Tea, tobacco, meditation, and sleep brought the inspector no nearer a
solution of his problem. On the a**umption that J. M. Pattison was the
murdered man, there had still appeared no reason why Gregory Persimmons
should have murdered him. It was true that so far he knew nothing of
their relations. If Pattison had been blackmailing Persimmons now--but
then why the scribblings in the Bible? Some ancient vengeance, he rather
desperately wondered, some unreasoning hate? But he could not get away
from a feeling that, even so, it was the wrong way round. Small
nonentities did sometimes murder squires, bankers, or peers, but it was
not normal that a squire should murder a small nonentity. Besides,
religious mania seemed to come into it somewhere. But whether Mr.
Persimmons or the deceased was affected by it, or both of them, the
inspector could not decide. And why the devil? Why, in God's name, the
devil? The inspector's view of the devil was roughly that the devil was
something in which children believed, but which was generally known not
to exist, certainly not as taking any active part in the affairs of the
world; these, generally speaking, were run by three parties--the
police, criminals, and the ordinary public. The inspector tended to see
these last two cla**es as one; all specialists tend so to consider
humanity as divided into themselves and the ma** to be affected. Doctors
see it in the two sections of themselves and patients potential or
actual; clerics in themselves and disciples; poets in themselves and
readers (or non-readers; but that is the mere wickedness of mankind);
explorers in themselves and stay-at-homes; and so on. The inspector,
however, was driven by the definitions of law to admit that the public
was not as a whole and altogether criminal, and he inevitably tended to
consider it more likely that Mr. Pattison should be guilty than that Mr.
Persimmons should be. Only someone had strangled Mr. Pattison, and Mr.
Pattison's own expectation seemed to point direct to Mr. Persimmons.
Colquhoun went over in his mind the incidents which had led him to this
point--his failure to connect anyone directly with the crime, his
irritation with Stephen Persimmons and Lionel Rackstraw, his anger with
Sir Giles, his discovery of Gregory's connection with Stephen and Sir
Giles, his not very hopeful descent on Fardles. His conflict with
Ludding had relieved, but not enlightened him. He came to the events of
the morning and the way in which the young stranger had recognized him.
Of course, more people knew Tom Fool...no doubt, but he had a feeling
that he knew the face. He thought of it vaguely, as Mrs. Lucksparrow and
Ludding had done, as a foreigner's. The Duke had thought of it in
connection with the high friendships of his Oxford days; Kenneth as
related to his intelligence of the Church and its order; Sir Giles had
seen it with equal curiosity and fear--but this was almost purely
intellectual, and did not suggest the revival of some past vivid
experience. Gregory and the Archdeacon had answered to it more
pa**ionately, as somehow symbolical of a mode of real existence; as
Barbara had recognized in it at once the safety and peace which had
succoured her in the house of the infernal things. Nor, had Gregory
remembered it--but the crisis of Kenneth's d**h had put it out of his
mind--was it without significance that the Greek had seemed to feel a
power moving under and through the activities of his opponents.
But these things were not known to Colquhoun, who, nevertheless, found
himself trying to recollect who the stranger was. He had met foreigners
enough in his life, and he was driven at last to believe that it must
have been on a visit of the Infanta of Spain some time before that their
meeting had taken place; he had interviewed enough members of the
Spanish police then for more than one face to have been seen and since
forgotten, till chance rediscovered it. Chance also had directed the
conversation with Mr. Batesby to fear and his past experiences, and so
to the appeal of the late James Montgomery Pattison. At least, chance
and the stranger between them, for it had been he who had asked the
occasional helming question. He tried to consider whether this stranger
could have had anything to do with the murder, but found himself foiled;
when his mind brought the a**umed Spaniard into relation with any other
being one of them faded and was gone. It was chance, of course; and
chance had done him a good turn--up to a point, anyhow.
He took his troubles to the Assistant Commissioner the next morning, who
listened to his report carefully, and seemed disposed to make further
inquiries. "On Monday," he said, "Colonel Conyers mentioned Gregory
Persimmons to me as having taken part with him in a curious little chase
after a chalice which had been more or less stolen by the Duke of the
North Ridings and the Archdeacon of Fardles. This Persimmons a**ured us
he wouldn't prosecute, and that made it very difficult for us to move.
But I went to tea with the Duchess on Tuesday and had a chat with the
Duke."
"And did he admit that he'd stolen it?" the astonished inspector asked.
