No one was surprised. Indeed, everyone seemed quite gratified. I was delighted at my own success at compounding a felony without any deliberate lies. I passed out into the May sunshine, cocksure that I had put something over.

  But Nemesis was stalking close behind, and caught up to me soon after I reached my own room.

  As I threw myself down on the couch, I began to take stock of my position. I had kept faith with Baumann by posting his letter and saying nothing about it. I had stood by the Profile in destroying any evidence that there had. been a second party in my neighbour’s room on Monday night; I had followed the line of least resistance at the inquest. But my conscience kept telling me that the Law is not mocked for long. I was restless and uneasy.

  Then as though it were the echo of my own uneasiness, I heard, sounds in the room which had lately belonged to the ill-starred South African. Someone was moving the heavy trunks and boxes which I had noticed yesterday by the doorway—the trunks that contained Baumann’s personal effects—the trunks which were now all packed and corded, ready to be sent to Mr. Van der Walt in London.

  Curiosity impelled me to go and see who was there. Through the half-open door I caught a glimpse of a broad man’s back bending over the largest packing cases. As I entered the room, Inspector Horrocks straightened himself and mopped his brow with a large purple handkerchief.

  There was an expression on his face which made me think of a naughty little boy who had been caught stealing apples. In his hand he held a recently disinterred bundle which looked as if it could do with a wash.

  “Looking for the missing link, Inspector?” I asked with every appearance of innocent unconcern.

  The detective shut the trunk slowly and deliberately.

  “Mr. Fenton,” he said without smiling, “I’d like a word with you—a word in confidence like you might say, sir.”

  “All right. Come into my room. I’ve got two bottles of Guinness. We need a pick-me-up. I’ve also got some gin so you can fix yourself a dog’s nose if you like.”

  “Guinness is mine,” he replied, and again the purple handkerchief was passed over the florid countenance.

  Clasping the bundle beneath one arm, he followed me into my room. There was an uncomfortable sensation in my bones that a noose was being slowly but surely tightened.

  The inspector cleared his throat. “Mr. Fenton,” he remarked, as he laid his bundle on the table, “I’m in what you might call an awkward predicament, sir. I thought perhaps I could talk to you as man to man—”

  “Shoot,” I murmured, inwardly cursing those previous sessions at the Plumed Cock and the inverted snobbishness which had made me so anxious to be “buddies” with a police inspector.

  “You see, sir,” he continued, “the coroner is satisfied as to the cause of Mr. Baumann’s death, but I can’t honestly say that I am. And that’s where the awkwardness of it comes in, Mr. Fenton. As you know, it was not, strictly speaking, my case. I only came into it to oblige Colonel Warren, as you might say, Mr. Fenton.”

  “What on earth do you mean, Horrocks?” I asked, filling up his glass with a none too steady hand. “Have there been any fresh developments?”

  The inspector took a long pull at his stout, taking meticulous care not to get any froth in his moustache.

  “No, sir, nothing fresh. Only the things that would have been obvious to any man in the world except Sergeant Rollings. That man, Mr. Fenton—” he tapped his broad forehead with a significant gesture, “—of course, this is all confidential and would be very bad for the Cambridge force if it got out, but what with me being called to London after North on a fool’s errand and Dr. Warren having saved my life—well, you see my position, sir.”

  His incoherence positively took my breath away. “No, I’m afraid I don’t,” I answered, “but I have half a dozen more Guinnesses in the cupboard if that’s any help. And why not fill your pipe?”

  I pushed a crested tobacco-box towards him and fetched two more bottles. When Inspector Horrocks had made himself comfortable on the sofa he said in a voice whose quietness accentuated the gravity of his words:

  “I think, Mr. Fenton, you appreciate my position better than you are prepared to admit. I think you know in your heart of hearts, that Baumann was murdered in cold blood, and murdered by one of the cleverest and luckiest criminals that you or I ever came across. Isn’t that the truth?”

