond hair looked as if it had been water-waved. It looked like that, but I wouldn't have laid odds that it hadn't been 'permed.' Altogether, he seemed to me to be just too sweet....

He said quietly: "It isn't so much what you can do for me as what I can do for you, Mr. Gale. Do you see?" He stood simpering like a schoolgirl.

I asked him: "How do you know my name is Gale and what do you think you can do for me?"

His face took on an expression of bland superiority. "I'm an intelligent person, Mr. Gale, very intelligent For your information my name is Claude Weeps, although some of my friends absolutely kill me by calling me Claudette. It's a scream, isn't it?"

I said: "You're telling me. All right. We'll settle for the facts that your friends call you Claudette, that you're very intelligent and that your name's Weeps. Let's go on from there."

"I'm in the antique and interior decorating business," he said with a smirk. "Actually, I'm a first-class artist in decor, but these days it's so necessary to be commercial. I have a little arrangement with most of the hotel porters in Melquay by which they advise me of the arrival of ladies and gentlemen who seem to have some money to spend. I was told about you and I remembered something...."

"I remembered—and I've a fearfully good memory—that soon after the War ended the newspapers published a story about a crack secret agent who'd done all sorts of fearfully exciting things in the War. His name was Nicholas Gale. And the newspapers also published a picture. It was your picture, Mr. Gale."

"I wondered what you were doing down here," he said, he leaned towards me and a whiff of his hair-dressing hit me like a gas attack. "And to-night, when I saw you having a conversation with Mrs. Ellerdene, something in my brain went click... but click. And then I knew what you were doing here, Mr. Gale. I just knew. You're down here to find out who arranged that too frightfully funny paragraph about Denise Ellerdene—the one in the Mapletor paper. So I came out here and waited by the cars until you came out."

"All right," I said. We began to walk down the hill towards the parking lot where I had left my car. When we got there I unlocked the door and got in. I opened the passenger door.

He got into the car. I started the engine; backed out of the line of cars; drove out by the side entrance and headed in the direction of Mapletor.

After a little while, I lighted a cigarette and slowed down to thirty. I said: "Well... why don't you get it off your chest?"

He laughed softly. Not at all a pleasant laugh, I thought. Then: "It isn't quite so easy as that, Mr. Gale. You see, I have to make my living. I'm a worker—but definitely a worker. And I have to think of my future...."

I said: "I bet you have. Well... how much and what have you got to sell for it?"

"You're fearfully brusque, aren't you?" he said. There was a note of annoyance in his voice. "But since you ask the questions I'll answer them."

He settled back in the passenger seat. I had the idea that he was enjoying himself.

He said: "If you're down here to find out about that fearfully scandalous thing in the Mapletor paper then I expect you're working for old Ellerdene. He's fearfully rich... but rich. I mean positively ill with money. So he'd pay you an awful lot if you fixed things and found out who it was. Well... I could let you know. I could tell you all about it. You see, I'm no fool. I told you I was very intelligent. It didn't take me long to find out." He laughed softly to himself.

He turned his face towards me and smiled. One end of his mouth went up and the other down. He looked like Satan trying to impersonate a cherub. He gave me the willies.

He shrugged his shoulders. Then, casually: "I said I could tell you all about it. I didn't say I was going to do so. In any event, I should have to think about it."

I said: "All right. You think about it. But if you've got anything to say that I think is worth while you can have quite a wad of folding money for it."

"It's an Americanism," I said. "It means enough notes to fold—a lot of money."

There was a silence. Then I thought of something. I said: "If you can tell me who was responsible for the Denise Ellerdene libel and prove it, I'll give you five hundred pounds."

When he spoke there was a note of excitement in his voice. He said: "That's quite a lot of money."

I pulled the car into the side of the quiet road. I threw my cigarette stub away and lighted a fresh one. I was thinking quickly. I decided to chance it.

I said: "Listen to me. I discussed this thing with Mrs. Ellerdene to-night. She seemed not to be very keen on having this matter investigated. She said she believed in letting sleeping dogs lie—"

He interrupted: "She would. She's a fool. I don't like her. And she's stuck-up and conceited. But I can believe what you say. She wouldn't want this thing to be raked up."

I went on: "John Ellerdene didn't know that I was going to talk to her about this. She suggested to me that it might be a good thing if I hung about for a few days and then told him that there was no hope of getting to the bottom of the business; that I intended to give the case up. I told her that I might be persuaded to that point of view. So she gave me a cheque for five hundred pounds—an open cheque—to do just that thing."

He looked at me. In the half-light I could see his eyes shining like a cat's eyes. He asked: "What are you going to do?"

I grinned at him. "I'm going to give you the cheque she gave me. You can go and cash it in the morning and then you can come back to me and talk."

He simpered at me. "Do you think I'm such a fool. If I go into the bank with that cheque they'll want me to endorse it. And when it eventually goes back to Mrs. Ellerdene she'll know I cashed it. She might suspect something. She might—"

I took Mrs. Ellerdene's cheque out of my pocket; turned on the interior light so that he could see the cheque. Then I took out my fountain pen and endorsed the cheque with my own name, 'Nicholas Gale.' I handed him the cheque.

"The Bank won't ask you to endorse the cheque now," I said. "I've endorsed it. And when the cancelled cheque is returned to her she'll believe I've had the money. Is that good enough for you?"

"Yes," he said. I could hear the elation in his voice. "Yes... I'll cash the cheque in the morning. But there's only one snag. But definitely a snag."

"I'll still have to think it over," he said. "I can't give you my answer until to-morrow. But I'll cash the cheque in the morning and I'll telephone you at the Court Hotel just after lunch. I'll tell you then just where to meet me—somewhere where we won't be seen together. When I meet you I'll do one of two things. I'll either have to tell you that I feel I ought not to say what I know, in which case I'll give you the five hundred pounds back again, or I'll be prepared to tell you the whole story and keep the money. Is that all right with you? You can trust me you know. But definitely."

I gave him another grin. "I trust you. Do as you suggest. I'll expect you to call me after lunch-time to-morrow at the Court."

I turned the nose of the car back towards Melquay. I dropped him at the end of a quiet street leading off the front.

When he got out of the car he gave me one of his twisted smiles. Then he said: "You know, you may think it a bit premature but I like you quite a lot. I think you're awfully nice. Good night."

I said good night. When he'd gone, I thought to myself: Just wait a minute, Claudette, and you'll find you don't like me at all.

I DROVE around for a bit and stopped outside a telephone call-box near the Melquay Country Club.

I parked the car, went into the box and called the Melquay Police Station. I asked to speak to the Divisional Detective-Inspector, or if he was off duty the officer who was answering for him. They told me Detective-Inspector MacAndrew was there.

When I was put through I gave him the line I'd rehearsed. I said: "Mr. MacAndrew, my name's Nicholas Gale. Maybe you've heard of it sometime. During the War I worked with Charlie Daggas, between M.I.5 and the Special Branch on counter-espionage, and with Superintendent Lomax, who was lent to the Army to work with the Parachute Agents' Training School. Does my name mean anything to you? If it doesn't, you can check in the morning."

"I've heard your name, Mr. Gale," he said. "Naturally, if it's important I'll have to check with London. What can I do for you?"

"It's not a very important thing," I said. "I'm down here in Melquay on a private investigation for the Linnane Agency in London. I'm staying at the Court Hotel. I wonder if you know a young man who lives down here called Claude Weeps."

He laughed. "Yes... I know him. Everybody does. He runs an antique and decorating business. He's as sharp as needles. A very strange young man—if you can call him a man. We've nothing against him if that's what you mean."

"I knew his father years ago," I said. "Young Weeps has played a rather dirty trick on me, and I want to teach him a lesson if you'll help me. The position is just this: I met him to-night and he asked me to lend him some money—quite a sum. Apparently he's in some sort of jam. I asked him how much he wanted and it seemed he wanted several hundred pounds. I told him that was nonsense and took out my note-case intending to offer him ten pounds or so. Accidentally, whilst talking to him I dropped the case and he helped me pick up a few letters and notes that fell out. There was an open cheque for five hundred pounds in my case and it's gone."

"I'm damned certain he did," I answered. "And I wonder if you'll do this for me. My belief is that he'll go to the Bank first thing in the morning and cash that cheque. It's for five hundred pounds, made payable to 'Cash,' drawn by Violet Ellerdene, with the words 'please pay cash' and an additional signature written across the crossing. I'd endorsed the cheque 'Nicholas Gale.' I want you to put a man on the Bank to-morrow morning—it's the Maynton Road Branch of the Capital and Counties Bank—and check if he cashes it. Just that. I've an appointment with him to-morrow afternoon, and if he's cashed that cheque and admits it, I'll get the money off him, give him a hell of a scare and let it go at that. If he's cashed the cheque and got rid of the money, and denies that he did it, I'm going to charge him. If I do, you'll have all the evidence you want."

He said: "That's all right, Mr. Gale. I'll do that. I'll put a man on in the Bank to-morrow morning first thing. We'll fake up an excuse for doing that. If he goes in and cashes the cheque I'll telephone you. Then, after you've seen him, you can ask us to arrest him and lay a charge or not as you think best."

I thought that Claudette might be intelligent, but the trouble was that he wasn't intelligent enough.

Chapter Three
WEDNESDAY: DENISE

I TURNED over on my back and floated. The sea was warm and buoyant. I felt almost happy. I began to think about Lana and then gave it up, mainly because she seemed a hell of a way away and a hell of a long time ago—if you know what I mean. The scene had changed and the new scene didn't fit in with memories.

I turned over and swam out to sea. Then I did some more floating. I began to think about John Ellerdene who wanted the libel thing cleared up, his wife Violet who didn't, and Claude Weeps, whose eye seemed to be on the main chance and the prospect of money. I wondered just how much Claude knew and where he'd got it from.

For me the whole thing began to seem good, because there had to be development. First of all there was going to be some sort of reaction from Mrs. Ellerdene when she found I'd taken her money and not said my piece to John Ellerdene and cleared out of Melquay as she'd suggested. And there certainly was going to be one hell of a reaction from Claude when he discovered the spot I'd put him in, and that he'd got to get out of it—my way.

I played with the idea of going to see the Editor of the Melquay Record and asking him what he thought about it. But I only played with the idea—and not for long. I've always found that it pays to keep an investigation down to as few people as possible. And what could the Editor tell me anyhow? If he knew who'd put the libel in the paper he'd have done something about it. He didn't know, and he wasn't likely to know anything else. Why should he?

The one thing that was as plain as a dead whale on a sandbank was that whoever had pulled the job had done a very nice piece of work. A clever one, that one. He'd done what he wanted and covered his tracks apparently successfully, which is what most crooks don't do.

Whoever was behind the business must have had some motive—however obscure—for wanting to get back at Denise, and it could have been a man, a woman—or both. If Denise was cold and didn't like men, then it was on the cards she'd given the air to some character at some time or other, and maybe he was keen to try and stop her from marrying Tredinor. Just out of spite. Men—especially when they think they're stuck on a woman—can be as spiteful as any schoolgirl. Maybe they told you about that?

If it was a woman she was up against, the same argument held. The best revenge for a woman would be to stop the Tredinor marriage and put Denise's nose out of joint in the best—or worst—possible way. And if it was a woman and she discovered that the marriage was still going to take place, it was all the tea in China to a stale egg that she'd try something else.

Which made me think that John Ellerdene was right in trying to find the nigger in the woodpile.

I turned over and swam to the shore. I walked to my hired bathing tent; had a rub down; dressed; went back to the Court Hotel. When I got there the girl on the telephone switchboard said there was a message for me and asked me to ring a number.

I went into the call-box at the end of the hallway and called the number. It was MacAndrew—the Divisional Detective-Inspector.

He said: "The person you mentioned went into the Bank just after it opened this morning and cashed the cheque. He took the money in five-pound notes."

I thanked him. I told him that if I decided to get tough about it I'd call him later, go to his office and make a charge. He said all right.

At two-thirty I went up to my room. Five minutes later he came through on the telephone. His voice seemed amiable and satisfied.

He said softly: "I want to see you, Mr. Gale. I've some news for you. Could we meet at five o'clock?"

I said that would suit me, and he arranged to meet me at the cocktail bar at a place called Sheppeys on the Mapletor road.

I took off some clothes, lay down on the bed and went to sleep. I sleep at any time. You never know when you're going to need it.

But before I went off I did a little more thinking about Mrs. Ellerdene. I thought she was a very attractive woman. I remembered her walk, her good figure, youthful skin and hair. I thought that John Ellerdene was a good twelve to fifteen years older than his wife.

And she was at a time of life when women are inclined to fly off the handle. Especially a woman as attractive as she was. And especially when she'd been mixing with, and entertaining, a bunch of American flyers who—believe it or not—are not inclined to worry a hell of a lot about a woman's age provided she's got what it takes. And Mrs. Ellerdene had what it takes and she knew it.

I GOT up at four o'clock, took a shower, dressed, drank four cups of tea, got out the car and drove towards the Mapletor road. The afternoon was perfect and I thought it would be very good if Lana were sitting in the passenger seat beside me. I decided that one of these fine days when I had time I'd get to work on Lana and try and make her see sense. One of these days....

Sheppeys was a small hotel five miles down the Mapletor road. The white-jacketed bar-tender was polishing glasses, and Claude Weeps was sitting in the corner of the deserted cocktail bar drinking lemonade and looking like all the flowers in May. He wore a pale-grey suit, brown shoes, a fawn silk shirt and a grey silk tie with a thin violet stripe.

I bought a whisky and soda and carried it over to his table. I sat down and lit a cigarette. He looked at me with his usual twisted smile.

He said: "I've got bad news for you. I'm fearfully sorry, but there it is. I've thought things over and I've decided that I ought not to talk to you about that business. I feel it just wouldn't be right. And here's your money. I'm so sorry."

I took the wad of notes and counted it. Then I put the hundred five-pound notes in my pocket.

I said: "No, Claudette.... No, it isn't as easy as that. You're going to talk quite a lot and the joke is you're going to do it for nothing."

I grinned at him. "You must think I'm a goddam fool. You don't really believe I'm letting you get away with this, do you?"

He said: "What do you mean?" His voice was acid and his nostrils twitched unpleasantly.

"Listen, Sweetheart," I told him, "and listen carefully. Last night you took that cheque from me before you'd made up your mind to talk to me. You said you'd have to think it over. If you wanted to think it over, why did you bother to take the cheque then? Why not have waited until this afternoon, by which time I should have cashed the cheque and you could have taken the notes from me when you'd given me the information? Shall I tell you why?"

"You had to have that cheque this morning," I said. "You had to have the cheque, so that you could cash it, and then go to somebody and tell them that you'd been offered five hundred pounds to spill the beans about the libel. And you had to have the money to show them. That's why you took the cheque last night. You never, at any moment, intended to tell me what you knew."

"All right," I said. "But that's nothing to how you're going to feel in a minute." I grinned at him. "You never intended to tell me," I went on, "because you knew that when you showed that somebody the five hundred pounds, that somebody was going to tell you to return it to me and say nothing, because he—or she—would give you a damned sight more. See?"

"Nothing," he said shortly. He was feeling better now. His mouth was quiet and his eyes were as hard as diamonds.

I shook my head. "You're going to do plenty," I told him. "You're going to tell me everything you know. Every little thing. You're going to tell how you know, and about all the people in it, and why and how and wherefore. You're going to give me the whole book."

He took out a yellow and white gold striped cigarette case, extracted a cigarette and lighted it. I could see his hand trembling.

"All right," I said. "Nuts to me. Now listen. Last night I telephoned MacAndrew, the D.D.I. at the Police Station here, and told him a little fairy story. I told him that I believed you'd stolen that cheque when I dropped my wallet last night. I said that if you cashed it this morning, and didn't return the money and promise to be a good boy, I'd turn you in. He had a man at the Bank this morning. The police know you cashed that cheque; that you took one hundred fivers—the money you've just given me. But banks don't keep the numbers of five-pound notes these days. See, Claudette? So you can't prove you handed it back to me. If you don't talk I'm going to turn you in, and it's not going to be so good for you. You won't have a dog's chance. You'll be finished."

The cigarette fell from his fingers on to the floor. His face was livid. When he spoke the words almost choked him.

"You fearful, awful bastard," he said. "How I'd like to murder you. I'd like to tear the lousy eyes out of your head. I'd like to..."

I let him finish. He told me what he'd like to do to me. It wasn't at all pleasant. Then I gave him a nice friendly grin.

He thought for a bit; then: "You've got me where you want me," he said. He shrugged his shoulders. "What does it matter? Someone had to know sooner or later."

He nodded. He didn't look at me. He looked at the floor. He was so full of hate for me that he could hardly keep still.

He said: "It is a long story. And there are some letters. You'll have to see the letters. And we can't talk here. Can you meet me to-night?"

"I've got a cottage," he said. "Near Gara Rock. I've got the letters there. I'll give them to you, and then I'll be through with the damned business. And I'll tell you the whole thing. I'm sick of it anyway."

"You'll have to drive from here to Kingsbridge, and then round the Estuary at Salcombe. You go to East Portlemouth, and from there to the top of Gara Rock. You'll have to leave your car by the Coastguard Cottages on the top. You can't miss them. Then you follow the cliff path towards Prawle Point. Fifteen minutes' walking from Gara Rock brings you to my cottage. It's the only one thereabouts. Can you be there at nine-thirty to-night?"

"Because, damn you, I've got a lot to do before then; you've put me in a hell of a hole, up to my neck."

I gave him another grin. "I was right, I suppose. Someone paid you plenty to hand me that money back and keep that twisted mouth of yours buttoned up."

He smiled at me viciously. "Perfectly right," he said. "And I've got to tell that person and give him his money back, and it's going to be hell for me."

"Blackmail's a tough game," I told him. "Certainly too tough for you. This is where the bill comes in."

He raised his eyebrows. "D'you think so?" He grinned unpleasantly. "I'm not finished yet—even if I have got to talk to you. Not by a long chalk."

I got up. "I'm not arguing with you, Claudette. I shall be at the cottage at Gara Rock at nine-thirty. I expect to find you there, and I want the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. If you're not there I'll go to the Police Station and lay a charge against you."

"I'll be there," he said. "Perhaps you won't be so happy when you know the truth. Perhaps you'll be sorry you were so very clever and so awfully tough and he-mannish." He giggled.

I drove back to the hotel; ordered a whisky and soda in be sent up to my room; drank it; thought about Claudette.

He'd do that because he had to. He was rooted in Melquay; had his business there and probably made a good thing out of it. He was smart all right. Probably he was doing a bit of blackmail on the side. And you'd be surprised if you knew the amount of blackmail that's being done all around the place these days. It's almost a profession.

In the meantime, he would have to go and tell Whoever-it-was that he'd got to talk, and hand the money back. That meant that he was a little scared of Whoever-it-was. And the probability was that Whoever-it-was would then turn his attention to me. Maybe he'd try and bribe me. I thought that might be rather nice and lead to some more good clean fun.

He said: "Hey, Nicky... is this like old times, or is this like old times? I got here an hour ago. I'm stayin' at Lindle's Hotel, just over the railway crossing at Mapletor. The 'phone number is Mapletor 270. This is a really nice spot, an' the view from my window lookin' towards the Bay is very colourful. An' the view from the east of the baby in the bar here when she's walkin' north is very colourful too. What's cookin'?"

"Yeah," he said. "The whole works. An' very interesting it is too. It's got possibilities. Where do I go from here?"

"Get around generally," I said. "And check up on those people. First of all, Mrs. Ellerdene. Get a line on her; what she does, what her hobbies are, what she was doing during the War years, and anything you can pick up. Then there's a pansy called Claude Weeps. He runs an antique and interior decorating business here. Check on his credit and money generally. Try and get a line on his friends. Play it very quietly and don't give any one any ideas. Have you got that?"

"Denise Ellerdene, the girl the libel was about, had a maid," I went on. "A Scotswoman named Mary McDougal, about fifty. I believe she's left the Ellerdene family now. Try and find out why she left. Get a line on her and her general background. Try and find out where she's gone to."

"Call me to-morrow around midday," I said. "You'd better call me even if you haven't got anything. Maybe I'll have something by then."

I went down to the cocktail bar and drank a couple of very dry Martinis. I sat in a corner drinking Martini and trying to think about Lana. But she seemed even longer ago, and further away, than she had that morning.

And every time I tried to concentrate on her face, the lousy dead-white pan of Claudette got in the way.

That's how it was. I thought that before I could really get down to thinking about Lana I'd have to get this Ellerdene business out of my system. The two things didn't seem to agree.

I concluded just that. I drank another Martini on the strength of it and read the evening papers.

I STOPPED the car about ten yards from the spot where the road ran over the cliff edge. I parked underneath a tree off the road, a few yards to the left of the old Coastguard Cottage. I went round the front of the cottage, through a wicket gate, and began to walk along the cliff path.

It was dusk, but even so the view was amazing. In front of me the white path wound its way along the sloping cliff.

The cliffs were overgrown with grass and gorse and herd and there a little clump of trees stood in the most unexpected places. Half a mile away, where the path hugged the edge of the cliff, the terrain sloped downward towards the sea. Somewhere about the cliff face was the Weeps' cottage.

I lighted a cigarette. Inside, I was feeling almost happy, if you know what I mean. If you don't, I can only say that the pleasant feeling was born of the fact that I wasn't bored. Which meant, of course, that I'd begun to develop an interest in the Ellerdene libel.

And an interest in Claude. Claude, I thought, was going to be very interesting. I was looking forward to the interview, because it had to be interesting. Work it out for yourself:

Claude was going to talk to me because he had to talk to me and not because he really wanted to. Yet, in the first place, when he'd met me the night before at the Palace Hotel he'd suggested that he could help me—if he wanted; that he knew all there was to be known about the libel, and who was responsible.

But he didn't intend to talk to me. He was merely using me to raise the ante. He hoped that I'd offer him money to talk, and when he found that I was prepared to give him Mrs. Ellerdene's cheque he was delighted because he knew that with the five hundred pounds he could bump the ante plenty. He knew that Whoever-it-was would have to pay good and hard to beat the five hundred.

I'd given him the cheque because I knew he was playing his own hand. I knew that when he took the cheque and said he couldn't make up his mind until the next day. That play was so old that it creaked.

Now, at first thought, it would be easy to suppose that the person who had overbid me to keep Claude quiet was the one responsible for the libel. It would be easy to suppose that and it would be wrong. If Claude knew that Whoever-a was was responsible for the libel, then he was also smart enough to know that in concealing that information from the authorities he had made himself an accomplice after the fact, because the libel was a criminal libel and the Melquay Record had been forced to pay five thousand in damages for something for which the proprietors and Editor were not, in fact, morally responsible. Claude was smart enough to know that if it came out that he had known all along who had got that libel into the newspaper, then he was for the high-jump. He'd be finished in Melquay anyhow, and when John Ellerdene and the Melquay Record were through with him he'd look like something that the cat brought in.

But he was still able to be cocky. To tell me that he wasn't finished yet. That seemed to me to indicate that Claude had stumbled somehow on to a third party. Someone who knew about the libel; who knew who was actually responsible for it and how it had got into the paper. Someone who could be got at easily; someone who would pay Claude well to keep quiet. Just because he—or she—did not want to be dragged into an unpleasant business.

And Claude was going back to this person—the mysterious Whoever-it-was—to tell him—or her—that owing to a most peculiar set of circumstances he'd got to talk to me in order to save his own skin. And Claude, I imagined, was going to return the money that Whoever-it-was had paid because he'd got to talk to me.

I followed the path round the sharp bend of the cliff and stopped to admire the view. Here the cliff retreated in a curve, forming a wide clearing with the cliff wall sloping upwards behind it. The clearing was about a hundred yards across at its widest part, and the cottage, set under the lee of the cliff, was approached by a narrow track cut through the thick gorse and edged with white stones.

It was one-storeyed, built of stone with a red-tiled roof. A creeper grew on one side of it, and there was a big dog kennel, with a broken dog chain hanging from a staple, on the near side.

I looked at my wrist-watch. It was nine-thirty. I lighted a cigarette. Then I walked along the track to the cottage and tried the door. It was unlocked. I pushed it open and went inside. There was a switch on the wall in the usual place. I flicked it on and found myself in a tiny hall formed by a wooden partition. I pushed open the door and walked into the main room of the cottage.

The room was fairly large and well furnished. There was a good carpet on the board floor. There was an antique refectory table, a big writing-desk and some armchairs. In the corner, on the left, was another door.

I went over and opened it, switched on the light and looked into a bedroom which took up the rest of the cottage area, and in which a small bathroom had been partitioned off on the far side. Here the furniture was good and, even if the decoration of the room was distinctly effeminate and fanciful, it was comfortable and easy to look at.

I turned off the light in the bedroom and went back into the sitting-room. I walked over to the desk and looked at it. There was a note lying in the centre of the blotter addressed to "Nicholas Gale, Esq." The handwriting was irregular, spidery and badly spaced. I opened the envelope and drew out the sheet of paper inside. There were five words written on it. They were:

I put the note and the envelope in my pocket and stood looking at the desk. I was thinking that the last words I had spoken to Claude Weeps were 'nuts to you.' The five words on the sheet of paper seemed an apt reply. A sort of delayed 'soldier's farewell.'

Maybe I'd been wrong about Claude. It could be. Maybe he hadn't gone back to tell the sad news to Whoever-it-was and return the money he'd been paid to keep quiet. Maybe the money had been big enough for Claude to weigh his Melquay assets against the cash in hand and conclude that it would pay him better to take a run-out powder.

Somebody switched off the light from the hallway. Now the room was in darkness except for a dim patch of light from the window, which was partly covered by a half-drawn curtain.

Steps—quite a few steps—came into the room. I could just discern three bulky figures in the dim light.

I stepped round the desk and leaned against the wall. I dropped the cigarette and put my foot on it. My fingers, feeling quickly over the desk top at my side, found and closed over the heavy ink-well.

"Well... well... Mr. Gale," said a voice. "Just fancy seein' you. We thought we'd like to 'ave a little talk, Mr. Gale. Just for the good of your 'ealth. We thought—"

I threw the ink-well at the Voice. Somebody cursed, and the real business of the evening began.

I hadn't a dog's chance from the start. Three to one in a confined space doesn't allow for tactics. Somebody hit me a glancing blow with a black-jack and before the reaction had passed I won a terrific right swing to the jaw, a kick beneath the knee and a short-arm jab under the heart.

I'd had it. I slumped forward on to my knees and reached out to grab some of the legs in front of me.

It didn't work. A glancing kick in the neck decided me that I'd do better upright. I managed to get back against the wall.

Two sets of hands forced me back against the wall. Somebody's foot cracked against my shin-bone just to remind me that sometimes it pays to be quiet.

I could feel a thin stream of blood running down my face. I thought that maybe Claude wasn't so unintelligent after all....

The Voice said: "You like bleedin' ink-wells, do you? Well, you can 'ave one... all to yourself... you jerk!—"

A hand yanked back the window curtain; a little more light came into the room. The Voice was standing right in front of me. I could hear the heavy breathing of the two men who had me spreadeagled against the wall.

The Voice said, not unpleasantly: "You gotta learn to mind your own bleedin' business, Mister Gale. See? An' you mustn't go about the place tryin' to frighten pore little mugs like Claude Weeps. It's not kind, see? You got anything to say, Mr. Gale? Be pleasant now...."

"An' you like ink-wells, don't you?" the Voice continued. "You like throwin' 'em about. All right.... Well, 'ere's one for you!"

