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Play was resumed, but another hitch soon occurred, which was explained by Dr Westruther, who came up from the library to say that they were held up there by Seaton-Carew's absence. "Called away to the telephone in the middle of a hand," he said. "They're waiting to finish it."

"Still telephoning?" said Mrs. Haddington. "Nonsense! He can't be. Or, if he is, he oughtn't to be!" she added, with a perfunctory laugh. "It's really very naughty and inconsiderate of him, and I shall scold him severely! Roddy, do go and remind him that he's holding everyone up! In my boudoir: you know where it is!"

"I'll soon have him out of it," said Sir Roderick, who disliked him, and had already confided to Dr Westruther that the fellow was a bounder.

He then stumped out of the room, colliding in the doorway with Sydney Butterwick. He glared, his sapient eye taking in the fact that this weakheaded young man had been fortifying himself a little too liberally. "Now then, now then, look where you're goin', young fellow!" he growled, and went off down the stairs to the boudoir.

A minute later he came back into the drawing-room, breathing rather hard, and looking very much shaken. He seemed to find some difficulty in speaking, and it was seen that his hand was trembling. Everyone stared at him; and Lady Nest, perceiving his pallor, jumped up from her chair, exclaiming: 'Roddy, are you feeling ill?"

He gulped, and made a gesture waving her aside. "Westruther!" he said. Job for you! Go down there! That fellow - Seaton-Carew!"

"What is it?" Mrs. Haddington demanded sharply. "Roddy, what's the matter? Where's Dan?"

Sir Roderick tottered to a chair, and sat down. "He's dead," he said bluntly. "Turned me up a bit. Nasty shock. No, no, Lilias, you stay where you are! Job for Westruther, not you. The fellow's been strangled!"

Chapter Seven

The insistent clamour which had been intruding for some time into Chief Inspector Hemingway's dreams at last woke him. He swore, raised himself on one elbow, and groped for the lamp beside his bed. A moment later a voice said in his ear: "Chief Inspector Hemingway?"

It was a brisk, official voice: the Chief Inspector recognised it as one that belonged to his superior, and life-long friend, Superintendent Hinckley, of the Criminal Investigation Department. He said, with great correctness: "Yes, sir."

"Sound sleeper, aren't you? Easy conscience, I expect. There's a job waiting for you."

"Now, look here, Bob!" said the Chief Inspector, abandoning the official manner. "If you're having a joke with me -"

At the other end of the wire, Superintendent Hinckley grinned unseen. "I'm not lying in my nice, warm bed! I'm on duty, and I'll thank you to remember it, my lad!"

Chief Inspector Hemingway, around whose exposed shoulders an icy draught was blowing, replied to this sally in terms which caused his superior to inform him severely that he wanted to hear no more of his lip. "Wake up!" he said. "This is a job after your own heart."

"At this time of night?" said Hemingway indignantly. "Don't tell me another Pole has gone and got himself knifed by one of his pals, because I'm not as young as I was, and if I've got to go off at this hour and listen to a lot of highly excitable foreigners, all jabbering different lies at me, I'm chucking the Force right now!"

"It isn't anything like that," replied the Superintendent. "Didn't I tell you it was after your own heart? Some bloke's been strangled in a house in Charles Street. Very classy joint: what you call good decor!"

In spite of himself, Hemingway was interested. "You don't say! What's-it all about? Robbery with violence?"

"No, nothing of that sort, as far as I can make out. In fact, no one knows rightly what it's all about. It happened in the middle of a Bridge-party, that I can tell you!"

"Ah!" said the Chief Inspector. "Daresay the chap led his partner a heart after he'd signalled he wanted a club. Well, I've got no sympathy for him!"

"Look here!" interrupted the Superintendent, in whom this suggestion awoke galling memories. "If I have much more from you, Stanley, you'll know it! Get up and dress! I'm putting you in charge!"

"What's C Division done?" demanded Hemingway, swinging his legs out of bed, and groping with his bare feet for his slippers. "Don't they do night-duty these days?"

"You'll find Inspector Pershore waiting for you at the house," said the Superintendent, with some relish.

"Oh, I will, will I? Well, isn't that a bit of luck for me? Of course it would have to be him, wouldn't it? He'll tell me all about it, I expect, and give me a few hints and tips as well, if I speak nicely to him! Hold on, while I shut this damned window, Bob!" He laid down the receiver, pushed the sash up, shrugged himself into a dressinggown, and sat down again on the edge of the bed. "All right: go ahead! Who's the murdered chap?"

"Man called Seaton-Carew."

"Anything known about him?"

"Nothing known about any of them."

The Chief Inspector groaned. "Any line on it at all?"

"Might be, might not. Doesn't sound like a cinch, from the first report. There were forty-nine people in the house at the time -"

"What?"

"Fifty-five, counting the servants," said the Superintendent.

"And I suppose any one of them could have bumped this chap off! You know, Bob, I believe I've got an attack of 'flu coming on, or maybe it's scarlet fever!"

The Superintendent laughed. "That's all right: it isn't as bad as that! Pershore has established that most of them couldn't have had anything to do with it. Not counting the servants, there seem to be seven people who might have had the opportunity."

"Is that all! It's too easy, Bob!"

"According to Pershore, it's easier still. He says it's a clear case against one person - young fellow, name of Butterwick."

"Well, if that's what he says, I've only got six people to interrogate - not counting the servants," said the Chief Inspector unkindly. "In fact, he may as well send young Butterwick off home to bed at once. I'd better get round there before he gets us all into trouble jugging a lot of innocent people. Let me have Sandy Grant, will you, Bob? Setting aside he knows my ways, once you get used to his silly habit of never giving you a straight yes or no, I'd sooner have him with me than any of the rest of them."

"I've already detailed him, and Sergeant Snettisham, to you."

"That's fine, but you don't have to go dragging Snettisham out of his bed at this hour: he's a married man, and I shan't need him tonight. Besides, I've got some consideration for other people, even if there are some that haven't."

"All right, all right! I'll send a car round to pick you up.:

"You're spoiling me!" said Hemingway, and rang off.

It was shortly before two in the morning that the police car drew up behind two others, and an ominous ambulance, outside Mrs. Haddington's house in Charles Street. Chief Inspector Hemingway, followed by the wiry, redheaded Inspector Grant of the CID, got out, and were admitted into the house by a uniformed constable, who saluted, and said that Inspector Pershore was awaiting them in the dining-room. Inspector Pershore came out of this room to greet them. He was a large, hard-faced man, with a consequential manner that had never yet failed to annoy the Chief Inspector. He took himself and his duties very seriously; and if Hemingway disliked him it was only fair to say that this dislike was cordially reciprocated. The higher Hemingway rose in the Department, the more important the cases that were entrusted to him, the less could Inspector Pershore understand the rules governing such promotion. He could not be brought to believe that anyone as incorrigibly flippant as the Chief Inspector could be what he called an efficient officer. He had been heard to express his astonishment at what the Chief Inspector's superiors put up with, and would certainly have been staggered to learn that no less a personage than the Assistant Commissioner had once said: "Put Hemingway on to it! He'll threaten to resign - but he'll bring home the bacon!"