The Man in the Brown Suit
deft professional callousness that this man hadn’t got. Besides,
a doctor doesn’t usually feel for the heart on the right side of
the body.”
“He did that?”
“Yes, I didn’t notice it specially at the time—except that I felt
there was something wrong. But I worked it out when I got home,
and then I saw why the whole thing had looked so unhandy to me at
the time.”
“H’m,” said the inspector. He was reaching slowly for pen and
paper.
“In running his hands over the upper part of the man’s body he
would have ample opportunity to take anything he wanted from the
pockets.”
“Doesn’t sound likely to me,” said the inspector. “But—well, can
you describe him at all?”
“He was tall and broad-shouldered, wore a dark overcoat and black
boots, a bowler hat. He had a dark pointed beard and gold-rimmed
eyeglasses.”
“Take away the overcoat, the beard and the eyeglasses, and there
wouldn’t be much to know him by,” grumbled the inspector. “He could
alter his appearance easy enough in five minutes if he wanted
to—which he would do if he’s the swell pickpocket you suggest.”
I had not intended to suggest anything of the kind. But from this
moment I gave the inspector up as hopeless.
“Nothing more you can tell us about him?” he demanded, as I rose
to depart.
“Yes,” I said. I seized my opportunity to fire a parting shot. “His
head was markedly brachycephalic. He will not find it so easy to
alter that.”
I observed with pleasure that Inspector Meadow’s pen wavered. It
was clear that he did not know how to spell brachycephalic.
CHAPTER V
In the first heat of indignation I found my next step unexpectedly
easy to tackle. I had had a half-formed plan in my head when I went
into Scotland Yard. One to be carried out if my interview there
was unsatisfactory (it had been profoundly unsatisfactory). That
is, if I had the nerve to go through with it.
Things that one would shrink from attempting normally are easily
tackled in a flush of anger. Without giving myself time to reflect,
I walked straight to the house of Lord Nasby.
Lord Nasby was the millionaire owner of the _Daily Budget._ He
owned other papers—several of them, but the _Daily Budget_ was his
special child. It was as the owner of the _Daily Budget_ that he
was known to every householder in the United Kingdom. Owing to the
fact that an itinerary of the great man’s daily proceedings had
just been published, I knew exactly where to find him at this
moment. It was his hour for dictating to his secretary in his own
house.
I did not, of course, suppose that any young woman who chose to
come and ask for him would be at once admitted to the august
presence. But I had attended to that side of the matter. In the
card-tray in the hall of the Flemmings’ house I had observed the
card of the Marquis of Loamsley, England’s most famous sporting
peer. I had removed the card, cleaned it carefully with bread-crumbs,
and pencilled upon it the words: “Please give Miss Beddingfeld a
few moments of your time.” Adventuresses must not be too scrupulous
in their methods.
The thing worked. A powdered footman received the card and bore it
away. Presently a pale secretary appeared. I fenced with him
successfully. He retired defeated. He again reappeared and begged
me to follow him. I did so. I entered a large room, a
frightened-looking shorthand-typist fled past me like a visitant
from the spirit-world. Then the door shut and I was face to face
with Lord Nasby.
A big man. Big head. Big face. Big moustache. Big stomach. I pulled
myself together. I had not come here to comment on Lord Nasby’s
stomach. He was already roaring at me.
“Well, what is it? What does Loamsley want? You his secretary?
What’s it all about?”
“To begin with,” I said with as great an appearance of coolness as
I could manage, “I don’t know Lord Loamsley, and he certainly knows
nothing about me. I took his card from the tray in the house of
the people I’m staying with, and I wrote those words on it myself.
It was important that I should see you.”
For a moment it appeared to be a toss up as to whether Lord Nasby
had apoplexy or not. In the end, he swallowed twice and got over
it.
“I admire your coolness, young woman. Well, you see me! If you
interest me, you will continue to see me for exactly two minutes
longer.”
“That will be ample,” I replied. “And I shall interest you. It’s
the Mill House Mystery.”
“If you’ve found ‘The Man in the Brown Suit,’ write to the Editor,”
he interrupted hastily.
“If you will interrupt, I shall be more than two minutes,” I said
sternly. “I haven’t found ‘The Man in the Brown Suit,’ but I’m
quite likely to do so.”
In as few words as possible I put the facts of the Tube accident
and the conclusions I had drawn from them before him. When I had
finished he said unexpectedly:
“What do you know of brachycephalic heads?”
I mentioned Papa.
“The Monkey man? Eh? Well, you seem to have a head of some kind
upon your own shoulders, young woman. But it’s all pretty thin,
you know. Not much to go upon. And no use to us—as it stands.”
“I’m perfectly aware of that.”
“What d’you want, then?”
“I want a job on your paper to investigate this matter.”
“Can’t do that. We’ve got our own special man on it.”
“And I’ve got my own special knowledge.”
“What you’ve just told me, eh?”
“Oh, no, Lord Nasby. I’ve still got something up my sleeve.”
“Oh, you have, have you? You seem a bright sort of girl. Well, what
is it?”
“When this so-called doctor got into the lift, he dropped a piece
of paper. I picked it up. It smelt of moth balls. So did the dead
man. The doctor didn’t. So I saw at once that the doctor must have
taken it off the body. It had two words written on it and some
figures.”
“Let’s see it.”