I tried to judge the time. When I thought it was coming, I jerked my head sideways. The ink-well—the top broken—was pushed into the side of my face. I felt the jagged edge cut into my nose. Some very pretty stars began to dance up and down in front of my eyes.

The two men moved away. I slumped against, the wall. The business of trying to concentrate was beginning to be very difficult. A fog was coming down in front of my eyes.

"Well... so long, Mister Gale," said the Voice. "You be a good boy an' mind your own bleedin' business. See? Because I don't want no more trouble with you, because if we 'ave any more trouble with you we're goin' to carve you up.... See? We'll make a razor job of you an' you won't be so nice-lookin' when we've done."

The punch came on the last word. A full swing to the side of the jaw. It shook me right down to my ankles. I felt myself slithering down the wall. The floor began to come up slowly towards me.

I lay on the floor and waited for it. I knew it was coming but I didn't know where. These sort of jobs always end with a kick. Dimly, almost impersonally, I decided it would be the face.

I moved one hand slowly along the floor. The idea was to cover my face. But the hand never got there. A heavy boot trod on it. My fingers closed over the boot. I suppose the idea in my half-dead brain was to try and stop the kick that was coming. I began to think in a dull sort of fashion about the boot.

It was a heavy boot, shod with clumps of hobnails set in the thick sole. I wondered why clumps of hobnails were always set in threes. At the moment it seemed interesting. My fingers moved and found a clump with only one hobnail. Two were missing. I thought, a trifle hysterically, that the Voice would soon have to get its boots repaired.

The boot was jerked from my weak and fumbling fingers. The Voice said: "Feelin' playful, Mister Gale... naughty Mr. Gale? How's this, Mister Gale?"

I got my hand to my face before the kick arrived. But it wasn't my face. The boot crashed into my stomach. And the few seconds before the darkness came down were much too long for me.

COMING out was like coming up from the bottom of the sea. A dead black sea. It was a long time before I remembered. They had drawn the curtain across the window before they left and the room was in pitch-black darkness. My mind, numbed, fumbling for some fact to take hold of, seemed hypnotised by the inky blackness.

I was lying on my side with my legs drawn up and my head against the wall. One side of my face was throbbing badly from the broken ink-well cut. There was a nasty, dull aching pain across my stomach, stretching right down to the abdomen. That wasn't so good. But it also wasn't so bad. I've been kicked in the guts before, and I like the after-effects to be a dull ache, which usually means a big internal bruise, rather than the nasty symptoms of hemorrhage that very often mean curtains for one.

I didn't feel so good. I tried moving, but it took a great deal of concentration, and the effort brought a fresh series of aches and cuts into operation. I had a headache that I couldn't have wished on a yellow snake, and every time I moved my stomach heaved.

I rolled over on to my face and got my hands on the ground. I levered myself up on to my knees. I knelt, sweating with pain, trying to summon up enough will-power to get moving towards the door that led into the bedroom. All I wanted was water.

I started moving. It took a long time to get to the door and when I got there the effort of feeling about for the door knob wasn't easy. Eventually I got the door open, found the place where I thought the switch was, reached up for it and snapped the light on. The effort was too much for me. I fell back on to the floor and took another five minutes' rest. Spasms of nausea swept over me.

But I was getting on nicely. And I speeded up the progress by thinking about the Voice and its hobnailed boots, and planning just what I'd like to do to that character if and when I got the chance. That helped a lot.

I lay on the floor with my head towards the sitting-room doorway, looking into the dark room.

I had another spasm of nausea. And, although the sitting-room light was on, I couldn't see. But I heard the swish. The swish of a woman's long, silk skirts as she moved in my direction.

Somebody said in a low and rather sad voice: "Don't-move and don't bother about anything. I'll get you some water."

I liked that. And I liked having my temples bathed with a cold-water sponge whilst a soft hand held my head. Things, I thought, were taking a slight turn for the better.

She said: "Just relax. I don't think it's awfully bad. Don't worry about opening your eyes for a little while. I expect you have a bad headache. Soon we'll try and get you on to the bed. Don't try to talk."

I didn't. And I didn't bother about opening my eyes, because I had got a hell of a headache. Somebody was pounding inside my head with a sledge-hammer, and my jaw felt as if it belonged to somebody else. I lay there for quite a bit.

Then: "Now you must make an effort," she said. She helped me turn over on my face and from there, with her help, I got to my knees, and then up. After a rest, I managed to stagger across to the bed and fall on it. I felt her lift my legs on to the bed, and then I passed out again.

When I came to, there was a wet cloth on my forehead and over my eyes. I took a few deep breaths and came to the conclusion that, all things considered, I wasn't feeling so bad. I thought it was time I took an interest in life.

I opened my eyes and took a look. Then I closed them again because I just didn't believe it. I thought it was too good to be true. Then I opened my eyes and looked again and realised that it wasn't a pipe dream. She really did exist.

She was standing close to the bed looking down at me. Her white summer ermine coat was thrown over the chair in the corner. She wore a white moire-satin evening-gown cut with a long crinoline skirt. Her shoulders, neck, arms and face were of that soft tan that only grows on people who are normally blessed with milk-white skins, but who swim, walk and spend most of their time in the sun. Her face was oval, framed by honey-coloured hair that hung to her shoulders; her eyebrows were dark and unplucked, and her sapphire-blue eyes were shaded by long lashes. She was tall, slender, but curved in the right places. She was unique.

"You," I said. "I must be seeing things. It isn't possible for any female to be as beautiful as that."

She smiled. It was an odd sort of smile. Her red lips opened and showed perfect teeth. But she didn't smile with her eyes. They were still and unhappy.

"I'm going to try and find something for you to drink," she said. "You need it. Perhaps there'll be some brandy."

I looked at my hands. The right one was dirty and bloodstained from the Voice's boot.

"I'd like that," I told her. "And if you can find a wet towel for my hands I'd be glad."

She nodded. Then she went into the partitioned bathroom. I heard a drawer open and shut and the water running. She came back with the wet towel.

"I'm afraid I had to use your handkerchief for your head," she said. She gave me the towel. "Now I'll try and find you a drink."

She went into the sitting-room. I lay back on the pillow, looking at the ceiling, wondering what a lovely young woman, in a white moire evening-frock and a summer ermine coat, was doing at ten-thirty at night in Claude Weeps' lonely cottage near Gara Rock. I couldn't think of the answer to that one, and I was too tired to try guessing.

She came back. She moved swiftly, gracefully. She carried a bottle of brandy and a glass.

"I found this brandy," she said. She poured out a good two inches and held the glass to my lips. I took it from her; sat up; rested my head against the wall behind me.

The brandy tasted good. I held the glass out and she gave me another shot. I drank that and began to feel a little more interested in life.

She moved to the chair over which her coat was draped; brought it near to the bed; sat down; crossed her legs. Her large eyes looked at me sadly. She didn't say anything.

She shook her head. She said softly: "I'm not curious. If you want to tell me, you'll tell me."

I nodded. "I was rough-housed by three not-so-nice individuals about an hour before you showed up," I told her. "They didn't like me a bit. Not a little bit. D'you know why I'm in this part of the world?"

"I work for the Linnane organisation," I said. "I came down here on your father's business. I'm employed to find out who put that not very pretty libel in the Melquay Record—the one about you."

She got up and picked up her coat. She felt in the inside pocket and handed me a folded sheet of paper. I opened it. It was an ordinary sheet of quarto typing paper, and typed in the centre were these words:

If you would like to know all about that paragraph in "The Melquay Record" and who put it there and the whole damned bag of tricks, go out to Weeps' cottage at Gara Rock at ten-thirty.

"I was with some friends at a dance at the Palace Hotel," she said. "The note was brought to the hall porter by a boy belonging to a Melquay Messenger Service. It was handed to me at nine-thirty. I came out here at once. I knocked on the door and, when there was no answer, opened it and came in. I put the light on and saw you lying in the bedroom doorway." She shrugged her shoulders. "You know the rest."

"Yes," she said. "He has a business in Melquay. He did some work—decorations—at my father's house. My mother employed him. I don't think I liked him very much. But I don't know him at all well. I spoke to him once, I think."

I found my cigarette case. I offered her a cigarette. She refused it. She took my lighter from my bruised fingers. She came close to me to light the cigarette. I thought she was a hell of a woman; that I'd never seen any one quite so devastatingly beautiful or with so much of that peculiar quality of allure in my life. I thought that the Ellerdene case was going to be very interesting. I thought a lot of things.

She reached down for the bottle and poured another shot. She gave me the glass. Then she sat down. She was relaxed, quiet. But the expression of sadness stayed in her eyes. Looking at her I thought that it had become part of her. I could understand that too....

The brandy had begun to circulate inside me. I was feeling better. I got up and tried a little walking. The pain in my guts was pretty bad, but that was to be expected, I thought. You can't have everything....

I said: "I'm going to talk to you. I'm going to give you the whole story. You ought to know it anyhow. And you might be able to help."

She said nothing. Her big, sapphire-blue eyes rested steadily on mine. I had the impression that she was weighing me up.

I told her the lot. The whole book. About her mother and Weeps and my date with him at the cottage, and his not being there when I arrived. I asked her what she thought about it.

She was silent for a little while; then she said: "It seems that Weeps must have known someone who knew about the libel. He told them that he was forced to talk to you. They gave him quite a lot of money to go away so that he shouldn't talk. Do you think that might be right?"

She asked: "But who sent that note to me? It couldn't have been Weeps. He'd have gone, surely, by the time I received it. Who could have sent that note to me—and why?"

"Weeps sent it," I told her. "After his talk with me this afternoon, he went off and saw Whoever-it-was—the person who paid him not to tell me. He told Whoever-it-was that he'd got to tell me. So they gave him enough money to make it worth his while to get out. But he'd sent that note round to the Messenger Office earlier to be delivered to you some time in the evening. He'd really intended to meet me here at nine-thirty and talk to me and show me the letters he'd told me about. He'd really meant to do that. And he sent that note to you so that you should turn up here at ten-thirty—after he'd had time to shoot the whole works to me—so that you should know the truth. So that you should have the whole story in my presence. But after he'd sent that note round for delivery to you, Whoever-it-was came across in a very big way and Claude—who likes easy money—decided to forget Melquay and his business and get out. That's what I think."

There was a silence; then she said: "I believe you're right." She looked at her wrist-watch. "It is a quarter past eleven. How do you feel now? Do you think you'll be able to get back to Melquay?"

I tried walking round the room. I managed it all right. I said: "Yes. I'm all right. Just a few bruises and a few odd cuts—no real damage done. I've got my car outside the Coastguard Station. The walk will do me good. I suppose you came the other way?"

She said: "I walked along from the Prawle Point road. I left my car there. You're sure you'll be all right?"

I poured myself out another shot of brandy. I said: "With this, I shall be as good as new."

She picked up her coat. I helped her on with it. She moved into the sitting-room. In the middle of the floor she turned and faced me.

She said: "And even after this terrible beating you've had, you're going on with this, Mr. Gale?"

I grinned at her. "You bet I am. I want to find the character who kicked me in the stomach. I've got an account to settle with him."

"You think your mother was right?" I asked. "She wanted me to give it up. She thought it would be better for everybody if I packed up and went back to London; if I told your father that there wasn't anything to be done."

She said: "I think she was right. But I know my father...." She smiled. "I'm very fond of him. I don't think he'll ever rest until he finds out who was responsible for that report." She shrugged her shoulders. "I think he's wrong to think like that. But what can I do?" Her voice changed. She said very seriously: "You've made up your mind firmly that you're going on with this?"

She looked at the floor. She seemed very unhappy. Now I was standing close to her and a suggestion of her perfume came to my nostrils. I'm pretty hard-boiled but there was something about this girl—lovely as she was—that reminded me of the way a beaten dog looks at you—scared, but hoping against hope that it may get a pat instead of a kick.

She said in a low voice without looking at me: "I still believe it would be better for you to go away. I think it would be better for you; for me; for every one."

She nodded. I went into the bedroom and found the brandy bottle and the glass. I came back into the sitting-room and sat on the edge of the table. She was still standing where I'd left her.

I poured out a slug of brandy and drank it. I found that when I drank brandy the ache in my guts eased off a little. I liked that.

I said: "You're being foolish. If you listen to me for a minute you'll see what I mean. The person who got that libellous paragraph into the newspaper has got to be rounded up. He must be. For your sake, and for Tredinor's sake."

I found a cigarette and lighted it. My lips were so bruised I could hardly feel the cigarette between them.

I said: "Use your intelligence. Whoever put that thing in the paper did so for one reason. He wanted to get back at you. He wanted to stop your marriage with Tredinor and he picked what he thought was a sure way of doing it. Well... he was wrong. In spite of the fact that you asked for the marriage to be postponed Tredinor is still set on it. He's very much in love with you and he's going through with it. Right?"

"Do you think that our libellous friend is going to stand for that. Directly you marry Tredinor he's going to start off again. He's going to think something else up. Something perhaps even a little more juicy than the last time. That isn't going to be so good for you or Tredinor, is it? You'd be better off to have a little mud stirred now than a hell of a lot later."

"Because Tredinor is crazy about you—and I can understand that." I smiled at her. "He's discounted this lousy business and is just going on as if nothing had happened. That's because he's stuck on you. And because you're in love with him it's your duty to get this business cleared up before you marry him."

I thought about that one. I thought that in the Ellerdene case anything could happen at any time. You just didn't know a thing. You thought you did, but you didn't.

She shrugged her shoulders. There was a certain hopelessness in the gesture. Then: "I've never loved any man. I haven't even liked most of the men I've met. Just one or two. Of course, I'm fond of Eustace Tredinor. He's always been a good friend and he's good enough and decent enough to want to marry me after all this horrible business, and so I suppose I consider it a sort of duty to be done. But I don't love anybody."

I grinned at her. "If you don't get around to falling for some man some day, it's going to be a hell of a waste of woman."

There was silence; then she said: "So your mind is made up? You're going through with this business?"

She sat on the edge of the writing-desk. She said: "I wonder what sort of a man you are. Tell me about yourself."

I grinned. There was something about her that was surprising and very refreshing.

I said: "There's not a great deal to tell. From the time I was very young I've always been very fond of sticking my nose into other people's business. I suppose that's the reason I became an investigator. First of all I was an operative for the Transatlantic Agency in Canada. Then I worked for the Pinkerton outfit in America. That was a very good job, a very interesting job. You see, I like excitement."

"Then the war came," I told her. "Well, that seemed more exciting than anything else, so I came back here to England. My father was an Englishman, and I joined the Army. After Dunkirk, they discovered that I spoke two languages, so they took me out of the infantry and gave me another job. And eventually I went into the Special Air Service. That was exciting enough. They didn't seem to mind me either, because I got a commission; then I moved from the S.A.S. and became what people call an Agent."

I nodded. "As a Frenchman in the Marseilles area." I grinned. "But the Gestapo picked me up after a few months. That wasn't so good. However, I got out of that one too. And I got through the War. This job is my first job as a private investigator since I left the Service. It's quite like old times."

I said: "What's a beating-up between friends? This is nothing to what the Gestapo tried on me. They were really rough."

She looked at me for a long time. "I think you're a very hard, tough man. I think you're intelligent—clever. I think..." She paused again. "I think I'm going to trust you."

I said: "That's a good thing. If you don't trust people, you don't talk, and if you know anything that can help me, you ought to talk because, believe it or not, one of these fine days you'll have to."

She said: "Perhaps you're right." She raised her eyes from the floor. "In any event I'm going to trust you. I'm going to talk to you, Mr. Gale, although what I have to tell you is not going to make things any easier. But not to-night."

I said: "There's always to-morrow, and I don't even feel like listening just now." I gave her a smile. "Not that I want you to go. I like looking at you."

"I'll tell you," she answered. "About seven or eight miles from Totnes is the Forest Hills Country Club. It stands in its own grounds. Behind it, and three miles beyond it on the side road, is a little road-house called The Orange Hatch—one of those old houses which were converted into little dancing clubs during the war years; places that were filled with the American soldiers, sailors and airmen who-were quartered about here. But now it's almost desolate. No one ever goes there—just a few people. There is a little private cocktail lounge behind the dance floor. You can get into it by the side door. No one's likely to see us talking there. I'd like to talk to you to-morrow if I can—some time after dinner."

She shook her head. "No... it's an easy drive back afterwards. I'll see you then to-morrow night at ten o'clock. Good night, Mr. Gale." She went out of the cottage. I followed her to the doorway and watched her walking towards Prawle Point into the darkness. I turned and went inside. I stood in the middle of the sitting-room floor thinking.

I went into the bedroom. I crossed the room; went into the adjacent bathroom; filled the basin with cold water.

I looked around for a clean towel. I couldn't see one. Then I remembered hearing the girl open a drawer when she had brought me the wet towel.

There was a tall-boy in the corner with six drawers in it. I opened four of them and found the clean towels in the fifth. I took out a towel. I stood there, the towel in my hands.

I felt a definite sense of shock. When she'd gone to get me the wet towel she'd only opened one drawer. I'd heard it distinctly. But the towels were in the fifth drawer. I'd tried four drawers before I found them.

Chapter Four
THURSDAY: THE VOICE

WHEN the doctor had finished with me, I walked along the front and watched the people strolling about. The sun was shining and the gulls calling over the Bay. Everything was fine except me. I had a bruise on my stomach that looked like a map of Europe, and every time I moved a muscle sent out an SOS. The doctor said a week's rest and care would put me right. He was an optimist. I had as much chance of getting a week's rest as the proverbial celluloid rat in hell—or of the doctor believing the story I'd told him about getting cock-eyed and falling down the stairs.

I went back and got the car. I stopped the car at the call-box near the Melquay Country Club and called through to Finney. Then I drove over to Mapletor.

I found him sitting in the bar at Lindle's hotel in Mapletor. He had a large whisky and soda in front of him and the usual packet of Lucky Strikes was on the table. I ordered myself a drink and sat down.

He said: "Not so much. But maybe it's gonna help. I been gettin' around. It looks like the place where everything usta happen in these parts was at the Forest Hills Country Club. There's a baby behind the bar there who's got plenty. And can she talk?"

I said: "Go on." I didn't feel like listening to a long spiel about his latest bar conquest.

He went on: "She was there right throughout the war, and she knows everybody. An' she knows the Ellerdene family well. Mrs. Ellerdene and the girl Denise usta throw parties for servicemen at Forest Hills."

"Yeah," said Finney, "she knew him all right. Who didn't? Believe me, that boy was a load of mischief."

"Good-lookin'," said Finney. "And a terrific flyer. The number of Jerries that guy shot out of the sky was just nobody's business. They reckon he was an ace battle pilot. But when he got down on the floor he sorta went hay-wire, see? He didn't know when to stop drinkin'. An' he was crazy about women—any woman."

"Everybody seemed to wanta take a hand at reformin' this mug," Finney went on. "Everybody except Denise Ellerdene. The babe in the bar said she was a very quiet type; that she had the idea that Denise wasn't stuck on this business of entertainin' the troops; that she looked like the sort of girl who wanted a quiet life. You know, walkin' an' ridin' an' ponderin' about life generally. The idea seemed to be that she wasn't stuck on guys in general. Mrs. Ellerdene was the one who was keen on reformin' Allen, She thought he was too good a type to be racketin' about the way he was."

He finished his whisky; went to the bar; got another; brought it back and sat down. He took a gulp; then: "I found out about her. Everybody liked her. She'd been with the Ellerdene family for a long time. This McDougal was about fifty-five years of age—a sort of personal maid to Denise. She was very fond of Denise. It looks like she was one of those tough Scotch dames—a Presbyterian or something—usta go to church twice every Sunday."

"She was sick," said Finney. "Maybe you got this alibi for Roakes—the foreman compositor—at the back of your head?" He grinned at me. "Well, I know about that too."

"The bar baby knew all about it," he said. "When that paragraph went into the paper, everybody around here was talkin'. Roakes, the foreman in the newspaper printing works, who they thought mighta done it, was good an' steamed up. He didn't like bein' elected, see? An' was he pleased when the McDougal woman gave him that alibi?"

"Water-tight," he answered. "Here's the story: The McDougal hasn't got very good eyes, so she's gotta have some new glasses. So she wants to go an' see a friend of hers in Newton Abbot, but she don't like to go until she's got her new glasses. That's how she remembers the day. The optician sends her glasses around in the afternoon an' she goes out to Newton Abbot in the evenin'. That's when she sees Roakes goin' into the cinema with a girl. That settles things, because this McDougal woman, directly she hears that Roakes has been accused of settin' the libel, goes an' tells Denise about seein' him."

I nodded. "You say she left the Ellerdene family because she was ill. What was the matter with her?"

"Another thing that ties up the alibi," said Finney. "This McDougal baby was sick. She had to have an operation. She got the news of that from the doctor on the morning that she went out to Newton Abbot. That gives her another reason for remembering the day. She's got glaucoma. The doctor said she'd got to have an operation as soon as she could. She's in some hospital near Exeter. Maybe you'd like me to go out an' see her."

I shook my head. "I don't think we need bother about that. If she said that, she was speaking the truth."

Finney drank some more whisky. He said: "You know about this mug, Eustace Tredinor?"

He lighted a fresh cigarette from the stub of the old one. "I think this Eustace Tredinor is Public Hero No. I. This guy is the sort of mug you read about in books. For me, he's too good to be true."

He shrugged his shoulders. "Most fellas wouldn't wanta marry a baby after that paragraph in the paper. But this Tredinor guy just don't take any notice. He's stuck on Denise and all he wants to do is to marry her. That's one thing."

"The other thing is," he went on, "that Tredinor thinks that this Hart Allen was sorta responsible for all the trouble."

"Well, work it out for yourself. This guy Allen has got a reputation for bein' a bad egg, see? He's drinkin' too much an' he's rushin' all about the place with any woman he can pair up with. Tredinor thinks that a guy like that ought never to be seen with a decent woman like Denise. He believes that just because the Ellerdene family was decent to Allen, and just because Mrs. Ellerdene—who thought he was a brave guy—tried to help him back to leadin' a normal sort of life, Allen sorta suggested that there mighta been something on between him an' Denise."

I said: "You mean that Tredinor thinks Allen was one of the boastful types—the sort of type that likes to pretend that no woman can stand up to him?"

Finney said: "That's what I mean. Tredinor's got the idea in his head that if it hadn't been for this mug Allen and his lousy behaviour, none of this woulda happened. He feels pretty tough about it too."

Finney yawned. "Maybe I would too. Anyway, Tredinor's said more'n once that if ever he gets his hooks on Allen he'll finish him, which, when you come to think of it, is a fairly natural sort of thing."

"It could be," I said. "But it seems a strong measure. Nobody thinks that Allen had anything to do with that paragraph."

"O.K.," said Finney. "Nobody does. But this guy Tredinor is a very bad-tempered guy. This bar baby tells me that a lotta people in this county an' Cornwall are descended from Spaniards—pirates and guys who usta get around here in the old days. Tredinor's descended from one of these eggs. He's got a goddam tough strain in him. The bar baby said she wouldn't like to be Hart Allen if Tredinor got his hooks on him."

I thought: Neither would I. I visualised Tredinor—young, strong, intense in his love for Denise, faced with the beastly situation which had already affected his life, and—as it must have done—destroyed much of his amour propre. A man who loves a woman wants to be proud of her. Tredinor must have known that the whole place had been talking about his girl and Hart Allen. He must have hated Allen's guts....

He nodded. "Plenty. That boy's a natural. When they was makin' he-men they lost the recipe an' got his make-up mixed up with the local Girls' School. This mug is so sweet that it positively hurts. But not all the way. He's sweet about flowers an' pictures an' colours an' all that sorta stuff. They say he's an Interior Decorator an' tops at his business. But if he don't like anybody, he's pure poison. He's got a tongue like a wasp's an' a line in nasty come-backs that ought to win him a good smack in the puss every time he opens his kisser. Some of the women like him an' some of the women an' all the men can't stand the sight of him."

"He's mad about dough," Finney continued. "All he thinks of is makin' jack. That, an' dressin' himself up an' lookin' at himself in the glass all the time. But they all say he's an ace at his job. He did the decorations at Forest Hills Country Club, at The Orange Hatch, at the Vale Club at Newton Abbot. He charges plenty but they say he's worth it."

"You don't," I told him. "There's nothing more to be done at the moment. Stay quietly around here; go over occasionally and talk to your girl friend at the Forest Hills Country Club. Maybe she'll have some more news for you. If I want you, I'll call you."

"O.K.," said Finney. "That suits me." He looked at my face. "You look as if you'd been run over by a steamroller. Somebody's been not nice to your face. It looks to me like somebody used a broken bottle on you."

"Well, you wanta watch your step," said Finney. "One of these days you're gonna get really hurt."

Outside, I sat in the car, smoking and thinking. I began to think about Claudette. My main interest in Claude—who probably by now was far away plotting some new plan of campaign in the Interior Decorating line—was the letters about which he'd spoken. Either these letters existed or they didn't, but it seemed to me that Claudette had been speaking the truth. When he'd asked me to meet him at the cottage at Gara Rock; when he had promised to show me the letters, I believe that he intended to see me; that he meant to keep the appointment. Therefore, he wouldn't have lied. The letters existed. Well, maybe he'd taken them with him. Yet, on the other hand, being a very knowing sort of person, he might easily think that correspondence of that sort—letters that had a direct bearing on the libel—might be dangerous to carry about. Claudette was the sort of person who would hide letters in a safe place, and my bet was that the safest place, from his point of view, would be the cottage at Gara Rock. He might have left them there in some hard-to-get-at spot.

When I got there, I stood on the top of the headland looking out to sea. There was a good breeze and the white-capped waves drove towards the Salcombe Estuary. I locked the car, passed the Coastguard cottages and made my way to the cottage.

It looked attractive in the sunshine. I walked along the white, stone-edged path, pushed open the door and went in. I stood in the sitting-room; thought about my talk with Denise Ellerdene of the night before. I let my mind wander on that very attractive subject.

She was definitely a woman, I thought—one that a man could easily fall for. I stood there and the idea came into my head that I was doing a little too much thinking about her. I qualified this thought with the additional one that most men would be affected that way. She was a woman whom it would be hard not to think about.

I went into the bedroom. I looked round the place; made a mental lay-out of all possible hiding places. I took off my coat and started work.

I went over the place with a fine-tooth comb. I had the drawers out; the carpets up. I looked in every place obvious or otherwise which somebody who was clever might select as a hiding-place for a packet of letters. I had no luck.

It was half-past two. I put the place to rights; washed my hands in the partitioned bathroom; put on my coat; left the cottage. I began to walk along the path leading away from the cottage towards Prawle Point. The path ran along the edge of the cliff. In some places there was a sheer drop. You had to watch your step.

I walked along slowly, smoking, trying to get some real point of contact with the Ellerdene case; some hard fact from which one could build a conclusion.

Just ahead of me was a steep path with, here and there, a few steps cut in the cliff face, leading down to the rocks and beyond them to the stretch of sand. I began to climb down the steep path, stepping carefully. When I got to the bottom I stood on the rocky shore and looked about me. The place was deserted. On my right, the sea swept in past Gara Head and on my left the smooth sand, half-covered by the tide, curved out towards Prawle Point. I began to pick my way along the rocks towards Gara, After a bit I sat down; lighted a cigarette.

Life, I thought, could be very peaceful. One of these days when I was a little older, I'd settle down to something really solid—a chicken farm or something. I grinned to myself. The idea struck me that it was only when I found myself up against a dead end in an investigation that I began to think about the chicken farm.

