Mr. Brewster departed from the stricter ways of truth and said he hoped so too. After which he reported to his chief, and they presently drove away together.
Mr. Lushington appeared to be in a communicative mood.
“Most extraordinary affair,” he said.
“Most inexplicable,” said Mr. Brewster. He paused, hesitated, and coughed slightly. “Would it be indiscreet if I were to enquire whether anything of importance was discovered in the safe?”
Montagu Lushington frowned.
“Mass of stuff-mostly irrelevant, I should say. They haven’t had time to go through it all yet, but from what Brook tells me there’s not much doubt that Colesborough was a most complete wrong ’un-had been for years-brought up to it by his old ruffian of a father. It seems that the old man went off the deep end at being given a baronetage instead of the barony he had set his heart on. There’s a packet of letters about it, all written to the son, saying he’d get his own back-score the Government off-score the country off. The man must have been insane. Francis Colesborough too for that matter. That’s proved by his keeping the letters. Incredible, isn’t it?”
“Most astonishing,” said Mr. Brewster in his prim voice.
“The old man’s been dead fifteen years, but Colesborough kept the letters. It’s astonishing how people do keep things. Colesborough kept some pretty compromising stuff. Brook showed me a scheme of sabotage which would have paralyzed production in every factory in the country. It was headed ‘To be applied in case of Emergency A.’ Nice stuff to find in the safe of a man who held big government contracts! It seems to me that Mr. Zero deserves a public vote of thanks instead of the hanging he’ll get when they catch him.”
Mr. Brewster coughed again.
“Is there nothing in the safe that would give a clue as to his identity?”
“They haven’t come across anything yet,” said Montagu Lushington. He gave a heavy sigh. “It’s a bad business. I’m afraid they’ll arrest Algy Somers.”
Mr. Brewster made a shocked sound.
“Oh, surely not, sir!”
“If I felt sure of that, or of anything else in this case, I should sleep better tonight.”
The Home Secretary was driving his own car. He looked straight ahead along the dark road and saw no end to it.
“Did they find that paper in the safe, sir?” said Mr. Brewster.
Montagu Lushington came back from a long way off. He had been thinking that they would probably arrest Algy tonight, and if not tonight then certainly tomorrow, unless something turned up to incriminate someone else. And if Algy were arrested, he intended to place his own resignation in the hands of the Prime Minister.
He said, “What paper?” and Mr. Brewster explained.
“The one you missed at Wellings, sir. I thought it might have turned up. You said Lady Colesborough had confessed to taking it, and I thought-”
“You made a mistake then. I certainly did not tell you that Lady Colesborough had taken the paper.”
“It must have been somebody else,” said Mr. Brewster in a distressed voice, “but I really can’t think who. Somers perhaps. Yes, now I come to think of it, I believe it was Somers.”
Montagu Lushington laughed impatiently.
“It doesn’t matter in the least, nor does the paper-now. What mattered was the list of suspected agents which was attached to the memorandum. Once Colesborough and his organization had seen that list and knew which of their men had come under suspicion, they could warn them, change them, substitute others. That was what mattered. Once Zero or Colesborough had seen the paper, the cat was out of the bag. They wouldn’t keep the paper-they wouldn’t want it.”
“Dear me-I’d no idea,” said Mr. Brewster.
“Nobody had,” said Montagu Lushington drily. “The fewer people who knew the better. I was keeping the information under my hat until the raid was over.”
“The raid?” Mr. Brewster spoke in a tone of surprise.
“Oh, it didn’t come off. It wasn’t worth while. The birds would have flown.”
Mr. Brewster said, “Dear me!”
Whilst the Home Secretary was driving towards Railing, Inspector Boyce was receiving a report from the smart young constable whom he had sent to make enquiries at the Hand and Flower.
“Sturrock was quite well known there, sir-regular customer-used to drop in in his off time and play a game of billiards. But he didn’t play this afternoon. He didn’t stay very long.”
“What did he do?”
Collins looked chagrined.
“Well, I don’t know that he did anything, sir.”
“Did he use the telephone?”
“Well, sir, they don’t know, and that’s the truth of it. He might have done, but there’s no one can say for sure. The telephone-box isn’t in the hall any longer. They used to have it there, but they’ve moved it to a sort of recess outside the smoke-room. Mr. Rudge, the proprietor, says he met Sturrock coming along the passage to the smoke-room. They had a bit of a chat-Mr. Rudge says about nothing in particular, but if the truth was known, I expect it was Sir Francis Colesborough’s murder they were talking about, Mr. Rudge not being one to miss a chance like that, if you don’t mind my saying so, nor I shouldn’t be surprised if they’d stood there for the best part of half an hour. Mr. Rudge doesn’t say that. All he says is they had a bit of a chat, and Sturrock went into the smoke-room to have a look at the papers. And that’s all I got, sir.
“What about the exchange?”
“There were half a dozen calls put through from the hotel in the course of the afternoon. I spoke to the young lady on duty, and that’s all she could tell me. She doesn’t remember any of the numbers that were asked for-said she’d have a nervous breakdown if she was to start trying to remember all the calls she put through in a day. A bit off-hand, if you know what I mean.” Collins frowned. Off-hand and worse, that’s what she’d been. One of the kind that wants taking down a peg or two. He wouldn’t mind having a shot at it himself. Bluest eyes he’d ever seen.
“Well, that doesn’t get us any farther,” said Inspector Boyce.
XXXII
The Chief Constable had departed. Mr. Brook had departed. The contents of the safe had been removed. Sturrock’s body had been removed. Inspector Boyce had retired from the scene. To all outward appearance it might have been any Sunday evening at Cole Lester with the butler off duty and William taking his place a thought unhandily.
“Actually,” as Algy said to Gay-“actually, my dear, the eye of the police is very much upon us. There’s a young-fellow-my-lad hanging round the place to see that I don’t take the Bentley out and forget to bring it back, and there’s a smart police pup in the lane with a motor-bike all ready to follow me if I do. And William is going around like a cat on hot bricks looking at me out of the tail of his eye. I think he’s thrilled at the idea of being at such close quarters with a murderer, but every now and then he gets an agonized feeling that I may have an urge to add him to the bag.”
Gay stamped her foot and said, “I wish you wouldn’t!”
She had come down to look for Algy and had come upon him in the study.
Algy laughed and she flashed into anger.
“I can’t think why we go on talking about it, and I can’t think why we’re in this horrible room! It simply reeks of policemen!”
Algy really laughed this time. The other had been a pretense.
“What do policemen reek of?” he enquired from the depths of the largest chair.
“Red tape and sealing-wax!” snapped Gay.
Algy looked at her between half-closed lids. The room, purged of the police force, was pleasant enough. The Inspector had well and truly tended the fire, which now glowed like a sunset and diffused a most comforting warmth. There was a pleasant light from a tall lamp behind the chair. It fell on Gay, on the bright colour which anger had brought to her cheeks, on the shadows under her eyes. He thought she had been crying. He thought perhaps her eyelashes were still wet. He thought that perhaps he would never see her again. And he had an overwhelming desire to bid this moment stay, to halt it here, between the past and the future, between today and tomorrow, between the moment that had slipped from them and the moment that might never be for them at all. His heart said “Stay,” and it took him all he knew to keep his tongue still upon the word. He thought, “I love her,” and thought how strange it was to feel this deep stab of triumph and pain. He thought, “She loves me too,” and the triumph rushed up in him like a singing flame and consumed the pain. But he hadn’t moved. The big chair held a lazy, lounging young man looking with half-closed eyes at an angry, pretty girl.