Lord Nasby stretched out a careless hand.
“I think not,” I said, smiling. “It’s my find, you see.”
“I’m right. You _are_ a bright girl. Quite right to hang on to it.
No scruples about not handing it over to the police?”
“I went there to do so this morning. They persisted in regarding
the whole thing as having nothing to do with the Marlow affair, so
I thought that in the circumstances I was justified in retaining
the paper. Besides, the inspector put my back up.”
“Short-sighted man. Well, my dear girl, here’s all I can do for
you. Go on working on this line of yours. If you get
anything—anything that’s publishable—send it along and you shall
have your chance. There’s always room for real talent on the
_Daily Budget._ But you’ve got to make good first. See?”
I thanked him, and apologized for my methods.
“Don’t mention it. I rather like cheek—from a pretty girl. By the
way, you said two minutes and you’ve been three, allowing for
interruptions. For a woman, that’s quite remarkable! Must be your
scientific training.”
I was in the street again, breathing hard as though I had been
running. I found Lord Nasby rather wearing as a new acquaintance.
CHAPTER VI
I went home with a feeling of exultation. My scheme had succeeded
far better than I could possibly have hoped. Lord Nasby had been
positively genial. It only now remained for me to “Make good,” as
he expressed it. Once locked in my own room, I took out my precious
piece of paper and studied it attentively. Here was the clue to
the mystery.
To begin with, what did the figures represent? There were five of
them, and a dot after the first two. “Seventeen—one hundred and
twenty-two,” I murmured.
That did not seem to lead to anything.
Next I added them up. That is often done in works of fiction and
leads to surprising deductions.
“One and seven make eight and one is nine and two are eleven and
two are thirteen.”
Thirteen! Fateful number! Was this a warning to me to leave the
whole thing alone? Very possibly. Anyway, except as a warning, it
seemed to be singularly useless. I declined to believe that any
conspirator would take that way of writing thirteen in real life.
If he meant thirteen, he would write thirteen. “13”—like that.
There was a space between the one and the two. I accordingly
subtracted twenty-two from a hundred and seventy-one. The result
was a hundred and fifty-nine. I did it again and made it a hundred
and forty-nine. These arithmetical exercises were doubtless
excellent practice, but as regarded the solution of the mystery,
they seemed totally ineffectual. I left arithmetic alone, not
attempting fancy division or multiplication, and went on to the
words.
Kilmorden Castle. That was something definite. A place. Probably
the cradle of an aristocratic family. (Missing heir? Claimant to
title?) Or possibly a picturesque ruin. (Buried treasure?)
Yes, on the whole I inclined to the theory of buried treasure.
Figures always go with buried treasure. One pace to the right,
seven paces to the left, dig one foot, descend twenty-two steps.
That sort of idea. I could work out that later. The thing was to
get to Kilmorden Castle as quickly as possible.
I made a strategic sally from my room and returned laden with books
of reference. _Who’s Who_, Whitaker, a Gazetteer, a History of
Scotch Ancestral Homes, and Somebody or other’s British Isles.
Time passed. I searched diligently, but with growing annoyance.
Finally, I shut the last book with a bang. There appeared to be no
such place as Kilmorden Castle. Here was an unexpected check. There
_must_ be such a place. Why should any one invent a name like that
and write it down on a piece of paper? Absurd!
Another idea occurred to me. Possibly it was a castellated
abomination in the suburbs with a high-sounding name invented by
its owner. But if so, it was going to be extraordinarily hard to
find. I sat back gloomily on my heels (I always sit on the floor
to do anything really important) and wondered how on earth I was
to set about it.
Was there any other line I could follow? I reflected earnestly and
then sprang to my feet delightedly. Of course! I must visit the
“scene of the crime.” Always done by the best sleuths! And no
matter how long afterwards it may be, they always find something
that the police have overlooked. My course was clear. I must go to
Marlow.
But how was I to get into the house? I discarded several adventurous
methods, and plumped for stern simplicity. The house had been to
let—presumably was still to let. I would be a prospective tenant.
I also decided on attacking the local house-agents, as having fewer
houses on their books.
Here, however, I reckoned without my host. A pleasant clerk produced
particulars of about half a dozen desirable properties. It took
all my ingenuity to find objections to them. In the end I feared
I had drawn a blank.
“And you’ve really nothing else?” I asked, gazing pathetically into
the clerk’s eyes. “Something right on the river, and with a fair
amount of garden and a small lodge,” I added, summing up the main
points of the Mill House, as I had gathered them from the papers.
“Well, of course there’s Sir Eustace Pedler’s place,” said the man
doubtfully. “The Mill House, you know.”
“Not—not where——” I faltered. (Really, faltering is getting to be
my strong point.)
“That’s it! Where the murder took place. But perhaps you wouldn’t
like——”
“Oh, I don’t think I should mind,” I said with an appearance of
rallying. I felt my _bona fides_ was now quite established. “And
perhaps I might get it cheap—in the circumstances.”
A master touch that, I thought.
“Well, it’s possible. There’s no pretending that it will be easy
to let now—servants and all that, you know. If you like the place
after you’ve seen it, I should advise you to make an offer. Shall
I write you out an order?”
“If you please.”
A quarter of an hour later I was at the lodge of the Mill House.
In answer to my knock, the door flew open and a tall middle-aged