I'd turned my face towards the breeze, and I saw the foot jutting out from a crevice in the rocks. I thought the foot was a very interesting foot. I recognised the well-polished dark-brown shoe and the grey silk sock. I'd seen that shoe and that sock on Claude the afternoon before in the bar at Sheppey's.

Claude had certainly finished the hard way. He'd come down head first. He'd made quite a mess of himself. The body lay twisted in the grotesque way that such bodies do—one arm outstretched. Five or six yards away, caught in a bush growing from the cliff face about ten feet up, was a suitcase.

I climbed up and got the case. I put it down beside the body; moved out to the edge of the rocks; took a look to the left and right. The sea-shore was deserted. I went back and opened the case. The suitcase was a fairly large one. It contained two lounge suits, his dinner suit, shirts, shaving kit and the usual things that a man takes when he's going away for quite a bit. But there weren't any letters.

I turned my attention to what remained of Claude. One side of his jacket had flapped open. It was the one part of his clothing that wasn't badly stained with blood. I put my hand in the pocket and brought out an envelope. I sat down and looked at it. It was a good quality envelope with an American stamp. I took out the letter inside. It said:

Can yon imagine how thrilled I was to get your letter, and all the more thrilled because you said in it just what I knew you would say?

When my father told me a week ago that because you'd done so awfully well in the war, and turned yourself from being a junior administrative official in his factory to a flyer who'd won world recognition for his gallantry, he was no longer going to oppose our marriage, but that he and Mom were one hundred per cent for it, you just can't imagine how I felt.

Maybe my cablegram was, as you say, almost unintelligible, but I was so excited that I hardly knew what I was writing.

Hart, I loved your letter because you said in it the things I knew you'd say. I understand the way that things have been with you; that after you'd got to England, believing that nothing was ever possible between us, you just went hay-wire and drank too much and did all sorts of stupid things, because you wanted to forget, and because you were trying to forget me. Well, I can understand that.

It is easier to understand because, to be thinking and worrying about me, and at the same time to have all that strain of flying and fighting, would have been too much for any one.

But it's all right now. Hart, I believed you one hundred per cent when I read your letter; when you told me that from the moment you got my cable there wasn't any other woman in the world for you; that you weren't even going to look at one, because I was the only thing that mattered and because as soon as you could you were coming back here for our marriage.

I think you're wise about cutting drinking down too. Too much whisky isn't good for anybody, and from what I've heard you've drunk quite enough in the past to last you for the rest of your life.

Hart, get back as quickly as you can. I'm waiting for you. All my love, dearest one,

I put the letter back in the envelope; put the envelope in my pocket, if this was the correspondence to which Claude Weeps had referred, it didn't seem of very much use. But you never knew.

I moved his coat gingerly; examined the rest of his clothes. There wasn't anything else on the body, except a smashed fountain pen, some keys, some loose change and, in the breast pocket where I'd found the letter, a leather case with fifteen one-pound notes inside it.

I got up. I lighted a cigarette and stood looking down at what remained of Claude. One thing was obvious. Claude was very dead. How he had died was another matter, but it had been in one of two ways. He'd either fallen over the edge of the cliff, which wouldn't be difficult, because, judging by the position of the body, he'd fallen from the point where the cliff path, high above, was narrowest; or someone had thrown him over. I shrugged my shoulders. In any event, the result was the same.

I made up my mind. I put my hand into my hip pocket and produced the hundred five-pound notes that I'd taken from Claude the afternoon before at Sheppey's bar. I put the packet of bank notes in one of the pocket compartments in his suitcase; then I closed the case; climbed up the cliff and put it back in the bush from which I'd rescued it. I got down and walked back to the cliff path; mounted to the top; walked to Gara; picked up the car; began to drive back towards Melquay.

On the way I stopped at a call-box. I rang through to Finney. When he came on the line I said:

"Listen, this is important. Get into your car and drive until you come to the main intersection of the Melquay-Newton Abbot road. Wait there for me. I'll be along in about twenty-five minutes."

Driving over to meet Finney, I let my mind wander on the Claudette set-up. It might not be even interesting, because it might mean just nothing at all. Claude, excited at making a quick get-away, had slipped and gone over the edge of the cliff path. It might mean just that. But supposing, just for the sake of argument, he hadn't slipped. Supposing someone had pushed or thrown him over....

That might mean a lot. Which was the reason I had planted the hundred five-pound bank notes in his suitcase. If I was wrong it wouldn't matter. If I was right it might matter a lot.

Finney's car was pulled up by the side of the road on the grass verge. I stopped just behind it. I went over.

I said: "Finney, here's the story: You've decided you want to have a drive this afternoon, so you drive to Gara Rock." I told him the way to go. "Leave the car outside the Coastguard cottages and take the path along the cliffs. When you've walked about twenty minutes you'll find some steps and a steep path down to the shore. Go down it; turn right at the bottom. About twenty or thirty yards ahead is a crevice in the cliff face. Behind that crevice is a body. The head's smashed in, and there is a suitcase caught in a bush about ten feet up the cliff. Don't touch anything."

"I wouldn't know. But maybe this corpse is or was important. When you find the body you're naturally shocked. You go back to the car and get to the nearest telephone box. Call through to the Melquay police. You'll probably get the D.D.I. When they come on the line, tell 'em you were taking a walk along the shore and found the body. Tell 'em you didn't touch it."

AT four o'clock, when I was lying in a hot bath admiring my cuts and bruises, the telephone rang. I slipped on a bath-gown and answered it. I thought I knew who it would be. I was right. It was MacAndrew, the D.D.I.

"It's about Claude Weeps. You remember you told me you were going to see him some time yesterday and talk to him about that money of yours? Did you see him?"

He asked: "You didn't see him again after that interview? By the way, did you talk to him here in Melquay?"

I said: "He asked me to meet him at Sheppey's Hotel on the Mapletor road. I went out there and talked to him, and I left him there drinking lemonade."

"I see. I wonder could you come along here to my office and have a talk with me? You might be able to help. Something's happened to Weeps."

I told him I'd be with him in half an hour. I dressed, and drove to the police station. I was feeling considerably better, the cut on my mouth had begun to heal and my nose was slowly but surely going back to its normal dimensions.

Inside his office, MacAndrew gave me a cigarette. I sat back in the big armchair in front of his desk with an interested expression on my face.'

He said: "This afternoon, a couple of hours ago, a visitor at Mapletor was walking along the foreshore near Gara Rock. He found Weeps."

He went on: "Weeps was dead. He'd fallen something like a hundred and seventy feet, on his head. He came down on the rocks too. He was only just identifiable. However, we know it was Weeps."

He got up; began to walk about the office, his hands in his pockets, his rather large head pushed forward.

"I think he fell over the cliff," he said. "A hundred and seventy feet above the spot where they found him there's a path that runs from the Coastguard cottages at Gara Rock, past his cottage, towards Prawle Point. At the spot where he went over the path is very narrow. Anybody could easily go over there. Four years ago a tripper fell over at that same spot. But, having regard to the fact that Weeps seemed to be in a little trouble, I felt I ought to check on the business."

"I don't know. That's what I wanted to see you about. Obviously, having regard to what you told me, Weeps must have been in some sort of trouble."

"Work it out for yourself," I said. "As you know, he went into the Bank first thing yesterday morning and cashed that cheque. I rang him up at his place some time in the morning and said I wanted to see him on very important business; that it was a matter of extreme urgency for me. He arranged to meet me at the cocktail bar at Sheppey's. When I arrived, he was there and he didn't look very happy. First of all, I told him that now I knew that he had stolen that cheque for five hundred pounds. I told him that I'd telephoned you; that you'd had a man at the Bank and that you knew he had the money. I said he could take his choice. He could hand me back the money, in which case I'd possibly be prepared to take a lenient view of it. But if he made any funny business about it, I was going to turn him in for stealing the cheque." I shrugged my shoulders. "He was in a hell of a state. He whined and whimpered. Eventually, he told me that he couldn't let me have the money. He said he was in a spot and had had to pay the five hundred to somebody; that as far as he was concerned it was a matter of life or death."

I lighted a cigarette. "He very nearly broke my heart," I went on. "Normally, I suppose I'd have been tougher with him, but I've had some luck myself lately, and I got a pretty big special gratuity when I came out of the Service. So I was inclined to take a milder point of view."

I nodded. "He swore to me that if I'd give him seven days he'd not only hand me my five hundred pounds back but he'd be able to get himself out of the jam he was in; that I'd be doing him a good turn." I shrugged my shoulders. "I told him I'd give him the seven days. I told him that I'd keep away from you for a week, but if I hadn't got that five hundred by the eighth day I'd come along here and lay a charge against him. He told me I needn't worry. I left him there, as I told you, drinking lemonade."

"Weeps was getting out," said MacAndrew. "We've ascertained that he rang two or three people with whom he was doing business in Melquay and told them that he'd been called away on very urgent business and that he wouldn't be back for some little time. Then, apparently, he went back to his cottage, packed a suitcase, and was on his way out when he went over the cliff." He smiled at me. "But he hadn't given your five hundred pounds to anybody else. There were a hundred five-pound notes in his suitcase."

MacAndrew said: "He was a funny, excitable type. A strange sort of person. Everybody was agreed on that. It seems to me reasonable to suppose that he wanted to get out quickly. Perhaps he thought that there was some means by which you might have found out that he'd still got that money; that he hadn't given it to anybody else. Perhaps he wanted to put the greatest possible distance between you and himself right away, in which case one can understand him taking his suitcase, scrambling quickly along that narrow cliff path—too quickly; thinking about all sorts of other things, and in his excitement going over the edge."

He shrugged his shoulders. "We don't know of anybody who could be called an enemy, but he'd got up against a number of people. He was a very artistic sort of chap—artistic and effeminate. He was a very good Interior Decorator, but he always insisted on having his own way and doing just what he wanted. Well, if you're like that, you get up against folks. There are some people in Melquay who think he's quite a good fellow and a considerable sort of artist, and there's quite a few who think he's just a lousy little pansy. You never know with those types. They can make some very bitter enemies, just as they themselves are bitter enemies to people they don't like."

"No. I'm going to get the inquest adjourned for a few days just in case anything turns up, but I don't suppose it will. It was good of you to spare the time to come along. I thought you might know something that would give me a pointer."

He smiled. "You'll get it back now anyway. It was lucky for you that you telephoned me in the first place, because now we know the money is yours. We'll have to keep it, of course, till the inquest's over, but directly the Coroner's jury have decided on the manner of Weeps' death, I'll hand it back to you."

We shook hands. I said good-bye. I went back to my hotel. When I got there I lay on the bed, smoked a cigarette and turned things over in my mind. In any event, I hadn't done any harm in pulling that story on MacAndrew, and if the odd glimmering I had in the back of my mind was anything like right, I'd been perhaps a little cleverer than I knew.

AT six o'clock I went down to the bar and drank a pair of dry Martinis. Then I sat in the corner seat with the evening paper, but I couldn't concentrate on the news. I'd got one or two ideas that might just be reasonable if you turned them this way and that. Might be reasonable... might being the operative word.

The trouble with people is that they are apt to have two entities. The one you see and the one you don't. Most of the first impressions we get of people are wrong. But, because our ideas about them change almost imperceptibly as we get to know them better, we seldom bother to realise just how wrong we may have been in the first place.

And my first impression of Claude Weeps had been that he was a very smart number. But perhaps he wasn't quite so smart as I had thought. Perhaps...

I couldn't be certain, and now I never should be. Because Claude was, at the moment, lying comfortably on a slab at the morgue and wasn't particularly interested in anything—not even Claude.

I went outside and started up the car. I drove slowly along the Melquay front until I ran on to the Mapletor road; then I branched off and went in the direction of Totnes. I by-passed the town, picked up a signpost and drove past the Forest Hills Club set in its spacious park, carried on down the road for half a mile or so and then took the first side road to the left.

I ambled along the narrowing road for about half a mile. The road began to curve to the left. By now it had become a mere lane, bounded on each side by high hedges. After a bit, the lane straightened out and ran, I thought, practically parallel with the main Totnes-Newton Abbot road. An artistic notice set in the thick hedge informed me that the first gate on the left led to "The Orange Hatch."

I stopped near the white, five-barred gate, got out of the car, stood leaning on the gate, looking across the wide field at the back of The Orange Hatch. A gravel path, wide enough for a car, wound across the field from the gate where I stood towards the back of the house, which I could see was surrounded by a wide, carefully-kept gravel border.

On two sides of the house, on the far edge of the field, was woodland. On my left was the high hedge that bounded the lane leading from the main road. I lighted a cigarette; opened the gate; went through. I walked along the hedge away from the house towards the woodland. I stood at the edge of the trees, shielded from view, looking at The Orange Hatch and thinking about it.

I didn't know what I was thinking and I didn't particularly care. It's always been a habit of mine to 'case' any place that came into an investigation; to look at it; to wonder about it; to try to come to some conclusion about it, no matter how remote.

But I didn't get anything from looking at The Orange Hatch. All I saw was a pleasant house with plenty of that quality known as 'atmosphere,' with the afternoon sun gilding the white walls and casting shadows on the lawn.

There was no sign of life about the place. I began to walk, along the hedge, towards the back of the house, drawing tobacco smoke into my lungs and wondering about Claude. I had got on to the wide gravel border that ran round the house when I heard the sound of the truck.

I stopped walking. I heard the truck brake to a standstill. From where I stood I could see the bonnet and cab of the truck round the edge of the house. The truck was a new one, the cab freshly painted. I moved closer to the house and watched the driver get down from the truck and disappear from view as he went to the back of the vehicle.

Then he came back, opened the door of the cab and knelt on the step, fumbling inside the cab for something or other. I could see the sole of his right boot distinctly in the clear sunshine. It was set with clumps of hobnails in threes. But the centre clump of hobnails was different. There was only one hobnail. Two were missing.

I drew back and moved quickly round to the tar side of the house, cut across the field and worked round the edge of the trees, out of sight, until I came to the lane where my car was parked. I started up the car and turned it in the direction of the main road. Then I raced up the engine and drove back rapidly until I came out on to the main Totnes-Newton Abbot road.

I parked the car on the far side of the road, got out, stood behind it and waited. From where I was I could see the private road leading to The Orange Hatch. Five minutes afterwards, the truck came out, passed me and went towards Newton Abbot. I got into the car and went after it, keeping sufficiently far behind not to attract notice and near enough not to lose it.

Four miles down the road the truck turned off through a gate and along a track across an open field. I gave it a good start and then went after it. Over the brow of a rise in the middle of the field I saw the truck stop at a long shack by the hedge on the far side. The driver got down and went into the shack.

I drove over and parked beside the truck. I walked round the truck and pushed open the wooden door. I stepped into the shack.

The place was packed from floor to ceiling with liquor crates. Most of them were empty but those at the right-hand end of the shack were full. There must have been four or five hundred assorted bottle-necks sticking out of the crates at that end.

Beyond the crates at the far end was a small door. The truck driver had his hand on the door-knob when he heard me. He turned round.

I grinned at him. I said: "I wanted to hear your voice. I've been looking for you. I had no opportunity yesterday evening of making your acquaintance at Claude Weeps' cottage at Gara. You were a little rough with me. Perhaps you remember telling me that if you had any more trouble with me you'd carve me up."

He began to walk towards me. He was big, burly and quite sure of himself. I liked that.

I said: "Take it easy. You won't do any good by getting excited. I've dined off better men than you. You and I are going to have a little talk, and you're going to tell me some interesting things I want to know. See?"

He laughed. He stopped a few feet from me and lighted a half-smoked cigarette which he produced from behind his ear.

"You've got a bleedin' nerve," he said. "You get out of here quick before I set about you. I don't know who the hell you are, cocky, but this is private property. You get out of here before I bash you."

I grinned at him. "I don't like you a lot. This time I can see you. This isn't Claude Weeps' dark cottage, and you haven't got your two friends to help you. So I won't waste any time on you."

I slipped off my coat and threw it on to one of the crates. Then I walked towards him.

He didn't know what happened to him. When I got within reach he threw a couple of wild hay-makers that would have been very annoying if they had connected. They didn't, and he never had a dog's chance.

I worked on him. I gave him the end chapter in the S.A.S. training manual—'Unarmed combat with judo holds and attack blows'—which, if you know anything about it, is a sweet process, especially when it's used against people who only know how to punch, kick or use a broken bottle on your face.

It took about three minutes. At the end of that time he was lying on one side, trying to bite the floor. I had his left leg in a judo crook hold with the foot-twist on it. It isn't at all nice and I know. I've experienced it. When he started to writhe I let his leg drop. He lay on the floor sweating, trying to wet his dry lips with his tongue. Tears were running down his face.

I gave him a few minutes to get hold of himself. Half the efficiency of any judo attack is nerve-shock. The attack blows are sudden, unexpected and aimed usually at sensitive nerve and muscle targets, so that the subject seldom has time to realise what has happened to him.

So I gave the Voice time for relaxation. I pulled up an empty crate and sat on it. I lighted a cigarette and looked at him as he lay on the floor, the stiffness going out of his nerves. His breathing began to be steadier. I lighted another cigarette and threw it to him.

I said: "Smoke that and don't talk for a bit. It won't get you anywhere. And don't try any funny business, because if you do I'm really going to hurt you. You haven't a chance against what I've got and you know it. What I want you to do is to relax and listen. And I'm not bluffing."

He put the cigarette in his mouth and drew on it. After a bit, he sat up and began to feel his arms and legs. Then, concluding that they were still attached to his body, he felt easier. He looked at me with surprised eyes. He was trying to work out what had happened to him.

"Yesterday evening," I told him, "somebody paid you and your two friends to come along to Weeps' cottage at Gara. They either paid you to do it or you did what they wanted for some other reason than money. You had been told that I would be there and you had been told to give me a hell of a beating-up—enough to hurt me a lot, but not enough to finish me. The idea was that I should get tired of doing what I was doing and pack up and get out of Melquay. That was roughly the idea.

"Maybe it was Claude Weeps who organised that little party. I don't know. But if it wasn't Weeps, he still had something to do with it, or, if not, it was still either directly or indirectly through him, or through something he had said or done during the day, that you were employed to beat me up. Understand?"

"This afternoon," I went on, "the D.D.I, at Melquay;—MacAndrew—told me that Weeps' body had been found on the foreshore below the cliff path that runs past his cottage. The police believe that one of two things happened to him. Either he fell over the cliff—which is quite possible—or somebody threw him over.

"You're going to answer some questions that I'm going to ask you," I told him. "If you don't, I'll tell you exactly what I'm going to do. The D.D.I, is getting an adjournment on the inquest on Weeps so that he may make the usual routine inquiries to see if there is any reason to suspect foul play. If you don't talk, I'm going to give him plenty of reason to suspect foul play, and you're going to carry the can back. You are going to be elected. See?"

"Unless you play ball," I said, "this is going to be my story: Claude Weeps had a date with me at his cottage yesterday evening at nine-thirty. He had that date because he was going to give me certain information. But there was somebody in Melquay who had made up his mind on two points. One was that I was going to be rough-housed and pushed out of Melquay, and the other was that Weeps wasn't going to talk to me or any one else at any time.

"Weeps was late in keeping his appointment with me. You and your two friends knew he was going to be late. You beat me up and fixed me so that, as you thought, I couldn't get out of that cottage. Then you went along the cliff path to meet Weeps. You met him and you threw him over the cliff. How do you like that? Think it out and see if it matches up in your mind."

He threw the cigarette stub away. He said: "We never saw Weeps. This is a bleedin' frame-up. 'E was never there."

I shrugged my shoulders. "Personally, I think you're telling the truth, but who else do you think is going to believe you? I was found at that cottage last night in a pretty bad way. You fixed me and I know you did it. I'll swear to you being the man who kicked me unconscious on the floor. It's the most natural thing in the world for the police to believe that if you were prepared to half-kill me for just being around and trying to find something out, then you'd be prepared to kill Weeps who actually did know plenty—everything that there was to be known. It's a nice story and I'm going to stick to it. Now take some time and think it over. You're either going to talk or I'm going to put you into my car, take you into Melquay, hand you over to the police and make a statement accusing you of half-killing me and, by implication, of entirely killing Weeps."

He got up and stretched himself. He looked at me sitting on my crate and weighed up the situation. He concluded that he wasn't going to try anything else on me.

I said: "Who put you on to me? Who made it worth your while to give me the works? Who wanted me out of Melquay?"

I wasn't surprised. I asked: "What connection was there between you, your pals, and Weeps?"

He nodded. "It's good stuff. We break it down a bit with distilled water—that's all. We uster do it when the Yanks was 'ere."

I nodded. "And you delivered it to The Orange Hatch? You delivered some stuff there this afternoon. What had Weeps to do with The Orange Hatch?"

I threw him a cigarette. "It's called judo," I told him. "You've probably heard it called ju-jitsu. It's a Japanese thing. It's neat, isn't it?" I grinned at him.

He nodded vaguely; then: "Weeps once 'ad an interest in The Orange 'Atch dump," he said. "Bekos he done the decorations there—all the inside stuff. An' then, when the Yanks was 'ere, 'e started this cut liquor racket. It paid off too. We worked for 'im for a long time. This stuff 'ere was the fag end of it. We was clearin' that an' that was the end of the business."

I grinned at him. "You've got the breeze up, Charlie," I told him. "And with reason. There are probably one or two things on your conscience besides this little job of murder that I just mentioned. Take my advice and get out while the going's good. Get into your truck and drive off and keep driving. If you want to know why, I'll tell you. I'm going to start quite a lot round here. There's going to be considerable trouble. If you value your health you'll get out, because if you don't I'll lay odds you're going to be mixed in it—up to your neck."

He drew on the cigarette. He looked at me for quite a while; then he said: "I've 'ad it. I allus reckoned that Weeps would finish up in the bleedin' cart. 'E was a chancy bastard, 'e was. Yer wouldn'ta thought that a little pansy cuss like 'im would ave 'ad the gall to pull some o' the larks 'e got up to. Well... I'm gettin' out. If somebody's done Weeps, I reckon I ain't got any reasons for stayin' on."

"I think you're very sensible," I told him. "There's one more question. Did Weeps ever talk to you about that libel thing? The paragraph about Miss Ellerdene that appeared in the Mapletor paper?"

"It set the 'ole place by the bleedin' ears. Weeps told us about it. 'E showed us the paper. 'E said he thought it was a scream."

I said: "Is this stuff here only broken down with distilled water? Or have you mixed in any methylated or industrial spirit?"

He shook his head. "Only distilled water. It ain't clever to use the other stuff. We took a third of the spirit out of each bottle an' filled it with distilled water an' put the seals back. That's all."

He picked up one of the small, filled crates; took it outside. I stood in the doorway and watched him. He put the crate in the back of the truck, climbed into the cab; started the engine. Then he put his head out of the side of the cab and called me a very nasty name. Then he drove off.

I watched the truck turn on to the main road and disappear in the direction of Newton Abbot.

I went back into the shack. I lighted a cigarette, took one of the bottles of whisky from a filled crate, knocked the neck off and took a long pull. It was all right. I sat down on the crate and did some very heavy thinking, most of which was concerned with the manner of Claude Weeps' death.

I sat there for quite a while. Then I took another pull at the bottle, stood it on the floor, went out, closed the shack door and set the self-locking padlock that was attached to it; started up the car and drove back to Melquay.

I had a dozen ideas. Good ideas. Very good ideas. Most of them were so goddam good that even I didn't believe them.

Chapter Five
THURSDAY NIGHT: DENISE

IT was nearly ten o'clock. I turned off the Totnes traffic lights intersection on to the Newton Abbot road. Away on my left in the distance I could see the lights of the Forest Hills Country Club twinkling. I drove on, swung into the private drive of The Orange Hatch, parked the car and went in at the main entrance. Inside, the place was interesting and had a certain atmosphere. I found myself in a large hall or lounge. In the right-hand corner opposite me there was a small reception office. On the left, glass double doors led into a fair-sized room with a dancing-floor and a band platform in the corner. The dance-room was lit only by dim light. It gave the room an odd, ghostly appearance.

On my right was a passage-way with a small entrance to the cocktail bar, and on the other side of the passage-way, between it and the reception office, which was empty, was a flight of carpeted stairs with an oak balustrade, leading to the upper storey.

A door opened and a man came into the reception office from the far side. He was a pleasant-looking fellow with a bronzed face.

"Yes, sir. Actually, there isn't any one serving in there, but I'll bring you what drinks you want. We don't have many customers these days, you know."

"I was in the Burma job," he said. His smile broadened. "Not bad in a way, but I'd rather be here."

"Only a month or so," he said. "But I like it. It's quiet and restful—even if it isn't going to last long."

"The people who own it now have only had it four months," he said. "I suppose they think now that they've bought a pig in a poke. They want to get rid of it. You see, there isn't really enough business to keep the place going. It was different during the war. Anything went then."

He grinned again. "It was an interesting place, from what I can hear of it. This was one of the favourite spots of the Yankees who were stationed at Exeter. They had their Army Flying Corps there, you know. They tell me that, inside the black-out, this place was just a blaze of light, and music and everything else. And now look at it."

"Yes. I live at the other end of the place—upstairs. It's an odd sort of house. I spent a lot of time trying to make out what was in the mind of the man who built it. It was an old house, but somebody's added some bits to it, apparently without any reason. Just stuck bits on where he fancied it."

He pointed towards the passage leading to the cocktail bar. "Well, for instance, down that passage-way there's the cocktail bar. That was originally a sort of sitting-room, and outside it there used to be a conservatory looking into the garden. Well, somebody pulled down the conservatory and built a little suite at the far end of the passage beyond the cocktail bar. And what a suite! You've never seen anything like it—a proper week-enders' nest."

He said: "It's lovely. Just like a first-class hotel in France. A sitting-room, beautifully decorated, leading into a bedroom, leading into a bathroom. And on the other side of that, believe it or not, this mug has to build the hotel store-room! So if you want to get a bottle of something or other, you've either got to go through the suite into the store-room or walk right round the house."

He shook his head. "No, I always go round the house. Quite often we have week-enders staying in that suite. A lot of people know about it. When they want a quiet week-end, away from all the cares of life, they come down here. You know, the sort of people who like walking, and fishing; people who like to be alone."

"Yes, she's been here once or twice," he said. "Either with her people or with Mr. Tredinor—the man she's engaged to. We have a dance here sometimes—about once a month. If we had more we wouldn't get anybody to come. She's been here then. She's a nice girl."

I nodded. "Yes. Somebody was telling me that there was some sort of libel or something about her in one of the local newspapers."

He said: "About the lousiest thing I've ever known in my life. Anybody who had met Miss Ellerdene would know she couldn't be like that even if she tried."

I smiled at him. I liked him for saying that. I said: "Well, you're going to see her again. She'll be here in a few minutes. I'll wait for her in the cocktail bar. Bring in a couple of Martinis, will you?"

I walked down the passage into the cocktail bar. It was a small, well-furnished room with a little bar with mirrors and glass shelves filled with bottles behind it. A cheerful atmosphere. I imagined it filled with English and American servicemen. The Orange Hatch must have been a great place in those days.

I said: "I'm staying over at Melquay for a bit. Maybe you'll see more of me. What's your name?"

He shook his head. "The popular bar is on the other side of the dance-floor. That's open during the usual licensing hours. There's a barmaid there. Perhaps you'd like to go in there?"

I sat and smoked. Five minutes passed; then the door opened and she stood in the doorway. I looked at her for a long time.