"Well, he seemed to think it really belonged to the Archdeacon," the
Assistant Commissioner answered, "but he was rather stiff about it, told
me he had reason to believe that the most serious attempts were being
made to obtain possession of it, and even talked of magic."
"Talked of _what_?" the inspector asked, more bewildered than before.
"Magic," the chief said. "_The Arabian Nights_, inspector, and people
being turned into puppy-dogs. All rubbish, of course, but he must have
had _something_ in his mind--and connected with Persimmons apparently. I
had Professor Ribblestone-Ridley tell me what's known about Ephesian
chalices, but it didn't help much. There seem to be four or five fairly
celebrated chalices that come from round there, but they're all in the
possession of American millionaires, except one which was at Kieff I did
wonder whether it was that--a lot of these Russian valuables are
drifting over here. But I still don't see why the Duke should have
bolted with it, or why Persimmons should have refused to get it back.
Unless Persimmons _had_ stolen it. Could the deceased Pattison have been
mixed up in some unsavoury business of getting it over?"
"Bolsheviks, sir?" the inspector asked, with a grin.
"I know, I know," the Assistant Commissioner said. "Still, 'wolf,' you
know...there _are_ Bolshevik affairs of the kind."
"I suppose it's possible," Colquhoun allowed. "But, then, did Pattison
mean the Bolsheviks by the devil?"
His chief shook his head. "Religion plays the deuce with a man's
sanity," he said regretfully. "Your clergyman told you he thought he was
saved, and in that state there's nothing people won't say or do."
"It might be one of the American chalices," the inspector submitted.
"It might," the other said. "But we should have been warned of the theft
from New York, probably. It might also be the Holy Graal, which
Ribblestone-Ridley says, according to some traditions, came from
Ephesus."
"The Holy Graal," the inspector said doubtfully. "Hadn't that something
to do with the Pope?"
"It's supposed to be the cup Christ used at the Last Supper--so I
suppose you might say so," the Assistant Commissioner answered almost as
doubtfully. "However, as that Cup, if it ever existed, isn't likely to
exist _now_, we needn't really worry about that. No, Colquhoun, I lean to
Kieff. I wonder whether the Duke would tell me anything." He looked at
the inspector. "Would you like to go and ask him?" he finished.
"Well, sir, I'd rather you did," Colquhoun said. "I like to have some
hold on people when what I'm asking them is as vague as all that--it
seems to help things on."
The Assistant Commissioner looked at the telephone. "I wonder," he said.
"We don't know much, do we? A chalice and a Bible and a clergyman. What
an infernally religious case this is getting! And an Archdeacon on the
outskirts.
"Perhaps Persimmons has k**ed the Archdeacon by now," he added
hopefully as he took off the receiver.
The Duke, it appeared, when he got through to the butler, was not in
London. He had been up for two nights, but had returned to the country
on Wednesday? yesterday--morning. He had been accompanied (this when
it was understood who was inquiring) by the Archdeacon of Fardles and a
Mr. Mornington. They had both returned with the Duke. Should Mr.
Thwaites be called to the telephone? Mr. Thwaites was--no, not his
Grace's secretary; no, nor his Grace's valet; a sort of general utility
man to his Grace, in the best sense, of course.
The Commissioner hesitated, but he didn't want to seem to be asking
questions about the Duke, and decided to try Ridings Castle first. He
asked for the trunk call, and sat back to wait for it.
"It all seems to be mixed up together, sir," Colquhoun said. "There was
a Mr. Mornington at those publishing offices; it may be another man, of
course--but there's a Persimmons and a Mornington there, and a
Persimmons and a Mornington here."
"And a Bible all written over with Persimmons there, and a chalice that
Persimmons stole or had stolen here," the other said. "Yes. It's odd.
And a corpse there. We only want a corpse here to make a nice even
pattern."
Scotland Yard not being usually kept waiting for its trunk calls, they
had not broken the few minutes' silence by any further remarks before
the housekeeper at Castle Ridings had been notified that she was wanted
at the telephone. No, the Duke was not in the country. He and Mr.
Mornington had left for London last night. By train--the car had been
away for a day for some minor repairs. No, nothing was known of his
Grace's return. He had said he should be at Grosvenor Square. What had
the Duke's movements been yesterday? He and Mr. Mornington had arrived,
unexpectedly, for lunch. They had gone out walking in the afternoon, and
the Duke had said they might not be back. Where had they gone? She did
not know; she had heard the Duke say something about a Mrs. Rackstraw to
Mr. Mornington after he had told her they might not be back. Yes,
Rackstraw. Could she give any message?