  At home in America I had been told by speculators that, when they lost everything they owned in the Stock Market collapse, their first feeling was one of relief. I did not believe them at the time. Now I understand what they meant. In trampling down my carefully raised structure of half-falsehoods, Horrocks had taken from my mind a terrific load of responsibility.

  “So you are a psychologist as well as a detective, Horrocks,” I said, lighting a cigarette with exaggerated insouciance. “But I really think that before you go any further you ought to substantiate such a very damning remark. You haven’t by any chance got a warrant for my arrest—as an accessory after the fact?”

  “No, sir,” he smiled, “I know you didn’t have anything to do with it. I was watching you all through the inquest and I think you were telling the truth. The only trouble is you weren’t telling all the truth. I’d only just got back from London so I didn’t have time to work out your reasons for acting as you did. I know there are a great many things that are puzzling you, too. Perhaps we can help each other.”

  “You are talking through your hat, Horrocks,” I cried. My voice, however, sounded thin and far away.

  Horrocks gave me a comfortable smile. “Now, Mr. Fenton, as the son of a judge and being, like you might say, older and more experienced than the average undergraduate here, I can surely ask you to listen to reason. The thing is as plain as the nose on your face, begging your pardon, sir. When I first came in on Monday night I was prepared to accept things at their face value. But while I was in London hunting for William North, I suddenly got to thinking about young Baumann, how he was a cricketer and a South African and how he was probably a good shot too. They live by the gun out there, I understand—”

  “But what on earth—?” I interrupted.

  “Just a minute, just a minute, Mr. Fenton,” he continued. “If you’d lived with firearms as long as I have, you’d realize that ten o’clock at night is the worst possible time to clean them. You can’t even see down the barrel properly. And then, if Mr. Baumann was used to firearms, he would never have started out to clean his pistol without first removing the bullets. In the middle of a thunderstorm, too. The thing just doesn’t fit.”

  He looked at me quizzically and reached out a hand for his glass. It was empty. Mechanically I filled it.

  “But, hasn’t it struck you, Horrocks, that you might easily be working up an excellent case for a rather deliberately planned suicide?”

  The inspector spread out his hands in the hopeless gesture of schoolmasters faced by wilful stupidity of their pupils.

  “I thought I had explained to you,” he said patiently, “that Mr. Baumann was born with a gun in his pocket as you might say, sir. Well, if he wanted to make his suicide look like an accident, he would hardly have left on his desk materials that are never used to clean guns or revolvers. When all’s said and done, Mr. Baumann had some brains.”

  “But I don’t follow you, Horrocks,” I cried, now really mystified. “There were cleaning materials on the desk!”

  Horrocks shook his head. “Brasso is used to clean brass buttons and not gun-metal or blued steel. I wonder the colonel didn’t tumble to it himself.”

  This appeared to make excellent sense. I stared in undisguised admiration.

  “I have just established two further facts, Mr. Fenton,” he continued quietly. “Facts that I should have established long before the inquest if I had not been called away like that. In the first place there was nothing made of brass in Mr. Baumann’s possession—nothing on which he might reasonably have used Brasso. I have also found the materials which he did use when he wanted to clean his revolver.” He pointed to the dirty bundle on the table. “They were in the bottom of a trunk and I’d say they have not been used for some months, but they are the kind of things a real shooting man might use and not be ashamed of, sir.”

  The man was obviously headed for a high place in Scotland Yard.

  “Now look Mr. Fenton. Here’s my own revolver.” He whipped it from his pocket. “And here’s a tin of Brasso. See what happens when I try to clean it.”

  He sprinkled some Brasso on the gun-metal and rubbed it with his handkerchief. A nasty gray smudge was the result.

  “Demonstratio ad oculos, and very conclusive, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Then you agree with me that the tin of Brasso and the chamois leather were deliberately planted, Mr. Fenton? Planted by a clever murderer, but one who was not clever enough to find out the first thing about cleaning guns?”

  “But how on earth did he know where Baumann kept his revolver?” I asked.