I've seen a lot of women in my life. All sorts and conditions of women in all sorts of places. But I'd never seen any one like this one. There was some odd, indefinable quality about her, some thing, that got you like a punch between the eyes, and it wasn't only that she was absolutely lovely; that everything about her matched her loveliness. There was something else. An essentially womanly, very definite, allure that was all the stronger because she was quite unconscious of it.

And her beauty was tempered by a quietness; an unselfconscious modesty that was as obvious as the other thing. And the effect was heightened by the look of utter misery in her eyes. They never changed. She might smile, as she was smiling at me then, but the look in her eyes persisted. I remembered what I'd thought about that before. It was the look of a dog that's been beaten so hard that nothing matters. Not a goddam thing. Because the dog knows it's had such a hell of a beating that even if something good happens: even if somebody gives it a bone, that's still not going to efface the memory of the beating.

Watching her I could understand Tredinor. That was easy. Any man would have felt as he did. Any man would have gone through, stood, anything to possess a woman like this.

I took a pull at myself. The idea came to me that I was becoming too interested in this girl. I told myself that if I weren't goddam careful I'd be falling for her myself—hard. And I know me. I'm one of those fortunate—or unfortunate—types who, if they do fall for a woman in a really big way, have to do something about it.

And, I thought, she'd got quite enough trouble on her plate without having Nicholas Gale on the side as well.

She came into the room. She wore a dress of amethyst linen that had been cut by somebody who knew his business. The colour of the dress accentuated the lovely tan of her face; her honey-coloured hair. Her sheer stockings matched her tan, and her white, toeless, high-heeled sandals set off small and perfectly-shaped feet.

She untied the white chiffon handkerchief that she wore over her hair. She stood, just inside the room, looking at me.

Then she said: "If I'm late I'm very sorry. I had to make myself come here. I nearly telephoned you here to tell you I couldn't come. That... that I just couldn't bear it."

She nodded. Now she was not looking at me. "It's worse than anything you can think of." Her voice was so soft I could hardly hear her.

I said: "Sit down, relax and drink this Martini. It's quite good. Smoke a cigarette and don't worry about anything at all. Nothing is as bad as it seems."

She sat down on the velvet settee by the wall opposite the small bar. When I lighted her cigarette I could see her hands trembling. She was in a hell of a state. I wondered what was coming.

She didn't touch the drink. She sat, the cigarette between her fingers sending up a spiral of smoke, looking at the floor.

I picked up my empty Martini glass and went out of the room. I walked down the passage, through the hall, across the deserted dance-floor, through the door beyond, and into the front bar. There were half a dozen people there talking and drinking. I asked the girl behind the bar for a double Martini and, when I'd got it, carried it back to the small cocktail bar.

She picked up the glass and took a sip. I told her to drink it off. She did so. I went and sat on the settee beside her.

"Thinking about things, what has happened and what may happen, is a dud proposition," I told her. "Nothing is as bad as you think it's going to be. Tell me what's troubling you."

She said: "I'm awfully frightened. I've been scared since yesterday evening when I received that note at the dance at the Palace Hotel; the note telling me to go to Claude Weeps' cottage. I was frightened when I got the note. I thought that this awful business was all over and that in time I might even forget about it."

"And Weeps' note made you think differently?" I said. "It made you realise that it wasn't all over."

She nodded. "Then I went out to the cottage and found you. But at the time I didn't realise the implications of finding you—as I did—beaten up and hurt."

"You mean when you had time to think about it you realised that somebody was prepared to be very tough; that somebody wanted me out of the way so that this investigation wouldn't go on?"

I smiled at her. "Well... the investigation's going on," I said. "And they've lost the first round in the game. Whoever-it-was will have to think up something else."

She looked at me. It was the first time she had turned her eyes directly on mine. They were scared.

"That's just, it," she said. "He'll have to think of something else, as you say. But what...?"

There was a long silence; then she said: "Last night, at the cottage, I asked you if you'd made up your mind definitely to go on with this thing. I told you that I thought you ought not to; that my mother was right about letting things be as they are. But you didn't agree. You thought that would be foolish. You said that whatever happened you would go on with it."

I nodded. "Why not? Whatever happens it can't make things any worse. And already I've disposed of some of the opposition. I found one of the toughs who beat me up at Weeps' cottage. I made him talk. I know who was responsible for that little job."

"Weeps," I told her. "And it's quite understandable, isn't it? I think I can guess exactly what happened."

"Whoever-it-was was pretty fed up with Weeps and with me when Claude went back to him in the afternoon after his meeting with me at Sheppey's Bar and said that he had to talk. Whoever-it-was didn't like that at all. Weeps told him about me being down here and sticking my nose into things generally. So Whoever-it-was didn't like me either. And he wasn't particularly fond of Weeps—not after what had happened. Do you understand that?"

"Whoever-it-was was in a spot. So he promised Weeps a hell of a lot of money to cut his stick and forget his business in Melquay and get out while the going was good. He also suggested to Weeps that it would be a good idea if somebody taught me a lesson and that it would be a good thing to do to mind my own business. Weeps agreed about this. Remember he had good cause to dislike me too.

"So Weeps arranged two things. He arranged to get out of Melquay as quickly as possible, and he got into touch with some tough eggs he knew. Some people who'd been associated with him in selling cut liquor during the war, and he arranged to have me beaten up with a promise of worse to come if I didn't get out. He told Whoever-it-was that he would do this and that I'd probably be glad to call it a day. D'you see?"

She nodded her honey-coloured head. "I understand," she said. Now she was really interested. She was forgetting to be scared.

"Whoever-it-was liked the idea because it fitted in with something he had in mind. Weeps told him that he would pack up and get out of the cottage by about nine o'clock; that I should arrive at nine-thirty; that 'the boys' would arrive soon afterwards and take care of me. Note the times and note how convenient they are for Whoever-it-was."

"You will in a minute," I told her. "Everything went according to plan. Claude Weeps left the cottage with his suitcase soon after nine o'clock. I arrived at nine-thirty. Weeps' boy friends arrived and beat me up at about twenty to ten. And if the police suspect foul play about Weeps they're going to believe—if they get wise to what happened—that the toughs who beat me up were the people who killed Weeps soon after he left the cottage and whilst they were on their way to deal with me."

"Yes, he's dead. And this is my idea about his death. Whoever-it-was knew that Weeps was leaving the cottage soon after nine. He was waiting for Weeps round the bend in the cliff path at its narrowest point. He pushed Weeps over and that was the end of Weeps. Then he had ample time to get out of the way before our tough friends arrived to deal with me. Now it was quite obvious to Whoever-it-was that the people who beat me up would, if foul play were suspected, be the people who would naturally be held responsible for Weeps' murder. They were beating me up because I was trying to find out something. And they killed Weeps because he knew what I was trying to find out. Simple, isn't it? Whoever-it-was is quite a brainy boy, isn't he?"

She clasped her hands together in her lap. Her face was taut and strained. She whispered: "Oh, my God... now... murder! Will this thing never end...?"

I let her cry for a bit. Then I put my arm round her shoulders. I said: "Take it easy. This thing is tough but we've got to see it through. We've got to."

She turned towards me. She was close to me. A breath of the perfume she wore came to me. She said in a whisper: "No...no.... You've got to stop. You must. This thing must stop now. Please...!—"

There was another silence. She sat, her fingers clasping and unclasping in her lap, looking at the floor.

I got up and moved away from her. I thought that maybe Mike Linnane wouldn't like the idea of his ace investigator making love to the daughter of one of the firm's best customers in the middle of an investigation. And I felt just like that. That girl had something that could knock me for a row of pins at any time of the day or night. She didn't know it, but I did. And it was no soap. In this game it isn't any use mixing business with pleasure... well—not much.

She said in a very low and rather odd sort of voice: "Please get me some brandy and then come and sit by me here and don't look at me. Then I'll tell you why."

I went to the front bar and got a small glass of good brandy. When I came back and looked at her I thought she was going to pass out. She looked like death. It was plain this girl had been living under a strain for a long time and it was beginning to tell on her.

I gave her the brandy. She took the glass and swallowed the spirit without looking at me. I sat down by her side and she put her hand on mine. I could feel her fingers trembling. Then they closed over mine.

She said: "This isn't easy. It's not a bit easy, but because I trust you; because I like you... I'm going to tell you..."

Her voice trailed off to nothingness. Her shoulders began to shake. She put her hands over her face.

It was over in a minute. She got hold of herself. She said: "I'm sorry about this. I'm being a coward, and rather silly."

"Never mind," I told her. "Take your time and take it easy. Imagine that you're talking about someone else."

She said: "I'll tell you why it isn't any use you going on with this thing. There's one reason. The best reason in the world. The only reason that could stop you going on with it!" Another sob shook her. She gulped and her fingers clasped my hand so tightly that it almost hurt.

"It wasn't libel," she said. "It was true. That paragraph in the newspaper was true!"

I took a little time over that one. I said: "Jeez!" under my breath and counted ten. Life, I thought, is just full of the sweetest surprises.

I took a quick sideways look at her. She was looking like death on a stick. Her face—under the tan—was pale, her lips trembling. She looked down so as not to meet my eyes, and her fingers were clasped so tightly in her lap that the knuckles were dead white.

I said: "What in the name of everything that opens and shuts do you mean by that?"

She began to talk. She talked, looking at the floor and never moving her eyes. She talked in a dull and peculiar voice without any life in it.

"When I began to help my mother entertain people in the Services," she said, "first of all it was at home and I didn't mind that very much. But afterwards we had parties I at Exeter and at the Forest Hills Country Club and once or twice at this place—The Orange Hatch. Mother was very much interested in Hart Allen. She was interested in him because she thought she could reform him. She told me that he was drinking too much and doing the stupid things he was doing because he was unhappy and because of the strain of continuous flying and fighting." She paused. I said: "Go on."

"She thought that he was improving. I didn't seriously think so. I never liked him a great deal, though I must say he treated me with respect and kindness. So much so that at one time I almost—and she really—thought that he'd taken a pull at himself.

"Then one night there was a big party at Exeter. Hart Allen had been awarded some foreign decoration and there was a celebration. We were asked. During the evening, at the dance that was given after dinner, I had a headache and wanted to go home. He offered to drive me back to Melquay. So we started off.

"My headache was bad and I was tired. I closed my eyes and it was some time before I noticed we weren't going towards Melquay but towards Totnes. I asked him why. He told me that he wanted to speak to me about something very important—something that was very secret; that this was his only chance. He said that we could stop here, if I didn't mind, for a few minutes; that he would get me some aspirin and that, whilst I rested for a bit, he could talk to me about the thing that was troubling him. I said yes. I agreed willingly because I wanted the aspirin and because he was more or less sober and had been behaving very nicely all the evening.

"So we stopped here," she went on, in the same odd monotonous voice, "and we went into the sitting-room that is at the end of the corridor outside—the room at the end of this house which is part of a suite. And he went away and brought me back an aspirin and some water."

"He'd put something in the water with the aspirin," she said. "Dope or something. Goodness knows how long I was under. When I came to I found myself in the bedroom. I was alone. I don't know how long I'd been there. I felt quite dreadful. I closed my eyes and tried to collect myself...."

She stopped speaking for a moment; then: "After a little while he came into the room. He'd been drinking and he was quite fearful. He leaned up against the wall and laughed at me. He told me that the snooty Miss Ellerdene wasn't so snooty any more; that he'd added me to the list of girls who'd fallen for him in a big way. He said a lot of horrible, beastly things like that.

"I didn't know what to say or do. I was terribly shocked. I've never felt so awful in my life. Somehow I got away—I don't quite know how. He tried to stop me but he was too drunk. Outside I found his car. I took it and drove into Mapletor, left it at an all-night garage and hired a car to drive me home."

She shook her head. "No... I didn't tell any one. Not for some time. Next morning it all seemed like a horrible dream. I couldn't believe that it was true. But it was true."

I said: "All right. But even so, that doesn't make that paragraph in the newspaper true. It doesn't alter anything one damn."

"It does," she said almost fiercely. "Someone knows. Someone knows what happened here. Whoever put that paragraph in the paper knows."

I thought it was true all right. And I thought that she was dead right when she said that whoever had put that paragraph in the newspaper knew. That completed the picture. The person who had fixed the libel in the newspaper was sitting down on something else—something that he could go to town on if he was discovered.

I said: "All right. Allowing that what you say is correct, then it only makes it all the more important that we find this bird and shut his mouth for him. Listen to me. If we don't do that, what's his next move going to be? I'll tell you. He'll wait for you to marry Tredinor and then he'll start off again. Probably with anonymous letters or something. And if he knows about what happened between Hart Allen and you here at The Orange Hatch, and can prove it, he can make himself damned annoying. So he's got to be found and stopped."

She looked at me with wide, startled eyes. "Stopped from doing what?" she asked. "What else can he do? What other misery can he cause me?"

I said: "It's obvious. This story doesn't do anything except discredit Hart Allen. Obviously, it wasn't your fault and no one could blame you. Except for one thing. And this person who knows is going to play on that thing. And he can be damned annoying about it. He's got to be stopped."

I said: "Be reasonable. You must see that I'm right. You wouldn't like it if, after you were married, this Whoever-it-was took it into his head to sit down and write Tredinor an anonymous letter telling him about this thing. You wouldn't like that, would you? And Tredinor wouldn't like it. He'd believe that you'd married him under false pretences."

She got up and moved over to the fireplace. She stood, one hand resting on the mantelpiece, looking down into the empty grate. Then she said slowly: "No... he wouldn't believe that."

"Why not?" I asked. "Why shouldn't he believe that you were marrying him under false pretences?"

She said: "You see, I've told Eustace all about it. Of course I had to tell him. It didn't make any difference to him. He's like that. He's really an awful dear and quite a saintly sort of person in a way. And he really loves me. So it didn't affect him—except that he was terribly sorry for me."

I took a deep breath on that one. I thought that Eustace Tredinor was a saintly person too. He had to be. He was a pretty good sort of guy to have stuck to Denise after some of the things he'd had to stand for. Or was he so good? Looking at her, I thought a lot of men would like to have the chance of being in Tredinor's shoes.

After a while she said: "I must go now. You've been very kind to me. Please think about things and help me, if you can."

I grinned at her. I said: "You bet. And none of this is as bad as you think. Anyhow, now I know where I am. I know just where I am. I know what I'm up against. You get into your car and go home. It's a fine night and the drive will do you good. And you'll feel better because you've got all that off your mind. And don't worry too much. Remember you've got the Linnane Organisation working for you." I gave her another, very optimistic, grin.

She smiled. She said: "I've trusted you more than any one else—except Eustace. I know that I've been right to do that." She held out her hand. "Good night," she said. "Thank you for what you are doing. If you want to talk to me please telephone me at home. I can always meet you somewhere."

I said: "All right. And keep your chin up," She went out of the room. After a minute I heard her car start up.

I finished the cigarette. I thought that life was a wonderful thing. Like hell it was! I thought all sorts of things. And one of them was that if I were Eustace Tredinor I should feel exactly as he did about Allen. I concluded that if Tredinor got his hands on Allen and killed him, most people would sympathise with Tredinor.

I went into the bar at the other end of the house. It was near closing time and the bar was empty except for the girl behind the counter. I ordered a whisky and soda; took it into the corner of the bar; put sixpence in the automatic piano that stood there. I wondered what tune would come out.

It wheezed and rumbled for a bit; then I heard the pennies drop and it began to play a rather attractive near-hot theme with syncopated variations. A not-so-bad girl's voice sang the refrain—

"Hell hath no fury...
that's what he told the jury...
hell hath no fury like a woman scorned."

The song seemed appropriate and, for some reason which I couldn't fathom, brought to my mind a picture of Mrs. Ellerdene.

IT was eleven-thirty when I stopped the car at what was now becoming my favourite call-box—at the end of the Melquay front. I lighted a cigarette and stood looking at the sea. I thought the time had come when I ought to talk to Mrs. Ellerdene—and the sooner the better.

I got out of the car; went into the call-box; called the Ellerdene house. I hoped that John Ellerdene wouldn't answer the telephone; if he did, I should have to say I'd got the wrong number. He didn't. It was the butler.

I said: "I'm sorry to call through so late, but I'd like to speak to Mrs. Ellerdene. This is Mr. Nicholas."

He asked me to hold on. I thought Mrs. Ellerdene would be sharp enough to guess who Mr. Nicholas was. She was.

She said, in a quiet voice: "Good evening, Mr. Gale. I didn't expect to hear from you again."

"No... I didn't think you'd hear from me. But I want to talk to you, and it's urgent."

She said: "I see." There was a pause; then: "Why don't you drive along the front towards Mapletor? When you get to the town, turn left. There are some public gardens at the end of the esplanade, and a kiosk. There's seldom any one there at this time of night. Would you like to meet me there? I can be with you in half an hour."

I got back into the car; drove along to the Esplanade Gardens at Mapletor; parked the car in a quiet spot; found the kiosk; went inside. By the time I'd smoked a cigarette I saw her walking across the grass.

She said: "You're rather an extraordinary person, Mr. Gale. I thought you were going to give up your investigation and go back to London. Or has something happened to make you change your mind?"

I smiled at her. "I've not changed my mind, Mrs. Ellerdene. I never intended to go back to London."

She said quietly: "I see. So you were just—what is sometimes called 'stringing me along'?"

"I do like to put it like that." She gave me a little smile. "Rather an expensive process for me. You remember it cost me five hundred pounds."

She asked: "If you didn't want it, and if you intended to go on with the investigation, why did you take it?"

I grinned at her. "It was the obvious thing to do. At the time I took it, I didn't know what I was going to do. I wanted to see how much it was going to be worth to you for me to get out of Melquay."

She said in a cool voice: "Mr. Gale, are you suggesting that for some mysterious reason I wanted to get you out of Melquay?"

"I'm not suggesting anything. I know what you told me. You said that you thought it was a good thing to 'let sleeping dogs lie'; that you thought it would be a bad thing for more mud to be stirred up. It's quite possible that that's the truth, but when I'm on an investigation I don't always believe what is told me at once."

We'd reached the end of the lawn. We turned; began to walk back towards the kiosk.

I said: "I don't know, but I'd be awfully glad if you'd answer a few questions, Mrs. Ellerdene. I'd be even more glad if you'd think I wasn't trying to be offensive in asking them."

She shrugged her shoulders. "Not very much. He was a strange young man. I disliked him intensely. He did some of the interior decorations at our house. He'd been recommended to me by friends who knew about his work. He was very good at his work. He was conceited; self-opinionated. But then most artists are like that, aren't they, Mr. Gale?"

"Yes," I said. "You never had any reason to suppose that Weeps might have something to do with this libel about your daughter?"

There was a pause; then she said: "You're quite difficult person, aren't you, Mr. Gale?"

I smiled at her. "Not necessarily. Tell me something else. Hart Allen... it was through you that your daughter Denise met Hart Allen, wasn't it?"

"Yes," she said. "At the time Denise was doing work for the Red Cross, and my husband decided it was our duty to entertain as many of the servicemen who were stationed around these parts as possible. I rather enjoyed it. In due course I met Hart Allen, and I must say I didn't dislike him—"

I interrupted: "What do you mean by that, Mrs. Ellerdene? What do you mean by not disliking a person?"

"I mean that, whilst at first I didn't actually like him, I didn't find any cause to dislike him, which a lot of people did. You see, Mr. Gale, I think I understood Hart Allen. He was a young man who had, I believe, been doing some quite unimportant job in New York before the War, and then he came over here and he discovered several things. First of all, he discovered that he was a crack pilot; that he was an excellent air fighter; then that everybody liked him. Well, I suppose it went to his head. He began to drink too much. That's not unusual, is it, for a young man-especially a young man who's living a life of strain, as he was? Of course there were too many women, but that's not unusual either, is it? Women spoiled him. Many women behaved foolishly during the War, Mr. Gale. I don't know that you could blame him for that."

"Of course he was to be blamed because he wasn't very selective about his women friends," she went on. "That's where I thought we could help him. That's why I introduced him to Denise. I believed that at heart he was sound enough. I believed that if he met nice people like ourselves we should influence him for the better."

I said: "You're sure you weren't using your daughter as a red herring, Mrs. Ellerdene?"

"What do you mean by that, Mr. Gale? Now I think you are going to be rather offensive."

"You can think what you like," I said. "I'm not being offensive, but I'd like an answer to that question." I looked at her in the moonlight. "You're a very attractive, very good-looking woman, Mrs. Ellerdene. You wouldn't be the first middle-aged woman who's fallen for a young American flyer, and if you did fall for Hart Allen, that's a very good reason why you might have introduced Denise as a red herring; someone on whom attention would be concentrated so that people shouldn't talk about you."

She sighed. "You're quite wrong, Mr. Gale. I've told you the truth about Hart Allen. It's good of you to say such nice things about me, but if you knew more about women you'd know that my type doesn't 'fall'—as you call it—for people like Hart Allen."

I asked: "Do you remember a dinner and a dance at Exeter? Maybe I can recall it to your memory. Hart Allen had been given still another Allied decoration for gallantry in the air. Some friends of his threw a celebration party. You, your husband and Denise were asked. Can you remember anything that happened that night—anything that stayed in your memory?"

She said immediately: "Yes, I can. I've good reason to remember that night. I thought it proved a theory of mine."

She said: "That was the first night that Hart Allen remained sober most of the evening. Quite obviously, he'd pulled himself together." She gave me a little smile. "I flattered myself," she went on, "that that was something to do with me. I can remember telling him how much better I liked him when he hadn't had too much whisky, and I can remember him saying that he thought he was getting a little tired of drinking too much whisky. I also remember that Denise had a bad headache that evening and didn't feel well. Hart Allen drove her home before the dance ended."

I asked: "And there was nothing else which happened at the dance that you remember particularly?"

She said: "No. It went on for a long time. It was early in the morning when we drove back home. Hart Allen had returned and he told us that he'd delivered Denise safely home. Any more questions, Mr. Gale?"

I said: "Yes. Would you like to tell me about Tredinor? What do you think about him?"

"I'm very fond of Eustace," she said. "He's a splendid young man. We know all about him. His life is more or less an open book. He went through the War; was badly wounded. He was decorated for bravery. He was invalided out of the Army and came back to the farm here. His family have been yeomen farmers for a long time. He's very good at his job. He's good at anything he does. Beyond that I can only say that he is very well thought of, and apart from the fact that he's inclined to be a little intense about things I can't find anything at all wrong with him."

"Well, Eustace is descended from a Spanish family which settled here a long time ago, and he's inherited the temperament. It takes an awful lot to make him lose his temper, but when he does——" She smiled at some recollection—"he's very intense. Although the defect has its virtues."

"Consider what a fine young man Eustace Tredinor is," she said. "How many men would have wanted to go through with a marriage after that beastly paragraph appeared in the paper? But Eustace never wavered for one instant. He knew it was a lie. The fact that everybody was talking about it; that the whole neighbourhood was dining off it for weeks, meant nothing to him. His attitude towards Denise has never changed."

I said: "It's never changed because he knew that that paragraph was absolutely a lie?"

She said: "Of course. The idea of Denise having an affaire with a man like Hart Allen, or any one else, is quite unthinkable."

After a minute, she said: "Mr. Gale, where is all this leading? What's in the back of your mind?"

I looked at her. "Between you and me and the doorpost, Mrs. Ellerdene, I don't quite know. When I came down here I was confronted with a jigsaw puzzle. I've been trying to find some pieces to fit together. Now I've got to the stage when I've got two or three pieces that look as if they might fit, and that's all."

She said: "I can't help you? Couldn't you tell me about the pieces that do fit?"

She said, a little bitterly: "You've got to go through with it. Whatever fresh damage you may cause. You've got to go through with it even if that unfortunate, unhappy girl of mine is hurt even more...."

I said: "On the contrary, I'd hate to do anything that would cause her any more grief. I suppose it hasn't struck you that I might be thinking of her; that I might be wanting to stop something even worse happening."

I said: "I don't believe it, I know it, and I think it will happen, unless I can stop it. The trouble is I don't even know where to begin."

"I see." Her voice was thoughtful. She looked at me again and smiled suddenly. "Believe it or not, Mr. Gale, I don't dislike you. I think there's something rather nice about you."

"I think you are a trustworthy person. I think if ever I wanted to employ an investigator about a delicate business, I should be inclined to use you."

She laughed softly. "Is that true?" she asked. "You haven't tried to please me very much, have you, Mr. Gale? But perhaps you don't regard me as a customer. I suppose my husband occupies that position. However, so long as you don't suspect me any more—"

I tried to look shocked. "Suspect you, Mrs. Ellerdene. You mustn't get ideas like that. You..."

She interrupted: "Why not? I think I'm entitled to get ideas like that. Immediately after your first interview with my husband you made a point of talking to me. You allowed me to think that for a bribe you were prepared to stop your investigation. You did no such thing. You went ahead with it. And in a rather interesting manner."

"Yes. Really. You took my cheque for five hundred pounds—your bribe to cease this investigation and go away—and for some strange reason best known to yourself you endorsed the cheque and gave it to Claude Weeps—of all persons in the world—to cash. Weeps cashed it the morning after I gave it to you. You see, I inquired at the Bank and they told me that the cheque had been cashed—by Claude Weeps. Incidentally, I read in the newspaper that the unfortunate Mr. Weeps fell over the cliff near Gara and is dead. Perhaps that's a good thing, Mr. Gale... do you think?"

I stopped walking again. So did she. We stood looking at each other in the moonlight. I thought that Mrs. Ellerdene was nobody's fool.

I took out my cigarette case. Whilst I was lighting the cigarette I did some quick thinking.

She shrugged her shoulders. "Perhaps you could answer that question. And perhaps you'd like to tell me why you gave my cheque to Weeps."

"How do you know I gave the cheque to Weeps?" I asked. "He might have stolen it."

She nodded. "He might have. But he didn't. You are not the sort of person to carry an open cheque for five hundred pounds about with you already endorsed so that any one could cash it without having to endorse it. You're much too clever for that, Mr. Gale. You would only endorse such a cheque when it was about to be presented—or when you gave it to someone else to present—as you gave it to Claude Weeps."

I grinned at her. "Mrs. Ellerdene, supposing for the sake of argument your idea is correct, why in the name of goodness should I give Claude Weeps five hundred pounds?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "I could make some guesses," she said. "One of them might be that you wanted to gain a little time; that you wanted to keep Claude Weeps happy whilst you got on with your investigation. Or you might have thought that Weeps knew something that was better forgotten."

She shook her head. "I had no great opinion of him. I think, to tell you the truth, that he was a blackmailer." She gave me another of her sudden smiles. "I believe you think so too. My favourite cashier at the Bank—I've known him for such a long time—was talkative enough to tell me that the police asked him if he could identify the hundred five-pound notes that were found in Weeps' suitcase. At first he couldn't, but they saved him the trouble. They took his fingerprints and checked with the notes. They were the notes he handed to Weeps. My cashier's fingerprints were on the corner of each note where he'd counted them."

I said: "Well... well... well...! You ought to be a private detective, Mrs. Ellerdene."

"The police were good enough to do a little explaining at the Bank," she went on. "They suggested that Weeps had stolen the cheque from the person to whom I gave it. They wanted to know about Weeps' bank account. He keeps it at the same Bank, you see."

I gave her a cigarette; lighted it. Through the flame of my lighter I could see her eyes were mischievous. I was beginning to think Mrs. Ellerdene was quite a woman.

"I don't think that Weeps had stolen the cheque from you," she said. "He wouldn't steal a cheque from any one. He hadn't that sort of courage."