The Assistant Commissioner rang off and looked at the inspector, who was
in a state of some excitement.
"That _damned_ Rackstraw," he said. "He's always coming in. He lunches out
with Sir Giles Tumulty and a man gets k**ed in his room. The Duke goes
out to call on his wife and the Duke disappears."
"I wonder if we've got the other corpse," his chief said. "I think,
Colquhoun, we might go and see what this Thwaites fellow can tell us.
It's all right, no doubt, but I don't seem quite to like it."
Thwaites, when at Grosvenor Square he was summoned to the presence,
seemed at first, if not recalcitrant, at least reluctant. He disclaimed
any knowledge of the Duke's whereabouts; he thought his Grace would not
be at all pleased if they were brought into publicity. Why? Well, he had
an idea that his Grace wished for privacy. Yes, he admitted gradually,
he _had_ seen a chalice in the Duke's possession on Monday. Considering
that on the Monday night he had been awakened to watch in front of it
after the other three had retired, content to believe the Archdeacon's
a**ertion that the attack had failed, this was a restrained way of
putting it. But it had been indicated to him that the Duke desired
secrecy, and secrecy Thwaites was trying to maintain. But he became
anxious when he heard of the disappearance, or at least of the
non-appearance, of his master and admitted more than he altogether meant.
He admitted that the chalice was not now in London; the Duke and his
friends had taken it with them on the Wednesday. This was Thursday, he
pointed out, to himself as well as the visitors, so the Duke's absence
had not yet lasted for much over twelve hours--not so very long.
"Say four o'clock to twelve--twenty," the inspector said.
"Well, not twenty-four," Thwaites answered. "Only a night, you might
say. Not so long but what, if his Grace was busy with something, he
mightn't easily be away."
"Does the Duke often stay away without warning?" the Assistant
Commissioner asked.
Not often, Thwaites admitted, but it had been known. He had gone for a
sort of a joy-ride once and not been back for the whole twenty-four
hours. Still, his Grace had been very anxious about something, something
private, he didn't know what, but something to do with the chalice, on
the Monday and Tuesday.
The Duchess, Thwaites thought, had not been told, since the Duke was not
much in the habit of telling his aunt anything; and he very strongly
dissuaded the visitors from making any inquiries there. Her Grace, he
hinted, was a notorious chatterbox, and the incidents they were
investigating would be discussed in a thousand drawing-rooms. If inquiry
must be made, let it be conducted by the police along their own
channels.
It was, however, exactly the method of conducting it which was annoying
the Assistant Commissioner. He exhorted Thwaites to let him know
immediately the Duke returned, or if news of him arrived, and to report
to him by telephone every two hours if the Duke had not returned. He
then withdrew with the inspector.
"Well," he said when they were in the street again, "I think you'd
better go back to Fardles, Colquhoun, and see if you find out anything
there. You might, in the circumstances, have a chat with the Archdeacon,
and keep an eye on Persimmons's movements. I'll send another man down to
help you. There's only one other thing that occurs to me. When Colonel
Conyers was up on Monday he asked about the Duke and the Archdeacon and
the others, and also about some North London Greek who had got
Persimmons this accursed chalice. I'll put a man on to _him_. Ring me up
later and tell me what's happened."
Towards evening the Assistant Commissioner received three telephone
reports. The first was Thwaites, with the usual "Nothing has happened,
sir. His Grace has not returned and we have received no information."
This time, however, he added, "The Duchess is becoming anxious, sir. She
is talking of consulting the police. Shall I put her through to you,
sir?"
"No, for God's sake," the Commissioner said hastily. "Tell her
something, anything you like. Tell her to ring up the nearest police
station...No, she won't do that as she knows me. All right, Thwaites,
put her through."
The Duchess was put through, and the Commissioner extracted from her
what he really wanted--permission to investigate. He then pretended to
be cut off.
It was some minutes later that he received a call from Colquhoun.
"The Archdeacon isn't here, sir," the inspector reported. "He left for
London just before lunch, about when we were at the Duke's. They don't
know when he'll be back. Mr. Persimmons also left, just after lunch. I
must have pa**ed him in the train. Rackstraw is here and his wife, in a
cottage in Persimmons's grounds. They apparently have a small boy, but
he's been taken to London by a maid of Persimmons'. I knew Rackstraw was
in it somehow."