  “I don’t imagine Mrs. Bigger was very backward in coming forward about a thing of that sort, sir. You know what women are when they have a grievance. She knew herself where it was kept and probably broadcast the news around like you might say, Mr. Fenton.”

  “Well, your murderer had a lot of luck,” I commented briefly.” The storm to drown the noise of the shot. The blood to hide the fingerprints. You’d have a job to convince a jury, Inspector.”

  “You may call it luck, but I think it was mostly good management, Mr. Fenton. And then, there are some more facts to come out, sir. You are not the only one who is keeping information to himself. There are other people on this staircase, sir.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing you are not relying on what I can tell you, because I assure you that my knowledge won’t get you far.

  “My only suggestion is that you find out from the porter who came in or left the college around ten o’clock on Monday. If it really was murder, it was probably an outside job.”

  “I’ve already done that, sir.” He produced a dirty piece of paper from his pocket and passed it on to me. It was a list of the exits and entrances on Monday night. Before ten o’clock there was no record of importance.

  After ten there was the mention of numerous undergraduates, a few college servants and the Master’s guests. After twelve there was one entry only—“Dr. Warren and friend.” I should love to have known the sex of that “friend.”

  “Why do you show all this to me?” I asked suspiciously.

  “Well, Mr. Fenton, my position is awkward, sir. Any disclosures now would discredit Sergeant Rollings and besides, if the Coroner is satisfied, the matter should really be closed. But I am convinced that Julius Baumann was foully murdered. I hoped,” he added simply, “you might be interested in helping me to prove it.”

  It was obvious that he disliked as much as I did the conclusions which his intelligence had forced upon him.

  “Horrocks,” I said, “I want above all things in the world to find out who murdered Baumann. I will do everything I can to help you—under two conditions. The first is that you trust me sufficiently to let me keep to myself the things that concern me only—” he nodded without smiling—“and the second is that you tell Dr. Warren what you have just told me and let him know that you intend to continue your investigation in spite of the coroner.”

  “It will break his heart,” he murmured sadly.

  “Nonsense, Horrocks. Now, finish up your stout and I’ll go down with you right now. Courage, my friend—the devil is dead, but we’ll find out who killed him.”

  Reluctantly Horrocks followed me down to Dr. Warren’s rooms. There he told the story which he had just imparted to me. Dr. Warren listened to him in silence, staring at his fingernails through his monocle and fidgeting occasionally with his feet. It was obvious that he wished his old friend Horrocks in Jericho.

  “So you see, Colonel,” finished the inspector, “as soon as I’ve traced North, I can turn my attention to this case and work on it myself. Tactfully like you might say, sir. I hate to reopen old wounds, but I did feel it my duty …”

  “Of course it’s your duty,” snapped the tutor. “Facts are facts and we have to face them. I think we’ve been very lucky with our coroner’s verdict. Now no one need know that you suspect foul play. Mr. Fenton, you will be discreet, of course.”

  “I’ve promised the inspector to help all I can, sir,” I replied, “and I shall, of course, keep it to myself.”

  “Good. Then you have my full permission to go ahead, Horrocks. I can trust you to keep it out of the papers.”

  “You can indeed, sir, and thank you. It will be a great thing for my reputation on the force if—”

  “And a great thing for the reputation of the college,” said the tutor, grimly. “Still, a duty is a duty, even if it is an unpleasant one.”

  We realized that we were dismissed.

  As I shook hands with Horrocks outside, I felt that the clasp sealed a pact. I was glad, at last, to have the Law on my side.

  When I returned to my room, I was surprised to see that someone was standing by my bookcase, casually pulling out a volume. My visitor was a girl wearing a red hat and a smartly cut white silk dress. As I entered the room, she wheeled round and faced me. It was the Profile….

  CHAPTER VIII

  Purple Patch

  I have already mentioned the fact that nice English girls do not run around loose in the men’s colleges at Cambridge. This applies most especially to the women students at Girton and Newnham. Meters of red tape must be unraveled before they can accept an innocent invitation to tea. If they come uninvited, they are flying in the face of all the standard conventions and acting as hussies. The statement is unqualified—and yet, here it was, time for tea or cocktails, and the Profile was in my room, uninvited!