"You gave him that cheque," she said. "You gave him the cheque knowing that he couldn't explain the circumstances in which you had given it to him. You knew that no one would believe that you'd given it to him. You endorsed it so that he could cash it. Then you told the police he'd stolen it. They even had a man at the Bank waiting to see him cash it. It rather looks as if you had Mr. Weeps where you wanted him, doesn't it, Mr. Gale?"

She said: "I must go now. It's been very nice talking to you. Go ahead with your investigation and don't worry about the five hundred pounds. I'd like you to buy yourself something with it—something in memory of Mr. Weeps. Because if he hadn't fallen over the cliff... he did fall, didn't he, Mr. Gale?... even so you'd got him where you wanted him. You'd found a way to shut his vicious little mouth, which is more than I had succeeded in doing."

She shrugged her shoulders. "Not a great deal—enough. And not directly. I gave him work at the house and overpaid him. He usually charged me three times as much as any one else."

She smiled at me. "I don't know. But he knew something. And I wasn't taking any chances. Supposing you tell me what he knew."

I said: "Not now. One of these days we must have a really cosy talk over a big pot of tea." I gave her another grin.

She said: "Good night, Mr. Gale. I feel we shall meet again." She went across the lawn towards her car. I thought she was very refreshing.

I walked about for a bit, and smoked another cigarette; then I walked back to the car; drove to the Court Hotel; went upstairs and lay on the bed.

I did a lot of careful thinking. I realised that any thinking I did from now on had got to be careful. I thought I'd hate to start something that I couldn't finish.

My stomach was giving me hell. I'd had a long day. The doctor had said I'd be all right if I lay down and kept quiet. What a hope he'd got!

I began to think about Hart Allen. I'd got pretty clear pictures of all the other people—of John Ellerdene, Mrs. Ellerdene, Denise, Eustace Tredinor, Claude Weeps. There were only two people I hadn't very clear pictures of—one was Hart Allen and the other Whoever-it-was.

I got off the bed and began to walk about. Now the pain in my guts was worse. I had a half-bottle of whisky in one of my suitcases. I took a swig and felt better. Then I took up the telephone. I asked for Linnane's number.

After a bit the night man came on. I said: "Good evening, Toby. Where's the boss?"

"All right," I said. "Get through to him and tell him to ring me. Melquay 726. My extension number's fourteen."

I did some more walking about. Ten minutes afterwards, Mike Linnane came through. I liked hearing the sound of his voice.

"I want to know something about Hart Allen. I've got a picture of all the other personalities, and I know a little about Hart. But I'd like to know what happened to him after he went back. Is he married? Has he settled down? What's he doing? Can you find out?"

He said: "It's funny your asking that. The idea came to me to-day that I'd get through and find out for myself. He was an interesting type. Hold on a minute." There was a pause; then: "O.K. I've just been working out the times. I'm going to put a call in now. I'll get through to Jefferies in New York and tell him to do a little leg-work. I ought to be able to let you know sometime to-morrow afternoon or evening. How will that suit?"

I did a little more walking about the room. I was thinking about Mike. He was a great guy. I liked working for him. He had one hell of a record in the War, and even if I was doing a job for him when I was picked up by the Gestapo... well, that could have happened to anybody, and it wasn't his fault. A great guy... but then I've found that most people called Mike are pretty good. There's something about the name Mike....

I stopped walking. I had another pull at the whisky bottle. I began to think about Mr. Claude Weeps and his interior decorating.

I put on my hat; went downstairs. The night porter was alone in the front office.

I started up the car. I drove through Totnes out on to the Newton Abbot road. I swung down the side lane behind The Orange Hatch. I stopped the car where I'd stopped it earlier in the evening. I went through the gate and stood in the shadow of the hedge looking at the building. If it had had atmosphere in the afternoon it had much more now. The lanes about the place were silvered in the moonlight.

I remembered Phelps. Phelps slept at the far end in the upper storey. That wasn't the end that interested me. Keeping in the shade of the hedge, I walked towards the house. I found a window in the store-room at the back of the suite. It took only a few minutes to open it. I got through.

Half an hour later I came out; walked back to the car; drove back to Melquay. I'd found another piece in the jigsaw puzzle—a hell of a big piece!

On the way back I began to ask myself questions. It's a funny thing but you can be up to your neck in an investigation; you can ask yourself all the questions in the world, but the one that matters most you don't think of at the time when you most want to think of it. The question I'd never asked myself, that now seemed very important, and to which I thought I had the answer, was how Claude Weeps had obtained that letter—the letter signed Meralin—the letter written to Hart Allen.

Chapter Six
FRIDAY: TREDINOR

I WOKE up at ten o'clock, drank some coffee, bathed, shaved and began to walk about the bedroom in my pyjamas.

I wasn't feeling particularly pleased with life, because in an odd way the Ellerdene case was beginning to get me down. It wasn't that I hadn't some glimmerings of light. I had. And it wasn't that I hadn't some good ideas. I had those too. But I didn't like the glimmerings of light and I didn't like the ideas. In fact I didn't like anything.

I picked up the telephone and asked to be put through to Lindles Hotel at Mapletor. After a few minutes I got Finney.

He said: "How's it goin'? Are you cleanin' up this job? I hope not. I like this place. What's cookin'?"

I said: "Not a lot, but what is cooking is interesting. Listen, you remember you were speaking to me about Mary McDougal?"

"I want you to go over and see her." I told him what I wanted him to do. He said: "O.K."

I hung up. Then I did a little more walking. Then I telephoned the Ellerdene house. I spoke to John Ellerdene.

I said: "I want to talk to you. Would you care to come down to the cocktail bar at the hotel?"

I dressed and went downstairs. He arrived on time. I looked at him as he came into the bar. Ellerdene, I thought, was a good type—strong, self-reliant and with quite a lot of brains. While he was walking across the bar towards me I found myself wondering whether a private detective ought to have a sense of duty. I gave it up. I've never been very good at moralising.

We sat down in a corner. He didn't say anything. He waited for me to talk. I thought that his self-control was greater than his curiosity.

I lighted a cigarette. I said: "I'm in a bit of a spot. I don't like this investigation very much."

I said: "I take it you realise that this business must have hurt your daughter a great deal. It must have. No girl—I don't care who she is—is going to stand for a thing like that happening to her without feeling it, and I understand that Denise is a rather sensitive sort of girl. So she's probably felt it a great deal more than most would."

"My trouble's this," I said. "The way I feel at the moment I'd like to throw my hand in and give this case up. I don't like it."

I said: "I'd like to give it up because, whatever happens, I think Miss Ellerdene's going to get hurt some more. She must. It stands to reason that anybody who was lousy enough to put that paragraph in the newspaper is a pretty tough sort of specimen. If we catch him out, nail him to the mast, prove that he did it, what's he going to do? Is he just going to sit back and take it or is he going to come out with something worse?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "How do I know? But it stands to reason that if he was swine enough to make a thing like this up, he'd be swine enough to make some more things up. There's no end to the mud he could throw."

I shrugged my shoulders again. "I don't know anything. I've done a certain amount of guessing, but that's all and I'm not worrying about it particularly—not so far as it concerns me, anyhow. The point is that I'm a part of the Linnane Organisation, which is working for you. You're paying the bill. It's going to be very nice for one and all if I can find this person; fix him so that he suffers for what he's done, and is ready to keep his mouth shut in the future. That would be fine. But it wouldn't be so good for you if my finding him makes it worse for your daughter, and therefore for you."

He said: "That's a chance that I considered, Gale. I thought about that before I ever got in touch with Linnane's."

He nodded. "That's exactly what I mean. I believe it's my duty to try and find this man or woman, whoever it is. I believe that if I don't, there'll be a lot more trouble. I'd rather have the trouble over now and done with."

I said: "Well, if that's how you feel about it, that suits me. I'll go right ahead."

I said: "I don't know. I've got some ideas, but ideas are one thing and proof another."

He got up. He said: "Well, I know that when you've got something definite, you'll let me in."

I went down to the beach, hired a tent and swim-suit and went into the sea. I liked that. I swam about for quite a while. I could move now without hurting my stomach all the time.

I went back to the hotel at twelve o'clock. I was drinking a whisky and soda in the bar when Finney came through. I took the call in the box in the hallway.

He said: "This is how it was. She's absolutely certain about that day. She wanted to go out to Newton Abbot and see an old friend of hers—somethin' important. But she couldn't go, because she hadn't got her glasses. The optician rang through fairly early that mornin' and said the glasses was ready, so she gets a friend of hers to go round with her to the optician's and she tries the glasses on."

"She got talkin' to the optician," Finney went on, "and he said that although the glasses was all right for her, she ought to see a doctor. So she goes right away with her friend and sees the doctor she usually goes to. He has a look at her and tells her she ought to go into hospital for an operation right away. He says there isn't any time to be lost. She's got glaucoma an' she's got it acute. He does some telephonin' and it's all fixed for her to go into hospital at Exeter the next day.

"Then her friend goes back with her to the Ellerdene house. An' she arranges to pick her up later in the day and go out with her to Newton Abbot."

I asked: "And she did that? Her friend called for her and they went out to Newton Abbot later. Is that right?"

"You can do what you like so long as you're in this evening. I'll probably come through to you after eight o'clock. If I don't, I'll be through to-morrow."

I hung up. I went back to the cocktail bar; bought another whisky and soda; sat down at the corner table by the window from which I could watch the front.

I thought I could do one of two things. I could either play things along nicely and easily until something rather drastic happened, as it would do because it had to, or I could start something myself. I sat there looking at the people walking about the front in the sunshine; wondering. Somebody said that a good motto is 'when in doubt, don't.' Well, it may be good, but sometimes it's a trifle inactive. I came to the conclusion that just at that moment it didn't suit me.

I thought to myself: What the hell! If this is going to be tough, let's have it tough, and get it over with. Then I went outside and asked the girl on the exchange to get me through to Tredinor Moat, and when she'd done it, to say that I wanted to talk to Mr. Eustace Tredinor.

IT was three o'clock when I stopped the car outside the iron gates that led to Tredinor Moat. It was a lovely afternoon. There was that peculiar silence, accentuated by the usual country sounds, which hangs broodingly on summer afternoons.

I got out of the car and began to walk along the drive, bordered by overgrown coppices. The house stood fifty or sixty yards from the road. It was half-timbered and had an atmosphere of true antiquity. There was a barn at one end and some outbuildings, which had obviously been added at a later date. Away behind the house, and on the other side of the flower garden, which I could just see as I approached the building, was pasture-land, and beyond that, stretching away towards distant Teignmouth, were cornfields.

I went up the steps that led to the porch of the house. I rang the bell; lighted a cigarette. I began to think about Eustace Tredinor.

He was near to the picture I'd made of him. When I went into the bookcase-lined library, he was standing over by the window. He was dressed in riding-breeches and boots, a rough shirt open at the neck and a tweed hacking jacket. He was tall; his face thin and bronzed; his hair dead black. I noticed his hands. They were brown and the fingers were long and artistic. His eyes fascinated me. They were deep-set, dark and penetrating. Yet there were humorous lines about his eyes and at the corners of his mouth.

I thought Eustace Tredinor could be intense if he wanted to be, just as he could be good-humoured and just. Here was a man, I thought, who had decided ideas about life, and who would not be inclined to moderate them too easily.

He said: "Good afternoon. I understand your business is important. What can I do for you?"

He raised his eyebrows. He smiled a little. "I don't quite understand what that tone in your voice means. Won't you sit down?"

I sat down in one of the big chairs that flanked the fireplace. He walked away from the window and sat in the swivel-chair behind the desk, facing me.

I said: "I'm sorry if the tone in my voice conveys something to you that doesn't seem pleasant. Maybe that's a good thing, because my business with you isn't particularly pleasant. So I'll say what I have to say as quickly as I can then we'll see how you feel about it and what your attitude is going to be."

I nodded. I grinned back at him. "This is one of those things," I said. "You've got to have an attitude."

He opened a drawer; took out a box of cigarettes. He said: "Your cigarette's nearly finished. Have one of these?"

I said: "My name's Nicholas Gale. I'm an investigator working for the Linnane Organisation in London. I came down here because your prospective father-in-law—John Ellerdene—asked the Linnane Organisation to find out who it was fixed that not-so-good libel about Miss Ellerdene in the Melquay Record." I looked at him. I asked: "Does that surprise you?"

He thought for a moment; then he said: "No, it doesn't surprise me. It would be like John Ellerdene. He's a very punctilious—a very thorough—man, and I can understand his attitude. If Denise were my daughter I should feel the same way."

I said: "Good. That makes it easier. When I got down here I hadn't a thing to work on, so I did what any investigator would do in the circumstances. I started to cast about to try and find something that would serve as a sort of base-line—something that would give me some kind of mental H.Q. to work from. Well, I was lucky—or unlucky....

"I gathered from John Ellerdene that he didn't want Mrs. Ellerdene disturbed by this business. I wondered why. So I went and had a talk with her off the record."

"I thought it was." I grinned at him. "Though investigators have to do a lot of things that aren't wise. Wisdom is a thing which seldom insinuates itself into the sort of case with which we have to deal."

"At first," I went on, "I thought Mrs. Ellerdene's attitude was a little peculiar. She didn't like the idea of the investigation. She thought that if I started raking over things down here, it would stir up fresh mud and possibly cause more trouble. I understood that part of her point of view. I realised that she thought that, given time, this thing would die down. She didn't want anybody to start anything else. Maybe you think she was right."

"The thing I couldn't understand," I said, "was the fact that she didn't want her husband to know that she was advising me to get out. I couldn't understand that at the time, although maybe I understand it now."

"My opinion was changed by an individual called Claude Weeps," I said. "This fellow—a little rat—saw me talking to Mrs. Ellerdene at the Palace Hotel the night I got down here. He'd seen my picture in the paper; they printed something about my record as a parachute agent in the War, and he remembered my name. Weeps was astute enough. He put two and two together and came to the conclusion that I'd been employed by the Ellerdene family to investigate the libel about Denise Ellerdene. So he thought he ought to do something about that."

"That's easy," I said. "Weeps was scared because he had some sort of connection, however vague, with the libel. In other words, he knew something about it, and I suppose he thought it would be a good thing for him to get on the side of law and order—that is, on my side. He waited for me that night outside the Palace Hotel and told me that he might be of assistance to me. I arranged to see him the next day. But he changed his mind about being of assistance. He came to the conclusion that it was his duty not to talk to me."

Tredinor said: "That was rather peculiar, wasn't it?" He was watching me closely.

I shook my head. "No... I'd offered him some money, and somebody had evidently offered him more money to keep quiet."

"I don't know. I may have had ideas. I may have made some guesses, but they were only guesses. I didn't know."

He said: "If I'm not being too curious, and since you're discussing this thing with me, could I know about the guesses?"

"Why not?" I said. "At the time when I first met Weeps he said he wanted to talk. So he did want to talk. He made an appointment to meet me at his cottage on Wednesday night at nine-thirty, and it is my considered belief that when he made that appointment he was going to spill the whole bag of tricks to me. In the meantime, as I've told you, he saw somebody else. By some means or other he was persuaded not to talk. You ask who I think that person might have been." I grinned. "One of them might have been you," I said. "The other one might have been Mrs. Ellerdene. That's what I thought when I arrived at his cottage and found he wasn't there."

He said: "You thought that then and changed your opinion, afterwards. Could I know why?"

"Certainly. In the first place, Mrs. Ellerdene had given me five hundred pounds to call it a day; to tell John Ellerdene, after a short period, that I couldn't get ahead with this investigation and that I was giving it up. Quite obviously, if she was prepared to pay me five hundred pounds not to go on with the investigation, she meant business. Just as obviously she would be inclined—if Weeps went back to her and told her that he was going to talk to me—to make it worth his while not to do so. And for an innocent reason—the same reason that she gave me in the first place: that she thought it would do no good to stir up more mud.

"And she might, I thought, make it well worth Weeps' while, because she would believe that, if Weeps were able to give me any information that mattered, that information might act as a spur to make me change my mind and decide to go through with the investigation. That's understandable, isn't it?"

He nodded. "It's not only understandable; it's logical. Although I don't believe it."

"Neither do I now," I told him. "My second guess was you. I believed Weeps might have thought, if he were going to talk to me about this thing, that I should certainly want to discuss his information with other people concerned in the case. He might have thought I should discuss it with Mrs. Ellerdene, with John Ellerdene and possibly with you, because you were the man who was going to marry Denise. He might have believed that it would be better for him to come and see you before certain matters concerning Miss Ellerdene came to your ears through me. You see, he knew you could be tough if you wanted to, so it was on the cards that he would come to you and you would have made it worth his while to get out and tell me nothing—for the same innocent reason that Mrs. Ellerdene had; that you didn't want further mud stirred up, any more than she did."

I shook my head. "I don't believe it now, and I didn't believe it thirty-five minutes after I thought it, because some very tough eggs arrived at Weeps' cottage and gave me the finest beating-up I've ever had in my life." I smiled at him. "I might have believed that neither you nor Mrs. Ellerdene liked the idea of the investigation, but I certainly could not bring myself to believe that to stop it you'd go as far as to have me beaten up in Weeps' cottage."

"So," I went on, "some other figure began to obtrude itself into the investigation; some other contact that Weeps had; somebody else who was in a position to persuade Weeps, not only not to talk to me, but to get out of Melquay very quickly, and to leave a note waiting for me at the cottage, saying that he wasn't going to talk to me. Somebody who could make it worth Weeps' while to employ three thugs to give me a damned good hiding. Because it was Weeps who ordered my beating-up. I know that."

He said: "You don't seem to have wasted much time in the few days you've been down here, Gale."

He said: "I've understood everything you've said. But I don't understand where I come into it."

"You will," I told him, "because you came into it on Wednesday evening—somewhere soon after nine o'clock."

"No," I said. "Disabuse your mind of any idea like that. I've never felt like trying to be funny at any time during this investigation. I don't think I ever shall."

He said: "Very well. So you're serious. Exactly what did you mean by my coming into this business soon after nine on Wednesday evening?"

"I'll tell you, and I'll tell you before I start that I'm guessing." I grinned at him again. "But it's a goddam good guess. I think you're going to admit that in a minute."

"Somebody told you on Wednesday," I went on, "that Weeps had made up his mind to talk to me, and then changed his mind. Somebody told you that he was getting out of Melquay; that he knew something; that he could start trouble any time he wanted to; that in a month or two months—when this investigation was finished and I'd gone—Weeps could come back to Melquay and start some more funny business. You didn't like that."

He didn't say anything. He sat looking at the blotter on the desk in front of him.

"You didn't like that," I said, "and for a very wood reason. You are very much in love with Denise Ellerdene. The one thing you want to do is to protect her; to stop her from suffering any more hurt from this appalling business. So you made up your mind to have a few words with Claude Weeps. I don't know what you intended to tell him, but I'll make another guess. You're a pretty straight fellow, Tredinor, and I think you made up your mind to tell Claude Weeps that if he ever came back to Melquay; if he ever so much as opened his mouth or mentioned Denise Ellerdene's name again, you'd give him the hiding of his life, after which you'd probably take him round to the police station and lay a blackmail charge against him. I think you intended to tell him that."

He asked: "Why should I think that Weeps was in a position to blackmail anybody?"

He raised his eyebrows. He stubbed his cigarette end out in the ash-tray; opened the box; took a fresh one. He lighted it. His hand was very steady.

"You're not suggesting, are you," he said, "that Weeps had been blackmailing Mrs. Ellerdene?"

"No... I don't suppose you could call it blackmail. It probably happened like this: After this libel had appeared, when everybody was still very angry and the whole town still talking about it, I imagine that Weeps who was, as I've said, a very clever and astute type, saw Mrs. Ellerdene somewhere. He probably said that he sympathised with her about the whole unfortunate business; that he thought it was appalling. Then he probably went on to say that it was a fearful pity that one or two people had been starting odd rumours in connection with the libel; that he himself had heard one or two rather unpleasant things."

I got up. I flipped the ash off my cigarette into the ashtray on the mantelpiece.

I went on: "But he probably stopped there. Mrs. Ellerdene is much too clever a woman to have asked him what he'd heard. She wouldn't do that. She would believe that the thing to do was to stop any more untrue rumours getting around the place. She'd know perfectly well that if Weeps went about the town talking—and everybody down here seems to know what his acid tongue is like—it wouldn't make things any easier for Denise. She knew it wouldn't do any good threatening Weeps. So she made a feminine move. She gave Weeps a commission to do interior decorating at the Ellerdene house and she paid him two or three times as much as his services were worth. I know that because she told me."

He nodded. "She told me too," he said. "But shall we get back to the Wednesday evening?"

I said: "Yes... let's do that. On Wednesday evening you went to see Weeps. You had reason to believe that he'd be getting out of his cottage somewhere about nine o'clock. You probably approached it from Prawle Point, left your car on the main road, took a walk across country and eventually got on to the cliff path that leads from Prawle Point round to Gara. You meet Weeps half-way there. He was hurrying along, with his suitcase in his hand, quite pleased with himself. I bet he wasn't very pleased to see you." I paused. He didn't say anything.

I went on: "You said your piece to Weeps; you told him just what you'd do to him if there was any more trouble from him. You probably told him that if he came back to Melquay, or tried any more funny business with Mrs. Ellerdene, you'd thrash him and then turn him over to the police. You probably told him that you didn't give a damn what he knew or what he said. How am I doing, Tredinor?"

"Weeps didn't react as you thought he would," I said. "On the contrary, he wasn't particularly nice. He said something which annoyed you very much. I don't know what it was, but it got your goat. Maybe he told you something that he'd heard, or something that he suggested he knew, but whatever it was, it made you very angry. You lost your temper and you did one of two things. You either deliberately threw Weeps over the cliff, or you hit him and knocked him over accidentally."

I stopped speaking. I looked at him. His face had changed colour under the tan. His eyes were sombre. I'd put my finger on it all right.

"Now you listen to me," I said. "I'm not a policeman, and I don't give two shakes in hell about Claude Weeps. I think he was a nasty, vicious, little rat. I haven't the slightest sympathy with him, and if you knocked him over the cliff deliberately, well... that's that! But I'm working at the moment for John Ellerdene, so don't say anything that you'd regret afterwards."

He smiled at me. He said: "All right. If you've got a good idea as to what I'm not to say, perhaps you'll tell me what I ought to say." His tone was mildly caustic.

"I'm on your side, Tredinor. Just tell me one thing. Can you account for your movements on Wednesday night—from say half-past eight to half-past nine—and could you prove those movements? In other words, have you got an alibi?"

I said: "All right. You and I understand each other. You killed Claude Weeps. I don't think you need worry about it a great deal. Incidentally, I'd like to know one thing. Did you mean to kill him, or was it an accident?"

"It was an accident." He got up. He walked over to the window and looked out. "You're not a bad guesser, Gale. What you've said is, in the main, true. I went to see Weeps. I wanted to talk to him. I'd made up my mind to stop his vicious mouth once and for all. I met him on the cliff path just at the narrowest place. I'd got myself well in hand, too. I made up my mind I wouldn't lose my temper with him. I told him what I intended to tell him, which was pretty well on the lines you've indicated. And then he said something that I didn't like. And I saw red."

He drew on his cigarette. He was looking out of the window, across the cornfields.

"Whilst I was talking to him," he said, "he put his suitcase down on the ground behind him. I suppose it was heavy. When he said the thing that got my goat, and I lost my temper, I took a step towards him. He stepped backward. He'd forgotten about the suitcase. He'd forgotten about the cliff path being so narrow. He fell over the suitcase; went over the edge of the cliff. And that was that! I kicked the suitcase after him."

I said: "That's how I thought it was—an accident. And as far as I'm concerned it can stay like that. I don't think anybody else has got any other ideas. The police believe that Weeps fell over the cliff path. They knew he had reason to get out of Melquay in a hurry. They believe he was excited, wanted to get away quickly, and slipped hurrying along the narrow cliff path. I've seen the D.D.I. down here. They haven't any reason to suspect foul play. I don't think you need worry your head."

He went back to the desk. His face was drawn. He said: "It was very good of you to come out here and talk to me. Needless to say, I've been worrying about this. I haven't known what to do about it."

"I can understand that," I said. "Normally, you'd have gone to the police and told them. But you knew if you went, there'd have to be explanations and more talk about Denise Ellerdene. Is that right?"

"There's just one other little thing," I said. "I've started this investigation, and however unpleasant it may be, I'm going through with it. I don't think it's any part of my duty to go to the police and tell them what happened between you and Weeps. Weeps is dead. Just how much he deserved to die I know, and it isn't as if you'd killed him deliberately. I think you were entitled to want to hit Weeps, and if he fell over the cliff edge, that's his business. So I don't propose to say anything about it, providing ...."

"Providing that you do what you're told, Tredinor," I said. "And don't make any mistake—from now on this investigation is going to be carried on the way I want it carried on. I'm not having you, or Mrs. Ellerdene, or anybody else, sticking their nose into it. I've been assigned here by the Linnane Organisation to find out who put that libel in the Melquay Record. I'm going to do it. And if in the course of the investigation anybody sticks their neck out, they're going to be hurt—whether it's Mrs. Ellerdene or any one else. Have you got that?"

"All right," I told him. "I may want you to help. If I do, I'll get word to you. I've got an associate working down here with me under cover. His name's Finney. He's a Canadian with an accent you could cut with a knife. You can't mistake him. If Finney comes to you from me and gives you a line of action, you do what he says. You'll find in the long run it'll be best for you."

He said: "I understand. Mrs. Ellerdene told me you were a personality. I think she was right."

I ARRIVED at The Orange Hatch at half-past six. I left the car in the drive; went through the main entrance. There was no one in the hall or the reception office, but there was a bell-push on the reception office counter. I pushed it. After a couple of minutes Phelps appeared.

He said: "Good afternoon, sir. It's a lovely day. What can I get for you—a double Martini?"

"No. I'll have a whisky and soda. But it can wait. I want to have a little talk with you."

He looked at me enquiringly. I took out my wallet; extracted a couple of five-pound notes. I folded them into a neat square.

I said: "Listen, Phelps, since our conversation the other day I've been thinking about this place. If I remember rightly, you told me the present owners are keen on selling it."

He nodded "That's right, sir. You see, they're not people with a lot of capital. They believe business will come back here when things settle down a bit. But look at the place now. It's empty. There's no one staying here, and although we do fairly good business in the front bar and we make a little money at the monthly dance, by the time they've paid expenses there's very little in it."

I said: "I understand. And that's why this place is going to be a difficult proposition to sell. But I'm taking a long-term view of it. Actually I've got two points of view. If the price is right and I buy the place, I could either turn it into a real good country hotel, and wait for things to get better to make my profit, or—if the worst came to the worst—I could come down here; live in a part of the house and let off the other parts of it. The whole point is that I like the place."

He said: "So do I. It's a nice place. You know, sir... don't think I'm pushing myself forward... but if you do take the place I'd like to stay on."

I looked at him. "Well, we can talk about that." I pushed the little packet of bank-notes towards him. He looked at it and then at me.

I said: "I'm a wise man. Before I start negotiations I'd like to have a look at the books. I'd like to see what sort of business they did in the old days. It would at least give me some idea. Is that possible?"

He nodded. "You don't have to give me anything to see the books, sir. They're upstairs. My instructions are that if anybody wants to see them—any one who thinks of buying the place—I'm to show 'em."

He came out of the reception office; went up the stairs. I followed him along a corridor that led to the far end of the house. He opened the door of a room—half still-room, half office. There was a shelf filled with account books.