"Family man, Persimmons," the Assistant Commissioner said. "Pity you
couldn't have let us know he was coming, and I really think we'd have
had him covered."
"Well, sir, both he and the Archdeacon were away before I got down
here," the inspector said forbearingly. "Shall I come back?"
"No, I think not," his chief said. "Stop to-day, anyhow, and let me hear
to-morrow if there's anything fresh. I've sent Pewitt to Finchley Road,
but he's not reported yet. It's all pure chance. We really don't know
what we're looking for."
"I thought we were trying to find out why Persimmons murdered Pattison,
sir," the inspector answered.
"I suppose we are," his chief said, "but we seem rather like sparrows
hopping round Persimmons on the chance of a crumb. Well, carry on; see
if you can pick one up and let us guzzle it to-morrow. Good-bye."
He sat back, lit a cigarette, and turned to other work, till, somewhere
about half-past eight, Pewitt also rang up. Pewitt was a young fellow
who was being tried on the mere mechanics of this kind of work, and he
had been sent up to the Finchley Road not more than two hours earlier,
having been engaged on another job for most of the day. His voice now
sounded depressed and worried.
"Pewitt speaking," he said, when the Commissioner had announced himself.
"I'm--I'm in rather a hole, sir. I--we--can't find the house."
"Can't _what_?" his chief asked.
"Can't find the house, sir," Pewitt repeated. "I know it sounds silly,
but it's the simple truth. It doesn't seem to be there."
The Assistant Commissioner blinked at the telephone. "Are you mad or
merely idiotic, Pewitt?" he asked. "I did think you'd got the brains of
a peewit, anyhow, if not much more. Have you lost the address I gave you
or what?"
"No, sir," Pewitt said, "I've got the address all right--Lord Mayor's
Street. It was a chemist's, you said. But there doesn't seem to be a
chemist's there. Of course, the fog makes it difficult, but still, I
don't _think_ it is there."
"The fog?" the Commissioner said.
"It's very thick up here in North London," Pewitt answered, "very thick
indeed."
"Are you sure you're in the right street?" his chief asked.
"Certain, sir. The constable on duty is here too. He seems to remember
the shop, sir, but he can't find it, either. All we can find, sir, is--"
"Stop a minute," the Commissioner interrupted. He rang his bell and sent
for a Directory; then, having found it, he went on. "Now go ahead. Where
do you begin?"
"George Giddings, grocer."
"Right."
"Samuel Murchison, confectioner."
"Right."
"Mrs. Thorogood, apartments."
"Damn it, man," the Commissioner exploded, "you've just gone straight
over it. Dimitri Lavrodopoulos, chemist."
"But it isn't, sir," Pewitt said unhappily. "The fog's very thick, but
we couldn't have missed a whole shop."
"But Colonel Conyers has _been_ there," the Commissioner shouted, "been
there and talked with this infernal fellow. Good God above, it must be
there! You're drunk, Pewitt."
"I feel as if I was, sir," the mournful voice said, "groping about in
this, but I'm not. I've looked at the Directory myself, sir, and it's
all right there. But it's not all right here. The house has simply
disappeared."
"That must have been what just flew past the window," the other said
bitterly. "Look here, Pewitt, I'm coming up myself. And God help you and
your friend the constable if I find that house, for I'll tear you limb
from limb and roast you and eat you. And God help me if I don't," he
said, putting back the receiver, "for if houses disappear as well as
Dukes, this'll be no world for me."
It took him much longer than he expected to reach Lord Mayor's Street.
As his taxi climbed north, he found himself entering into what was at
first a faint mist, and later, before he reached Tally Ho Corner, an
increasing fog. Indeed, after a while the taxi-driver refused to go any
farther, and the Assistant Commissioner proceeded slowly on foot. He
knew the Finchley Road generally and vaguely, and after a long time and
many risks at last drew near his aim. At what he hoped was the corner of
Lord Mayor's Street he ran directly into a stationary figure.
"What the hell--" he began. "Sorry, sir. Oh, it's you, Pewitt.
Damnation, man, why don't you shout instead of knocking me down? All
right, all right. But standing at the corner of the street won't find
the house, you know. Where's the constable? Why don't you keep together?
