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We saw her at once, as Karen had blundered in upon her—the breakfast tray with its smoking jug and glass of lemon juice was on the table where the frightened maid had set it down—lying in front of the big stone fireplace which, set in the right-hand wall as you entered, facing the veranda, was the most noticeable feature of the room. She was on her back, with eyes closed and congested face, her head bent backward over the coping of the hearth in a pool of blood which stained the snowy flags and the white fur hearth rug beneath her. She had dined in the gay flowered silk she had donned for her trip to New York; now she was in black velvet lounging pyjamas with a little green jacket and green slippers over her bare feet.

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He was unable to give the exact time by which he was back at the Yacht Club; but H.B. He had chanced to see the clock when Brinckman carne in; it was at half-past nine. Hand-in-hand they disappeared round the side of the house, leaving her disconsolate. Lunch came and brought with it—to me, at least—a sense of growing strain. Linda had gone home, but Wayne lunched with us and scarcely spoke a word throughout the meal.

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“I suppose it’s about that dressing-case of mine. Well, it was stolen from me, right under my nose, at Victoria Station when I landed from Paris last week.” He eyed the inspector nervously through his glasses. “If it’s Mrs. Argyle or the man, show them into the dining-room,” Mr. Treadgold whispered as I moved towards the hall. “I said ‘pigskin’ and I mean pigskin, and nothing the newspapers write will make me say different. If the police want to call pigskin crocodile, it’s none of my business.”

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“She’s been strangled!” He stepped aside and we saw the dead woman’s face. There were black bruises on the ivory whiteness of the neck. Then Draycott’s tall figure loomed up—he said he had strolled as far as the pier. His wife made some snippish retort which I didn’t catch, and we all returned to the lounge.

Mixed with dust some particles of pale brown tobacco lay scattered over the white blotting pad. Manderton was away a good ten minutes, by which time my friend had restored the clothing to the case, and was staring moodily between the undrawn curtains at the fog-blurred lights of St. James’s. Only when the detective reappeared did he stir from his lethargy. “In your place, Inspector,” he observed, “I’d try to ascertain whether, by any chance, this dressing-case was bought in Paris.” Neither dressing-case nor bag was labelled or initialled and neither the luggage nor the woman’s handbag threw any light on the couple’s identity. But the victim’s underwear was marked “B. M.” All the resources of Scotland Yard got to work and within twenty-four hours she was identified as a certain Mrs. Blanche Medloe who had a furnished bedroom at the Hypatia Bridge Club in South Kensington.

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I had procured him this invitation to the Brinckmans’ in order that he might meet Marcia Murray. In a few minutes we would hear her sing—it was odd, I reflected, that he should have his first contact with someone who had given him much anxious thought, thus, through the medium of a disembodied voice. At the last moment Tatiana joined us, breathless. The Inspector demurred, but “You’ll want me to interpret!” she cried, and we made room for her. The visitor fiddled with his glasses.

  • Although she and Wayne kept house together in New York, when he came down to Norhasset he went to the hotel, Marcia declaring that the bungalow was not large enough for the two of them.
  • With a nervous hand the professor pawed his thinning hair.
  • One could see the way of it so clearly.
  • “You can’t ride off it like that. I was on the Roden Hour before you were ever engaged, and you made up your mind from the start to get rid of me. You know it was you who put C.B. up to it.”

Mr. Treadgold said nothing, but the look he cast me was full of meaning. “I’m speaking from young Kendrick’s rooms,” he said. “Your friend Treadgold might like to know that his landlady has identified that bayonet.” She dropped down on the couch and covered her face with her hands. “He had some spare passport photos in his desk. I dare say you could have one of them.” He extracted a photograph from his wallet and handed it across.

“Because the fellow’s crazy, of course,” said Marton quickly. Mr. Treadgold nodded, his eyes twinkling. “Correct. The answer is dull organs in the first place; secondly, the failure to receive impressions when the organs are not dull and thirdly, a memory like a sieve.” “Our red-bearded friend has changed his methods,” he observed. “It seems a good moment to have a quiet look round,” Mr. Treadgold suggested to Cobbey. “Don’t bother to come with us, if you’ll just tell me how to find the spot. We’ll meet you here, say, in half an hour.”

  • “Are you trying to tell me that this poor woman has been murdered?” I gasped.
  • “The idea of your putting that boy up to a stunt like that!” I said.
  • But the victim’s underwear was marked “B. M.” All the resources of Scotland Yard got to work and within twenty-four hours she was identified as a certain Mrs. Blanche Medloe who had a furnished bedroom at the Hypatia Bridge Club in South Kensington.
  • She had read in the newspaper of Madame’s arrival in Turin, she said at length rather sullenly, and had offered her services—members of her family had served the Malatestas in the past.