"All right," I said. "I'll just have a casual look through them and get some idea about this place. When I'm through I'll come down and have that whisky and soda."

I took a look at the books on the shelf. I found the ones I wanted—the hotel registration books—at the far end. There were four of them. I put them on the table; found the one that opened in June, 1945; began to examine it. It was an easy process because the book was ruled so as to take only twelve signatures on a page, and looking through the book, as I turned page after page, I realised that Captain Hart Allen had certainly put in a lot of time staying in the end suite at The Orange Hatch. His registration appeared with the words "Private Suite" written in the room number column no less than seventeen times in 1945.

I turned to the 1946 book. There were quite a good number of Hart Allen registrations in the early part of the year, but they stopped suddenly in May. After the May date I turned over the pages, but there was no trace of his name until, on a day towards the end of June, another registration appeared. It seemed that once again Captain Hart Allen had taken the private suite.

That was all I wanted to know. That registration confirmed Denise's story. Hart Allen's Flying Group had been one of the last to leave Exeter. That would be about July, 1946. And this registration for June would be on the night of the party at Exeter—the night about which Denise had told me.

I tore the page out of the book; folded it; put it in my pocket. I replaced the books; went downstairs. Phelps was in the reception office.

I said: "I've looked at the books casually, and they seem pretty good to me, but I'd like to go into them thoroughly."

I thought for a moment; then: "I'll tell you what I'd like to do, Phelps. I've a fairly busy day to-morrow, but I'd like to go through those books at length some time tomorrow night. I think the best thing for me to do is to take the private suite, come here, have supper and stay the night. Is that all right?"

I said: "All right. Put those books down there so that they're waiting for me to-morrow night. I'll be over some time about eleven o'clock. I don't want to disturb you, so if you have some supper left for me in the sitting-room, then I can spend the night here and use two or three hours going through the books."

"Til give you a key, sir. There's a private entrance to the suite at the back of the hotel. You can't mistake it. It's the green-painted door next to the window. I'll leave supper for you. You can come any time you like and let yourself in. I'll see that the suite's all ready for you."

"That's a good idea," I told him. "Then on Sunday morning you and I can have another talk."

He opened the registration book that lay on the reception counter. I filled in my name and the usual details. He took down a key from a rack behind the counter and handed it to me.

It was nearly eight o'clock when I pulled the car into the side of the road, lighted a cigarette and did some heavy thinking.

That is, I intended to do some heavy thinking. In point of fact it wasn't even heavy. What I had to think about was so obvious that it creaked. And I hadn't to decide anything much. All I had to do was to make up my mind whether I was going to duck what was coming or whether I was going to go through with it.

And actually I hadn't to decide that either. I knew just what I was going to do, but I was kidding myself along in the process, trying to tell myself that in this or that circumstance I might not do this or that; that it might be easier to handle it this or that way. The usual stuff....

In fact, I knew just what I was going to do and I also knew that I didn't mind doing it. Well... not much!

I began to think about Roakes. It seemed to me that Roakes would have to be dealt with, and fairly quickly. Roakes, if he wanted to, might still cause a certain amount of trouble. There was quite enough of that commodity hanging around at the present moment.

I started up the car and drove towards Mapletor. On the way, I worked things out and tried to pick holes in my plan of campaign. I couldn't pick any holes; which meant that the plan was good, or I was so goddam blind that I couldn't see the holes.

I found Finney in the bar, drinking whisky and reading a book on racing form. I ordered a drink and sat down beside him.

"To-morrow," I told him, "you're going to have a busy day. So don't make any dates."

"O.K.," said Finney. "Me... I'll be glad to get crackin' on somethin'. I'm gettin' sorta stale around here now. Maybe the atmosphere's a bit relaxin' or somethin'. Maybe the air don't agree with me."

I grinned at him. "Maybe you've had a trifle too much air," I said. "I noticed that the barmaid was looking a shade icy when I came in. Maybe you've had too much air from her to handle conveniently."

He grunted. He said plaintively: "Listen, do we haveta discuss my love-life? Ain't nothin' sacred to you?" He threw what was intended to be a devastatingly hot look at the barmaid, who responded with one of the dirtiest looks I've ever seen in my life.

"Listen, Finney," I said, "and listen carefully because this is serious. To-morrow morning you've got to deal with Roakes."

"Yeah..." said Finney. "Roakes is the foreman at the newspaper printin' office. The guy who was suspected of fixin' that libel. The guy with the alibi?"

"There's no alibi," I said. "Roakes was the one. He put the libel in the paper."

Finney whistled softly. "Now," he said, "it looks like we're cookin' with gas. Now maybe somethin' is gonna happen."

I went on: "To-morrow morning you've to contact Roakes. I imagine that he'll finish work at midday. It's Saturday. Pick him up on his way home from the printing works. Give him a drink and talk sense to him."

"You don't have to say a lot," I told him. "The less the better. What you do tell him is this: You tell him that the whole works are bust wide open; that I know the whole story. You can tell him who I am, who you are and what we've been doing down here. You tell him that I know the whole goddam bag of tricks and if he's got any sense, he's going to do what he's told."

I said: "Roakes has got to get out of Melquay by tomorrow afternoon—for good. If he's still in Melquay at four o'clock to-morrow afternoon I'm going to have him arrested. You can tell him that. If he's wise, he's going to pack his bags, say nothing to any one and be all ready to get out. I'm going to see him at two-thirty at Sheppey's bar on the Melquay-Mapletor road. Tell him he's to be at that place at that time. I'm going to talk to him. If he behaves himself and does what I want I'll let him get out and that will be the end of it as far as he's concerned. If he tries any funny business I'm going to get him something like two years' hard on an open and shut case. You can tell him that too."

"That's all for the time being," I said. "When you've finished with Roakes, come back here. Stay here and don't leave this place. I might want you to-morrow any time after midday."

"O.K.," he said. "I'll come back here after I've seen this mug Roakes. I'll come straight back an' stick around here until I hear from you."

"Yeah," said Finney. "You will. You sound sorta good to me as if you've got your teeth inta somethin'."

I grinned at him. "I hope so too. And I hope it's something that won't bite back at me."

I DROVE quietly back to Melquay. Most of the time I was doing about twenty-five miles an hour, which is a nice speed if you don't want to get anywhere. When I came on to the long, curving front I slowed down to twenty and looked at the sea. Then I stopped the car, got out, and stood watching the waves breaking in on the shingle and listening to the gulls calling.

It was a warm, peaceful night. I stood for a while, thinking about nothing in particular, wondering vaguely just how long I should stay in Melquay and what I should do and where I should go afterwards.

I thought it didn't matter a hell of a lot. Maybe there would be another job for me. Maybe I'd get away to some place where something was happening. Something exciting.

I realised I was tired. I got back into the car and drove to the Court Hotel. I parked the car in the drive and went inside.

The night porter came across the hall towards me. He said: "There's a gentleman waiting for you in the cocktail bar, sir. He's been there for quite a bit."

I went across into the cocktail bar. On my way, I wondered who the new arrival was. My bet was that it was either Ellerdene or Eustace Tredinor. I went into the bar.

Both guesses were wrong. It was Mike Linnane. He was sitting in the corner of the bar, drinking whisky; smoking a long, thin cigar.

Mike is a looker. He has everything a man ought to have. He is tall, thin, wiry. He has a long bronzed face, a crop of thick, neatly-groomed dark hair. He wears the right sort of clothes and a perpetual half-grin that stays on most of the time.

I sat down on the other side of the table. I said: "How come? Are you here on business or is this on the side?"

Linnane said: "I've got a sweet piece of news for you, Nicky. You remember some baby called Lana Gervaise—a British General's daughter? Maybe you had a lean on her same time?"

I thought: What the hell goes on now? I said: "Yes... I remember. I thought she was my girl, but she wasn't. She decided she didn't like the way I did my hair or something... so we called it a day. Why?"

He grinned at me. "I didn't hear anything like that," he said. "I heard a different version. The story I heard was that this Lana Gervaise was good and stuck on you until she heard that you'd been running around with Grant Ruthenal's sister—Dolores. Then she got sort of steamed up about things in general and you and she did a little hot talking, after which you decided to say so-long. Right?"

"Good news, brother," he said. His grin became wider. "A day or two ago Dolores Ruthenal went walking in Sloane Street, London, and tried to beat the traffic lights. A cab hit her, and they took her off to hospital with a broken leg, a bunch of bruises and a lot of grief in general. The next day she decided to develop a conscience about you. She telephoned through to Lana Gervaise and gave her the whole works. She told Miss Gervaise that all that stuff she'd handed out about you was just a pipe dream. She said that she'd done it because she was jealous. She said the whole piece—a nice hospital sick-bed confession. And how do you like that?"

"Lana Gervaise gets her pop—the General—to go rushing around trying to find you. Through the U.S. Embassy they got into touch with me." He drew on his cigar. "All along, I had the idea that you came down here on this job because you'd had trouble with a babe."

He said: "I told her that you'd be back in London in a day or two, and that you'd probably go around and see her. She liked that." He looked at me through the cigar smoke.

"It's no affair of mine, Nicky, but that Lana Gervaise is certainly something. If I had a gal as lovely as that one worrying about me, I reckon I'd be sort of excited about life."

"Not exactly," he answered. "That was on the side. I came down because this Ellerdene case is all washed up. We're hauling off. You can pack your grips and scram for London and that honey-lamb. You can get all set for that big sweethearts' re-union act."

His grin altered. Only a little, but the alteration was there. His lips stiffened up just a bit. He said quietly: "I say we're hauling off, and I'm the boss, Nicky."

"All right," I told him. "You're the boss. Well, you tell me why we're pulling out. I've never known you throw a job until it was finished. What goes on?"

He shrugged his shoulders. He picked up his glass and drained it. Then he said: "It's Hart Allen. There's going to be plenty trouble with that one. He's over here now, in England. He arrived yesterday. He's coming down here to Melquay to-morrow, and it's my conclusion that there's not going to be room around here for all of us."

I drank some whisky and lighted a cigarette. I said: "This sounds like a new tie-up in the Ellerdene case. Tell me about it, Mike, and don't be so goddam mysterious."

He said: "From the first, I thought that sooner or later this Ellerdene libel thing would get over to Allen in New York. I reckoned that some friend would tell him about it. But I didn't think he'd get the news the way he did. That wasn't so good."

"When you called through to me and asked me to get a line on Allen generally," said Mike, "I got through to Tracy Webb, who runs the New York end of my organisation. I told Tracy to get busy and get some boys out and let me know how things were going with Allen. It didn't take him long. He called me back and told me that Allen was on his way over on the Clipper. He told me what had broke."

He dropped his voice. "Here's the entire Hart Allen story," he said. "Just before the war this guy is working in the drawing-office of the Van Heyt Tractor Corporation. A small-time guy with a small-time job. So he has to fall for Meralin Van Heyt—the boss's daughter—and to make things even she falls for him. You got that?"

"Allen went to old man Van Heyt and said he wanted to marry Meralin. Van Heyt told him to go jump in the lake and fired him for having the gall to think he could marry the Van Heyt gal. So Allen went. Then the war broke, and when we got into it he joined the Army Air Corps. He came over here and he did goddam well. He was good. He got promotion and a bunch of medals. He was tops."

Mike nodded. "Yeah. And that was because he was still mad at not being able to marry this gal Meralin—that's the way it took him. O.K. Well, all the time this Meralin baby is watching and waiting, and taking notes of the number of Jerries that Hart Allen had shot down and the number of medals he's collected. Early last year, about two months before Hart Allen left Exeter to go back to the U.S., Meralin had a show-down with her father. She told old Van Heyt that if Hart Allen—a crack fighter pilot and a Captain in the U.S. Air Corps, with a string of medals that stretched from here to hell and back again—wasn't good enough to marry her, then she reckoned she wasn't good enough to stick around with the Van Heyt family; because, come hell and devils, she was going right over to England to marry Allen, and she was going to tell the world that she was through with the Van Heyt family because she didn't think they were good enough for him. You got that, Nicky?"

"Then old man Van Heyt had another think," Mike went on. "By this time he's sort of changed his ideas around a bit. He decides that he'd better throw his hand in. So he says O.K., Meralin can marry Hart Allen providing that guy takes a pull at himself. Van Heyt tells her that everybody knows that Hart has been drinking like a fool and generally raising hell and devils over here in England. Van Heyt tells her that if Hart Allen likes to go back into the tractor organisation, there is a good job waiting for him, and that if he does a year's good work and lays off the liquor he'll consent to the marriage and everything will be fine."

I nodded. "So she wrote to Hart," I said. "And told him what Van Heyt had said. She told him that she was one hundred per cent for him, but that he'd got to behave himself and lay off the alcohol and the sweetie-pies, and that if he'd do that everything in the garden would be lovely. And Hart Allen wrote back and told her that everything was O.K. by him; that he was swearing off the liquor and that he didn't give two shakes in hell for any other woman but Meralin. Then she wrote back and told him to get back to America as quickly as he could make it and get started on the Van Heyt job of work, and that the quicker he did it the sooner they'd be married. She also told him that she understood about the liquor and the dames, but that, now that everything was going to be all right for them, she knew he wouldn't let her down."

"Right," said Mike. He looked at me for a long time. "How in hell did you know all that?" he asked.

"I read one of her letters to him," I said. I grinned at him. "I've got it upstairs in my document case—Exhibit 'A.' Go on with the story, Mike."

"Six or seven weeks ago," he went on, "these two kids were supposed to be married. Everything was arranged. Hart Allen had done a good job of work for Van Heyt and the old boy had begun to get good and fond of him. And then what happens? Some sonofabitch over here sent a copy of the newspaper with that libellous paragraph marked in blue pencil to Meralin Van Heyt. And how do you like that?"

"It doesn't matter how I like it," I said. "The thing is Meralin didn't like it. I suppose she thought that the paragraph was true. She would naturally think that there had to be some sort of reason for it. It looked like Hart Allen, at the time he was writing to her and telling her that he was all for her, was getting around here with Denise Ellerdene. I reckon she saw red."

"Right," he said. "She saw plenty red. She threw her hand in. She told Allen that she'd waited years for him and that he'd taken her for a ride and made a fool out of her. She wouldn't go through with the marriage. She told him to get out and stay out—and she didn't mean maybe."

"Allen's over here to raise hell," said Mike. "He's hopping mad. He says he's coming down here to-morrow and he's going to tear this town wide open. He says that he's going to find the low-lifer who put that libel in the paper and make him eat it. He says he's not going back until he can prove the whole thing is a fake. And he means business. He's stuck on this Meralin in a very big way."

He nodded his head. "I saw him this morning at the Savoy, in London. He's coming down here to-morrow afternoon to start the war."

I said: "And I suppose he says that there was never anything on between him and the Ellerdene girl?"

"He says that," said Mike. "He says that the Ellerdene family were damned good to him. He also says that John Ellerdene ought to have nailed this thing down before now. I tell you he's hopping mad."

"I've got it," I said. "And this is the reason why we have to throw our hand in?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Listen, Nicky," he said. "What can we do? I'm working for John Ellerdene. We were supposed to work quietly on this case—as quietly as we could. I promised Ellerdene we'd handle it with kid gloves. Well, if we'd got the boyo who was responsible for this thing it would be OK., but we haven't. If you'd got anything on this case, you'd have let me know before this. And what chance have we got of working now? To-morrow Hart Allen will be down here shooting his mouth, taking the town apart, and generally raising hell. It looks to me the time has come for the Linnane Organisation to call it a day and fade. Allen will queer your pitch. You'll be able to do nothing after he gets here. So we finish."

He bit his lip. Then, very quietly: "Nicky, you can't talk to me like that... Nicky... not even you."

I said: "Nuts! We're not going to finish until I'm good and ready." I put up my hand to stop him talking. "Listen, Mike," I told him. "Maybe you remember when you were running Number Fifteen Group O.S.S. in the War? O.K. You had me parachuted near Marseilles. I was one of a group of six. Then somebody shot their mouth a couple of months before D-Day. Somebody talked, and the Marseilles Gestapo knew that our O.S.S. group was operating in their area. You knew that Johnny Kissling of Fifteen Group had got the layout of the German Marseilles area invasion defence plans. You knew he had to get out and back to London with that information. You knew that if he were to do that, somebody had to be given to the Jerries to keep 'em quiet. Somebody that they could get to work on while Johnny Kissling was getting out. So you gave them me."

Mike said slowly: "That's right, Nicky. But I had to do it. You knew that. I gave 'em you because I thought you were the best guy for it."

"I know that," I said. "When those black-coated bastards picked me up, I guessed what had happened. Somebody had arranged to let it appear that I had, the information. I knew that somebody was you and I guessed why you'd done it. I had to carry the can. To stall those boys, whatever they did to me, so as to stop 'em from worrying about Johnny; so that he could get away. Well, that was all right with me. I liked the compliment, and I played them along and Johnny got through. But I didn't argue about it, and, goddam it, now is the time when you're not going to argue with me. I'm not hauling off this job. Not now. I'm not throwing my hand in and if you ask me why I'm not going to tell you. Not now."

He looked at me for a long time. Then: "If it's like that, Nicky, I guess I'm going to leave it to you. It looks like you've got something and you don't want to talk. All right. But what about Allen? What are you going to do when he gets down here and starts the fireworks?"

I said: "Allen's not going to start any fireworks. I'm telling you. I'm going to start the fireworks."

He raised his eyebrows. "Getting tough, hey?" He grinned at me. "You've been holding out on me, Nicky. Maybe you know something you haven't told papa? Or maybe my own idea is the right one."

He shrugged his shoulders. "I know you, Nicky," he said. "I know you too goddam well for words. I reckon that if they take the frills away there isn't an operative with your nerve, intelligence and guts from here to China. If they take the frills away."

He looked at me sideways, "My theory is that you're stuck on this gal Denise Ellerdene. That's what I think. Maybe Lana Gervaise gave you the air, and when you got down here and took a long look at the Denise number you decided to get good and interested—personally. How's that?"

"Another thing," he went on, "somebody's been at work on your pan—with a bottle or something. It's just getting healed. You've been rough-housing it with somebody and that looks like more femme trouble. Maybe it is Denise. Maybe you've fallen for the nine hundred and ninetieth time."

I said: "So what? There's no law against it. But where did you get all these funny ideas?"

He put his hand into his breast pocket; produced a sheet of typing paper. He handed it to me. It was a typewritten message. It said:

Why don't you get Gale out of here? What good do you think he's going to do? If he stays on it's quite possible that another paragraph may get into the newspaper here. Something a little more definite than the last one. Be wise, Colonel Linnane. You mind your own damned business and possibly I'll mind mine.

He said: "I got that this morning. I think it wouldn't be so good if something else started. Maybe this egg means what he says."

"Maybe," I told him. I got up. "I've got a bottle or whisky upstairs. Let's go and drink some of it."

He pushed his chair back. "That suits me," he said. He gave me another grin. "Maybe if you drink enough whisky you'll get around to telling me a little about your love-life. That ought to be good anyhow!"

Chapter Seven
SATURDAY: CLIMAX

I GOT up at ten o'clock. I wandered over to the window and looked out. It was a lovely day and the skies were blue and cloudless above the sea. That, I thought, was very good. There were also some things which were not so good. I had a headache and a tongue that felt like a plush sofa. By the time Mike Linnane left, we'd spent three hours in dealing with two bottles of whisky. I grinned at the recollection. Mike had evidently believed that sooner or later my tongue would get loosened and I'd tell him what I had on my mind. Well, my tongue hadn't got loosened and what I had on my mind was still there.

And, eventually, Mike had come to the conclusion that he was better off letting me play it my way—not that he had any alternative.

Actually, my attitude was reasonable enough. I was working on the Ellerdene case for two people—Mike Linnane and John Ellerdene. As far as I could, I had to do my best for these two. But I was certain that if Linnane had known what was in my mind he'd have tried to short-circuit me and that wouldn't have been so good—in the long run—either for him or for Ellerdene.

I took a hot and cold shower; drank some coffee; went down to the sea and swam. I swam out into deep water; turned over on my back and floated. I realised it was Saturday, and Saturday had always been a particular sort of day with me. It has always seemed to me right through my life that each day has a personality of its own. Most people who take the trouble to check up find that, for them, some days of the week are good days and some days are bad days—at least you think they are good or bad. Very often, six months or a year later, you discover that something that happened on a Wednesday—which for some reason best known to yourself you consider to be one of your bad days—wasn't bad at all. You find, having regard to all things, that it was good. You only thought it was bad when it happened. Well, to-day was Saturday, and speaking for myself I wasn't quite certain about Saturdays.

It was on a Saturday that the Gestapo had picked me up in Marseilles. That wasn't a very good day. They started to work on me early on Sunday morning with a rubber truncheon. That didn't seem a good day either. Yet, looking back, if they hadn't picked me up on the Saturday and beaten me up, I shouldn't have planned to make a getaway from France; been picked up on the coast by an R.A.F. escape craft and got back to England. If all that hadn't happened I'd probably have stayed on doing my job in Marseilles and maybe have won it in a big way when the real trouble started. How was I to know?

But I knew one thing: this particular Saturday was going to produce something—even if I wasn't quite certain at the moment whether it was going to be good, bad or indifferent—drama or comedy.

Just after twelve I came out of the sea; dressed; drove to the Public Library. The librarian was helpful and after a bit I got the books on legal practice that I wanted—those dealing with Offences under the Prevention of Corruption Acts. I read quietly for a time and at one o'clock I went back to the hotel. I had lunch and one whisky and soda; then I went up to my room and 'phoned through to Mike Linnane at the Palace Hotel. When I got through he told me that Hart Allen had already arrived.

"He's being reasonable at the moment, Nicky. In other words, he's agreed to do what you asked me to talk him into doing. He's not going to take any steps whatsoever until Monday morning. He's just going to stick around and take it easy."

He asked: "What else? What's going on in that nippy brain of yours? Am I supposed to sit here and twiddle my thumbs?"

"Yes," I told him, "that's what you're supposed to do. Listen, Mike... some time this afternoon I'm going to write you a note. I'm going to ask you to do one or two things. Just do 'em, will you? Don't argue or think about them... do them."

He said: "Yeah? And if I do these things how much more trouble do I start around here?"

"Believe you me," I said, "if you do them you may start a little trouble. If you don't do them, you'll start plenty of trouble."

"Just that," I said. "Do what I tell you in the note. If there are any post-mortems to be held we'll have 'em some time afterwards. Don't let Allen go far from that hotel. I don't want him seen in Melquay. Just do that and everything will be O.K."

He said he would. I hung up. I thought Mike was a pretty good guy—good because he knew when not to be curious; because he had the idea in the back of his head that if I wanted to do something it was right.

I lay on the bed. I smoked a cigarette, looked at the ceiling and wondered about things. Life, I thought, was a pretty screwy sort of proposition. But life itself wasn't screwy; it was people who made it like that. It seemed to me, as I lay there thinking, that three-quarters of the trouble in the world starts off with people taking a wrong slant on some small thing; getting angry; or annoyed, or hurt, or jealous, or envious about something that doesn't really matter; trying to do something about it before they've given themselves time to think; then creating—through doing something about it—a situation which gets worse and worse and forces them into doing other, even tougher, things. That, I thought, was the way most murder started.

I began to think about Weeps. I'd done a lot of thinking about Claude Weeps. He was an interesting person. He was worth the thought. I concluded that if Weeps had put half the amount of brains, cunning and scheming that he'd used on the Ellerdene job to something useful, he'd probably have made a big success. But then, again, there was some small thing in his character that had started him off on the road that had finished at the bottom of the cliffs at Gara Rock; some odd, nasty little quirk in his mind that had made him hate other people. Maybe Weeps had a "power complex" and had to use it the best way he could.

He said: "Hallo, Nicky. It's all set. I saw Roakes this mornin'. I've softened him up good. He ought to be all right for you."

He said: "He tried everythin' he knew; bluffin' and talkin' tough. But I didn't believe any of it. The guy's scared. He's a push-over; you could do it with your little finger."

I said: "All right. Come round this afternoon—somewhere about five or six. You'll find a sealed note waiting for you addressed to Eustace Tredinor. Take it out to him at Tredinor Moat about seven o'clock to-night. You'd better stay with him. Tell him to do what's in the note."

I hung up; opened my document case; took out a couple of sheets of writing-paper and a fountain pen. I put them in my pocket. Then I got up, went downstairs, started the car and drove out to Sheppey's bar.

I got there just after half-past two. I went into the cocktail bar and took a look around. The bar-tender had gone off somewhere, but there was a man sitting at the table in the corner—the same table at which I had talked to Weeps on Wednesday. I thought that was appropriate.

He was a short, thick-set man with greying hair. He had uncertain eyes, a weak mouth, which he tried to hide with a bushy moustache, and a snake tattooed on the back of his right hand.

I sat down. I said: "Listen, Roakes, I'm going to keep this as short as I can. I believe a friend of mine's had a talk with you this morning, but he only talked in general terms. I'm going to be more particular. I'm going to give you the choice of doing two things, and I don't give a damn which one you do. But you're going to make up your mind and make it up quickly."

I shrugged my shoulders. "I'll leave you to judge that," I said. "First of all, you know all about this Ellerdene libel. You're the person who broke down that social event column in the Mapletor News and re-set the last paragraph. You're the person who was responsible for that libel appearing. Well, you thought you were pretty safe in doing it. Both you and I know why. But you weren't quite so safe as you thought. I expect you know something about the law. Whether you do or you don't, this is the position:

"As a result of that libel appearing in the paper, quite apart from any damage that was suffered by Miss Ellerdene and the Ellerdene family, the paper had to print a public apology and pay five thousand pounds to a local charity. You know as well as I do that if the whole story comes out the newspaper's going to do something about it. They're going to make an example of you, and you know where you're going to finish. On that charge, about the best thing that could happen to you would be a year inside. But that's not all. I've got something else up my sleeve. If I have to get tough with you I'm going the whole hog. I reckon I've got enough on you to get you anything between two and three years' hard."

He started to talk. I stopped him. "I don't want to listen to you. I told you I didn't give a damn what you do, and I don't. You can do one of two things. You can leave here; pack up and get out of Melquay this afternoon, or you can stay here. But if you're here this evening I'm going to have you arrested. Well, what are you going to do?"

He said: "I'm fed up with this place anyway. I can get myself a good job in Birmingham. I've been thinking of going there for some time."

I shook my head. "There's just one other thing—a little matter of a confession."

I brought the notepaper and fountain pen out of my pocket. I unscrewed the cap of the pen. I pushed the paper in front of him.

I said: "You're going to write a confession. I'm taking that from you just to see that you behave yourself in the future."

He looked at me. He tried to look fierce. It was a pretty poor attempt. He said: "I'm not writing any confession."

I said: "O.K. You have it your way." I put the cap on the fountain pen. "You're not going to do yourself any good by being obstinate. I know exactly what happened. I know why you put that libel in the paper. I know you thought you'd be safe enough, and I know why you thought that." I smiled at him. "Most people doing your job—experienced compositors, or even more a foreman compositor like yourself—know quite a bit about the law of libel and slander. It's almost part of your trade. But maybe you haven't thought about a possible offence under Section I of the Prevention of Corruption Act, 1906. Have you thought about that, Roakes?"

"All right," I said. "I'll tell you. Section I of the Prevention of Corruption Act lays down that if an agent corruptly accepts from any person for himself any gift for doing any act in relation to his principals' affairs of business, he shall be guilty of misdemeanour and shall be liable on conviction to imprisonment with or without hard labour for a term not exceeding two years or a fine not exceeding five hundred pounds or both."