Oh, he's here, is he! Couldn't even one of you look for the house
instead of holding a revival meeting at the street corner? Now for God's
sake don't apologize or I shall have to begin too, and we shall look
like a ring of chimpanzees at the Zoo. I know as well as you do that I'm
in a vile temper. Come along and let's have a look. Where's the
grocer's?"
He was shown it. Then, he first, Pewitt second, and the constable last,
they edged along the houses, their torches turned on the windows.
"That's the grocer's," the Commissioner went on. "And here--this
blasted fog's thicker than ever--is the end of the grocer's, I suppose;
at least it's the end of a window. Then this must be the confectioner's.
I believe I saw a cake; the blind's only half down. And here's a door,
the confectioner's door. Didn't you think of doing it this way, Pewitt?"
"Yes, sir," Pewitt said, "the constable and I have done it about
seventeen times."
The Assistant Commissioner, neglecting this answer, pushed ahead. "And
this is the end of the confectioner's second window," he said
triumphantly. "And here's a bit of wall...more wall...and here--
here's a gate." He stopped uncertainly.
"Yes, sir," Pewitt said; "that's Mrs. Thorogood's gate. We called there,
sir, but she's an old lady and rather deaf, and some of her lodgers are
on their holiday and some haven't got home from work yet. And we
couldn't quite get her to understand what we were talking about. We
tried again a little while ago, but she wouldn't even come to the door."
The Assistant Commissioner looked at the gate, or rather, at the fog,
for the gate was invisible. So was the constable; he could just discern
a thicker blot that was Pewitt. He felt the gate--undoubtedly it was
just that. He stood still and recalled to his mind the page he had
studied in the Directory. Yes, between Murchison the confectioner and
Mrs. Thorogood, apartments, it leapt to his eye, Dimitri Lavrodopoulos,
chemist.
"Have you tried the confectioner?" he asked.
"Well, sir, he wouldn't do more than talk out of the first-floor
window," Pewitt said, "but we did try him. He said he knew what kind of
people went round knocking at doors in the fog. He swore he'd got two
windows, and he said the chemist was next door. But somehow we couldn't
just find next door."
"It must be round some corner," the Assistant Commissioner said; and
"Yes, sir, no doubt it must be round some corner," Pewitt answered.
The other felt as if something was beginning to crack. Everything seemed
disappearing. The Duke had not come home, nor Mornington, whoever he
might be; the Archdeacon and Gregory Persimmons had left home. And now a
whole house seemed to have been swallowed up. He went slowly back to the
corner, followed by his subordinates, then he tried again--very slowly
and crouched right against the windows. On either side of the
confectioner's door was a strip of gla** without blinds, and he dimly
discerned in each window, within an inch and a half of his nose, scones
and buns and jam-tarts. Certainly the farther one no more than the first
belonged to a chemist. And yet for the second time, as he pushed beyond
it, he felt the rough wall under his fingers and then the iron gate.
The Directory and Colonel Conyers must both be wrong, he thought; there
could be no other explanation. Lavrodopoulos must have left, and the
shop been taken over by the confectioner. But it was on Monday Colonel
Conyers had called, and this was only Thursday. Besides, the
confectioner had said that the chemist's was next door. He felt the wall
again; it ought to be there.
"What do you make of it, Pewitt?" he asked.
Out of the fog Pewitt answered: "I don't like it, sir," he said. "I dare
say it's a mistake, but I don't like that. It isn't natural."
"I suppose you think the devil has carried it off," the Assistant
Commissioner said, and thought automatically of the Bible he had studied
that morning. He struck impatiently at the wall. "Damn it, the shop must
be there," he said. But the shop was not there.
Suddenly, as they stood there in a close group, the grounds beneath them
seemed to shift and quiver. Pewitt and the constable cried out; the
Assistant Commissioner jumped aside. It shook again. "Good God," he
cried, "what in the name of the seven devils is happening to the world?
Are you there, Pewitt?" for his movement had separated them. He heard
some sort of reply, but knew himself alone and felt suddenly afraid.
Again the earth throbbed below him; then from nowhere a great blast of
cool wind struck his face. So violent was it that he reeled and almost
fell; then, as he regained his poise, he saw that the fog was dissolving
around him. A strange man was standing in front of him; behind him the
windows of a chemist's shop came abruptly into being. The stranger came
up to him. "I am Gregory Persimmons," he said, "and I wish to give
myself up to the police for murder."