  “Hullo,” she said calmly, as I entered. And indeed, she did look rather a hussy in that flaming red hat and the stunning white dress. But an exquisite and perfectly adorable hussy at that. Whatever poise or good breeding I have acquired at the two Cambridges completely deserted me as I took in the miracle of this sudden re-appearance.

  “Where in the name of all that’s wonderful do you come from?” I asked fatuously.

  “Fenners. The M. C. C. is all out at last for three hundred and eighty-six. I’m afraid the Varsity hasn’t a chance. Cricket, by the way, is almost my only vice—if you exclude an occasional cigarette.”

  I passed her my case in a dazed manner.

  “Thanks. I do hope you don’t think this is cheek of me, but I wanted to see you. I feel I owe you an apology, Hilary Fention.”

  “Several, Miss Lathrop.” The memory of that lunch at the “Whim” still rankled.

  “Come, it’s not so bad as all that,” she smiled. “But:, I am glad you’ve got my name right at last. I only heard today about your tête-à-tête with Dorothy Dupuis. She told me all the ‘circs’ during the match this afternoon. I’ve been laughing ever since.”

  “It’s almost as funny,” I said sulkily, “as when an old lady slips on a piece of orange peel in the street and breaks her leg.”

  Her face grew serious for a moment. “Please don’t be cross,” she said. “You can’t blame me for not being the person you thought I was. You got the girl you invited and she’s really a very good sort, if a trifle earnest. There’s nothing wrong with her except that theological fiasco. I thought, in common charity, it would be amusing for her to have a change from him. You must admit I’d have been a cat—and a rather conceited one—if I’d taken it all to myself and done her out of what you call a ‘date’ for lunch.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll forgive you if you’ll stay and have tea with me now. I have three rather stale cakes, a box of chocolate biscuits and some Graham crackers. We can make toast.”

  “I’d love to. I’m dying for tea after all that cricket. And you are going to let me help, aren’t you?”

  She removed the red hat and started to busy herself with the loaf of bread and the teapot. The late afternoon was growing a trifle chilly, so I put a match to the fire. We chatted gaily and inconsequentially as we prepared our informal meal. It was all very pleasant and cozy but, somehow or other, each of us seemed to know that the other was acting a part—that we were both marking time before a stampede of inevitable questions and answers.

  It was not till after she had poured out my third cup of tea and urged me to take the pink marzipan cake before it went completely bad, that she broached the subject which was uppermost in both our minds.

  “Hilary Fention,” she said suddenly, “have you forgotten that you saw me on this staircase last Monday morning?”

  “You know perfectly well I haven’t forgotten. How could I?” I moved out of my chair and sat beside her on the couch.

  “I hoped you had,” she said softly.

  “Oh, I see what you mean. Well, as far as that goes, I haven’t told anyone about it—nor about that other time. But naturally I am curious.”

  She looked at me for a moment as though she were trying to make up her mind about something. Then she said with a lift of one eyebrow:

  “And what are you curious about, Hilary Fenton?”

  I drew a deep breath. Now or never, I thought, and both feet are better than one.

  “Well, it all boils down to this, Camilla. I should like to know whether or not it was you who murdered Baumann.”

  “Murdered—” She sprang from her seat and stared at me with wild and startled eyes. For one second she stood there speechless and then, gradually, every trace of colour disappeared from her face. Her knees seemed to sag beneath her and, almost before I had had time to realize what was happening, she had fallen back on to the sofa in a lifeless little heap.

  And as I saw her lying there, looking so small and defenseless on my enormous, overstuffed Chesterfield, I suddenly lost all control of myself.

  “Camilla, Camilla darling,” I burbled, as I chafed her cold hands between my own, “don’t take it to heart, dear. What does it matter even if you did do it? I don’t care. No one need ever know. Just open your eyes and tell me that you forgive me.”