I went on: "I learned that off this morning at the Public Library for your benefit, and you know as well as I do that if I made the true facts of this case known you're going to get the maximum penalty—two years' hard and a fine of five hundred pounds; and that's without a couple of other charges we may think up."

He looked down at his finger-nails. He said after a while: "Well, I suppose I've got to do it. All right...."

He did as I told him. I began to dictate. When he'd finished and signed it, I took it from him and read it. It looked all right to me:

I, Charles Edward Roakes, of 176 Cumberland Mews, Melquay, of my own free will, hereby state as follows:—

Three months ago I was approached by an individual named Claude Weeps whom I had met on one or two occasions—a person carrying on an interior decorating business in this town. He told me of certain incidents which he knew and offered me a sum of money in order to obtain publication of a certain paragraph, which he wrote down for me, either in an edition of the "Melquay Record" or in the Mapletor edition of the same paper.

I was very hard up at the time, having lost a considerable sum of money gambling, and I agreed to do what he asked. But I suggested to him that it would be better for the paragraph to appear in the Mapletor edition rather than in the main Melquay paper. The Mapletor edition goes to press early in the morning, and there was a good chance that a number of copies would be got off to subscribers before the paragraph was spotted by the editor. We wouldn't be likely to have that luck with the main Melquay edition.

On the evening before the edition was printed I broke down the forme containing the original social event column, re-set the last paragraph and re-locked the forms ready for printing. I knew that the proof page had been passed by the editor and that it was unlikely that any further examination would be done before the Mapletor edition went out early next morning.

I did this in the early evening, before the night watchman came on. I'd allowed it to be known that I intended to go over to Newton Abbot and see a cinema show in the evening, and I punched the time-clock at the office so as to make it appear that I was working overtime, when in fact I had already set the offending paragraph.

I believe that I have caused a great deal of trouble, for which I am sorry, and had I known that the effects of this paragraph were to be so serious I would not have done it, even for the money which Weeps paid me.

He got up. He said: "About that confession I've just written and signed, I suppose you know what you're doing?"

I said: "Take a look at me, Roakes. Do I look like somebody who doesn't know what he's doing?"

He looked at me with an expression in his eyes that indicated that he would like to have been very rude to me. He walked out of the bar.

I drove slowly back to the Court Hotel. On the way I thought about Roakes. I thought that there wouldn't be any trouble with him. He was scared and he would get out as he had said. And life would be easier with him out of the picture. His presence in Melquay, over the week-end, might be inconvenient. Roakes—now that he had signed the confession—was definitely out of the picture.

It was four o'clock when I arrived at the hotel. I went up to my room and wrote the note for Finney. I sent this down to the desk with the message that he would call for it. Then I wrote a note to Mike Linnane. I outlined to him the situation which I thought was going to develop and told him just what I wanted him to do about it.

As I sealed the envelope the telephone rang. It was MacAndrew, the Divisional Detective-Inspector.

He said: "I've some news for you, Mr. Gale. We've looked into the matter of Claude Weeps' death, and we're satisfied that it was accidental. I think Weeps was in too much of a hurry to get out with your five hundred pounds and went over the edge of the cliff path in his excitement. A case of more haste less speed. The inquest will be held on Monday morning, and as I'm as certain as I can be that the verdict will be 'accidental death.' I'd like to return you five hundred pounds. Can you call for it?"

I told him I would call for it before six o'clock. After I'd hung up I thought that Mrs. Ellerdene's five hundred pounds had been very much more useful than she would ever guess.

I'm sending you this note because I don't want to telephone in case any one in the house should wonder why I'm getting in touch with you.

It is absolutely essential that we meet to-day— preferably late to-night, when there is little chance of our being seen together.

Will you meet me at The Orange Hatch at eleven o'clock tonight? Approach the place by the back way. Don't use the main Totnes-Newton Abbott road. I will be waiting for you at the side door at eleven o'clock. If this is all right, will you send me a note here to reach me by seven o'clock this evening? But whatever you do, don't telephone.

I put the note in an envelope and addressed it to her at the Ellerdene house. Then I went down and drank tea in the garden. I smoked a cigarette; went out and started up the car; drove to the Melquay Messenger Service on the front and arranged for them to deliver the note to Denise Ellerdene. Then I drove to the Palace Hotel and left the note for Mike Linnane.

The afternoon was warm and drowsy and the sea looked inviting. I drove down to the front, parked the car, hired a tent and went for another swim. I found the sea a good place for considering things.

So far as I could see everything was more or less all right. So far as I could see. The only outstanding problem was Hart Allen.

I began to think about him. I wondered what he had intended to do in Melquay. What he had intended to start and how he had intended to start it. I imagined that he was considerably steamed up; that even the Atlantic air trip hadn't allowed him to cool off.

I thought that things had been pretty tough for Allen when Meralin Van Heyt had received the libel cutting. Meralin seemed to me to be a person with a will of her own, and just as she had been prepared to be very tough with her father and mother about their not liking the idea of her marriage with Allen, she would be just as tough with Allen if she thought he had deliberately double-crossed her. Which was obviously what she did think.

But what did he intend to do about it? Before he could straighten himself out with Meralin he had to find out how the libel had got into the newspaper, who put it there and why. Allen was certainly intelligent enough to know that the Ellerdene family must have done everything possible to find out these things.

Or did he think he knew who was responsible for the libel? And if he did think this, what steps did he propose to take to prove his knowledge?

I thought that possibly Hart Allen was worrying about none of these things; that he had flown across to England and come down to Melquay to play things the hard way, which, when you think about it, was the obvious way for a man like him to handle a job.

I gave it up. But it was lucky that Mike Linnane had met Allen in London. I remembered my conversation with Mike about the Meralin Van Heyt; Hart Allen set-up. I remembered what Mike had told me about his conversation with Allen in London, only yesterday morning. That told me something about Allen. Not very much but enough to mean a hell of a lot if my idea was right.

I decided that I'd had enough of the sea. I swam bad to the beach; had a brisk rub down; dressed; drove back to the hotel. They told me at the office that Finney had called for my note.

I went into the cocktail bar and drank whisky and soda. After a bit, a page-boy came in with a note. It was from Denise Ellerdene. It said:

I was very glad to get your note. I want to see you too. Something quite awful has happened. It seems that someone has sent a copy of the newspaper with that horrible paragraph to a girl who was to marry Hart Allen, and she's fearfully upset and refuses to go through with the marriage. Will this fearful business never end?

I will come to The Orange Hatch by the back road and be there as near eleven o'clock as is possible. I shall be glad to see you again. Somehow I feel that you are my only friend.

I put the note in my pocket; went out into the corridor and telephoned through to Phelps at The Orange Hatch from the call-box.

When he came on the line I asked him if he'd got the hotel books down in the suite for me to look through. He said he had; that the suite was ready for me and that he'd leave supper. I said that was fine, but that he'd better make it supper for two because I might bring a friend out with me, and that if he had some champagne he could leave that too.

I went back to the cocktail bar and drank another whisky and soda. I had a peculiar sense of anti-climax. I didn't know why. Because there was nothing else I could do. Mike Linnane knew what he had to do and I hoped he'd do it. All I could do now was to stick around and keep out of the way, just in case I ran into someone I didn't particularly want to talk to.

I finished the drink; got into the car and drove to the Police Station. I collected my hundred five-pound notes from the Station Sergeant and gave him a receipt.

Then I took a short-cut back to the sea front. I put my foot on the accelerator and drove through Mapletor along the Churston road to Brixham. I found an attractive inn near the harbour and sat in the bar parlour reading the evening newspapers, smoking and drinking whisky.

AT ten o'clock I finished my drink, stubbed out my cigarette, got into the car and headed for Totnes. I thought at this time of night, with a clear road, it would take me about an hour to get to The Orange Hatch—maybe less.

The night was warm, but by now a little breeze was coming up. I put my foot down on the accelerator and gazed ahead at the white ribbon of road that stretched towards Churston. The moon was nearly full and the countryside looked dreamlike. I drove with one hand and fumbled in my pocket for a cigarette. I tried to kid myself that I wasn't feeling just a little bit nervous. But I knew I was. I came to the conclusion that it doesn't matter how experienced a man is and how many tough spots he's been in, there's always a kick in going into a situation about which you're not quite certain.

After a bit I tried to think about other things. My mind switched over to Lana and I wondered exactly what was going to happen when the Ellerdene case was finished. I felt very glad she'd found out that I was speaking the truth about Dolores Ruthenal. I grinned to myself. Lana was a generous-minded woman. I felt pretty certain she'd make the amende honorable in a big way.

I arrived at The Orange Hatch at five minutes to eleven. I parked the car on the other side of the field behind the house. I walked across the field slowly. I opened the little green door at the side with the key that Phelps had given me. Inside there was a little passage leading to a hallway, and the light was on. I thought that Phelps had left it on for me. I went through the hallway into the sitting-room.

He'd been right when he had said that it was a very good suite. The room was not large, but superbly decorated. The softly-shaded electric lamps warmed the sheen of painted walls and old silk, the patina of fine wood. A door led from the sitting-room into the bedroom, which had another and equally unusual colour scheme carried out in soft greys and black. There was a large antique double bed with a flowered brocade cover in pastel shades. Beyond the bed, there was a door leading to a perfectly appointed bathroom. On the other side of the bathroom was a small, locked door that gave out to the store-room which the previous owner had—foolishly, according to Phelps—built at the end of the suite. I thought maybe he hadn't been quite so foolish. The fact of his commercial tie-up with Weeps in cut liquor made it seem a good idea to store the stuff where it could be brought into the hotel through the suite without any one on the public side of the hotel becoming too curious.

I went back to the sitting-room. Piled up on a small mahogany table in a corner were the hotel account books and registers; the balance-sheets and profit and loss accounts for the last four years. In the centre of the room stood an attractive supper table, with a chicken, salad, two bottles of champagne, a dish of raspberries and a jug of real—but extremely illegal—cream. Phelps had certainly done his stuff in a big way.

I went back to the green entrance door; looked out across the moonlit field. After a moment I saw the figure of Denise Ellerdene crossing the field. She walked quickly, and during the minutes that it took her to reach the gravel path that surrounded the house I had time to think about the difficulties, the dangers and the strain that this girl had faced during the last few months.

"A few minutes," I said. "I've only just got here myself. Come in. I thought perhaps you might be hungry, so I've arranged for some supper. This place is closed and Phelps has gone to bed. We shan't be disturbed."

I nodded. "But, for you, it hasn't particularly nice memories, has it? Take off your coat and sit down."

Underneath, she wore a black silk dinner frock, picked out with lime-green flowers. A single string of pearls was about her neck. She looked very beautiful.

I said: "You and I have to do some very quick talking. I'm sorry things have broken the way they have."

She said: "What's going to happen now? When I heard Hart Allen was to come to Melquay I knew there could only be more trouble—more scandal."

She sat down in the big armchair. I uncorked a bottle of champagne, I poured out two glasses. I gave her one.

Then I lighted a cigarette and stood in front of the fern-shielded fireplace looking at her.

I asked: "How did you know that Hart Allen was down here? I suppose he wrote you from London and told you he was coming down?"

I said: "Yes. A lot of things have been happening during the last twelve hours. I thought it was about time we tried to get things sorted out."

She shrugged her shoulders. "What is there to sort out? I'm only concerned now with what Hart Allen is going to do; what fresh trouble he will cause for me."

I said: "I shouldn't worry about that." I smiled at her. "I can promise you one thing—no more trouble is going to happen to you."

She asked: "How do you know? How can you say that? I think I believe you and trust you more than anybody I've ever met in my life, but even so I can't believe that you can stop something else happening—"

I said: "Don't worry about that." I gave her another grin. "Miss Ellerdene, your troubles are over. There's nothing else you have to worry about. The Ellerdene case is in the bag."

I sat down. I drank a little champagne. I put the glass back on the table. "You've been pretty good at the big things," I said, "but not so good at the little things. If you hadn't known where to get that towel the night I took that beating up in Weeps' cottage; if you hadn't known that the towels were in the fifth drawer down so that you hadn't to look for them as I did, I don't think I should ever have suspected you. But I did, and now I know the whole works. And it's not going to be so good for you, Denise."

"I'll tell you." I rather liked the idea of going through this thing step by step and visualising it in a series of pictures. "First of all, let's start with the late lamented Claude Weeps. Weeps had a connection with this place. He had an arrangement under which he and some friends of his used to supply liquor to the previous owners of The Orange Hatch. He'd come in contact with these people through doing the decorations here." I looked about me. "We've got to admit," I said, "that however odd Claude was in other ways, he was a hell of a good decorator."

"No?" I said. "But you will be. We'll come to that in a minute, but it's no good being impatient, Denise. You're going to sit and listen to what I say and like it. I told you it was going to be tough, but it's going to be a great deal tougher than even you think."

I drew on my cigarette. I said: "Let's get back to Weeps. Weeps knew something about this libel. I made a mistake about him in the first place. When he got in touch with me on the night I came down here, he did so for two reasons—first, he was getting a little scared of the whole business, about which he knew the truth; and secondly, you'd come to the end of your tether. He couldn't get any more money from you. I suppose he'd had all there was."

She said: "I think you're mad. Are you suggesting that Weeps blackmailed me?" Her lip curled cynically.

"Weeps blackmailed you all right," I said. "And, in a very mild way, your mother. After that libellous paragraph appeared in the paper, her one idea was, as it has been ever since, to stop any further mud being stirred up. At some time or other Weeps suggested to her that he'd heard some other rumours about you—something that didn't redound to your credit, and your mother thought it was the clever thing to do to give him a job to re-decorate the Ellerdene house and to over-pay him for doing it. She thought that was a wise thing to do. I think so too."

I grinned at her. "I don't suppose she'd have done it if she'd known that Weeps had been having money from you ever since that paragraph appeared."

She looked at me. Her eyes, which had been so tired and unhappy, were now malevolent. I realised that Denise Ellerdene was a hell of a good actress.

She said: "Perhaps you will be good enough to tell me why Claude Weeps was able to blackmail me. What did he know about me?"

I said: "Surely you're going to admit that Weeps knew about the incident between you and Hart Allen that happened here in this suite on the night of the party at Exeter? Surely you didn't want that to come out, did you?"

She said: "You're perfectly right." Her expression changed. Now she was the soft, scared Denise Ellerdene once again. She repeated: "You're quite right. Weeps did know what happened that night. He knew that Hart Allen had persuaded me to come to this place; he knew about that. Well, surely you can understand how I felt? After that paragraph had appeared in the paper, if Weeps had gone about Melquay telling people what he knew and that I'd been here that night with Hart Allen, don't you realise—"

She looked at me piteously. She was almost wringing her hands. "Don't you realise that I should have been tarred with the same brush as Allen? No one would have believed the truth."

I said: "Don't tell damned lies. I said that Claude. Weeps knew what had happened in this place that night. I didn't say that he knew that rather moving fancy version of yours."

"Maybe not, but I propose to make myself perfectly clear. When that libellous paragraph appeared in the Mapletor edition of the Melquay Record I'll bet our friend Claude was interested. I bet he sat down and had a long meeting with himself and wondered just how that paragraph had got into the paper. But Claude was a very astute person. He had a sharp, cynical and tortuous mind. He came to a conclusion. He came to the conclusion that he knew who was responsible for putting that libel in the paper. My guess is that he took a chance on it. My guess is that he came to the conclusion that the only person who could have set that libel was Charles Roakes—the foreman compositor. And I'll bet all the tea in China to a stale egg that Weeps went to see Roakes and bluffed him into an admission that he had set the libel.

"Weeps had no reason for putting the screws on Roakes. Weeps was quite happy to leave things as they were. He knew that his own and Roakes' interests didn't clash. So he then turned his attention to you."

She interrupted: "Roakes couldn't have put that libel in the paper. He had an alibi."

"Nuts!" I said. "The only alibi that Roakes ever had was the one you faked for him. When your maid Mary McDougal went to the doctor he told her she'd got glaucoma; that she must go to hospital for an operation as soon as possible. Mary McDougal couldn't see more than a yard in front of her. She had to be taken to Newton Abbot that afternoon by a friend of hers. But it was you who said that Mary McDougal had seen Roakes; that she told you she'd seen him. You knew nobody was going to check up with her; that nobody would worry an old woman in hospital."

She said fiercely: "You are a stupid fool. All this is damned lies." Her voice became shrill. "Do you think anybody is going to believe you, Mr. Clever Dick? Do you think you can prove any of this now that Weeps is dead?"

I said: "His death was very convenient for you, wasn't it, dear Denise? I bet you were glad to hear that Weeps had gone over the cliff at Gara. You thought that was going to save you a great deal of trouble."

I went on: "But don't let's interrupt my story. Let's try and keep to the sequence."

She leaned back. She was relaxed now. Her fingers lay easily along the arms of the chair. She was regarding me with eyes that were bright—a trifle too bright.

She said: "Please go on. I'm fearfully interested in this dramatic fairy story which your imaginative brain has evolved, Mr. Gale. It's giving me a great deal of amusement."

"Yes? It's going to give you a damned sight more amusement before I'm through. Only maybe it won't be the sort of amusement you like."

She said nothing. One small, beautifully-shod foot tapped impatiently on the floor.

"The next scene in this drama," I went on, "is probably between you and Weeps. I imagine you had an appointment with Weeps. Maybe he telephoned you and told you to meet him at that cottage of his at Gara. In any event, he gave you some information which upset you very much indeed. He told you that he knew that Roakes was responsible for putting the libel in the paper. He also told you that he knew what had happened here at The Orange Hatch on the night of the Exeter dance. He suggested that you might like that information not to be made public; that you might prefer to pay. You did prefer to pay. You've been paying Weeps ever since."

She said: "Rubbish! You say that I paid Weeps in order that this information shouldn't be made public. Do you mean to suggest that Claude Weeps would have dared to publish any other sort of libel about me?"

I shook my head. "Not at all. I'm not suggesting anything. I'm telling you that you paid Weeps not to go to your father and tell him the real truth."

She smiled. The smile was hard and cynical. She said: "Has it ever occurred to you, Mr. Gale, that if the unfortunate Weeps knew anything at all about the incident here at The Orange Hatch on the night of that dance, he was only guessing?"

I said: "Wasn't he? That's another point we can leave till a little later. I'm going on with the story. I've always been concerned with the identity of the person you and I have called Whoever-it-was. Well, you've known all along who Whoever-it-was is, and I know now. It was you."

"Last Wednesday morning," I went on, "Claude Weeps took your mother's cheque to the Bank and cashed it. When he'd got the money he rang you up and made an appointment to meet you. He told you that your father had employed an investigator—me—to come down here and try and find out the truth about the libel. He told you that I'd given him five hundred pounds to tell me what he knew. He told you that unless you were prepared to raise the ante he was going to tell me what he knew. That was because Weeps was getting a little scared of the whole business. He didn't like it, especially having regard to one or two moves you've made since."

"No," I said. "You didn't give him any more money. You said you hadn't got any, which was probably true, because I imagine he'd milked you dry. But you promised him some. I imagine you gave Weeps a post-dated cheque or a promise of money just as soon as you could raise it, and he believed you would raise it. You also told him that if he took the five hundred pounds I'd given him and told me the truth he was liable to be implicated in the business himself. You pointed out to him that it would be very much better for him not to keep his appointment with me that night at his cottage at Gara Rock; that it would be much better for him to get out of Melquay for two or three months—to take the money you were going to send him and come back when the whole business had blown over.

"Weeps thought it over and came to the conclusion that you were talking sense. He was more scared than he'd let on. Weeps didn't like the look of me, and he had another reason for wanting to get out too. When he returned the five hundred pounds to me and told me he couldn't talk, he found he'd walked into a trap I'd laid for him. I'd been in touch with the police. I threatened to have him arrested for stealing that cheque. In those circumstances he thought it was better for every one concerned that he should get out. Once away from Melquay he thought he would be safe. And there was the promise of the money you were going to send him. So he agreed to do what you wanted. Not only that; he thought he might still render you some assistance and place you under another obligation to him."

"He suggested to you that he got two or three of his tough friends—people who'd been connected with him in the cut liquor business—to go along to Gara Rock to meet me when I went there to keep my appointment with him and to give me a hell of a beating-up." I smiled at her benevolently. "You liked that idea a lot too. You thought that if I had a good beating-up I'd be prepared to wash my hands of this job and get out. But you weren't quite certain. You wanted to have a look at me. You wanted to see how I'd taken that beating-up. You wanted to know what I was going to do."

I said: "You had to give yourself an excuse for coming out to Weeps' cottage, hadn't you? So you wrote yourself that typewritten note you showed me on the night you came out—the anonymous note that I thought had been typed by Weeps—telling you to be at the cottage at ten-thirty so that you could hear his story. You typed that note. That was your excuse for coming out and finding me; for being so kind to me; bathing my head with wet towels which you knew where to find; getting me brandy." I grinned at her. "I thought you were a hell of a nice girl.

"And that wasn't the only anonymous typewritten note you sent off," I told her. "After you'd left the cottage; after you'd come to the conclusion that I intended to go on with this investigation, you wrote an anonymous note to Mike Linnane telling him to get me out of Melquay."

She sat back in her chair. She said: "Mr. Gale..."—she spoke almost airily—"do you think I might have one of your cigarettes?"

"Of course..." I gave her a cigarette and lighted it. "I should drink some wine too," I suggested, "if I were you. You'll need it in a minute."

She said smoothly: "Shall I?" She took the glass from the table; put it to her lips. I could see her eyes regarding me over the rim of the glass.

I said: "Denise, you're a very clever girl. You ought to have been an actress. You'd have made a great actress. That act you put on here last Thursday night when you met me and told me that pathetic story about what had happened here between you and Hart Allen was absolutely marvellous. There was only one thing wrong with it."

"I didn't believe it. And there was one thing you said which made my mind work. You remember I told you that it was my duty to go on with this case; to find out who'd put the libel in the paper so that nothing further should happen to you? Do you remember? I said if you married Eustace Tredinor, and someone were to write him an anonymous letter telling him what had happened that night here.... Then you played your trump card, didn't you—a very clever move. You said nobody could do that because you'd already told Eustace.

"I believed what you wanted me to believe. But only for a moment. I believed that you'd told Eustace about The Orange Hatch and Hart Allen a long time ago. But you hadn't. You told Tredinor only after you'd had your interview with Weeps on the Wednesday, and how cleverly you did it."

"You went to see Tredinor," I went on, "because you knew that even if Weeps left Melquay he was coming back one day. He wasn't going to stay away for ever. You knew that when he came back he could begin blackmailing you all over again. So something had to be done about Weeps. You went to see Tredinor and you told him that Weeps had been blackmailing you. You told him that somehow or other Weeps had got to know about Hart Allen's seduction act at this place; that you'd been paying him money for a long time because you didn't want the libel thing made any worse. You told him that you were sick and tired of Weeps; and he'd driven you to the limit; that you couldn't bear any more. You knew what Tredinor would do. You knew that the least thing Tredinor would do to Weeps would be to thrash him. You knew that he'd go to see Weeps and tell him that if he dared to go near you again he'd take him round to the Police Station. You thought that would put paid to Mr. Weeps. And it did—even better than you knew.

"You told Tredinor that you thought Weeps would be leaving his cottage between a quarter to nine and a quarter past. Tredinor went down to see him. He met Weeps on the path. He quarrelled with Weeps; knocked him over the cliff edge accidentally and killed him. That suited you, didn't it? One of the people you wanted out of the way, one of the people who knew the truth, was accounted for. Now there was only one more...."

She reached out her hand for the wine glass. She drank a little more champagne. She put the glass down and regarded the glowing end of her cigarette.

She said: "All this is terribly interesting, Mr. Gale, but you seem to have omitted one rather important point. You haven't told me why I did all these things."

"You're perfectly right. How very remiss of me. I've been telling you about all the things you've done and I haven't told you why you did them. I'd better do something about that, hadn't I?"

She said: "Yes, I'd like to hear about that." Her voice had an odd tone in it—a tone I didn't like.

I drew on my cigarette. I said: "I'll tell you the story. You're a strange sort of girl, Denise—a very beautiful, very passionate girl. Most of the men about this place were no use to you. They weren't your type. You didn't like them. It was rather unfortunate that the first man you ever fell in love with—and how you fell in love with him—was a man who was prepared to have an affair with any woman except you."

"Hart Allen," I said. "You were crazy about Hart Allen from the first moment you saw him. He was the one man you'd ever wanted in your life, and it was pretty tough on you. Because your father and mother had been decent to him; because they'd tried to help him; because he liked and respected them—especially your mother—he laid off you, Denise. That was tough, wasn't it? You'd have stood anything from Hart Allen—anything at all. You wouldn't even have minded if he hadn't married you, so long as he loved you. And he didn't give a damn for you."

She said nothing. She seemed to have shrunk back into the big armchair. Her rose-pink tinted nails were almost clutching at the ends of the chair arms.

"You had a pretty bad time, Denise," I went on. "You had the pleasure of walking about the place, going to parties, carrying on with the normal routine of life, and everywhere you went you heard about another affair of Hart Allen's; you heard of somebody else who'd fallen for him. You must have been in hell. Because you had nobody you could talk to. Everybody regarded you as the cold, austere Miss Ellerdene. Even your mother and father weren't wise to you."

"Things got very tough," I said, "so tough that, on the night that that party was held at Exeter—when you, your mother and father went over there to the dance—you were desperate. Something had to be done. The idea occurred to you that if, by some means, you could compromise yourself with Allen in a big way, he'd have to marry you. So you laid it all on.

"On the day of the party you came over here. You told whoever was on duty in the reception office that Hart Allen had asked you to reserve the suite for him for that night. The receptionist would not be surprised at that. I've been through the hotel register here. Allen had often reserved the suite. So the receptionist didn't consider it odd when you wrote Hart Allen's name in the registration book."

"Yes, you wrote it," I said. "I tore the page out of the registration book. I checked it up with the note you sent me this afternoon." I grinned at her. "Why did you think I asked you to write me that note?" I said. "The handwriting's the same. You reserved the suite for Hart Allen because you knew what you were going to do."

She said nothing. She was breathing almost heavily. Her eyelids were drooped over her eyes. She presented a not very pretty picture.

"It was a tough thing for you, Denise," I said. "At one time I almost sympathised with you. You went to the party. You fed your eyes on the man you were crazy about and he seemed more attractive than ever. After dinner, when the dance had started, you put your scheme into execution. You discovered that you had a headache, and Allen volunteered to drive you home, which you had known he would do. He was glad of the opportunity, because he wanted to tell you something. He wanted to tell you something that would stop you making any further passes at him.

"He drove you back, and he intended to drive you straight home. It was you who suggested that you should go by way of The Orange Hatch. It was you who suggested that you might get some aspirin for your head there. You had the key which you had taken when you reserved the suite for him. You came here into this room. Allen ordered the drinks on the telephone, and you took your opportunity of slipping something into his drink—something that was going to make him muzzy—something that was going to get him into a frame of mind that would let you carry out your plot; that would let you spend at least three or four hours here with him and have your reputation so compromised that he'd have to marry you. Well...?"

She didn't say anything. She looked at me with eyes that were almost glazed with hate.

"But it didn't come off," I said. "Maybe Allen didn't take the drink. He'd sworn off liquor for a reason which he told you. From his pocket he produced a letter from the girl he was going to marry in New York—Meralin Van Heyt—the letter which told him that her father and mother had withdrawn their objections to the marriage. He told you she was the only girl he'd ever really loved in his life; that he was through with drink and women. In other words, he told you to go to hell. Well...?"

"After that," I went on, "he took the drink. He probably passed out on the couch. You went outside; got into his car; drove to the garage at Mapletor, as you told me, and got a hired car home. And that was the end of a perfect day."

I drank some champagne. "Most girls would have had enough by then, but not you, Denise. You were a glutton for punishment. Not only had Hart Allen turned you down, but he was going to marry somebody else—someone whom he loved. How you hated him and how you hated that girl. The one thing you lived for now was revenge."

I began to walk about the room. I said: "Life depends on little things. On Thursday night, after you'd left me here in the cocktail bar outside, I went into the front bar and had a drink. There is a juke box out there. I put some money in it and it began to play a hot number; it began to play—' Hell hath no fury... that's what he told the jury... hell hath no fury like a woman scorned....' That was when I got it, Denise."

She was easier now. She said in a relaxed voice: "You know, Mr. Gale, you're not at all bad, really. I think you're rather clever."

I smiled at her. "Thanks for the compliment. But let's come to the morning after, when you woke up and thought about Hart Allen, and though about his girl in America—the girl he loved. Then you made your plan for revenge. You would bribe Roakes to put that libel about yourself in the Melquay paper. You didn't care about your reputation, provided the man your name was tied up with was Hart Allen.

"And you had another idea in your head. Not only was this going to make things tough for Hart Allen; not only were you going to get a great deal of sympathy from all your friends in the neighbourhood who would believe the libel was a lie, but you would also be able to send a copy of that libellous paragraph to Meralin Van Heyt. You knew from her letter which Allen had read to you that she wouldn't marry him after she'd seen that libel. So you waited until some friends of yours in New York told you that the news of Hart Allen and Meralin Van Heyt's engagement was in the newspapers, and then you sent her a copy of the libel.

"You also knew that it was more than likely that Allen would come back here and clean the job up. Well, he's done that, and to-day I imagine you've been looking forward to the final scene in the little drama."

I looked at her. "You know Tredinor. You know that Tredinor threatened to kill Allen if he got his fingers on him. You hoped that if Allen came back here Tredinor would kill him."

There was a long silence. Now she was sitting forward in her chair, her rounded shoulders hunched up. I could see the rosy tint of the pearls against her tanned throat. Her hands were in her lap, the fingers clasping and unclasping; her eyes fixed unseeing on the ferns in the fireplace.

I had another drink. I felt I needed it. I said: "Tell me something, Denise... weren't you ever curious about how Claude Weeps got to know what really happened here on that night? Weren't you ever curious to know how he was able to know everything about it?"

She moved her head. She said in a dull voice: "Yes I was curious, but the point didn't concern me. The thing was that he knew."

"It concerned me," I said. "I was definitely interested already, and then another of those odd things happened—one of the little pointers that give you an indication as to which way you're going in life. I rang my chief in London—Mike Linnane. I was thinking that Mike was an attractive name. That gave me the clue."

I said: "You damn fool, don't you realise that Claude Weeps did the interior decoration to this place? Don't you realise that Claude Weeps was a blackmailer? You weren't the only person he'd blackmailed. The people he went for in a big way were the sort of people who took this suite for a stolen week-end. Don't you realise, you little mug, that he'd got a microphone installed in the mural decorations in every one of these rooms—in this room, in the bedroom, in the bathroom? Don't you realise that on the night you came here with Allen he was listening in from the store-room on the other side of the bathroom? He heard every word you and Allen said. He heard Allen produce that letter from Meralin Van Heyt and read it to you."

I went on: "When he'd finished reading it, Allen probably put the letter back in his pocket. Then he drank his drink into which you'd put the knock-out drops, and then, after you'd gone, Weeps came into the room. He found Allen half-drugged on the bed. He felt for his pocket-book and opened it; took the letter which he was going to use as a lever when he began to deal with you. I've got that letter. I found it on Weeps when I searched his dead body. Weeps had got you where he wanted you all right."

She didn't speak for a little while; then she said: "Would you give me some champagne?"

I walked round the table. I poured out the wine. She gulped it down. Then she sat silently, looking into the fireplace. I walked to the other side of the room; leaned against the wall.

She lay back in the chair. She folded her hands behind her head. She looked at me provocatively.

"Yes... where do we go from here? All that you've told me is most interesting and amazing, and... damn you... true...! But what good's it going to do you? Who's going to believe you? Weeps is dead. Even if Hart Allen tells the truth about what happened here that night, who's going to believe him, with the reputation he's got? You've been awfully clever, but you've still failed. Nobody's going to believe that I could do such a thing. Nobody's going to believe that I could ever plan such a thing... nobody—"

I said: "You're quite wrong. Tredinor's going to believe it. Allen's going to believe it. Your father's going to believe it."

She said: "No... none of them will." She laughed bitterly. "Maybe I shall still succeed in some part of my scheme. Maybe this girl will never marry Allen."

"Oh, yes, she will," I said. "Because Allen will know the whole story from start to finish. So will Tredinor, so will your father. The game's up, Denise."

"You little mug," I said. "You've forgotten Claude Weeps' microphones." I raised my voice. "O.K., boys... come in."

I heard the door on the other side of the bathroom open. There were footsteps; then there was the sound of the door leading into the bedroom being opened. She got up. She stood in front of the chair, her eyes blazing.

The sitting-room door opened. Mike Linnane, Hart Allen and Tredinor came into the room. She moved like a cat. She sprang for the table; seized the carving knife. She shot across the room towards me.

Mike Linnane got there first. As he jumped forward, he tripped her; caught her as she fell. He seized the hand that held the knife. The knife fell to the floor. She was struggling, kicking and fighting like a cat. Mike put her against the wall. He held her arms straight out; pressed his knees against hers to stop her kicking.

He said quietly: "Take it easy, babe. Maybe you heard the story of the lady who fainted when she saw a rat. I reckon, if you saw a rat right now, the rat would faint!"

Chapter Eight
SUNDAY: ANTI-CLIMAX

ELLERDENE stood in front of the library fireplace, his hands in his dressing-gown pockets. His eyes, moving from Linnane to me, were unhappy.

He shrugged his shoulders. He said: "Well... it's pretty grim, isn't it?" He sighed heavily. "I asked for it and I got it. I wish to God I'd never asked you to delve into this thing, Linnane. I wish I'd taken my wife's advice and left it alone. She said I'd only succeed in stirring up more mud!" He laughed cynically. "Well... there's going to be some mud-stirring now."

Mike bit off the end of his cigar and lighted it. He said: "You're not talking sense, Ellerdene. Think for a minute and you'll see that this thing had to come out. One way or another. My guess is that it's broken the best way. I think that Nicky here has done a helluva job." He grinned. "You can't have it both ways, you know."

"No," said Ellerdene, "I suppose not. Of course you're right. The whole thing had to come out. Allen's coming down here would have brought things to a head."

Mike nodded. "Sure.... When I saw him in London he said goddam little to me. He was trying to play this thing the nice way. I told him that if we couldn't find out about the libel he certainly couldn't. Then he told me that maybe he knew something we didn't know; that maybe he was a jump ahead of us."

"You mean that he already suspected Denise of being responsible for the whole thing?" asked Ellerdene.

"Sure he did," Mike answered. "But even so Allen had made up his mind, even although he was hopping mad at having his girl Meralin turned against him, that he was going to play this the decent way—if he could. My guess is that he was coming down here to tell Denise that unless she put things right for him with Meralin he was going to tell you and her mother just what had really happened at The Orange Hatch that night. He thought that maybe that would scare her." He turned to me. "That's what you think... hey, Nicky?"

I nodded my head. "And he would have been wrong," I said. "Nothing would scare that girl. She would still have had him where she wanted him. When he threatened her with exposure of what had happened at The Orange Hatch she would have told him that nobody was going to believe him; that she'd already told Tredinor and me that he'd seduced her on that night; that this was her story and she was going to stick to it, and that every one would believe her. I think they would have too."

"And then Tredinor would have got to work on Allen," I went on, "and there would have been a nice how-do-you-do. Directly Allen telegraphed Denise that he was coming down she called through to Tredinor and told him that Allen was on his way to Melquay; that she was worried sick in case Allen tried any more funny business. It's easy to guess what would have happened if I hadn't taken care of Tredinor. He would have been on to Allen directly he arrived in Melquay and beaten the living daylights out of him. Whatever Allen had said after that would have been discounted as sheer spite."

Ellerdene nodded. "Of course you're right, Gale. That's what would have happened."

"You bet it would," I said. "Then Allen, hopping mad at Tredinor, Denise and every one else, and still more mad at the prospect of losing his girl in America, would have gone into action and raised hell and devils trying to prove that it was Denise who was the big, bad wolf. And he would have stood a good chance too. It's certain that he would have gone to The Orange Hatch, looked in the hotel register and found that the suite had been registered for him in Denise's handwriting."

Ellerdene said: "It's an appalling situation. God knows what's to be done about it."

I looked at my wrist-watch. "It's two o'clock in the morning," I said. "And that's not a good time to think about anything. Maybe this thing isn't going to be as bad as you think. In any event, there's nothing to think about at the moment."

I went out of the room and down the thickly carpeted corridor. The door of the morning-room was open and as I passed I could see Hart Allen and Tredinor, each with a whisky and soda in front of him, seated at the table at the far end of the room. I thought they looked as happy as a pair of angels in hell.

Tredinor smiled unhappily. He said: "You've got a nice sense of humour, Gale. The conversation in this house for the last hour or so has been a positive broadcasting of everybody's private affairs. Is there anything that's still private?"

I smiled back at him. I said: "Some Chinese philosopher called Hsuang Li said that you never realise the value of the merchandise until the bill comes in.

I turned to Allen. "Listen, Hart... can I talk to you about your own particular troubles?"

"The thing that's worrying you at the moment," I told him, "is just how you can get yourself straight with Meralin Van Heyt without having to throw a lot of mud at Denise Ellerdene and without having to make public some things that would be better forgotten. Right?"

"Right," he said. "That's my particular trouble at the moment. I'm in a spot. If I go back to the United States without a goddam good story for Meralin, an' one that I can prove—well, she's goin' to dig her toes in an' tell me go jump in the lake. See what I mean?"

"Yes, your trouble is that you've got to go back to Meralin with a story that you can prove."

He said: "Yeah. What am I goin' to do? Am I goin' to ask Mike Linnane or Mr. Ellerdene, who was pretty decent to me in the old days, to write to Meralin and tell her all about Denise? That's not so good, is it? That's goin' to make things a darned sight tougher for them, and I reckon they're not feeling so good right now."

I sat down. "Somebody get me one of those whiskies and sodas and I'll tell you."

Ten minutes afterwards, I said so long to Hart Allen and Tredinor; walked down the corridor, through the hallway, out into the front drive. I was tired. Maybe I was getting a little bored with the Ellerdene case now that the excitement was all over.

I walked down the drive towards the iron gates where I'd parked my car. I stopped to light a cigarette.

She said: "I hope you don't mind my calling you by your first name, but after to-night and all that's been said and done, I feel that you're almost a member of the family."

I grinned at her. "Thanks a lot. I wouldn't mind being a member of your family."

She said: "It's a terrible situation, isn't it? Whatever is going to happen to Denise?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "Your guess is as good as mine. Denise is dangerous. She was dangerous because she was determined to get Allen somehow and she didn't give a damn how she did it. She was prepared to ruin his life as well as her own providing she could stop some other woman getting him. Well... she's failed. Now the only persons to whom she's a danger are herself and Tredinor."

She asked: "Why Tredinor? What can she do to him? And why should she want to be a danger to him?"

I said: "I was watching Tredinor to-night when we had that family conclave in the library—when she admitted everything. He never took his eyes off her. He's still crazy about Denise."

"I'm certain he will." I grinned. "He's a glutton for punishment. And she'll agree to many him. She'll do that because to-night has been one hell of a shock for her. She'll experience a reaction and she'll marry Tredinor on the rebound. But I don't think she'll ever forget Hart Allen. She's a one-man woman; and they're always very difficult propositions... if the one man isn't inclined to play."

She looked at me seriously. "Nicky, what's to be done about Hart Allen? We can't allow his life to be ruined just because of what Denise has done. That girl he's engaged to—she's got to be told. We've got to put things right there for him."

"No," I said. "That's not the thing to do, and it isn't necessary. I've just been talking to Allen. Quite obviously, he must go back to New York with a story for Meralin Van Heyt that he can prove—a story that explains everything. Well, I've got it."

She said: "I'm not surprised at that. I think you could invent anything. But can you prove it?"

I nodded. "I saw Roakes yesterday afternoon, I gave him till the evening to get out of Melquay. I offered him the choice of being prosecuted—I was bluffing, of course—and going to gaol, or of getting out of Melquay and signing a confession before he went. He signed the confession. I've got it in my pocket."

She said: "You mean he confessed that Denise paid him to put that libel in the paper?"

I shook my head. "No... it was a confession that I faked. The confession he signed says that he was paid by Claude Weeps to put that libel in the paper, so that Weeps could blackmail Denise." I gave her another grin. "Weeps can't argue about it, can he? Allen can take that confession back with him to Meralin Van Heyt in New York. The Linnane Organisation, which has investigated this business for your husband, will send a report based on the Roakes confession which Allen can show the Van Heyt family, and that's the end of that. Denise's name won't have to appear. This thing can still be kept in the family."

We stopped walking. She looked at me. She said: "You know, Nicky, I think you're pretty good."

"I always do my best to please the customers." I took an envelope from my pocket. "I've been waiting for a chance to give you this. The five hundred pounds that the late Weeps got for the cheque you gave me. I got it back from the police. They found it in his suitcase."

"Then I'll give you this instead." She put her arms round my neck and kissed me on the mouth. I liked that. I told her so.

"I'm going back to London to-morrow," I told her. I grinned. "There are some private affairs of my own I've got to straighten out."

I said I would. I wished her good night; walked across the lawn, down the drive.

Linnane's car was parked just behind my car. Finney was sitting in the back seat, smoking a cigarette.

He said: "Hey, Nicky, is everythin' tied up? Mike was tellin' me about this business. It's been the hell of a hotsy-totsy case. Hey?"

He said: "So long.... Hey, Nicky, there's still one more thing you gotta do before you got this case properly cleared up."

IT was nearly three o'clock when I parked the car in the drive at the Court Hotel. The moon was bright and the gardens and sea-front looked like a picture from some old-time fairy story. I stood, leaning against the car, smoking what was, I suppose, my fiftieth cigarette that day, thinking about this and that.

By and large, I concluded, I'd done my best for the customers. I'd played it the only possible way. The way things were, Hart Allen could go back to America and marry his girl and forget all about Denise and Melquay and the whole bag of tricks. But John Ellerdene would take a little time to get over what had happened. Every time he took a look at Denise he'd wonder just how the hell she could have done what she had done. He would wonder how in the name of everything that opened and shut his daughter could have schemed and planned such a load of mischief for every one—including herself. And he'd go on wondering for the rest of his life. A father is always surprised when his daughter does something that isn't in the book of rules. Just because it's his daughter. If it were someone else's daughter everything would be easy to understand.

I thought that there was a moral somewhere or other, but I wasn't quite sure where, and it didn't matter anyhow.

Mrs. Ellerdene, being a woman, and therefore much more practical—when it came to the tough side of the would probably be able to understand what had made Denise tick over. Women are always inclined to be primeval where men are concerned—even if they don't always like to admit it—and Mrs. Ellerdene, who had been beautiful and, I imagine, romantic in her own time, would be able to put herself in Denise's place and, no doubt, make some kind of excuse for her.

Tredinor was the one who had my sympathy. From the first he had been the mug. All the way through he'd carried the can back for Denise, and if I know anything about him and her he'd still be carrying it. The trouble was that Tredinor, no matter what happened, insisted on believing in Denise. I'd no doubt that they'd marry and settle down and then, one day, she'd get another of her funny ideas and the trouble would start. Tredinor was a man whose logic couldn't stand up against the fact that he was crazy about Denise. She just knocked him for a row of pins. He hadn't a chance against her.

So what? When a woman is beautiful, she's certain to cause trouble—somewhere—sometime. When she's beautiful and determined she's going to cause a lot of trouble. And when she's beautiful and determined and vindictively jealous and thwarted—as Denise was—she's going to cause hell and devils. Just because starting something was the only way she could get a kick out of life.

I realised that the best bit of work I'd done had been to get the fake confession from Roakes. The confession—Weeps being dead—was plausible and almost obvious. It formed a good background for the story that Mike Linnane and I would cook up for the benefit of Meralin Van Heyt. With Hart Allen gone without any fireworks, life for the Ellerdene family would settle down within a few weeks. In three months the sharp edges of the story would have worn off and in six months' time Denise would probably be kidding Tredinor—but certainly not herself—that he was the only man she had ever really loved.

I threw my cigarette stub away and walked along the drive to the hotel entrance. The door was open and the night porter busy sweeping out the reception office.

He said: "I'm glad you've come, Mr. Gale. There's a lady waiting for you. In the lounge. She's been here since twelve o'clock. I've just made her a cup of tea."

I said thanks and slipped quickly down the passage. I peered through the glass doors of the lounge at the end.

I straightened my tie. I thought this is it. This is where Mr. Nicholas Gale, wrongfully accused by beautiful lady of two-timing her with Dolores Ruthenal, comes into his own. I thought this is where Mr. Gale presents a picture of badly injured innocence and is eventually talked into forgiving beautiful lady—but only after a hell of a struggle.

She was wearing a rose-pink dress under a soft wool coat of the same colour. She looked good enough to eat. Looking at her through the glass door I forgot the injured innocence act; realised that Lana was the one woman who could make me forget everything else but her.

I pushed open the door and shot across the room. Almost before she realised I was there, I had my arms about her.

She tore herself away from me. She rose to her feet; stood looking at me with eyes that blazed.

She said in a low voice: "I wonder you dare come near me—or touch me. I don't think I've ever loathed any one in my life as much as I do you. You... you...." She stood there, gasping with rage, trying to think up something really adequate to call me.

I didn't feel so good. I was tired, fed up and sick of battles. I'd had enough on my plate for the last day or two not to want any more drama—especially when I didn't even know what it was all about.

I said: "What the hell is all this, Lana? What goes on? Why the fireworks? Or did you come down here merely to do a little dramatic acting?"

She said in a low, intense voice: "Of course you couldn't guess, could you? I wonder why I've ever believed anything you've told me, Nicky. I wonder—"

I interrupted. I said sarcastically: "Has someone else been telling you fairy stories? Have I been having a dramatic affaire with yet another beautiful brunette? Last time it was Dolores Ruthenal told you a bedtime story about me—"

She said hotly: "I know... and I was wrong. And I came down here to admit I was wrong. Dolores Ruthenal was hurt in a street accident. She sent for me. I went to the hospital where they had taken her and she told me that everything she'd said about you was false. She told me that she'd behaved as she had because she was crazy about you; because she wanted to marry you."

She sat down suddenly on a settee and looked at me with beautiful and reproachful eyes. I thought she looked marvellous when she was all het up about something. And I wondered what the hell was coming.

"You can imagine how I felt," she went on. "How terribly sorry I was about my attitude towards you over Dolores Ruthenal. I realised I'd been fearfully unjust to you. I told father about it and somehow he got into touch with Colonel Linnane, who said that you'd come down here on a holiday; that you'd be returning to London soon.

"At first I thought I'd wait until you returned. But I couldn't. I knew I must come down here and find you and tell you how terribly sorry I was. I wanted everything to be just as it was before this beastly Ruthenal business happened. I felt awfully in love with you, and then... and then—"

"And then—what?" I asked her. I flopped down in a big leather armchair and looked at her.

"I drove down here to-day," she said. "I arrived here this evening at nine o'clock. Colonel Linnane had told my father that he believed you were staying at this hotel. So I came here looking for you. They said you were out. But one of the guests here had seen your car near Totnes. I'd told the porter that I wanted to see you urgently and he suggested that you might have gone to the Forest Hills Country Club, near Totnes, where there is a dance on Saturday nights.

"So I drove over to the Forest Hills Club hoping to find you, but you weren't there."

"I went away," she said. "I drove away from the Forest Hills place and down the Newton Abbot road. I didn't care where I was driving. I was nervy and unhappy. After a little while I decided to return. I took one of the side roads, intending to make a circle and get back on to the Totnes-Melquay road, but I went wrong somewhere. I found myself in a lane that became narrower as I went on. There wasn't enough room to turn. So I stopped the car and walked back to find a gate or something that I could back into."

"It was a white gate," she said, "And as I pushed it open I saw a car pull up on a pathway on the other side of the field, I went over to it to ask the driver the way back to Melquay."

She paused for a moment; then: "It was a girl," she said. "She was blonde and quite beautiful. She told me how to get back on to the main road, and then she walked towards a house that stood in the field. I watched her. I saw you at the door of the house."

"I realised that there was only one explanation," she said. "I know enough about you, Nicky, to know that you do not keep appointments with ladies at lonely houses in the country at eleven o'clock at night merely to discuss the weather."

"I ought to congratulate you," she went on. "She is beautiful, isn't she? And I hope you've had a pleasant evening."

She continued: "I drove back to Melquay feeling utterly miserable. I'd come down here to see you to tell you I was sorry about not believing you over the Ruthenal business; to make things up with you; to tell you that I still loved you better than any one else in the world, and then—"

"I've waited here for you," she said. "Because I'd asked Colonel Linnane to tell you that when you came back to London I should be waiting for you. After to-night I felt it only fair to let you know that you need not bother."

I took a deep breath. I thought that I was being very unlucky where Lana was concerned. And I was in a spot. I couldn't tell her any sort of story about my meeting with Denise at The Orange Hatch that she'd believe. I couldn't tell her the truth about Denise because the truth about Denise was just nobody's business. I thought I was in a hell of a spot.

I did some quick thinking. I'd nearly lost Lana over the Ruthenal business and I was damned if I was going to take any chance of losing her through something of which I was equally innocent. For some reason another saying of my favourite Chinese philosopher Hsuang Li came into my head—"A woman will believe anything but the truth." I thought: All right. Here goes.

I said in a very tough voice: "Sit down and relax, Lana, and listen to me. In a way, I'm not sorry that you stumbled across that girl to-night, because it was your fault."

"Your fault," I repeated solemnly. "Can't you guess why I came down here, Lana? It isn't difficult. I came down here because I was fed up and heart-broken about your attitude over Dolores Ruthenal. I came down here because I'd made up my mind I was going to forget you. And I didn't give a damn what I did in order to forget you!"

I was watching her. Her eyes had softened. I thought to myself: Stick it, Nicky. Keep going. Clark Gable has nothing on you.

I went on: "Well, of course it was hopeless. I tried drinking, and I couldn't get drunk. And then a couple of days ago I met that girl—the girl you spoke to to-night. She was beautiful. I thought maybe that was the way to forget. I thought I'd try anything once. But even that failed."

She raised her eyebrows. "What do you mean—'even that failed?' I saw no signs of failure. When a girl meets a man at a deserted hotel at eleven o'clock at night—especially when that man happens to be you—it doesn't look like failure to me, Nicky."

I put on a very hurt expression. I said, more in sorrow than anger: "That's where you're wrong, Lana. It may have looked successful, but it wasn't. I admit I made a date with that girl to meet her there. I admit she turned up. But..." I shrugged my shoulders. "I couldn't go through with it. Every time I looked at her I saw your face. I realised that whatever happened I couldn't go through with it."

She looked at me for a long time; then she said: "Do you know, Nicky, I think I believe you."

"I don't care whether you believe me or not," I said. "But I tell you that nothing happened between that girl and myself to-night." I went on, in what I considered to be a bitter voice: "I took the suite there—a very attractive suite—and had supper laid on for two with champagne. All right. If you like to go back there to The Orange Hatch you'll find the supper waiting there still on the table untouched."

"Was she?" I said. "You should have seen her. At one moment I thought she was going for me with a carving knife. But eventually she went away. For the last couple of hours I've been driving about the countryside, wondering what the hell I was going to do; wondering if I'd ever see you again. And then, when I return, I find you here, furious with me for being crazy about you and doing my best to try to forget your injustice to me."

I stopped talking and stood looking at her. If J. Arthur Rank could have seen me at that moment he'd have signed me up for ten years.

She said: "Nicky, I'm fearfully sorry. I know you're telling the truth. I see now that this has been all my fault. Forgive me, Nicky... please...."

There were tears in her eyes. I heaved a sigh of relief and forgave her. When I'd finished forgiving her, she said pensively: "I'm awfully glad that nothing happened between you and that girl, Nicky. She was very beautiful... wasn't she?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "Maybe," I said. I grinned at her. "But not as beautiful as you, Lana. Remember what I told you that night in Paris? You're the only girl for me, and since that night there's never been any one else... so help me!"

I disengaged her arms from about my neck. I said: "Now listen.... This is Sunday, You and I are going up to town to-morrow. It will take me three days to get a special licence. You're going to marry me on Thursday, Lana, and like it."

She sighed. She said: "How I shall like it, Nicky!" She looked at her wrist-watch. "It's half-past three. We can't go on talking here all night. I must go to my hotel. Let's meet to-morrow morning and make plans."

She asked: "Nicky, did you say that you ordered supper for that girl—and champagne?" I nodded.

She went on: "And you said that you'd reserved that suite at The Orange Hatch, and that you'd left the supper you'd ordered untouched?"

I thought what is this? I said: "Yes... she walked out of the place in a rage. No one had any supper. Why?"

She looked at me. Her eyes were mischievous. She said: "Nicky, I've had no dinner. I feel very hungry!"

I got it. I grabbed her by the arm. We hurried down the corridor; through the entrance hall. As we went through the doors towards my car, the night porter said:

THE END

PETER CHEYNEY

TRY ANYTHING TWICE

To
George H. Lidstone,

Editor of The Torquay Times and Directory,
in whose office this story had its inception

and to

"Bill" Maydwell, his Chief Reporter.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One
MONDAY: LANA

Chapter Two
TUESDAY: CLAUDETTE

Chapter Three
WEDNESDAY: DENISE

Chapter Four
THURSDAY: THE VOICE

Chapter Five
THURSDAY NIGHT: DENISE

Chapter Six
FRIDAY: TREDINOR

Chapter Seven
SATURDAY: CLIMAX

Chapter Eight
SUNDAY: ANTI-CLIMAX

THE END

PETER CHEYNEY

TRY ANYTHING TWICE

To George H. Lidstone, Editor of The Torquay Times and Directory,in whose office this story had its inception and to "Bill" Maydwell, his Chief Reporter.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One MONDAY: LANA

Chapter Two TUESDAY: CLAUDETTE

Chapter Three WEDNESDAY: DENISE

Chapter Four THURSDAY: THE VOICE

Chapter Five THURSDAY NIGHT: DENISE

Chapter Six FRIDAY: TREDINOR

Chapter Seven SATURDAY: CLIMAX

Chapter Eight SUNDAY: ANTI-CLIMAX

THE END

To
George H. Lidstone,

Editor of The Torquay Times and Directory,
in whose office this story had its inception

and to

"Bill" Maydwell, his Chief Reporter.

Chapter One
MONDAY: LANA

Chapter Two
TUESDAY: CLAUDETTE

Chapter Three
WEDNESDAY: DENISE

Chapter Four
THURSDAY: THE VOICE

Chapter Five
THURSDAY NIGHT: DENISE

Chapter Six
FRIDAY: TREDINOR

Chapter Seven
SATURDAY: CLIMAX

Chapter Eight
SUNDAY: ANTI-CLIMAX